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triptuckers · 3 years ago

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Revenge - Kaz Brekker

Request: yes :) “seeing as your requests are open, i thought i might as well pitch you an idea too, since i'm here... how about a little bit of a twist on the usual hurt/comfort, angst, etc with kaz? like... instead of getting hurt because of him, he's the one who gets hurt because of the reader? maybe she joined the dregs, running away from her past. but then someone wanting revenge finds her, sees how much she cares for kaz, and decides to get back at her by going after him... idk where exactly i'm going with this, it's just an idea, the details i leave up to you :))” Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader Summary: You thought you’d be safe from the people in your past once you got to Ketterdam, but you couldn’t have been more wrong Warnings: mentions of blood, injuries, bruising, death, language, angst Word count: 2.4K A/N: to the one who send me this request: your lil message made me feel so happy & loved, I am so glad you appreciate my work <3 sending you lots of hugs! thanks for requesting this, enjoy reading! :)

You’re standing on one of the docks. You’ve got your coat wrapped tightly around you to protect yourself from the cold wind. It’s dark outside, and most of Ketterdam is deserted, its residents retired to the comfort of their warm houses.

You like to come to the docks and look out over the sea. It calms you. The sound of the waves, the salty air, it all reminds you of your past, and you go to the docks to tell yourself you don’t ever have to go back if you don’t want to.

It’s not that you hated your entire past, just parts of it. For a while, you were actually quite happy. Sailing the seas, laughing along with your crew, and taking what you wanted from rich politicians who dared to cross your waters.

It was fine for a while, only taking from those who already had too much. It didn’t bother you. But then your captain started to take from everyone and everything, and using more violence. You were hesitant, but didn’t say much. Even though your crew was basically your family, they could easily toss you in the sea. But then your captain started to take people as well, not just things. He forced them to work on his ship, and you knew it was wrong.

When you spoke up about it, they turned on you, threatening you. You were to work with the prisoners, and it was horrible. So, when you saw the opportunity, you jumped ship, along with a few prisoners. The sea was cold, and you swam for nearly three days, when a ship picked you up. It was headed to Kerch. When you set foot on the Ketterdam docks, you vowed to never sail again. You parted ways with the people that had been taken prisoner, and joined the Dregs soon after.

Part of you is still scared your captain or someone else of your old crew finds you, and gets their revenge on you. But since joining the Dregs, you’ve improved your fighting and survival skills, and the other members of the Dregs have your back.

When the wind is almost too cold, and the sky is pitch black, you decide to head back to the Slat. You liked staying on the docks, but it wasn’t wise to stay out on the streets of Ketterdam for too long, especially when it was dark.

After one last look at the sea, you turn and start walking back to the Slat. Your hand is on one of your revolvers as you walk, eyes open and ears focused on any sounds you hear. You had been jumped before, and knew it wouldn’t be the last time it would happen.

You keep your head down as you’re walking, but then you notice a figure in the distance. You slow down and take another look at the person ahead of you. You can see they’re limping, and realise they must be hurt. Instantly, you’re on edge, in case their attacker is still close.

You pick up the pace again, looking at the person in front of you as you approach them. The closer you get, the more familiar they seem. And then you’re close enough to recognise a cane.

Normally, you’d tell yourself it probably wouldn’t be Kaz. Lately, every figure or silhouette looked like Kaz to you. But it was unmistakably Kaz�� cane, and you knew he would never allow anyone to take it from him.

‘Kaz!’ you say and you sprint the last bit to get to him. When you get to him, your jaw drops when you see him. He’s got several stab wounds on his upper body, and his face is bruised and bloody.

‘What are you doing here?' says Kaz as soon as he notices it’s you. ‘It’s not safe here.’ he grumbles.

‘It’s Ketterdam at night. Of course it’s not safe.’ you say, letting your eyes roam over his body, looking at his injuries.

‘It’s not safe for you.’ says Kaz, wincing as he presses a hand to one of his wounds to apply pressure to it.

‘What does that mean?’ you say, frowning.

‘Your former captain says hi.’ says Kaz.

Your eyes widen at his words and your breath catches in your throat. Had he found you? Did he somehow manage to track you all the way to Ketterdam?

‘He did this to you?’ you say. Kaz nods.

‘Saints, Kaz, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. He blames me for freeing some of the prisoners. Rightfully, though. I’d already figured he’d send someone after me if he learned I was in Ketterdam. I never would have thought he’d send someone after you.’ you say.

You look at his beaten up body again. Somehow, he still managed to look good. His suit is dusty and bloody, but it still fit his body perfectly. His hair is messy and there’s sweat on his forehead, but you don’t mind.

‘I’m sorry, Kaz.’ you say. ‘This is all my fault.’

You want to move closer to him to help him, but you know he’d never allow you to. So you keep your distance.

Kaz doesn’t respond to you, instead he moves to continue walking. It results into him nearly falling to the floor. You have to hold yourself back not to catch him. Kaz clutches his cane to prevent his body from hitting the floor.

‘We have to get you back to the Slat.’ you say, still keeping your distance. The last thing you want to do is trigger something in him when you’re the one that got him hurt in the first place.

Kaz pushes himself up with his cane, groaning as he straightens his back.

‘Can you walk?’ you ask him.

‘I can manage.’ he says through gritted teeth. But he takes two steps and almost falls down again. You clench your fists to prevent yourself from reaching out to him. You can’t handle that he’s hurt and you can’t even help him to walk.

‘Y/N.’ he says. His voice his softer than usual, and it catches you off guard. ‘You need to help me walk.’ he says.

‘Kaz, I don’t want to-’ ‘I want you to. I need you to.’

You slowly walk up to him. He looks you in your eyes and gives you a single nod, silently giving you permission.

‘I don’t know Kaz.’ you say. ‘It feels wrong, touching you.’

‘Y/N, the longer we’re out here, the longer we are in danger and the more risk of me bleeding to death on the streets, is that something you want?’ snaps Kaz.

‘No, of course not!’ you say.

‘Then come here.’ he says and with one swift movement, he pulls you closer and swings one of his arms over your shoulder.

‘If at any point you want to stop, I get it.’ you say, a bit flustered now that you’re so close to him.

‘Y/N just get me to the damn Slat.’ says Kaz. ‘But could you just... Tell what you’re going to do while you’re doing it? Makes it easier.’

‘Of course.’ you say. ‘I'm going to put my hand around your waist, and grab your hand with the other, okay?’

You see him clench his jaw as he nods. You slowly move to wrap your arm around his waist. You then wait a few seconds before grabbing ahold of his gloved hand that’s on your shoulder.

‘Alright.’ you say. ‘Ready?’

Kaz nods and you start to walk toward the Slat.

The journey is slow, and you try your best to keep Kaz talking and conscious. But he’s losing a lot of blood, leaving a trail of red drops behind on the street.

When you finally get to the Slat and push its door open, it’s crowded. A lot of heads turn your way as you scan the crowd for Nina. When you spot her, you see her eyes have widened as she looks at Kaz. You signal for her to follow you and you start to walk up the stairs to Kaz’ floor.

When you finally get there, you walk to his room and lay him down on the bed.

‘What happened?’ says Nina as she enters the room.

‘Someone of my past got to Kaz.’ you mumble, struggling to meet Kaz’ eyes. ‘Roughed him up pretty bad.’

Nina moves to see to his internal wounds and you can see Kaz keeps his jaw clenched at the close proximity to another person. When she’s done, he moves to sit up.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ you say.

‘Business.’ groans Kaz and you raise your eyebrows at him.

‘Kaz Brekker, I did not drag your ass all the way from the docks to the Slat, only for you to resume working instead of resting.’ you say.

‘I'm fine.’

‘You almost bled to death in the streets!’ you say. ‘Half your body is covered in wounds and Nina’s only healed the internal ones.’

‘I can manage.’

‘Like hell you can.’ you say. ‘I'll take over the Dregs for a while. And as for you, let someone see to your wounds. And honestly, would it kill you to take a nap every now and then?’

‘I can see to my own wounds.’

You groan and throw your hands up out of frustration. ‘Fine!’ you say. ‘Go bandage those wounds all by yourself, I'm not helping!’

Nina steps closer to you ‘I can-’ ‘And Nina’s not going to help you either!’ you say. ‘If you want to be stubborn and suffer, be my guest!’

You leave his room and move to sit by the window of his office instead. A while later Nina leaves the room, telling you Kaz has started to fix himself up.

You stay in his office, trying to get your anger to go away. You close your eyes and imagine the sea, taking deep breaths. You can almost taste the salty air and feel the cold wind on your skin. You’ve done a pretty good job at calming yourself down, when you hear Kaz’ voice coming from his room.

‘Y/N?’ he says.

You open your eyes, walk up to his room and pause in the doorway. He’s sitting up on the bed. He’d taken his shirt off and put bandages around his chest. The cuts and bruises on his arms and face aren’t treated yet.

You always thought of Kaz as this indestructible man, who led a gang, and is considered one of the most dangerous criminals and most talented thieves in all of Ketterdam. But when he’s sitting on the bed, bruised and bloody, shoulders slumped and tired eyes, you see him for who he truly is: a boy who’s been hurt too many times before and needs help.

He holds out the bandages and wet cloth he used to clean his wounds.

‘Could you...?’ he asks.

You notice he’s not meeting your eyes and realise how hard it must have been to admit he needs your help.

You nod and walk over to him. You take the bandages and the cloth from his hands without touching his skin, and drag out a chair so you can sit in front of him. You glance at the gloves that rest on the bed next to him. You put the bandages and cloth aside and grab the gloves.

‘What are you doing?’ says Kaz, looking at you as you put them on.

‘This way I can treat your wounds without having skin to skin contact.’ you say. ‘Maybe that makes it easier.’

Kaz looks at you and smiles.

‘You’re so tired you can’t even fight off your own muscles?’ you ask. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I've seen you smile.’

‘I smile more than you think.’ says Kaz.

‘hmm.’ you hum. ‘Sure.’ you say as you move to start cleaning his wounds.

You try your best to talk to him and distract him while you clean and bandage his wounds.

‘Why would your former captain go after me and not you?’ he wonders out loud after a while.

‘Because when you want to hurt someone, you don’t hurt them, you hurt the ones they care most about.’ you simply state.

Kaz is surprised. ‘You care about me?’

‘Of course I do. I never tried to hide that.’ you say.

You continue to clean his wounds, unaware of Kaz looking at your face instead of your hands.

‘You really scared me, Kaz. I thought you were going to die.’ you mumble.

‘It takes more than a knife and one angry man to kill me.’ he says.

‘He tried really hard though.’ you mumble as you continue to clean and bandage his wounds.

‘But he didn’t succeed.’ says Kaz. ‘If it weren’t for you, he would have. You got me back to the Slat and got Nina to fix me up.’

‘After I basically forced you to.’ you say.

‘If you hadn’t, I would have done it all by myself. Who knows how that would have worked out.’ says Kaz.

‘I'm guessing not that good.’ you say, earning a small chuckle from him.

You continue talking to him and treating his wounds. When you’re finished, you get up and gather the mess. You walk to the other side of the room to throw it in the bin, and then walk back to where Kaz is still sitting on the bed.

‘I know you don’t like this, but please try to get some rest.’ you say. ‘The Dregs can manage a week or so without you.’

Kaz nods and moves to lay down on his bed. You walk toward the door, but his voice stops you.

‘Y/N.’ he says, making you look over your shoulder at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘Of course.’ you say, smiling briefly. ‘And sorry, again. For getting beaten up because of me.’

‘A good beating every now and then never hurt anyone. Builds character.’ says Kaz.

‘Are you sure your brain didn’t get messed up?’ you say. ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

‘I’m merely stating facts. Now I've got another grudge to hold.’ says Kaz. ‘Now go so I can get some rest.’

You smile once more before leaving his room, shutting the door behind you. You had loved your life on the sea before it took a turn. But you’d gladly do it all over again if it meant you would find your way to Kaz.

You look down at your hands and notice you’re still wearing his gloves. You take them off and place them on his desk. After a while of looking at them, you head downstairs to tell the others what happened.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rules Here’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit

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once-upon-a-oneshot · 4 years ago

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Friends with Benefits

Summary: You and Calum are friends with benefits, but what happens when one of you starts to want something more

Genre: Frat!Calum

Warnings: swearing, sexual themes

Word Count: ~900

“Same time tomorrow?” Calum asks as you clumsily climb out of his bed and search around the room for the panties you arrived in.

“Um,” As you reach under the bed, you feel the silk material in a crumbled heap. You pull it out only to realize that these are not the panties you wore here. In fact, they aren’t even yours. “I actually have plans.” You continued, throwing the panties away from you and wiping your hand on your still bare thigh.

“Plans?” Calum’s tone is doubtful, almost even mocking. But you’re too busy scowering the room for your panties to notice.

“Yep.” Deciding to abandon your search for your undergarments, you grab your pants off the foot of the bed and shimmy them on. “So, looks like you’re going old school tomorrow. Just you, yourself, and Miss Righty.”

The way you grin to yourself as you pull your shirt over your head annoys him. He hates for any one, especially just some girl he hooks up with, to feel that they’ve got anything over him.

“Bold of you to assume you’re the only girl I call when I need to get off.” He pushes, raising an eyebrow at you. Uninterestedly you roll your eyes at him.

“Not only,” you smirk to yourself, “but best.” He’s trying to best you, but you’re not like all the other insecure girls he messes around with. You know what you’ve got, and you know what it’s worth.

“Again,” it was Calum’s turn to smirk at you. “Bold assumption”. Your only response it to roll your eyes as you bend over to pull on your shoes.

“I mean, for the past three weeks you’ve called me, what,” You turn your eyes towards the ceiling and scrunch your face pretending to think. For added measure you use one finger to solve an imaginary equation in the air. “Oh that’s right, every night.”

You won’t back down. But Calum won’t either.

“Yea, and who do you think I’ve called every morning?” Calum smirks triumphantly. You say nothing as you grab your purse and head for the door.

“Good, then call one of them.” You say it and mean it. Just like it was for Calum, to you this arrangement was simply a business transaction. A mutual exchange of sexual favors. Nothing more.

“See ya.” You call over your shoulder as you finally walk out of the room. Leaving Calum naked and alone in his bed.

*****CALUM’S POV*****

Friday night. Exactly 22 hours since I last got off. I’m not OCD or anything. It’s just that over the years I’ve found that keeping a strict “booty-call” schedule made it easier to keep track of my endeavors. Not to mention it prevents the always awkward “two booty-calls running into each other” situation. If you’ve never experienced one chick leaving your room half naked, while another chick is walking in ready to smash, trust me – you don’t want to go there. However, it did make for some pretty hot hate-sex.

Not that the schedule really mattered much lately. There was really only one time to account for. (Y/N)’s time. Every night for the past couple weeks. 10 o’clock on the dot is her call time. Usually she won’t get here until about midnight, but that works out perfectly for me. The later it is the less likely she’ll be to try and hang out, or some shit, afterwards.

Throwing the weight of my body on the bed, I pull my phone out of my tight jean pocket and call her.

It’s not until she doesn’t answer that I remember about the bullshit “plans” she told me she had. Whether they are real or not, they’ll just have to wait. Because right now, I need her. Well, my dick does anyway.

I call again. This time the phone rings twice and then goes straight to voicemail.

She sent me to voicemail.

This is probably all just some elaborate scheme to make me think she actually has better things to do than fuck me.

Two can play at that game

I toss my phone on the bed and head towards the bathroom. The sound of my phone vibrating on the bed makes me stop in my tracks. I smile to myself and eagerly make a move for the phone.

Eagerly? Why are you eager?

I blame it on my being horny. I can’t help the way my face falls with disappointment when it’s my friends contact name on my screen instead of hers.

Disappointment?

I must be really, really, horny.

“What?” I bark annoyed. It’s not actually him I’m bothered by, but he’s the one who’s available.

“Dude, where are you?” he’s yelling into the phone, and I can hear loud music blaring in the background.

“My room?” I don’t know what he wants, but if he doesn’t tell me soon this conversation is going to end.

“Oh, I figured you were at that Phi Delta party?”

“Well, I just told you I’m in my room.” I snap. “Why the hell would I be at some frat party?”

I’m far from the type. All those preppy douchebags. Running around with their gelled-hair, short shorts, and flip flops. What real man wears flip-flops other than to the beach? And even that is pushing it.

“Yea but-” the sound of his voice pulls me back to reality from my internal rant. “Your little fuck-buddy’s here so I figured-”

“Who?” I interrupt.

“Uh, you know that one chick. The one you rated best rack!”

“(Y/N)?!” I don’t know why but knowing that she was ignoring my calls, while she was probably running around with some douchey frat guy irritated me.

“Yea! Yea dude her! She looks-” Before he can even finish his sentence, I hang up the phone and grab my keys. I don’t know why I going to the party or what I’ll do when I get there, but right now all I can think about is (Y/N) laying in bed with a douche in flip-flops.

As I finally pull up in front of the huge trashy house, none of the irritation has left my body. Taking long strides, I make my way in the house and navigate through all the drunk teens determined to find (Y/N). I do a quick scan of the living room, the kitchen, the backyard, but she’s nowhere to be seen. With every room I check off the list, my fears of her being locked in one of those bedrooms upstairs with some guy grows.

Just as I’m about to storm up the stairs and kick in every door, I spot her walking through the front door, with a guy following close behind. The type of guy who looks like he wears flip flops. As I watch her grin from ear to ear, I can feel anger rumbling deep in my stomach. Suddenly the house feels hot. Too hot.

My eyes follow them into the kitchen. I count to 10, and I head towards the kitchen too.

“Wooow, hey.” I fake shocked to be running into (Y/N) here.

“Calum.” Her statement sounds more like a question as her eyes go wide.

“Plans huh?” My eyes shift to the tool standing too close to her. I mean come on its burning up in here. Definitely, too hot to be standing that close to someone.

“Yea. Uh Corey this is Calum, Calum this is my friend Corey.” Friend? Her friend Corey? And what I’m? Just Calum? What she should’ve said was ‘Douchebag this is the guy who fucks me better than anyone ever has be-‘

“Nice to meet you man.” Douchebag interrupts my perverse thoughts and reaches out to shake my hand. I don’t want to take it. Who knows where those fingers have been.

Hopefully not in her.

I choke on my own thoughts as my breathe gets caught in my throat. I burst into a fit of coughs and (Y/N) and Douchebag just stare at me like I just grew another head. Douchebag pushes his cup towards me and I take it. As I chug down the beer from his cup, I swear I can taste (Y/N)’s pussy on the rim.

His lips better have not gone anywhere near her.

I can’t stop the thoughts going through my head, or the places my fucked-up imagination keeps taking me, but I know it needs to stop.

I finish off Douchebag’s drink and hand the empty cup back to him. I can feel the alcohol immediately. My muscles ease ever so slightly and I’m starting to function like a normal human being again. I need to regain control of this situation.

“So,” I chose to not even address whatever the hell was going on with me a minute ago. “This is the hot date (Y/N) was all giddy about.” I challenge her.

“You told him this was a date?” Douchebag raises an eyebrow and turns his attention to (Y/N) who’s shooting me daggers with her eyes.

“Well I didn’t use those words exactly.” She says through gritted teeth.

“Damn this is embarrassing,” He continues. I smirk to myself and wait for the show to begin. “Because ... I’ve been telling everyone it was.”

Douche, and I can’t stress this enough, bag.

I can’t help but roll my eyes and scoff, which I play off as another cough.

“You Calum, should take care of that cough, and you Corey, follow me to the beer pong table.” I watch as she grabs his hand and pulls him back towards the living room.

I decide to stay in the kitchen and continue adding alcohol to my system. The liquor burns my throat but for the time being it stops the weird thoughts in my head and helps me think more clearly. I mean obviously I’m not jealous or anything because, why the hell would I be. He’s a douche yea, but not because he’s here with the chick I occasionally fuck. And obviously I’m not irritated with her just because she’s here with a douche. It’s just that I needed to get my dick wet and she ignored my call to be here with said douche. Like he’s somehow more important than me getting off.

I stumble back into the living room and find a spot on the couch. Of course from where I’m sitting I have the perfect view of the beer pong table, and therefore the perfect view and Miss Thing and her new boy toy.

I sit watching them as I down beer after beer. My eyes follow (Y/N) intently as she finally walks away from the table towards the kitchen again. Without thinking, my feet are carrying me to the kitchen right behind her.

“Are you like stalking me now Calum?” she spins on her heels noticing me trailing her.

“Fiesty.” I wink at her. She just rolls her eyes and continues over towards the punch bowl to refill her cup. “I just wanted to tell you how good you look tonight.” I lick my lips while allowing my eyes to rake up and down her body, paying particular attention to her breasts.

“Fuck off.” She rolls her eyes at me while shaking her head. She knows this is a game, and she’s fighting hard not to lose.

“Damn,” I place one hand on her neck tilting her head to the side. “You’re sexy when you’re mad.” I make a move to attach my lips to her neck and she lets me. And I know I’ve won. I suck at the sensitive skin and try to push my body closer to hers. “Let me take you upstairs.” I whisper into her neck.

“See I would,” she speaks but doesn’t move away from me. “But, I have a hot date to get back to.” She finally pulls away from me. “I’m just so giddy about it.” She’s mocking me. She smirks as she brushes past me leaving me and my bulge alone in the kitchen.

One hour, and too many shots later I’m still here. At this stupid frat house with these stupid people. I could’ve just gone home, but something keeps me here. I think it’s my obsession with beating (Y/N). Finally proving to her that she should’ve been in my bed with me tonight. Not here with what’s his face. When the first bit of alcohol entered my system, it helped keep my thoughts from running wild. Now that it’s pulsing through my veins as thick as my blood, the thoughts have returned.

I sit on the stairs, watching as (Y/N) grinds her perfect ass against Corbin, or whatever the hell his name was. It makes me sick. He slides his hands down her hips. He could never navigate her body as well as I do – even if she drew him a map. I’m the one that knows all the right places to touch her. I’m the one who knows all the right buttons to push. My name is the name she calls out while I pound into her.

The alcohol is mixing with my lust and my anger and it’s pushing me.

Douchebag spins (Y/N) around and wraps his hands in her hair.

The way that I do.

He tries to lean in and kiss her, but just before his lips meet hers, I’m pushing him off of her. My mind is confused but my fist are determined. I tackle him to the ground and start beating the shit out of him.

“Calum! CALUM GET OFF OF HIM!” (Y/N)’s voice pulls me off of him when no one else has been able to. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I don’t know how to answer her, because truthfully, I don’t know what I’m doing. I stand there glancing around at all the faces of the small crowd that had formed around us.

“He-You-” I was struggling to find a way to blame them for this. She stands there impatiently waiting for me to speak. Her angered expressions triggers something in me. She thinks she can stand here and face off against me. What does she think? She can intimidate me or something?

“You’re the one who should’ve answered my call!” I bite back at her. “Then I wouldn’t have had to come to this stupid ass party in the first place!”

“Calum get over yourself!” Why can’t she just let me win. Why does she have to be so damn stubborn? My body burns with rage and the faces of all these staring people aren’t making things any better.

“What the hell are you all looking at?!” I yell at the nosy ass bystanders. I probably look like a mad man. Wild hair, sweating, with knuckles busted and bleeding. I look scary enough for the crowd to scurry away in all directions turning their attention to something else.

(Y/N), along with the crowd, turns her back on me.

“Don’t,” I grab her arm and spin her back around to face me. “Turn your back on me!”

“Fuck! Off!” She emphasizes each word never letting any of the anger simmer. She jerks her arm away from me and turns her back on me again. I want to say whatever I need to to keep her from walking away from me. And of all the things I could, and probably should say, the best I can do is:

“That guy isn’t right for you!” The words taste foreign on my lips. I’ve never been one to look of for what was “right” for someone. Especially not some girl. The second the words leave my mouth I want to shove them back down my throat.

Now she’ll think she got me.

Now she’ll think she’s won.

“Right for me? Christ Calum it’s a date, not a fucking proposal!” She’s pissed, but at least she stayed. (Y/N) marches up to get in my face. She’s not done with me yet. “And what the hell do you know about right for me?! We fuck on occasion but that doesn’t mean you KNOW ME!”

She turns around and storms off. This time I let her go.

As I watch her walk away from me, I get this feeling. A feeling in the pit of my stomach. A sinking feeling.

Don’t leave me.

The thought scares me. I’ve never wanted someone to stay before, nor did I ever want to want someone to stay. But as the possibility of her staying faded -- leaving me alone -- I realized how desperately I wanted it. How desperately I needed it. Needed her.

This wasn’t a game. It never was. But as she turned her back on me, I couldn’t help but feel like I had just lost.

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shokobuns · 4 years ago

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– VALENTINE’S DATES (JJK EDITION)

ft. itadori yuuji, fushiguro megumi, kugisaki nobara, gojo satoru, sukuna ryoumen, nanami kento, zenin maki (gn!reader)

GENRE: fluffy brainrot/headcanons! (whichever you consider these to be ig)

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

WARNING(S): suggestive themes.

ITADORI YUUJI – he’s the type of person to record your date for memories. he has videos of you looking out into the sunset to you chomping down on a bunch of noodles like an animal. with that, you two would just go around and explore tokyo, taking advantage of any couples’ valentine’s day discounts. he’d probably ask gojo for advice (he hands him a condom), but it’s horrible and he’d probably figure that out from nanami. if it’s the first date, he’d be nervous as hell and it’d be noticeable considering how jumpy he is, but once you start getting comfortable with touching him, he’d relax more and adjust really quickly. if it lasts the whole day, by half the date, he’s kissing your cheek, holding your hand, and wrapping his arm around you. yuuji’s really sweet and he’s also a gentleman, holding the door for you and being mindful of if you’re having a good time or not. when you two finally kiss on the lips, he gets flustered as hell and hides his face into the crook of your neck.

THE GIFT – one of those bead necklaces that everyone makes at home. the colors are irregular and in no particular pattern, but your initials are on it with a heart. he doesn’t have much money with the exception of food, so he can’t afford a super glamorous gift, but you wear it with pride.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI – would show up at your doorstep with your favorite flowers, but once he gets there, he’s debating on whether he should be there or not. he just wanted to do something nice for you on valentine’s day, but he’s also thinking “what if this is weird?” he’s another person that gojo gave advice to, but megumi tuned him out because he already knows to not trust him for this stuff. he’s all new to this couple type things, but he rings your doorbell anyways and he’s about to put down the flowers at your doorstep and run away, but it’s too late. you answer the door with a sundress on and this man forgets how to speak, so he just holds out a box of chocolates and the flowers without even looking you in the face. eventually, you ruffle his hair and go back into your house to gather some sandwiches, water, and a blanket for a picnic at a nearby park. you’d have to be the one to initiate the hand holding and his face gets so fucking red, too. at the park, he gets more comfortable, talking to you becomes easier and he lets you put butterfly clips in his hair because your face gets really close to his and he likes to give you little pecks on your nose when it happens.

THE GIFT – flowers and chocolate, letting you put clips in his hair without complaints

KUGISAKI NOBARA – she’s also the type to bring you around tokyo and spoil you on valentine’s day and she’s definitely more assertive on the date, too. she constantly has one hand on you, whether it’s on the small of your back or she’s holding yours, and she’s not shy about kissing your cheeks in public, either. nobara makes you try on clothes and if she really likes how the outfit looks on you, too, she’ll have no problem buying them at all. you two do that thing where you pick out outfits for each other and try them on at the same time. for most of the date, it feels like she’s the one with the bolder personality, but as soon as you tell her she looks like “the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen,” she gets really fucking flustered. your classic red cheeks and she can’t seem to stop smiling, but at the same time she’s trying not to seem too embarrassed even though she’s failing miserably. eventually, she’ll get over herself and you guys would find an empty balcony somewhere and make out for the rest of the night.

THE GIFT – an outfit consisting of those velvet track pants that she thinks make your ass look good (the ones that flare out at the bottom), an oversized shirt, and a bunch of scrunchies

GOJO SATORU – the first time he sees you that day, he tosses you a condom with a ribbon on it, does a backflip onto a table, then puts a ribbon on himself. he gets an “i hate you” because he’s dramatic as hell, but he pouts and it makes you feel slightly guilty because he’s just so cute. anyways, for the rest of the day, he wears his glasses because it feels more casual and for the most part, you’re hanging out at home watching movies, making out, etc. there are definitely no more condoms left in the box by the end of the night. although, you don’t stay in all day. he does treat you to a proper dinner where you both are a little more dressier than usual and he makes sexual innuendos in your ear whenever he has the chance which is about every five seconds. you’d also be eating dinner next to another couple and he’d say some shit like “we’re cuter than them” and you would get secondhand embarrassment whether the couple hears it or not. at the end of the night, you two walk to a park at night and there’s definitely a little moment where he goes “hey, can you hold this?” and you hold out your hand and he interlocks his fingers with yours (yes, he’s cheesy like that). you’ve probably had to slap him on the back of the head a couple times. once you two get to the park, he shamelessly does cartwheels throughout the whole space.

THE GIFT – a condom, sex, a homecooked meal, cat ears, and a sanrio plushie that yuuji picked out for him

SUKUNA RYOMEN – honestly, you weren’t even sure if you were even going to have a valentine’s day date with him, but he shows up at your front door at 6 am ringing your doorbell repeatedly with a bunch of flowers and you look like absolute shit when you finally open it. you’re still tired, so you drag him back to your bed for a few hours and sleep a little more before getting ready and going out for breakfast. he’s the type of person to stare down other people for no reason and you have to calm him down during your little breakfast date so that he doesn’t scare people. of course, he eventually gets a little bored and blows your back out in the restroom which has you limping for the rest of the day. he takes a lot of pride in it, too. later at dinner, he tries to cook for you, but this man sucks at cooking and has anger issues which is not a good combination because he’s so close to punching the stove since he somehow ended up burning the pasta noodles? your kitchen is still intact, so you don’t question it, and you’ve already ordered takeout because you’ve already predicted it. sure, he sucks at cooking, but it’s the thought that counts, right? after that, you two fuck, like you’ve already been doing all day, but this time, you give a little manicure after. you teach him how to take care of his cuticles himself and paint each other’s nails black after.

THE GIFT – a vibrator, handcuffs, a dead rabbit he found and stuffed with its legs cut off. he also got you a nice bouquet of your favorite flowers, but he had to bark at someone at the store to get them.

NANAMI KENTO – this man will take you off to your classic fancy dinner date with wine, a box of chocolates, a bouquet of roses, basically the whole cliche formula valentine’s date. although, you’d notice that something seems a little off about him so you kind of just ask “are you having a good time?” and he looks back at you with a blank expression all like “are you having a good time?” that’s when you get the hint that he’s indifferent to the whole thing, so you quickly finish dinner in order to get home as soon as possible. nanami is a little confused as to why you weren’t having fun, but it’s all explained when you head to your bathroom and hold up two face masks. he hasn’t used one before, but you just tell him to relax and “stop and smell the roses.” he’s just like “i already bought you roses?” and you just shake your head and instruct him to lay down so that you can put the sheet mask on his face. the night slowly becomes more of a self care type time where you two take a bath together, wash each other’s hair, and eat cake. surprisingly, he ends up enjoying the whole thing and asks if you two can do the same thing next time. it ends with a peaceful sleep, you head laying on his chest and his arms wrapped around you.

THE GIFT – box of chocolates, roses, and some diamond earrings. the best dick of your entire life, both in the bathtub and in the bedroom.

ZENIN MAKI – this girl gives you a home cooked meal, but she’s actually good at it. for breakfast, she’s making some omelettes and rice and it’s one of the ones where it’s a sanrio character sleeping in a blanket. you’re just admiring her the whole time because she looks really pretty when she cooks. for a valentine’s day date, you two would go on a cute picnic with some bento boxes and eat strawberries while the sun shines. her hair is down the whole time and you play with it because she never has her hair down even though she looks absolutely gorgeous like that. she’s just relaxed the whole time and you’re feeding her compliments while keeps on this cocky exterior, but she’s internally melting. she also lets you braid her hair, so you give her some french braids, but not without adding some pretty flowers to compliment her face. later that night, you two play a movie in the background and you give her a massage because she rarely gets some time to let go and rest and you really want to make her feel good. eventually, this escalated into making out until you two get tired and fall asleep.

THE GIFT – home cooked meals and pair of earrings she saw you eyeing the other day.

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astrolology · 4 years ago

Text

The Love-Hate Relationship with Stelliums (Pt. 1) ✨

Guysss pls remember that astrology is holistic and this should be read taking into account your overall chart placements, as well as the planets in your stellium and what sign rules your stellium. TAKE NOTE lol

1st house

❤️: You may be a person who is very driven towards a particular goal, single-minded in behavior and with a sense of determination that is hard to beat. The focus is on self-improvement and is rather internally driven - there can be large amounts of time focused on figuring one’s identity out. You’re not afraid to say things as they are - you’re able to dish out criticism hard but you give credit when its due. You extend the courtesy you receive to others. You may have an innate sense of wisdom that you keep deep within that you don’t let slip unless to extremely close ones but in times of hardship you are a good source of motivation. You always seek to improve yourself and it’s hard (if not impossible) to drag you down because of your strong personality and how you tend to always move on no matter what. I think 1st house stelliums are the embodiment of “don’t look back” and y’all always try to make the best out of every best situation, sort of like seeing the silver lining in everything. And also when crises emerge you’re able to keep a calm head on your shoulders and are good at making snap decisions, which makes you good on your feet!

👹: I don’t think y’all are as self-absorbed as ppl make you out to be but there’s definitely an element of self-centredness such that when you do something, you often consider what is most convenient or productive for you. You might get upset when your plans are disrupted but sometimes do the same to others even though you might be aware of what you’re doing - in that aspect, 1st house stelliums can be hypocritical. For you, there is never enough - you’re never satisfied with anything, be it yourself or for other things so you can seem really unappreciative. Keep in mind that you also tend to force others to agree with you and don’t be so quick to dismiss the other party’s POV no matter how dumb it seems. Remember that there’s always something to learn from other people, no matter their status. You need to work on expressing your appreciation to others in a more genuine manner (altho I know y’all do it in gruff, slightly awkward ways when sincere - kinda cute ngl).

2nd house

❤️: You may be a person who has a strong moral code and has a staunch value system that you won’t deviate from no matter what. Sense of loyalty is usually unbreakable and it can take a lot to truly anger you. You can have a good financial sense and good instincts/foresight that allow you to plan ahead for stability’s sake. More often than not in certain areas you are a master of categorising and structuring things which means that your mind is analytical, critical and (usually) organised. You hate it when people think they know you because you (understandably) know yourself the best - there are many privatised layers of yourself that you prefer to keep... private so yeah it just annoys you when that happens. Y’all are a leader in certain aspects of your life and even though 2nd house stelliums tend to prefer being the right-hand man, your control freak tendencies come out and you end up leading anyway. You become really productive because of the fear of failure - you have crazy high expectations for yourself and expect the same of your closed ones (although ultimately you’ll support them in whatever they do). There is an appreciation for the finer things in life and when it comes to your loved ones you’re not afraid to spoil them hard.

👹: Be careful not to let this driving need for stability restrict you from spontaneity and following your heart’s desire. There is an inherent inflexibility in your nature; stubbornness can really be your kryptonite. You don’t really take any opportunities that you think might threaten your security which, while giving you a stable fort, can hold you back in your own happiness + prosperity. You might realise that there is a limit to your perspective but really struggle in seeing outside of that perspective mainly because you spend so much time thinking about what matters to you that you’ve become accustomed to your train of thought (altho when you do break it it’s lowkey groundbreaking). The focus on this house is on stability, not only on material wealth, so while you may be reaping in one aspect you might tend to lack on the spiritual or emotional elements of life. You can be very, very controlling and demanding so you might want to tone it down a little if not people might get the wrong impression. People might think of you as judgemental (and you are tbh) but I believe it’s just 2nd house stellium’s way of assessing a person’s character/abilities.

3rd house

❤️: You may be a person who puts in a lot of effort into various forms of self-expression (not limited to verbal communication but also finding a specific niche such as music, art, writing etc.) Your brain is naturally sharp and inquisitive and you may be able to pick things up very quickly. You might be rather adaptable but are surprisingly stubborn when it comes to your opinion or intellectual capabilities. You might have a dark/dirty sense of humor and because of that you also have a keen ability to see past the societal nuances of propriety and get to the heart/root of whatever a person is saying. You can spend your entire life trying to understand people and why things work the way they work - your brain needs to be stimulated in order for you to feel alive. Passion for you has to be applied in a productive manner - you probably aren’t a person to just take a passion for something as a mere hobby. Rather, you would either apply that passion to one of your existing projects, create a new one or use it as a motivating factor. Your interests are wide and varied, which makes you really well-rounded in certain aspects!

👹: Many people say y’all are flighty beings and I can certainly see why they would think so. Because of your perceptiveness, you tend to change your narrative whenever you’re speaking to different people, so as to make yourself sound more convincing. In that aspect, you can be quite manipulative. Your ego probably isn’t the smallest either haha - you can tolerate being slighted at some things but if it’s a challenge to one of your passion projects you’ll probably become very upset. You need to stop giving people the hot and cold shoulder all the time and even though you’re quite sociable you tend to flaunt but hide your true thoughts. You have to be more open and honest in your self-expression, and not that idealised, constructed version of yourself you think people will find interesting. I’ve noticed that 3rd house stellium ppl have an obsessive need to “stand out” and make themselves feel unique which, despite all your charms and popularity, might be the reason why you find yourself sometimes so isolated. You’re a perfectionist (although you would deny it) and secretly quite controlling but unlike other stelliums you can manage it better I feel.

4th house

❤️: There is a pressing insistence regarding relationships in your inner circle - be it your family, closest friends, or your future family. Extended focus on your cultural heritage can also be possible. Deep down, compassion is at your core and you are very protective of your friends in a silent but aggressive way. Having a stable family life is very important to you but I’ve noticed that more often than not, 4th house stelliums have turbulent family relationships. The beauty of 4th house stelliums is their ability to break through whatever toxic relationships they’ve been in and to create families of their own - be it unconventional or not. They are the epitome of “we choose our own families”. Y’all can be very empathetic and rather selfless to the point where you allow yourself to be manipulated (even though you’re aware of it) - but it’s usually for a justifiable reason. You find it easier than most to balance the emotional landscape but there are moments where you need an outlet to express yourself. There can be an obsession/possessiveness over your own culture - you take pride in your roots and become lowkey insulted when people disrespect it (and if you don’t, you somehow nearly always manage to find some other culture to assimilate yourself in).

👹: Y’all probably get very upset when things don’t go your way but the problem with this stellium is that there is a want to speak out but you choose to bury everything inside instead - giving you a very passive-aggressive and even aloof image. Internally, you guys might think that you are giving off a very soft/giving aura but some people are wary precisely because you are hard to read. You are very, intensely private (rivalling 2nd/7th house tbh) and you have to learn how to share your true thoughts, no bullshit, no suger-coated thoughts with your family and dearest friends even though you are capable of handling yourself. You are independent, ambitious, and people often underestimate you, but you have to let people in first in order for them to know what you’re capable of! Also, idealisation of certain things (eg. a future family life/partner) can be prevalent and you overthink things to the point where sometimes you make yourself miserable. Again, please talk to someone hahaha you don’t have to deal with everything yourself.

5th house

❤️: Insecurity runs rampant in any 5th house stellium BUT y’all are quite paradoxical in a sense that you also have a very strong aura of confidence. Sometimes, in crucial moments, you manage to convince yourself and others that you are the most important person in the room haha - literally the epitome of “fake it till you make it”. Still, a deeply rooted kindness is found in 5th house stelliums such that you’re always looking out for the underdog in the room. If you are developed you probably have a strong sense of righteousness which prompts you to look out for people who might be struggling. Y’all are very concerned about your physical appearance and most of the time you like to keep your body in good shape, which draws the attention of people in the room. You likely have an infectious smile (this is just a hunch but I don’t believe 5th house stelliums smile a lot - y’all quirk your lips or smirk but a true smile is rare so when you do... it melts the hearts of people). Everything that you do will have a youthful flavor and you have a healthy appreciation for downtime/self-care so while you might not (contrary to popular belief) be that fond of kids, kids are attracted to you. Oh and actually I think the stronger this stellium is in a person, the shyer the person seems at first impression but inwardly and as time goes by, they become more humorous and dramatic.

👹: You aren’t exactly manipulative, but you know how to use the power of suggestion (and your charms) to get what you want. If unchecked, it’ll become a habit because to you, it’s an instinctive thing to do and you might not realise you’re hurting other people because of it. You are stubborn and prideful (which isn’t a bad thing sometimes but) you take criticism quite badly such that if a person tries to offer their opinion or goes against your beliefs, you might take it as a personal attack. You have a fear of being restrained/constricted (like 9th house) so you’re actually quite aggressive to those who you perceive to be a threat to your authority. You can also experience extreme mood swings (from crazy happy/hyper to melancholic in a snap) and when you do you expect people to give you attention. But you are hypocritical in this aspect because you yourself can be quite insensitive to other people’s feelings, or you brush them off if you’re not “in the mood”.

6th house

❤️: You are most probably quite an organised person, not in a tidy way (although you could be) but in matters of life there’s an insistence on order and structure. The way you think can be very logical - you are able to think concisely and connect the dots in a quick manner and logic is probably prevalent in everything you do. However, in contrast to this pragmatic behavior, you are deeply caring and you won’t think twice to give up something if a loved one needs it. You are very disciplined in certain aspects of life and you are able to maintain a consistent effort in everything that you do. You’re probably someone who finds joy in small things and although you have high standards, it doesn’t take much to make you happy, as long as it’s genuine. You can be a perfectionist and really quite meticulous in your work which makes you someone who is detail-orientated. You give a lot of yourself to other people and most of the time you don’t expect anything in return, which is one of the great things about 6th house stelliums. You take effort into maintaining your physical health and you mighttt be a fitness freak or someone who keeps track of their diet really carefully. It’s likely that you encourage other people to follow your lifestyle and generally, you exert a sort of mellow influence around other people that makes them want to be better.

👹: There’s a tendency for 6th house stelliums to fall into pessimism, precisely because of your pragmatic nature. Y’all may say that you’re being “realistic” but in actuality it does dampen the spirits of some people. You can also become really unreasonable and inflexible once you’ve made up your mind on something and that makes you a bit narrow minded because you simply refuse to listen to other people’s POV. This can also cause tunnel vision which can really limit your full potential and I think it’s something worth spending your time working on. When pushed into a corner or feeling insecure, y’all might try to cover it up by being condescending or giving the cold shoulder. There’s also a risk of being overly reliant on a schedule/structure and hence, cautiousness when it comes to being spontaneous or embracing something foreign. Because of your affinity towards maintaining health, your hypochondriac tendencies may be exacerbated and you need to try to lessen your over-worrying behaviour haha. Although you never dish out something you can’t receive (eg. high expectations - you’re truly your worst critic), your demanding tone can really make others cautious of you.

OVERALL, I strongly believe that the way to embrace your stelliums isn’t to reject or force yourself to change the values they represent, but rather taking those eccentricities and moulding it into something more precious and beneficial to yourself. It has to be done with a thorough understanding of yourself; with patience.

-C

#astrology #astro notes #astro observations #1st house stellium #2nd house stellium #3rd house stellium #4th house stellium #5th house stellium #6th house stellium

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

What would happen if Jiang Cheng found A-Yuan hiding in the tree stump at the Siege of the Burial Mounds and decided he's going to take in this toddler Wei Wuxian's was raising and raise him, in the memory of what WWX promised to be for JC?

sequel to this aka Delight in Misery (ao3)

“Sizhui?!” Jiang Cheng roared as he stormed into Lan Wangji’s room. “You named him Sizhui?”

Lan Wangji had already long ago become inured to Jiang Cheng’s huffing and puffing. Anyway, Jiang Cheng had medicine in his hands when he stormed in, which meant that he wasn’t bothered enough by it to come yell at him outside the usual time - and that meant that whatever it was, it was no big deal.

Accordingly, Lan Wangji didn’t give the yelling any more thought than it required, opting instead to turn onto his stomach in silent invitation.

Sure enough, Jiang Cheng came over to sit on the bed, grumbling the entire time he undid the bandages on Lan Wangji’s back and starting to spread the soothing balm onto the slowly healing wounds.

“I can’t believe you picked ‘Sizhui’ as a courtesy name for A-Yuan,” Jiang Cheng said, sounding thoroughly disgusted and more than a little disgruntled as well. His hands, however, were as gentle as his voice was harsh. “Sizhui. Was carving ‘Lan Wangji loves Wei Wuxian’ into the woodwork too subtle for you?”

Being face down made it easier for Lan Wangji to hide the way his lips twitched.

At first, he had been disturbed at the notion that his grief for Wei Wuxian’s loss – an endless well of despair, an injury that would never heal – might in some ways be balanced with instances of joy, and yet, in time, he had slowly come to accept it. After all, Wei Wuxian himself had never remembered pain for more than a moment; he would not have wanted Lan Wangji to deny himself the pleasures of A-Yuan’s cheerful presence, the peace of being surrounded by Wei Wuxian’s belongings, the amusement of Jiang Cheng’s sarcastic commentary that was so thoroughly ungracious it could only be laughed at.

The adjustment had not been easy. Lan Wangji was broken in both body and heart, lingering too longer in regrets of the past, while Jiang Cheng had walked a fine line on the verge of true madness, periods of calm interrupted suddenly by grief so intense it manifested as hysterical anger and furious lashing out, his own servants trembling to see it - it was only when Jin Ling had ended up with them, a safe haven for him in his younger years while Lanling Jin sorted out its own internal issues, that Jiang Cheng had started to calm down. His nights were still full of nightmares, brutal soul-shattering screaming ones that Lan Wangji suspected matched his own, but there were now entire days in which the man who kept him company (because apparently “seclusion” wasn’t considered a real word in Yunmeng Jiang, and “alone” was translated to mean “with me”) was a serious, earnest sect leader with a penchant for snide quips rather than the devastated wreckage of a human being he had met upon the Burial Mounds.

They had not been particularly close, before, and their personalities weren’t exactly compatible. And yet, to his surprise, Lan Wangji found that he didn’t miss the serenity of the Cloud Recesses as much as he thought he would, but rather appreciated the noise and clamor that Jiang Cheng brought into his life.

“ – like two drops of water, both of you,” Jiang Cheng was saying. “Sizhui and Rulan! These are people’s names! They’ll have to bear them their entire lives! Do you think when they’re adults they’re going to enjoy telling people, ‘oh, yes, well, you see, the people who named us had absolutely no sense of dignity or proportion, so –’”

“How is A-Ling?” Lan Wangji asked, feeling his ears go red. He had known about Jin Ling’s courtesy name since long ago, but he hadn’t known until Jiang Cheng had told him that the name had been bestowed by Wei Wuxian, or that Wei Wuxian had praised his sect and maybe even him in the naming – it sometimes made him wonder if his feelings, which he’d long believed to be unrequited, might not have been so hopeless after all.

That didn’t mean he wanted to talk about said feelings with Jiang Cheng, though.

Luckily, Jiang Cheng’s attention was very easy to divert when it came to his precious nephew. “Good! His teeth are finally coming out properly, so we won’t have to deal with all that wailing and gnawing anymore – I thought we’d have to lose A-Yuan’s fingers to all that biting before it ever happened –”

“I thought you told him to stop.”

“Of course I did. Did he listen? No. He just looked sad and obedient whenever I looked at him, and snuck his fingers into the crib whenever I didn’t – I should’ve gotten you to give him the order. He actually listens to you.”

Lan Wangji hummed in response, listening as Jiang Cheng continued in his usual manner to update him about the development of the children they were raising – teething for Jin Ling, Lan Yuan’s rapidly swelling waistline (he was almost recognizable as a child again instead of the pile of bones he’d been after he’d recovered from his fever) and the need to start him on physical conditioning soon, the investment of time and effort that all three of them were putting into trying to convince Jin Ling that his first word should be ‘jiujiu’ – and then, from there, about developments at the Lotus Pier more generally.

At first, Lan Wangji had thought there was a purpose to these updates, that he was meant to give some sort of advice as payment for taking up food and resources, but after a while he realized that Jiang Cheng just wanted someone to listen to him.

He didn’t seem to have anyone else that would.

“– finally finished the full set of docks, so maybe the fishermen will stop beating my ears in about it,” Jiang Cheng was saying. “And yes, damn you, your idea about opening up hotels was both very popular and very profitable – just goes to show that your Lan sect’s reputation for being above it all isn’t in any way justified, you lot make money better than the Jin sect…your brother came by again.”

Lan Wangji tensed.

“Stop that! Your back’s bad enough without adding knots to it.” Jiang Cheng pressed down on one of them purposefully: it hurt for a moment, and then released, and Lan Wangji involuntarily relaxed as the relief spread through him. Jiang Cheng either had a very good teacher in massage or a natural-born talent for it; Lan Wangji hadn’t yet figured out how to ask which it was. “He’s still looking for you, that’s all, and it’s starting to take a bit of a toll on him; he looks like he hasn’t slept in a while. I’m starting to almost feel bad about it.”

It was very classic Jiang Cheng, Lan Wangji had found, to orchestrate a punishment for someone and feel bad about it almost immediately thereafter. It was no wonder A-Yuan had him so thoroughly wrapped around his little finger.

“You can tell him, if you want,” Lan Wangji said reluctantly. Telling would mean seeing, and while he missed his brother very much, he was still very angry over everything that had happened. “I do not want the Lotus Pier to suffer for having harbored me.”

“Stop being so damned self-sacrificing,” Jiang Cheng said, and Lan Wangji wasn’t looking but he could hear him rolling his eyes. “I don’t care how much you enjoy it; I for one can’t stand it. Anyway, if my Jiang Sect can’t hold our heads up against another sect’s anger, we don’t deserve to be called a Great Sect. It’s like I told you: the moment he actually admits that you’re missing, rather than being all ambiguous and vague about it, I’ll tell him.”

Lan Wangji was secretly glad, even though he knew it was petty of him.

The thought of how frantic Lan Xichen must be after all these months, the idea of him not sleeping, of him travelling to all the sects to ask again and again if they’d seen him…the thought of it hurt, he didn’t deny it. But it didn’t hurt as much as finding out that Wei Wuxian had died with no one by his side – as finding out that his brother, who knew what Wei Wuxian meant to him, had known and deliberately omitted to tell him.

Just as Jiang Cheng was deliberately omitting to tell Lan Xichen the truth now.

“The sect would lose face,” he finally said, offering up an explanation for his brother’s actions, both then and now.

“Yeah, well, fuck your sect,” Jiang Cheng said. “I picked my sect over my family, too, and where did that leave me? Now it’s all I have left.”

His hands stilled for a moment.

“…except you and kids, I guess,” he said, sounding especially bitter about it in the sort of way that Lan Wangji had learned indicated that Jiang Cheng was having an attack of feelings and not particularly enjoying the experience. “You’re not that annoying.”

That was practically stating that Jiang Cheng would die without them.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji said, and after a moment Jiang Cheng continued rubbing in the salve. There was even a brief moment of silence, probably Jiang Cheng being thankful that Lan Wangji didn’t call him out on those feelings. Normally, Lan Wangji would just enjoy it, but… “You could have children of your own.”

Jiang Cheng choked, his hand slipping as he nearly fell over. “What?”

“Children,” Lan Wangji said. “You could marry.”

Not that marriage was a requirement for children, as Jin Guangshan continuously seemed to demonstrate – according to some of the gossip Jiang Cheng had recently reported, he’d recently brought another bastard son home.

“I’m trying, aren’t I?” Jiang Cheng asked, indignant. “I’ve gone on three matchmaking dates –”

Lan Wangji was well aware. He had been the one to whom Jiang Cheng had exaggeratedly complained after each one of those disastrous dates.

“Deliberate sabotage,” he said, because even without having left the four walls around him in months he could figure that much out. “Why?”

Jiang Cheng hesitated, then snorted. “Well, let’s hope not everyone’s as perceptive as you. It’s the agreement I made with the Jin sect to allow me to raise Jin Ling – no other children.”

Somehow, Lan Wangji hadn’t expected that.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He knew, of course, that there was nothing Jiang Cheng wouldn’t do for his last living blood relative, even risk having his Jiang sect turned into nothing more than an inheritance to be gobbled up by the Jin sect, but he hadn’t realized – that the Jin sect would take advantage of the grief and trauma that Jiang Cheng suffered, the same grief and trauma that he himself suffered from every day…

It made him taste bile.

“Though you’ve nearly screwed that up, you know,” Jiang Cheng said, sounding suddenly amused. “Back’s done, by the way.”

Lan Wangji sat up and turned his head to look at Jiang Cheng. “How?”

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes. “Well, given your injuries, I’m the one out there teaching Lan Yuan all the basics, aren’t I? The Jiang sect hasn’t started accepting disciples that young yet, so he stands out. Everyone’s starting to say that he’s mine.”

“His surname is Lan.”

“And Wei Wuxian’s was Wei; that never stopped people from talking, did it?” Jiang Cheng scowled a little at the reminder he’d just given himself; as Lan Wangji had found out these past few months, Jiang Cheng was a master of the self-inflicted injury. “The latest I’ve heard is that I fell in love with some lady from the Lan sect who left her child with me when she died – honestly, it’s a bit sad that they can’t think of anything more interesting. Why would I be stupid enough to make the same mistakes as my father?”

Lan Wangji frowned. Jiang Cheng’s voice was shading near to actual pain, rather than his usual bark without a bite – he had let slip enough about his childhood for Lan Wangji to have figured out that the old jokes about the Jiang sect leader’s favoritism for Wei Wuxian were not jokes at all.

More like an old wound ripped open so many times that it would never heal.

It was no surprise, then, that it hurt him to be cast in the same role.

“You could always tell them that the lady still lives,” he said mildly, pretending his words weren’t hurting himself this time. Maybe Jiang Cheng had a point when he said that Lan Wangji enjoyed self-sacrifice. “Only that she’s ill, or in confinement, and cannot be seen.”

“Not a chance! Like I’d ever do something like that,” Jiang Cheng said, and Lan Wangji very briefly loved him for his immediate rejection of the idea. “Besides, if I say that, what do I do when you do come out of here and claim him? Everyone will think we’ve been sleeping together.”

Lan Wangji politely didn’t mention the occasional night that Jiang Cheng spent huddling by his side, wild-eyed, until the nightmares went away, or the way Jiang Cheng would occasionally lend a hand with certain physiological reactions that Lan Wangji could not bear to deal with himself, turning what might have been a trigger for self-hatred and near suicidal despair into a process as mundane as the baths he still needed help taking; neither of those were what was meant.

“No one would fear that you would have children if they thought you cut your sleeve,” he pointed out, not sure why he was pushing the issue. Even if people did say that, it was only rumors, after all, and temporary ones: when Lan Wangji could walk again, even the most pointed would swiftly fade in favor of ones that slandered Lan Wangji’s reputation instead.

“I’m still hoping to get married eventually,” Jiang Cheng said. “Just – after Jin Ling is an adult. Once he’s sect leader, he can release me from the promise I made. No harm done, assuming I don’t die first.”

Lan Wangji nodded. It made sense, though for some reason he felt some dissatisfaction.

“Though,” Jiang Cheng continued, looking thoughtful, “it might not be that bad an idea to spread some rumors. If I never commented on it, people would never know for sure if it was true or just slander by some dissatisfied female cultivator after one of my horrible matchmaking meetings.”

“It would still affect your reputation.”

“Like I care,” Jiang Cheng scoffed. “Let them talk! If anyone is stupid enough to think that the contents of my bed have any impact on my abilities, I still have Zidian to show them the error of their ways. And I will, too; don’t think I won’t!”

Lan Wangji abruptly felt lighter inside. Of course Jiang Cheng wouldn’t care; he hardly ever cared about anything other than his sect and the children – and anyway, just because Lan Wangji had never told Jiang Cheng directly how he felt about Wei Wuxian didn’t mean that he hadn’t guessed. He had given Lan Wangji Wei Wuxian’s bedroom, after all. “I would never be so foolish.”

Jiang Cheng huffed and tossed his head, then turned to say something that he promptly forgot in favor of gaping at him. “Hanguang-jun, what are you doing with your mouth?”

Lan Wangji allowed his smile to widen. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop it! It’s creepy! Go back to being humorless and dull this instant!”

“No.”

“This is my sect and you’re my guest; you have to do what I say.”

“No.”

“You’re worse than A-Yuan,” Jiang Cheng complained. “At least he pretends to listen. I’ll have to raise Jin Ling to be properly obedient.”

For some reason, Lan Wangji didn’t think he would have much luck with that.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #lan wangji #lan sizhui #jin ling #my fic #my fics #delight in misery #accidental life partner acquisition #lacommunarde

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maddiewritesstucky · 4 years ago

Text

Whenever You’re Ready

I am equal parts excited and terrified to share this story with you all. This one is very special to me, and it has been an Emotional Experience putting these words to page, so far removed from what I usually write. Huge acknowledgement to @doctorenterprise whose honest critiques vastly improved this story, and @buckyandthejets who validated the hell out of me, thank you both so much 😘

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve/Bucky (Modern AU)

Word count: 5189

Tags: Angst, infidelity (not between Steve/Bucky), heavy on the feels, reference to past internalized homophobia, lost love, reunions, emotional sex, happy ending

*CW: Infidelity - In this story, Bucky has sex with Steve even though he is (unhappily) married to someone else. Please avoid this story if you will find this triggering, or feel free to DM me if you need more details. It all ends well!*

***

“Never changes, does it?”

It goes straight to Steve’s bones, that voice, all the way down to his marrow. He doesn’t turn around at the sound of it, nor at the muted clunk of footsteps on the dock behind him; slowly closing the distance to where Steve’s standing, thinking.

Waiting.

He’s been out here long enough to have watched the sun disappear behind the mountainous horizon, taking with it its warmth and making way for the quiet chill of evening to set in. It’s far enough away here, from the music and revelry and reminiscence, that Steve can almost pretend those words are true; that nothing’s changed, that there’s nothing and no one else in existence but the two of them, and the reflection of the moon rising over the lake.

“Some things do.”

It comes out bitter, even though Steve’s spent years telling himself he’s not; that the pit in his stomach and the hole in his chest have a different name, a different face. It’s a pointless grief, after so many years. Decades, now, as the banners and balloons up at the reunion were boasting.

He knew what he was doing, coming here tonight. Like pushing on a bruise to make sure it still hurts. And it did, it does, because Bucky is right - the camp hasn’t changed a bit, and Steve might be pushing forty now but his heart is still nineteen; still standing at the end of this dock at sundown waiting for those footsteps behind him, for that warm hand slipping into his and that familiar voice saying his name like it’s music, like it means something.

“Steve…”

...There’s no hand, and his name is just a name. It aches in the exact place Steve had thought it would.

“She’s pretty, Buck. You look good together.”

He thinks he hears Bucky’s breath hitch, but it could have been the breeze catching in the trees, or the lick of water at the splintered edge of the dock. It would be easier if it were a lie, might sit sweeter on Steve’s tongue if he were sugar coating something false, something to say for the sake of speaking, but he means it.

That aches, too.

“I married her,” Bucky says, and the way it sounds like an apology sinks like a lead weight in Steve’s gut.

“I heard.”

“Steve, will you please look at me?”

Despair frays the edges of each word, and Steve shakes his head, blows out a ragged breath into the cool night air.

He had looked at Bucky, had watched him walk in tonight looking every bit like the man Steve always knew he’d grow into - strong, kind-eyed, beautiful; age starting to show in the soft flecks of grey at his temples, but missing from where Steve thought it’d make itself known first.

“You don’t have smile lines,” he can hear the frown in his own voice as the thought slips past his lips, “always thought you’d have smile lines, way you were always laughing at everything.”

“Steve...”

It’s a sob, this time; unmistakable, and it rips the ground out from beneath Steve.

There’s a hand on his back, slipping down the column of his spine; a shivering body pressing up close behind him and a forehead dropping against his shoulder. Tears soak wet through the back of Steve’s shirt and two arms circle around his waist, a hold long-forgotten and achingly familiar all at once, and Steve can’t remember how to breathe.

“Bucky,” he begins, though he has no idea where it ends.

His hands come up to cover Bucky’s, threading their fingers together and pulling Bucky’s arms tighter around himself, and it feels nothing like it used to because Steve’s heart wasn’t broken back then.

When Bucky’s lips find the crook of his neck, that doesn’t feel anything like it used to either, but Steve tilts his head for it anyway; offers up the expanse of his throat like he’d once offered up the rest of his life to the man holding him.

All of me, he’d said so long ago, every day of every year I have left. All for you.

Bucky’s hands slip to Steve’s hips, his mouth at the hinge of Steve’s jaw, and it’s so wholly selfish, the way Steve wants this. It’s years of longing and anger and loss made harder by all the ways Bucky wasn’t gone, and the tattered vestiges of Steve’s heart are screaming at him to stop before there’s nothing left of himself to salvage.

“You left me.”

There’s no emotion left in the statement, not anymore. It bled out years ago, muffled into Steve’s pillow and screamed into voids and hurled at the walls of his too-quiet, too-empty house.

It’s hollow, now, but Steve feels how heavy it lands in the way Bucky’s entire body curls in on itself behind him.

“I know,” Bucky whispers, his tear-stained cheek tucked against the side of Steve’s face.

The immensity of pain buried in those two words sinks jagged teeth into the meat of Steve’s heart, and he can’t believe he still bleeds for it after all these years. He knows he should walk away from this, pry himself free of the physical hold Bucky has on him and spend the rest of his days praying those soul-ties unknot themselves too.

But the wound is open now, if it were ever really closed, and he can’t stop himself from tugging on the busted stitches to see just how raw and messy he can make it.

“Tell me why,” he turns in the circle of Bucky’s arms, cups the back of Bucky’s neck and makes him meet the full force of his gaze.

Give me salt for this wound, he’s pleading, and Bucky would have every right to deny him because this conversation has no place here; has no place in any universe where there’s a ring on Bucky’s finger.

But Bucky came to him, Bucky broke the silence and put his hands on Steve like he’s just as hungry to hurt for this again, and maybe they both just need to bleed it out together.

“Because we couldn’t,” Bucky twists his fists tight and frantic into the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “I couldn’t...Jesus, if my family had found out—”

“I loved you,” Steve spits, “it was real, and I loved you, and you loved me too.”

“Fuck, Steve, of course I loved you!” There’s desperation there now, in Bucky’s hands on him; not just clinging but clawing, no space between them for air or reason or good judgement. “You think it didn’t break me, too?”

“I wouldn’t fucking know what it did to you, Bucky,” Steve runs a fingertip across the plain gold band hugging Bucky’s finger, digging his nail in under the ridge of it, “but it seems like you bounced back just fine.”

Bucky sucks in a breath, and Steve doesn’t hear him let it go again. He’s doing nothing to mask the anguish on his face as he stares up at Steve, lips parted and eyes welling over; his brow knotted into lines that form all too easy, like they’re well worn at this point, and it’s so so wrong.

Steve smoothes his thumb over the groove between Bucky’s eyebrows; pushes at it like it’s something he can rub away.

“Aren’t you happy?” he hears himself ask, hurt and exhausted and terrified of the answer.

It’s not until Bucky shakes his head, tears spilling anew from his red-rimmed eyes, that Steve realizes there was any part of himself left that was yet to break.

“Not a day of my life, Steve. Not without you.”

Steve will never be emptier than this, seeing the truth of it all spelled out across Bucky’s face. It had been all the light Steve had left, that small embittered part of himself that’d believed Bucky was better off for the way things had gone.

What was left, now? It had burned Steve down to ash, losing Bucky, but loving him was inextricable, and thinking he was happy out there was the only reason Steve could sleep at night.

“What do I do with that, Buck?”

There are tears in Steve’s eyes now too, a tremble in his voice and the dead weight of regret hanging off his words.

Bucky takes Steve’s face between his hands, too tight to be tender. When he sweeps his thumbs across the tears tracking down Steve’s cheeks, it only spreads them further.

“Kiss me?”

Bucky leaves it in the space between them like it’s the only answer he has left, and Steve wishes it didn’t make sense.

Another place, another time; a different dock and a different sky, and Steve might see the insanity of it, the notion that putting his lips against Bucky’s could be a salve instead of just another scar.

But they’re here, with those same stars and that same rundown boat shed with it’s broken door, and Steve lets himself close the distance between their mouths, because it’s the only answer he has left, too.

He kisses Bucky with every minute of every day of every wasted year sitting there on the tip of his tongue. He holds Bucky too close and breathes him in too deep, leans all too willing into the pass of Bucky’s hands over his body.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bucky sobs brokenly, slipping his hands up under the hem of Steve’s shirt to splay across his bare skin.

Steve shakes his head because he can’t hear that now, with Bucky’s hands on him. Remorse can’t coexist with the warmth of Bucky’s palms and the slick press of his mouth, not when there isn’t even room for moonlight between them.

“Don’t,” Steve whispers, “don’t tell me that.”

Bucky’s hand finds its way up to the center of Steve’s chest, his fingertips curling into a grip on Steve’s flesh like he can reach in and take hold of what lies beneath. Steve’s not sure there’s anything left in there to grab onto, but he lets Bucky try anyway because if there is, it will only ever belong in his hand.

“Can I tell you I still think of you?” Bucky kisses the words against Steve’s cheek, trails them down the line of his jaw. “Never stopped thinking about you, Steve.”

You should have, is what Steve should say, you’re not mine anymore.

“Someone will see us,” is what Steve does say, even as his fingertips dip beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pants.

Someone is probably looking for Bucky right now, but there’s no room for that truth here, either. Especially when Bucky pulls back and looks toward the long abandoned boat shed, and then back at Steve.

There are so many opportunities for Steve to choose differently, to tell Bucky to stop. When Bucky takes him by the hand with a plea in his gaze; when he pulls Steve down the dock, and into that boat shed...it’s been a lifetime and Steve is a grown man, too old to be this foolish. But he’s tired, too worn down from years of unmet longing to be anything other than reckless when presented with everything he’s lived without for so painfully long.

So he doesn’t say a word.

He lets it happen, and he helps it happen. He raises his arms for Bucky to pull off his shirt, tilts his hips when Bucky works his belt loose and tugs down his pants.

He strips Bucky bare with his own two hands and pulls him against his own naked body, sobbing open and unashamed for the way it makes him feel whole for the first time in twenty years.

He maps the planes of Bucky’s body, no longer rounded and softened by youth, but every bit as warm as the memories Steve has clung to, and it shouldn’t feel right because it isn’t; shouldn’t feel so familiar when there’s been decades of distance between them.

“I miss you.”

It trips off Steve’s tongue before he can stop it, small and breathless. Of all the three-word truths he could have let slip it isn’t the worst, but Bucky’s wounded noise says that it cuts just as deep.

He catches Bucky’s lips against his own before Bucky can do anything stupid like say it back; fisting his hands up through Bucky’s hair and pushing his tongue into Bucky’s mouth.

He wants to do this slow, to sink deep enough into it that every touch and every moment cling to him like a brand. But it’s only ever been a headlong tumble, this journey that begins with Bucky’s bare skin against his own, and Steve can feel himself falling the same way he always did.

Open palms turn to pressing fingertips, lips on skin turn to grazing teeth, and a dusty hammock spread across the floorboards. It’s another twist of the knife, the way Bucky’s body still fits beneath his own just as perfect as it ever did, the way Bucky’s spread thighs still make the perfect cradle for his hips.

Bucky still looks up at him from the flat of his back with the same awe he’d turn upon the night sky, like Steve’s still the only heaven he believes in, and there’s too much gravity in that gaze. There always was, but there was no reason not to get dragged into it back then.

It’s not until Bucky’s fingertips brush softly over his eyelids, tracing the sweep of his lashes, that Steve realizes he’s closed his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky whispers.

Steve almost wants to laugh, because if he were thinking at all, he wouldn’t be here.

He’s not laid out naked on top of someone else’s husband because he’s thinking; not about to put his mouth and his fingers and his cock where they don’t belong because he’s in his right mind.

Steve is an exposed nerve, a callous that’s been rubbed raw, and he’ll pretend that’s all he is for as long as it takes to see the man he never stopped loving fall apart beneath him one last time.

He buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck and bites down on the softness he finds there, all the answer he intends on giving. There’s no good reason for him to still know the exact spot to sink his teeth into, but he’s not about to waste time pretending he doesn’t remember every last touch point that ever made Bucky lose his mind.

His right earlobe, the notch of his clavicle, the tender space beneath his ribs.

His hip bones, and his wrists, and the soft insides of his thighs, sensitive all the way down to his knees.

Maybe after all this time it’s only nostalgia, only because they both want so badly to be who they once were to each other. But Bucky’s body still sings the exact same tune when Steve plays it, tongue and teeth and fingertips in all the right places.

“Please,” Bucky gasps, giving over to it just as easy as he always did. He’s hiding nothing of himself, not in the sprawl of his body or the longing in his gaze, the breathless sounds dripping off his lips.

He arches into the rub of Steve’s skin against his, splays his thighs wide for Steve’s hips then wider still for Steve’s shoulders, and he looks down the line of his body with all the same rapture when Steve finally takes him into the heat of his mouth.

“Oh...”

It’s so soft, the sound Bucky makes. One tiny word, more breath than anything else, yet it somehow holds all the sentiment of of course, and how have I lived without this, and Steve is ruined for it.

He’s sixteen again, realizing that want begins and ends with Bucky Barnes.

He is seventeen, discovering that the only thing better than getting his hands on Bucky, is getting his mouth on him.

He is eighteen, and nineteen, and twenty; bone-deep certain that for him, there will only ever be Bucky.

“Stevie,” Bucky sighs. He reaches gentle fingertips to brush the hair back off Steve’s forehead; traces the stretch of Steve’s lips around him with all the tender wonder of their youth.

...Steve is thirty-nine, and he will never come back from this.

He holds Bucky’s gaze as he swallows him down, watches the play of pleasure across Bucky’s face like it’s still his to behold.

He sinks all of himself into chasing those awed, quiet sounds that have existed only as echoes for so long, and pretends it’s not the worst kind of cruelty that this act should still feel so sacred; that Bucky should still be that breathless, trembling embodiment of surrender.

Back arched, thighs twitching, face flushed and lips parted…it’s as devastating as Steve remembers, and so much more so for the fact that he has no right to witness it anymore.

“Steve, please...”

Bucky looks down at him imploringly, reaches for him with open hands.

Steve hollows his cheeks as he pulls off him, slow and tight. He crawls back up Bucky’s body until they’re face to face, until he’s covering Bucky’s body with his own.

“I’m here, Buck.”

I’m weak, Buck.

He cups Bucky’s face in his hands, strokes his thumbs across Bucky’s cheekbones and nudges their noses together. He breathes Bucky’s air and kisses his lips, soft and careful until it’s not; until it’s just Steve pouring all his hunger and his longing and his desperation into Bucky’s mouth.

And he is desperate. Every last part of him is breaking for the feel of Bucky’s bare skin, his bare arousal, rubbing up against his own; for the responsibility of holding Bucky’s vulnerability and his nakedness and his pleasure in the palms of his hands.

“God, it’s been so long,” Steve’s voice splinters around the words, around the sobs that want to keep coming, “it’s been so long, Bucky...”

He rolls his hips heavy and deep, slips his hands beneath Bucky’s shoulders to keep them locked tight together. There’s sweat beading between them, spit and precum slicking their skin, and every promise they ever made weighing dense in the air.

Bucky’s fingernails are sunk deep enough into his back that Steve can feel the half-moon imprints forming; Bucky’s legs hitched up around his hips and soft moans passing back and forth between their open mouths.

Steve had always wondered what this must look like from the outside, the way they get lost in one another. The quiet gasps and heavy breaths, the pleasured sounds that catch between their lips. Bodies shaking, hands clinging, eyes open because it’s the closest thing to heaven you’d ever see.

It’s immensity was always buried in the slowness of it all, but it’s as consuming and inevitable as it ever was.

He knows Bucky’s close before Bucky tells him he is; can feel it thrumming through Bucky’s body beneath him. He knows he shouldn’t watch it happen, shouldn’t sharpen that mental picture back into focus when it had taken so long to blur its edges in the first place.

He shouldn’t moan brokenly into Bucky’s mouth and rock harder against him; shouldn’t push up onto his hands and fix his gaze squarely on Bucky’s face.

‘Shouldn’t’ doesn’t mean a goddamn thing anymore.

“Come with me?” Bucky pleads, eyes glassy and body strung taut.

He presses a trembling hand to Steve’s heart and the other to Steve’s neck, holding his racing pulse and his heartbeat in his hands just the same as he had the first time they made love, and Steve comes apart at the seams.

It’s unending, that wash of raw feeling. It’s galaxies inside his rib cage and oceans in his veins, and wildfire curling around the base of his spine. He breathes Bucky’s name, spills all over his stomach, and when Bucky follows him over he ducks down to drink the wonder of it right off Bucky’s lips.

The quiet weighs so much heavier, as they lay pressed together in the aftermath.

Steve looks down at the man beneath him, watches his breathing settle and the flush subside from his cheeks, and the ache of the past suddenly pales in comparison to what lies ahead.

What exists for them beyond this moment, here and now? Bucky’s face is cradled in Steve’s hands and his nakedness is sheltered by Steve’s body, but even this was never Steve’s to offer. It’s time and touch already stolen, and the rhythmic lap of water against the dock outside may as well be the ticking of a clock.

“What happens now, Buck?” he asks, knowing there’s no comfort to be found in the answer.

Bucky shakes his head, touching gentle fingertips to Steve’s cheek and searching Steve’s gaze.

“I don’t know.”

The night air is cold against Steve’s back, all the warmth that had seemed to wrap so close around them dissipating.

He slowly moves off of Bucky and gathers up their clothes, redressing himself with fingers that fumble weak and uncoordinated with the fabric that had been so very easy to take off.

“...If you asked me to leave her, I would.”

Bucky’s voice comes small from behind him, but the words take up every last inch of space in the room.

Steve turns to look at him, and there’s something so painfully close to hope on his face, it makes Steve’s chest ache.

“I can’t do that, Bucky,” he rasps, “it can’t be up to me.”

The regret in it is palpable, the ‘I wish it was’ joining the thousand other things that live, unsaid, on the tip of Steve’s tongue.

I am so much yours that it hurts

I will never stop hoping for you

I will love you for the rest of my life

It’s years too late, for all of it. But those words still throw themselves against the backs of Steve’s teeth, because if not now, then when?

“Bucky, I—”

“James?”

...The soft call comes from outside, carried on the breeze from a little ways off.

There’s nothing in it, no suspicion, no concern. Just someone looking for the person they’ve lost, wondering where they’ve gone to.

Steve’s stomach sinks, and the clock runs out.

Bucky looks at him, eyes wide and lips falling open like he intends to speak. No sound comes out, but Steve understands all the same - Bucky’s gaze always said more than words ever could, anyway.

“You should go back, Buck.”

Steve says it gently, though neither of them deserve that kindness after what they’ve done. He picks up his sweater, and he leaves what’s left of his heart on the floor, because he’s got no use for it without the man he’s about to walk away from.

“If you ever…” Steve starts, and stops himself, shaking his head softly. His gaze sticks to the spot just in front of Bucky’s feet, his body half turned toward the door.

“...You know where I’ll be,” he says instead, and then he gathers up his shoes in his hands and steps back out into the evening, because he’s no more capable of saying ‘goodbye’ to Bucky now than he was back then.

***

It’s a half hour walk home along the edge of the lakeshore, but it takes Steve hours; tears washing a salt-sting down his cheeks and his feet in the too-cold water the entire way.

It doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he deserves, that frigid needling against his skin and the stones underfoot. But the greater punishment will come, he knows.

When he gets home, and has to live the rest of his life knowing not only what he lost, but what he did to try and dull the ache of it.

When he gets home, to that rambling, too-quiet house on the lake edge, where Bucky’s touch is set into the very foundations.

The roof they had helped Steve’s dad patch, the summer Steve turned eighteen; the creaking window ledge that would betray Bucky’s midnight visits to Steve’s bedroom, and that same kitchen table where they’d try not to blush at each other’s gaze.

The porch swing where they’d watch the sun go down; every wall and doorframe they’d kissed up against when Steve’s parents weren’t around to see it; every tree they ever made love or fell asleep beneath...

He may not have seen Bucky in the flesh in almost twenty years, but there hasn’t been a day of Steve’s life since that he hasn’t felt the echo of his presence, and now it will hum under his skin the same way it always has in his house.

The sky is awash with stars he can’t bear to look at by the time he makes it home, feet numb and shivering all over.

He trudges the path from the lakeshore back up to his house, clearing the tree line and stepping into the moonlight spilling full and bright over his yard, over his homestead.

Over the unfamiliar car parked in his dirt-track driveway, and the figure sitting, waiting, on his porch.

“...Bucky?”

His body slows in its tracks, stops halfway across the yard and won’t carry him any further forward.

Bucky makes no move to close the distance between them either, save to stand slowly on unsteady legs and step down onto the silver-lit lawn.

“Hey, Steve.”

His arms are curled around himself, his shoulders rounded and his feet shifting on the grass. Even in the moonlight, Steve can see the swell of too many tears shed around Bucky’s eyes, and he’d look like he was about to run if not for the set of his jaw; the unwavering hold of his gaze on Steve’s.

“Buck, what are you...how long have you—”

“I did it.”

Bucky’s voice cracks - not like a heart breaking, but like a weight falling away, like a world upending, and it hits Steve like a blow to the back of the knees.

“You did what, Bucky?”

He knows what he’s hearing, what Bucky has just laid before him, but he asks anyway because it can’t be that; that terrible, selfish thing that Steve has dreamed of and hoped for and hated himself for wanting all these years.

Bucky can’t be here, standing under the light of the full moon, hours after they made love that was all passion and no integrity, telling Steve that.

Bucky takes a step forward, just one. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Steve to see that he’s shaking.

“I told her, Steve. I told her what I did tonight...told her the truth about me.”

“The truth...”

Steve’s chest is crushing in on itself, the air between them so thin and fragile he’s afraid to breathe it in.

Bucky wraps himself tighter in the circle of his own arms, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the ground.

“I was scared, Steve,” he whispers, “back then...We were kids, and I was so scared of what it meant, the way I felt about you. And I thought I could...make myself feel that, again. For someone else. Someone who was...”

He blows out a shuddering breath, kicking at the ground in front of him.

“...Someone that everybody else would accept. But I couldn’t, Steve. I tried, I tried so fucking hard, and I thought that if I got married, then maybe...maybe it’d be better, because I’d have no choice but to love her. But I just...I couldn’t feel that again. I couldn’t, because I never fuckin’ stopped feeling it, for you.”

Steve aches, in every part of his being, all the way down in his soul. He stares at the man he’s loved his whole life, and he aches for the both of them; for the half-lives they’ve been living, tied to one another with string that had stretched when it would have been kinder to snap.

“I got it so wrong, Steve,” Bucky sobs, his eyes screwing shut against free-flowing tears. “I chose so wrong. And I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

Steve’s body moves without thought, reaches and wraps itself around Bucky’s trembling frame; tight like he can save Bucky from this inevitable unraveling.

“Jesus, Bucky,” he shakes his head, heartbreak spilling raw into his voice, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck and his tears are catching cold against Steve’s skin. But Steve’s own are falling into Bucky’s hair, and his hands are shaking too hard for their strokes up and down Bucky’s back to be any real comfort, and neither of them move to change a thing about it.

“I’ve thought of you every day,” the confession slips quiet from Steve’s lips, and he lets it, “I’ve missed you, every day.”

Bucky gasps a hitching breath into Steve’s shirt, holds tight to the fabric at his back.

“Fuck, I got more to make up for here than I’ve got years left,” he shudders, pulling back to find Steve’s eyes. “I got no right to ask you for anything ever again, and I know I gotta put some things right first, get myself right, but...but would you ever...could we, ever…”

Steve is nodding. Before Bucky’s even gotten the words out, Steve’s nodding.

There are so many questions still to be asked and answered, so many conversations to be had and blows that are yet to land in the aftermath. The road that lies ahead is unpaved and unmapped, and the sunrise will shed light on realities they haven’t even considered.

But none of that changes what Steve knows to be true, here and now.

He knows that the window ledge still creaks; that that tree still bears more fruit than he knows what to do with, and the roof hasn’t once leaked, not during a single storm.

He knows that in any lifetime, any versions of themselves...they could.

“Whenever you’re ready, Bucky,” come home when you’re ready, Bucky, “you know where I’ll be.”

***

It takes time, just like Steve knew it would.

It takes tears, and words that are just as hard to hear as they are to say.

It’s wounds reopened just to be stitched back together better, right this time; stitched to heal instead of just to survive.

Bucky is gone again, for a while, but his absence isn’t the bleak void it once was. It’s time apart for the sake of a life together, for both of them to rebuild what was broken and find a new sense of ‘whole.’

It’s Bucky finding his feet as the person he’s always been, and learning to speak his truth. It’s untangling himself from the life he was never meant to live, and finding forgiveness where it’s needed.

It’s Steve ripping up those floorboards that creak, and it’s letting himself sleep. It’s replacing the wallpaper that was more peel than pattern, and it’s teaching himself to roll with the waves of joy and grief until he can sit just as comfortably with both.

It takes time; eight months and twenty-one days worth of it.

But they heal, and Bucky finds his way home.

And this time, it sticks.

#stucky fanfic #stucky #steve/bucky #stucky au #angst #all the feels #angst with a happy ending

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intotherumiverse · 3 years ago

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Chapter 1

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: I’m here again because this project is my child. I’ve added a lot and learned even more and I’m glad y’all are here to watch me develop On to the diggers <3 ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: blood, violence, pov changes ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ: @katsumiiii and @lilsparkyswife ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.9k

The day I was first killed was tedious.

When you’re raised in the Summer Court, certain traditions are found there. When you are five you receive your first dagger. I almost hit my lessons teacher in the eye with that little stunt I pulled. When you are 10 they start with basic strength, endurance, and speed training. I beat up Katsuki Bakugou for making fun of me that year. When you’re really curious, they take you up for assassination training. I was a prodigy at it…

I got so good in fact that I climbed the ranks at the young tender age of 18. Summer Court likes tradition, yes, but I was something unprecedented, unorthodox. Something bigger.

Working for the Summer Court had its perks, yes. This was one of them. As I walked among the snakes of the Autumn Court, I felt a curl of unease flow through me. Yvonne, the one who usually handles our information, said that our biggest client’s rival was supposed to be at the ball. As if that makes my life any easier. Everyone wanted someone from the Autumn Court dead. But no one wanted to be seen doing it. Looking at the throng of people, laughing and talking amongst themselves, I smirk slightly.

‘Autumn Court sure has a lot of balls.’ I thought to myself snidely. ‘ I wonder what they could be celebrating this time’ Before I had time to dwell on the thought any longer, the familiar voice of one of my good friends (not to mention on my team) Amira trickles through.

“Why does everyone in this Autumn Court look bummy?” The rude question isn’t uncommon for Amira, though I wish she chose her moments.

“You’re not supposed to say shit like that out loud!”Mina, another teammate (and good friend) jokes.

Stifling up a laugh, and not wanting to attract attention, I whisper back “If both of you don’t shut the fuck up...”

“This is why I don’t work with them” Yvonne sighs into the mic. She was the best informant Summer Court has ever had, and I was always grateful she was on my team. “They never take shit seriously.”

“Neither do you, Von, shut up!”

“Swear to Nyx if y’all don’t shut up, we can leave right now.”

“Fine…” they all chorus in my ear and I hear silence for the first time.

My eyes scan the crowd of people carefully, assessing each one before seeing my target. But before I could move into place, a flash of green appeared at the corner of my eye.

“Oh fuck no…”

I hated many things. The horrid smell of rotting flesh, bugs, failing my parents. But above all else, I hated a specific person. And if he’s here tonight…

Well, it would make my life harder.

Sighing softly, I weave slowly through the crowd, not letting the clammy bodies touch me. Eventually, I make my way down to the main floor. Making sure that my ears were covered, I attempted to get closer to the target, feeling for the poison that was in the many pockets of the dress.

I feel someone touch my shoulder lightly and it takes everything in me to not grab the person’s arm and twist it. Instead, I turn around slowly, facing to meet lavender eyes.

Fuck. Hitoshi Shinsou, Autumn Court’s Master Interrogator. If he was here, then…

“A dance m’lady?” He doesn’t seem to recognize me as he stoops into a low bow, eyes scanning my face

“Oh, he's kinda cute!” Mira whispers into the com.

“I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new?” His voice breaks through the mumble of the communicator.

“Well, I’m certainly not old.” That incites a chuckle from him.

“A lady with secrets, my favorite kind.” I scan the floor seeing the target get farther and farther away. I needed to get out of this situation and out of here.

“The dance?” I quirk my lips up into a smile.

And with that, we dance. He wasn’t a terrible dancer, spinning me ‘round the floor with a grace that only the Upper Ranks could achieve. I let myself get caught up in the dance, losing myself in the flow of the music.

“(Y/n). The mission” Yvonne’s voice echoes in my ear as I’m snapped back to reality. Right, the mission.

I suddenly pretended Shinsou stepped on my foot. Bending over in faux agony and forcing tears to come to my eyes, Shinsou fumbles at my pain. I feel a small pang of guilt, looking at his distressed face.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He leads me over to a small sitting area, not a far distance from my target. Watching Shinsou get lost in the crowd I make my move.

I walked over, inching closer and closer to my target. There was a glass of ale his hand was resting on, delicate fingers winding around the glass. Pulling a small pill from one of the many pockets of my dress, I place it carefully into the glass. Making my way back across the room, I watch as my target drinks the ale ‘till it’s empty to my original position.

‘Spring Court has its uses’, I thought smiling to myself.

“All right, This is an Upper-Rank Investigation!”

Oh, come the fuck on. And right when I was leaving too.

A male voice rings out in the middle of the confused court members. I recognized that voice…

“(Y/n), get out of there!” Mina says into the communicator. “Working on it.” Shit. Why were Upper-Rank boot lickers here? Shit, this was bad, I needed to get out of there.

I back away from the door slowly, trying not to bring attention to myself. A hand came out and gripped the back of my arm.

“Where do you think you’re going, Summer Court scum” the hot and familiar voice of Shinsou rings in my ear. I grit my teeth, fearing to say anything due to their power.

He rips the comm from my ear, and upon hearing the cries from my friends, crushes it

“We have suspicion to believe that a Summer Court Assassin is here. Nobody moves, this will take a couple of minutes.”

And then I see him. The bane of my existence, everything in me sings in disgust and anger, as I try not to lunge at him. Izuku Midoriya. The heir to the Autumn throne. And my worst nightmare.

“No need,” Shinsou calls out, a smirk gracing his features. “I got ‘er right here”

His cold green eyes bore into me as he smiles. “There she is! My favorite assassin (Y/n)! It’s good to see you again honey.” His voice was like syrup, undoubtedly sticky and sweet. The heady sound of hypnosis.

“Seize her guards! We finally got the infamous (Y/n), top assassin of the Summer court.” The guards move hesitantly like they were afraid. I hope so because they should be. Then everything happens all I once. I pull myself out of Shinsou’s grip, running towards the exit, which happens to be, in front of me.

“Lucky me,” I smile unsheathing the concealed daggers slipping them into my hands “Looks like the Prince brought me toys to play with.”

Oh, how I missed fighting. The rush of dodging and weaving never knowing if my next move is going to be my last. The feel of the blades in my hands as I cut down opponents, watching their terrified faces fall to the ground one by one. It fills me with so much strength knowing that I’m so much better than them.

And then my leg got nicked. The sharp sting of pain de-railing my train of thought.

“Fuck,” I yelled out loud as more soldiers descended upon me. They threw my daggers away from me first, restraining my wrists and upper arm for no movements. They forced me to my knees, and I look around at the now-empty ballroom. The heavy smell of iron and salt dancing in the air as the blood of the fallen soldiers surround me. I wasn't squeamish, but I didn't really want to ruin my dress.

Footsteps echo towards me, the clanking of boots reverbing in my head. A gloved hand grips my chin, forcing me to look up. Green eyes bore into mines. “Hi love,” Izuku smiles at my grimace at the nickname. “Quite a mess you’ve made of my soldiers. Now, look at the extra work you’ve given me. They were good people. Honest. And now-”

“None of us are honest,” I spit the words at him “You know that better than me.”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Now here’s the deal, pet. I will have to take you in now. You have made quite a name for yourself and have to turn you in. Nothing personal”

“With you? Everything’s personal.”

Letting go of my chin, Izuku stands once more.

“You might be right (Y/n). You’ll have a lot of time to reflect in your jail cell. Now sleep.” That was the last thing I heard before my eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep.

Mira’s Pov

I rip the communicator from my ear in anger, slamming the tiny black device onto the table.

“Taking your anger out on our stuff isn’t going to make (Y/n) come back.”

I look over to the blank face of Von, rolling my eyes. (Y/n) got caught and by our intel (and the fact the Hitoshi Shinsou was there) were knew that the Autumn Court had taken her. And now the issue was how we were going to get her back.

“I mean,” Mina’s voice pops up, the small twinge of hope laced throughout her words. “Why can’t we just go in and take her back?”

“Because Summer isn’t really on good terms with Autumn”

“Are we really on good terms with anyone?” Summer Court’s standing had always been rocky with the others. We were always called the lowest, doing everyone’s dirty job, but in fact, we knew more about the other Courts than everyone else. People fear what they don’t understand and hate what they fear.

But these last few years, Autumn’s seemed to have a personal grudge with us. No one knew the exact details but it was something involving (Y/n) and the prince of Autumn.

“They’d kill us on the spot if they knew who we were” Von’s voice cuts in through my thoughts.

“But don’t they realize they kidnapped the princess? This is asking for war!” Mina was right. If (Y/n) got hurt it wouldn’t just be her parents that got mad.

“Who’s going to tell Bakugou?” I ask softly. The van is quiet as we all debated internally.

“Well, I’m not doing it. I actually like living and being here. You can fight it over if you two have a death wish.”

I shake my head at Von, signaling that I won’t do it either. Bakugou’s temper was infamous and when it comes to people he loves, there was no telling what he would do.

“Fuck y’all. Now I have to go deal with the dumbass wrecking ball. If I get hurt, y’all gonna pay Spring Court to heal me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you dodge fast enough, or you’ll actually get hurt.” Mina gives me a small smile in sympathy.

Sighing I head to the front of the car. We had to make it back before Autumn found us too. I’d never hear the end of it from the king if we also got caught.

And with that, we drive off, chaos awaiting us in the Summer Court.

onto the next chapter?

Taglist: @xetou @kunikida-kun @asaincy @ryuvanaka @katsumiiii @lilsparkyswife @katsumox @silkylious @inkwicke @myhoodacademia @mypimpademia @readergurl20 @angiebug101 @artof-apollo@namjoonswifeyy @moonlit-xio

Crossed out means I couldn’t tag you ; Send an ask to be added >:D

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violentviolette · 4 years ago

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please tell me what aspd is like for you since you're diagnosed? ive had a life time of antisocial (illegal/violent/aggressive) behaviour, im incapable of feeling love and i really lack affective empathy. im becoming 18 in a few months and it's not getting better so atm i think my personality is legitimately disordered but i don't know anyone who has it irl to ask questions

so there's a really good breakdown i saw recently of the core disordered thought processes and internal logic that guide aspd that I thought really hit the nail on the head so I'd absolutely suggest giving it a read here

as for my own personal experience, for me the biggest factors were my aggressive and violent behavior, my pervasive and obsessive need for control over both myself and others, and my lack of remorse and inability to conceptualize the feelings of others.

ive talked a lot about my anger issues in the past so if u want more info on that just go thru my aspd tag here

but my aspd now vs my aspd when I was in my early 20s is very different. ive done a lot of work in trauma recovery and it has drastically improved my ability to cognitively empathize with others, love and form bonds. it is a myth that antisocial ppl cannot experience genuine love and care for others, we just have a much harder time with it.

im much more social now and ive learned to become much better about not only recognizing the emotions of others, but caring about them as well. tho i still don't like the company of many people and am easily irritated and put off by others so i do spend the majority of my time either alone or in the company of 2 or 3 select ppl. I can also still be very callous and I tend to speak "out of turn" a lot. I dont really notice when something ive said could be considered upsetting or insulting usually until after ive said it. peoplw often describe me as harsh and say that im very blunt and straightforward. i dont give much thought to making my words soft or kind and whether or not I care about hurting others feelings depends completely on if the person in question is someone I like or not. I genuinely do not feel any negative emotions from hurting the feelings of people I dont deem worth my care or who I dont like and enjoy even to this day. so while my ability to care for others has definitely increased, its still well below nuerotypical thresholds.

this was much worse when I was younger and it was almost impossible for me to form genuine close attachments with others. i was paranoid and distrustful of people by default, I didn't care about peoples feelings and was extreamly self focused and defensive. if I didn't personally find it upsetting or if it didn't go against the morals I had set for myself, I just did not care. I still don't care about most things or people and when I dont care it feels like genuine torture to have to pretend to do so or to perform an emotion im not having for the sake of appearing normal

I also viewed all social interaction as inherently manipulative. people were not their own unique individuals, they were pawns for me to use for my own personal gain and interacting with them was a chess match to "win" what i wanted from them. I never considered their feelings wants or motivations and cared only about myself and my wants.

anhedonia has also been a big persistent symptom for me. its been very difficult for me to cultivate happiness and find things that both keep my attention and make me feel positive emotions. when I was younger this was also much more difficult and I would partake in increasingly risky behaviors in order to feel emotions because I could only experience them if they were at extremes. this led to things like breaking the law, self harming, doing lots and lots of drugs ect. anything I could do to dump as much adrenaline into my brain as possible in order to feel anything other than a pervasive numbness.

I still struggle with this but again to a much lesser degree. I still absolutely do drugs and struggle to find meaning and purpose with my life and am just kinda floating thru it, but most of my days are positive and im able to find hobbies that make me happy a lot easier

those are most of the big things for me, tho there is a lot more. but honestly working on trauma recovery helped SO much with most of my symptoms. unpacking the disordered ways I was taught to live and the abusive mindsets I was raised under help me understand the world around me better and view it through a more positive lense. also being surrounded by people who did genuinely care for me and whose company I found enjoyable. its very hard to care for people who clearly don't care for u.

I hope that was at least a little helpful but feel free to ask anything else if u have more specific questions!

#aspd #aspd tag #cluster b #cluster b pd #jack.speaks #anon

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iridescentides · 4 years ago

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Hi Dia! I just saw your tags on that embarrassment emotion post and sorry if this is strange to ask but could you tell me how you went about not being embarrassed anymore? Because I think I’m embarrassed in my life the majority of the time and I would love to not be, because you’re right it’s not useful, but I’m struggling to think of how to just stop being embarrassed haha. Anyways I think you’re great and so positive and I love all your posts!

hi friend! thanks for coming to me with this question!

its not at all a weird thing to ask, and embarrassment is something lots of people struggle with!

OVERCOMING EMBARRASSMENT: beginners’ tips

so personally for me, the embarrassment thing was part of a bigger process i went through when i was 15 where i worked heavily on developing confidence. i took a step back and looked at my life and realized that all the things i was afraid to do weren’t actually that bad, but i was so scared of looking stupid or being perceived badly that i didn’t try anything. i spent every day for the next 2 years actively pursuing things that made me uncomfortable (especially in social contexts) in an effort to grow and put myself first, and it was the single most important thing i have ever done in my life.

all of this to emphasize that: the best defense against embarrassment is confidence. if you truly value yourself, believe in yourself, support yourself, and forgive yourself for your faults, nothing can hurt you. if you lay the correct framework for confidence, you will become immune to embarrassment.

but!!! i know that’s easier said than done. you don’t just wake up suddenly as a confident person. loving yourself takes conscious, active work, and small steps. it has to be a goal you’re committed to every single day. when i was 15 i read a million self help articles and put into practice all the tiny things that they said. i googled every personal problem you could imagine (“how to feel better about your body,” “how to ask for what you want, etc”). it was uncomfortable at first, but extremely worth it.

(you specifically asked about embarrassment so in an effort to stay on track, we’ll move on from the general idea of confidence. (but if anyone wants like,, a masterpost of my best confidence tips, lmk!))

the number one quick suggestion i have for overcoming embarrassment: treat yourself like you treat other people. when we “other” ourselves, it clouds our judgement. we think the whole world is looking at us all at once, that everyone cares sooo much about what we’re doing, but that’s never true. in acknowledging that everyone on earth is literally the exact same as you (no better or worse), it becomes a lot easier to think about this rationally.

when someone else does something “embarrassing,” how long do you think about it after it happens? if some stranger spills their drink everywhere in public, do you go to bed that night still thinking about it? is it still on your mind the next day? the next week? probably not!

sometimes when our friends or family members do “embarrassing” things, we like to joke about it in the moment, and maybe we bring it up for a good laugh later. if your sibling peed the bed when they were 12, maybe that’s something you’ll bring up again at family gatherings later to jokingly tease them, but its not like its on your mind every second of every day. and it definitely didn’t impact how you see your sibling, or how much you care about them.

so if we can understand why we don’t pay much attention to other peoples embarrassing moments, why cant we apply that same logic to ourselves? if you find yourself feeling embarrassed about something that just happened, stop and ask yourself the following questions:

does this truly matter to the people who saw/heard me do it? (maybe)

will it still matter to them tomorrow, the next day, or the next week? (probably not)

if i saw/heard someone else do the same exact thing, how long afterwards would i still be thinking about it? (probably like 10 minutes max)

if i saw/heard someone else do the same exact thing, would that affect my overall opinion of them? (probably not)

deeply entrenched in the feeling of embarrassment is our fear of harming our own image. we think that other people will see us as weird or dumb because we stumbled over our words that one time, or got someone’s name wrong, or tripped over a crack on the sidewalk, when realistically, these are universal human experiences. once we externalize the personal issues we’re having, acknowledge that everyone in the world has done the same type of thing at some point, it becomes so much easier to forgive ourselves and move on from the moment. don’t be so hard on yourself for being human! that’s what everyone else is, too!

none of the “embarrassing” things you do ultimately affect your value as a person, to yourself or to anyone else. and if people are holding these things over your head or bringing them back up often enough to make you feel bad about them, then that is a reflection of their own insecurities. those people are dying to keep you preoccupied with your own embarrassing moments so that you don’t notice theirs. and those are the people you don’t need in your life!

the last thing i will say (and i touched on it in the tags of that post) is that logically, embarrassment serves no purpose whatsoever. every other emotion we have (happiness, sadness, anger, fear, etc) has some practical function in our lives. when we’re angry, we can express our dissatisfaction to others and cause changed behavior. when we’re afraid, we usually take extra steps to keep ourselves safe. when we express sadness, we let go of things that may be weighing us down. and when we’re happy, we make positive impacts on the world. but embarrassment??? she does nothing for us!

because embarrassment is such an internal experience, the only thing it does is slow us down. there’s no way to express embarrassment and achieve a better outcome. embarrassment, like regret, does nothing but keep us trapped in the moment we would like to forget, for much longer than we wanted to think about it. ultimately, it doesn’t change what has already happened. there is no way to go back in time and undo things! BUT you do have control over yourself and your reaction in the moment, so your energy is better spent trying to move forward productively from that event.

i really hope this helped!!! please know that i’m super passionate about (self help) subjects like this and i’m ALWAYS down to talk or give advice about it!!! my ask/DMs are always open!

#embarrassment #overcoming embarrassment #confidence #confidence tips #chicken soup for the soul #self help #how to be confident #(idk what to tag this i just want it to reach more people)#answered asks #anons #advice tag #Anonymous

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔;

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

word count: 12.6k+

summary: You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

warnings: swearing, angst, ptsd/trauma symptoms.

notes: a very late birthday present to my wonderful friend @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast who is the OG Team Santi and the proud captain of the ship. Thank you for always putting up with me, rascal. You’re the best. :’)

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | . . | 09 |

gif credit (x)

Your shaky fingers wrap around the crystal glass, going for the bottle in front of you. There is no telling what it even is. Brandy? Bourbon? Whiskey?

It doesn’t matter at this point. Your skin is frigid but your insides burn.

You had pushed right past Santino who was clearly caught off guard by your blunt, choked words, going straight for the drinks table. Despite the chill deep in your bones, you find that the penthouse is as open and as welcoming as always.

The glass in your hand shakes so badly you fear for a moment that you’re going to drop it. But it’s not like he doesn’t have another dozen to replace this one with and yet—

His larger hand suddenly wraps around your wrist from behind, stilling you, and you flinch at the searing heat of his skin. Your wrist looks pathetically fragile in his grip. You’ve never considered your hands as weak before, not even before Tokyo. But now you do. Your fingers fold tighter around the glass and you suck in a sharp breath.

“You don’t like hard liquor, amore,” he states, his words carefully neutral. But his voice is wrapped, heavy.

You tug your wrist free and chuckle. It sounds a touch manic and your forced smile wobbles. “Well, why not,” you whisper wetly, turning the glass from side to side before finally placing it back on the table with a jarring clatter. “Might find it—”

“What happened, cara mia?”

Your eyes lift to his. You laugh this time; it sounds miserable and strangled and you step away from him, ashamed. It’s so good to see him again but you can’t stand the look in his eyes. It’s eerily similar to the look he often wore before and during Chicago. That calm rage is when Santino is at his worst. At his most dangerous.

“I killed him,” you force out, your voice frayed as you wander further into the room. The fireplace is lit—warm and inviting as always—but you feel numb to its soothing embrace. “I killed him, Santi. Shot him right in the head. And I felt nothing—I—I feel nothing. And now they will come and—the debt is unpaid, they will kill me…or…or…”

You hear him step closer to you but can’t find it in yourself to look at him. Instead, you focus on your hands. The grooves and the ridges, the lines and the dips. You see blood on them even though there is none.

There is so much blood on your hands that you can wash it away but it still clings to you.

“No one is going to kill you,” Santino tells you, quiet and calm, but his words are laced with an icy sort of finality. Like that fact is an absolute and he will not consider anything else. “And no one is going to harm you either, cara mia.”

Your head shakes at his words and you hate how powerless you suddenly feel.

“There are rules, Santino, the High Table—”

He cuts the remaining distance between you in two brisk steps, his hands coming to grip your forearms firmly as he pulls you closer. Your eyes jump to him and you see his calm demeanour beginning to crack too. His stare is hard, unforgiving.

“Fuck the rules,” he hisses, his words sharp with fury. “And fuck the High Table.”

His grip on you tightens when he notices your attention dropping from him, still lost in your head. In the terror of your own vulnerability.

“Look at me,” he insists, strained, but when you don’t, his hands release you and he cups your face instead, pulling you even closer till the only thing you can look at is him. The heat of his hands against your skin burns into you and you stare at him, suspended and startled. “Look at me. I swore to you that night, no? I swore that I will never allow anyone to ever harm you again. I swore, (Name), and I do not do so lightly.”

The severity of his expression eases somewhat when he notes the way you tremble before him. His thumb brushes delicately against your cheek, lingering, while his eyes flicker over your expression slowly. Devouring as always. You see his anger buried deep, simmering just beneath the calm he tries to force into his face but fails. His jaw keeps clenching, and you can see something close to worry in that restless tick.

“If anyone tries to take you from me,” he whispers, low and resolute, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine as his eyes search yours. “I will burn this city to the ground, do you understand? I will never let them touch you. Hm, yes? Come here.”

You practically collapse against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck. Dry sobs leave you but tears don’t come. Santino is warm and unmoving as always, and you bury yourself in the safety of his arms, gasping and afraid. You feel one of his hands come to rest on your head, smoothing his fingers over your hair while his other wraps around your shoulders.

“Shh, amore. Nothing and no one will hurt you here,” he hums, his voice thick with wrath he no doubt wants to unleash, and his grip only tightens when he feels your arms wrap around his waist. Desperately so. “You are under my protection. Oh, amore mio. No one. My word to you. Word of the old Camorra.”

Word of the old Camorra.

Their own internal version of a binding Marker. Only to be given out by the head or lady of Camorra and the heirs. Rare and powerful as jewels.

You shudder in his embrace, not saying a word.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, wrapped up in his arms like it can shield you from everything.

But for the first time in your life, you allow the sensation of being someone else's priority to soothe your restless mind.

It takes you an hour to get out of the shower.

The process is…difficult.

After Tokyo, simple things like showering became hard, and baths are still unbearable to this day. You can’t submerge yourself into the warm depths without the horrifying sensation of being forced underwater clawing up from your past.

You hate the feeling of losing control, the feeling of teetering too close to the edge again. Despite your less than savoury mental state, Santino insisted that you need to warm up, and you both hate and adore the amount of faith he has in your inner strength.

You’ve been forced to stay at the penthouse a few times in the past. Mostly due to injuries, and Santino has more than prepped his home for the possibility of you staying again. It used to make you feel terrible because it always seemed like he was waiting for you to reach out and come home to him. Now, it just makes you feel grateful that you have some form of shelter away from the world. That he keeps his door open to you despite the dozens upon dozens of times you have rejected and pushed him away in the past.

For a man who is so proud and so easy to sway towards resentment, he is unfailingly patient with you.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it—”

Gianna’s words crawl up from the deepest recesses of your mind and you swallow, your throat dry. You have chosen to wipe them from your mind in the past. Back then you rebelled against the very notion. It was easier to convince yourself that something between you and Santino hasn’t fundamentally changed since Chicago—that it’s still simple lust and playful teasing between you with his intentions clear and easy to see through.

Standing in the doorway to the lounge, you watch his profile for a moment, and think that nothing is easy between you anymore.

His hair is a mess. You wonder if he has been running his fingers through it again while he waited, and the usually combed and neat curls rest in a disarray. The round curve of his chin and jaw are familiar to you too. He sits on the sofa like a king; legs folded, spread out, and arms extended elegantly, a drink in one hand while he absentmindedly turns his Camorra ring. Even relaxed he doesn’t lose that edge of arrogance that is so integral to him as a man.

When have you stopped resenting that? Did you ever?

Santino and John couldn’t be more different and yet it makes you wonder how, exactly, you are able to find common ground with both.

You are under my protection.

You can’t help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. How easily he has sworn himself as a Camorra’s heir to your protection. But it makes you wary as well. Santino is vicious and he is volatile. You believed him when he said that he would make New York bleed for you and it worries you. He’s been so focused lately. Steady. He took Gianna inheriting the seat well, perhaps too well. Then the attack on you both. Now, this. Something will give and soon.

Santino has only one true love.

Power.

Is there anything he won’t give up for it?

You can’t help but wonder if that’s why—even after all these years—you still hesitate.

If John left you for love, what is to stop a selfish man like Santino from leaving you for power?

How many times can you be left behind before—

His attention remains focused on the flickering flame as you continue observing him from your spot, and you can’t help but wonder what put him in such deep thought.

He blinks suddenly, seemingly coming back to the present and his head turns in your direction.

A slight smile greets you. “Ah, feeling better, cara? You took a while.”

You shuffle inside. Tired—no, exhausted. It seeps into the very soul of you but you’ve been unable to shake the sense of hyper-vigilance. Every second seems so precious yet slips through your fingers too quickly.

“Shower was…difficult.”

His expression falters at your confession, and then his features smooth with every second that passes. There is no pity in those bright green depths, just an old understanding.

You approach him and try not to cringe under the quiet intensity of his stare as his eyes follow you. From this close up he looks tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and you feel a stab of guilt. What’s the time? 3am? Later?

Exhaling, you sit down beside him, staring at your knees.

The emptiness inside your chest throbs and your fingers twitch in response.

Santino shifts and you glance at his hand beside yours. He turns his fingers around, palm facing upwards, and it rests like that; a silent offering.

Your own features fall, soften, and you don’t think there are any words in any language either of you knows that can express the depth of your gratitude for his offer.

Carefully, you place your fingers in-between his and he gently folds them around yours.

He holds your hand in his like it’s something important—precious—to him and your eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you bask in the comfort of his touch for a while longer. His thumb traces small, tender circles against your skin but when you finally glance at him you find his expression drawn, solemn. Focused on the bruises, on the swollen knuckles.

“Tell me what happened.”

You’re grateful that he doesn’t phrase it like another order he’s so used to giving others.

You swallow twice before finding enough strength to open your mouth and begin speaking.

Then, you tell him everything.

From John to Tarasov, and all the things in-between.

It pours out of you like a river, swift and untamed.

Santino doesn’t say a word the entire time you talk.

His silence stretches on even after you’re done, and as long minutes start adding up so does your unease.

He places his drink back on the table, not releasing your hand, and finally, his head turns in your direction. His expression is carefully devoid of anything that may hint at how he feels but the coil of his back muscles is rigid.

Santino simply gazes at you for another minute, his stare burning, and then his eyes settle on your neck. On the scratches that after your long shower must be looking especially tender. “And these?”

His voice is sharp enough to cut yet somehow even lower than usual.

“Perkins,” you choke out, tightening your grip on his hand when you see the way his expression comes undone for just a second. In that split, you don’t see a man you know but the Smiling Shark instead. Camorra’s unruly wildcard. Bloodthirsty and dangerous as the first time you met him. “Tarasov sent her. She attacked me in my room. Got some hits in before I finished it.”

You can almost hear his teeth gritting together. He reaches out, his fingers delicate against your throat as he ghosts his fingertips over the deep gnashes. With every second that passes you can see his fury mounting, twisting his expression into something unforgiving.

“That woman? After I told her what happens if—”

You place your hand on top of his when he touches the silver chain around your neck, and his eyes jump to you. “Winston took care of it. She broke the Continental rules. We won’t be seeing her again.”

Despite your words, a slight sneer still lingers across Santino’s expression, and he lifts your connected hands to his lips, pressing them lightly against your damaged skin.

The iciness of his stare suggests that the gesture is more for himself than you.

“That makes her, hm, rather lucky, then,” he murmurs, barely audible against your skin before lowering your hands. You keep your fingers on his, if only to hold him still. “I would have not shown her similar mercy.”

Exhaling unsteadily, you shake your head a little before tightening your grip on him, and lean your cheek against his shoulder for a moment.

“You’re very bloodthirsty, have I told you that?” you try to banter but it comes off flat. Santino breathes deeply beside you, barely restrained and your eyes close. His warmth sinks into your cheek through his shirt and you inhale his cologne; something warm and heady, a spice that unlike with most scents you encounter, you don’t try to analyse. “You’re angry at me too.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, amore,” he says. “I am.”

“I’m sorry—”

His grip on you constricts before loosening. When he speaks next, it’s an effort to stay calm, you can tell, “I do not need nor want an apology from you,” he informs you flatly. “That phonecall—”

Your head lifts and you know your expression is as devastated as you feel. “I just thought that it would be easier.”

“Easier?” he repeats, his lips twitching into a cool, cutting smile. “Tell me, cara mia. Who exactly would it have been easier for? You?”

Your head turns away from him, stung. You’re so tired. So tired. You don’t want to fight with him too. Not when these might very well be your last moments together. Everyone, always, wants to fight and you just want—

His hand comes to cup the side of your jaw, turning your face back towards him, and you feel the coolness of his Camorra ring caress your skin. His eyebrows are furrowed and he stares at you seriously.

“Do you truly think that if were the end—” he cuts himself off, swallows, and you notice his jaw twitch. His expression is grave and his voice a low drawl. “You misunderstand my anger, cara. If it had truly been the end, you would have robbed me of my only chance to say goodbye. You would have been lost to me because of him.”

Oh.

“This has nothing to do with him.”

It surprises you when he releases his hold on you and rises to his feet abruptly. His hands slip into his trousers and he wanders closer towards the fire, leaning his forearm against the mantle as he stares at the flame. He chuckles, harsh and disbelieving, and it sounds almost cruel.

“Ah, but it is him, it’s always him,” he notes so quietly you barely hear him. His lips are twisted into a smile but it lacks joy, lacks the easy charm you know him for. “After everything that he has done. After all the hurt he has caused. He still thinks he has any right to drag you back—”

He curses in Italian, coarse and muffled, and you only manage to pick out a few words before he turns away with a shake of his head and a loud sigh. He leans his palms against the mantle and silence reigns between you.

You stare at his back wordlessly but Santino clearly has nothing left to say on the topic—nothing that he knows won’t upset you further, at least. Turning your head to hide your expression, your lips tremble before you nibble on the soft flesh to keep steady.

His silence hurts.

But what did you expect?

Santino has always resented John for leaving you for Helen—an outsider, someone unworthy in his eyes—and his reaction shouldn’t surprise you.

You were angry too after all. Angry that John would ask you to place yourself in such danger for his revenge.

When all is said and done, it’s your life that’s now on the line. John is out. John is free. There will be no consequences for him. In the eyes of the High Table, John would have done nothing wrong. But you knew the risk when you took it. Tarasov was not an idiot. He never truly trusted you because the priest was right. Deep down he must have always known that you will try to betray him in the end. The moment you were free of the contract he likely would have killed you himself. Simply for knowing too much, simply so that no one else can employ you to gain power for themselves—namely Santino.

The risk was worth it.

Anything to get rid of Tarasov once and for all.

Rising to your feet with a feeble swallow, you turn to go.

“(Name).”

You stagger to a stop at the sound of your name. You can’t identify the emotion in Santino’s voice but there is an edge to the way he calls for you that tells you he wants you to stay.

“I’m tired,” you mumble without turning around. “You should get rest too. Goodnight, Santino.”

There’s blood on your hands, in your eyes, in your mouth—

“Give her another round,” Kishi orders from somewhere in the distance, his voice twisting with a perverted kind of joy at your suffering. “Make her bleed like a pig. Make her cry,” he drags the last word out in a sing-song voice and cackles.

Tarasov’s face appears in front of you, his lips contorted into a malicious, brutal sort of sneer before he wraps his large hand over your face, smothering you.

You writhe desperately, trying to free your hands or legs, or anything but you are bound as always. Helpless and abandoned and you scream in terror, thrashing even more wildly.

But then—suddenly—over Tarasov’s shoulder, you catch a glimpse of an achingly familiar face.

He stands half-swallowed in the shadows as he observes what’s happening before him, and you jerk in your seat, trying to reach for him.

John only looks at you though, something close to pity in his eyes. Similar to the way one watches a suffering animal, as if wishing they could be put out of their misery already.

Your ribs crack.

You scream his name, muffled and incoherent, over Tarasov’s heavy fingers over your face. His weight keeps pushing down and you’re choking, choking—

Please, I love you.

John smiles slightly, a glimmer of a loving dream, and turns away from you—

You wake up howling.

Something—someone, is shaking you, and you snarl, throwing yourself at them blindly. With their hands still on you, they drag you down with them, and you grapple to wrap your hands around their neck the moment you hit the ground. Your legs lock around them so they won’t be able to throw you off and you breathe harshly, gasping for breath. Your fingers wrap around the curves of a warm neck, and you feel a steady, strong pulse beat beneath your fingertips.

Bright green greets you.

His lips are moving, his fingers gentle around your wrists even when your own tighten around his neck further, your nails sinking into his skin.

You—

You know him.

The roaring in your ears subsides, stripping away the thick taste of copper on your tongue too.

“Santi?”

“Are you expecting—ah—another man in your room, c-cara mia?”

Your expression crumbles, your grip loosening and you feel disgust rip through you like a bolt of lightning. You’ve tried—

“Oh God,” you mumble, and try to force oxygen into your lungs but they only cramp up tighter, making it near impossible to breathe. “He was right—he’s right, there’s nothing left. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s right, I’m dead to the world—”

You pull away from him, crawling backwards, and feel sick to your stomach. Santino rises at once, his expression tense as he reaches for you. His hand pauses before he can touch you though, and he hovers it over your shoulder, hesitant.

“Let me,” he requests, urgent but soft, and you only shake your head, curling away from him. “Count with me, amore. Uno, due, tre…”

“Q-Quattro,” you choke out, and your chest tightens further, causing you to muffle a gasp of pain. Copper stings your tongue, and you realise too late that you’ve bitten your inner cheek, making you flinch again. “I can’t. D-Don’t touch—”

His fingertips graze your bare shoulder lightly and you suck in a sharp breath, shivering on the floor, and your eyes fly to his. For a second you’re suspended, hardly breathing before you hiccup, gasping for more oxygen. You feel cold all over and it makes you feel pathetically small. It makes you feel hollow and empty of anything but nightmares from your past that are happy to wrap their arms around you and choke the life right out of you.

It feels like that cramped flat in Moscow. Your parents dead, dead, dead.

It feels like Tarasov’s office. Your cheek and shoulder throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

It feels like that pit in the outskirts of Tokyo. Your soul and body being crushed, torn apart, and shredded.

There is nothing left.

For how much longer can you keep pretending that there is?

“Come with me.”

His hushed voice cuts through the suffocating silence and your pained pants and you look up at him. His fingers rest gingerly on your shoulder and it amazes you that he can still bear to touch you after you just attacked him as you did.

“I can’t.”

Santino’s expression cracks, darkening, and you think that he looks almost angry.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice and expression equally steely. “You can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to.”

His fingers release you, and for a moment you can’t help but think that he’s going to stand up and walk away. Leave you here alone on the floor.

He doesn’t.

Santino does stand—still dressed in the same clothes as before, even though his shirt is more creased now—but instead of walking away, he holds out his hand to you, stern and expectant.

He’s not going to pull you up and let himself be used as a crutch.

He expects you to stand up on your own.

Because he believes that you can.

Your throat bobs; once, twice.

It takes you four tries before—fingers sunk deep into the bed covers—you finally manage to stagger to your feet. Your knees shake like you’re a newborn fawn and breathing takes twice as much effort. The sensation of being suffocated won’t drop no matter how hard you try to remind yourself that you’re fine.

You sway unsteadily but Santino grabs your hand in his, moving closer, and you stand like this for a while. He’s calm even though his gaze is stormy, and you are shivering and panting like you’ve just ran a marathon. You can feel your loose t-shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat clinging to you, and shiver despite the fact that the room is warm. Your heartbeat thuds like a drum against your ribs and your fingers clench firmer around his.

“There she is,” he notes mildly, his voice silk, and when your eyes flicker up to him you see his chin tilt upwards. It’s an arrogant, haughty tip in his demeanour you have seen a hundred times in the past, but his eyes gleam with quiet sort of pride. “My sea on a stormy night, hm? Come with me.”

He steps closer, carefully twisting his arm to loop around yours and you stay silent, clinging to his arm as he guides you out of the room. It’s a tedious process but he makes no comments about your slowness—the last thing anyone who knows you associates with you—as you cut through his apartment together.

If someone told you almost six years ago when you first met him in that church and pressed a knife to his throat that you will end up like this…

You would have laughed in their faces.

Santino D’Antonio.

Over the years he has proven to be exactly what you expected him to be, and yet completely different too.

A stinging, sharp pain grinds into your chest as you walk and you focus on putting one foot in front of another, still clinging to his arm. You’re so focused on the test of strength, you don’t notice Santino leading you up the staircase before he pulls the patio door open, pulling you out into the frigid morning air.

The terrace is a sprawling, massive space and in the distance, you can see the pool reflecting the light. The shadows from the pavilion are well known to you too—there’s been plenty of times in the past when you, Santino, and Ares have enjoyed drinks there while planning your next job.

Even though it’s still dark outside, New York City is never quiet and the symphony of traffic noise washes over you as does the brisk breeze that comes with being this high up.

A quiver rolls across your limbs and you gulp the freezing air regardless of the fact that it makes your throat and lungs ache harder.

“Look up.”

You do.

The vastness of the sky opens up above you. From this height, you feel like you can reach out and touch the horizon. The stars are not as bright here as they are in Naples but it’s still a comforting sight. New York is your city. Perhaps not by choice but by fate.

“You are not in that pit anymore,” Santino speaks from beside you but you simply stare up at the sky. “You are here and you are free, amore. That man, Tarasov, they both may have hurt you but where are they now, hm? Dead, cara mia. By your hand. You outlived and outsmarted them both.”

“I feel nothing, Santino,” you whisper weakly, choked. “Tarasov is dead and I feel so fucking numb—”

Your voice cracks, and you finally lower your head, the back of your neck aching from craning your head too far back.

“I don’t want my last hours to be spent back in that headspace,” you croak, your voice trembling. “I thought—I thought I overcame it. I’ve been—it’s hard but I’ve been better.”

For once, Santino doesn’t offer anything in reply. You feel his focus on you but he remains silent and you’re grateful because he understands your need to voice this. That you need to let this manic terror out somehow.

Tarasov cracked you, Kishi crushed you, but John shattered you completely.

The latter always hurt the most. Because he was the last person you ever expected to damage you the way he did. It hurt the most when you fell by his hand even if he never caused physical harm. It crippled something deep inside you, and no matter how carefully you’ve glued yourself together over the years—and you don’t know if you would have managed if it hadn’t been for the man beside you, Winston, Ares—it still haunts you.

You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Santino’s voice slices through the quiet and the whistling wind suddenly. The morning chill is merciless and you press closer to him as you listen. “It makes me want to steal you away.”

“Paris?”

He turns towards you then, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye too. “No, cara. Just home,” he murmurs lightly, and something about the simplicity of his words catches you completely off guard, somehow pains you even more. “Get Gia to cook us some Ribollita. We can sit on the terrace and enjoy some white wine after.”

You can almost taste it. Can almost smell the sunshine and the sea salt in the air. Feel the warm breeze instead of the chilly one. Can almost step back in time to last year and those three days where the world outside did not exist. No Tarasov, no debt, no ghosts or chains.

Just sunshine, just laughter.

To a time before now—the now that is so very complicated.

“How is she?” you ask instead, your voice still hoarse, knowing full well that you don’t have a reply to his earlier statement.

Santino hums under his breath, thoughtful, and his eyes sweep over the already lively streets below. From this angle, he looks like a god simply gazing down at his subjects. His edges unpolished, almost wild, but as deadly as always. It’s odd, but it’s here, at this moment, that you look at him and see a Camorra boss for the first time. Not during past jobs, not during negotiations or galas or family meetings—but here, now. It startles you so much that you fixate on him for a while longer, lost for words.

“Missing your company,” he divulges at last with a glimmer of a grin, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus on his words. “She enjoyed your stay.”

The wind blows again and you sigh, finally being able to feel the freshness filling your body. The previous frenzied terror has retreated for now and only the weak shell remains.

You search for words, for the memories of that visit, and try to glean happiness from them.

“I got you drunk on cheap wine,” you state dryly, faltering, but a smile wants to twitch your facial muscles and the sensation brings you some comfort. “Hardly something to enjoy.”

Santino blinks, and again, and then gives you such affronted look you almost laugh.

“You…” he begins, and stops, and then peers at you before frowning with that petulant twitch of his lips. “Did not get me drunk.”

Your own lips twist; something awkward but genuine in its teasing. “You were hungover as a skunk the next day,” you remind him, a touch smug, and delight in the way he narrows his eyes like you’ve called one of his suits ugly. “That family meeting you had to attend the next morning was a misery, don’t lie.”

He looks so offended that you can’t help but laugh slightly, your tiny smile stretching wider.

You feel his eyes track the motion intently and his own lips twitch into a smug little smile.

“Ah, there it is,” he notes, satisfied. “Better?”

Your head lowers with a nod, and when you look up at him again you simply gaze at each other for a moment.

You want to believe him—want to let him in.

You want to. So badly sometimes.

But where would you even begin?

Everyone you’ve ever loved in your life you have lost.

You can’t—

“I would love to go back to Naples, too, but when the High Table comes—”

“Then I wish them luck, cara mia,” his voice cuts in, and it’s almost as chilly as the wind dancing around you both, and this time your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature outside. “They would never take you from my home. I’m Camorra.”

You exhale at his words, slow and sad. “But you’re not the head, Santino,” you state, your voice twisted with dismay. “And I’m not in your family. If they came for me, you would have to obey or your life is forfeited.”

The strong curve of his eyebrows knits together, framing his face with an expression you have never seen before. His eyes roam over your features and you shift silently, not sure what to make of it.

“No,” he agrees faintly, his words and expression empty. “You are not.”

It’s impossible to stomach the look on his face. The subtle traces of disappointment and indignation that you seem so good at pulling out of him. You press the now near numb tip of your nose against his shoulder for a second, eyes closed—a silent, genuine apology before you untangle your linked arms and turn to go. You feel his heavy stare follow you as you wander inside on trembling legs, and distantly hear him follow after you.

Rubbing your hands together, you walk back towards the lounge. The clock on the wall reads 06:12am and you sigh, bone-weary and drained. Your panic may have passed but you feel like you weigh a ton emotionally, your limbs limp with exhaustion.

Santino comes to your side, reaching towards the bottle of what you think might be scotch, and your guilt intensifies when the light reveals the red marks on his neck.

“I’m sorry about earlier—”

“Never,” he stops you, lowering the crystal bottle and giving you a sharp look over his shoulder. “You will never have to apologise for that, bella.”

“I’ve seen you kill people for less,” you point out, your words fragile as you fold your arms over your chest. It comes off more defensive than you would have liked, and you realise your mistake when Santino straightens. One of his hands slips inside his trousers and he steps closer. Like a toss of a coin, you feel the tension between you shift, thicken, and can’t help but exhale when he places his hand against the curve of your chin, tilting your head so he can see your expression.

“Yes, and I imagine I will do so again in the future,” he admits unperturbed, and the heat of his palm sinks into your chilled skin pleasantly. “For even less,” he adds after a pause, unashamed.

He leans closer then, and for a split second, you think that he’s going to kiss you. But instead, his lips ghost over your ear. “They are not, however, you.”

With that, he pulls away, turns, and leaves you standing alone in the lounge.

Sun wakes you up.

Light burns beneath your eyelids and you release a muffled groan, trying to block it out as you shift beneath the covers. Your eyes crack open slowly and you blink up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The familiar walls of the penthouse guest-room greet you and a groan bubbles at the back of your throat. You feel even more tired now than when you first went to sleep, collapsing on the messy bed after being left alone in the lounge.

The room seems to glow with brightness when you shuffle from underneath the expensive cotton that kept you warm. No more nightmares visited you, but you can’t help but think it’s more due to sheer exhaustion than anything else.

You stop by the bathroom briefly, avoiding your own reflection, and change into new clothes after washing up. Your bruised hands appear even worse today and just before you leave, you risk a brief glance in the mirror.

Is today the day I die?

It might be. It’s a miracle you haven’t been sought out yet—that you know of—and it makes you both confused and shackled with dread.

You look exactly how you feel: terrible. Still, alive is better than nothing and you settle for that. There have been days in the past when even that had seemed like too much of a task. Yet here you are.

Still here.

Straightening your slumped shoulders, you tilt your chin in that arrogant manner Santino always does and inhale deeply, your spine a rigid line. Your fingertips dance over the silver chain around your neck, settling briefly on the weight at the bottom and you shake your head, tucking it under your clothes again. The cool tickle of the metal fades quickly and you feel ready to face the day.

Yesterday was a bad day, that much is evident. But today still remains to be seen.

With that thought, you leave the guest room—your room, Santino always insists—and cut through the apartment.

“—what I want to know is how this was even possible,” Santino’s distant and already irritated voice greets you. “I want answers.”

You poke your head in the lounge, your eyes cutting across the open space to the other side where the open plan kitchen-diner stretches with the New York skyline for a backdrop.

He stands with his back to you, clad in a fresh dark moss-green suit and not a crease out of place. He looks out towards the city while he talks, and you can read familiar ticks in his body language that tell you he’s not enjoying the conversation he’s having one bit.

Ares and Roberto are here as well. The former rises from the dining table when she spots you, and Roberto’s face stretches into a slight, relieved smile beneath his beard when you wink at him.

You are as bad as him when it comes to trouble, Ares signs as she approaches. She’s clad in her own dark navy suit today, and you suppress a grin at the pinch of her mouth.

Worried? you sign back with a grin, and she punches your shoulder before wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

No, but he has a habit of becoming unbearable when you are injured, she explains with a pout and you give her a brief, one-armed hug before flicking her nose lightly. She swats your hand, mock glaring, but there’s relief there too.

Still alive, you reassure her, and her eyebrow arches, disbelieving and cautious too as the scar near her eye crinkles.

Santino has clearly filled her in on the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh, and I suppose Perkins just strolled in and tried to kill her under your roof by a happy mistake, then,” Santino’s voice slices through the room like a whip and your head snaps in his direction. “Do not presume me to be a fool, Winston.”

Your eyes cut towards Ares, a clear question there, but she gives you a halfhearted shrug that seems to say you know how he is.

Your grip on her loosens and you cut through the room quickly, coming to stand beside him, expectant. Santino’s eyes find yours and they soften a touch, his eyes sweeping over your features, searching. Your head tilts and you hold out your hand.

A faint frown lingers across the planes of his face before he sighs unnecessarily loudly into the receiver. “She is awake and wishes to speak with you,” he informs briskly and doesn’t wait for a reply before he holds out his phone as an offering. You can only imagine Winston’s expression on the other end. Their dislike for one another would be comical if it wasn’t for the fact that you want them to get on for once. Life would be so much simpler if they did.

Biting back a disapproving grumble, you take the phone from him, pressing it to your ear.

“Winston.”

“Still alive, I see.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, a touch sardonic. “You too.”

You expect Santino to walk away but he lingers beside you and when you glance at him, he stands still, his green eyes simply taking you in. You can’t help but think that he knows. Understands.

Yesterday was a rare moment of weakness, softness, that you no longer show people. He can no doubt tell that the wall is back up again, and the vulnerability of yesterday is locked away once again.

The wall between you is there but his focus doesn’t drop, probing and fierce as always. Sometimes it scares you. Because he looks like he’s going to tear that wall down with his bare hands alone. You’re not sure what, if anything, is holding him back from doing exactly that. If Santino wants something, he takes it. For him, it’s that simple.

He stands with you for another few seconds, thoughtful, before turning away without another word and wandering away, his hands slipping into his pockets.

He looks tired, you realise as you watch him go, and it makes you wonder if he got any sleep last night. Even if you were to ask, you’re unsure if he would tell you the truth. He doesn’t like showing weakness to others, and after yesterday you’re not sure where you stand with him, either. If that openness he sometimes shows still extends towards you.

You’re constantly pushing and pulling at each other, never quite finding the balance.

You are under my protection.

Inhaling, you clear your mind. “Did you find Marcus?”

It’s quiet for a beat before Winston speaks again. “Yes, we did,” he says, and there is graveness to his voice that makes your eyes drop. “Tortured. But the cause of death was multiple shot wounds.”

Your eyes squeeze shut for a breath. “I want him to have a proper funeral,” you voice weakly, your vocalisation heavy with…failure. Marcus lost his life and— “No unnamed graves. I’ll pay for it.”

The distant sound of traffic filters through from the other side and you realise that Winston must be having breakfast on the rooftop terrace again. “The rules were broken,” he notes coolly. “The very least the company can do is handle the arrangements.”

A lump in your throat turns you momentarily speechless and you nod your head, knowing full well that he can’t see you. “Thank you, Winston,” you tell him, your voice thick with genuine appreciation. “Perkins?”

“Early retirement. Occupation hazard, I’m afraid.”

Oh, it would be a lie to say there isn’t a flash of ruthless, victorious sort of satisfaction that rushes through you at that. It won’t bring back Harry or Marcus, but at least those who killed them have now met a similar fate.

“Such a shame.”

“Indeed.”

You bite back a grin at his dry, deadpan tone.

“And Johnathan?” Winston wonders.

You swallow, recalling his worn, pained expression from last night. “Alive.”

His hesitance at hearing that surprises you.

“Good. Well, if Mr. D’Antonio can bear to be parted from you for longer than an hour we need to talk in private,” Winston informs you, and you can’t quite read his tone but it does make you feel oddly uneasy. “Should I expect you for lunch?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” you reply, though the hesitance in your voice is clear.

Winston bids you farewell before the line goes dead but you stand there for another minute, staring out into the city. The majestic landscape stretches out as far as the eye can see and you allow yourself to soak it in. If the whole “you see your life flash before your eyes” thing is real, you want something good to look back on when the time comes.

Lowering the phone, you turn towards the kitchen. Santino sits behind the dinner table, breakfast laid out in front of him as he reads over something in his hand. A half-drunk glass of white wine sits on one side of him with an empty espresso cup on the other. Sometimes, you can’t help but appreciate the routine, the ease, that comes with being in his space.

Ares stands beside him, frowning down at the card in his hand and you feel your momentary casualness fade. You approach them few steady steps at the time and tense when Santino suddenly slams the white paper on the table harshly. The sound rips through the open space with a loudness of a small explosion and you watch his expression splinter.

“She has some nerve,” he hisses in Italian, and his eyes blaze.

“What’s going on?” you question worriedly, placing his phone on the table and grabbing the card instead. The material feels thick and expensive with a faint scent of perfume tickling your nose—sage, bergamot, grapefruit; and something oddly specific and new to you that you can’t decipher immediately—and you can’t help but think of the High Table. Have they found out it was you who shot Tarasov? Made some sort of demand? “What’s this?”

Your eyes hurriedly sweep over the golden letters.

Oh.

“My darling sister,” Santino begins, his words strangled with rage, thickening his accent. “Decided that it would be apt to invite me to her coronation. And for what? To laugh in my face? As if—”

He breaks off, his mouth twisting into a sneer before he stands, tugging on his suit harshly as he drops the serviette back on the table, pushing past you. You turn, following his swift retreat, and look towards Ares who stands there with an equally startled expression.

She knows what this meant to him, she signs and there’s a sharpness to her movements that betray her own irritation.

Exhaling knowingly, you place the card back on the table and give both Ares and the awkwardly silent Roberto a look. “I’ll talk with him. Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone for looking at him funny today.”

Pocketing his phone, you depart the kitchen, already having a good idea where to find him. Climbing up the grand staircase, you emerge onto the terrace. The brisk breeze ruffles your clothes and hair but you immediately spot Santino in the far distance. His fingers drum against the railing as he stares down at the city below him. It’s a different sight to one from last night. Today he breathes that cold, unpredictable violence instead of calm.

“Dramatic much?” you call out but the way of opening up the conversation.

His grip on the railing tightens and his shoulders shake in a mockery of a laugh.

“Ah, right now may not be the best time, amore,” he replies with a deliberate exhale, his voice flat and biting. “I would prefer if we avoided you getting angry at me first thing in the morning.”

“It had to be done, grumpy,” you point out carefully as you come to stand beside him, giving him a deliberate nudge with your elbow. “You’re still a Camorra heir, even if a Spare. Inviting you is tradition. Gianna may not be the nicest person around but she is proud and won’t go for a cheap shot like this. You know that. Besides, you don’t have to go. I don’t think it would surprise many people if you didn’t show up.”

“Tradition,” he repeats with a scoff, scornful and dissonant. “I just—”

His voice is heavy with frustration, with the damage he tries to bury, and you glance up at him. “I know.”

He’s disappointed and jealous. You may know a thing or two about that.

You reach into your pocket and hold out his phone to him. Santino looks down at it and reaches out. But instead of taking the phone, he takes your hand, cradling it in his larger one.

“Santino.”

A plea and a warning.

“I know,” he echoes your earlier words, hollow, and his voice dips, lowering till it’s almost a whisper; his own plea. “But let me pretend. Even if only for a moment, hm? Would you do that for me, bella?”

Let me pretend that you love me.

Your heart aches.

In this dazzling morning sun, you feel helplessly exposed. In the shadows of the night, it’s so easy to pretend, to forget, to imagine that things are still simple between you. That this something between you doesn’t frighten you. That the way he’s looking at you right now isn’t ripping at that wall between you with enough force to make the foundation itself tremble.

“Vancouver,” you choke out, grasping for something—anything—to say. “You never told me how it went.”

His scrutiny doesn’t drop and you feel his thumb ghost over your knuckles. You hold incredibly still to avoid showing any sign of discomfort or pain but judging by his pinched expression, you fail at your task.

“Small loss of 400k,” he divulges in Italian, absentminded, and continues peering at you. “But we got the shipment back. However, the lead on who ordered the hit went cold. Very…frustrating.”

Only Santino D’Antonio would think a loss of 400k is a small one. But you also know that the whole shipment came closer to being 5 million in value so, in hindsight, you do understand his flippant outlook on it.

“If it weren’t for the High Table looming over me, I would say let’s go on a hunt,” you comment mildly, forcing a smile. But it’s difficult to keep a straight face when he’s tracing the ridges between your knuckles with such measured tenderness. Hands with just as much blood, if not more, on them hold your own carefully and something about it... “I—”

You tug your hand away from his, your expression faltering.

Santino gazes down at his phone blankly for a moment before slipping it inside his suit pocket, his own expression removed. Distant with its coolness.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly and find that you can’t meet his stare. “I can’t.”

You hate the fact that you have to say no to him now of all the times. After what he did for you yesterday, after what you did to him. It’s so unfair and you hate yourself at that moment more than anything. That here, possibly at the end of it all, you still can’t—

You don’t want—

Hope is a dangerous thing. You can’t give him any now.

“Winston asked me to see him alone.”

“I know, cara mia.”

“That’s it?”

His eyes flash and his head tilts. “What is it that you wish me to say, hm?”

“If I never see you again—”

“Do not.”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such a vehement refusal to accept what you both know full well might be your reality.

So instead you step closer to him. The breeze brushes against his curls but unlike last night the unruly strands stay in place. He looks cautious, almost wary, to have you this near but you only lean closer. Your hand comes to rest against his left cheek while you press your lips lightly against his right. The warmth of him is so familiar you linger for a second, warmed by the moment itself, while he stands taut in front of you, still and silent. Breathing softly, you pull back and find his eyes closed, expression serene, and trace your fingertips down his cheek before stepping back and letting them drop away.

Despite not being able to pretend in a way he wants you to, you can still give him this.

You see him swallow just before you turn back towards the patio door and walk away.

I wish we had more time.

“If you plan to kill me, you picked a hell of a spot.”

Winston doesn’t even raise his head, still focused on his notebook as he continues scribbling something down. His handwriting is too elegant and cramped for you to get a good look at what he’s working on, and honestly, you know better than to try and poke around his business.

“Kill you?” he echoes, his voice bored. “People are enjoying their lunch, dear, don’t be ridiculous. And do sit down,” he adds when you don’t move from your spot in front of him.

You don’t want to sit down. It feels like an invisible blade has pressed against your neck, and you can feel it kissing your fragile skin with every second that crawls by. You know how these things go. Winston is in his kingdom and the walls that have always felt like safety—home—now feel like a threat.

Despite your open unease, you move towards the expensive leather sofa opposite to him and sit down stiffly. Your gaze, cautious and wary, sweeps over the dining guests intently. Anyone tries to take you on, and you will split them open. Yesterday’s acceptance of your looming death has seemingly up and vanished, and now there’s just an aloof sort of irritation left behind.

What did you do so wrong?

Killed a man who murdered your parents and then kept you chained to him like a dog for years?

That’s justice, not a crime.

“So, what am I looking at?”

He still doesn’t look at you, and his silence makes you almost fidget with nerves. When has anything good ever come from Winston keeping silent like this? His anger has always come in a different form to what you’re used to. No—his anger is like a chilly winter’s day. When the air is crisp and full of promise that there’s a blizzard coming soon. Almost unassuming in its vicious bite.

“They think it was Johnathan.”

You stare at him. “What?”

The man before you ‘tsk’s and scribbles something else in his notebook. “Trouble hearing at such a young age?”

Oh, he’s annoyed alright. But your heart is fluttering in your chest, and relief starts rushing through you before you can stop it. Does he really mean that? Has the High Table really concluded that it was John?

Did you really get away with killing Viggo Tarasov?

“Winston,” you bite out, forcefully calm. “What the hell do you mean they think it was John?”

Finally—finally—Winston’s eyes lift to you. He regards you coolly over his glasses, his lips pressed into a stiff line. He shifts in his seat, lowering his pen slightly and you hold his stare.

“Well the High Table was made aware of what was happening in New York,” he explains and you know full well that he was the one doing the reporting. As is standard procedure for every Continental owner. “And there is no one left alive to disapprove their theory.”

That gives you a pause. Because it’s true.

Everyone directly involved with Viggo—the man himself, his son, his elite guard—have all been butchered by either John or you. Even Marcus and Perkins are dead.

The only people left alive who know what really happened are you, John, Winston, and Santino. Ares may know most of it too but other than that…

“So they just…assumed?” you wonder in a whisper, almost choked with disbelief, with hope and joy. “Didn’t question it?”

Winston makes a small noise at the back of his throat and his lips twist into a wry, cynical thing. “Of course they did. They found the lack of your involvement suspicious,” he states and watches your reaction. “They asked for a report. I had to tell them the truth. That you were attacked on company grounds, and I told you to walk away which you did. I assume that Mr. D’Antonio had the pleasure of your company for the rest of the night.”

You blink, your eyes narrowing. For him to say that…

“Santino wasn’t back in New York till 1am,” you word as carefully as you can, and your eyes sweep over the diners again, cautious. Of course, if this conversation wasn’t safe for you to have out here in the lounge, then you won’t be having it. Still, it feels like too much of an invite for people to let their ears stray. “That’s almost a five-hour window in which Tarasov died and I’m unaccounted for.”

“Yes, but it seems like signor D’Antonio had enough sense to corroborate your alibi and lie on your behalf regardless,” he says and you feel your heart stutter in your chest, your lips parting slightly in shock. “He may be a Spare but he is still Camorra. His word, it seems, still carries a degree of power.”

Winston’s eyebrow cocks at your stunned expression and his smile is a little too patronising for your taste. “He didn’t tell you,” he assumes and sighs, glancing back at his notes, and you read the subtle irritation there. “That certainly explains why he’s outside my hotel right now and has it surrounded.”

For a moment, it’s silent. The lounge is still a buzz of cutlery and murmurs of chatter between diners but the silence between you is suffocating with implication. Winston watches you, amused, and you kick your brain back into action. Dismayed.

“He’s what?”

You are under my protection.

The phantom of him leans over your shoulder, looming and protective, all sharp edges and that sly smirk, and you feel both cold and hot all at once. What the hell is he thinking? Does he really believe that if it came down to it he could save you from the High Table? What even is his plan? To break down Winston’s front door and paint the walls of Continental with blood?

The repercussions for such a breach of rules alone—

He could be stripped of his power, punished, he—

Insane.

He’s a goddamn insane idiot. He—

I will never abandon you.

“He promised me that he will keep me safe from the High Table.”

It comes out as a strangled whisper.

Winston hums, and you hear the hint of mockery there. “Promised? How quint,” he mutters, and takes his glasses off, placing them between the pages of his notebook. “I do wonder what value the word of Santino D’Antonio holds in today’s market.”

“The word of the old Camorra.”

That gets a reaction.

The man blinks, his face slacking with disbelief—maybe even shock—for a single second before his expression goes back to that familiar impersonal mask.

“My, my. He certainly is full of surprises, isn’t he?” he questions, but you can tell he’s not expecting an answer from you. His eyebrows are still raised though. He knows full well what those words mean. What power they hold, and with them you see understanding overtake his features. If before Santino’s presence outside his door was an annoyance, now it’s certainly still an annoyance but at least with an explanation. “Not that it would have made a difference, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Still reeling from the conversation at hand, you can’t help but bite out an irritated, “What’s with the attitude? Do you want an apology, is that it? You knew I would go after Tarasov. You even told me where they were.”

Winston’s weathered features draw into a deep frown. The blue of his eyes is cutting as he observes you shrewdly for a long moment.

“Yes, I did,” he begins, and you feel your shoulders curl downwards at his tone; reproachful, displeased. “With the hope that you would be smarter about this and help Johnathan to finish it instead of doing what you did. He gets his revenge and you are free of your debt. You both walk away without consequences. But instead, you broke the rules, (Name). Had the High Table pulled on so much as a thread, I would have had no choice but to tell them everything. You missed losing your life by an inch. By nothing more than sheer dumb luck and chance. You, better than most, know that luck doesn’t get you far in our world. You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time. Luck always runs out, and when it does consequences follow.”

The void his words leave between you is unforgiving and heavy. The worst part is that you know he’s right. Luck and chance. Death missed you by a hair.

If it hadn’t been for Winston withholding information. If it hadn't been for Santino lying on your behalf…

You would be dead.

It still doesn’t stop the simmer of rage in your gut though. Of pain and helplessness. You’re silent for longer than you would have liked purely because you can’t speak over the swell of emotion inside you.

You want—need—him to understand.

Understand that despite his inherent belief in rules and order, sometimes they bind you from getting justice. That sometimes the righteous thing to do can be the wrong thing to do. That in a world of killers, liars, and thieves, the grey area is all that exists.

No one who lives in this world, who thrives in it, is good.

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.”

Giovanni D’Antonio had at least that right.

The blood on your hands may haunt you, but it has also made you powerful, feared, respected.

You can’t—will not—be ashamed of that.

“After everything he took from me…it had to be me, Winston,” you croak out, your voice a mangled mess. Something flickers across the manager’s expression and the nature of his regard changes. “It had to be by my hand. Consequences be damned.”

Because you would have regretted it for the rest of your life. Revenge is an ugly thing. But you had needed it. It’s true that you could have left Tarasov to die there. Let him meet a miserable, slow end. It would have been easy. But you would have spent the rest of your life feeling cheated out of the twisted justice you’ve craved and bettered yourself for, for years.

“And?” Winston wonders, surprisingly quiet and curious. “Do you feel happy (Name)? Fulfilled now that it’s done?”

Your lips stretch back, baring your teeth to him in a mockery of a smile, off-tilter and twisted. “I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Your hand comes to cover your face and you rub your trembling fingers against your temple, your eyes burning.

“(Name),” he speaks deliberately, and there’s something softer in his voice this time. A tiny shift you won’t have noticed if you hadn’t known him for as long as you have. “Are you well?”

You laugh. It sounds as wrecked, as ruined, as the rest of you.

“No,” you admit because you both know it’s true. Your head slants, your arm dropping from your face, but your sardonic smile remains. “But I have no choice but to go on. It’s not like the last time,” you add upon noticing the deep furrow of his brows.

He peers at you with a look that makes you feel oddly vulnerable, oddly naked under that knowing, wise stare. It’s an echo of a look from years ago. From before Chicago.

“I presume you already know that I could get you safe passage out of the city by sundown if you need it,” he speaks slowly, his scrutiny not letting up, and you lace your trembling fingers together. Emotions bubble at the back of your throat as you stare at each other wordlessly.

“And you think that I should?” you wonder at last, soft and frayed. “Just run away?”

Winston gazes at you for a long minute and you distantly wonder what exactly he sees before him. You’ve never gotten a sense that he pities you—not once, not even when you were at your absolute worst—and despite everything, an ember of affection warms your chest as you peer at him. But Winston is still Winston. He’s as ruthless as the worst of them—perhaps even more so.

“I think,” he begins after a lengthy pause between you. “That for the first time in your life, you get to choose for yourself.”

Your head dips and you nod a little, dragging your hands up and down your thighs till you can feel the tremble subside somewhat. In your head, as always, you count. It helps. The relief of knowing that—for now at least—you are safe is immense too, overpowering almost everything else.

“Thank you, Winston. For everything,” you say to him, serious and soft; an echo of your letter to him. “And especially for stopping me from killing Perkins. For covering for me.”

The man nods his head once, looking a little wary when you rise to your feet. There is instability in your step that you know he picks up on immediately but doesn’t comment upon.

“But I still have loose ends to deal with in New York,” you inform him and exhale, thinking about Santino outside. A shadow from your shared past still lingers and you don’t like the idea of hiding from it. “Besides running now might make the High Table even more suspicious. I rather they don’t poke around further. Like you said…chance and luck.”

The older man places his glasses back on his face and studies you for another charged moment. Winston is not the type to disregard what you want but perhaps for the first time since before Chicago, he’s considering it.

“Be that it may, the offer still stands,” he states and a weak smile blooms across your face.

You’re about to open your mouth and reply when you hear someone walk up—heavy steps, off-balanced, most likely injured—to you. Your head turns and you feel something coil in your gut.

“John.”

He looks better than he did yesterday but obvious pain still lingers across his features. His suit is messier too—as if he didn’t have the energy to smooth out the creases the way he usually does. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you with clear relief and you swallow, trying to steel yourself under his scrutiny. He doesn’t need to know what the events of yesterday have managed to break and mangle inside you.

“Can I talk to you?”

It’s ridiculous how uneasy that question makes you feel. Both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ burn on the tip of your tongue but you can’t force yourself to say either.

“Jonathan,” Winston speaks in a greeting and when your eyes find him, you note his pointed stare. He’s buying you time to make up your mind. “So good to see you back with us again. And so soon.”

“Winston,” John greets back but his stare doesn’t stray from you.

Sighing, you clear your throat and glance back at your old partner.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private.”

Wait for me. We need to talk.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

I’ll be outside—Santi

Pocketing your phone with a faint sigh, you turn back towards John who sits on the loveseat in clear discomfort. He tries to hide it but you can read his tells.

“You shouldn’t be up and about,” you state flatly, and it’s impossible to miss your accusatory tone. “You do realise how close you came to death less than 24 hours ago, right?”

John breathes deeply, laboured; an exercise to block out the pain you know well enough. The only painkiller you’ve been able to locate inside his house was aspirin. Hardly the best drug given the circumstances due to its blood-thinning qualities but it’s not like you had any alternatives. In fact, with the wound tightly stitched, aspirin at least gave you some relief that the chances of him developing a blood clot have been reduced.

But watching him struggle with every inhale makes you bite back another sigh and move towards your work desk. Everything is still in place though the general mess from last night has been cleaned up. Your eyes snag onto two letters still sitting peacefully on your desk and you pause. You’ve been so ready to say goodbye. The desperation you’ve felt yesterday had blinded you but you don’t regret it. If you could avoid involving them, you still would. Even at the expense of your own life.

You reach for the two envelopes and input a code on the small keypad as your storage box opens. Inside, most of the spare solutions you’ve made in recent months. The rest sit safe and secure in the vaults underneath the hotel. The Continental is one of the few places you trust to store them.

You place the letters inside, lingering, and grab one of the vials on the side. The pale green liquid inside glimmers and you shake it a few times. Closing the door, you hear the telltale beep of the locks securing and turn back towards John again.

You hesitate for a second before you approach him, extending your hand.

Judging by his body mass, the dosage should be enough.

“For the pain and the swelling,” you inform him stiffly. “I’m still working on perfecting it so you’re better off going back to your room and sleeping this off. It will make you pretty dizzy and drowsy too. But besides Doc’s own work this is the best you can hope for around these parts. Should help with any possible infection too.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Your eyes shoot up to him, surprised. He holds your stare but reaches for the vial, his touch hesitant.

“Thought the High Table nabbed me?” you wonder with a humourless smile. “No. I left on my own accord.”

He digests your words, and you know that he understands what you’re trying to say. That you left because you didn’t want to stay. That even though he asked, you had the will to stand up and walk out of the door. That now, unlike before, it’s almost easy. Almost.

He gazes at you silently, and for split second you see the John from your dream. The John that always turns away. The John that always leaves. The John that’s always out of reach.

Just John.

“So what are you planning to do now?” you ask after the potent tension between you becomes near unbearable. “Your revenge is complete. I assume you know about Marcus too.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” John replies, and his quiet words are laced with pain. Marcus has been as much of a friend to John as he’s been a mentor. Back in their military days, all they had was each other. You know first hand how much protecting and fighting together binds people. How trust in them becomes an instinct, natural and effortless. “It’s my fault he died.”

“I talked him into it,” you say tightly, and your eyes leave him. It’s hard not to let guilt claw up your throat and steal your voice. “He—it was my fault. I underestimated Tarasov. His death is on me.”

Silence, and then, “I shouldn’t have involved either of you. I’m so sorry.”

Your attention goes back to him and you observe him coolly for several minutes.

The vial in his hand is empty and you smile again; even if it lacks warmth. “So how does it feel? Was it worth it? Your revenge?”

John doesn’t offer you an answer which is an answer in itself. His eyes lower and you notice him touch his wedding band, delicate and loving. A grieving husband. Perhaps it’s no wonder he rushed into this the way he did. When you’re hurting so much nothing else matters. You just want some form of release, an escape. Something to distract you from the misery of your own thoughts.

You know what that’s like.

“I owe you a debt,” he finally voices and you wonder if he realises how empty he sounds. How weary and reluctant. “The High Table—”

“Thinks that it was you.”

John’s eyes snap back to you, and you smile again, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the tremble in your fingers.

“Didn’t Winston tell you?” you question, a bite to your words that never used to be present when you talked. “I figured with the Russians possibly having something to say about Tarasov’s death he would have told you.”

John sighs and shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers ghosting over his wound. The sequence of little movements that just makes him look more miserable. “No, he didn’t,” he admits and you don’t quite understand his expression. “He isn’t too happy with me right now,” he adds wryly.

Your head tilts in confusion but before you can ask him anything else, he speaks, “Who will take over Tarasov’s mob?”

For a moment, you consider pursuing your previous line of inquiry but decide to drop it for now. Winston isn’t exactly happy with either of you at this moment.

Sighing, you consider his question. “Abram if I had to take a guess,” you divulge, and watch him dip his chin in consideration. “He’s the only blood relative of Viggo’s left. Igor may try to claim it but Abram has enough respect and pull to hold the position. Igor also doesn’t know New York the way Abram does. After such a heavy loss they need a strong leader who knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he have the power to call in your debt?”

“No,” you say without hesitation, and your eyes narrow on him. “Only an heir can inherit a debt unpaid. Viggo named his son his heir. He hoped that it would make Iosef step up to the plate. Man up. But, well, you know how well that worked out. Abram has no claim over my debt.”

For the first time since stepping inside your room, you see relief on John’s face. “So you’re free.”

You swallow thickly.

Those words make your skin itch.

Freedom.

A lack of leash does not amount to freedom.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper and it sounds faint. “I’m pretty sure the High Table has to officially release me first. That’s assuming they don’t uncover any damning evidence that places me at the docks.”

John peers at you but his gaze now lacks that sharp edge. Your solution is starting to take effect. His muscles have started to relax, and the strain of pain that previously lingered across his features has been wiped away.

“You should be resting,” you remind him and clear your throat, glancing towards the window to avoid his stare. Your folded fingers twitch and you tighten your grip, your nails biting into your flesh even though it strains the bruised skin. “Go back, John. All those years ago, I told you to be happy. Your revenge is done. Go back and be glad that this ended as happily as it did. This isn’t your life anymore. You don’t belong here.”

It’s a cruel thing to say.

But so was I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen.

So was walking out of that hotel room door knowing full well that the person you are leaving behind loves you more than anything.

You no longer know how to be kind and soft with him and it pains you.

John remains quiet for a long time after that. His expression creases with thought, troubling and deep, if the heavy curve of his shoulders is anything to go by. And when his stare does finally go back to you, as dark and as piercing as it has always been, you feel your heartbeat spike.

“I’m going to find my car first.”

And just like that, you know.

This isn’t over.

. . .

an: so you know when you all said how you want protective!Santi??? WELL HOW WAS THIS, HUH??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Also sorry if 1) this chapter got a bit heavy but wherein most people would be hyped up and ready to take on the world I kinda felt like all this suddenly piling on top of her would negatively affect V, making her retreat and break down a bit 2) if this reads rougher than usual. this part has been a bit of a struggle to write due to some outside factors and me straight up not having a great time these last few weeks.

As always, I adore you all. Thank you so, SO much for reading this series and being so incredibly passionate about it. To finish this fic is one of my 2020 resolutions and BOI do I have some stuff in the plans for you lot. Hope you all had wonderful holidays!!! See you all next decade~ ;)

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #winston #ares #fic: children of ares

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shreddedparchment · 5 years ago

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.07

Slip of the Tongue

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 4,796

Warnings: smut, angst, feels, Bucky Sam and Steve in poofy white shirts

A/N: This one is a little shorter than my usuals because I needed to set up the next two chapters and what comes next but a lot does happen! I hope you like it and if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo Let me know what you think!

Pain fades.

The darkness of your wedding night fades with it. The fear doesn’t.

You wake up a few times in the middle of the night, sweating cold and heart in fluttering palpitations.

No one is there for you. You make it that way.

The first night, after you’d woken up whimpering loud enough to have Peter send for Nat, you wake yourself up before the worse of it starts.

You don’t want to be like this. It terrifies you. You’re so tired all the time.

You know that Ste-his Majesty is sorry. You know that he regrets it because whatever face Nat makes when you tell her that his remorse and tears were genuine and for you alone, the look in his eyes…she didn’t see that.

There was torment there. Not grief. It was like watching someone relive the worst mistake of their lives over and over.

It’s why he stared at you with nothing to say, that same torment clear in his storm blues as he watched you when he rode away.

Fleeing is his way of getting control once more. He needs the distance to reclaim himself. In the deepest parts of your soul, you know it.

So when you sit up trembling, clutching your blanket close as your heart settles, you hope that wherever Ste-his Majesty is that he can come to terms with what happened that night and that when he comes back, the two of you can start fresh.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What are you thinking, Steve?” Samuel probes, his voice gentle but knowing as he stares at his king from across the crackling fire.

Soft golden shadows dance across Steve’s already golden face, hair gilded into tarnished gold with the lack of moonglow.

Steve sighs, staring at the heart of the fire and the way the flames lick at the wood at its center. It devours it, tearing it to ashen splinters.

He can relate.

Bucky and Samuel exchange a look of concern.

“Steve?” Bucky checks, reaching over to push against his knee.

Bucky’s laying on his side, relaxed with his leather vest thrown open, loose billowy white top with the drawstring at the base of his neck left undone to expose a solid chest with soft tendrils of dark hair. He’s got one leg propped up while he tosses smaller pieces of stick into the fire and listens to it speak.

Steve and Samuel look almost the same. Both have removed their tunics to leave them in simple white shirts only Steve’s is nicer, softer, more breathable. The soft tuft of his sand colored chest hair peeking through the split of the neck’s open V.

With Bucky’s push, Steve snaps out of his reverie and looks to his friend.

“What?” He asks, startled. He meets Samuel’s eyes too who stares at him with a small frown. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, we can see you’re preoccupied. What are you thinking about so hard that you’ve got that sorrowful look on your face?” Samuel asks, reaching for a small twig by his foot to follow Bucky’s example.

“I think I can guess.” Bucky says, knowing.

Steve looks at them in turn then shakes his head once.

“I hurt her.” He frowns.

“This again?” Samuel asks.

Bucky looks at Samuel and then turns back to Steve.

Steve can understand Samuel’s frustration. But he’s never been the one to do it. He’s never taken like that from anyone. Forcefully. He can never understand.

“You said you apologized.” Bucky sighs, knowing that an apology cannot have been enough. For you to forgive Steve for what he did to you, you’d have to be a saint. “Did she reject it?”

Samuel listens this time, more open to having this conversation. Maybe he and Bucky can finally get some answers?

Steve has been moping all week but kept it all to himself. Is he ready to open up about what happened?

He is. “No.”

Looking to Bucky, Steve can see the slight surprise.

“She should have.” He shakes his head, looking down at his hands where he begins to fidget with his nails.

“She…forgave you?” Bucky asks, shocked.

Steve nods.

“Are you really sorry?” Bucky checks, eyes narrowed on his king and best friend.

Steve meets his gaze with slight anger, fire in the center of his blues. “Of course, I am.”

His voice is a deep growl, irritated.

“I’m not a monster.” Steve points out, but after what he did to you…what must you really think of him? How can he explain to you that marrying you…fucking you…hell, just touching your hand during the wedding had felt like a betrayal? “I think.”

He feels wrong in his emotions. He shouldn’t care that you’re hurt. He shouldn’t care that you kept staring at him with all that hope in your pretty eyes.

Fuck. He growls internally, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he realizes that he just thought your eyes were pretty.

The clench in his chest hurts, another set of pretty eyes fill his mind, and these look sad for his slip. How could he have thought another woman’s eyes pretty? Only hers were pretty. Only Margaret’s.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Samuel interrupts his self-hatred. “That thing you do when you think about her.”

Bucky’s frowning.

“I can’t help it.” Steve admits, tired.

“Margaret’s dead, Steve.” Bucky chastises him ruthlessly. “She has been for two years. You’re allowed to move on.”

“I know that.” Steve grumbles, looking back down at his hands.

“She would have wanted you to move on.” Bucky insists.

Steve isn’t as sure about that…but Maggie would have wanted what was best for him. “I know that.”

“So, then what’s the problem? Your new wife doesn’t inspire you?” Samuel asks, though he doubts that’s a problem. He’s seen you up close and you’re a cutie.

Hell, if he could have chosen anyone to take home and make love to…well, okay, maybe he’d start with a few other girls but you’re no slouch. He likes the way your body curves and your smile had been sweet and real.

There’s a lack of snobbery to you, too. As if you weren’t raised like those other girls that come to court.

You’re a catch. And as Samuel watches his king, he can see that for him as well, you are perfection. Well…for Steve…you’d have to be Margaret to be perfection.

“No, it’s not that.” He sighs. “She’s…she’s not Maggie.”

“And she never will be.” Bucky’s seriously angry now. “But she’s your wife now. Accept it, Steve. The sooner you let go of Margaret the easier this will be on you and her Majesty.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but Bucky cuts him off. He pushes himself up to sit, tense now.

“You’re going to have to sleep with her again, Steve. Every night until you get her pregnant. Part of the deal was to marry within a year. After that you have another year to produce an heir. Rather than take your time you chose Y/N. You had your chance to-”

“You’ve said all of this already, Buck.” Steve nearly growls.

“Well, I’m saying it again, because you haven’t been listening. You could have taken your time, gotten used to the idea first and then married someone but you chose to marry Y/N within a week of the council setting its ultimatum.”

“I wanted it over with.” Steve sighs defeated and saddened again.

“Well, it’s over with…now you have a new wife, a sweet one at that, and you have only a year to do what you could have given yourself two years to do. She needs to give you an heir and you don’t have time to waste unless you want the Kingdom to go to Pierce.” Bucky reminds him. “He’ll tear it apart, Steve.”

“What if I can’t do it?” Steve worries, swallowing hard.

“You have to.” Bucky insists.

Steve’s face contorts into a grimace, disappointment in himself. “Have you seen the way she looks at me? She’s…”

“She’s already in love with you.” Bucky nods.

“Big surprise there. Everyone falls in love with him.” Samuel chimes in. “I mean, look at him.”

“It’s more than that.” Bucky argues.

“She sees through me.” Steve says so quietly that both Bucky and Samuel go completely silent so that all they can hear is the quiet rustle of breeze through leaves and the soft crackle of the fire. “She can see the broken man I am inside.”

“You’re not going to write her a poem, are you?” Samuel teases.

“Sam…” Bucky sighs.

“Do you think that would work?” Steve suddenly asks.

The two guys watch him.

“Should I write her a poem? Will that make her forgive me?” He checks, looking up at them in turn.

“I thought you didn’t want her to love you.” Sam checks.

“I don’t…I…I don’t know.” Steve admits. “It feels wrong to have her in the castle, sleeping in what should have been Margaret’s room if she hadn’t insisted on sleeping with me in mine.”

“She’s Queen now, Steve. Would you have her live out of the castle?” Bucky wonders and for a scary moment, the world is silent.

Bucky couldn’t stand it if he had to take Steve back home and then have to tell Nat what happened if he decided to send you away.

Not only would that mean Nat would be away from him which he really doesn’t think he can go through again, but she'd be so upset for you. And Bucky can’t blame her. He’s feeling more and more angry with Steve for you two.

Steve thinks hard, his chest aching painfully as he pictures you beneath him, squirming as you try and get away.

He shuts his eyes tight, hating the memory.

You’d begged him to be easy on you and he’d ignored it. He hurt you and it surprises him how terribly he feels about it. More so than just a decent man hating making a grave mistake.

He hates that he hurt you. Why? Why does he have to care about you? He doesn’t want to.

“I will have her keep her distance during the day.” Steve nods as the plan begins to work itself out. “And then I will come to her at night.”

Bucky relaxes a little. This is progress. Torture for you of a different kind probably, but it’s progress for Steve.

“I can’t love her, Buck.” Steve admits.

“You don’t have to.” Bucky assures his best friend. “But you do need to care about her at least as a friend. She’s your queen, Steve. Until the day she dies.”

Yeah…and it’s not like Steve has lost any other queens lately. Oh, wait…

“We should go back.” He finally says, “If I’m going to make any progress with an heir I’ll need to get started.”

“Steve…” Samuel begins, and when Steve meets his eyes he sees fear in those dark browns. Fear for you.

Steve looks at Bucky and he sees the same fear in his eyes too.

“What, Sam?” He urges him.

“…you’ll do it gently? She may not let you right away after what happened.” Sam points out.

Bucky nods. “You can’t force it again.”

“I know that. And I won’t. But I’m only going in there to get the job done. Once I have my heir, I’ll never have to touch her again.”

Steve can hardly wait.

The locket rests heavy against your breast. You lay on your back then shift onto your left side, moving slowly towards the center of your bed.

Luxurious aqua tinted silk slides along your freshly washed, peony and lavender scented skin. You’re struggling to sleep, as you have been since your marriage night.

You toss and turn, feeling the ache of your husband despite the pain having receded.

Fisting your sheets, you groan and then gasp as a large hand closes around your ankle.

Startled, you push yourself up slightly, just enough to look down at your feet and you watch as his Majesty’s large body moves closer towards you.

His hand, rough with a bit of callous, traces the length of your leg before it stops on your hip. His other hand traces your side but you’re shaking, scared.

He stops as he hovers over you, still not completely on top of you, and he looks deep into your eyes as you lay yourself back on your pillow, hands hovering between your bodies in tight painful fists.

His face darkens, saddens, there’s an upset there and you aren’t sure if he’s upset with you or himself, but he can see the terror in your eyes and in the way your body responds to him.

With a frustrated sigh, he shifts off of you towards your right to sit at the edge of your bed.

He smells like pine and chestnuts and the slightest hints of campfire smoke.

In the dim light of your room where the only source is your dwindling fire, you see the tense set of his shoulders.

You sit up slowly, but as you do, he slides further along the edge and makes to get up.

To leave you?

“No.” You say, louder than you normally would having just woken up. Your voice is clear and strong if only slightly confused. “Don’t go.”

You reach out for him and wrap your hand around his right wrist.

“Please…” You beg, wanting to see him. You release his hand and place it gently on the bed near him. “When did you get back?”

He’s quiet for so long—or it feels like a long time—that you’re not sure he’s going to answer you.

“Bucky sent word that we’d be back today.” He speaks, voice deep and soft. Disappointment saturating his tone. “Maggie would have met me at the gate.”

Those words are softer, almost like a lamentation and you realize that he was expecting you to wait for him. To be there when he got back.

You swallow hard, hating yourself for missing the opportunity and feeling a pang of painful disappointment in yourself for not exceeding the expectations that Margaret had set.

“His letter said that you would be back tomorrow morning.” You explain, hoping for his forgiveness. “I asked Nat to wake me up at first light. I’m sorry.”

He says nothing, just stares down at his hands in his lap. Thinking.

“How was your journey?” You wonder, hoping to maybe connect with him.

“I need an heir, Y/N. I need one quickly. You must be pregnant within the year or I must forfeit my crown to a man who will split the kingdom. Tear it apart for his own gain.” His Majesty explains. “I can’t let that happen.”

He sits taller and you process this information as quickly as you can.

So…he did really just marry you because he needed to. You’re not sure why that hurts when you already knew, but to hear him say it…you reach up to trace your necklace, lingering on the star before you reach out to touch his back.

You slide your hand up along the center, stroking the taut muscle and relishing in the soft white fabric of his shirt.

He reaches back and catches your wrist, pulling your hand away from its caress.

“Then I’ll give you an heir.”

He scoffs. “I can’t even touch you without you trembling.”

He’s angry at you for that?

“Not that I blame you.” He sighs. “I-…I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. What happened before, I made a mistake. I need you to understand that Margaret was the love of my life and she wasn’t supposed to die. We were supposed to have a lifetime together…but she did die and I-”

“You love her.” You nod, your own shoulders slouching at the agony that this truth rips through you.

“I don’t mean to hurt you.” His Majesty says and you look up to see him watching you, brow furrowed as he takes in your pain.

You force a smile and shake your head. “No-I…I already knew that you loved her still. Everyone told me before I married you that you did.”

An idea suddenly strikes you and you lean towards him, sliding closer as he continues to hold your wrist.

“If you…I know that it might be a little…” There’s no easy way to say this so, maybe just saying it will be better? “If you need to pretend that I’m her, then you can. If it’ll help-?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He suddenly spits, looking uncomfortable and shocked.

There’s a frantic shift in his eyes however as he considers your words.

“If you know that I couldn’t love you, then why did you marry me?” He suddenly demands, still sounding upset.

“Father asked me to. For the good of our Kingdom…my old Kingdom. For the good of the family. Morgana is too young.” Does he understand? “It’s my duty.”

He turns to stare at you, watching your face for the crack that he expects to come you guess. Does he think you don’t mean it?

“And I…I’ve heard good things about you, your Majesty. That you are a good man. A kind man.” You sound unsure with that last bit and it doesn’t miss his notice.

He looks away again, frowning at the memory of your wedding night.

“I will give you an heir.” You promise him, shifting closer again. “I will help you save this Kingdom, your Majesty.”

He turns to look at you, considering your promise and you suppose that he believes you because he gets up, watching you the whole time as he turns to face you, unbuckles his pants, and pushes them down to expose himself.

Peach-pink cock fully erect again, scaring you a little but only because of what happened.

You shift away from him as he moves to crawl onto the bed, and he freezes.

He’s waiting for you, giving you time to reject him. To tell him to go away.

You won’t.

Willingly, you lay back, hand on your locket as you relax against your pillows as best you can. He watches your hand cling to the metal then pulls your blanket away to leave you in your nightdress. Plain white with puffed sleeves tied at the elbow and wrist with pink ribbon, and a square neckline.

He spares it only a glance as his eyes roam down along your body, looking for the hem which he finds.

Moving between your legs which he spreads with gentle hands, he pushes the gown up until it’s bunched around your waist.

He moves closer, his own knees and thighs working to spread your own legs wider as he lines himself up and this time, he waits for you to stop breathing so heavily before he pushes in just a little.

Eyes shut; you struggle to adjust to the sensation. The pressure.

“Keep going.” You tell him, breathless.

He pushes in further, sliding in more smoothly than the first time the he stops. He frowns.

“What is it?” You ask him, your voice hitching at the end as your core burns just a little.

“Nothing.” He says, sighing. He reaches up with one hand and licks his fingers, coating them in a slippery layer of spit.

He takes that hand and reaches between your legs where the two of you are joined and you gasp as he coats you with it. For a fleeting moment as he touches you, your body feels lighter. You feel an embarrassing rush of moisture where he’s already buried halfway inside you and he stops his touching when he’s able to push in further.

Leaning over you, he braces himself on the bed, hands on either side of your shoulders as he buries himself to the hilt with a groan.

He lays himself on top of you, squashing your covered breasts against his own as his hips begin to move. He slides out and back in, stretching you uncomfortably.

It’s not as painful. The steady rhythm he find is gentle and you’re able to adjust to it. Still, it doesn’t feel good and you find yourself shifting beneath him, trying to make room for him.

You spread your legs wider and he takes the opportunity to move a bit faster. No pain, but that pressure of being stretched makes you groan.

The noise seems to spur him on, and he leans back to look at you.

What must he see?

Your lips are parted, eyes unfocused, breathing heavy. For a quick moment it almost feels like he’s leaning towards you.

Your heart stutters as his lips inch over yours but then he swerves his head to the right and he buries his face into the side of your neck as he grips you tighter and pounds into you faster.

“Mmmm.” You whine, wanting this to be over.

It doesn’t feel bad but it’s not like what the girls described. There is no passion in this. It’s almost routine. As if this is how it should happen, so it does. There is no frenzy. There is no love.

“Mmph.” His Majesty responds, sounding much more pleased than you feel. A hot and wet something slides along the side of your neck and you realize that he’s licking you, his beard scratching at the skin.

His hips stutter, his teeth graze the side of your neck before he pulls back. As he rams himself into you one final time, he calls out a name…

“Maggie…” He grunts, breathing labored as his hot sticky release coats your insides.

You know that it was your idea. You offered it to him. You told him that if it helped then he could pretend you were her and you hadn’t been expecting it to hurt this much.

Your chest caves in, heart aching with jealousy because he clearly wishes you were his Margaret. Why had you given him the stupid idea?

You whimper, this time a sob, and he realizes this as he pulls back fast, staring down at your body beneath his.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, looking you over repeatedly.

You shake your head and then turn away from him because if you look at him, it’ll be there. The jealousy. The pain. The love you feel for him even though you know you shouldn’t.

He doesn’t let you get away with it. “Look at me.”

It’s an order from your King, so you obey. You look at him. And he sees it. He sees the betrayal that you shouldn’t be feeling because you’re the one he isn’t in love with.

You told him he could pretend…but you hadn’t been expecting him to call her name.

Tears trickle down onto your pillow, leaving salty trails between your eyes and temples.

“Did I hurt you?” He repeats, reaching up to wipe a tear.

You shake your head again, but he’s not going to let this go, not after what happened before, so you’ll have to be honest.

“Y-You called me, M-Maggie.” You stutter, voice shaking with sorrow

His Majesty’s face pales, and he pushes off you a bit more before he slips out of you and moves to pull his clothes back on.

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, fastening his pants. “It slipped out.”

You turn away from him, curling yourself into as small a ball as you can while you pull your nightdress down to cover yourself again.

“Of c-course, your M-Majesty. It’s alr-right.” You lie, struggling to contain your sobs.

He sighs heavily, reaching over to pull your blanket back over you.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night.” He says, and with that, he leaves you.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Can I have a bath this morning?” You as Nat, as you watch her place your breakfast onto your table.

Surprised by the request, Nat turns to you with a furrowed brow.

She’s a goddess today in deep plum. Her red hair is a shock of fire around her shoulders. No, red like blood.

“Another one? You had one last night. I thought we would wait until midday for another bath.” She explains.

“I need a bath.” You insist.

That’s when she notices the tunic on the chair by the fire. The mussed sheets. The slightly heady scent that your food had masked when it had been right under her nose but now, she can smell the sex in the air.

“Are you okay?” She hurries to your side, placing her hand on your elbow as he begins to look you over.

“I’m fine.” You tell her, a small chuckle breaking through. “Not even sore this time.”

“When did he-?”

“Last night. Haven’t you seen Bucky? It was late but I thought he would have come to find you.” Getting up you move towards your food and stare down at the eggs and sausage. The potatoes and herbs smell good, but your stomach churns and you know you can’t eat.

Still too upset.

Nat moves to pull on the cord to call for a maid.

“The coward is probably hiding from me to avoid a scolding for not telling me he was leaving.” She’s smirking playfully despite her words.

The maid comes in.

“Her Majesty would like a bath.” Nat tells her and she curtsies then disappears as Nat makes her way back to you. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not hungry.” You tell her, looking at her with sorrowful eyes. A broken heart hidden carefully behind a determined gaze.

“Eat something. Just a little. Did he hurt you again?” She checks, watching as the large tub is carried in and then slowly the maids begin to fill it with water.

They must have a ready supply of hot water for when baths are needed.

You scoff, a small smile stretching your chapped lips. You need water.

“Not the way he did last time.” You assure her. When she doesn’t stop staring, you chuckle and reach out to caress her arm. “I’m fine, Nat. Just tired. I wasn’t able to go to sleep after he left.”

She doesn’t believe you. “If he did anything, you’d tell me right?”

“Yes.” You nod, release her hand and move to the tub as the maids finish with the last pail.

Removing your nightgown, you let it fall to the ground and step into your bath. Nat hurries to apply your soaps and oils. No petals this morning. Too short notice probably.

The heat of the water helps you relax. You lay back, head resting against the taller back as your hands trace the surface of the water.

“Was his Majesty’s marriage with Queen Margaret passionate, Nat?” You ask her, staring at the crackling fire to your left.

“Yes.” She nods, moving to lather up a rag to scrub you.

You don’t protest when she starts to clean you up.

“Did he kiss her every day?” You wonder.

“In the morning and every chance he got.” She nods again.

“And hugs? Did he hug her?” You ask.

“All the time. Y/N, what’s this about?” She asks, frowning at you as you continue to stare at the fire.

“I wish I was Margaret.” You sigh, turning to Nat with a small worn out smile. “I’m so tired today. Can I sleep some more?”

Nat thinks about it then looks at your food before she look back down at you.

“You don’t have any obligations until next week. You can do what you like with your time until then. But will you do me a favor?” She checks, reaching to lather up your hair.

“What?”

“Eat your breakfast, and then you can sleep as much as you want.” She pleads, and because you know she only wants you to be healthy and happy, you nod with a genuine smile.

“Okay.” You turn back to the fire and watch as it dances. “Will he look for me today, do you think?”

“I’m sure he will, Y/N.” Nat tries to assuage your fears, but you can see right through her.

You look at her, a knowing smile on your peeling and dry lips. “He won’t even ask about me.”

You’re certain.

“I wish I’d listened to all of you and guarded my heart a little better. I guess I just wanted this to all work out as it should. Like some fairytale instead of a business arrangement.” You admit. “But at least I have a nice home and I am well taken care of. We can’t have everything, right? No matter. All I need to do is give his Majesty an heir and then I can love my son and my son only. He will be my world, Nat. And the King can cherish the memory of his precious Margaret all on his own.”

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i-okamie · 4 years ago

Text

How Did I End Up Here ? Ch3

When things slip away it's not always that obvious. It all comes soflty. Sometime you don't realize that you're breaking down before you've lost the pieces.

Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ao3

Maybe she has hit her head harder than she thought. Lena knows that concussions usually happen few hours after the shock and not two days later, but she wouldn’t put it past fate to play yet another trick on her. Or maybe it is a fifth dimension being messing with her. Hadn’t Kara talked about some man from this dimension being able to bend the universe to his will? Whatever it is, she cannot figure out why of all things Kara would say that.

It’s not logical.

“What?” the word leaves Lena’s lips before she can stop it. She doesn’t understand Kara’s reaction.

She knows she looks bad. Poor Jess dropped all the papers she was preparing for the meeting with the investor when she saw her boss walking in. Battered. That’s the word she used once the initial shock had passed. And she had kept a close eye on the young woman since then, regularly finding excuses to walk in office, using the intercom to ask for her approval, and so on. But Lena isn’t surprised by the older woman mother like comportment, after all they have many hours working together. Now that she thinks about it, she should really give Jess a raise for still working for her after all the assassination attempts, her brother’s manipulation, and the daxamite invasion.

“Lena.” Kara reaches for her hand but stop midway, as if thinking better of it. “What happened to you?”.

What happened? Lena bristles internally.

What about discovering that the whole new life she has built in National City was based on lies? Or all the people stealing glances whenever she goes outside, waiting to see if she will finally turn out evil like the rest of her family? That the friends she thought she had finally found were never hers, but Kara’s and that they simply tolerated her? What about her brother using her again, knowing the young woman was so desperate to be accepted that few scraps of attention from him would have be at his beck and call? And how could she explain the sleepless nights spent grieving all what could have been with her sweet Kara Danvers, her little walking sunshine, for it to be replaced by Supergirl’s distrust and schemes to go behind her back?

Instead of saying any of it, the brunette decides to take a deep breath. Nothing good will come out of it, and she doesn’t have the energy to fight with the reporter today.

“I fell. You know I work a lot and sleep very little. I got up to fast and got lightheaded. You can probably figure out the rest of it.” She offers half the truth. That’s the best way to get Kara off her back quickly, and there is really no other way to explain the state of her face.

“What about the cut on your palm? There is nothing in your office that could have caused it, and I don’t picture you cooking on the rare times you get back home these days” Kara counters, raising a dubious eyebrow.

“Well” Lena starts, then pause. These days?

How does Kara know she barely set foot in her apartment anymore, desperate to avoid memories of easier times? Sure, the blonde woman remembers all the times she almost literally dragged her out of office, saying something about needing sun and fresh air like all humans do. But there is no way that the she could know that now Lena dutifully avoids going back to her place. Being a young woman running a company such as L-corp, she has plenty of excuses at the ready to stay in her office at night. Thinking about her apartment brings once again memories of the incident two nights ago … then it all makes sense. Kara’s slip up, her lame excuse to come check on her, the glass shard she found once she woke up.

“You were here, weren’t you?” she says softly, as if she was talking to herself more than the woman sitting next to her.

“What? Lena, what are you talking about?” the reporter asks, eyes brows knit together with confusion.

“How could you know that I’ve barely been at my place lately?” the brunette asks coldly “you said yourself that I rarely get back home. And that is something one would expect a friend to know and worry about. But you’re not my friend Kara, and you’ve never been. Do I need to explain why again? Maybe this time you’ll finally understand”. Anger and weariness are finally getting the best of her. They have had this conversations times and times again, but the stubborn alien will not leave her alone. She will inevitably come back in her life, and every times Lena sees the blonde’s ponytail and glasses only to remember what it is supposed to hide, it reopens the wound all over again. The CEO can almost feel it throbbing in her chest. How could she have been so foolish, so blind to all of it?

“Friends do not lie to one another. They do not hide who and what they are. Because by doing that from the very beginning, Supergirl, you never gave me a real chance to choose if we should be more than professional acquaintances. While you knew everything from me and were able to weigh the pros and cons of spending time with a Luthor, all I could base my choice on was the image of Kara Danvers solely. A young woman coming from Midvale, a starting reporter at CatCo, and more importantly, an innocent human that could have got hurt because she was spending time with me.”

Kara looks at her with those big blue eyes she spent so much time looking at, tears starting to gather. And that’s all Lena need to fuel her anger. How dare she act like she didn’t know what she was doing from the very start?

“Can you imagine what it felt like for me to think that I was putting you in danger every minute we spent together? That by simply wanting to be friends, it would put a target on your back? I thought I’d get you killed. One day Alex would call me or knock on my door and tell me something terrible at happened: you’d be held hostage, you’d have a car accident, my brother’s minions would have put a bullet through your head, … And every time you would be dead because of me!” Just mentioning it is enough to bring images flashing through Lena’s mind and have her shaking with horror as well as rage. “But it was all for naught, wasn’t it? Because vulnerable human Kara Danvers does not exist. There is only Supergirl.”

She is now leaning toward the blonde. A scorpion gauging its prey. And ready to strike.

“And what a smart move it was on your side, I must admit that I am impressed. Having two personas was the perfect way to keep tabs on me, to see if what I would confide to Kara would concur with what I’d say to Supergirl. The smallest slip up, the tiniest difference, and you’d have all you ever needed to throw me in that dark place within the DEO that already has my name on it” Lena spits coldly “So please spare me the act of being worried about me now Ms. Danvers, and tell me what you need from me this time again.”

Kara is looking at her with a stricken expression. Anguish and confusion are battling on her face, showing in small flashes. Under any other circumstances Lena would bask in the fact she finally managed to get Kara utterly silent, but all Lena can taste is the bitterness of her own words.

The young reporter seems gather herself quickly after the initial shock and starts her usual rambling “Lena that’s not … why did you never tell me about all this, about imagining the worst scenarios? Rhao, I can’t imagine what it must have been like from your point of view.” The tears that had previously gathered in her eyes are now falling down freely along her cheeks and her voice is a bit strangled with emotion “I never thought about it that way, and I’m so sorry you had to deal with that on your own. I am terrible friend, I should have seen …”

“Were you at my place two nights ago?” Lena interrupts her.

“I wasn’t spying on you, I swear!” Kara’s gaze is flicking anxiously around the room “I wanted … I needed to know that you were fine. And I know that I’m nothing but a liar, a traitor to your eyes, I know that. But I need you to believe me when I say that I do care about you.”

She takes a steadying breath before explaining.

“Yes I was there, but not from the beginning. I was coming back from patrol when I passed nearby. I wasn’t spying but I used to focus on your place to know you were alright and uh … old habits die hard I guess?” Kara scratches the back of her head then mumbles something that Lena don’t quite catch about coming off wrong and sounding like a creep, then continues. “I heard breaking glass. I thought maybe it was someone breaking in and that you were in troubles so I came as fast as I could. When I reached your balcony you were standing up in front of the bookshelves. You were swaying so badly, and before I knew what was happening you were falling to the ground. I didn’t get time to catch you and when I got by your side, wouldn’t react when I called your name!”

She is now wringing her hands at the memory, seeing the scene unfold in her mind and feeling the fear constricting her chest all over again. Kara had imagined the worst while holding protectively in her arms the unresponsive woman. What had happened? Was Lena sick? Poisoned? Her breathing was fine, her heartrate perfectly normal and she couldn’t see any wound beside a nasty gash on her palm. But she isn’t a doctor and she won’t risk her friend’s life. Maybe she should bring her to the DEO to ask Alex to check what is going on? They surely would be able to help her.

The superhero then assessed her surroundings, looking for any clue she could give her sister to figure out what happened to Lena. She then realized the alcohol puddle in which the books were soaking along with glass shards. There was an empty glass on the kitchen island as well. Taking everything in account Kara has a better idea of the situation and feels immediate relief: no one attacked Lena. But it means she did all this to herself.

Knowing how angry Lena would be to know Kara has seen her in that state, the blonde decided that the best course of action is to limit the damages while pretending she never came in the first place. She picked up the books and placed them out of the puddle, she gathered most of the shards to make sure Lena wouldn’t hurt herself further, and finally she gently laid Lena on the floor. It tore at her heart to do so but there was no way Lena wouldn’t remember her fall and so expect to be on the ground. And after a last check on her, Kara left. Promising herself she would come check how Lena was doing soon but not the day right after to not raise any suspicion.

So much for that part of the plan.

Kara gets back to present when Lena snaps her finger, trying to catch the blonde’s attention.

“Yeah! Right! You were not answering but from what I could see no one had attacked you and you would be fine. I knew you’d be pissed to see me there so I decided to pretend I didn’t see.” A flash of guilt crosses the woman face before she adds softly “I lied to you again. I’m sorry Lena.”

Lena was expecting to feel enraged. She had been right! Kara was there, keeping an eye on her, and went as far as coming into her home knowing she wasn’t welcome there anymore. But the reporter’s apologies had somehow managed to ring true for once and Lena didn’t see the point into fighting over this. All she felt at the moment was exhaustion and the need for a drink. It was what had landed her in this situation but she couldn’t help it and she had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Kara, it was a one-time accident. You’re right, I don’t appreciate you coming in my apartment uninvited. Being a superhero doesn’t mean you’re above the law. However I will let it slide for this time because I’m the one who created this mess and I could have indeed needed medical attention. But don’t do it again. I’m not my brother but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to keep a kryptonian at bay if need be.” She stands up, and watch the weigh of her strike her former friend, making her clench her fists in a white knuckles grip. Good.

She walks toward the door of her office and is pleased to hear ruffling sounds, indicating that Kara is standing as well, and that her message has been heard for once and her wish to be alone will be granted soon.

“Now if this all what you came for, I’d like you to leave. I have a company to run.”

Kara doesn’t say answer back. She doesn’t even look at Lena, her eyes trained to the floor. She simply walks out, somehow seeming smaller and defeated.

Then Lena clicks the door shut. She thought she would feel relief, even joy, at seeing Kara finally doing what she asked her to. But now, alone her empty office, she felt numb. Drained.

Maybe that��s what prompted her to open the bottom drawer of her desk and get the whiskey flask stored there. She downs a few gulps before putting it back in its place. At least now she feels the alcohol burn instead of emptiness.

#my fic #first fic ever #supercorp #supergirl #fanfic #supergirl fanfic #supercorp fanfic #supercorp fandom #kara zor el #kara danvers #lena luthor #Lena Lesbian Luthor #kara x lena #angst

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mbti-notes · 4 years ago

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What do you think is the best way to deal with the fear of things getting even more conservative and harsh? I'm so scared about the future, living in a dystopian society and having all my rights taken as a non binary queer person. Infj.

I suppose you’re referring to US politics? Please be more specific because the majority of my readership isn’t from the US. You’re asking a loaded question that basically requires me to agree with the premise that everything will be doomed. I can’t agree with that, since I purposely don’t approach politics in a reactive way.

When you’re drowning in fear, you’re not thinking straight. One of the reasons political discourse has reached the lows that it has in the US is because of incessant screaming and hyperbole. The political mediascape is a for-profit machine that is designed to work people up, manipulate their emotions, and keep them living in fear of “enemies”. This creates the mindset of being in a constant fight for survival against various abstractions of “evil”, and it’s much easier to separate you from your money when you’re so threatened that you’re willing to pay to feel safe/validated. The more that people get sucked into this war mentality, the less capable they are of making wise political decisions, since every important problem gets made into an oversimplified “wedge” issue to test your loyalty to your team.

The world is a lot more complex than red vs blue. To make a living, I have to follow news from around the world very closely. Yes, people get heated about politics, but observe the political reporting from other countries and you will see a difference in the tone and quality. In some countries, there are, gasp!, more than two viable political parties, and thus, more ideas and approaches to choose from. The US has commodified political fear and outrage like no one else by purposely pitting people against each other like rival sports teams, in a state of perpetual conflict, and, most importantly, always distracted from the underlying power structures that are making their lives worse.

To be clear, I’m not a conservative, though I’ve been surrounded and preached to by conservatives my whole life - I engage with them continuously. I am certainly angered by people being stripped of their rights and opportunities. I am certainly depressed when I see people abused and oppressed. I am certainly frustrated when my life suffers from the decisions of politicians I did not vote for. However, I staunchly defend freedom and diversity of beliefs and values. I often have to remind people that many countries and cultures around the world are conservative, and they are not abject hellscapes. Do not equate conservatism with dystopia, barbarism, fundamentalism, extremism, terrorism, xenophobia, or lord of the flies - it doesn’t matter who is doing it, hyperbole and stereotypes are dehumanizing, which enables the violence of war mentality. Conservatism, at its best, is actually needed by society to function well. Progressivism, at its best, is actually needed by society to function well. Intelligent political discourse begins with each of us getting our facts and concepts correct, otherwise, there’s no hope of cooler heads prevailing. It’s important to correctly identify the cause of a problem by labeling it properly.

Every system has flaws and every system will eventually fall apart when those flaws are left to fester and worsen. The US is supposed to be a democracy, right? A democracy is only ever as smart as the people participating in it. Can you say, with a straight face, that Americans have a deep understanding of their political system and work hard to be well-informed of all the political, economic, social, and international issues that the country grapples with? Can you say that the majority of people even understand the political terminology they use?

The US is admired around the world for its individualism. Individuals succeed and fail by their own hand. Individuals are free to pursue their own happiness and well-being. “The Land of Opportunity”, right? Americans have exported this idea, drawing immigrants from all around the world. However, individualism, taken to an extreme, exacts a very steep price. The bonds which hold individuals together to form a well-functioning society gradually weaken over time. This is a huge problem if you hope to make good collective decisions, which is what elected officials are tasked to do.

The language and currency of politics is power. With power, you get to write the rules. Without power, you are subject to someone else’s rules. It’s really that simple and crass. The purpose of there being many different voices in a discussion is to make sure that no 1 agenda/group gets to dominate the discussion and become too extreme. Opportunists, corporations, and media companies figured this out a long time ago, so they do what they can to shut down nuanced debate and discussion. They all have a deep vested interest in hyping up the individualist ethos of American culture, not because they actually care about “culture” in any noble sense, but because they know that individuals have very limited power. One person alone cannot disrupt the status quo, and keeping everyone psychologically isolated means that those with power can keep enriching themselves without disruption.

Currently, almost every major aspect of American society is designed to stop you from realizing and using your power. Media keeps you locked in fear, feeling victimized, demonizing each other. Big corporate interests keep you hyperfocused on your own emotional vulnerabilities, telling you to earn and consume your way to a false sense of power, as they quietly dismantle workplace and social supports that would preserve your actual power. The prevailing social mandate to be ever productive and “successful” keeps you running like a hamster on a wheel, with little energy to spare for anything else. You are expected, at adulthood, to become a self-made person, never having to rely on anyone for anything, thereby eroding your ties to your roots and kin. If you fail, you are shamed and dubbed a loser, and expected to redouble your efforts to chase higher social status. And some people simply choose to drop out completely, thus relinquishing any social power they had.

In US society, those in power abuse the archetype of the “individual” and the virtue of “independence” to siphon more and more power. Individualism, in its most immature form, is really just self-centeredness. Everyone is only out for themselves and grabbing what they can before someone else does. People fight each other for scraps. And the ultimate goal of life is to have more than the people around you, such that you have the power and privilege to shield yourself from the other hungry dogs. There is no bigger picture to aspire to beyond one’s own survival and daily pleasures. If this is the underlying ethos of your society, are you surprised that the political system reflects it? A lot of people around the world look at the US and mostly see a bunch of immature adolescents.

Transcending social forces isn’t easy. Power is always unevenly distributed, so it is always ripe for abuse, and fighting against abuses of power requires sustained effort. Therefore, it’s important to understand the many ways that power is used to oppress. I’ve spent a lot of time studying historical movements, political philosophy, and power dynamics, so my view of politics is always the long view. I believe that political progress is constant work. I don’t believe in end goals or being free to rest on your laurels. I believe history teaches us that, whatever your political allegiances, the complacent eventually become the victims. I believe that social change is relatively easy to understand by observing the way that power changes hands in society.

Politics boils down to an endless series of change-and-backlash sequences. Whenever one group takes a significant political step, someone somewhere will lose out on some power and privilege, and they’re not going to take it lying down. Fear and anger drive the changes, and fear and anger drive the backlashes. Rinse and repeat. When the tide turns against you, it only means that it’s your turn to step up again. Fear and anger are not reasons to give up, rather, they are the wake up call that spurs the next round of changes. From conflict comes motivation.

Political power is gained through organization. The fastest way to accumulate power, especially in a democracy, is to stand together and pool your resources. But what is the motivation for organizing? Usually anger. Civil rights are never won by waiting around for the privileged to relinquish their power. No, people get together to claim their rights, DEMAND change, and MAKE the changes that they want to see, refusing to surrender to oppression. They loudly infiltrate social spaces, influence officials, run for office as representatives, and accumulate the political power to rewrite the rules. This is true whatever your political stripe. This is what conservatives have excelled at for the past thirty years in the US.

However, as soon as you change the status quo, there will always be people that want to reverse it. It is difficult for younger people to grasp, but politics has no end, it is merely an ongoing struggle for power, as power changes hands from the complacent to the aggrieved, and then back again. For example, LGBTQ people view a right-dominated supreme court as a danger to their existence, for good reason, and that should motivate them to fight back even harder to reclaim their right to equality. Conservatives view a right-dominated supreme court as progress, and having achieved that success, they will become complacent, which provides the opening for progressives to regroup and rise again.

The only escape from this cycle comes in the form of death or transcendence. To transcend means to see the bigger picture of what can be achieved, so that you are able to set aside the petty and work for something greater. Human beings have had their transcendent moments here and there throughout history, so they are certainly capable of it. Progress on civil rights has indeed been made over many decades, but there is always more work to do, as long as there are people that don’t view it as “progress”. For example, the fact that, after decades of tireless activism, the majority of Americans now support same-sex marriage, is something you should be building upon, rather than only focusing on the setbacks.

If you think that I’m singling out the US, I’m not. Oppression happens everywhere. It is a part of human nature to be egotistical, complacent, and short-sighted. But that’s not the only part of humans. For a democracy to work at its best, we have to appeal to the better parts of our human nature, i.e., the parts of us that: understand and care about how we affect each other, appreciate hard-won freedoms and never take them for granted, and envision a better future and plan well for it. The best changes come from passion and inspiration - not fear and anger. If you, as an individual, are not capable of bringing out and offering up your own better nature by transcending the worst parts of yourself, you can’t really expect the sociopolitical system to be capable of it, either. If you, as an individual, always lose sight of the bigger picture that you’re aiming for, then how will you help others see the importance of your cause?

Gandhi said: “We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme. A wonderful thing it is and the source of our happiness. We need not wait to see what others do.”

IMO, the job of a good citizen involves: 1) caring about the broader impact that your vote has and educating yourself properly so that you make wise voting decisions, 2) exercising your power by actively participating in organizations that advocate for the changes that you want, and 3) having enough self-awareness to avoid being emotionally manipulated into making destructive political judgments. Humans aren’t perfect, but they don’t have to be to create a well-functioning society. Humans make better decisions when the social atmosphere encourages them to open up the mind and heart. We all have a part to play in creating an encouraging social atmosphere for people to deliberate more carefully on their political beliefs.

Are you an unwitting pawn of the media, rewarding the players that only care about getting your eyeballs for ad revenue? Are you only caring about political issues because you read something that incited your outrage? Are you resigned to cynicism, indifference, gloom, or paranoia? Are you all about “owning the enemy”? Are you only concerned about your own prospects in life? Are you waiting helplessly for someone to hand you what you deserve?

OR: Are you joining organizations that create positive change? Are you listening to the experiences of the people around you and understanding how their reality informs their politics? Are you doing the hard work of inspiring the people around you to be their better selves? Do you hope that everyone in your country has a chance to live their best life? Do you stand up to support people in need and work to eliminate injustice? Will you learn the best way to (re)claim what is owed to you from those that deny or oppress you?

You are only one person, so your power is limited. What are you doing to amplify your voice and extend the reach of your power? Are you dying or transcending? A democracy is only ever as strong as the people participating in it.

#politics #lgbtq #history #conflict #power #media #social media #ask

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emily-strange · 4 years ago

Text

Tear Us Apart, Part 2

Y/N can’t stand the silence.

Part 2 of 3

Sorry this is a long one!

Warnings: Swearing

After the horrendous patrol, Y/N was told that she was relieved of duty for the rest of the day. She wanted to question the decision but no doubt Dredd just couldn’t face working with her and she wouldn’t force him, so she went home and did anything she could to distract herself; she’d sort it all out tomorrow when everything had calmed down.

But the next day she was told by the Chief Judge that Dredd had green-lighted her to be placed with another partner. That partner being long-term Judge, Brooks.

Brooks is fine. It’s nice to be paired with a strong woman and she seems to trust Y/N’s judgement calls. Their sector is one of the calmest which makes it safer but that didn’t stop the near miss during the first month. But Y/N made it, she pulled through and 3 months later here she is.

As well as its been going, it just isn’t quite the same. In the months following the incident with Petra, Y/N hasn’t spoken to Dredd at all. Not once. Not even a head nod in passing. Even though she should be thrilled that she’s now an actual Judge, Y/N doesn’t feel herself. Her heart hurts at the end of every shift, at the end of every day.

She’s made friends and she enjoys their company but there’s still that missing piece.

Today’s a short shift. They’ve already stopped 4 robberies and taken in 7 amateur drug runners; for a patrol, that’s a slow day. Now Y/N is sat in her favourite café with Brooks discussing her performance for the month. Her final probation review.

“Sooo I think the only thing to mention issss….you have too much sugar in your coffee.” Judge Brooks nods as she goes through the final paperwork, ticking and signing boxes as she goes.

Y/N laughs and tries not to spit out her mouthful of cake, “Really. That’s all you’ve got?”

Brooks laughs over the final page and signs with a flourish. She raises her coffee up to Y/N and then both clink in celebration. Mid sip Brooks spots someone at the coffee counter and waves them over.

The moment she calls, “Dredd!”, Y/N feels like her heart is being compressed in a vice. A rusty one at that. She hears the leather of his armour creak as he walks over from the counter to their table, giving her no time to regulate her breathing.

“Dredd, you’ll be happy to know that Y/L/N has officially been signed off. Our girl’s now a Psi-Judge.” Brooks says happily and even though Y/N smiles at her enthusiasm, she can’t bring herself to meet Dredd’s eyes behind his visor. In reality his response comes only seconds later, but to her it feels like decades.

“Well done Y/L/N.” Dredd says simply. He nods to Brooks and leaves to pick up his coffee before heading on patrol. When Y/N hears the door close behind her, she lets out the long breathe she didn’t know she was holding. Brooks hums.

“Yep. Thought so.” She says taking a sip of her drink. When Y/N looks at her quizzically she laughs, “Y/L/N it’s very obvious you feel…something…for Dredd. And to be honest he’s been hell to be around since you started partnering with me. He broke Jameson’s nose during their spar session last week and before that it was Mitchell’s arm!”

“Well…he’s always been hard work.” Y/N says defensively and that just makes Brooks laugh more.

“Look, I don’t know why you were handed over to me, Dredd had that last report sealed tight. But I know it wasn’t done because he wanted rid of you. And the fact that you swoon whenever you see him…I connected the dots.” She says and to Y/N’s horror she knows she’s right.

“Nothing’s ever happened.” Y/N starts, fiddling with her cup, “But I feel like there was something there.”

Brooks smiles kindly and fishes around in her bag for her work device. She starts to copy something from the device onto a napkin and passes across the table.

“Look, you didn’t get it from me. But I dunno, I’m a romantic. What’s the worst that can happen? You don’t speak as it is.” Brooks finishes and drinks the rest of her coffee. Y/N looks at the napkin and knows straight away it’s Dredd’s home address.

………………………………………..

It’s late afternoon when she gets home with the napkin burning a hole in her pocket. To distract herself she showers, tries (and fails) to nap and watches a number of terrible films. But during it all, she finds herself replaying Dredd’s flinch over and over again in her mind.

So, dressed in leggings and a soft knit jumper she leaves for his home. For safety, Judges are sprinkled around the city and very rarely live in their own sector. During the trip to his building, Y/N thinks around what she wants to say but as soon as she’s face to face with his door, all conscious thought leaves her.

After taking way too many seconds to scrutinize his apartment door, she finally gets the confidence to knock.

But no one answers.

She knocks louder.

But still nothing.

Y/N turns around and slides onto the ground with her back to the door. She pulls up her knees and sighs, banging her head back against the metal with a loud clunk. After laughing at the ridiculous situation she’s in, Y/N gives into the onslaught of tiredness. She doesn’t know how long she’s sat there before she falls asleep. She also doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep when the thudding of heavy boots wakes her.

She slowly opens her eyes and is completely disorientated. She stares at pristine black biker boots and follows her eyeline up the dark blue jeans and leather jacket, to a very (she guesses) confused Judge. It’s hard to tell with the helmet on. Dredd always wears an old version of the Judge’s helmet on his personal bike, claiming it’s far safer than normal ones. The helmet is from an old armour and basically unrecognisable as being a Judges’. Not that Dredd would care. Let someone try to take him down.

Y/N smiles to herself at the thought but remembers why she’s here and wipes it off immediately. She scrambles to her feet, registering how Dredd twitch’s his hand closer to help her but not following through. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Um, hi.” She says and internally groans at how small her voice sounds. Dredd doesn’t say anything but moves to open his door. Y/N moves to give him space.

Once inside the apartment, he takes off his boots and leather jacket. Leaving Y/N to glance around the room. The walls of the livingroom are bare and off to the side is a small kitchen. In the middle of the room is a sofa with two matching chairs opposite and a small holo-vid TV. Y/N walks over to the only thing to have life in it. A small bookcase with every book in alphabetical order and to her surprise, the topics are really varied. Although her stomach does drop when she doesn’t see the book on 20th Centaury War she got him for Christmas.

Turning back to face Dredd, she see’s his black t-shirt stretched over his strong arms and it takes a second for her brain to re-engage with her mouth.

“Do you own any other colours?” she jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Dredd just answers with a resolute, “No.”

Y/N sighs and moves to sit in one of the chairs across from the sofa but Dredd doesn’t move a muscle. Instead he stands awkwardly behind the sofa with his head hanging low. Helmet still on.

“Can you please sit..” she tries, “..I really want to talk.”

Dredd nods but avoids eye contact, even through his helmet. He sits on the sofa but off to one side, not directly in front of her and the awkwardness between them makes her want to cry. For a few long seconds she tries to even her breathing and wills the tears not to flow.

“So…we haven’t spoken, at all, about what happened.” Y/N starts carefully and glances up to see Dredd staring off beside her, “Please look at me. I…need to know you hear me.”

Dredd’s ever-present mouth frown deepens but he looks at her anyway.

“I hear you.” He says quietly.

Y/N forces a small smile, “Look what happened was…it was…fucking horrible okay. I…it was awful. But…how dare you.”

She hadn’t planned on saying that. That wasn’t anywhere in her mind (she didn’t think). So when Dredd snaps his attention to her, she mirrors what must be his shock.

“I’m sorry. I just…” She gets up and begins pacing in front of the bookcase, “…No I’m not sorry. I’m not. You bailed on me! I know you’re…my superior and oh God I know that this is a massive infraction but come on. You were also my friend…but you ran away!”

Dredd watches her as she lets a few tears fall down her cheeks before swatting them away.

Y/N knows she shouldn’t but in her moment of anguish she reaches out to his mind. She has to know she’s not speaking to a brick wall, that what she thought they had was actually real. Even if it was just a friendship.

The odd time she’d slipped into his mind by accident she’d felt the usual annoyance or frustration but sometimes, underneath it all, she’d feel longing. A longing directed at her. She has to know what that means.

She reaches out to read him and a choked sob escapes her throat. He’s holding onto so much sadness, more sadness than anyone should have to bear. A mixture of anger and self-hatred. Confusion and insecurity. All the emotions the man before her makes sure to keep hidden from his face at all times. Y/N realises that if she wants to know for sure, she has to go all in.

Walking slowly over to Dredd, Y/N kneels in front of him. She knows that he’s aware of what she’ll ask of him and when she senses he’s about to bolt, she puts her hands on her thighs to show him he’s in control. She won’t do anything without his consent.

“When…it happened. I pushed into your mind.” Y/N whispers and gets an affirming grunt from Dredd, “I didn’t mean to see your memories. I was just trying to…ease what I could. If you’ll let me, I’d like to show you my own memories of those times.”

She see’s Dredd’s jaw clench. But after a few long, long seconds he nods.

“I’ll keep my eye’s closed or, or you can blindfold me but…I need to touch your temple. It’s easier to show you the exact memories I want you to see. You’ll need to take your helmet off.”

Without waiting for confirmation, Y/N closes her eyes and holds out her hands to Dredd. Time stretches on but eventually she feels his helmet against her leg. Dredd takes her hands gently with his and grips tightly to stop himself from shaking. But she feels it. He puts her hands on his temples and Y/N rearranges to get comfortable, slotting herself between his legs.

She focuses on the first memory she saw, her returning his academy jumper. First, she shows him the snow and how miserable she was at the prospect of getting home without her coat. How humiliated she felt to be stood in only a long-sleeved top next to her very well-prepared superior in his winter jacket. Then she lets him feel the flood of warmth that ran through her when he told her to wait, went back into the locker room and returned with his academy jumper. The one she knew meant a great deal to him. Through her fingers she pushes the memory of how seeing herself in the mirror with only his jumper on made her hot all over and how that night she’d slept in it.

How sad it made her when she handed it back over.

Then she takes him to her sparring match with one of the newer rookies. How she felt his eyes on her before she even saw him and how she pushed that extra bit harder to win. Just so she could try to impress him. That when she saw his mouth twitch in the smallest smile, it was far better than any pat on the back from the gathered crowd. She felt like she was walking on air.

Lastly, she took him to the night they shared Chinese takeout on the roof of her apartment building. She couldn’t see his face but she knew he was listening to the silly story from her childhood. Y/N passed to Dredd her feeling of belonging, of happiness and contentment. She showed him how much their meals meant to her. How the loneliness that’d made itself at home in her heart shifted just by being near him.

Y/N pulls back to remove her hands from Dredd’s temple but jumps when he holds them there.

All of a sudden, he’s thinking extremely vividly, pushing more of memories back to her. Unlike his previous ones, Y/N see’s herself walking through the scene as an observer. She watches as Dredd picks out the cupcake for her birthday and how scared he felt at showing anything gentle, anything but his usual toughness. But the smile it brought. Her smile. It made him want to throw himself at her feet and promise her the world. She’d never been more beautiful to him than the moment she looked in that paper bag.

Y/N sniffs and whispers to the man in front of her, “That was my first birthday cake.”

Then in his mind he takes them to Christmas. When he unwrapped the book she got him. He went from elated to melancholy in a split second. Only managing a small “thanks” when in reality his whole body was on fire. He couldn’t remember the last time someone did anything nice for him. In his mind he shows her the wrapped present he never gave in return. It’s still sitting at the bottom of his wardrobe. He feels like a coward.

Y/N shakes her head before whispering, “You’re not a coward. You’re wonderful.”

“You don’t really know me.” Dredd replies. His usual gruff voice laced with something else.

“I know enough.” Y/N continues, gently rubbing her thumbs over his temple as a tear falls from her closed eyes, “I know that Petra did what she did because you care about me. She knew that hurting me is one thing but having it done but your own hands….that it’d tear you open.”

Y/N inhales sharply when she feels a calloused thumb wiping away her tears.

“I know that you think distance will make it easier to ignore how you feel….and that by staying away it’ll stop what you saw from ever really happening.” She sniffs and can’t stop the tears from falling freely now, “That you’ll sacrifice your own happiness if it means I’ll be safe.”

Dredd gives up on trying to wipe the tear tracks from her face and just holds her by gently cupping her cheeks. Y/N in turn trails her finger tips from his temple to his stubbled cheeks. She turns over one of her hands and gently brushes his jaw line with the back of her knuckles, taking note of the way he swallows thickly.

“I also know that you’d never hurt me….and not because you’re a Judge but because you’re you.” Y/N moves her hand from his jaw to his chest, feeling his heart beating under her palm, “This fucking shitty world, this city, has ruined a lot of things for me…my family…people I thought were my friends…the damn life I saw for myself. I won’t let it ruin you.”

For a long minute Y/N just sits and waits for Dredd’s response.

She forces herself not to reach out with her mind and just stays holding onto his face and chest, waiting. She feels a deep pain throb in her chest when Dredd withdraws his hands from her face and gently, but firmly, pulls hers away from him.

She bows her head as he silently holds them out in front of him.

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