#man said hm i wonder if i can make this seemingly neutral back shot as raunchy as possible and didn't wait for an answer

[balteus]

utterly OBSESSED with this official concept art of HAL 826 so obviously drawn by an artist who clearly wants to fuck it

[marshmallow-phd]

Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue

**

You woke up in a sweat. Little beads dotted your upper lip and temples. The source of the heat was all around you, encompassing the space you occupied. It held you so close that you wondered in your hazy awakeness if you would ever feel the cold again. Not that you wouldn’t mind. Summer was always your favorite time of year. But right now, you could use a break from the personal space heater. 

Eyes breaking open, you sucked in air at how close Minseok was. His entire outline was a blur, only his nose and mouth in sharp focus. The previous night’s events came back to you. Though still slightly hazy, you remembered falling asleep during the movie, Minseok bringing you up here, and then asking him to stay. It was quite possibly the most peaceful rest you’d had in your life. 

Minseok was still asleep. His mouth was open just a bit and the slightest bit of tension in his eyebrows. Your arms were pinned between your chest and his. If you uncurled your fingers you could touch his slack jaw. Minseok’s arm was tight around your waist. He sighed happily before snuggling in closer, moving his face so it now rested in the crook of your neck. Okay, as satisfied as he was, this was now getting a bit uncomfortable for you. 

“Minseok?” He didn’t move. “Minseok.” You kept squirming until he finally woke up. 

At first he merely blinked away the sleep. When his eyes focused on you, they grew wide in horror. He scrambled back to give you room. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. 

“It’s okay,” you said. The smile was nearly impossible to hold back. As you also sat up, your hand slipped under the pillow, hitting something hard. You frowned. It felt like a book. Did he like to read before he fell asleep? You pulled the book out. No. 

It was your notebook of ideas. 

Panic set in his eyes. “I swear I was going to give it back.” 

“Where did you find it?”

“I’m the wolf you’ve been meeting in the clearing, remember? I found it the first day. I meant to give it back to you, but it would have been hard to explain, given the circumstances.”

You took a deep breath. The notebook was a reminder of all the information that had been dumped on you in the last twenty-four hours. It had been so easy to ignore the processing time your brain needed. Being in Minseok’s presence made it easy to forget a lot of things. “I, uh, I think I should go home.”

Disappointment was an understatement for Minseok’s expression. “Yeah. Right. I’ll take you back home.”

“Actually, I just need to get to my car. I parked it on one of the back roads.”

“Okay.”

He waited patiently for you to get out of the bed and put your shoes back on. He didn’t question why you’d parked out there. Simple answer was that he had made the connection to your little hike. You excused yourself to go to a bathroom, in which he pointed you towards. You didn’t have anything to brush your teeth or hair, so you settled on a splash of water to the face. Your go-to bathroom habit at this point. When you returned to the bedroom, Minseok was in fresh clothes. Keys in hand, he stepped passed you without a word. You followed him down to the first floor. Using your notebook as a shield against your chest, you tried to be as invisible to any of the others you ran into as you exited the house. Out in the garage, you got into the car that Minseok indicated. 

The ride was quiet, save for the few times you gave Minseok directions to where you’d parked your car. Closing your eyes, you leaned your head against the glass. You were still tired and could feel a headache starting to emerge.

“Uh, (y/n)?”

“Hm? What is it?” You opened your eyes and nearly shot out of the car. 

Several police cars and at least twenty civilians were all huddled around the area where your car sat. Erik was amongst them, talking to one of the officers. As soon as Minseok’s vehicle was pulled over to the side and the engine turned off, you bolted. 

“Erik!”

He looked so relieved when he saw you. The officer looked shocked, then his face rested into a neutral expression. “You must be (y/n).”

You nodded. “Yes, I am. What’s going on?”

Minseok came up just then. Erik did a double take then frowned. His eyes drifted down to your hand. You were still holding on to the notebook that Erik would recognize in a heartbeat. He motioned to Minseok with his head as he asked you, “The guy from the pictures?” 

Minseok looked surprised at the comment. And even a little embarrassed. But he did the gentleman thing and held out his hand. “I’m Minseok.”

Erik ignored the hand, barely glancing at it. “We were all worried about you. Do you realize what we thought when your phone was off and the cops found your car out here?” 

You flinched back. “I’m sorry, I was… taking pictures. I lost track of time.” 

“You lost track of time?” Erik scoffed. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Hey, back off,” Minseok growled, taking a step so he was now partially between you and Erik. “She’s a grown adult. She doesn’t have to check in with you every three hours. She can make her own decisions.” 

Erik looked him up and down. “That much is apparent.” 

Shaking your head, you turned to the third man in the group. “I’m sorry, officer. This was all a misunderstanding.” 

“It’s alright. Just be careful next time, okay? Maybe let someone know where you are.” He looked at Erik. “We’ll call off the search party and let everyone go home.”

“Thank you,” Erik said. His tone was low and short.  The officer left to scatter the rest of the people. Erik barely looked at you. “I’m glad you’re safe. Turn your phone back on.” With that, he stalked off towards his car.

Minseok scratched the back of his head as he shifted from foot to foot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” 

“It’s fine. Really, it's my own fault.” You dug your keys out of your pocket. “I should get home.”

“I understand. Can we talk? Later?” He sounded so hopeful, so sure. But you still needed time to think. Your brain felt scrambled, pulled and stretched like taffy on a hook. 

“Yeah,” you finally answered. “Later.”

He must have been hoping for a more enthusiastic response. You didn’t have the energy for that right now. “Okay. Um, okay.” That was his goodbye as he turned and headed back to his car. Did he have to look so much like a wounded puppy? You watched his car disappear down the road, a cloud of tan dust following closely behind.

You waited for everyone else to clear out before getting into your own car. For a minute or two, you sat there. It seemed so bizarre, surreal, the situation you found yourself in. And it wasn’t even the pack of humans-to-wolves that had you so disoriented. It was the fact that Erik had called the police, that a search party had been formed to find you after one night away. It was obvious that he still cared, break or not. Turning on your phone, you groaned as the notifications stacked up. Missed calls, texts in all caps, other social media contacts. You tossed the device into the passenger’s seat and drove home. 

Willa was waiting for you at the dorms. As soon as you walked through the door, she pounced. 

“Oh, thank god you’re okay!” When she let you go, she punched you in the shoulder. 

“Ow!” You rubbed the sore spot. “Was that really necessary?”

Willa pouted. “You could have least told me that you were heading out. Might have saved us this fiasco.”

“You were asleep.” And you would have been punched anyway. Willa insisted that she had no control over her limbs in that groggy state, but you didn’t entirely believe that. “I’m fine. It wasn’t that big of a deal. Minseok’s right, I'm an adult. I don’t need babysitters.”

“Who’s Minseok?”

Oh… crap. “Um, he’s just a friend. A tutor, really.”

Willa took that pathetic explanation. Although, truthfully, that was how it all started. “Oh, did you finally decide to get help so you can finally pass math class?”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “Jerk.” 

“What?” Willa said innocently. “I want to see you graduate. You’ve been talking about getting your masters and I want to see you do that. Kind of need to pass your classes to get there.”

Stalking past her, you fell down on your bed, face towards the ceiling. 

“Hey, you okay?” Willa asked. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. “Just tired.”

“I bet, if you stayed out all night.” Willa sat down on her bed across from you. “Where were you, anyway?”

You shrugged. “Just… around. Clearing my head.”

“You were safe, at least?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good.”

**

Nearly a week went by. You went to class as normal. You were nearly finished with your extra credit project. Minseok had given you the perfect jumping off point and diving into the project had given you the ultimate excuse to not think about anything else. Between that and your other classes, you’d hardly had any interaction with the people close to you. Besides Willa, you’d almost completely isolated yourself. The reasoning you had given yourself was to think things through, to decide if you would turn back around and go down the other road or keep heading forward. The only problem was, you kept avoiding it. 

You didn’t think about Erik or Minseok. Or, you tried not to. If little thoughts of them started to creep up, you would find something to distract yourself with. A jog, a scary movie (avoiding anything supernatural), or homework. You would immerse yourself until the thoughts went away. Avoidance might not have been a healthy coping mechanism, but it was the one you were going with. 

You were currently participating in that mechanism as you lied on your bed, watching videos on the internet. It was simply you and your short laughs as you switched from clip to clip. The internet was a black hole. Once you got too close, you were sucked into a place where time no longer moved at a normal pace. 

Willa walked in and dropped her bag on the floor. You barely acknowledged her long, drawn out sighs that were clearly made for attention. She sighed again. Louder, this time. When that still didn’t work, she threw her pillow at you.  

You turned off the phone and finally looked at your best friend. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”

“It could have been avoided if you’d looked up from your phone the first time.”

Sitting up, you turned to her. “Okay. What can I do for you?”

She pursed her lips. “I’m hungry.” Like it had been waiting for an invitation, your own stomach growled. Willa smiled. “Sounds like you are, too!”

You laughed. “Sure, okay. Let’s go get something to eat.” 

Willa hopped off the bed and switched her things from her backpack to a purse. You pulled on a pair of shoes and shoved your feet in. As the two of you headed out and towards Willa’s car, she came up with an additional idea. 

“Why don’t you ask Erik to join us?” 

You cringed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

She sent you a look. “Why not?”

That was right. You hadn’t completely updated her on the recent events of your life. “Because… we’re on a break.” 

She unlocked her car and opened the driver’s side door, but didn’t get in. Leaning against the open space, she said, “Like… a real break or a Ross and Rachel kind of break?” 

You shrugged. “I’m not sure, to be honest.” 

Willa was quiet for a second. She was looking away from you, eyebrows scrunched in thought. “Was he the one who suggested it?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Why do you ask?” 

“I-” She clicked her tongue several times. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything because it wasn’t my place and I didn’t know what the situation was anyway. This is college, we all have to work with others and-” 

“Willa, spit it out.” Your heart was picking up speed in anticipation of what secret she was about to reveal.

“I’ve seen Erik talking to some girl in the theatre department. A lot.” She threw her hands up. “Innocently, by the way. It didn’t look suspicious at all, besides the frequency. And the fact that it was just the two of them. Did I just make things worse?” 

You found the corners of your lips turning up. “No, actually, I feel a lot better.” 

“Really?” Willa looked taken aback. “Are you saying that… you might not be in love with Erik anymore?”

“I think we’ve grown apart,” you said. 

“Maybe… because of someone else?” Willa looked at you with a cheeky smile. 

You rolled your eyes. “Let’s take this one step at a time, okay? Get in. I’m hungry.”

Willa laughed softly to herself, but got behind the wheel. The two of you had dinner at the small malt shop that had been a staple in the city for decades. You munched happily on the fries and sipped on your chocolate shake with no worries whatsoever. Willa saw your sudden change in mood, but didn’t say anything, keeping the conversation on a lighter note. 

Apparently, talking to someone about what was going on was, indeed, a good idea. It was natural for two people to grow apart. And you had been destined for someone else all along. 

The next day, you went about your routine as normal. After your last class, you headed towards the theatre. It was hell week, as the thespians say. It meant every spare moment was spent in the theatre to get ready for opening night. Erik would be there to make sure any last touches on the set were taken care of. As you neared the building, a familiar spectacled man exited the front doors with a small group of people.  

“Eric, wait.” 

He stopped and waited for you to meet him. He had a tight grip on the strap of his messenger bag. The group stopped and waited, but he shooed them on. 

“What is it, (y/n)?”

You folded your arms over your chest. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for this.” He looked down at the cement sidewalk, kicking an invisible object. “I guess the break will be permanent, then, huh?” 

You moved your own gaze off to the side. “I… um.” 

Then it hit you. Why did you have to be so scared about this? It wasn’t a permanent ending. And you were allowed to make your own choices. You shouldn’t have to beat around the bush and spare his feelings. Wouldn’t it be better just to be honest? 

“You know what? Yes, it will be,” you said assertively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, but that’s life. People change, others come along. And from what I hear, you’re moving on, too.”

Erik’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know,” you said. “And neither have I. But feelings change. It's okay to follow them.” A mindset you were only now learning for yourself. 

Erik adjusted the bag’s strap to sit more comfortably on his shoulder. “Maybe it’s good that it ended this way. Maybe... we could still be friends?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Arm’s length friends, anyway. 

Erik looked over his shoulder at the group that was now huddled around a car. “I’ve got to go. But… thank you. For talking to me about this. I feel a lot better. I hope you do, too.”

You blinked. “Yeah, of course.”

Erik gave you one last wave before going to join the others. The sun was starting to go down, but you didn’t want to go back to the dorms just yet. You decided to head downtown, to walk around and figure out what exactly you would say to Minseok. You knew it had to be in person. Simply calling him wouldn’t be enough. You needed to see him. 

Hey, so Erik and I officially broke up. And I like you. Heck, I might even be falling in love with you. I want to be your mate. Now what?

Yeah, you could be so articulate sometimes. 

Night had fallen by now. The brightest stars in the sky were shining, breaking through the city lights that drowned out the others. A few people milled about. It was that lull time of night when the dinner rush was dying out and people were getting ready for their late night escapades. 

“(y/n)!”

You nearly laughed out loud before turning around. It was like Fate was pulling the strings, putting you on the path that would lead you right back to him. And you couldn’t say that you were upset about it. In fact, it might be the push you needed. 

“Hi, Minseok,” you said in a quiet voice as he approached. He was alone. Thank goodness. You didn’t really want to have an audience for this.

“How have you been?” He kept his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. His shoulders were tense, pushed upwards as if he were holding himself back. 

“Not… too horrible,” you replied. “You?”

“Anxious.” He was honest. Too honest. Knowing that he’d been anxiously waiting for you to do what you promised, to talk to him, made you feel horrible, selfish. Might as well stop stalling and pull the bandaid off in one go. 

“I, um, I talked to Erik.” 

His head shot up, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “You did?”

“Yeah.” You chuckled. “We… we broke up. For good. People drift apart. And, not only did I find myself drifting away from him, but I drifted towards someone else. Someone really special, made just for me.”

A smile so wide that his gums were showing spread across his face. He took a step towards you. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Really.”

Minseok didn’t hesitate. He reached forward, cupping your face with both of his hands. Then he kissed you. 

The first kiss was deep and electrifying. It was warm, soft. He took it slowly as you followed along. It was perfectly right. 

He was still smiling when he pulled away. You giggled at his happiness. He took that as an invitation to pepper your lips with more short kisses. He moved to your cheeks and your nose, making sure to capture every inch of your face. You were surprised by the shower of affection, but you certainly enjoyed it. An eruption of cheers broke the sweet moment. 

To your left, nearly the entire pack was clapping and cheering in jest. Junmyeon looked guilty and apologetic while Jongdae simply rolled his eyes. 

“And here I thought this was going to be a private moment,” you groaned through your teeth. 

“Sorry,” Minseok sighed. “Not in this family.”

You smiled at him. “I guess that’s something I’ll have to get used to.”

He leaned his forehead against your own. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

[the-darklings]

—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—

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~ ;)  

[nightwingwhatdidisay]

“On lessons of Trust and Choosing Jewelry”

RobStar Week Day 7: Jewels

A/N: ahhhh last day! The prompts were really fun and I can't believe how alive and supportive the community is on Tumblr, like, what the heck guys this show finished more than a decade ago this is awesome.

By the way, I've been getting some really nice comments throughout RobStar Week. Thank you! Seriously. It really does mean a lot. Sometimes I feel like I'm publishing things into a big black void and it's just comforting to know someone's actually on board and having fun with me. Glad to have found this community!

[also shoutout to @robstartrash and @samdraws715 because I piggy-backed off the photobooth scene in their Collab for Blush. Thanks for the inspo guys :3]

ao3 version

ff.net version

Summary:

Robin gains perspective on things at the Jump City Mall.

…

...

It all started in the morning at Santangelo's Jewelers inside Jump City Mall after a personal invite from Antonio Santangelo himself, who had offered each team member a complimentary choice of jewelry as a token of thanks; the Titans had stopped a diamond heist for the sixth time that year (like, really, HIVE?). There was a budget, of course, but still Robin couldn't shake off the feeling that the generosity was too much.

"You sure you can afford Beast Boy's style?" Robin joked to Santangelo as they watched the green team member gawk into a glass case.

"Well, what's his style?"

"Whatever it is, he's gonna walk out of here top-heavy."

The store owner laughed as Beast Boy's eyes lit up at a massive gold chain.

Robin had been practical with his choice; he adjusted the silver diver's watch on his wrist, waiting for the rest of his team to make their decisions. At the back of the store, Raven was turning the onyx ring around her finger, bored out of her mind, but resting a hand on Cyborg's shoulder in moral support as an employee hovered over his ear with a cocked piercing gun. Near the front, Starfire had a jade bracelet in her hand, staring at a collection of ruby necklaces in a mild state of dismay.

"Star? Are you okay?"

"I am fine! It's just that these jewels remind me of the great firefalls of Tyrus Three. They're beautiful."

"So get them."

"But is it not customary on earth for your jewelry to match the color of your eyes?"

From where they were scattered throughout the store, all four Titans turned to look at their alien teammate.

"Who told you that?"

She stammered. "I-I assumed? Because of what my sister had told me? And because of the romance movies where the love interest tells the protagonist 'I got these for you my love because they match your eyes' and—"

Starfire looked around to see an array of different expressions on her friends' faces.

"...I thought it was proper decorum."

…

...

It was a running joke by the time all the Titans were finished and their gifts were being secured in their appropriate boxes. Beast Boy and Cyborg didn't waste any time to throw it in Starfire's face.

"A'ight, it's time for it to go down at the food court. I'm starving."

"But remember, Cy. You can only eat foods that are made of metal and have cybernetic controls."

"Man, it looks like it's gonna be all salads for you."

"The joke is not that funny, friends," Starfire said in frustration.

It actually was, but Robin felt the responsibility as the team leader (and the boyfriend) to speak up and warn the guys about ending it there. Raven remained neutral throughout the whole exchange, but as they all stepped out of Santangelo's and into the rest of the mall, Raven turned to Robin with a look, and pointed at a watch showcased behind the glass.

It was the exact same model as the one he had just picked out, except for it's gleaming blue face and the single insets of sapphires at the 12, 3, 6, and 9.

"You sure you don't want this one?" She said quietly.

Tokyo had just been a few months ago. There were changes in the horizon, and he had every intention to tell them soon, but Robin had still not shared his identity to the rest of the team. And he didn't really know why—probably trust issues, or control issues; for some reason Robin was taking his time.

Only Raven had met "Dick Grayson," (kind of), courtesy of the night she jumped into his mind. It meant she knew a lot more than the two of them let on. Raven was sworn to secrecy about Bruce Wayne and Barbara Gordon and Donna Troy and everything about the things he left behind. She knew Dick Grayson at great lengths and with acute detail. Even the seemingly meaningless stuff.

Say, for instance, the color of his eyes.

The upward turn of Raven's mouth was subtle, and Robin cracked a grin at her: Haha, very funny. Beast Boy and Cyborg were already ahead of them, making a beeline to their favorite taco station, completely unaware of Raven's contribution to their joke.

But when Robin turned to grab Starfire's hand, he was surprised to see she had been watching them intently.

…

…

Starfire pulled Robin out of the seat the moment he was finished with his cheese fries and tossed back a very bland please excuse us, friends to the table before leading him out of the food court.

"Uh, Star? What's going on?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing is going on. I am simply interested in taking a gentle stroll with my boyfriend," she said as she pushed him violently through crowds of people like a bulldozer. Starfire had the subtleties of a tornado, which was even more apparent with her very poor performance of someone who had just happened to notice a photo booth at the East Wing of the mall (the same photo booth she had been pointing out to the team for months).

"Three or four shots?" He asked her when they slid inside.

"Four."

The countdown between each flash of light was fast, and it was all victory signs and silly faces and easy smiles, but somewhere between the third shot and the fourth, Starfire leaned in to kiss his cheek as the last pose, her hand cupping his chin towards her.

Three—

Two—

"Robin."

She tugged on the domino mask just in time.

…

…

Robin scrambled to get his mask back on, speechless, wading through a dozen emotions, not really knowing how he felt about what Starfire had just done. Was he angry at her? Was he frightened? This was a breach of trust, wasn't it? Did he find it endearing or funny?

Starfire had already exited the booth, ready to catch the photo as it was being dispensed. And Robin stepped out to see his girlfriend staring at the bottom of the printed strip in wonder:

Starfire with a look of determination. And Robin, mouth parted in protest and wide sapphire eyes.

"Apologies," she said quietly, still staring at the photo. "Sometimes it is a task to be dating someone you know so little about. And it is not about a lack of feelings, or because I do not trust you. It is because I fear you do not trust me."

Starfire looked up, locking her discernible eyes with Robin's hidden ones. "That kind of fear can eat at a person over time."

She seemed to say the magic words that made it all click in his mind. Trust goes both ways, doesn't it?

There was a booming voice crescendoing from the East wing, and over her shoulder Robin saw their three friends approaching quickly from the distance, shopping bags in tow. He watched as Starfire took a glance back at them before carefully ripping off the last photo on its perforated line and tucking it into her gauntlet. She looked at him with a knowing smile and saw something he had never witnessed before—a Starfire wink.

"Did I do that correctly?"

The rest of the Titans poured into both of their spaces and Cyborg draped his arm over Starfire's shoulders while Beast Boy came around to elbow at Robin’s side.

"We knew we were gonna find you two here. Alright, now let's see those official couple photos—"

She handed Cyborg the strip with nothing to hide. Maybe Starfire could do subtle after all.

Robin smiled back.

…

…

[demonofpuns]

À la vie, à la mort (Widowmaker x Reader Fanfiction)

My entry for the fanfic wrtiting contest of @overwritings Thanks for taking it!

Summary: You and Widowmaker have been in a relationship for a few months, which proves to have hardships as you are an Overwatch Hero and she literally is your enemy. Also, the fact she enjoys marking her territory hasn’t gone unnoticed by Tracer. Someday, you will have to tell your best friend. But things take an unexpected turn.

Also, the Reader once had the biggest of crushs on Amélie Lacroix when she was still “alive”.

Word Count: 5227

Genres: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Cursing, Death

Those written like this are the Protagonist’s thoughts. They’re also in 1st person narrator.

Possible sequel: “Rendez-vous avec l’araignée”

Out on a mission, again. A slight hope to see your lover creeps inside of you, especially after what happened last time.

Technically seen, she abducted me. And on the other hand, she made it worth the while.

You chuckle but cannot help the slight blush starting to cover your face, and a soft giggle escapes your lips when you think of her. But after all, maybe you won’t get to catch a glimpse of her as she will have to focus just the same as you. On the same objective… unfortunately on different sides, with different goals. You wanted to protect some ambassador, Talon wanted her death. But you knew that from the start, that whatever you two do when you were at your home or somewhere else in private, that you will still have to stay antagonists out in the open.

Loving an enemy… I have really got a problem. But yet.. sometimes, I still get to feel a hint of how she was in the past. What we could have been back then… which is sad on the one hand, on the other I’m just glad I can be with the one I love… and who loves me. At least as much as she can. I should let her explain what exactly she feels one day.

“What are you thinking about? Your secret sweetheart?”

Tracer’s teasing voice sounds close to your ear, and you jerk away in surprise.

“Gosh, don’t scare me like that!”

She giggles and raises an eyebrow.

“I asked you a question, love.”

You blink once, a bit confused, and then remember what she exactly said. … and can’t help but think about Amélie’s reaction when you would call her sweetheart. To which, you obviously have to start laughing fits.

Merely…this imagination… goodness, her face…

You almost start crying in delight, while your friend just looks at you, face twisted in confusion and a bit of concern, which only increases when you bend over to hold your stomach.

“Is… everything okay?”

You gain control of yourself long enough to stutter a few words beyond your laughs, almost inaudible, but you are positive Tracer can catch them.

“I… just imagined… her expression… if I’d ever… call her that…”

The brunette nods slowly.

“When will you finally tell me more about her?”

Judging by the fact you are her nemesis, probably never.

“Oh, maybe when we’re back from the mission.”

“I sure hope so, love! I want to know who this mysterious girl is who managed to get you move past Amélie Lacroix and steal your heart then.”

She winks at you once and on the inside, you wince slightly.

Fuck you, darling. You gave me the hickeys that set her off on our relationship. To which her answer would be “You didn’t complain back then, chérie.” whispered in such a low voice I couldn’t be mad at her longer. Followed by her kissing my neck. Followed by… OKAY ENOUGH, FOCUS ON THE MISSION AT HAND!

“Something wrong, love?”

Your head snaps up, alarmed, and you bang it on the aircraft’s wall behind the seat you’re on. A searing pain erupts where you hit it, and you groan in agony.

“Oh no, sorry!”

You wave it off, it wasn’t fully her fault after all, but also your mind’s. You spend a few minutes in silence together, with Tracer humming something after a while.

“So… what’s your task?”

“I have to take care of her back. Follow the main group to make sure no one comes from behind.”

“So you’ll keep aaaaall of us safe? What a hero.”

You chuckle shortly and nod. Your second mission as not an agent anymore. While at the first you were pretty much… distracted… there’s no real way for you and Amélie to get some privacy this time, as unfortunate as that is. You sigh.

“To remind you, take utmost care. There are still, like, 30.000 people in that town.” “I know, and I will do my best not to hurt any of them. I want to stay as one of you, after all.”

She smiles and salutes almost jokingly.

“That’s great to hear. Give your all to keep Talon at bay… well, there is no real hope they won’t be there, eh?”

“Not really. Guess they’ll follow us the whole way… Possibly even back to her place.”

“That’s why another team is set up right there! Don’t worry, love.”

“I swear, if you say “cavalry’s here” right now I will-”

“You will what?”

“I’ll see what I’ll do then.” “Cavalry’s here!”

You deadpan, she laughs, and after a while, you join her, enjoying the remaining flight in a good atmosphere with slight banter and her occasionally teasing you about your lover, to which you sometimes manage to muster up a comeback – and when it’s enough for you, you just threat her with showing really embarrassing photos of her to Emily. To which she seemingly finds her ability to shut up for a second before quickly changing the subject.

When the pilot’s voice says you’re almost there and should prepare for the landing, the both of you get ready, and when it is safe on the ground, you get off and wait for the ambassador to come.

“Look, the others are over there!”

Mercy and Reinhardt stand closer to the entrance of the shelter, and motion for you to come over. Tracer zaps up immediately, while you walk slower, as you still rather have solitude and staying by yourself. Your friend has them engaged in conversation, and with a neutral expression, you join them, acknowledging their presence with a nod.

“She should be there soon.”

“You’ll be the only man then, hm?”

“I guess some of the supporting agents are men as well.”

You chuckle, and for the first time, say something.

“You sure? I mean, the lady’s changing rooms were always pretty full after a mission…”

Lighthearted laughter comes from the other two heroes, and Reinhard snorts and turns away for a second, towards the entrance. Noticing movement, you turn there as well. Your assigned charge is there together with some security women. Tracer pokes your side.

“If the assigned agents are all female as well, I will laugh.”

“Same for me.”

You whisper back, and a slight tap on both of your shoulders makes you glance at Mercy, who just smiles and nods, mouthing a silent “Count me in.” When the Overwatch agents join you, you are a slight bit disappointed that your plan wouldn’t work. However, there are more important things to do now.

“Are you ready?”

Reinhard’s deep voice sounds in your ear, and when he got an affirming answer from everyone, he orders to get in position, and 10 agents come to you to help you in your work. You nod at them, and they nod back. To the German’s signal, you start the mission.

—

The streets behind stay relatively empty, sure, there is a Talon agent on occasion, but nothing really serious. You wonder where the trio of enemies is, especially Widowmaker. Just catching a slight look at her would make things better, but no luck. You activate your comlink.

“Is more activity with you up ahead? Because we’re having a relatively easy game here.”

After a moment, Tracer replies, with obvious gunfire in the background.

“The party’s over here! Reaper and Sombra are giving us some hard time!”

“Stay where you are, _____! It might be they only want this!”

“Understood. Do you need more agents? I could send some over!”

“One or two would be good.”

“Aye.”

You order three rather experienced agents over to the main group, so that if one of them got hurt, another could stay with them and the third would move to get help. They take off with some speed, and you stay at the back with the 7 remaining.

“What is going on in the front?”

One of them asks nervously. Right. They weren’t on the leading channel, only on smaller ones.

“Reaper and Sombra, together with some agents.”

“I wonder if Widowmaker is there as well… She’s always creeping me out.”

You chuckle and shoot another Talon member when the next small wave distracts you from the conversation.

“She’s one hell of a sniper, I have to admit.”

And one hell of a lover as well.

“Maybe she’s just waiting for the right moment to strike…”

Fear sounds in the agent’s voice, but you shrug, remembering a certainty and trying to comfort him with that.

“She has one shot before we know where she is. She isn’t one to waste it on one of us, she’d try to get the target. That’s how I know her.”

“You know her?!”

“I stood face to face with her quite often.”

Technically seen, I didn’t always stand.

“And you survived every time?! How incredible. I always thought we couldn’t stand a chance against that… cold-blooded bitch!”

You wince slightly at the curse, yet it is plausible they’re calling her names. You are the real one who’s weird here. Actually, you kinda commit treason against Overwatch by loving her. Yet stopping is not an option.

“No, I obviously didn’t survive. The reason I’m standing here.”

Light chuckles come in answer to your sentence, and you join after a while, but have to interrupt when another wave comes forth.

“Impressive. How did you survive?”

“Going into cover. Keeping track of where she was. Sheer luck.”

The lie glides off of your tongue effortlessly. She, during the last months, never had the goal to kill you. Always missing barely, close enough to think she really missed, far enough away for you to know she aimed so she wouldn’t hit you. She never apologised for those bullets, but her actions have sometimes told you she had regretted having to shoot at you. Your comlink awakens on the lesser channel so all can hear.

“She’s safe! Retreat and we’ll meet at the assigned spot. Winston has the rest covered. Great job, all of you!”

Grinning, you nod towards your group and all of you head away to meet the team. When you arrive, you smirk, having thought of a revenge for the quote earlier. You sneak up to Tracer, lean close and whisper into her ear.

“Bonjour, chérie.”

Imitating Widowmaker the best you can. She shrieks shortly, jumps up and draws her gun while you burst into laughter again, and the group joins you.

“Veeeeery funny, ____.”

“Consider my “I’ll see what I’ll do then.” done.”

You say with a wink, and she growls a bit, to which you can only chuckle.

“_____, I have to thank you for the agents you sent. One of them protected Ms Meyer from a presumably lethal shot… sadly, the bullet took his own life.”

You acknowledge both with a slow nod.

“How many casualties have we?”

“1 security woman. 7 agents.”

Mercy sounds sad, so you go to her and place your hand on her shoulder.

“No one could have helped better than you.”

“I couldn’t save them…”

“You could save the remaining. You did your best. Death is a part of our lives.”

She nods sadly and you pat her shoulder a bit awkwardly, as you two don’t really know each other. When you step away, she offers you a soft smile.

“Thank you.”

You return her smile shortly, and when everyone is done, you leave for the waiting aircraft together, flying back to the HQ, happy over the success of the mission’s first part, joking with each other and silently praying the other team will do as well as you did. When you have arrived, you decide to stay there for a while, using the available showers to refresh and dress in your other uniform to write a small report before joining the others in the main room.

“Any news from Winston?”

“They have succeeded. And apparently, Torbjörn has great news for us.”

You grin happily, although that means Amélie will probably be a bit more rough on your next meeting. Not that you’d mind. She at least always took care she didn’t hurt you too much, neither physically nor emotionally. And she always made sure you were enjoying yourself as well. Smiling softly, the warm feeling of love settles in your stomach. When the other team bursts through the door, they are greeted with glee.

“Now, sit down and tell us. What’s up?”

Torbjörn chuckles and takes a seat, the Winston, Ana and McCree following. He grins and leans back before opening his mouth with a tone you can hear the approval inside.

“Ana is officially the best sniper again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Widowmaker is dead.”

Your heart shatters, your face turning into a mask of shock while the others start asking questions over and over.

“How did you manage?”

“Are you sure?”

“So Amélie Lacroix is finally at peace?”

The small man chuckles and motions for all to calm down, and you only half-heartedly listen to his next words.

“She was on a high tower of an exhibition in the museum, and her shot missed Meyer by only an inch. And I registered where it was from and fired at it. There’s no way in hell she could have survived that crash and the explosion in the building she fell in. Apparently, there had been a gas leak… Lady was torn to shreds.”

“Along with some civilians. But the leak was not his fault. It seems, the explosion happened just in the moment the tower crashed. Independent occurrences.”

Your throat is dry. You cannot breathe correctly. And you cannot leave, otherwise, you would unmask your whole relationship.

Dead.

Your tears threaten to spill while the others congratulate Torbjörn for that kill.

DEAD.

You suppress a sob and clench your hands to fists when they show security footage that shows a strand of blue hair falling into a raging fireball.

DEAD!

You excuse yourself for the toilet in a soft voice, and as soon as you leave the room, run away to the rooftop where you are sure no one will find you too soon. There, your mask collapses and you fall to your knees, sobbing in agony while tears wet your face. Hands pressed to your chest, you scream her name into the night. You have seen the truth. No way she could have survived. No way she would ever stand in your apartment again. No way you would ever be able to hold her close again. No way you would see her again.

“Je t'aime, chérie.”

Another pained scream leaves your lips, and another and another between sobbing and whispers of her name. When your throat is so sore no word could now leave it again, you just curl up on the ground, hoping that something could now just appear and kill you.

But first, you have to get away from the place where anyone could find you now… and your secret would be revealed. Shakily, you stand up and exit the roof via the fire escape, albeit you have to hold onto the railing not to fall down on the ground. For a moment, you really consider just… jumping off. Escaping this pain you feel, the darkness of losing her again, and this time forever. There is no hope anymore. She isn’t just presumed dead. She IS dead, permanently. You sob and lean onto the balustrade, breathing in the cool air.

She would have loved this night.

“Amélie…”

Your voice is broken, hoarse, and it hurts to speak. Whereas… it hurts to do anything. Ending this really seems plausible, to be reunited when death does not part.

But what would she have said? She would have called me a lovesick fool and that I should step away from the railing if I didn’t want some extraordinary punishment. Or she would have stepped behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me against her and after a while, kissed my neck or the top of my head. She would’ve… She would not want this.

Further tears flow down your cheeks and you step away from the railing, walking down the escape. Out on the street, you head for your apartment swiftly, continuing to cry, continuing to walk unsteadily, continuing to bend over so that no one could see who you were. You feel their weird looks though. A calm night. Couples are out on dates. Dates you would never be able to go on. The next sob escapes your lips and a hand takes yours from the side. You whisk around and stare into the curious eyes of a child, probably 10 or younger, who looks at you through curious blue eyes.

“Are you okay?”

The question baffles you.

“No.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“My lover…”

“Did he break up with you? If he did, I’ll punch him for making a pretty girl like you cry!”

You chuckle shortly and sigh.

“She… she was… killed in an explosion.”

“Your lover was a girl?!”

You smile softly to his confusion, although the expression does not reach your eyes.

“A very beautiful girl. Whom I loved with my whole heart for a lot of years. I still do.”

“How does that work? With two…?”

Another chuckle leaves your lips to the childish curiousness of the kid.

“Dunno. Just know it does. It’s normal like breathing for me. Ever heard of Tracer?”

“SURE! She is my greatest idol!”

“And she also has a girlfriend.”

“Damn, I wanted to marry her when I was grown…”

You laugh and wipe some of your tears away.

“I’ll tell her in case.”

“You know her?! How awesome!”

“She’s my best friend and teammate.”

“So you’re in Overwatch as well! Wooooaah.”

You nod shortly, and the boy’s face enlightens and he seems enthusiastic, grinning at you widely.

“That’s soooo awesome!”

You smile at him and look out on the street.

“Say, little one… where are your parents?”

“At home. I just watched a movie with my brother… and he said I should wait for him inside the cinema as he wanted to get us some chocolate from the store and it’s so late. But… I saw you and you looked really sad.”

“He must be worried.”

Just when the boy wants to reply, a teen in a hoodie comes running around a corner, shouting a name over and over. He looks enough alike with him for you to presume he is, in fact, the lost brother. When he spots you, his eyes narrow and he storms over.

“What were you doing with my brother?!”

“It was not her fault, Brian, I ran after her!”

“Timmy! You shouldn’t talk to strangers!”

“But… but she looked so sad and I thought I may help! And plus, she knows Tracer! She’s in Overwatch!”

The teen looks up to you unbelieving, face still displaying mistrust. You gesture that you mean no harm.

“I would have started to search for you together with him. That seemingly isn’t necessary anymore.”

His eyes widen to your croaky voice and puffy eyes, and he awkwardly scratches the back of his head.

“I sound terrible, don’t I?”

You remark almost sarcastically, knowing the sound of your real voice too well and registering the difference. Broken. Silent. Shaky. Weak. He shakes his head apologetically and clears his throat. Timmy pulls him down and whispers “Her girlfriend died today.” into his ear, albeit he is loud enough for you to hear it as well. His eyes widen in shock and then get soft with empathy.

“I’m very sorry.”

“Why do you apologise? It’s not your fault.”

You swallow and a tear appears in your left eye now that everything boils up again, which you wipe away quickly and place a fake, weak smile on your face.

“Go home, you two. Your parents will miss you.”

Brian nods and pulls Timmy along with him, but you register the worried looks they give you shortly before moving around a corner. The remaining way to your apartment flies, you almost not register it until your feet stop in front of your door. You mechanically take out the key and unlock it, take off shoes and jacket and take a seat on the couch. Something pink catches your eye. When you pick it up, you see what it is.

A tank top. She forgot it here one day. She… she…

You burst into tears again, clutching the clothing to your chest. It still smells like her, so you cry even harder. Even when your tears are empty and only choked sobs leave your throat, you still stay there and just let yourself fall down into this agony. Your telephone rings. You don’t stand up to take the call. In the time you lay there, all of your possible contacting devices go off at least three times each, but not once do you move. You just cry. As soon as another tear is there, it falls. You don’t know the time anymore, and you don’t care.

Dead. Gone.

A hoarse scream leaves your lips. After that, it is silent. Too silent. Normally, she would have been there now to spend the night. But not today. She will never come back again. After a while, someone knocks on the entrance rather sharp and urgent. You don’t answer. There is no energy left. You hear the sound of a key and a door opening, and quick steps in your hallway. Who has a spare key? Overwatch should have one. And the lessor.

“I know you’re here, love. And I know you’re awake.”

Tracer sounds all serious, but yet you don’t utter a word, just clutch the top tighter and let another set of tears flow. She moves through the apartment, looking into bedroom and kitchen before spotting your form on the couch.

“Love? Is everything okay?”

You choke out a sob and coil up further before shaking your head.

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

She sits next to you on your sofa and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“My girlfriend…”

“Did she break up with you? I swear to god-”

“She was in the Museum today.”

Technically, not a lie.

“Fuck.”

In all of your years of friendship, you’ve never heard her curse one single time.

“But there were only so few casualties… Are you 100% sure she…”

You nod shortly and press the top even closer to you.

“What was she even doing there?”

“Something for her job. Didn’t ask.”

“She worked in museums?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you never talk about it?”

“Not really. We could rarely really meet up, so we were too occupied with… other things.”

A slight pink covers your friend’s face and you chuckle a bit to that. She strokes your shoulder gently before pulling you up and in a hug, which you return after a while, starting to cry again.

“She would’ve been here now… I miss her so much…”

“I know…”

Tracer gently rubs your back and helps you get to your bed as fast as possible, and then lies down with you and starts to cuddle.

“Promise you’ll stay around?”

“I’ll try.”

“What would she have said?”

“She’d have called me a fool and ordered me to stay, otherwise she would have to personally come and kill me again.”

“Sounds… exquisite.”

You chuckle.

“She was exquisite. Wonderful cook, great in cuddling… although her feet and hands were always cold…”

Duh. The rest of her body as well.

“…beautiful, best voice ever, not to mention certain other things… And she needed to warm up a bit first because her last relationship ended rather poorly, so she rarely showed real emotion… but when she did, it was as if… a single real smile of her just pulled my heart closer to her.”

“She sounds like… she fitted you.”

“We both were of that opinion as well.”

Tracer laughs and rubs your back again.

“I think I would’ve enjoyed meeting her.”

You definitely wouldn’t have. You met her quite often and it always ended with you two trying to kill each other.

“Possibly.”

After a while of rather comfortable silence, you fall asleep into nightmares of Amélie dying over and over again. Every time you are waking up in screams, your friend is there to comfort you. She stays the whole night, at which end you feel as if you hadn’t gotten any sleep whatsoever. Still, Tracer makes a full English Breakfast and watches you eat all of it, claiming “As long as I’m around, you will not starve yourself.” You have no choice but follow that order.

“Did Emily know you’d come over?”

“Yup. Also, I texted her when you first fell asleep and explained part of the situation. She was totally fine with it.”

You nod once and look at her in despair.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know…”

—

It took months for you to even dare go near the Overwatch HQ again. In the first weeks, Tracer and Emily had you move in with them as your friend made quite clear she didn’t trust you not to try anything stupid. Their support helped you a lot, and when you felt a bit better, you loaded yourself with work to focus your mind on other things than the giant, bleeding wound in your heart. It was only paperwork at first, although with the constant help of the other agents who tried their best to cheer you up for a while. The concept of being out on a battlefield was foreign to you, until you took all your guts together and trained again. When you returned on duty, everyone was relieved.

So now you’re out in the open, waiting for Talon agents to show up, on a roof so you could jump down with surprise on your side. Actually, a rather suicidal mission. But no matter how much you acted, this emptiness inside of you… you simply lost care for your own life. There they are. You tense your muscles to jump down.

“Did you miss me, chérie?”

Your head snaps up and you turn around slowly.

BLOODY. FUCKING. HELL.

Your legs give out under you when you see her standing 5 metres away. You can’t manage a word. Just stare in shock. Your breathing becomes rapid and shaky.

“…how…”

“Somehow.”

She replies and an almost soft look covers her face. She slowly starts walking towards you, carefully, almost as if she didn’t want to startle you further. Your eyes keep glued to her and you sob once, a hand covering your mouth.

“Chérie, I can explain…”

You sob again when the door to the rooftop flies open.

“____, THIS IS A SUICIDE M-”

Tracer stops dead in her tracks and draws her gun at Amélie, eyes narrowing in anger and threat.

“You should be dead.”

“Surprise.”

Her eyebrow is raised almost mockingly, and the first tears start to flow as another sob escapes your lips, drawing all attention to you for a moment. Amélie advances further, but Tracer’s aim stops her.

“Move away from ____. Immediately.”

You shake your head and stand up, a slight bit of anger overtaking your senses.

“No. Lena, this is between her and me.”

Confused, your friend lowers her gun, and you walk towards your lover, rage boiling up. You stop dead in your tracks just centimetres apart and glare at her.

“YOU BITCH!”

With that yell, you slap her (perfect) cheek, making her head whisk to the side and her taking a step back.

“I deserved that.”

Her slightly amused tone makes everything worse.

“HOW COULD YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME?! I GUESS I WOULD’VE DESERVED A SINGLE WORD OR ANYTHING, BUT APPARENTLY MADAME THINKS SHE DOESN’T NEED THAT. HAVE YOU GOT ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW DEPRESSED I WAS? HECK, I COULD BE DEAD BY NOW. EVER HEARD OF WRITING LETTERS? OR SLIPPING NOTES BELOW DOORS? OR PHONE BOOKS? WHY DIDN’T YOU LEAVE A SINGLE HINT YOU WERE NOT GONE? TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION: I FUCKING MISSED YOU. I GRIEVED FOR YOU UP UNTIL TWO MINUTES AGO. YOU-”

“Chérie, I couldn’t-”

You efficiently silence her by moving forward, grabbing her neck and smashing her lips with yours. Her shock lasts for not even a mere second before she wraps her arms around you and returns the kiss with a passion that makes your rage turn to mush. When she draws her hands over your lower back with just the right pressure to tell you she’s real, and her tongue lightly taps at your lips, you moan softly and drag your own over it, deepening the kiss while your tears flow again in a mix of despair and joy.

“I fucking love you.”

You mutter in the kiss and deepen it shortly before letting go and resting your head on her shoulder, keeping your bodies close and sobbing into her neck while she rubs your back almost gently.

“Tu m'as manquée aussi.”

You turn your head towards Tracer, who just stands there with her jaw agape, pistol dropped to the ground in shock.

“She… she is… she is your…”

You nod slowly with your eyes closed, still relishing the fact you’re in her arms again.

“How could you…?”

“It sorta just happened. I’ll explain later.”

Your friend nods slowly, still shocked, picking up her pistol and walking back to the door to the roof as if in a trance. When it has closed behind her, you hear Amélie chuckling, the feeling the vibrations on your cheek.

“Seems she is capable of shutting up for a moment, at least.”

“We probably scarred her for life.”

Another, lower chuckle resonates through her body, and you press yourself a bit closer to it.

“I cannot be sorry for that.”

“Me neither. I got you back.”

One of her hands wanders up to your neck and she kisses your forehead almost gently.

“Why so affectionate today?”

“We’re almost in privacy.”

“We’re out on a fucking roof.”

“Stop the cursing already.”

“As you wish, Madame.”

She chuckles another time, slowly forcing your chin up to kiss you again, tongue stroking yours immediately, and you place your hands on the sides of her face and stand on your toes to press yourself closer before breaking the kiss and looking into her eyes with a slightly sharp expression.

“And now, sweetheart, I believe you have a lot of explaining to do.”

French translations: Je t’aime - I love you Tu m’as manquée aussi - I missed you too

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Crystal you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Xenophilius Lovegood!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Oh my goodness -- your application blew us away. Simply reading through it you could see how much you’d thought about every single aspect of Xeno’s characacter and really got a handle about how you’d develop everything that makes him tick. I love the idea of him balancing on a razor’s edge -- between two seemingly distinct sides of his personality, and the headcanon and para sample about his reasons for joining Aversio were beautifully written and thought through. We’re so excited to see Xeno on the dash and to see you develop him through the course of this roleplay!

application beneath the cut ( tw: drugs )

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION Hey, I’m Crystal! I’m 21, go by she/her, and am in EST time zone in the US.

ACTIVITY I’d say my activity would be a solid 6 or 7 out of 10. I can be on most nights, for at least a few replies.

TRIGGERS *removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US? Just through the tags, browsing for a quality group to join.

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST? As cliche as it may be, i definitely feel like i identified most with Hermione. I’ve always been rather bookish myself and, like her, had difficulty finding friends in a sea of judgmental people. I can relate to the comfort she found in solidarity and knowledge, while also attempting to balance and cope with her her desire for companionship and acceptance.

ANYTHING ELSE? This group looks fascinating, and i’m thrilled for the chance to be a part of it. :).

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER Xenophilius Lovegood

FACE CLAIM Jamie Campbell Bower

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

Honestly, Xenophilius was never really a character that caught my attention during the movies or books. I loved Luna, of course, but thought that her zany quack of a father was mildly interesting, at best. That being said, your description of young Xeno fascinated me, because it was so far from the image of the older version, yet, the more i thought about it, such a believable transition. I’d never really put thought into what he must have been like during the first wizarding war, or his time at hogwarts, but i’m really excited to explore the untapped potential that lays here. I feel like i could really expand upon and develop him based on your given description, and that his unique personality could open up some really interesting interactions. I enjoy writing quirky characters, and have written quite a few in the past, but never ones with the darker, rebellious, loner aspects that you’ve attributed to Xeno. I’m really excited to write a character with such drastically different aspects of his personality. A combination of good-heartedness with a discontentment towards society is the basis for a wonderfully conflicted character who struggles with making the right choices in the horrible situation he’s stuck in. Being the accepting, tolerant, and loving person that i imagine him to be, but dealing with being an mistreated, misunderstood outcast would leave him constantly torn between attempting to merge with his peers and wanting to swear them off. I’m so excited for the chance to write Xenophilius, because every single one of his reactions will be teetering on a razor’s edge depending on the tiniest nuances of the interaction. Like i said, i never really gave him much thought before, but just from reading your bio of him, i’ve seen what a dynamic, complex, and life-like character he has the potential to be, and i’ve already got so many ideas i want to play out with him. Plus, the chosen faceclaim could not have been more perfect.  

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

I think Xeno would usually go by male pronouns, simply because they’re what people would opt for naturally, and he doesn’t really care what people view him as one way or the other. It’s just easier than correcting them and insisting on gender neutral pronouns would be more trouble than it’s worth to him. For Xeno, it’s less that he feels adamantly non-binary, but more that he feels gender to be irrelevant. Hence, whichever pronouns are applied to him, he just rolls with. While i fully intend to write him as a non-binary character, and make that aspect of him very prevalent, I’d prefer to use male pronouns, simply for ease of writing. Appropriately, he is also pansexual. Although, romance and sexuality have never really been high priorities for him. When he does fall in love, though, he loves fiercely and loyally. While yes, he does enjoy sex, it’s more about the emotional attachment and the passion than the physical pleasure, and he doesn’t really feel the need to have meaningless or constant sex. As for ships, I could see him being interested in Aurora Sinistra, for her intelligence and ambition. Other than that, i think i would have to see how his interactions with other characters go before seeing who he would be compatible with.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

-A PLAYLIST https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLaxuQiftHJY10XBCI0DANwFfWT6cZpp_o

-A MOCKBLOG https://xeno-lovegood.tumblr.com/  (There are like 3 or 4 pages to look through, i think)

-A FEW HEADCANONS

He’s both a coffee and a tea person, depending on the day, his mood, and the weather.

Xeno doesn’t let anyone else cut his hair and, despite not being very good at it, insists on doing it himself. That is, on the rare occasions that he actually cuts it.

Among his many oddball collections, Xeno has countless gemstones and rocks, animal bones, foreign coins, and instrument pieces (strings, pegs, buttons, reeds, etc.).

When he was young, Xeno had a habit of tinkering. Taking apart, rebuilding, and remodeling his toys was one of his favorite pastimes. When he played outside, he devoted meticulous care to using twigs, leaves, and other found objects to build tiny home for woodland animals and “fairies”. His love for tinkering and, eventually, inventing never faded.

Xeno has always had a love for books, muggle comics, and especially fairy tales.

Xeno has insomnia, but doesn’t mind too much, as he prefers the night time anyway.

Xenophilius currently works at the Apothecary in diagon alley, but has been reprimanded by his boss a time or two for knicking a few ingredients. However, his charm and knowledgeable nature keep him from being fired.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have some sort of something that induces a sensation of levity? A potion, perhaps, that lightens one’s mood and eases the min- oh, wait, no, i suppose that’s just alcohol then, innit? Something better! Something easier on the liver. All of the happiness, none of the hangover. Hm.. A charm, maybe? Oh yes, yes, that’s very good. A levity charm! I can see it now, ‘Instantly brightens mood, lifts spirits, and opens the mind! Wear it on bad days or, maybe just chuck it at people who need to lighten up.’ Plenty of those in the world, eh?” ♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you: “Oh, well one person, that’s easy. Newt Scamander. The original clever critter catcher himself. I’m a massive fan of his work, brilliant man. A little closed minded on the existence of some lesser known magical creatures, but i digress. It’d be good to have an expert on board when trudging into the natural habitat of countless magical creatures. The object, now that’s the tougher one. Hm...it might be to my benefit to bring a weapon of some sort, i suppose. Muggles weapons, you know, are severely underrated. Wizards waving wands don’t give a single thought towards the merit of, say, a muggle gun, but in those woods, up against merlin knows what sort of creatures, i might just feel a bit more safe with one in hand.

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make? “Difficult to say, really. Is ‘all of them’ an acceptable answer? I’m afraid I can be terribly indecisive, Point and case, right here, indecisiveness on the topic of being decisive. Funny, that. To give a more legitimate answer, I suppose decisions that intwine the fates of others? Choosing a path for yourself is one thing, but making a choice that affects others? Significantly more weighty. Oh! Or choosing what to make for brunch. Difficult indeed.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you? “The worst thing i can imagine being called is generic. I can’t fathom what a boring life that would be.”

WRITING SAMPLE “How’s your dad doing these days, Philly?” Xenophilius opened his eyes and found himself looking at the poster on the ceiling. Through the smoky haze that filled the room, the members of Aerosmith stared back down at him. He had started adorning his ceiling with posters and hangings when all his wall space had become occupied. Between all of the band posters, stolen road signs, star charts, maps, anatomy diagrams, a listing of songbirds native to eastern europe, and a poster for something called the Chudley Cannons (which his muggle friends didn’t really understand, but they swore they had glanced the letters moving once or twice), there was scarcely any visible wall space left. His room couldn’t be described as tidy even at the best of times, but it was an organized chaos. To him, at least. Despite nearly every surface being littered with any and all manner of things, Xenophilius misplaced things very rarely. He may have lived messily, but it was a mess he understood.

“You know i’ve asked you not to call me that, Nina.” He replied, though with no real conviction. He’d accepted defeat in that battle years ago. He lolled his head to the side to face the girl. Her dark green eyes, a bit blood shot at the moment, and her amused grin met his gaze. He chuckled, realizing his eyes probably didn’t look much better. Their legs swung lazily off opposite sides of his bed, their heads and shoulders in the middle fitting comfortably together like simplistic puzzle pieces.

“He's doing okay, last I heard. Avoiding prison still, so that's good, I suppose.  I'm going to see him this weekend.” “Solid. Tell him I say hey.” “I shall. He asks about you, sometimes. Says you should come down and visit with me one of these times.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew the idea would never come to fruition. His father lived in a wizarding community. Owls filled the evening air, while lawns trimmed themselves and the sound of neighbors clinking together a few cold butterbeers filled the air. He could never bring her there. She shrugged. “Maybe.” He felt that she somehow understood, and was grateful that she didn’t press the issue.

Xenophilius’ parents had separated a few years back, and he now lived in the spacious and comfortable home of his muggle mother and her new husband. His mother was an impressive woman. When Xeno’s father had confessed to being a wizard, she took the news incredibly well and accepted having a wizard in the family with unprecedented indifference. When they discovered a few years later that their son was also magical in nature, it came as no big shock to anyone. His mother was an overwhelmingly accepting woman, and even as the only muggle in the household, she adapted and carried on with her life. Surprisingly, it wasn't the existence of magic or the collision of worlds that eventually pushed the couple apart, no. It was the drinking. Alcohol; the most potent and problematic of potions. She was hardly one to judge, having enjoyed and abused her fair share of substances back in the day. Xeno’s friends later swore that his mother’s habits were to blame for how strangely he turned out. But she had cut all of that out of her life when her son was born. His father, however, had a bit more difficulty. Xenophilius senior was not a bad man. By all accounts, he had a heart of gold, a smile that could light up a room, and a sense of humor that left his young son in fits of laughter. But he was a deeply troubled man. Eventually, his mother couldn’t take his father’s behaviour anymore, and they went through with a fairly civil and clean divorce. Although Xeno doesn’t see his father as much as he would like, they still get along well during the weekends they spend together. Knowing that his father is sensitive to the subject and would most likely be furious, Xeno keeps his drinking and drug useage a secret from his father.

A silence had fallen on the room. The girl, Nina, got up off the bed and strolled over to the record player. In one smooth motion, she lifted the needle, twirled the record between her fingers, and set it back in place. Zeppelin started crooning out of the beat up speakers and filled the room once again. “Sixteen, I fell in love with a girl as sweet as could be, It only took a couple of days 'til she was rid of me. She swore that she would be all mine and love me till the end, But when I whispered in her ear, I lost another friend, oooh.” Xeno sang quietly along, knowing every word by heart. The album was one of his favorites. He must’ve listened to it a dozen times since Nina bought it for him a month ago. It was one of the only presents he got that year for his 18th birthday. Fitting, since she was one of the only friends he had. She was fiddling with a few of the crystals and stones that littered his room. He loved that she never found his eclectic nature and strange collections offputting. Though, he supposed, it made sense. She wasn’t exactly your generic cookie cutter girl either. An onlooker might find it hard to believe that the two of them had met in a primary school chess club. Neither of them looked the type. Her, with her raven hair, shaved down the left side and falling in long natural curls on the other and a face adorned with half a dozen piercings. Him, with a mop of constantly tangled dirty blonde locks, a worn denim jacket, and the occasional guyliner. But they had sensed something in each other and gravitated towards one another almost instantly. He supposed they both drew comfort from sharing their outcast status. She was a quiet girl, soft spoken and concise. But she liked to listen, and god knows Xeno liked to talk. They worked well together. The judgement and name calling he received from his peers never really got to him, or bothered him terribly. It was just something that was impossible not to notice. He never in his life prioritized popularity or really stove to fit in. But it was nice, he had to admit, to meet a girl who had never called him a freak, or a weirdo like the majority of his other classmates. Naturally, he was eternally grateful to the girl for giving him someone around whom he could be himself. To an extent, at least.

Although he felt guilty about it every day, there was a part of his life that he could never share with his best friend. His quirks were one thing, but being a spell casting, potion brewing wizard was another entirely. He had a distinct feeling that even her threshold for weird wasn’t quite wide enough to encompass that little bit of information. As much as he wanted to tell her, he couldn’t risk scaring her away. It was bad enough being a social outcast, but being a wizard living among muggles made him feel even more disconnected from his peers. An acromantula in sheep’s clothing. Receiving his Hogwarts letter had been Xenophilius’ saving grace. He had been beyond dismayed to discover that he fit in no better with wizard kids then regular ones. He was still an unusual person, even by magical standards. But at least he didn’t have to hide his powers around them. He cherished his time at Hogwarts, reveling in the wondrous history and culture of the wizarding world. As much as the curiosities of the muggle world interested him, the wizarding world was infinitely more whimsical and beyond fascinating to him.

“Are you hungry?” Nina’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Upon hearing her words, he suddenly realized that he was, in fact, incredibly hungry. He swung his lanky frame upward off the bed and slipped his feet into the worn black boots that sat bedside. “Starving. Wanna run down to the mart?” He asked jovially. “I haven’t got much on me” She replied, picking through her pockets. “I’m sure we can figure something out.” He countered, shooting her a grin that might have been ever so slightly mischievous. She knew him well enough to know just what that look meant. They’d gotten into and away with more than their fair share of trouble together. Xeno had racked up a somewhat lengthy record over the last few years of his life. He wasn’t exactly know to be one to follow all of the rules.  Never anything extremely serious, of course. Petty theft, vandalism, trespassing. Minor offensives, for the sake of rebellion, fun, or ticking off the local crooked cops.

They both laced up their boots and headed out. Xeno lit up a cigarette as they walked. It was less than a mile from his home to the nearest snack shop. The trip was a nearly daily routine for them. They could walk it with their eyes closed. It was their go-to place for munchies. Between puffs of his cig, Xeno was passionately telling Nina all about a creature called the Crumple Horned Snorkack. She listened contentedly, counting cracks in the sidewalk as it passed below them. She was used to his overactive imagination by this point. Assuming that all of his stories were simply make believe, she found them incredibly entertaining. It was an unusually warm day, even through the overcast. Xeno was practically cooking inside the leather jacket he had adorned before they left, but the garment served a purpose. It was riddled with inside, hidden pockets. In a practiced motion, he tossed his hair into an effortless mix between ponytail and bun as they strolled into the corner shop. “Evenin’, mate” Xenophilius called over to the spotty teen behind the counter. The kid didn’t even look up from his comic. Ha! This was going to be easy. Xeno couldn’t help but grin, strolling up and down the aisles. He made a beeline for the candies in the back. He had one hell of a sweet tooth. He ran a slender finger over the shelf, deliberating between chocolate and jelly babies. In the end he opted for both. With a glance over his shoulder at the checkout boy, his slipped the candy bar into his jacket, but held onto the jellies. It allayed suspicion to actually buy a thing or two. He’d picked up a few tricks over the years. He meandered around the store a bit longer, stuffing a menagerie of things into his pockets. Satisfied, he cast his gaze over to Nina, a couple aisles over. She gave him an affirmative nod. They met up at the counter, laid out a few snacks each, and Xeno paid. The boy behind the counter seemed unenthused, but had at least bothered to put the comic away for the transaction. “Thanks a bunch…” Xenophilius squinted at the boy’s name tag. “Scotty.” With that, he gave a wave and spun on his heel. Feeling like Bonnie and Clyde, the two were practically glowing with pride at the feat they had pulled off. They strutted towards the door. Scotty sneered at their backs, annoyed at having been troubled to do his job.

It was when they were only a few steps from the door, from safety, that it happened. They all heard the smack of plastic on tile. “Oy! Whatchu- Hey!” The boy behind the counter shouted angrily. Nina looked down, horrified, at the few snacks that had slipped from beneath her blouse. Xeno saw them too. “Shit. Let’s go!” He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards the door, but not before good ol’ Scotty pressed a switch behind the counter. They could just hear the lock click into place. Dammit. He swore under his breath, pointlessly shaking the door. He heard the angry employee threaten to call the cops, and began to panic. He couldn’t afford to get in any more trouble. Not right now. Not so soon before he was due back at school. Nothing could come between him and his getting to Hogwarts. With no other option coming to mind, he slipped out his wand. He tried his best to be subtle about it, but there was no hiding the stumpy branch, or the slight sparks it emitted as he hastily whispered the incantation. “Alohamora.” With a light pop, the door sprung open. Xeno bolted through it, dragged the girl behind him, and left the poor muggle boy gaping and bewildered.

For a bit, they ran without looking back. When Xeno felt that they had put enough space between them, he finally stopped. They both caught their breath in a secluded alleyway beside a bustling street. “Well,” Xeno started nervously, trying maybe a bit too hard to sound casual. “That was a close one, wasn’t it? The lock breaking like that,eh? I thought for sure we-” “What just happened?” The sternness in her voice stopped his words dead in their tracks. For the first time in a very long time, Xeno was speechless. She was staring at him in a way he had never seen before. There was fear behind her eyes.

“Xenophilius.” He winced. She never used his full name. “What was that back there? How did you do that?”

This was it, he realized. There was no hiding it from her anymore. If he lied, she’d know. And besides, not even the most cleverly constructed lie could be believable. There was no way to explain it other than the truth.  He was about to lose the only friend he had.

“Magic.” He stated simply. He pulled out his wand again, clearly this time, for her to see. To his surprise, she said nothing, so he went on. “I’m uh, a wizard, ya see. Spells and charms, potions and broomsticks.” As hard as it was to start, he felt like he had burst open a flood gate.  “I got to a special school. For wizards, like me, and witches. It’s called Hogwarts.” He was absolutely certain that she was going to freak out about all of this, yet he feel incredibly relieved to finally be telling her after all these years. He rambled on for a bit, speaking rapidly and excitedly. When he finally paused to gauge her reaction, he found that she was staring at him, mouth slightly agape. He couldn’t quite read her reaction, but his words had stunned her into silence. “Ah! H-here! Let me show you!” He took up his wand. He raised a free hand in a disarming gesture, silently reassuring her not to be afraid. He aimed at a nearby flower that was fighting its way through a crack in the concrete. A delicate looking thing, all the colors of a sunset. Swish and flick! “Wingardium Leviosa!” Nina let out a gasp. The flower rose, plucking itself from the ground and floated almost lazily through the air. He maneuvered it skillfully towards her. She froze as it approach. With a slight shifting of his wand, he landed it delicately in her hair. He smiled at her sheepishly, beyond apprehensive. What was she thinking? What if she just tucked and ran? He couldn’t blame her. What if he never saw her again. What if she called the cops on him, had his locked up in the looney bin?

“Magic? Real...magic?” She spoke, finally. He started to breathe again. Her voice was even, but in a controlled way. Her fingertips wandered up to caress the petals of the flower in her hair. She was quiet again for what felt like years. Then...a smile began to form at the corners of her lips. Xeno’s heart soared, or stopped, he wasn’t sure. Her face broke out into a full on grin.

“That’s fuckin’ wicked.”

-------------------------------------------------Present Day-----------------------------------------------

The shrill screams of the tea kettle pulled Xenophilius out of his thoughts. He discarded the Daily Prophet as he went to relieved the pot, tossing the paper onto the floor of his caravan home. From the front page, a vague headline announced yet another brutal attack from Voldemort loyalist. He realized that, lost in his thoughts, he had taken in very little of the article he’d been attempting to read. His mind had been wandering back to that day with Nina. He poured himself a glass of gurdyroot tea and took a long inhale of its fragrance. It had been four years since that day. A short time, relatively, but a lot can happen in four years. Wars break out, alliances form, fights ensue, and people die. The thing about Death Eaters, Xeno had quickly come to realize, was that they had no discretion. They couldn’t care less who or what got trampled on their violent paths. When they decided to attack, men, women, wizards and muggles alike were lain to waste. They represented cruelty in its most unbridled form.

He’d been thinking about Nina a lot, recently. About the day they met. About the day that he revealed that he was a wizard. But mostly? About the day that he saw the name of his hometown in the headline of the Prophet. The day he saw her name listed among all the other muggles who suffered the ultimate price in a wizard's war. The same day he join Aversio. 

[multi-reader-writer]

A Heartfelt Meltdown

[sleepyams]

2843 miles

Otayuri Week 2017 Day 2: Social media

otayuri | G-rated

“Yuri bites his lip and glances out of the window, feeling like even the very gloomy Saint Petersburg is laughing at him and his miserable crush on Otabek, even though Yuri grimaces when he thinks of the word crush.”

Long-distance relationship; Non-skater AU

[Read on AO3]

Alternative title: 4575 km

*

When Yuri sees a picture of Otabek Altin for the first time, he audibly gasps in his high school’s crowded cafeteria, effectively drawing the attention of everyone he shares a table with on himself. Miron, who is sitting on his right, leans closer and takes a look of the screen of the phone, rolling his eyes. ”Another male model?” ”He’s not a model, just some random guy,” Yuri defends himself, tapping the screen with his nail. Miron reads the short bio the boy has written next to his profile picture, only stating his age, location and a simple quote in English. Tatiana, a girl who shares Yuri’s pain and frustration five times a week in a ballet class, gestures Yuri to give the phone to her, and he hands the device over.

”A good looking random guy,” Tatiana says with raised eyebrows and whistles. She gives the phone back to it’s owner and tilts her head with a teasing smile on her lips. ”What tag were you browsing this time?” ”That’s not important,” Yuri says quickly and throws a smirk to Tatiana over the table. The girl laughs but doesn’t continue her teasing, giving Yuri a great chance to keep ogling the picture he had stumbled upon. The picture is taken outside, trees in full autumn colors framing a path leading to a park. Under the trees stands a tall boy (or man? His bio says he is 19 but to Yuri he looks older – more mature, somehow) with dark hair and piercing eyes. He’s fashionably dressed and Yuri can’t blame Miron for mistaking him for a model – he looks graceful, a hint of a smile on his lips. Yuri double-taps the picture, making the small heart under the picture turn red. The picture already has a nice amount of likes and comments, and Yuri isn’t surprised by that: the ‘tall-dark-and-mysterious’ aura around the boy is fascinating. And Yuri is painfully aware his type of men is 'tall-dark-and-mysterious’. ”Earth to Yuri, do you copy? The break is almost over,” Miron says, placing a hand on Yuri’s shoulder. The blond nods and throws his phone in his bag, but only after clicking the follow button next to the username otabek-altin. * Yuri frees his hair from the small bun Tatiana had made on him earlier, pulls a hoodie on over his head and yawns. He hands the hair tie to Tatiana when she steps out of the girls’ dressing room, in the middle of putting her pointe shoes in her bag. She slips the tie around her wrist and Yuri throws his duffle bag over his shoulder, holding the studio’s door open for his friend. The sun has already set, and the yellow glow of the street lights between the grey buildings reminds Yuri of a bad horror movie. He listens to Tatiana’s monologue about how their new adagio routine is hard and how she absolutely despises doing adagio in the center, and fishes his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He taps open the Instagram app, wanting to check the new likes and comments on the photo he uploaded before their ballet class: a simple one of himself and Tatiana in their training outfits, a black-and-white filter on top of it, posted with #bestfriends and #lifewithoutballetispointeless tags. Tatiana reaches the end of her rant when Yuri clicks open his notifications and almost drops his phone. The two most recent notifications catch his attention and make his heart skip a beat. He blinks a couple of times and refreshes the page before allowing himself to look at the screen again. He’s certain the app was just glitching but even closing and re-opening it doesn’t change the fact that the two notifications on top of the page say otabek-altin liked your photo and otabek-altin started following you. * Yuri learns quickly that Otabek Altin updates his Instagram quite often, almost daily, but doesn’t have accounts on any other social media sites. His pictures are always good quality, probably taken with a proper camera instead of his phone – accompanied with very generic tags, like the city he lives in and the brands of the clothes he’s wearing – and Yuri makes sure he leaves a like on every single one of them. He would never admit he has turned on the notification service on Otabek, but every time his phone tells him otabek-altin posted a new photo, Yuri’s day gets better. And, even though the photos Yuri posts are mostly dumb selfies and black-and-white ballet snapshots – definitely far from fashionable outfits and shots of pretty scenery – Otabek is one of the first ones to like them. Yuri lies on his back on his bed and scrolls down on his Instagram feed, the selfie he had just put up steadily gaining new likes and comments. He doesn’t really pay attention to them – most of them are from his friends from school, ballet class or dance camps he attends every summer. He reaches the end of new updates and clicks open his notification page. He skims through the notifications and feels how the tempo of his heart gets quicker when his eyes catch the always hard to believe text telling him Otabek had left a like on his most recent photo. The notification is only two minutes old and, with his heart hammering against his ribs, Yuri opens Otabek’s profile, taps the three black dots on top of the page and, after hovering his thumb over the send a message link for a couple of seconds, presses his finger down. yuri-plisetsky 21:16 thanks for always liking my pics!! otabek-altin 21:20 They’re really nice and pretty! Thanks to you for always liking MY pics. yuri-plisetsky 21:22 thank you haha, i think yours are the nicer ones tho!! i mean, i mostly post selfies and stuff otabek-altin 21:28 As I said, nice and pretty :) * ”Yuri, isn’t this Otabek guy who always comments on your photos the same dude you drooled over a couple months ago?” Yuri doesn’t want to smile when Tatiana mentions Otabek’s name, and he forces a neutral look on his face. ”Yeah, he followed me back and we started talking and stuff. He’s really nice,” Yuri says, trying to sound nonchalant. He feels Tatiana’s questioning eyes on himself but he keeps his focus on the book in front of him. After a while Tatiana hums and keeps tapping the screen of her phone, their daily session of having lunch and doing homework together (or, in Tatiana’s case, scrolling through social media) continuing in comfortable silence. Yuri means it when he says Otabek is nice, because he is. Probably one of the nicest guys Yuri has ever met (even though they haven’t met face-to-face, but that’s just a small unimportant detail). Since Yuri sent a simple thank you message to Otabek they have been messaging back and forth every day, talking about their hobbies, the things they loved, what they had for breakfast and what was the last thing they laughed at. Otabek is easy to talk to, he understands Yuri’s sense of humor perfectly, and even though Yuri is certain Otabek doesn’t mean to flirt with him, the seemingly innocent compliments flatter him. Yuri doesn’t exactly consider himself good-looking, and even though Otabek strikes him as a person who tells everyone they look really nice, Yuri can’t get enough of the praising comments he gets from the other boy. Yuri doesn’t receive a lot of compliments, and if he does they’re mostly about his ballet technique – never about his looks. And, if Yuri is being honest, he hasn’t exactly felt the need to hear them, at least not until now. And even if he suddenly started hearing them from others, they wouldn’t mean as much to him as the ones Otabek writes in the comments of his photos or in the direct messages they keep exchanging. Yuri bites his lip and glances out of the window, feeling like even the very gloomy Saint Petersburg is laughing at him and his miserable crush on Otabek, even though Yuri grimaces when he thinks of the word crush. It’s silly, stupid even, and Yuri knows that much – Otabek is older than him, looks good enough to date anyone he wants and, on top of everything, lives in another country. Yuri sighs and leaves the cafeteria with Tatiana and Miron, trailing behind his two friends to the second floor when his phone buzzes in his pocket. otabek-altin 12:12 Morning, Yuri! How are you today? yuri-plisetsky 12:14 Fine otabek-altin 12:15 Hm? What’s wrong? yuri-plisetsky 12:16 I said I’m fine otabek-altin 12:18 Your typing has changed so something must be up. You sure you’re fine? yuri-plisetsky 12:20 you know me too well, it’s unfair i just feel a little down today, nothing serious i also hurt my ankle yesterday so my teacher won’t let me dance today and that sucks otabek-altin 12:23 I see, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I could do to make you feel better? yuri-plisetsky 12:25 i dunno, unless you know some magic trick that heals sprains?? Their teacher arrives and Yuri takes his usual seat in the back row, throwing his bag on top of his desk so he can hide his phone behind it. The teacher starts the class, scribbling something on the board and Yuri takes a look at his phone: still no new messages. Otabek is usually quick with his replies and Yuri gnaws the inside of his cheek, wondering did he say something weird or stupid that scared the other boy away. Yuri opens his book and almost jumps when his phone vibrates under it, buzzing loudly against the desk. otabek-altin 12:32 Don’t they say a kiss heals everything? yuri-plisetsky 12:33 you’d kiss my ankle?? otabek-altin 12:36 To be honest I would kiss any part of you. * When Yuri sees the familiar path leading to the park, tall trees on each side of it, he takes his phone out of his pocket and snaps a photo. He tucks a wild strand of hair behind his ear, the warm summer breeze throwing the same locks on his face over and over again, and sends the photo to Tatiana and Miron. The trees are green instead of the bright reds and yellows they wore when the two of them saw them on a picture for the first time, but Yuri is positive his friends will recognize the place. A strong arm is wrapped around his shoulders and Yuri looks up, giving an excited smile to Otabek. ”The very first picture I saw of you was taken here,” he tells the other boy, gesturing towards the path and trees. Otabek hums and crunches his eyebrows, deep in thought. ”That was… last September, right?” Otabek’s low voice and the arm wrapped around Yuri’s shoulders make his skin tingle pleasantly, and Yuri tries to hide his happy grin by nodding and scanning the park around them. It’s a beautiful, sunny day and groups of people sunbathing or having picnics are scattered between the trees. Yuri reads Tatiana’s reply to the photo he sent to her earlier and steals a glance of Otabek from the corner of his eye: he’s running the hand not resting on Yuri’s shoulder through his dark hair, a tiny yet soft smile on his lips. His eyes don’t glitter with excitement and nervousness anymore like they did when he saw Yuri for the first time and wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, hugging him for five minutes in the middle of Almaty international airport. Otabek doesn’t talk much but Yuri can read his emotions well from his eyes, and the blond is already afraid of the day when their four weeks together come to an end and he has to look Otabek in the eyes while saying his goodbyes. But on that moment the look in Otabek’s eyes is nothing but pure affection as he notices Yuri’s stares and raises his eyebrows teasingly to the blond. ”Can we take a picture?” Yuri asks quickly, way too aware of the blush spreading on his cheeks. Otabek nods and Yuri raises his phone, both of them posing to the front camera. Yuri takes multiple shots and lets Otabek choose the best one out of them (he says they all look the same but points at the very last one anyway). Yuri puts a filter on top of the picture of Otabek pressing his lips on Yuri’s cheek, pulled up by a happy laugh, and opens the Instagram app to upload it. He tags Otabek in the photo and after typing #Almaty, #boyfriend and #ldr in the description box taps the share button.