#so this time I’m forcing myself to stay wake till it’s time to full on sleep

[theshadowrealmitself]

Even more spider-like Peter Parker with fangs and stuff almost getting caught and having his identity revealed so he switches into some civvies, is dashing around alleys to stay out of sight, and his fangs start flashing as a defense mechanism

He runs into someone, like Deadpool or Harry or someone else, and doesn’t want to reveal his hero identity so he just awkwardly claims that he was “hunting” (regrets the lie immediately), while looking terrified and exhausted and dangerous, and now he has a “hunting buddy” who’s gonna help him “get the nutrients he needs without killing anyone”

[wndaswife]

Here’s a surprise for you, princess. It’s for the times when you’re alone at home:

I can never stop thinking about you baby. I think about all the ways I’d take you. Starting off nice and slow on top of you, kissing you deeply. We’d stay like that for a while. Occasionally moving the kisses to your neck and pulling your shirt down so I can kiss your chest. I’ll leave a few marks so that when we’re done, you’ll have a reminder of who you belong to. Eventually I’ll add in my thigh between your legs. I’m sure it won’t take long until you start humping it like a desperate slut. Soon after that, I’ll add my fingers over your clothed center. Hopefully I’d eventually be able to feel how wet you are through all those layers.

Dragging my finger up and down your center. I know you’d probably be begging me by now huh? Pulling me down onto you and panting in my ear so I can hear just how bad you need it. Whispering in my ear that you need me to make you feel better and that I’m the only one that can do it. Kissing and nipping my ear doing whatever you can to get me to give into you. I know you need it so bad baby but I haven’t even taken your clothes off yet. I’ll slowly take of your shirt and continue kissing around the marks I’ve already left. If I feel like prolonging your pleasure even more, I’ll play with your breasts. Kiss on them, suck on them and play with your pretty perked up nipples. The anticipation is probably killing you hm sweetheart? I’ll kiss down your stomach until I reach your center again. Leaving kisses over your pants. Then I’ll reach up to your buttons and unbutton them before pulling your pants all the way off. How I’d wish to see such a messy looking patch on your panties.

But I think it would be finally time to let you have what you want. After all, you deserve it for sitting through all that like a patient girl. Though you’d do anything I asked as long as you get pleased wouldn’t you? What a desperate slut you are. Only wanting to get yourself nice and full. I’ll spread your folds so I can see how sticky you are down there before I go to lick a line in between them. I bet you taste so good baby. I would put one finger in first to let you get used to it before adding in another. How many do you think you can take darling?

And to see you cum for me… After all that. Moving in and out of you rough and hard with you hugging me close to you. Moaning into my ear, my neck, my shoulder, leaving marks on my shoulder from trying to restrain yourself. My fingers in you with my thumb on your clit stimulating you. And when you do cum, I’ll taste it on my fingers But don’t worry, I’ll let you taste yourself too. You can suck on mommy’s fingers and taste the sweet remains of your juices. That’s not all. I’d work you over and over again till you’re so spent you can only nod your head yes and no. Or maybe I’ll give you a false sense of hope and let you fall asleep, only to let you wake up later to me using your precious little body to make myself feel good.

God I’d fuck you so well. You get me so wet when you respond to my asks. Touching myself to you.. Imagining I was fucking your pussy so well. Or making you eat me out. What I wouldn’t give to force your head between my thighs and make you please me. Of course with one hand holding yours and the other in your hair. My mouth being occupied with my moans and the sweet praises. You’re so good baby. Such a whore, eating me out so well.

And in the end, I’ll clean you up very well. Plenty of cuddles and kisses for you. I’d make sure to get you water to soothe your dry throat. You can rest your head on my chest or in my lap, sucking on my fingers or whatever else you’d like to suck on to help you fall asleep.

-🍸

baby 😭😭😭😭😭😭 you 😭😭 wrote this 😭😭😭😭 all for me ??? 😭😭😭🫶🏼 UGSSHHDUSSI MEANS SO MUCH TO ME

and this all happens in your mind while acting responsible and all, but rly what you wanna do is fuck your little girl 🤲🏼🤲🏼 i did play a little reading this, but not enough time to finish :( never enough time, not until i get home <//3 i’ll read over this religiously until im finally in my own bed!!!!

feeling a little nervous sharing this for people who can read it all, and i guarantee you there is so much much i have to tell you in the privacy of our own messages if that day were to ever come, but u have no idea how badly i want you to take my nipples between your fingers while you fuck me <333 telling me how filthy n pathetic i am as you kiss my forehead and wrap your lips around my breasts 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼 wanna beg you to let me come up for a breath while you force me down between your thighs, and you insisting i’ll have to let you cum first 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

i wanna kiss your knuckles and then your wrists and then your arms and everything after that!! 💞💞💞💞💞💞 i adore you <333

[xoxo-teddybear]

He’s Lost - Bakugou Katsuki - Part 2

Bakugou x f!reader

Warnings: angst, slightest fluff, cursing, physical harm mentions, lowkey little yandere obsessive hints, smut, 18+, daddy kink, sad boi Bakugou    :(

BAKUGOU’S MASTERLIST

Summary: Bakugou’s been going through hell ever since the breakup. He’s been so lost without you. But he’s willing to do whatever it takes to win back his Teddy bear. Everything and anything for the love of his life.

*Everyone is of age for legal consent (which is 16 in Japan, if you are uncomfortable with it please move along, thx<3)*

A/N: Bakugou is a little OOC but the main thing in the beginning starts with fixing up Katsuki a little bit. So sorry if you don’t really enjoy it all that much<3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Melancholy music bounces off the walls of the dark room. The river of tears that flow down his once perfect porcelain skin is everlasting. As he lays in the soft bed, staring at the ceiling, he thinks about all he could’ve done better for you. In his hand, the same framed picture of you both that he’s held onto every night ever since the horrible incident. Y/N L/N. Like a song that’s stuck on loop. It’s the only thing that runs through his mind.

The door swiftly opens, and much to his disliking, a massive amount of light now enters the former den of manliness pit of depression.

To show his displeasure, Bakugou rolled himself in the blankets, covering his entire body in them and being the picture inside with him as well. With different circumstances, Y/N would’ve thought it was cute or adorable, but it wasn’t Y/N that opened the door.

“Really Bakubro?” The blonde’s best friend spoke.

Eijirou Kirishima. The best friend of our dearest sad boy. He’s been letting his Bakubro crash in his dorm room because Katsuki refuses to clean his own. It looks exactly the same as it did on Valentine’s Day. Just a little different.

Rose petals were dead and dried up on his floors, candles were nearly melted to the bottom as they lay everywhere in the room, the curry was thankfully thrown out by Kirishima claiming that he could smell the spoiled aroma all the way from his room. But the presents, letter, and new gear stayed in the exact same spots. Bakugou didn’t feel worthy enough to be blessed with all the stuff but he was oh so desperate to be worthy. Worthy of your time, your love, and you in general.

Bakugou let out a grumbled whine of displeasure. He could feel the disappointment and concern radiating off his friend. As Katsuki poked just his face out of the covers, he was met with the expression that represented those two things.

“You can’t keep living like this bro,” Kirishima began, “You can’t keep hallowing in sadness in my room. I wanna help you, but you gotta help yourself too. Ever since you and Y/N split-“ Bakugou quickly interrupted.

“We didn’t split, she left me!” The blonde cried.

“...Right, okay. Well ever since Y/N left you, you’re not the same. You stay in here, playing the same damn sad tunes, covering yourself in my blankets, crying all day, and holding onto that picture! You haven’t even been to class or training! Shit man, you don’t even come out of my room to eat food! I gotta bring your plate here just to make sure that you’re properly fed. You’re a mess Bakugou. And not even the hot kind!” His best friend was right. He was a mess. And not even the hot kind.

“Well what the hell am I supposed to do shitty hair?” Bakugou said while dragging the covers over his face once more. Inside the blanket he held onto the picture as if it were actually you.

The fake red head snatched the covers off of his friend’s body and forced him up.

The said friend didn’t take too kindly to that and growled in displeasure.

“What the fuck Kirishima,” Bakugou said, a little to calm and chilling.

“Dont give me that bull Katsuki. You gotta get her back. I would say move on, but it’s clear you can’t.” Kirishima said while rolling his eyes.

Bakugou mirrored the action and said “yea no shit genius. I can’t and won’t move on.”

“So then go get her man!” Kirishima yelled

“And how the fuck am I supposed to do that? Huh?!” Bakugou was so confused. In what way was it going to be possible to win you back?

“Figure it out! Look Bakugou, I’ll be here to help you along the way, but you gotta figure this shit out on your own. This is your relationship here, if you want it as bad as you claim you do then prove it. You want Y/N back? Then fight for her, idiot!” The blonde’s eyes seemed to go wide.

Two words stuck out to Katsuki during his friend’s little speech. Prove it. Fuck yeah he will! He’ll prove to the whole damn universe how much he wants you back. More importantly, he’ll prove it to you and win you back.

The iconic Bakugou smirk reappeared on Katsuki’s face. Kirishima took it as a good sign. “Alright shitty hair, you want me to prove how badly I want Y/N back. FINE!” The two friends pulled the iconic bro hug to seal the deal.

(You know? That shit that guys do where they high five and pull each other in with that one hand for the quickest hug and pat each other on the back? You know what I’m talking about.)

“Welcome back Katsuki.” Kirishima gladly stated. “Now get the fuck out of my room man, I’m sick of sleeping on the common room couches and you reek. Take a shower. And get your own clothes from your own room.”

As Kirishima pushed him out into the hallway and shut the door, it hit Bakugou like a bus. This would be Katsuki’s first challenge. Going back into the room filled with the torn love.

As Katsuki opened the door holding onto the picture, he felt his heart sink. He saw the damage. Melted candles, dried petals, the gifts and letter. Even the nasty smell of the spoiled curry still remained. As Katsuki gathered the courage to walk in and place the picture on the messy nightstand, it’s like the room was holding onto some sad emotions. Heartache and regret filled Katsuki’s chest. He couldn’t believe how fast it happened. He thought he would at least have a minute or two before he felt the pain again. Man, did it hurt like hell.

Katsuki dashed to his closet grabbing the first things he saw. He grabbed his shower container that held all his soaps and cleaning utensils and ran out the room, shutting the door. Once out, he let out a breath of relief.

“...after I clean myself up, the room’s next.” Katsuki said with determination as he walked towards the boy’s community showers and bath house.

When the hot water hit his skin, he felt a sense of calm. It wasn’t the same as the warmth of Kirishima’s blankets. It was better. The water and hot steam completely engulfed him in relaxation. The water washed away not only the dirt and grime, but also some of the tense feelings. For a moment, he felt at ease.

As Katsuki walked out the bathing area now fully clothed and dried, he made his way back to his room. He stood there, staring at the knob until he felt he was ready. Once he opened the door, the emotions hit him once again. Like a wave of sadness washed over his entire body. Finally, he stepped in.

First things first. Open up these windows. Let out that disgusting air filled with spoiled curry and sad emotions. When Katsuki took a breath a fresh air, he felt so alive. Much better than he has in days.

Now, we gotta move stuff. Katsuki picked up his dirty laundry and put it in his closet to wash later. He moved all his presents up off the floor and onto the bed. He swepted all the dead petals and toss them in his trash can. He threw out all the ruined candles and sprayed the room with air fresheners. He fixed up his bed and placed the picture frame back on his now cleaned nightstand. Next to it, a lit candle that smelled of caramel.

Katsuki took a seat at his desk. He was back to thinking about Y/N and all that he could do to win her back. As he checked his clock, he realized just how late it was. Kirishima came back to him at the end of class and training which was around 6. He spent an hour talking to Katsuki, and then Katsuki spent 4 hours cleaning himself and his room. It was 11:00 now. Way past his usual bed time. He’ll figure things out in the morning.

Katsuki smiled to himself as he layed in his own bed. He was finally on the right track again and one step closer to getting his teddy bear back. He turned to the picture frame, and grabbed onto it, hugging it while he slept. Katsuki was getting better but he wasn’t whole again. He needed Y/N to help him sleep alright, so holding the picture at night will have to do. He couldn’t wait till he woke up in the morning. Tomorrow he had school, he’ll get to see Y/N’s beautiful face for the first time in awhile, but before that, you bet your ass he’s waking up extra early to come up with a plan.

——————————————————————————

The next morning

*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* *click!*

The blonde smacked his alarm button before he rose up and stretched his body. Today was the day. He’s gets to see Y/N again. Bakugou just sits in place staring at nothing. Just taking 2 minutes to regain full consciousness. Once he’s set, he’s up and getting ready. It’s 4 in the morning now, so he begins to strategize.

Katsuki is pulling out easels and white boards. Pulling out notebooks and writing down facts. What Y/N is interested in, her favorite hobbies and foods, where she likes to spend her time, what she could need help with that Bakugou could assist her with. He’s also writing down the highlights of their relationship and what she seemed to enjoy best about him. He’ll be keeping that as a reference for when he needs to reassess on how he should treat her better. He will do better this time. That’s a promise to himself and you.

After half an hour of slightly struggling, he reaches out for help. Now at 4:30 a.m, here was the blonde knocking at his best friend’s door.

Rock music is blasting, sweat is flying everywhere and punches are being thrown at a hero. Not just any hero, Crimson Riot! As Kirishima continues to spar with his idol, he’s interrupted by a banging sound.

*BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM*

“The hell?” The younger red head says. Soon his idol began to fade away.

“Crimson Riot! Hey are you okay sir?!” But it was too late, the man was gone. Now the whole room was waving around. Did Kirishima accidentally mistake his giant jug of water for vodka or something? Soon he was left in nothing but a black abyss. And then....he fell!

“Shitty hair.....Ei....KIRISHIMA!”

“AH!” The red head screamed as he shot up from the bed, head-butting his best friend right then and there. Great, a perfect dream. Ruined.

“Ah, shit!” Bakugou said in pain as he held his now throbbing forehead. “What the fuck?”

“That’s my line Bakugou,” the red head sighed, “Did you break into my room? Jeez man, what the fuck? What are you doing here at.....4:38 a.m?!?!? DUDE!”

“I know, my bad okay? But..I could use some help.” Bakugou whispered the last part so Kirishima had no idea what this man just said.

“What bro?” Kirishima asked.

“I said....I could use some help.” The blonde repeated.

“C’mon man, you’re gonna have to speak u-“

“I need your help, alright?!” Bakugou finally said. Kirishima sighed. His bro really couldn’t wait until later?

“Bakugou, you know I’m always down to help you out but this is too early man. Can we just-“ the blonde quickly added on to what he was previously saying.

“Please.”

Kirishima’s eyes shot open after he closed them to drift off back to sleep. Did the Katsuki Bakugou just ask for help by saying please? This must be extremely important.

“......alright. You got me, I’m up. But if I’m gonna be up at 4 in the morning, others are gonna be helping us too.” Kirishima bargained.

“But-“ Kirishima cut him off

“But nothing. Besides, I’m drowsy in the morning so I wouldn’t really focus all that well. And we’re just going to the people we can trust.” The red head explained.

“Fine.” The blonde gave in. So there they went, gathering the other members of the Bakusquad (minus Y/N) to help Bakugou win back his girl.

As the 4 sleepy heads sat down on Bakugou’s floor infront of the whiteboard he wrote on, The blonde began to explain some of his plans.

“So I was thinking of treating her real nice all day until she takes me back and we become friends again, eventually leading to our relationship, but then I realized she’d be into a fake me and we all know I can’t pull the nice guy act forever. Then I thought I’d spoil her with all of the things she desires, but money can’t buy you love. So I thought I could-“ Katsuki quickly noticed the long period of silence other than his voice.

There, were his 4 friends sleeping in a dog pile in the middle of his dorm room floor, completely ignoring everything he’s been saying.

Bakugou sighed and grabbed a small “heroes weekly” issue sitting on his desk, rolled it up, and wacked his friends in their heads.

“You idiots...WAKE THE FUCK UP!” Ahh, welcome back Gremlin Bakugou.

As his friends came back from the dead, they all complained.

“Aww c’mon Bakugou. We’ve been at this for an hour already, it’s 5:40.” Sero said while yawning.

“I don’t care. You idiots offered to help so here you are.” Bakugou said while turning to face the board again.

“We didn’t offer shit!” The bakusquad simultaneously replied.

Mina let out a groan while rubbing her eyes open, “Look Bakugou. We really want you and Y/N to be happy together, we really do, but maybe it’s for the best if you guys don-“ Mina was cut off by Denki slapping his hand over her mouth.

As she looked at her electric friend, she saw a nervous expression on his face. She followed his gaze and saw the back of an angry and almost insane looking and shaking Bakugou.

Hearing Mina say that he should let Y/N go triggered something in his brain. But hearing her say they wanted the couple back together enlightened him too. His mind got the two mixed up.

‘Everyone wants us back together. Not just me. So...then we are back together. Yeah. Y/N is still mine’ the now insane blonde thought to himself.

“....Ok well, time to go, get some sleep, see you idiots in the morning!” Bakugou said while pushing the group out of his room. Once they made it over the threshold, he slammed the door.

With an insane plan in mind, Bakugou checked the time and saw he could take at least a good hour long nap before he had to get ready to leave for school. And that’s exactly what he did. So he jumped into the covers, grabbing onto the picture and drifted off into sleep.

——————————————————————————

*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* *click!*

Bakugou’s alarm rang once more, and again, he slammed it shut. He stretched, got up outta bed and changed into his uniform. That power nap really well rested him, but it also must’ve fucked up his brain even more.

‘And now it’s time to go see my beautiful girlfriend,’ he thought to himself.

After Mina’s comments last night, it hit Bakugou with a great realization. Everyone wanted him and Y/N back together. Not just him. So why not give everybody what they want? Sure maybe Y/N might not completely want it but she’ll learn how to love Bakugou again. Everyone’s happy. And so, Bakugou was convinced that him and Y/N were back together.

At breakfast, Bakugou ran down to already see the Squad up and eating.

“Why the hell do you losers look like death?” He asked while grabbing a cup for his orange juice.

“Well we were all trying to sleep, but after what happened this morning, we couldn’t.” Mina explained.

“What happened this morning? There was nothing big except you guys helping me out.” Kirishima really couldn’t believe it. Had his dear friend not even notice his weird ass trigger moment earlier?

“Alright whatever. Anyway, wheres Y/N?” Bakugou asked after he finished his cup.

“Oh, she just left. She had an early breakfast and went for a quick walk.” Mina said.

“You planning on talking to her today Kacchan?” Denki questioned him.

“You damn Spark Plug, of course I’m gonna talk to my girlfriend today. Fucking idiot.” He said as he grabbed his bag and walked out the kitchen.

“.........Huh?” The entire squad was left in confusion.

‘Had they gotten back together this morning? Did she really accept him back that fast? What the fuck is going on?’ They all thought.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?” Kaminari cried out as he pulled at and scruffled his hair in confusion.

Ah Denki. Always saying what everyone is thinking but the only one ballsy enough to idiotically say it aloud.

——————————————————————————

As she walked to class, Y/N hummed a little song to herself. She enjoyed her walk as it helped clear her mind from all the recent events. Her breakup with Bakugou really took a toll on her. They were together for almost 2 years (EVER SINCE JUNIOR HIGH) so of course the split hit her hard. He accused her of cheating and burned her. So much for trust, right? Not only that, but the burn left a tiny scar. Usually, due to you having a regeneration ability as part of your quirk, Phoenix, the scar should’ve healed up. Maybe the emotional damage caused it to permanently mark itself in you. Oh well, whats done is done. And now it’s time for class.

When you walked though the door, you were expecting a normal day. Ever since the split, you usually got their a lot earlier before anyone else so you could sit, do a little reading, sketch out a little drawing, or just rest your eyes until the bell rang. Except this time, when you opened the door, someone jumped on you for a hug.

“Babe! There you are you little dumbass. Jeez, I was looking for you everywhere.” Bakugou said as he let go of the hug. “I’ve missed you, haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Uhm, you said babe??” You spoke with a confused and shocked voice.

“Yeah, I called you babe? So what? We always call each other that. You are my girlfriend after all.” He said so casually as he walked to his seat.

THISMANSAIDWHAATTT

“Uh, Bakugou-“

“Katsuki.” He deadpanned.

“Bakugou, we broke up.” You stated while walking up to him.

“Mm...no we didn’t.” He once again so casually said.

“Wha- I- we- you-....HUH?!” You stuttered out.

“Y/N-“

“L/N!” You corrected.

“Y/N. We didn’t break up you dummy, we only had a little set back and that’s fine. All couples do. But thankfully you forgave me and we’ve moved past it,” he began as he pulled you into his lap, “besides, everyone wants us back together including us so why not make it easier for everyone.”

You began stuttering out none sense right there on his lap. You were in such shock and utter disbelief that he said all that bullshit. Well maybe he was right about one thing. Everyone did want you guys back together, including you both, but that’s besides the point! Y’all broke up! He needs to accept it.

“Baku- no- I- we-“ and before you knew it, his lips were on yours.

And for some reason, you didn’t push him away. Granted you didn’t accept it either, but you slowly melted into it. The kiss was passionate and slow. It wasn’t sloppy, it was very controlled, but it was just a lotta lip and tongue. The whole thing sent butterflies to your heart and stomach. Oh how you missed moments like these with Katsuki.

He readjusted you on his lap so that you were now straddling him. His hands travelled down to your ass as he gave it a nice squeeze, one that made you moan into the kiss. Your arms went straight to his neck to pull him in for more and he took it as an invitation to start. The kiss began to get a little rougher. More tongue and teeth, both of you extremely desperate for the touch from one another. With your cunt pressed onto his crotch, he slowly thrusted up into you as you grinded down slowly on him. You both started breathing heavier and letting out little whimpers of ecstasy. He could probably feel your now soaked panties. One hand left your ass and came around to the front. He pressed on your soaked pussy through your damp underwear and it caused shutters to go through your entire body.

You began pressing down into his hand, desperate for more friction and Bakugou noticed. He moved your panties to the side and slipped in one finger. This was rewarded with a louder moan that caused Katsuki to smile into the kiss. He knew you and your body so well. He was determined to treat you right and get you to fall for him one more time. As his finger felt around your velvet walls, he slipped in another one, receiving an even louder cry of pleasure. You broke off from the kiss to throw your head back. Katsuki saw this as an opportunity to attack your neck. To mark you up and let everyone know you still belonged to him.

“K-Katsuki. Don’t...don’t stop,” you panted.

“I won’t princess, I’ll take care of you.” He smiled.

Without warning, he shoved in 2 more fingers. You were so loud and Bakugou was so proud. You were gonna let everyone know what’s happening and he was excited.

He lifted his head to whisper into your ear as you continued to moan and sigh.

“Well aren’t you just a little slut. You want everyone to know how well daddy takes care of you? You want them to hear you scream in pleasure?” His words went straight to your cunt that was now welcoming in his 5th and final finger. Completely fisting you now, you let out loud cries.

“S-uki, .....ah, AH YES! Mm, s’too much!” You cried out. You couldn’t help it, you loved him. You knew you did. Even though what he did was wrong, your body took over and your mind turned off. You fully succumbed to his wishes.

You let your feet hit the ground to stand yourself up a little bit and fall down onto his fist, meeting the thrust of his hand moving in and out of you. Watching the show, Katsuki couldn’t help but stare in delight. His hard on growing bigger and bigger each second as he bit his lip to hold back his sounds. Watching you bounce on just his fist did something to him and brought out a feral beast. He snapped.

He pulled his fist out of your aching pussy and sat you down on his desk. He stood up infront of you and tore your delicate panties off.

“Katsuki-“ you were silenced with a smack to your ass

“That’s not my name, teddy bear. C’mon now, you know exactly what I wanna hear.” He said while caressing your thighs.

“..Yes daddy.” You bashfully said.

With a kiss to your cheek he praised you.

“Good girl.” As he began to unbuckle his belt, you looked around the classroom.

“D-daddy. Someone’s gonna see!” You cautiously stated.

Katsuki reassured you with a kiss to your lips, “We’ll be fine princess, I promise,” he said while placing his tip at your entrance. You whimpered at the thought of him inside you again, it’s been so long. You were almost nervous. That is until Katsuki place a finger under your chin so you could face him in his eyes.

“I’m gonna take care of you, so don’t worry.” And with that you slowly nodded. And he finally began to press into you.

With just his tip in, you let out a breathy moan. He was bigger than you remembered. He kept pressing and pressing until he was fully inside your warm and tight hole. You both let out a moan at the feeling of each other.

“Daddy, please move.” And he did as he was told. With a steady pace set, he thrusted himself in and out of you. Both of you moaning louder every second. While you were enveloped in the euphoric feeling, Katsuki was struggling to hold back the beast inside of him. That is until you came up to his ear.

“Fuck me like you mean it, daddy. I won’t break, I promise.” You said in his ear and Katsuki swore he could hear your smirk. Gripping your ass and continuing his pace he spoke.

“Don’t be mad when you can’t walk for the next week,” he smirked. With that, he slammed himself deeper, harder, and faster inside of you. His tip hitting your cervix. You let our screams of pure pleasure and he did the same.

“Oh yesss...shit daddy..so big..”

“F-fuck! Oh you like that? Yeah princess? ...oh shit baby your pussy takes me so well. Y-Yeah, your tight little cunt takes this big cock so fucking well,” he moved faster inside, exploring you completely. His hands went straight to your shirt and and ripped it open. You had a few buttons fly everywhere, but you didn’t care. He pushed your bra up and let one of your mounds fall into his hand. He squeezed it tight to release a generous moan from you. He then dove into the valley of breast to mark your chest. You held onto the back of his head and tugged at his hair and he growled at he feeling, enjoying every second of it.

“Oh yess princess just like that. S-shit. Oh fuck yes...oh you’re mine,” he went deeper inside as he spoke.

“Fuck! Daddy yes! Right t-there! Oh my god..yess,” you cried out.

“Can you feel that. Oh fuck, can you feel my dick in your gut?” He moaned out. Katsuki went to grip the edge of his desk as you kept your hold around his neck, causing him to somehow move faster. He went up to taste your lips once more

“I love you....so much princess...you hear me...Mm, your mine,” he said between kisses and ended with a smack to your now red ass.

His words had you squeezing his cock. He knew what was coming.

“Aww, is princess gonna cum? You gonna cum on daddy’s dick?” He teased.

“Mm...p-please daddy. Please let me cum,” you said while throwing your head back. Katsuki only smirked at this.

“Not yet~” he pulled out of you, leaving you a whiny mess.

“N-no! Daddy please! Please let me finish,” you said while holding onto his shoulders, inches away from his face, pressing your chest to his. Your words caused his “little” friend to grow even harder and Katsuki only smirked and looked down at you.

“Dont worry teddy bear, Daddy’s not done with you yet.” He yanked you off the desk and pressed you down onto it, with your chest to the desk. Then he slammed back into you, returning to the fast pace again.

“Fuck yeah..oh god look at this ass. Nice and round, all red for me,” he said while pounding into you.

He gave your ass a good few smacks, countered with a thrust each harder than the last before going to lay his chest on top of you to whisper in your ear.

“You wanna be a good girl for daddy? Huh, teddy bear?” He asked.

“Mmm, yes! Yes I’ll be good, just please!” You cried out. He reached his hand over to rub on your clit. Your body began to shake with pleasure.

“Then cum with me.....NOW,” he said, and that was all it took for you to release the white liquid. As you came you could feel his hot release filling you up to the brim. He cried out in pure pleasure while you did the same.

You both stayed in that position for a bit, and you could feel the mixture of both your release dripping down your inner thighs. Soon, you felt Katsuki lower himself to kiss your neck.

“You did so good princess.” He calmly said to you. It was relieving, and you loved the sound of his voice, but you couldn’t help but feel a little off at this whole ordeal.

Katsuki pulled out of you and watched how his cum covered and filled your entire pussy. He smiled at the sight and went to grabbed some tissue on Aizawa’s desk to clean you and himself up.

He tucked himself back into his pants and you rebuttoned your shirt the best you could and flipped your skirt back down. Since Katsuki tore your panties you’d have to go commando at least until you got back to your room. You watched as Katsuki went to throw away the tissues and your torn underwear into the trash can. When he made his way back to you, he held you in his arms and attempted to kiss you. But you turned away.

“Hey teddy be-“

“No, Katsuki. Please don’t call me that.” You said while looking down. Katsuki felt his heart hurt a little. You’re always gonna be his teddy bear, why would he ever stop calling you that?

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” He asked you.

“Us. This. Katsuki, what happened today should not have happened.” You said

“What?” He was so confused and a little hurt.

As tears start to fill your eyes, you did everything you could to not let them fall. “Suki, we broke up. You accused me of cheating, you burned me! So for us to come in here and just have sex like nothing happened is wrong.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry for what happened. Seriously, after what I did it destroyed me. But please listen, I lov-“ you cut him off again.

“I know!.....I know you do Katsuki.....and I love you too Suki. So much,” this brought a smile to his face. A true, genuine smile that you loved so dearly.

“But I’m scared.” You added on. This made Katsuki’s smile drop, worry and concern fill his eyes.

“Of what exactly?” He asked you while gently holding onto your hand.

“.....You.” This shocked him. His own teddy bear feared him. Heartbreaking.

“I’m scared of the lack of trust that you have for me. And not only that, but your quirk too. Katsuki I know you’re one of the best students here at UA, but I know you’re emotions can get out of hand too. It’s clear that when you’re not in control of your feelings, your quirk can lash out. The evidence is right here,” you turned you arm that he was holding to show him the scar he left on you.

Now this really hurt Katsuki. He loved marking you with his love, not with his anger. The fact that he did that to you sent his mind into a frenzy. Until he felt your touch on his cheek.

Holding onto his cheek with your soft hands, you spoke reassuring words. “Katsuki, you were right about two things. I do want us to be together again and I do forgive you,” and with that, Katsuki leaned into your touch. Holding onto your hand that held his face, he released a single tear he didn’t know he was holding and closed his eyes in relief and satisfaction.

“But I can’t be with you again.” Your words caused him to open his eyes and stare at you in shock and fear. “At least...not yet.”

Whew, his heart rate went back down. Oh the rollar coaster of emotions this poor boy was currently on.

“Yet?” He asked hopefully.

“Suki, I’m still trying to fix myself, and it’s clear that you need to fix yourself too. I really want to be with you, but we both need time to grow for each other. I can’t leave you. I know for sure that in my heart, you’re always gonna be the one I run back to, but I don’t want to run back to someone who could possibly hurt me again. I want to come back to you knowing that when we are together again, our relationship is secured.” You explained.

A silence filled the air. You both stared at each other for what felt like forever. Nobody else in the world. Just you and him. He then pulled you in for a tight hug. As he held onto you, you could feel hot tears hitting your shoulder, and quiet sobs left his voice along with a hitched breath every now and then. Katsuki was crying.

“....I promise you. I’m gonna get better for you. I’m gonna be worthy of you and your love and it’ll stay that way for the rest of our lives. You and me. Together. Im gonna do whatever it takes to get you back and I won’t stop at anything until you’re mine again. I swear I’ll treat you better than I ever did before. As long as I know that you’re coming back to me and me only, I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes teddy bear.” He said into your neck with his arms tightly wrapped around your waist.

“I know you will Suki. And I promise I won’t make you wait too long.” You said while hugging him back.

“You better not.” The blonde said.

“Don’t forget though, I’m always yours. And just yours.” You reassured him.

“......Can we at least make this a little easier for me and say we didn’t split. We’re just on a break. A small break?” He said, now looking directly in your eyes while still holding onto you.

You put his worries at ease with your gentle smile. “The smallest break, Suki.” You softly laughed as you both went back in for another hug.

“........I like it better when you call me daddy,” the damn devil said while smiling.

“Shut up you horny idiot.” You chuckled.

‘I can’t wait to be yours again,’ you both thought

You both stayed there in each other’s embraces until the world faded away. It was just you and him. Together. You were both no longer lost. You weren’t at your destination yet, but you were on the right tracks. One step closer to each other. One step closer to love.

A/N: There’s still a little more I wanna add to the story, so there will be a part 3 to close this little short story. Sorry if there were any spelling mistakes. Thank you guys so much for the love and support. As a new writer I never expected to grow so quickly so I truly love each and every one of you bear cubs! Sorry this was so long, I hope you enjoyed! 💗🧸

[secretlittl3whore]

Not a Nightmare

Summary: You’re reminiscing over the last year when you hear Bucky having a dream in the other room, but it’s not the kind of dream you were expecting.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: smut! Unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your Willy). A little angsty first. Swear words. 18+ y’all please!

Enjoy my sweet nymphs. As always, you can request ;)

——

His nightmares kept him up most nights. It had been that way since i had connected with him in South America. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, he really didn’t even know who he was, except what he could glean from the Captain America exhibit and from what I could share of what Steve had told me. Part of me wondered if I made the right decision to follow him instead of returning to America, but when he recognized me and in the two weeks I was down there, attempted multiple interactions with me, I couldn’t deny him when he asked me to stay. I wish I understood why he asked.

Now here we are in Bucharest. Times are calmer for him, but the nightmares...they’re worse than anything I expected. Sometimes, he will awake screaming at night. Others he’s trying to fight some imaginary enemy and doesn’t wake till he’s forced. On occasion, I have been the victim of a night terror. His vibranium arm crushing my throat or him slamming me into the floor. Bucky always felt like shit afterwards, no matter what I said. At one point he tried to kick me out of his apartment and his life, saying he was too dangerous for me. I sat outside the door for six hours, listening to him cry. When I finally had knocked, he practically ripped the door of the hinges to grab me back in. He dropped to his knees that day, his arms wrapped around me as he buried his tear covered face against my stomach. It broke me to see him in such a vulnerable position. I remember running my hands through his hair for what seemed like forever until his grip around me loosened and his arms fell limply to his sides.

“Why did you stay? After, after all I’ve done?” His voice broke, as more tears slid down his face. My own eyes welled with tears as I kneeled in front of him. Slowly and gently, I took him in my arms, pulling him against me. Bucky tensed for a minute, but then slowly wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck. I went back to running my fingers in his hair, contemplating my response.

“Because I want to be here for you. In every way possible.” A silent sob racked his body and I felt more of his weight on me as he crumpled. Bucky laid his head in my lap and brought his flesh hand to rest on my hip. He kept his vibranium on the floor, away, fear radiating from the way he curled it away from me. “Give me your hand Bucky.” He raised his head off my lap with wide open eyes.

“But...” he started to protest, but i shushed him, placing my finger on his lips.

“I’m here for you in every way.” I emphasized the last two words with a small smile. I wasn’t afraid of him and I certainly wasn’t afraid of his arm. “That means,” I reached for his hand and took the cool metal fingers within mine, “you don’t have To worry about keeping yourself from me.” Reluctantly he allowed me to bring his arm up to my lips. I knew he couldn’t feel it, but I kissed his had, listening to the soft whirs and enjoying the feel of the cool metal against my lips. Bucky continued to cry for a while more, my sleep shorts practically soaked and my legs so numb that I was probably going to have to crawl to bed. But he never let go, never moved his head, and never tried to remove his arm from my grasp.

Since that day, he has been exceedingly touchy with me. It was clear he was touch starved, I would be too, if all i ever knew was a harsh hand. I started to notice it when I had just returned from the market with groceries one day. I swore he had been asleep on his makeshift bed and I was trying to be as quiet as I could, but then felt a presence and a hand on the small of my back. I threw him a small smile over my shoulder before returning to my task. He stayed there for the entire time I put the groceries away, leaning against the fridge door and absentmindedly rubbing the exposed skin of my back. It was the hardest fucking lesson to learn, but I finally had enough willpower to not jump when he placed his cold fingers against my skin. I honestly loved the feeling of his metal pads dragging softly against the small of my back, but gosh dang were they freezing! Even despite the fact that he wore gloves almost all the time.

Nonetheless, i started to notice it more and more after this. Him standing close to me, having his hand on me at any point (or simply just brushing it against me), sitting near me, and my favorite, him laying his head on my lap when I’m sitting in the couch.

Had I fallen in love with the super soldier? I cannot deny it.

—

A whimper from the living room ripped me from my head. I sat up in the bathtub, trying to see if the sound was just in my head. Another whimper told me it wasn’t. I wrapped myself in a robe and padded softly into the living room where Bucky slept.

He wasn’t thrashing around, but his face was contorted in an expression I couldn’t read. Suddenly, a small moan left his lips and I just about swooned. What was this man dreaming about? At that moment, his blanket fell to the side and I averted my eyes respectfully, but definitely didn’t miss the tent that had formed in his sweat pants. I turned to walk away but then he moaned again, this time saying a name...my name.

I felt hot, not just in my face, but also in between my legs. He was dreaming about me? I almost didn’t believe it, but the man said my name yet again. Fine, if he says it again...

“Y/n...” Bucky moaned, a little louder this time. Damn it. Mustering all my confidence, I walked over to the sleeping man. It was a risk, and I knew it, but I’ll be damned if I lied to myself and said I didn’t want this man. Kneeling beside his bed, I gently brushed some of the hair out of his face. The super soldier startled awake and grabbed my hand harshly, breathing raspy. “y/n...what?” Voice sleepy.

“You were dreaming.” I said simply. He sat up quickly and pulled the blanket over himself, averting his eyes from my gaze. “Bucky,” he still refused to look at me. “Do you want me?” Bucky immediately snapped his eyes to mine, a clear and potent blush on his face. I heard him swallow hard before replying in the most quiet of voice,

“Yes.” Inwardly I celebrated as loudly as I could, but I kept cool on the surface. I surged forward and captured his lips. He responded immediately, moving his lips against mine. Without breaking the kiss, I straddled his lap wrapping my arms around his neck. Tentatively, he brought both hands to my hips. I licked his bottom lip and invaded his mouth when he opened. He moaned into my mouth as my tongue danced with his. When I pulled back, our breaths were short. His blue eyes glistened with tears,

“Are you sure you want me?” If it had been any other moment, I probably would’ve just cried and held him in my arms, but there was such a confidence within myself that I decided against such a meek answer. Instead, I pulled at the tie of my robe. Bucky almost instantly grabbed my hands, his eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you just how much I want you.” As he relaxed his hands, I pulled the robe off. The cold air within the apartment perked my nipples. Bucky’s eyes traveled my body, but he didn’t move. Slowly, I led his hands to my chest. His metal hand played a dangerous game of temperature play with my breasts and a moan escaped from me. My cunt ached and I knew that I was wet from anticipation.

That moan must’ve given him some sort of confidence because he started to knead the fleshy mounds. He then dipped his head low and took a nipple into his mouth.

“Buck,” I moaned. His tongue laved over the nipple and I felt his teeth pull gently. I was a raspy, moaning mess by the time he switched over to the other nipple. Need friction. Taking his flesh hand from my breast, I guided it down to my aching cunt. Bucky stopped his lavishes on my nipple as he stared at me.

“I’m...” Bucky averted his gaze, “I’m out of practice.” Before he could get into his head and start comparing himself to his 1940s version, I kissed him deeply.

“So am I, we’ll learn together.” Bucky inhaled deeply and dropped his head to my shoulder. A finger touched my sensitive nub and I jerked. He started circling that area with his thumb as his other fingers explored, gathering wetness. A finger entered me and I gasped at the feeling. Another entered. Moving in and out, curling, and gently stretching me. I was a moaning mess at his musings. A white flash smashed my vision as he hit a certain spot within me and I moaned loudly. Bucky started kissing and licking my shoulders and neck, marking the skin as he paid attention to this spot within me. My moans spurned him on as he quickened his pace, still making sure to play with my clit.

“Buck...Bucky.” His name a mantra on my lips as I grasped his hair, my head falling backwards. His metal arm reached around my back, holding me in place. My orgasm was building, toes curling, that warmth within my belly. His fingers pumped and curled, edging me to the end. In a another flash of white It surged through me and I came on his fingers.

He looked surprised and proud of himself as he brought his soaked fingers to his lips. I almost came again as I watched him lick each one clean. His pupils blew out and he pulled my face to his, smashing his lips against mine. Tongue surged past my open lips, bringing the taste of me. Bucky lifted me off his lap and gently turned us around, laying me on his bed, but never breaking the kiss. He worked his pants off.

I pulled back from the kiss, my lungs screaming for air. He leaned upwards and I finally caught the full show. His dick was massive, too swollen and red. The veins popping. And fine curly hair at the base. He was Definitely bigger than I have ever had. I gingerly reached out and wrapped my fingers around him. Shit, he was thick, I could hardly touch my middle finger to my thumb. I looked up at him. His eyes were closed, mouth opened just a bit, and his hands were in his hair.

“Buck?” I brought his attention to me and he released his hands from his hair. “What’s wrong?” He had tears in his eyes again.

“I don’t want to be something you regret y/n.” He cried. I reached upwards and guided him down to my lips. His tears dropping onto my cheeks.

“Never. I’ll never regret you. I love you.” I whispered into his ears. Bucky froze. Oh shit, did I go to far?

“Say it again.” He spoke finally, still frozen in place, his ear next to my lips. I swallowed hard before repeating,

“I love you.” Bucky reached down between us, pumped himself twice, before lining himself up at my entrance. He pushed forward gently. Even with just the tip inside, I could already feel the stretching. He entered more, going slow. Bucky and I moaned loudly as he became fully sheathed inside. I grasped at his shirt, feeling full. There was a dull pain within my cunt and I breathed through it, the pain finally turning to pleasure. Almost as he could sense it, Bucky started to move. The rhythm was slow at first, him enjoying and getting reacquainted to the feeling.

My entire being felt jolted with every roll of his hips. His pubic bone was hitting my clit so perfectly that even at this slow pace, I was sure that he would throw me over the edge again. Bucky leaned closer to me, making sure to keep his weight on his forearms, and buried his head within my neck again. Wrapping my legs around his waist, i fisted my hand within his hair. He groaned and snapped his hips hard against me. The sound that left my mouth was pornographic, and he definitely liked it. Bucky started snapping his hips into me at a bruising pace, drawing moan after moan. I was incoherent, arching my back into him. He suddenly grabbed my hand from his back and thrusted it against the bed, holding it at the wrist. His metal hand hoisted my hips higher, and at the angle he was going, he was smashing into that special spot. I came in an instant, screaming loudly.

He didn’t let up his pace. Pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in. Both hands were now at my hips, gripping hard. There would be bruises in the morning. Groans and moans were rushing past his lips as he powered through, his stamina definitely a byproduct of the super soldier serum. Another orgasm built within me and he leaned over my ear,

“Fuck y/n, I can feel you clenching. Can you give me another doll?” I threw my head back as he bit into my neck.

“Bucky!” I cried as the orgasm came. Bucky slowed his pace, pressing open mouth kisses to my skin. He then began to work a mark into my neck. My body was on fire and really sensitive. I moaned loudly, fisting my hands into his shirt. For a moment I wondered why it was still on, but I figured that although he may be confident to be within me, he may not yet be confident to show me himself fully, and that was okay, we could work towards that. Once he was proud of the mark, he placed a loving peck to it before moving towards my face. Not an inch was left unkissed. He leaned his forehead against mine, blue orbs staring into mine.

“Ready?” He asked. I nodded slowly, kissing him gently. Bucky picked up his speed and this time, it was more brutal than before. Pubic bone smashing against the sensitive bundle of nerves, wet legs and balls slapping against skin making the most perverted of sounds. Bucky’s hands gripped mine. I arched into him again, writhing, unable to control myself at the amount of pleasure within. My moans were incoherent, his name slipping from my lips. Suddenly his hips stuttered and he slammed into me, wrapping his arms tightly around me and crushing me against his chest. His release came with my name on his lips, a string of soft repetition. For a while he held me, his cock warm within me. And then he pulled out, laying beside me. Sweaty bodies, heaving chests, and the smell of sex was an intoxicating combination. I felt drained, but happy.

Curling against him, I wrapped my leg around his hip, just to feel him against my cunt. Bucky reached down and pulled the blanket over us. As I felt sleep take over, Bucky pressed a kiss to my forehead.

“I love you too Y/N.”

[notathingjustthere]

Not This Time

A/N: Honestly this feels incomplete and dry but I got frustrated arguing with myself lol. I wanted to post something today, because if I keep pushing it off I will never post anything so here it is. I’m trying.  

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Word Count: 3525

Summary: Ransom oversteps a boundary and cannot seem to accept the consequence of you ignoring him permanently.

The rude interruption that graced your morning, would leave drained for the rest of your day. Your blurred eyes slowly zeroed in on the small scraps of confetti that would eventually cover the floors of your bedroom. The popping sound had woken you up in alarm, and the frown that graced your face said enough. 

The evil faces that turned up in your bedroom were painted in glee, whiles they wished you a happy birthday in unison. “And who’s cleaning that up?” you groaned, naturally reaching for the phone on your bedside table and squinting when the brightness assaults your eyes.

It was only 9:23 in the morning, the alarm was usually set for 11:30 on your weekdays, but you tended to snooze till 12:15. You weren't a morning person and your friend Lizzie knew this when she pleaded on your behalf, arguing that 10:00 was a far more reasonable time to wake you up. Mila, your other friend had disregarded the input of course. 

As of late your weekends were more often than not reserved for sleep, this one being no different. Monday would be a holiday so the next 72 hours were intended to be spent alone in your house, at least that had been the plan. You had been feeling more dull than usual, and even your restocked liquor cabinet failed to excite you. 

The brunch set up in your backyard was very much up to par with your tastes.  It felt pointless to change so you still wore your pajamas, after washing your face and complaining about the time. Your friends had gone all out for the small gathering, hiring quite the eye candy of servers. Each one waited at the table, ready to help you girls to your seats. 

Your eyes lingered on one of the men a bit longer than intended, and the unexpected wink sent your way forced your eyes to look elsewhere. Mila jerked at your elbow, before wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at you. You had rolled your eyes before bursting out in laughter, enjoying the rest of your late morning meal with your two best girlies. It had been a while since you saw your friends, so you were glad, to say the least

Unlike you, Lizzie and Mila grew up accustomed to a lifestyle that only old money could provide. They didn't work as often as you did, which made it harder to fit into each other's schedules during the week. You did not grow up poor per se, but when compared to your friends, you could have been perceived that way. Your mother was a professor at Brown University, a fairly successful woman you thought. 

You had found your own definition for success, living comfortably and content with yourself,  as you often described it. Working in a high-level position for a growing green energy company, you took pride in your resilience. Many of your years were filled with uncertainties but finally, you had made something of yourself. The full ride to Harvard was where you met Lizzie and Mila, never expecting to develop a long-lasting relationship.

The cell you kept for personal use remained ignored after Lizzie dragged you out of bed that morning. The ringer was often placed on silent, resulting in poor communication habits with your friends. It was noon before you thought to check your device, the notification centre being flooded with messages and alerts. 

Most you assumed were birthday wishes from people you hardly talked to anymore and some that you were only associated with because of status. They meant very little to you, but the sham thankful replies you sent were only to keep face. 

A particular contact had occupied your thoughts for the past two weeks. The spam of messages you left open yet unread grew steadily. You were intent on ignoring him for as long as you felt necessary. He was not important enough to ruin your mood this weekend, or so you thought.

The last bits of sparkling wine settled nicely in your stomach, your chest feeling warm and tingly. You appreciated the quality time spent with your friends but it was time to resume back to your initial plan for the weekend. Lizzie and Mila had their own plans and intended to make your day as lively as possible. On any other day, you’d be down for a good time, but as of late you felt out the mix.

For gifts, Mila had opted for this beautiful emerald green bag from Bulgar. The serpent’s head-shaped clasp suited your corporate persona, which she admired. Lizzie gifted you a pair of Prada boots that she felt were suitable to your tastes. 

It was 6 pm when the two informed you of the private room they reserved at a club. Lizzie’s boyfriend would attend, including two other guests, you were well acquainted with. You weren’t interested at first but eventually caved in at the last minute thought of letting loose and having some fun. 

Your ringer silenced another phone call, it was his 86th one since last Friday. You were impressed with his persistence, figuring he would have given up by now. Newer messages had poured in, none of which you spared a glance until the last message he sent in.

“Fine, if this is how you wanna play it” you read. 

The spat you had gotten into with Ransom, had been your last straw. He was quite the specimen, but a prick at that. The trust fund baby had been spoiled his whole life, and couldn’t seem to handle not having his way for once. 

The relationship that brewed between you both could only be described as complicated. It had taken a lot to manage and handle the baggage he brought with him, but you both had balanced each other for a period of time. Now, you were bent on moving on, trying to convince yourself that you were over him, as he also tried to.

It was at Mila’s charity event that you would officially meet the douche, having only heard of him before. The free champagne helped soothe your nerves that night, as you often would be riddled in anxiety. It was an art exhibition, and you’d gotten roped into a conversation with the famous Harlan Thrombey, discussing a painting you knew a thing or two about. 

That was when Ransom had walked in, interrupting the conversation. You had turned away, fiddling with your glass as you patiently waited for them to finish whatever it was they were briefly discussing. Harlan turned to you, and introduced Ransom, before announcing that he would have to leave you shortly to give a speech. 

At the time Ransom didn't really catch your eye, you avoided making eye contact as you usually would with new people and had missed the way he looked at you. He wanted you in his bed for the night, and you had indulged him likewise. You were gone by morning that day, never being one to wait for the usual awkward boot out. 

Maybe you didn't notice it at first, but his face had begun popping up at your usual spots more and more. You’d run into him at a coffee shop where you often scheduled meetings with prospective clients. There were a couple more hookups here and there before he asked you out to dinner five months down the line. That was almost three years ago. 

Neither one of you talked about making the relationship official until you initiated the conversation. You had been on multiple dates, including the occasional family dinners his family hosted. You never did like attending them, but Ransom had wanted you at his side. You both spent a lot of time at each other's homes, and soon enough it wasn't just for the sex. 

He’d thought of you as his home and maybe you did too. On most days you preferred to have your space, but as of late you missed his not-so-subtle touches whenever he’d pass by you in the kitchen. 

That didn't seem to matter now, because you would never admit it out loud or to yourself. Ransom on the other hand loved being in close contact most of the time. As much as he denied the fact, you’d let him pretend the cuddling sessions during movie nights were due to the lack of space on the couch. 

You never got accustomed to Ransom’s lavish tastes. He’d been quite the spender on gifts and more times than not you insisted that he return most of his purchases. You could appreciate expensive things, but much rather make those purchases yourself. 

He only ever did demand that you keep a particular gift, one you’d almost given back after learning of its monetary value. The personalised bracelet with his and your initials on it had been your favourite. Not once did you ever take it off, and even now you still wore it after two weeks of ignoring him. 

It all started when your boss confronted you about an offer he didn’t expect you to decline so quickly. He insisted that you take your time to reconsider, and you had been confused, having never heard anything about it. You were suspicious of Ransom, almost immediately, but thought to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

At times he could be controlling, something you’d catch once in a while when you paid attention. There would be discussions about it, but oftentimes things got brushed aside as petty jealousy or mindless over-protectiveness. This time, you couldn’t and wouldn't let it slide. 

It was at dinner time when you decided to break out your thoughts and bring something up. You wanted to avoid confrontation, knowing he’d probably try to lie to your face or react in a way you were not ready to handle. He asked about your day as he usually would, and you took the chance to talk about what your boss mentioned, unaccusing of course. 

He played along with your confusion for a while, looking unimpressed as you went on. The contract would require your stay in China for two years, assisting in project management at the company’s main plant. Two years seemed long, and you could understand why the news was not exactly exciting. You had merely mentioned that you were considering the offer when he cut you off.  

“Well that's stupid, is this some kind of joke?” Ransom's response was expected but you had hoped he would show remorse more if anything. You frowned, arms folded when asking him to elaborate on how he was feeling

“I mean, you're gonna leave me for two years? What am I supposed to do, just wait for you?” 

“I would hope so, considering all that we have been through to make this work?”

“Come on, really?” he chuckled darkly, “You think I would wait?” 

“Why are you acting like this? I thought at the very least you'd pretend to be happy for me before reacting this way” you moved your hands in a way that emphasised your point. 

“Oh like you don't know that I declined the offer.”

The sigh you let out was deep. There it was, the confession you wanted out of him. You hated being lied to more than anything and were very disappointed he played along with your little act for even just a little bit. 

“I mean, but what did you expect? That I wouldn't find out about something as important to me as this?” 

“So what, I’m not as important?” he tried changing the topic.

“You know that's not what I mean, and you don't get to play the victim here. I-i don't get it with you, I’m always understanding, so why can't you return the favour”

He turned silent, which you thought was disappointing considering he had so much to say before. The anger you were trying so hard to settle down began to rear its ugly head.  It was a couple more minutes of silence before he opened his mouth to say something.

“You didn't think I’d find it suspicious that your boss was transferring with you?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion at that. Jonathan had not mentioned anything like that and you knew Ransom didn't like him, especially after a particular encounter at your office. 

He had shown up at your job unannounced a year ago to surprise you for your birthday when he saw the arrangements of flowers that decorated your office. Ransom did not look impressed at the scene, and knowing he would never partake in such a gesture you ruled him out. It wasn't until you noticed the card attached to one of the flowers that read out your boss's name.

“Great Job closing that deal, and a happy birthday! - Jonathan.”  

As if on queue the head of the department walked in with smiles, asking if you enjoyed his gifts. He rambled on about not knowing what you would like, so figured he’d get a little bit of everything.  

“She hates flowers,” Ransom had cut in without hesitation, your eyes widening at his remark. Leave it to him to make the inappropriate gesture from your boss even more awkward. 

“He’s not wrong, but I really do appreciate the sentiment. Thank you” you had given him a kind smile, trying to save face. You couldn't remember what happened after that except Jonathan leaving and your boyfriend silently fuming as he walked over to your window. 

You turned your attention to him, raising an eyebrow as if to question his behaviour. You were not angry with him, this was a rare moment where you actually appreciated his blunt tongue. Hopefully, your boss would now relent in his not-so-subtle advances. 

But that was a long time ago, and frankly, it didn't matter because he was focused on the wrong thing at hand. He had invaded your privacy then lied about it by not saying anything. 

“First of all I got this promotion because I worked my fucking ass off, I don't know what Johnathan has to do with anything.” you decided to defend yourself. Whatever it was that he was insinuating didn't matter because you weren't having it.

“Yeah, you fucking worked your ass off alright. You've got him so whipped that he even gets you flowers” 

You gasped, and it wasn't so much that the words hurt you, but rather the fact that he’d been clearly harbouring this since that day. There was not much you could do about unsolicited gifts that you never accepted in the first place. Besides, after Ransom’s visit, your boss had ceased all efforts. 

“Do you actually hear how insane that sounds? What the fuck was I supposed to do about that?” You reasoned, the calmness in your voice was long gone. 

“Quit” he was so arrogant and entitled. 

You scoffed,  “Well I’m sorry, but some of us actually have to work, to earn a living” the tone you took to, spoke well for you.

“I can take care of you, you know that” 

“That sounds nice and all, but I can’t depend on a man who’s never worked a day in his life.” There it was again, the silence.  

“You don't even seem sorry, and you've yet to apologize” the disappointment was evident on your face. 

He rubbed his hands over his face, his nose flaring up in annoyance, “I did what was best for us”  

“No, you did what was best for you” you started but had lost your train of thought. 

“You still don't fucking get it, do you? It's one thing to not want me to leave, but it's completely different when you think that you get to make decisions for me.” the words spewed out. 

“I'm tired of trying to reason with you Ransom, okay? We are done”

It wasn't even a second after, before he grabbed your arm, tightening his hold on you and yanking you towards him. “We are not done until I say we are” 

For a moment there he scared you, he had never put his hands on you like that, at least not outside the bedroom. Your stance did not falter when you yanked your arm away from him “Don't you ever put your hands on me again.”  

The initial shock had long subsided when you decided to speak for the last time. “Let me remind you, that you're that one that begs me back every single time! But not this time, I'm tired of you. T-tired of your shit, the jealousy, childishness, everything!” Those were your last words before your tearducts gave up. 

It was the first time he had ever seen you actually cry. Occasionally he would witness you shed a tear or two, like when you’d receive a wrong order of what you wanted, or something equally as petty.

 He tried to come closer in an attempt to comfort you, but you pushed him aside then turned away. He decided to walk out then and there, leaving you to deal with your own sorrows. 

You remember that day so vividly, and each time the memory replayed you did something to distract yourself. Much like you were doing right now at the club with your friends. The boost that alcohol gave you, left you chatty but numb. 

The buzz had you going for a while, completely indulged in a game of pool with Mila who was effortlessly schooling you. She could not let you win, not even on your birthday. It was the commotion at the door that drew your attention to Ransom arguing with the security guard and Lizzie's boyfriend, Dan. 

“Look dude, she doesn't want you here. Come on don't make this difficult” you didn't realise it but you had made your way towards Dan’s voice, not really processing what was going on. It was the sound of Ransom's knuckles punching Dan in his nose that woke you up from your little daze.  

“I said get out of my way” Ransom tried to push his way through.

“Ransom” you yelled out.

His head turned towards you rushing to Dan who held his nose up in pain. You apologised profusely as you checked his injury, thankful that nothing was broken or bleeding. You turned to your ex-boyfriend annoyed, ready to talk his ear off until you remembered you didn't care anymore.

“If you think this is how to get me to talk to you in good grace, then I don't know what to tell you,” you said, pointing behind you at Dan and Lizzie.

“What do you want? ”You sighed frustrated, after signalling the security guard off. He really wasn't making this easy for you. His hands had twitched before when you held Dan’s face to inspect his nose. He knew better than to make things any worse than it already was. 

“Look, so maybe, I have stuff to work on, and maybe we can both work on this”

“Mmm, you think so?” you asked rhetorically. It took him two weeks to come to this conclusion, and you noted how he did not start with apologies. He wanted to skip out on the guilt, but you wouldn't let him.

He tried to get closer to you, wanting to feel you against him and to reminisce in the sweet warmth he missed so much. You allowed him to, and for a moment you revelled in his familiar body heat as well, ignoring everything else around you. You let go of him after a while, distancing yourself to make it easier on you.

It took a lot to keep your composure, a part of you wanting him back but knew much wouldn’t change if you did. You took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself to relay whatever decision you had made. You were right about one thing, Ransom would always beg you back. Never-ending the cycle of broken boundaries, possessiveness, and jealousy. 

“Look Ransom, I couldn’t give you another chance even if I wanted to” you sighed loudly. “I-it goes against my principles, and that's all I have right now. So please, just leave.” you pleaded.

Ransom’s eyes hardened, he wouldn’t back down. This time you noticed the speck of regret in his eyes, but to damn with his jealousy. He didn't want this to end, and he hadn’t meant for it to. 

“Come on, don't be so stubborn, Y/N. I love you, is that what you want me to say? I’ll do anything just say the word” 

You smiled with hurt in your eyes as you looked at him. The words didn't mean much to you when his actions suggested otherwise. It was the insincere note in his tone that made it easier, but maybe he had meant it. His eyes were much more expressive than his words could be, not that it changed anything.

You simply shook your head no, looking down at your hands and playing with your fingers. 

“No, you don't” 

The cheap trick at making amends, would not coax your forgiveness, not this time.

Thank you for reading :) 

A/N: My  sister requested that I put her in the credits for her lil two cents in some of the dialogue, so here she goes. 

[neonmcqueen]

Stranger Things

Season 1

Eddie Munson X OC (Eddie will come in and out of the seasons)

Episode 4

4

As I woke up I could still feel Dustin in my bed; I tried to move slowly as to not wake him up. I quietly made my way to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. As I made my way back into my room I see that Dustin as made himself at home in my bed now looking like a starfish, much like he did when he was younger. I opened my closet pulling out my outfit for the day.

The top was a simple tank with a large set of vampire teeth open as if in mid bite and a pair a ripped black jeans. A simple outfit for the day; moving myself back in the bathroom with some makeup and my clothes. With that done I left a note with my brother and made my way out of the house.

Walking to my car I see four men getting out of two cars walking to me. Only one stands out; a full head of hair white in colour dressed in a grey suit. This man was the one I saw with El; her Papa.

“You four don’t look ominous at all.” My voice carrying to them as I walked to my car, clutching my keys in between my fingers ready for a fight.

“We’re not going to harm you.” El’s Papa said calmly, his hand up.

I scuffed a laugh, “Yeah that’s exactly what four guys say just before they kidnap a girl.” As I stop just at the hood of my car as each side had two men, “Talk, cause I’m not going anywhere willingly.”

Just then I felt a pinch on my neck and started to become dizzy, “I was afraid you would say that.” Was the last thing I heard as the world went black.

The loud ticking of a clock sounded as I opened my eyes, there I was standing in a beautiful looking home stuck in what I would think was the 50’s. Turning around I saw a beautiful looking door with what looked like a stain-glass window with a rose in it.

“Good morning sleepy head.” A soft voice from behind me spoke, turning I see the angelic looking man from my previous dreams.

I let out a sigh, “Morning.” Seeing his hands placed elegantly in front of him.

He stepped towards me, “Mind telling me how you got here?”

This caused me to step back, “You tell me cause this is all in my head right now.” His head moved slowly to the side as if analyzing what I was saying. I then had an epiphany, “I’m not in mine am I?”

“No.” He stepped again this time my back was at the door.

Trying to feel for the door handle, “It’s a beautiful house.” My voice shaking as I found the handle trying to twist it, it wouldn’t budge.

His eyes began to turn cold, “It is.” The gap between us was very small now, forcing me to look up at the taller man.

Slowly the beauty of the home faded, “Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture.”

“And who said I was tortured.” His eye’s began to turn milky, and the room dark. “Tell me what you see?”

I tried to focus on him once more and not the darkening home, “White.” I whisper looking to his outfit, “Your dressed in White.” My hands shaking, “Like an Orderly.” His eyes and smile turning wicked, “What made you this way?”

“What a monster?” I was unmoving almost as if I was being forced in place, “I was once told I was dangerous, odd. I was different from other children. I hid till I could no longer.”

“I’m sorry for what they did to you.” I was being sincere but I was also trying to stay alive.

His thumb pulled my face, “Someday someone will break you dear girl and no one will help put to back together.”

“One should never be defined by their past.” His grip was getting tight, “It was just a lesson, not a life sentence.”

“Look around you!” He yelled letting go of my face, “I was placed here for a life sentence!”

‘WAKE UP…WAKE UP!’.

My body pushed up causing me to look around; I was sitting at a table in a very white room and from the looks of it all I had was a chair across from me and a mirror on the wall. Looking up I saw a camera with it’s red light, incased so no it could tamper with.

The door to my right opened and in walked El’s so called Papa, behind him I see a man dressed in all white the same one the man had on in the vision.

“Do all of your Orderly wear white?” My voice echoing in the small room as the door closed.

He sat in the chair in front of me with a smile, “Hello Vivian,” his hands placed on the table before me, “I’m Dr. Brenner.” His right hand extended for me to shake I looked at him unmoving. His hand fell to the table once more, “I hear you saw something last night?”

“Did I?” Blinking at the much older man, “And what would that be?” I sit back in my chair my hands now in my lap.

“We both know where you were last night.” He was unmoving as he talked.

Does this guy really think I’m going to say what I know, “And where was I?”

“Don’t play dumb, Vivian.” He leaned forward, “You’re a smart girl.” I sat there blinking at him not wanting to tell him just how much I know. “You’re only going to make this harder for yourself.” I continued to sit in silence not giving into his threats.

“Very well Vivian,” he started, “I know you, dear girl where at the Byers home.” I focused hard as to not let anything show on my face, “And I know you saw the monster last night.” I can only guess that it was Joyce that said something to someone. “What I would like to know is why you’re still here.”

“You know what you just said was a little..” As I made a whistling sound as I placed my hand next to my head turning my finger around.

He gave me an unimpressed look, “When Ms. Byers called the police she said she left you behind.” He was looking at me for answers, “And yet here you are.” I made no move to speak, “You’re set to graduate this year, a GPA of 3.7 a very smart girl I would say.”

I nodded my head and waited for the older man to move on. Something was off, he continued to sit there unmoving even as I raised my hand and waved it in his face. He never blinked, never flinched, nothing. The door opened slowly but no one was there, I moved my eye to see that the red light on the camera was off. This could be a trap but I’m willing to take that chance.

Waking out the door I see more white, it was almost like something was pulling me along. Soon I came to stairs making my way down in haste, I came down to a new door as it opened after a few turns there was a set of glass doors. I pushed them open was hard as I could and make a run for it, not looking back. The front gate opened, looking I saw the man in the booth sound asleep. I finally made it to the tree line, man did I wish I was a little more active about now. Soon the alarm sounded and I began run as fast as I could.

Jumping over downed trees and roots, I soon came to the road. I could see a car driving in the distance slowing coming to a stop next to me. There sitting in the car was my new blond haired friend Ophelia. I moved to open the passenger door and hop in, “Drive.” With nothing else being said she began moving her car, as I tried to catch my breath, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She said smiling, her eyes never moved off the road, “Get lost on a hike this morning?”

Looking to the clock on the radio cursing as it said 3 pm, “Or something.” Turning to look at the window see the trees fly by as she drove down the road back to town, “Do you think you can drop me off at my house?” Turing to her as I asked.

There was no beat missed as she responded, “No problem.” A half smile on for face, I gave her the directions and within no time we pulled up to the house. “You ok?” her face held concern as she looked at me.

“Yeah.” I smiled though I know it never reached my eyes. Looking at the driveway seeing my car still there. Thank god. “Thanks again. I owe you one.” As I got out of the car making my way to my own. I gave her a wave as she drove away and I made my way to Mikes, knowing the boys would not be in school today.

Getting to Mike’s and rushing inside, “Did you not see what I saw!” Lucas yelled out, “They pulled Will’s body out of the water!”

“Yes they pulled a body out.” I called out as I descended down the staircase, “But it wasn’t Wills.” I looked to Dustin, “Get my note?”

“You left it taped to my forehead.” I couldn’t help but give my brother a teasing smile, “You said you were going to school but your car was in the driveway.”

“Yeah I’ve had a busy day.” I informed them waving it off, not wanting to get into it.

“If it wasn’t Will,” Lucas began frustrated, “then what was it.”

“I don't’ know.” I said honestly looking at the younger boy. “But it’s not Will okay, just trust me.” I pleaded with him.

“Will is alive, he’s out there. We have to find him.” Mike voice was filled with hope as the boys looked to one another. I smiled at El and she turned on the walkie playing with the different frequencies, “This is not going to work.” He looked from El to the boys and I, “We need to get her to a stronger radio.”

My brother smiled with an idea, “Mr. Clarke’s Heathkit ham shack.”

“Yeah.” Mike’s smiled at the idea.

“I’m sorry the what?” I was confused as to what they where talking about.

“The Heathkit’s at school.” Lucas pointed out.

“Hey. Hello.” The boys looked up at me, “The what?”

Dustin looked at me like I should know this, “It’s a ham radio.” As he patted my hand smiling up at me seeing as they were still on the floor.

“There’s no way we’re gonna get the weirdo in there without anyone noticing.” Lucas tried to point out, “I mean…look at her.”

This caused me to cross my arms as I looked down at the boy dissatisfied, “El, come with me to Nancys room.” I put my hand out for her to take and soon the two of us went upstairs. Opening Nancys door I made may way to the makeup, “Mike, you and the guys find a dress for this young lady and anything else that might be useful.” I yelled down to them ,turning to see El now sitting on the bed. “Now lets bring out those beautiful features.” As I pulled different makeup out and dolled up her face, “You doing ok?” I asked, seeing as she was just looking around the room.

She gave me a light smile and nodded, “Thank you.”

“You know I always wanted a sister.” This caused her to smile so bright that her eyes shined.

“Hey.” Came from the doorway as my bother and his friends had a dress and a wig in hand.

I giggled as Dustin pouted, “Thanks.” As I took the items and closed the door. Looking at the dress and then to El, “Lets get you dressed.” Once the dress and wig were on and looking relatively good. “Ready.” I called out, El looked herself over as much as she could. She turned towards me, giving my a nervous smile as she played with some of the dress.

I opened the door to see the boys and stepped out of the way, they were in awe of how she looked. “Wow.” Dustin was the first to speak, “She looks…”

“Pretty.” MIke could not take his eyes off of her, it was sweet the way he looked at her. “Good.” I placed a finger on the bridge on my nose and close my eyes, “You look pretty good.”

“Pretty.” Her voice was low and soft as she made her way over to the mirror in the hall. You could see Mike looking at her from the reflection. “Good.”

“Very pretty indeed, El.” She turned around happy, “Now if everyone is ready we should go.” The boys made there way down the stairs leaving El and I to follow.

“El,” she was was looking at me as she stopped walking , “can I ask you a question?” She nodded unwilling to talk, “How far does your powers go?”

She looked me like it was an odd question, “Not far.” This left me with an odd thought and questions like who would have helped me? And why?

“Thanks.” Nodded to behind me, “We should go downstairs”. Finally I made my way down the stairs, “You guys go to the school, I’ve got some other things to look into and people to see.” Not really giving the boys room to say much. Leaving Mikes house I saw a white van driving around..Power something on the side.

The person in question was Joyce; I all but sped around town making it to the Byers home. Walking to the door I could hear Joyce yelling, “TALK TO ME!”

“Joyce.” I called out to the other side of the door.

I could here the footsteps and soon the door opened, Joyce pulled me into a hug, “I’m so happy you’re here.” I hugged her back, “Your ok.” She pulled apart from me, looking me over.” The radio playing Will’s favourite song.

“I’m fine Joyce.” As my hands fell to my side, she looked concerned after what happened last night. She moved to the side letting me in her house.

The inside was dark as lights around the room hug around the ceiling, “When I came back from calling 911…you weren’t here I thought what ever that was got you.”

I nodded, she looked lost in thought, “How can I help Joyce?” I hoped my voice was soft.

She sat down, “They said they found Will.” Walking closer to her at the table, “But it’s not him,” her eye’s truly were lost looking all over for a clue or a light to come on, “that body was not my son.” She cried.

I placed my hands on hers, “I know Joyce, I know it’s not him.” I pulled out the chair next to her, “What you saw last night, that monster..,” she gave me a light nod, “that’s what took Will.” Letting the shoe drop you could say, “I’m trying to find a way to get to him.” Still not telling the whole truth.

Just then banging began, Joyce and I looked to one another as she moved to stop the radio. She moved closer to the wall, “Mom.” The voice was soft and sounded far away.

“Will.” Her hands moved over the wall, “Will!” She ran to the door pulling in open and running outside.

“Will.” I called out standing at the wall now.

“Vivian!” Joyce ran back into the home her hands back on the wall, “Mom.”

“Will, I’m here I’m here.” She told him over and over her hands banging on the wall.

“We will find you Will.” I called out looking around the room for any kind of light in case The Demogorgon comes back.

Joyce began ripping at the wallpaper pulling pieces off trying to get to her son, there on the other side of the paper was Will. The only thing that was keeping us from him was the vale between both worlds. They both cried for one another and all I could do was watch with a tear falling down my cheek.

“Mom, it’s coming.” Will warned us, as the growl could be herd.

“Tell me where you are.” She called out to her son.

“It’s like home,” he cried telling her, “it’s so dark, empty and it’s cold. Mom? Mom!”

“Listen to me!” Joyce was crying more as she could not get to her son, “I swear I’m gonna get to you, okay? But right now I need you to hide.” She begged her son.

“Mom, please!” He tried hitting the vale, trying to get to his mother.

“I will find you,” she reassured her son, “but you have to run!”

I could feel it, “It’s here!” I called out as the vail was closing.

“Run! Run!” Joyce yelled to her son as the monster growled close by. The next thing I saw was Joyce breaking down the wall, soon I could see the outside light filling into the dark home. She looked out to where her son would have been and turned to look at me. I walked over to her giving her a hug, and together we cried.

“We are going to find him Joyce.” I whispered in her ear, “We’ll get him back, I promise.” Even if it’s the last thing I do.” My silent promise to her. I held her for as long as she needed.

Joyce was still crying in my arms when we heard the sound of the door opening, “Jesus,” an older man walked into the house, Will’s and Jonathans dad, “The hell happened?”

Joyce began to sob more seeing the man, “Lonnie.”

Looking between the two, “I’ll go.” Excusing myself from the home I booked it to my car.

So many thoughts were racing through my head as I noticed about halfway home that my car was almost empty. I pulled into the gas station to fill up the gas tank and get some food. Getting out of my car I see Eddie’s van off to the corner, but no sign of him.

Walking inside I made my way over to grab a Doctor Pepper. Turning around with a smiling face, “Hey Eddie.”

“Didn’t scare you?” He gave me a teasing smile, as I shake my head, “I’ll have to try harder then.”

Giving a laugh, “You can try,” walking down the isle he was in, “my brother’s been trying for years.” Looking over at the chips.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice was low as he asked, “So got the munchies?” He picked up a bag of cups looking them over.

“Yeah don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.” I let him know, picking up two bags of chips.

“I got something for that.” My head turned to look at Eddie seeing his eyes go big, “That’s not…I’m…weed.” He ended up whispering the last word to me, “I was talking about weed.”

I gave him a look, “Right.” It wasn’t a big surprise to hear he sold, most of the school knows.

His hand moved to the back of his neck, “I didn’t mean…”

“What sex?” I moved along to the chocolate seeing him still holding the bag of chips, “Plus it’s only good when you don’t rush the forplay.” The next thing I know the bag of chips has popped open. Walking away from him as the chips fell to the floor a playful smile on my face. “Pump 3.” I let the clerk know so I could pay for my gas as I placed my items on the counter, “And that bag of chips.” I pointed to the one Eddie was still holding behind me.

Once my stuff was paid for I give him a wave as I walked back outside to my car. Light running from behind me caused me turn and see the metal head, “You didn’t have to do that sweetheart.”

Those butterflies are back, every time he calls me that. “I don’t mind,” I said happily giving him a playful smile, “plus it was my fault anyway.”

Just as he was about to say something a voice called out, “Munson!” We turned to see a guy standing by the van.

“I’ll see you later.” Getting back into my car and off home, seeing Dustin just making it home. “Hey.” I called out, smile on my face, “How did it go?” We made our way up the stairs.

“He’s in The Upside Down.” Opening the door seeing Mom still up, “It’s like the Vail Of Shadows…Hey mom.” We rushed passed her to my room and closed the door, “From what we figured out it he’s at his house but on the other side.”

I nodded along with him, “That works with what happed at his house.” Filling him in on what happened.

“We heard what Will was saying to you and his mom.” He was astounded at how this was going,“Now we just have to find a way to get to the other side and get to Will.” Yeah that doesn’t sound to hard not at all.

I laid in bed looking at the ceiling not wanting to fall asleep, afraid of what I would see. Even with me fighting it my eye’s soon closed and it was like I was floating. Opening my eye’s I saw that I was standing in an empty valley, along the ground were vines, stepping over them as I walked. Everything around me was red and dark I could see figures running ahead of me, the sound of wings from behind me. It reminded me of the birds of Isengard watching the pass, causing the fellowship to find other way.

“What do you see this time?” The fake soft voice asked from behind.

Turning to see the man in white. It was like everything changed as I turned to look at him, it was once red illuminating everything with its thunder and now it was dark and cold. “Birds of Isengard.” I say truthfully to the blond haired man as he walked over to me, hands placed in front of himself.

The man looked over his shoulder at what I called birds falling around us, “I would think of them more as bats.”

I could feel his eyes landing on me as I looked over at him, trying not to show any fear, “It’s beautiful in it’s own way.”

“You’re not scared of them?” His head moved to the side, calculating my every move.

“No,” looking from the bat to the man, “even though this one could rip my throat out with it’s teeth.”

This caused him to show his wicked smile, “Oh it would, if I deemed you a threat.” He began walking to me.

“What use would I be if I was dead.” Letting the truth be know, “So what use am I to you?” I demanded from the man.

“All in due time.” Was all he said to me.

I closed the rest of the gap uncaring of my own satiety, “Where’s the boy that’s here?!” I could feel fire burning in me.

“Eluding me,” his voice was bitter, “for the time being.” It also held a silent vow, as his own icy eyes burned.

A lone tear fell from my eye, “Please don’t kill him.” I begged him my lip began to quiver, “He’s like a brother to me,” it seemed as if I opened the flood gates on my eyes, “I need him.” The last came out as a whisper.

“Oh dear girl,” his hand pushed away a tear, “never beg it makes you look… pathetic.” His voice dropped becoming darker.

“Then I’ll…” I could see the look in his eyes he know’s what he wants.

“You will see my future.” He’s voice fading away.

Opening me eye’s I was once again in my bedroom crying once more, “What have I done?”

[comehomeducklings]

Past [Part 2] (Obsession)

A/N: Some chapters will be named with either “Past,” “Present,” or “Future,” then their numbered part coming right after it. This is to confuse you less when flashbacks or anything happens. As you have probably noticed, it says “Past” for Part 2. This is going back near when Tom and her just met. Thank you for reading! <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Tom Riddle's Moodboard

Main Character's Moodboard

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

1940 - 3rd year

“Potions is not that bad, I swear. You just have to be good at measuring.”

At the table, my friends and I are discussing our classes this year. Potions being one of my favorite topics. Devyn absolutely loathes that certain class. We have to drag her there to make sure she doesn’t skip. Poor girl tries her best to not mess up but the cauldron always ends up blowing up. I even watched her do every step once, never missing a beat. The potion still ended up failing, even though she did everything correctly. She gave up after a while, who wouldn’t. I help her do extra assignments for extra credit to keep her grade up. She also studies with me to make sure she can memorize everything and pass her tests. Amelia is pretty good at the class, she’s luckily paired with Devyn most of the time. Carrying the potion to success, with a little bit of my secret help. It’s not cheating, it’s using your resources.

I’m resources.

“Potions is not that bad,” Devyn mocks me. “If it weren’t for you two I would have gone insane in that stupid class.”

Amelia just laughs at her while eating her hash browns on the plate. She reaches her hand out to take some more eggs.

“You were able to do it before. Not the way you were supposed to, but it worked,” Amelia says.

“Exactly, just start doing it your way at this point. I don’t think Slughorn will care how it’s done, just how it comes out.”

Devyn nods her head and points at me with a fork. Her mouth full of food so she settles for that response. My plate doesn’t have much other than some bacon and fruit. I’m not usually a breakfast eater. I get my appetite at lunch and dinner time. It’s just too early for a bunch of food smells, the smells make me kind of nauseous. I’ll eat though, enough to hold me off till lunch.

The chatter in the lunchroom rises by the minute. Everyone refilling themselves before their busy day. All energy levels rising while everyone wakes up from their groggy morning mood. While my friends finish eating we continue to talk about our classes and share the schedules for this year. Most classes we had were the same except for our electives. I tried taking as many electives as possible. My family back home never really did magic. I actually came a year and a half late since my family wanted me to have a normal school experience. I learned to do everything without the use of magic, the only thing my mom taught me was the floo network, creatures, and plants. I would often accompany her to Diagon Alley when she shops. I got an Owl for my 10th birthday. A cat would have been amazing if I wasn’t allergic to it. My owl is a brown and white-furred barn owl. Don’t ask me why I named it Bartholomew. I was ten okay, give me a break. Speaking of the floo network, my mom had to chase me through it quite often because I kept teleporting everywhere. I once ran into the Ministry of Magic’s building and got lost. They had to take me home to my parents. Their faces told me everything I needed to know about the punishment waiting for me.

Halfway through the second year is when I came to Hogwarts, a second letter coming that year asking my parents to let me learn more there. So when they finally let me attend, everything was pretty new to me. My mother was the magic one in the family. Her grandmother, my great-grandmother, before her had the magic gene. Going to school was the same experience as going from a muggle-borns perspective. The difference is, I knew more about its existence. I would look at yearbooks my mom had from when she went here. She earned a lot of titles, all the achievements being recorded down. I always wondered why she never wanted me to come here. Did something happen to me, to her? I’m guessing she just wanted a normal life with dad. He has always supported her through everything. A love, a bond like that is hard to come by. He would also learn about magic right next to me. At least, the stuff my mom allowed to let us know.

That’s why I want to learn as much as I can, of what’s available. Why learn math in the muggle world when I could be learning divination. Spells of all types, potions for everything of inconvenience. My chores could be completed with just a flick of my wand. I’ve lately been learning wandless magic, on my own. Albus has helped by providing me with material to study that type of magic. The only thing I’ve managed so far is a spark coming from the tips of my fingertips. Sparking hope that I could actually, maybe, achieve that level. Now I won't get my hopes up, but that can lead me to a certain advantage in dueling. That being one of my weakest skills. Always panicking, saying any spells that pop up in my mind, and making random movements coming from my wand. Often confusing who I’m up against, although they recover from that confusion fairly quickly.

Riddle, met him once. One too many if you would ask me. I dissuade ever wanting to speak to him. Arrogance and pride flow through his tongue like second nature. I do take pride in succeeding above him in 3 classes. He is 2 classes above me but, that’s not the point. I do admit, he’s attractive. Only a little though, how else would he charm his way through the professors and students.

“Alright, I’m ready to go. You guys done?”

“Yeah,” I say. Devyn and I start leaving our seats and heading towards the huge doors.

Amelia hurried from her seat, a few steps behind since she took some fruit with her to eat on the way. More and more students also started making their way towards the first period. Not wanting to be blamed for the loss of house points. This system causes so many fights, everyone’s competitive side getting the best of their common sense. I would be lying if I said it didn’t get the best of me before. Amelia being her usual bubbly self skips backward while chatting with us. Before we could warn her to stop, she pushes someone ahead of her. Both falling down, hitting the floor. She spins her head extremely quickly, her hair sticking in her mouth from the force of the wind.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she explains. Quickly trying to digest her situation. I make my way towards her and pull her up. I fix her robe and dust off any dirt on the cloth from the floor.

“Clearly idiot, can you not use those bug eyes of yours to see?”

Devyn and I make eye contact. We understand that there are witnesses here, and one of them is bound to snitch on us if we fight. A huge scene would probably make Amelia feel even more embarrassed as well. Instead, I guided Amelia by her back. We continue on to class while I comfort her. Devyn is staying back to “talk” to the guy. Lestrange is in for it now, any poor soul would be when in the fiery path of her anger.

Devyn’s loud yells could still be slightly heard when entering the potions classroom. First class of the year, and day. On Slughorn’s table, I can see a vial with the wideye potion contained inside. I set Devyn’s textbook on her station, turning to the page that contains information on the potion. Hoping to save her confusion and time.

“Welcome, welcome! Nice to see some old faces, and new ones,” he says with the biggest grin on his face. “Today we’ll be learning about the Wideye potion. Can anyone tell me what this potion does?”

I quickly raise my hand, rather eager. I did some reading about a lot of potions during the summer. Trying to get a headstart on my studies. This potion being one of them. Only 3 students raised their hand, one of them being me. The other, well, Riddle.

“Yes, go ahead and answer,” the professor looks my way.

I smile, “The wideye potion prevents the person consuming the liquid the ability to fall asleep. Which is often used in the medical field to wake someone from a sleep caused by a blunt force or drug.”

“Precisely! 10 points.”

I look back rather smugly at Riddle, rather happy I got chosen instead of him. I know, he could have easily answered that too. I’ll let myself bask in the small achievement for now. 30 minutes of class is just spent writing down notes, preparing us for the potion we will make. Note-taking is my favorite, especially the little doodles I get to make. We use a feather instead of the regular pen. I found it rather amusing and liked the certain feeling of writing with it. The dipping noise that the point of the feather makes when hitting the liquid ink is a very profound sound. No real writer’s bump forming on my fingers.

“That’s enough writing, I need you all to prepare your cauldron, gather the materials you need, and start your potion. If done correctly, tomorrow when we add the finishing touches and check on it the potion should be a blue/green color,” Slughorn comments. “You have 10 minutes to study your notes, then the rest of the class to make your potion. No looking back at your notes after those ten minutes.”

After scanning my notes, I stand up and walk towards the ingredients on the shelves. If I remember correctly my potion requires snake fangs, standard ingredient, and wolfsbane. I gather all that in my hand and set it down near my cauldron. Before I start, I take a moment. I’m missing something, I’m sure there was another ingredient.

Wolfsbane, check.

Snake fangs, six of them.

I have the measures of Standard ingredient.

There’s one more, I try to look around the room. Then I remember that we get an automatic failing grade if caught cheating. There’s no way I’ll let my grade drop like that. Over something so small and inconvenient too. Making my way to the shelves, I scan over the ingredients over and over again. Trying to see if any of the names pop out to me.

No.

Definitely not.

That’s an ingredient?

I don’t even want to know how that one was obtained.

This one, of course it’s this one. I even remember putting a star next to the name in my notebook. Dried Billwig stings, I believe six of them were needed. All that time wasted. Hurrying to my seat I get to work. The time goes by quickly, all that could be heard was the sizzling and whooshing of our potions. I almost knocked down my vials a couple of times. Someone actually did, their time spent on cleaning the glass off the floor. After heating the first three ingredients, I crush them together in the mortar. Then stir clockwise from what I recall, three times specifically. Finally, I wave my wand over then leave it to brew.

Just in time from the looks of it. I glance at Devyn to see how it went for her, and she looks pretty proud of herself. I take that as a blessing that it didn’t blow up this time of round. I’m guessing she took our advice and did it her own way.

A student raises his hand, “May we leave?”

“Oh yes yes, go ahead. No assignments for the first day, only the potion you made in class.”

Before I leave the classroom I examine Riddle’s station. He already left the room. His potion looks similar to how mine turned out, his workspace thoroughly cleaned. Everything used properly placed back to where it should be. Perfectly spotless, not a single speck of dust in sight. All done without magic too, surprising for someone born into the wizarding world. When I mentioned that I met him once, it wasn’t much of anything. The only way I know how he really acts is through other people. Much admire his intelligence and strong will. Others are jealous of the potential he holds for the future.

Girls are already trying to slip love potions into his drinks. I would feel bad if he wasn’t so rude to them. Only just before touching the disrespectful line. He almost drank one of their attempts before. Wouldn’t want to imagine how that turned out. Tom riddle, in love. That man probably doesn’t know the feeling of happiness, let alone love. I feel bad for his future girlfriend, she’s going to have to deal with a handful of baggage.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

“How much do you want to bet Nott will demolish him?” A Gryffindor girl to my left whispers.

Nott, part of Riddle’s group from what I’ve seen. They all eat lunch together and talk to one another so it’s a reasonable guess. Very talented duellist, one of the bests here.

“I hate to admit it, but he’ll definitely win this. I’ll still have hope for the other guy though,” I whisper back trying not to sound mean.

Nott and the other Slytherin boy are up right now. It’s a courtesy for the audience to stay quiet until someone casts the first attack or defense. From then on all you will hear is shouting of encouragement and the opposite. Nott’s eyes are focused, zoning in on the opponent before him. His wand is steady, mouth slightly parted to breathe through better. Whole-body alert and tense waiting for something. From what I'm getting, I believe he’s waiting for the Slytherin boy to go first. Nott casts spells quickly and thinks them through decently. Sometimes you're not able to create a counter-spell quick enough to defend yourself against him.

Riddle’s group and himself are near the corner of the platform. All seemingly analyzing every breath he inhales and exhales. I finally hear the whoosh of a wand and a whiz of light fly past the platform. The glow from the spell lighting our faces for a millisecond. Nott quickly counters that spell and moves to cast his own. Magic flies across the platform, all of our eyes going back and forth like a ping-pong match. The Slytherin boy starts breaking a sweat. He’s only been able to get a couple of offensive spells in there, most of his plays spent throwing off Nott’s. If he doesn’t turn the battle soon, the outcome will become very clear.

It is a little less exciting since we only know a handful of spells. So whatever you know from your own studies you use in these duels. When we move up the years the class will become more serious and dangerous. Right now it’s just to teach us how to counter and cast quickly. The proper etiquette and movement. You use spells that you know, they aren’t supposed to harm someone. Either stun them, make them fly back, or disarm. Most of those spells require a little of a higher level, most of us not even knowing of its existence yet. So what’s mostly cast between competitors is a basic spell to exert force. That force should be aimed for the legs, or the wand to disarm that way. The way someone can win here is to make their knees or hands touch the floor, or disarm their wand. As I mentioned, it will get more intense as time goes by. We're only just starting 3rd year right now, a lot more charms will be learned later on.

I shake my head to get rid of any lingering thoughts. My attention goes right back to the duel taking place in front of me. Nott quickly aims a spell at the knees and manages to bring the other boy to his knees.

“Mr. Nott wins this duel! Please step off the platform, we will evaluate your performance.”

During the practice duels today, you watch it, think of ways to help the person improve, and point out things they might have done wrong. At the end, the professor picks people raising their hands to allow them to give their feedback. Participating is part of the grade you get in here. I personally prefer giving feedback then dueling. I’m not the best at casting, I do give out good defense spells though. That should mean something, I hope.

“Let’s start with Nott, does anyone have feedback for him?”

A couple of people spread apart raised their hands. One by one they all ask questions and give feedback. They mention his feet and posture when he stands. Arms fully stretched out where it would have been more flexible to bend it slightly. When he casts he shouldn’t be walking backward. They shortly switch to the other boy’s questions and feedback. The way he never gave himself the opening to cast an offensive spell often. He would move around his area a lot. Almost slipping off the stage during one of those movements. Tom and his group privately discussed with one another. They’re probably giving Nott their own feedback and suggestions privately.

“Now, Riddle I want you to come up and…,” he scans the room for another student. After some time he points his finger at me. “You.”

I could have had a smooth sailing class. I was so close to not having to go up there. My hands start sweating a bit, my anxiety jumbling my thoughts together. Riddle’s already up there and soon to be on his side of the platform. Taking his wand out and wandering his fingers over the design. I gulp, a big toad stuck in my throat. I wipe my hands on my robe and start up the stairs. Riddle seems as unbothered as ever. We bow, turn, then walk ten paces back. During this time I try predicting who will cast first. I don’t know him very well, I’ve also never seen him duel.

I take my dueling stance and wait for the signal to start. Hoping, praying, that I don’t embarrass myself. Slipping up is not allowed, not when going against him.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

Taglist:

@empath-bunny

[annmarcus63]

The kindest thing

“Yes yes, I remember the I don't need anyone needing me situation, but well, here we are, don't you know? you are my very best friend on the whole wide world"

Geralt's heart is broken but Jaskier intends of heal him with kindness.

-I wanted to post this here again, because I can and I want to. Sorry for my bad english. Love you.-

Here's the link to ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114205

The war has shaken all the realms, everyone everywhere talks about the tragic death of queen Calanthe and the wiped out of her army, people fearfully whisper about the mountains of corpses the Nilfgaardian army leaves at its wake. Jaskier awakes sweating and trembling on a cold night, his chest contracting despite his controlling breathing. He fears the war, of course, but not for him, he’s safely away after all, whta is war for a bard but geat songs. He fears for certain witcher and his child surprise. News about princess Ciri's death haven't reached him, he really really hopes she's ok, again not for him but for Geralt. Because although the witcher has never showed any interest in the child, the bard knows the loss could be too great for the witchers' heart. Yes, he believes Geralt holds a heart, big and hard to reach, but a heart no less.

It's been over a year since that dreadful day on the mountaintop. Over a year since that scornful words and the look that spoke volumes. Jaskier healed himself with music and dancing, also with the normal tears rivering down his cheeks every now and then. Jaskier wasn't a stranger at traveling alone, after all he and Geralt used to part ways more often than not, even though that used to happen after months and months of traveling together. He forced himself to picked his broken heart, rebuilded even if he still could see the cracks.

After the sadness came the anger. Anger for the unfairness thrown so casually against him. How dares he? How. Dares. He? all those years of friendship and loyalty repaid with words aimed to pierce, and pierce they did. Words that were the outcome of the witchers' broken heart, because Yennefer had walked away from Geralt despite the love he feel for her. True love or not, it was still love. Jaskier was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And then came the sorrow for his sweet witcher, and his perpetual broken heart. He wasn't justifying the harshful words and his own broken heart, of course not, but at least he now understands why Geralt said what he said. He needed to broke something, even if that something was their friendship. Oh that idiotic emotionally abused witcher, if only Jaskier could mend him back together, if only Geralt let him. And one day the opportunity presented itself. After a very glorious performance at the local inn, he heard a couple of farmers gossiping about a witcher fighting an Alp no far from there. In all his traveling years he has never encountered with a witcher other than Geralt, he hopes that same fortune still follows him around. He packs his lute and the rest of his possessions to get back to the road. Asking is always the best resource if you want to find someone or something, and is oddly easy to locate Geralt.

Maybe destiny is part of their relationship, not that he'd ever mention it to the witcher.

An old woman point him to a road towards Kaedwen. Uh, So he's going to Kaer Morhen. He considers himself lucky to find him before disappearing like he used to every winter.

He walks and walks until the smell of smoke reaches his nose, he has learned a thing or two from Geralt about tracking, thank you very much, he's not that useless. Again maybe destiny is helping him, he's not that good, you see.

He goes through the trees until reaching a small clear and the unmistakable arrange of a camp. He sees a small figure, a girl with a black cloak covering her face, tending a very familiar horse. He clutches at his lute strap, by Melitele he's so fucking nervous, his heart beating frantically against his ribcage, his ears stuffed with white noise.

What if Geralt sends him away without a word? what if he spat more hurtful words? what if he's not welcome? Well, at least he'd have tried.

"Hi" he says softly

The child tense visibly, slowly she takes a step away from Roach and turns around.

"You better go before he sees you" so young age and so much steel in her voice, no wait-

"Princess?"

"Bard?" of course he returned to Cintra after the child surprise incident, Queen's Calanthe court liked so much his first performance that he was invited to play three more times, one on Ciri's birthday. He is the best bard of all the continent after all.

Of course Geralt would find her, of course. He felt a wave of pride surging from his chest. He did it, he found her. He was not alone.

“Jaskier?” Oh that voice, that damn voice reverberating on every fiber of his skin. And suddenly the witcher is there, in all his splendour, sword on one hand but he's not wearing his armor.

"Hello Geralt" and he gifts him with a sweet smile, despite the sweat on his palms and the creeping terror of being rejected. But Geralt doesn't said anything, doesn't move, some may think he's a statue. "Don't worry I won't stay long, I only want to talk if you allow me" he didn't came with the intention of staying, no, he'll respect the witchers blessing no matter what.

More than a year full of a banquet of emotions for the witcher, oh and how he love him still.

The silence stretch for long seconds, it may be hours for all he knows. And just when he's about to turn back to were he come from..

"I'll stay with Roach to give you privacy" dear Ciri says and Geralt nods rather insecure and Jaskier's heart aches at the picture. Jaskier follows Geralt to the camp, not that far from Roach and Ciri but that'll suffice. He's sure Geralt would want to keep an eye on her. The witcher sits against a tree leaving the bedroll for him. Jaskier place gently the lute on the ground not far from him. They sit facing each other.

breathe in breathe out, come on Jaskier you can do this. Bollocks, Geralt probably can sense how nervous he is.

He sees a small twitch on Geralt's lips like he wants to say something and Jaskier freaks out. "No!" he yelps, and then more softly he adds "No, let me talk. You know how much I love the sound of my own voice" he says with a small smile, but Geralt doesn't sees it, he's golden eyes are planted on the grass.

Here goes nothing.

“I've known you for a long time now, Geralt. It may be not that long for you with all your long long years, but it is to me as the fleeting human that I am. You knew me as the annoying bard, and now you know me as the annoying old bard. I've spent most part of my life by your side, if not the best part of it. And I did it gladly, and I would do it again gladly, because I choose to. Even in the first years when you were trying rather desperately to get rid of me. I choose to. Not because of the magnificent songs I wrote but because I liked -like- your company.” Jaskier force himself to stop, a nasty bump forming in his throat, is harder than he though. You are already here, you may as well give it all. "You...you’re all that I have" And this earns him a reaction, Geralt twitch against the tree and sends him a indecipherable look to return it at the same spot on the grass. “Yes yes, I remember the I don't need anyone needing me situation, but well, here we are, don't you know? you are my very best friend on the whole wide world" There, yes, a smile on his lips."You are, my friend. I mean, no matter how many times you denied it. It took me more than two decades to get to know you. It took me five years to know that you would rather spend a night under the stars than in a inn without proper stables for Roach. Ten years to know how much you hate fish but love the rabbit broth I cook. More than ten years to know when to shut up otherwise you'll snap at me, though I admit I've not always follow this knowledge. I could go on and on but not today. And so I know you really didn't mean what you said on the mountain, at least I hope, not completely. You were unfair and cruel. Nothing of what you accused me is my fault, not entirely, but if it’s my fault then you must know I'm truly sorry, If I had known I assure you I would have left your side a long time ago.”

"Not your fault" Geralt says with a weak whisper. And Jaskier feels something loosening up on his chest, carefully he closes the distance between them, knees almost touching. "Good, good. I came to apologize even though I didn't do anything wrong, but you should know that I won't do it again. I'll not tolerate more words with intent to hurt. I'll no longer be taken for granted or tossed aside like a old pair of shoes. Have I made myself clear? Because if you do something like that again, oh by Melitele I promise I'll make you pay.”

"Yes I understand" Answers. The white wolf stripped of all his barriers. He sounds so tired, so broken.

"Oh my sweet sweet witcher" he says lovingly, daring to reach out for a lock of white hair falling above Geralt's cheekbone to tuck it behind his ear. And Geralt for once doesn't pull away. "Life has not been kind to you. But I am, I have and will be kind to you till my last breath. You have me, even thru distance, you can count on me, even if I'm not that resourceful. Look at me Geralt. Yes, there you are. Hi. You have my undying loyalty and consideration, and you know why? because I'm your friend and I love you. By the way I'm amazingly happy for you have finally found your child surprise, although I wish it had been on better circumstances” Geralt smile at him, that small curve on his lips accompanied by the delicate flutter of his eyelids. And Jaskier falls for the man a little bit more. "Oh well, that was intense. I should get going, I'm planning on staying on the road for few more months maybe years who knows? I still have a couple of great songs on my sleeve about our adventures. Oh! and I received a letter from Oxenfurt. They recognize me as one of the best poets of the age. They have a classroom reserved for me, can you imagine? Me? teaching! a terrible idea If you ask me. But i'm not prepared for being the grumpy scholar, not yet if ever, I'll make them wait a few years, if old age doesn't take me first. You must come and visit me there, yes you must! or on the road when all this is over. Don't make me wait that long, ok?” He reach one last time to grab Geralt's wrist and squeeze, fully smiling before standing up, he dusts his fine clothes and hang his lute over his shoulder. "Be safe my witcher and take care of each other" he says loud enough to be heard by Ciri. He approaches the princess in question and Roach who neigh in delight, she's got a soft spot for him and the sugar cubes he always stuff in his pockets, just like the ones currently on his fist. Roach gently took a couple from his open hand.

“You're safe with him, princess”

"I know...and uhmm it's Ciri"

"Ciri” he replies

"Is good to know he have someone" say Ciri in a small voice.

"He’s always had but he needs to be reminded of most of the time.” She nods solemnly, in that moment Jaskier knew she'll grow up to be an excellent warrior even better than Geralt. He hopes he'll be there to witness it. And with that he leaves, throwing a last glance at the witcher, who's still sitting against the tree, lost in thought.

He looks at the sky, nightfall is about to come in more or less two hours, enough time to reach the nearest town to rent a room. He'll not perform, not tonight. Tonight is for him alone. His stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud, he's only eaten bread and a green apple on the entire day. He can't wait to get to the inn to order a plate of the delicious pork he could smell as he passed by. Perhaps he can afford to buy honey pastry, oh yes.

With every step taken away from the camp, he feels like he's finally free, the acid sensation in his chest and throat is no longer there. The sorrow finally gone. Suddenly, subtly, unexpectedly tears began to pour, he's sobbing, but smiling at the same time. He’s undoubtedly content.

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps behind him. He stops.

It can't be.

He turns unhurriedly, and he sees him, sees Geralt running towards him . A desperate expression on his handsome features. And Jaskier knows what's about to happen. With a swiftly movement takes the strap of his lute to let it fall at the ground. Sorry girl.

"...Jaskier" he grunts just before engulfin the bard in those strong arms. Barely recovered from the shock, Jaskier sobs some more on the witcher's shoulder. This is truly happening. Geralt is hugging him like he's an anchor, like he's worth it.

And then Geralt takes his face between his hands, cleaning the still flowing tears with his thumbs. Faces inches apart. "What have I done to deserve you" he whispers with devotion. "You should be angry, you should hate me. I don't deserve..."

"You deserve this and more. Much more." Geralt's eyes are wet and Jaskier feels blessed to be granted the trust to seeing him so open, so vulnerable.

"And you, do you deserve this despicable treatment? Forgive me" Jaskier smiles against the tears, bumping his forehead with Geralt's. "Forgive me"

"There's nothing to forgive, my witcher" Sweetly Geralt guides his lips to his forehead, his eyes, his nose, the corner of his lips. Jaskier may as well die with the happiness surging from every part of his being.

“I wanted to search for you, I was planning on to, after leaving Ciri at Kaer Morhen. You're too far important for me and therefore you're important to Nilfgaard. Come with me, come to Kaer Morhen with us."

"Yes" Because he'll always say yes, no matter what. Yes to this life, to the danger, to the songs. Yes to Geralt. They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other, breathing each other scents, loving each other.

There were still things left unsaid, but it was enough for now. They needed to rest. To hold each other some more, maybe.

[kaepop-trash]

hello hello! i am immediately dropping an ask after reading your message. ;; i really loved unintended consequences! like that is sooo 10/10! may i ask for a sequel please? i am willing to wait. please don't feel pressured and take your time!! write it whenever you are ready. i have subscribed to you so i could just keep myself updated if you have posted it!

So I might not be able to squeeze a full-fledged sequel in. But I had an idea I found interesting enough to pursue and it will go under the miscellaneous tag. I don't usually write domestic AUs but seemingly this one writes itself a little too effortlessly. At 4k words, this one is hardly a drabble at this point. So I'm hoping this satisfies you. If I get more asks, I'll keep writing more "snippets" like this.

I hope you like this.

_

It was Friday.

Friday meant spending the weekend with Johnny. Friday meant a slightly better passage of time compared to the weekdays.

Johnny would wake up early, coaxing her awake with him to spend the morning drinking a cup of coffee till it was cold and talking about the week. Every achievement and frustration shared as the other listened and acknowledged every little detail.

Weekends were always a welcome relief, but with Johnny they were like a haven.

_

"I've had a fuck all day." Johnny groaned as he walked into her room. It was his turn to come to her apartment this week.

He walked in, roughly tugging his tie like it suffocated him. When his eyes landed on the bed he stopped his struggle.

(Y/N) lay on her stomach on her bed, in a t-shirt that belonged to him once upon a time. Her thighs remained bare, the rhythmic kicking of her legs making her ass bounce.

Johnny thought he would lose his mind.

"What happened?" She mumbled. Scrolling through her phone, her voice was distracted.

Johnny swallowed, the air in his throat suddenly too thick. He forced himself to look away, "A client messed up some paperwork and I lost a lot of money because of it." His jaw clamped tight at the memory again.

She put her phone down, turning over and sitting up. "Shit." She grimaced, looking up at him with careful eyes.

"Exactly." He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

He looked back at her after a moment, eyes raking over her frame, "When did you steal that?" He pointed to her chest, at the navy blue t-shirt he actually really liked.

"At some point." She shrugged. "Want it back?" She batted her lashes at him.

Johnny smirked, aware that she asked knowing what his answer would be. "Keep it." He scoffed, giving in. "It looks better on you anyway." He laughed when her lips stretched into a smile.

Johnny sighed, his smile faltering again.

"Want to eat something?" She questioned.

Johnny turned back to her, her knees digging into the mattress as she looked at him with soft eyes. He gave her a slow nod.

"There's some pasta leftover in the fridge. Unless you want something else. We can always order." She turned back to pick up her phone.

Johnny groaned, the sound making her turn back to him, surprised. He slid closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He raised a meaningful brow at her, rewarded by the tantalizing red her cheeks flushed with.

He waited patiently; she gave him a nod, her eyes fluttering down. Johnny smirked, it was a shy mood today it seemed. Something he would enjoy like any other mood she had.

"Lie down." He said softly, releasing his hold on her hips. She pushed back up the mattress, reaching up just enough for her calves to hang over the edge.

She kept his eyes on him as he pulled his tie off over his head and while he took his jacket off. Slowly, he folded the sleeves of his shirt. She bit her lip at the sight, leaving Johnny to revel. He knew she liked it when he did that.

"You better not be wearing a bra under that, baby." He walked up closer.

She slowly shook her head and Johnny felt all the blood in his body rush to his dick.

He groaned, "You like that don't you? My shirt brushing over your naked tits." When she nodded he felt himself twitch. "Words." He demanded.

"Of course I do." It was a simple declaration.

It drove him wild.

Almost too slowly, Johnny sat down on his knees. This was his favourite thing, he had realised over the course of the year and some they had been together. Being on his knees in front of her was something he could do every living hour of every day and still not get enough of it. He loved taking his time enjoying the view.

But today, Johnny was pissed. He wanted to hear her moans, he wanted to make her come undone fast and dirty so he could relish in the idea of it.

He hooked his fingers under the band of her panty, pulling it off swiftly.

"Somebody's uncharacteristically eager today." Her soft voice contrasted the jest of her sentence.

"What was it last time?" He questioned, earning her eyes on him. "Fastest I made you cum." He clarified, tilting his head to catch her eyes.

She bit her lip, chewing on the flesh before releasing it with a soft flick. "Ten minutes." She informed him.

"We'll do seven today. Set the timer." He ordered. Quickly she reached for her phone, doing what she was told. Johnny bit back a smile.

"If you lose you're buying dinner. I want Sushi." She pointed her phone at him.

A laugh left his chest— a breathless release. "Wretched girl." He huffed. "Fine. You have a deal."

"Go." She put her phone down. Head falling back immediately as he plunged two fingers into her without missing a beat.

"Always so wet for me, princess. You are always spoiling me." He hummed.

He reached down to flick his tongue against her clit, earning a moan from her. "And forever eager." He spoke against her clit, making her hips buck up and her hand fly to his hair. She gripped his root tightly, he groaned. She stuttered at the sensation.

Johnny wasted no time picking up pace. His tongue lapped at her bundle of nerves while he added a third finger, his rhythm brutal.

"Fuck, Johnny." She screamed, a rare occurrence that filled Johnny with so much pride that he only increased his persistence. When he grazed his teeth against her clit her legs started shaking, a string of his name leaving her lips as her back arched. When her fist loosened on his scalp, he sat back and reached for her phone.

"Six minutes forty-eight seconds." He beamed. "You owe me sushi." He dropped the phone back onto the bed.

"After that I'll get you the most expensive one." She spoke between gasping for air. Johnny chuckled, wiping his chin on the back of his hand and standing up to get rid of his clothes.

"Ready for more?" He questioned.

"Am I ever, Mr. Suh." Her chest heaved.

Johnny gazed down at her body; tracing the sight of the t-shirt raised till her neck, her skin covered in sweat and a single breast out from no doubt being inside her own palm moments ago. Johnny bit his lip.

"Sit up." His voice dropped so impossibly low. She turned her head to look at him, still heaving from his previous efforts.

She sat up, knees digging into the mattress. He came closer, peeling his t-shirt off her while he kept his eyes glued on hers. The next moment, her arms were wrapped around his neck and her lips were on his.

He put his palm on her back to steady the both of them, slowly pushing her back down on her back onto the mattress and hovering over her.

She swirled her tongue in his mouth, enjoying taking control of the kiss while his hands roamed over her body. When he pinched her nipple she gasped in his mouth.

Johnny didn't miss the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth this time, softly pushing her tongue back so he could do his own exploring. She let him, focusing her hands in his hair instead and drawing her nails down the back of his neck— something she knew he liked a little too much.

The sound of her phone ringing made her yank her head back so fast that her neck audibly cracked. She massaged her the muscle with one hand while she used the other to push him back.

"Leave it." His voice was breathless.

"That's the ringtone I have for my mother." She groaned, equally breathless herself. "She hardly calls. It could be an emergency." She sighed.

Reluctantly, Johnny moved back. She reached over to grab her phone as he lay his head on a pillow.

"Hello?" She questioned once she put the phone to her ear. "Yeah?" She answered some question on the line. Johnny put his arms under his head, amusement dancing in his eyes as he heard her try to slow her breathing from his craved pace. "You what?" She sat up straight. A quizzical furrow formed on Johnny's brow. "No of course I don't mind. It's just so sudden. How long?" She turned back to Johnny, giving him an urgent look and gesturing to get out of bed. He raised a brow but complied. "Alright. See you." Her voice was too cheerful.

When she hung up she sprung out of bed herself. "Get dressed!" She looked around the floor frantically. "My mother is in a cab ten minutes away." She whined.

For a second Johnny was too dumbstruck to move. When she threw his shirt at his face, he recovered, picking up the rest of his clothes.

"What's happening?" He asked calmly, hoping his demeanor would calm her down as well.

"I don't know. Jesus! She's so outrageous!" (Y/N) groaned. "She called me to tell me that she's going to Texas to meet that aunt of mine." She paused, looking up as she slid her t-shirt back on. "You know the one who's always sending me pictures of pregnant girls my age on Facebook?"

Johnny nodded.

"Yeah. That bitch." She groaned. Johnny bit back a smile. "So she's flying to Austin and her layover happened to be New York and it's 12 hours long so she decided to surprise me, apparently." She sighed. "Fuck." She groaned. "I can't believe this is actually happening right now." She groaned the second time.

"Okay." Johnny said. "I should go take a shower." He nodded.

She stared at him, blinking like a lost lamb. "You want to stay?" She questioned.

"Of course." He furrowed his brows, "Are you hiding me from her or something?" He joked.

"No." She said too soon, pausing. "Kind of." She winced.

Johnny seemed taken aback.

"It's not what you think!" She walked over to him. "I'm not, like, embarrassed of you."

"That sounds reassuring, (Y/N)." He scoffed.

"Hear me out!" She urged, "My mother cannot know I'm having sex outside the bond of marriage. She doesn't even believe in casual dating." Johnny gave her a questioning look.

She sighed, "She's the 'satisfied with nothing but the best for her children' kind of mom. She means well but she will make you uncomfortable if she sees you at my house at eleven at night. She's very reserved and it comes off as rude at times." She warned, speaking too fast— clearly nervous.

Johnny shrugged, raising two fingers to tug on her nose. "I can handle it. She's your mother after all."

"Johnny." She urged.

"Do you not want me to meet your mother?" He questioned bluntly.

"You know that isn't it." She sighed.

"Then I can handle it." He assured her again.

_

She was still reeling over the moment her mother walked into her apartment, the look in Johnny's eyes when she turned and introduced him as her 'friend' and the look in her mother's eyes when she noted her daughter's hesitation before she blurted the vague label out. If either of them had any reservations, they did not voice it.

That was how she ended up sitting at her dining table with Johnny beside her and her mother opposite them. Her mother gave him occasional glances, but to her credit stayed quiet.

"So, Mrs. (Y/L/N). I've heard that you're a fan of travelling. (Y/N) is always talking about the places you visit."

"Yes. Since my children are all grown up now, I'm trying to live a little before heaven calls." She told him. Johnny was caught off-guard by the response, so he blinked and gave her a nod. (Y/N) put a hand on her forehead.

Her mother put her cutlery down on the table, earning both (Y/N) and Johnny's attention. "What do you do, young man?"

"If you're going to ask him personal questions at least use his name." (Y/N) groaned at her mother.

"I'm an investment banker." Johnny sounded unfazed.

Her mother lifted a towel to wipe her lip, "So I have you to blame for all the money I lost last year?"

"If you would have asked me, maybe you'd have me to thank for all the money you made." Johnny gave her a grin.

He acquired his first pleasant smile from her mother, "In that case you must be good at what you do. How much do you make?" She questioned with a tone that one would use to ask about the weather.

"Mom!" (Y/N) exasperated.

"What?" Her mother turned to her with a non-committal glance. "If you're telling your friend about my travels then I'm sure you are close enough for me to ask that." She clicked her tongue at her daughter. "Isn't that so, Johnny?" She turned to him.

Yet again, he remained calm. "I make enough, Mrs. (Y/L/N). Especially to take care of the people I intend to and save some for the future." He reached for his glass of water, putting a hand on her thigh under the table.

To add to the impossible situation, her heart and her core both reacted. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

She kept her eyes on her mother as Johnny began tracing his thumb in slow strokes across her thigh, pushing under her shorts just enough. Then she saw it, the click of approval in her mother's eyes that seemed to make her chest relax from a hold she didn't realise she had till the moment.

"Not that your daughter needs anybody to take care of her." He glanced towards her, humour in his eyes that felt misplaced till he squeezed her thigh. She bit down on her lip. He seemed pleased, "She's quite capable of taking care of herself, as she insists." He turned away from her glare, back to face her mother, "Speaking as a friend, of course." He smiled politely.

Her mother glanced over towards (Y/N) and the paranoid side in her— the one only reserved for one's parents— wondered if there was even the tiniest chance that her mother could see under the table.

"And how long have you known each other?" Her mother continued her interrogation.

"We met at Sooyoung's wedding." (Y/N) added, needing to distract herself from the warmth of Johnny's hand. "Johnny is Doyoung's friend."

Her mother nodded, adsorbing the knowledge. She turned back to Johnny, bringing her elbows to the table and threading her fingers together thoughtfully. "And how long do you intend to be my daughter's friend?" She said as blatantly as she could.

The question was as thinly veiled as she no doubt intended. Her mother was, after all, the person she learned to be good with words from.

Johnny's hand slipped between her thighs and this time she almost jumped in her chair. "For as long as she'll have me. Longer if I can convince her otherwise." His words made (Y/N) turn to him, emotions bubbling up to her eyes. He turned to her, his own eyes full of meaning. For a second she forgot her mother was sitting across from them.

Her mother, on the other hand, watched the interaction with a keen gaze.

Johnny's hand left her thigh to find her hand, squeezing it with that gentle yet firm touch that never failed to reassure her about anything.

She turned to face her mom, "I love him." She confessed softly. Her mother's eyes seemed to go wide for a moment before she sat back.

"Good. I was starting to think you wouldn't give me any grandchildren. You're my oldest! I want to see them before I die!" She scolded her.

(Y/N) blushed, "Mom!" She stuttered. "Don't say that, oh my god!" She groaned.

Johnny watched the exchange with amusement.

"At least you should have sense." Her mother turned to Johnny, "I'm not getting any younger." She shook her head, clicking her tongue.

"I will keep your criticism in mind, Mrs (Y/L/N)." He laughed.

"For fuck's sake." She turned her neck to Johnny, giving him an embarrassed frown.

"Don't curse (Y/N) (Y/L/N)! That isn't how I raised you." Her mother scolded her again, making her nod reluctantly.

"The mouth on this one, Mrs. (Y/L/N). Sometimes I'm surprised!" Johnny clicked his tongue with mock exasperation. She shoved his rib, making Johnny chuckle as he grabbed the table to not fall.

_

Johnny dutifully took the couch.

Despite her mother taking the guest room, he insisted.

(Y/N) lay awake on her bed, alternating between staring at the ceiling and scrolling through her emails. Her mother was set to leave at 6am. She lifted her phone to check the time: 4am. She groaned.

Getting out of bed was the only thing left to do after trying so long to fall asleep unsuccessfully. She padded her feet across the living room softly towards the kitchen. Johnny mumbled her name in his sleepy voice, making (Y/N) jump.

"Why aren't you asleep?" She whispered. When she turned to him, she had her answer. He was lying on his back, the end of his legs dangling over the armrest. She came closer, "I told you to sleep in bed." She sighed.

Johnny sat up, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Why are you awake?"

"Can't sleep."

"So you came to check up on me?" He tilted his head to look up at her.

"No. I was going to the kitchen because I finished my water." She rattled the container in her hand. It was the partial truth, she did intend to see what he was doing as well.

When Johnny pouted a breathy chuckle left her. She ran a hand through his messy hair affectionately, heart tugging when his eyes fluttered shut and he nuzzled into her touch.

"Do you want some hot chocolate?" She questioned. Johnny opened his eyes and nodded eagerly.

_

They sat in the kitchen with tired eyes, silently sipping their own cups. Once over, she picked them up to wash them up.

"I can't believe you actually got my mom to like you." She chuckled as she scrubbed the used cups. She heard him slip off his chair and walk up behind her, resting his head on her shoulder.

"I'm a very likable person." He mumbled, leaving a soft kiss behind her ear.

She hummed, "That is true." His lips wrapped around the shell of her ear— an odd gesture that she had come to find arousing as he kept doing it over time. "You got Sooyoung and my mother to like you. Undoubtedly, two of the most difficult women to please in my life." She distracted herself, laughing at her own words as she placed the last cup in the rack and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.

Johnny let her go only to hold her again after she turned around, giving her a teasing grin.

"I got you to like me." He kissed her forehead, "After that the rest were easy."

Her skeptical hum made him laugh, brushing his lips against her temple.

She pouted, "I'm a little bummed that Friday is gone. I only get to really see you on the weekends." Tracing a finger over his chest, she tried to swallow her disappointment. Reminding herself that her that she hadn't seen her mother in a while.

"What are you talking about? We meet for lunch at least twice a week." He laughed.

"You know what I mean." She huffed, looking up to give him a meaningful look.

Johnny smirked, "Do I?" He tightened his hold on her waist, lifting her to the counter. "What do you mean, (Y/N)?" He hummed, standing between her legs. He stroked his thumb inside her thigh slowly.

She gave him a shake of her head.

Then a thought came to her at his words, making her frown.

"Were you mad today?" She knit her brows together.

Johnny cocked his head to the side, confused by the sudden question. "Why would I be mad?" His hand, much to her disappointment, stilled.

She blinked, lips slowly parting. "I called you my friend." She winced, shaking her head slightly like the memory was something she wanted removed.

He thought about it for a moment. "Initially, yes. I think more than mad, I just felt out of depth."

"You don't like feeling out of depth." She looked at him carefully.

"Very true. But I've come to accept it as a given with you, even enjoy the feeling sometimes." He smiled, his thumb restarting it's previous ministrations.

Johnny paused, his eyes dancing with a sudden delight that slowly seeped into his lips.

"You told your mom you loved me." He grinned, his tone sing-song and dripping with taunt.

"I do love you."

"Good. I deserve it," He licked his lips, "As your best friend." He earned the smack on his shoulder. He winced playfully.

"My real best friends will do worse if they find out you said that." She snorted. "How would Mark feel?" She clicked her tongue in jest, resting her arms on his shoulders.

"Please Don't talk about Mark while I'm standing between your legs." He groaned, her head falling back to laugh at the distress on his face. He leaned closer to her with a soft smile, "I love when you laugh like that. Like you really don't want to but it's funny anyway." He kissed the corner of her lip.

"That's exactly how I feel everytime you try to be funny, Johnny." She giggled.

He kissed her chin. "Please. I'm hilarious and you know it." He spoke against her lips. She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"If you say so." She mumbled before he kissed her.

Like all kisses with Johnny, it got heated fast. His tongue tugged on hers and his hand reached into her t-shirt to fondle her breast. It gave her a sense of victory, knowing that at least in a small capacity, he was also dying to touch her.

The weekdays without him was one thing, work had the terrible quality of keeping one's mind off most things. But to spend the Friday evening left high-strung was unacceptable.

She hooked her finger into the band of his sweatpants, pulling him closer. Johnny left her lips to journey down her throat with sensual licks.

"It's early Saturday and I still haven't been inside you." He mumbled against her throat. A mewl left her lips, a wordless acknowledgement of his observation. "We need to do something about this 'just weekends' thing." Johnny groaned.

She was too focused on the sensation of his thumb rubbing circles on her nipple to pay attention, giving him an unfocused nod. He kissed up her jaw to her ear, nibbling on the cartilage.

"Are you even listening to me?" He whispered into her ear.

"Of course." She said too quickly.

Johnny chuckled, an unconvinced hum leaving his lips and tickling her neck. The nerves of that side, from her neck to her leg jittered at the sensation. He hummed again just to feel it under his palm on her waist.

The sound of a door creaking open made him push back from her. Both of them breathing ravenously.

Johnny turned away, running a hand through his hair. She looked up at the clock in the kitchen, the arms telling her that it was six in the morning. She bit her lip, getting off the counter.

When (Y/N)'s mother entered the kitchen, Johnny was washing his face at the sink.

"Good morning." He said with a pleasant smile, "Would you like some coffee?"

Kisass, she thought.

(Y/N) scoffed, "You make me coffee, I'll make her tea." She cradled her face in her palm.

"You're up early." Her mother looked between them.

Their eyes met for a second.

Johnny turned back to her mother in a beat, "We were planning on dropping you to the airport." He leaned against the counter, nonchalant.

"Oh you don't have to do that!" Her mother laughed.

"I want to." He gave her a convincing smile.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes.

Unintended Consequences

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[badwolf-winchester]

Ancient Bloodlines

Pairing: Loki x Emy Nightstar (OC)

OC Summary: Emy is the newest Avenger. She specializes in Magic and close range attacks/ weapons. Her heritage is unknown to her as she was left at an orphanage door step when she was a young girl with only the memory of her name. She goes by her nickname Emy but has never told anyone her full name as its a reminder of her being abandoned. Emy can see through any illusion and Magic no matter how powerful they are or how strong the magic is and is unaware of this. Her powers include Telekinesis, Elemental Control, True Sight (as stated above) Enhanced healing and Shifting (she wont discover this till much later in the story). She loves to read, listen to music, play violin, sing, and draw.

Story Info: Takes place after infinity wars. Tony and Natasha are alive Steven comes back from the future after giving back the infinity stones. Vision is alive and living with Wanda in the tower. Thor and Loki live in the tower with the rest of the Avengers and for the sake of the story Himedall is alive and living with the rest of the Asgardians on earth in New Asgard (you will find out why later)

One last thing: Please do not repost my work on any other site or social media, however reblogging on here is fine. I work hard on all of my fanfics and it’s disappointing when people take my work as their own. I am the creater of all my OCs such as Sora Nightstar, Emy Nightstar, and Lithium Nightstar. My inbox is open for any and all requests as i am a multi fandom writer. Let me know how you like the story and i will do my best to answer any and all questions. As always i encourage any and all feedback as it helps with my writing. I hope you all like it!

The Beginning

They say that your parents are there to teach you the rules of the world, but what happens when you have no parents? Who will teach you then? The world is cruel but people are crueler. Ive learned this first hand when the person i trusted most in this world left me on the door step of the St. Trinity’s Orphanage. I was 9 when my mother told me she didn’t want me anymore and i guess I couldn’t really blame her. I mean who could love someone who couldn’t control the powers that grew with each passing year. Someone who started fires out of thin air when they had nightmares, conjured whirlwinds when startled, unfurled earthquakes when angered, spring forth rain showers when sad, and levitate objects when riddled with anxiety. I will never forget that day for its seared into my mind like its own person brand echoing with every beat of my heart. A monster thats what she called me, her own flesh and blood was a monster in her eyes, and i could see the relief when she ran from the solid oak door finally rid of the burden she had to put up with throughout the years. An abomination she cried as she reached the cobblestone sidewalk eager to be rid of me and by the pace she was going at i could tell she had more spring in her step than on the walk over from the bus we exited from. Unnatural she bellowed as she disappeared around the corner a ghost of a smile springing from her lips as she disappeared. These where the last words i would ever hear from my mother, if thats what you would call her.

Emy’s POV

Tonight was just like any other. Crisp cold air submerged the city in a blanket of dark and silence while it settled into your bones. I never minded the cold in fact I welcomed it, it reminded me of the cabin i found one year after running away from one of the many abusive foster homes i was forced to stay with. I’ll admit it was one of the times I was able to avoid the social workers for longer than a week and the happiest I had ever been in my life up until i was captured by Hydra. When I had a flair up with my powers, which usually ended up being fire, i would immediately get sent back to St. Trinity’s but this time i ran before they had the chance to toss me aside. The staff there used to place bets on how long i would stay with a family, they would joke saying i was cursed or jinxed but i knew the truth, no one wanted me. Once the parents found out about my abilities I was sent packing. I was labeled as a flight risk and a danger to others which only deepened my anti socialism.

Walking through the streets of New York i pull my dark purple jacket on and my dark brown hair in a pony tail as I get closer to my destination. Because i don’t feel the effects of the cold weather Tony, being such the dad figure he is, has made it his priority to make sure i still wear one just incase so here i was walking home in black ripped up jeans, a black v neck T-shirt, black and purple checkered vans and a light weight dark purple jacket. With my headphones in my ears and “I like it heavy” by Halestorm blasting I make my way to the place i call home, Stark Tower. Walking through the front doors i make my way past the receptionist who always greets me with a bright smile. As I walk towards the elevator I give her a small smile back and a head nod. After entering the elevator and pressing the button for the penthouse I start to reflect on how i got here.

By the time i was 15 Hydra found me in that cabin and took me away. I went from hopping from family to family to being used as a science experiment, constantly being poked and prodded just so they could get a reaction out of me. As a child my powers where very unstable mostly flaring up with my emotions, its no wonder that Hydra caught wind of me its not like i was hiding it very well or more so that i couldn’t hide it. They tried to wipe my memory to gain control of me “a blank slate” is what they wanted, but for some reason, they failed as I wasn’t susceptible to their conditioning methods no matter how much time i spent in the chair. However, I could tell they were scared of me I could see it in their eyes. This didn’t last long though as they used what they called their perfect weapon code name Winter Soldier to beat me into submission. After that first meeting that left me with a broken arm and a fractured ankle i started to obey, since then Ive met the Soldier a couple of times but if he remembers me he dosent let on and I dont blame him, he has been in that chair so many times Im genuinely surprised he can even remember how to walk. He is stronger than the others as most of the other test subjects had turned to vegetables after the 4th mind wipe, he was on his 10th the last time i saw him with Hydra.

Another test was done on me and this one was different. They used a teseract? If thats what they called it I can’t be sure nor did I care all I could feel was pain like as if someone injected lava in my veins. After they injected me I started screaming after a while I couldn’t even hear myself anymore, my throat was so sore and horse from the constant roar of my agony I just wanted it to end. How long was I out for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Days? Years? They didn’t keep clocks there or at least not in the dungeon like cell they had me in. When the fire faded i was left with this numbness and after further tests I realized that I was immune to fire. I can literally stick my hand in fire and i will be left untouched and unscorched. They did the same test with freezing temperatures to see if they could subdue me at least in some way. I must have been out longer than just a couple of days as during the tests i didn’t recognize any of the Doctors. In that moment I realized something, if they were trying to contain me then something must have happened to the soldier. It was time to plan my escape.

Back in my cell i could hear footsteps approaching me and then stop short. One of the scientists frantically trying to talk some sense into someone just out of my line of sight. “She is immune to anything we throw at her sir. We have done every test we could there is nothing left for us to do.” One of the goons in a lab coat stated to what i assumed is a higher up. “Bolden If her powers keep growing at the rate they are it could be days in which she will be unstoppable and with the soldier gone we dont have anything that can keep her in line. She broke Mandy and Rays arms the last time we tested her. She is getting too strong.” Brining a hand up to his chin the higher up Bolden stepped out of the shadows and looked at me with deep interest before he turned to looked at the man and scoffed. As he walked away i felt a cold chill ran down my back as I anticipated what was to become of me; I knew it was nothing good i had already broken their rules. His next words only confirmed what I feared. “ Its simple. Break her spirit or kill her Doctor. And when i say break her i mean in anyway means necessary.” His sadistic laugh is the last thing i remember before everything went black.

Its been 2 years since i have escaped and now I’m living in the avengers tower. I don’t remember what happened after that night in my cell its all a blur of red, screams, and gunshots. When i woke up next i was in a 6ft crater where I was being held captive without a scratch on me. Trees were uprooted and fallen over as if a bomb went off. Luckily the Avengers showed up not long after me waking up and took me to their base where i met Directer Fury. With his permission and 24/7 surveillance provided by Tony Stark via FRIDAY and training sessions to get my powers under control i was allowed to join the Avengers and fight for good. Little did i know that by agreeing to this I would end up in the path of a certain God or Gods who were also taking residence at the tower.

With the sound of a *ding* the elevator shook me out of my mind and back to the present. As i exited the elevator I pulled my head phones out of my ears and was instantly met with the sound of Tony losing his mind. “Where did she go? She knows she can’t be out this late. She could be taken again! Its 5 minutes past her curfew!” Rolling my eyes I roll my headphones up and shove them in my pocket and round the corner. “Tony it takes 5 minutes to get from the lobby to the penthouse calm down. I bet she will walk through that door anytime now.” Came the sweet voice of reason of none other than Pepper Potts. “I’m Home.” I said in a deadpan voice as i walked by the couple only for Tony to stand up and intercept me by placing a hand on my upper arm. “Where did you go and why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” I looked at him and raised an eyebrow pushing his hand off me. “Tony its Wednesday. I have training with Strange on Wednesdays and I had Friday alert you as I was leaving but you were in the lab with Bruce.” Not sure what to say next Tony mumbled a small apology. “Sorry I was just worried about you. I know you are grown enough to make your own choices as you are 25 but I just want to make sure you are safe. How was the training with The Wizard?” Sighing and shaking my head just wanting to go the library and read I decided to just let it go. “Strange is a hard ass that much you already know. It wasnt bad actually I think I’m warming up to him. I didn’t spontaneously throw him to the wall when he snuck up behind me as i was going over the ancient texts so i call that improvement.” I said sheepishly while side stepping around him. “I’m gonna go to the library now and grab some light reading before bed you guys have a good night.” With out waiting for a response I quickly made my way towards my new destination only to have Tony saying something about guests in the house but I ignored him.

Pushing open the library door I make my way to the poetry section to grab my usual copy of Edgar Allen Poe that I read before bed. As my had reached for the spot i knew i put the book in i find that its not there. “Wait what? Where is my book? I know I put it back here before I left for training so where did it go?” Frustrated I stomp back over to the entrance and rip open the door ready to go on a murder spree while shouting down the hallway. “CLINT! You better give me back my night time book or I’m breaking all your arrows again! No one reads in this tower but me! How stupid do you think I am!?” Straining my ears I listen for any type of movement but was met with dead silence. After a minute I finally hear movement through the vents coming from the west part of the tower and I take off sprinting. Sliding around a corner I barely miss colliding with Steve and Bucky who look like they were on their way back from a mission. Offering a quick apology before I continue my pursuit I hear Steve yell “Hey! No running in the tower!” Not faltering in my hot pursuit of the Hawk thief I continue to zip through the tower ignoring the Captains words until i was almost to the vent that lead to the 2 level family room. Using the railing for the steps leading down to the family area to give me more height i jumped as close to the vent as possible and conjured my signature Scythe to slice through it while twisting in the air kicking the vent free and off its track. A shocked and terrified scream resonates from the vent as the culprit falls to the ground with a thud and a grunt. I landed in a crouched position and slowly straightened to my full hight. “What the hell Emy?! When did you learn to do that?!” Clint yells as he sits up rubbing his left shoulder that he landed on. I started stalking towards him with the blade of my scythe scrapping across the ground as i went while giving him a death glare. “Give me back my book Barton.” At the mention of his last name his head snapped up to me fear replacing the pain from his fall. “Oh shit last name not good.” Scrambling up on his feet he turns and runs towards the common room that connects to the elevator with me hot on his tail and my scythe trailing behind me in my right hand.

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT!!” He yells as he makes it fully to the room only to fling forward as i jump and kick his back tired of all the running. Twirling my weapon around I place it at his neck sneering at him. “I will not ask you again.” I said placing pressure on his neck with my blade. Sensing a fast moving object coming from my left from the kitchen I move my head back 3 inches as what looked like a hammer flew by me embedding itself in the wall. Turning my head slowly in the direction of the flying object, I confirmed it was indeed a hammer that was thrown at me. Irritation flared through me as i released Clint from the end of my scythe and turned fully to the kitchen to face my attacker. There stood 2 men that i did not recognize, one tall oak of a man with blond short hair, blue eyes and tan skin in blue jeans, a red T-shirt ,and grey jacket. the other shorter man made me stare at him and faultier for a second as he was so different from anyone i have ever seen, dark blue skin covered his entire body with darker almost black symbols and piercing red eyes, long black hair with black jeans, a green dress shirt and black jacket. Tearing my gaze away from his own curious one i looked between both men before i clenched my jaw letting my irritation settle back in. “Which one of you threw that hammer.” I said venom dripping with every word. “Whoa its ok Emy thats just Thor and Loki they are the asgardian Gods that live here in the tower part time when they are not in Norway.” Clint said standing up quickly. Not moving from my position i narrowed my eyes and flicked them over in Clint’s direction. The ground started to shake as my irritation and annoyance grew to anger remembering what i was doing before being interrupted by the Gods. Throwing his hands up in surrender he then quickly reached into his back pocket and retrieved my book. “Ok ok dont blow a fuse Em.” He said while tossing me my possession stopping me from causing an earthquake. Catching it in the air with my left had I inspected the book to make sure it wasn’t damaged before I let go of my scythe, with a wave of my hand it disappeared back to the pocket dimension I keep it in then looked back at Clint as the tremors stopped. “Touch my things again and i will be wearing your guts like my mom’s pashmina.” I said to the thief before walking out of the room and disappeared down the hallway not giving the Gods a second glance. As I entered my room i could hear a silky voice ring out from the kitchen. “Well isnt she interesting.”

Part 2 coming soon

@nickkie1129

[hopelesshawks]

Physical Fatality Part 10- Salve

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Warnings for brief mention of background character death and description of unprotected sex

Masterlist

“The first person I ever loved was named Kiyomi.”

It’s certainly not how you expected Hawks to start this conversation but it had taken nearly half an hour of him pacing for him to sit down next to you on the bed and spit out even that much so you decide to just let him talk.

“I was 18, fresh onto the hero scene and still in that post-debut hustle trying to prove myself. She was a college student. She told me that we’d make it till she graduates. I told her heroism would be worth the wait but she wanted me in an office with a 9-5. We didn’t last. The next girl I fell in love with was Yua. I thought it’d be better because she was a hero too so she’d understand, but before I could ask her out she died in a villain attack. Then there was this one girl with an attitude I met on a mission up north. We never told anyone we were together and in the end we both had way better things to do so we didn’t last long, but I always think about her when I’m in the area.”

“Hawks why are you telling me all this?” you finally ask, starting to get impatient for him to reach the point. You didn’t relish in hearing about his past lovers even if you figured he was telling you for a reason.

“I’m getting to the point I promise. The last one before you was Mirko. I loved her but I lost her because as great as things were going she wanted more time from me and I loved work more than I did her. But when I met you? Fuck (y/n) it was like every single person before you was suddenly meaningless. That night at the gala I was looking for Mirko but the moment I laid eyes on you I forgot all about her. You are genuinely the first person I’ve ever loved more than anything else and I’m sorry I hurt you baby, I am. It’s not that I don’t love you, I’m just bad at love,” he finally finishes.

“If you’re so bad at love then why are you here right now?” You ask. “Can you blame me for trying to be better? Look I could lie and say you’re the one that will finally fix me but the truth is I don’t know, ok? I just know that I want you to be. I want so badly for you to be. Can’t that be enough?” he asks, no pleads, of you and it breaks your heart. “It’s not my job to fix you Hawks. Especially when I’ve got my hands full keeping my career from going to shit,” you reply. “You’re right. Fuck, sorry, you’re right that’s not what I meant. I just...,” he sighs running frustrated fingers through his hair before turning back to you again with a desperate but determined look in his eyes. “For the first time I don’t want to be resigned to being bad at this. I’m asking for patience and a second chance,” he clarifies. “I’m scared,” you finally admit and immediately Hawks is kneeling in front of you, his hands gently cradling either side of your face as he forces you to make eye contact with him. “I know that you’re afraid I’m gonna walk away again but I won’t. I swear to you I won’t,” he promises and his eyes are so full of conviction that your resolve finally crumbles. There’s no denying how genuine he is in this moment and you are so, so tired of hurting him. So you let go of the anger and the hurt you’ve been clinging to for dear life since the moment you read that damned article. “I believe you Keigo,” you confess and it’s one less weight on your shoulders.

You’re shocked at the desperation with which Keigo surges up to press his mouth to yours, his once gentle grip tightening possessively. He pulls away just a bit, his forehead still pressed to yours. You’re both out of breath and panting already and you’re about to close the distance between the two of you again but Keigo pulls away. You whine your disagreement as your hands go to his shirt to try and pull him back into you but he insists. “Say it again,” he commands, his voice shaking. “What?” you ask dazed. “I need to hear you say it again. Please.” “I believe you Keigo.” “Again.” “I believe you Keigo.” “I love you. I’m so sorry.” “I love you too.”

Finally his hands move to your waist, slipping underneath your shirt to find bare skin, and it’s like cool salve on a burn. You hadn’t even realized how deeply you’d ached for him all this time until he was laying you down against the bed. His body baring down on you as he presses you into the mattress. Your lips connect again and all you can think is that you need more of him. You open your mouth in an invitation he gladly accepts to slide his tongue in and tangle it with yours. The kiss lacks finesse, it’s probably the sloppiest the two of you have exchanged, but now is not the time for gentle, tantalizing skill. Not when the two of you have been denying each other all this time. The two of you separate only for brief intervals in order to shed clothing and underwear until there’s nothing left keeping you apart. Finally, finally it’s just skin on skin, your hearts pounding in your chests as if trying to escape and finally be together. “Need you,” you murmur against his lips and he immediately nods, his yearning for you just as overwhelming as yours for him. He presses his throbbing erection into your tight, wet heat so slowly and carefully as if you might break. Or perhaps more accurately as if you might disappear. You realize that every kiss, every touch, every movement he’s made has carried an element of disbelief, as if he cannot fathom that he’s finally with you like this again. By the time he’s fully seated inside you Keigo is absolutely trembling. The two of you stay like that for awhile, just breathing each other in, appreciating the intimacy of being so connected. One of your hands caresses Keigo’s cheek. “Baby why are you shaking?” you ask, even though you’re afraid of the answer. “I just thought I’d never have this again,” he confesses. “I’m so sorry Kei,” you whisper but he shakes his head. “I deserved it.” “No you didn’t. Not all of it.” “I’m the reason everything’s fucked now.” “Faced with Endeavor and the evidence you had, I probably would’ve done the same thing if I were in your position. And the paparazzi stuff I played a part in too.” “But I hurt you.” “And then I hurt you right back.”

It’s quiet for a moment as the two of you let the words hang in the air. You expected the admission to feel heavy but you actually feel the lightest you have in weeks. “We really are a mess aren’t we?” you finally chuckle with a slight shake of your head. “I’d rather be a mess with you than perfect with anyone else,” he swears. “That’s a bit corny isn’t it?” you tease. “Oh absolutely. But I mean every word of it,” he replies easily before pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. It doesn’t take long for it to become heated again. “I’m gonna need you to start moving baby,” you whisper into his ear as one of your hands drifts to the base of his wings to spur him on. “Shit Love, well I guess if you need me that bad,” he smirks but a quick tug on his feathers has him hissing instead. He gives a quick roll of his hips in retaliation before starting to move in and out of you in earnest. God how you’ve missed this, missed him. For the first time since everything went to shit you’re not worrying about your career or All Might or the press or anything else. With each languid thrust, each muttered curse, each lust-filled moan, Keigo cleanses you of the worries and anxieties that have haunted your every waking moment. In him you find relief and bliss and ecstasy, such sweet ecstasy. When the two of you reach your climaxes your moans sound more like sobs as you cling tightly onto each other, scared to let go and risk discovering this was all a dream.

When you both come down from your highs Keigo doesn’t let go, just cuddles you close to him and let’s his feathers tuck you both into your bed. “Do you have any other plans for tonight?” he asks. You shake your head no as you bury yourself closer against him. “Good,” he responds before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Hours pass the two of you by as you simply hold onto each other, barely speaking, just reveling in each other’s company. You don’t even notice yourself drifting off to sleep, it’s just one moment you’re listening to the quiet sounds of Keigo’s breathing and the next you’re slipping into the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time.

You wake up to the sound of Keigo’s alarm. He shuts it off quickly but makes no move to extricate himself from your hold or otherwise get out of bed. “You gonna get up and go to work?” you ask. “Don’t really want to,” he sighs, “I’d rather stay in here with just us.” “We can’t stay in here forever,” you point out. “You sure about that? It sounds infinitely more appealing than dealing with Monoma this early in the morning,” he groans. “Believe me I wish we could too, but you have terrorists to catch and I’ve got people to save so,” you gently remind him. “Five more minutes?” “Fine, five more minutes.”

Five minutes passes by all too quickly and soon the two of you are forcing yourselves out of bed. It’s oddly reminiscent of that first night together. Both of you getting redressed without nearly the urgency you should. Both of you ignoring the dread building at the thought of stepping out of the little bubble you had created. Once you’re both dressed and ready you link hands again and step out of your room. Almost immediately you feel the weight of your responsibilities land heavily on your shoulders once again. The two of you move through the apartment to your front door and it feels like that crossroads moment in the hallway when both of you had run opposite directions without so much as getting a name. You hope he’ll understand why you’re going to once again choose to part ways. “You go on ahead Love, I think I’m going to wait to head to the office until closer to my shift,” you tell Hawks as you hesitate in the doorway. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I’m sure. You go ahead though, tell the others I say hi,” you insist. He gives you a worried look but agrees, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before leaving. “Looks like you two are doing better,” a voice comments behind you. You turn around to find your new roommate standing watching you as he eats cereal out of a bowl nonchalantly. “I’m gonna be honest I have already forgotten your name again,” you confess. “Denki.” “Right, Denki. Thanks I guess.” “You’re welcome. Why didn’t you go with him to work?” “All of my coworkers except for the ones who will be busy working with him think I’m a traitorous slut.” “Yikes.” “Yea.” “Anyway I can help?” “You could make me breakfast to make up for picking the lock on my door.” “Fair enough.”

Author’s Note: This was difficult to write tbh because the content from the song it’s based on tapped out pretty quickly and I needed to figure out narratively where else it needed to go, especially considering what’s coming down the pipeline. I hope the result was satisfying and you guys enjoy it though

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp @pokesosa @lildockel @bread0nhead

[cultofbeatles]

parts of pattie boyd’s book wonderful tonight that involved george that stuck out to me:

pattie didn't have any of the beatles records at first and only bought please please me since she was going to be in their film 

“on first impressions, john seemed more cynical and brash than the others, ringo the most endearing, paul was cute, and george, with velvet brown eyes and dark chestnut hair, was the best looking man i’d ever seen.”

during a lunch break pattie and george sat next to each other and were both very shy 

george asked pattie “will you marry me?” and after she laughed he said, “well, if you won't marry me, will you have dinner with me tonight?” and she turned him down.

she deadass invited george to hang out with her and her boyfriend at the time.

pattie and george are both pisces.

once reshoots for the film were happening george asked pattie about her boyfriend, she said she had dumped him, and george once again asked her for dinner. she accepted this time.

brian epstein joined them for their first date.

they sat side by side and were too scared to even hold the others hand.

george got along great with pattie’s family.

pattie liked cynthia lennon but found her difficult to make friends with. 

“she wasn't like my friends, who enjoyed a giggle and some fun: she was rather serious, and often, i thought, behaved more like john’s mother than wife.”

there was a rumor that john and pattie were having an affair and pattie worried cynthia believed it. it wasn't true.

maureen cox (ringo’s girlfriend) was another beatles girl that pattie had a hard time being friends with. but said that she was “jolly and friendly, more relaxed than cynthia.”

pattie got along best with jane asher but saw her the least.

“i felt there was definitely a north-south divide among the wives and girlfriends. and i had the definite impressions that the girls from the north (maureen and cynthia) felt they has a prior clam to the boys.” okay shade, we see you. 

(talking about going on holiday with john, cynthia, and george) “it was a good way to split the group. john and paul were the closest in some ways and immensely creative together, but they clashed if they were in each other’s pockets for too long.”

george asked pattie to cut his hair while on holiday and one of the cleaners found his hair and kept it. 

(talking about george) “he was so beautiful and so funny.”

once a “weird looking man” tried to force his way into pattie and george’s house. pattie thought he was either a salesman or a jehovahs witness. it turns out it was paul in disguise. 

george said the only place he got peace was in the bathroom of his hotel suite.

pattie got a lot of letters saying that if she didn't leave george there would be a curse put on her.

 pattie’s cleaner was a male ballet dancer and “a terrific duster.”

pattie would count the days till george came back. once he jumped into the bed early in the morning to wake her up. 

those two would deadass not lock their doors and were surprised that clothes were going missing...what is with older generations and not locking their doors i -

george would be in the studio from 11 am - 11 pm. sometimes midnight. 

george’s mom loved when john would visit and would always ask him for an “upper.”

when john lennon is your drug dealer.

pattie wasn't a good cook but was optimistic.

“i loved listening to him (play guitar), loved the sound of the guitar in the house. sometimes i would start to talk and he'd be so deep in thought about the lyrics or the melody he was writing that he wouldn't answer. we’d be the same room but he wasn't really with me: he was in his head.”

pattie developed a kidney disorder.

(talking about the beatles dynamic) “in many aspects they were still children. they had few real friends apart from each other, and when they were asked questions they could answer as one - they were so much on each other’s wavelength. if one went to a gallery opening, they all went; if one bought a new car or new house, they all did. if one seemed in danger of taking himself too seriously, the others knocked it out of him.”

one evening george stopped the car and said, “let’s get married. i'll speak to brian.” they went to brian’s house, george went inside, and when he came back in the car he said, “brian says it’s okay. will you marry me? we can get married in january.”

briannnnnnn, is it my turn to get married yet pleaseeeee

pattie invited her absent father to their wedding but he did not come.

at the train station everyone left cynthia behind as she was carrying the suitcases and john was carrying nothing. peter brown had to go back and get her. 

pattie’s quote from the lsd in the coffee moment is hilarious to me. “you've just had lsd. it was in the coffee.” john lennon: “how dare you fucking do this to us?”

pattie and george didn't go to brian’s funeral in liverpool but george sent one single sunflower.

pattie stopped modeling because george didnt like it. and she felt like she lost a part of herself.

maureen was afraid of flies.

during the India trip, mia farrow told john that maharishi was inappropriate with her and john wanted everyone leave after that.

after India george and pattie’s relationship changed.

(talking about george) “some days he would be all right, but on others he seemed withdrawn and depressed. this was new: he had never been depressed before, but there was nothing i could do. it wasn't about me, but i found that my moods started to mirror his...so bad indeed, that at times i felt almost suicidal. i don't think i was ever in any real danger of killing myself, but i got as far as working out how i would do it: i would put on a diaphanous ossie clark dress and jump off beachy head.”

george became more obvious about his cheating. it hurt pattie.

george was gaslighting her.

cilla black was staying at george and pattie’s house and was uncomfortably close to george so pattie left. six days latter george called to tell her the girl was gone and she could come home.

“..but my ego was too fragile and i couldn't see it as anything other than betrayal. i felt unloved and miserable.”

“jane asher came home unexpectedly from new york and found another woman in the house, an american girl - and did what i should probably have done with george...”

george would start to talk about his feelings about paul or john but would stop bc he never wanted to admit that he felt left out. 

“we had once been so close, so honest and open with each other. now a distance had developed between us..”

(about yoko contributing to the beatles break up) “the four had never allowed anyone into the recording studios with them, but yoko not only sat by john throughout every session, he consulted her about the music they were making, which upset paul.”

during the let it be sessions there was a time with george and paul got in a fist fight and george left.

the same day john told George he was leaving the beatles, george’s mom told him she was ill and in critical condition.

i love that she vibe checked george. “he was bringing home bad vibes.”

george continued cheating and they continued arguing.

“my diary is full of entries about my unhappiness and the disintegration of our relationship.”

john came to visit george and pattie’s new mansion and said that it was so dark he didn't know how they could live in it, and george recommended that he took of his sunglasses.

eric clapton being a piece of shit and saying “if you won't be with me pattie i will become addicted to heroin.”

pattie said the only thing she had left was cooking and george took that away.

the couple was suppose to go on holiday together but george cancelled last minute bc he didn't want to go with her. he ended up going to spain.

“when i challenged him, he denied it and tried once again to make me feel as though i was paranoid.”

i'm not even...the whole fucking story of the george and maureen affair PISSES ME OFF more than i can describe. maybe i’ll make a whole other post but omfg i'm fuming. fuck them bothhhh. they deserve no rights.

george harrison, mere days before their wedding anniversary: “let’s get a divorce this year.” what an amazing new years resolution jerk.

ringo offered pattie a job.

when george told ringo about the affair pattie was so mad she dyed her hair red. 

george loved pattie’s little brother and was his role model but he wouldn't come to the man’s wedding even though he was invited.

the night pattie told george she was leaving him george came to bed in sadness and said, “don't go.”

“i'm going.”

george invited pattie to dhani’s eighteenth birthday party bc she “had to be there. she was family.”

george had become more of an older brother to her now.

pattie had learned about john’s death from eric clapton and immediately went to the beatles office in london to hang out with everyone there.

(after finding out about george’s death) “i couldn't bare the thought of a world without george. when i left him for eric, he had said that if things didn't work out, ever, i could always come to him and he would look after me. it was such a selfless, loving, generous thing to say and it had always been tucked away at the back of my mind. now that sense of security had gone.”

the last time they saw each other was when george called saying he wanted to visit her new cottage and see her.

pattie didn't go to his funeral nor did she go to the memorial concert that took place a year later. but she spent that day high on the mountains thinking of george. “i was happy to mourn him alone and in my own way.”

she would have dreams of george after his death. “oh george, it’s so wonderful that you are alive after all, this is so fabulous; i knew they had all made a mistake.”

and then she’d wake up.

[the-darklings]

—𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓'𝒅;

—PART XV. | BE ALL MY SINS REMEMBER’D

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

word count: 20k+ (the longest yeah boi ever)

summary: “One day you will thank me for this.”

warnings: PTSD, unhealthy coping mechanisms, self-destructive behaviour (aka your girl is absolutely going through it but it will get better), angst, swearing, some suggestive stuff happens in this one.  

notes: might have taken 3 weeks & lots of rage but WELCOME TO CHICAGO PART 1! 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 13 | 14 | . . | 16 |

gif credit (x)

“Father, please—”

“Quiet.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. That’s the worst thing. He doesn’t have to. One word and it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room.

You look towards Gianna but she looks only at her father, her expression blank.

Cassian is tense as a bowstring next to her. There is conflict in his expression but he is Camorra. He is sworn in and regardless of the friendship you’ve built—

“You will depart this household at once,” Giovanni says and steps closer towards you. His eyes are pitch-black. “Let’s see how long you last, viper. Your protection that was so kindly bestowed upon you by my son is hereby terminated.”

“Father, I can vouch—”

“I said quiet,” he speaks again, colder this time, and Santino’s mouth snaps shut at once. “You have done plenty already. I’ve just about had enough of your decadence, boy.”

Then, Giovanni D’Antonio’s head slants towards you again and he regards you like he’s considering whether it would be easier to kill you here and now or later.

“Hector.”

A dark shadow moves from behind the Camorra head, always the obedient dog, and halts at his side. Step is staring at the floor, stricken. Julian’s eyes are full of sadness, his shoulders curved downwards. Dario’s lips are pressed into an unhappy line, his knuckles popping from under his skin. None of them move or interfere. They know better than that. They are Giovanni’s men. They owe no loyalty to you.

“Yes, capo?”

“Get her out of my sight.”

Hector moves without hesitation. You don’t try to fight him when he grips your forearm, his cool rings pressing into the flesh of your skin.

Your eyes find Santino’s across the room. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the grind of his teeth but he’s silent.

Something crumbles in your chest.

You had hoped that maybe—

“Move it, sweetheart.”

You turn to go.

“If you take so much as another step, Santino,” Giovanni’s merciless, soft voice reaches your ears and you almost halt. “The consequences that will follow will be of your own making.”

Silence greets every echoing step after that and no one tries to stop you.

Alone.

Again.

.

[NEW YORK CITY, 3.5 YEARS AGO]

Your eyes crack open and for a moment all you can see is blurred, muted colours above you.

The Continental room ceiling greets you like an old friend.

The sour odour of herbs and old sweat mixes in the air when you try to inhale and your face scrunches in disgust.

Your skin feels dirty and cold to the touch. You’ve spent the last several hours on the floor no doubt sweating out the toxins in your body while going through several fits.

Wrong dosage. Again.  

Trying and failing to roll onto your side, you huff a weak breath. Your throat feels raw and dry and you ignore the painful cramping of your stomach.

The elixir wasn’t clear enough again. You’ve spent almost two days trying to distil it till it was clear enough to mix and used the best alcohol you could find in the city—

Shit.

It doesn’t matter, you think and close your eyes again. You’re still delirious but there’s always tomorrow.

Welcome back, Kishi murmurs lovingly into your ear the moment darkness appears behind your eyelids.  

Your nightmares begin moments later.

.

You heave painfully, your shoulders curving harshly as you gasp for breath.

Wrong fucking dosage.

And too many zootoxins. Goddamn viper venom. Goddamn stupid chemistry. Acetylcholinesterases must be having a field day ravaging through your body as you stay curled pathetically over the toilet, losing whatever little water you had consumed in the last several hours.

Pathetic, Kishi hums from beside you, his ghostly hands caressing your hair soothingly. No wonder he left you. No wonder he doesn’t love you.

“Shut up.”

You suppose the blood you see should concern you.

It doesn’t.

.

You’ve kept the dress you wore to his wedding.

It still smells like him.

It torments you as much as it gives you comfort.

.

Foxglove is a remarkably beautiful flower.

It’s also a rather deadly, beautiful flower.

Cardiac glycoside.

Interesting.

You scribble a new formula, your brain aching but still functional after your last failure.

Too obvious? Perhaps. It lacks finesse, sure.

But you don’t care much for finesse anymore.

You just want results. And you will get them. Even if it means bleeding yourself and this world dry to get them.

You hate so beautifully, Kishi compliments with a sigh, his dark eyes glimmering in the low light.

You simply prepare yourself for another count of agony.

Such is the price to pay for power.

.

The dress doesn’t even smell like him anymore. It’s been months.

You still like to pretend that it does.

.

John.

You turn the viper ring on your hand.

John.

He’s not coming back, Kishi tells you from beside you and you both ignore how his throat spills blood. He doesn’t care about you. No one does.

“I know.”

His rough fingers caress your cheek.

You might be crying but you can’t be sure.

You’re at the bottom of the pit and there is nothing but darkness and quiet here.

Even if you wanted to get up. You don’t think you can.

You don’t want to, either.

Easier…

Easier to let things wither and die.

But I’m with you. I will never leave you, little viper. I will hate you forever.

Kishi rolls over, his fingers wrapping around your throat, his mouth a sneer, and his eyes dark. His throat is open, gushing, and red rains everywhere.

His hands tighten around your throat.

You don’t try to stop him.

.

Freezing water splashes against your face and body.

You wake up with a strangled scream, scrambling across the dirty floor.

A puddle of sick lays not too far from you and you blink away the wooziness, trying to locate a weapon. Your heart sits in your throat as you attempt to find the culprit, too, and your eyebrows knit when your eyes snag onto two men standing before you.

“Oh, good. You’re still alive,” Winston drawls, a hint of coldness lacing his scornful tone. “Saves us the trouble of cleaning up.”

Charon says nothing but the bucket in his hand paints him as the guilty party.

You try to wipe the water from your eyes but it takes several tries to lift your hands to your face due to muscle weakness.

“What—”

A weak croak and you pause, forcing your unused vocal cords to work.

Winston looks away as if he can’t bear the sight of you and approaches the window, pulling back the curtains with a swift jerk. Light explodes across the room and you flinch, ducking your head down as you block it with your palm.

“What are you…doing here?” you finally force out, your throat sore and blood stinging your tongue.

Ulcers from the chemicals. Great.  

“Considering that no one has heard from you in days, and you won’t let anyone inside without a threat of violence,” the manager explains, every word as icy as the last. “That left me with little choice but to check on you myself by forced entry. Do you plan to waste away here forever?”

The window opens with a crack and you shoot a glare towards Charon who moves around the room calmly. He opens doors and windows, letting the room air and you scowl at them both, still curled on the floor.

Your body aches and your muscles feel shaky with exhaustion. You haven’t left your room in days though. How funny it is that you feel more exhausted now than when you used to do jobs back to back with little sleep and danger around every corner.

“Get showered and dressed,” Winston instructs sternly, glancing at you only briefly and something in your stomach twists. Are you truly that repulsive to him that— “I expect you downstairs in ten minutes. Charon, handle the rest.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Winston only manages a handful of steps before your choked words stop him dead, “You’re not my father. Don’t order me around.”

With your head bowed, you imagine your glare is even more vicious when he eventually does look back at you. His own expression is cool, composed as always, and he hums thoughtfully.

“No, I’m not,” he agrees easily, his expression as hard as his voice. “And be glad for it. Because I reassure you that if you were, I would not be putting up with this behaviour. Ten minutes, dear.”

Then he’s gone, and the distant clank of his shoes fades down the corridor.

You wish that didn’t sting but it does.

.

The first sip scorches through your throat and you choke down a mouthful, pulling the glass away from your lips with a grimace.

“What the hell is this?”

“Bruichladdich.”

Ignoring the agony in your mouth, you scowl at the man before you, and force yourself to take another sip. Winston’s frown deepens as he watches you shrewdly over his glasses. You don’t care much for it. With how strong this drink is, it will probably knock you out with a few more sips and that’s the goal. Better than whatever the hell this is.

Intervention, little viper, Kishi speaks from beside you and this time you almost jump for a different reason. Kishi and his torture belong in the pit with the rest of you. Not here.

The lounge is suspiciously empty as you and Winston sit facing each other on twin leather sofas. In fact, only Charon lingers by the bar and you know that Continental lounge is rarely this quiet.

“May I ask what it is, exactly, that you’ve been doing as of late?”

The question is restrained but something simmers in that gaze as he pins you under his heavy scrutiny.

“Working.”

Winston’s eyebrows jump. “Oh! Working. Is that what you call it?” he wonders coolly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks to me like you’re just poisoning yourself repeatedly.”

Scoffing, you lower the glass and ignore the frailness of your own grip. Your longer than usual nails tap against the glass and you force yourself to swallow over the pain in your mouth. Your tongue keeps poking at the little wound inside your cheek and a sting of copper follows swiftly after.

Your hands are as cold as your feet. Your hair still damp from a quick wash in the sink—because there is no way you could have forced yourself to shower today of all days—sits around your head like a crown of black ice.

Just like when I drowned you over and over again, Kishi recalls happily and you grit your teeth, turning to face the fireplace and soaking in its warmth.

“That’s how Mithridatism works, Winston,” you inform him, your voice still a husky, raw mess and you swallow another mouthful even though the drink goes down like a hot knife. Better to feel this pain. Something to ground you. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of how it works,” the man barely waits long enough for you to finish before speaking and you fall silent. “It’s an art of discipline and brilliance. Given a different set of circumstances, I might have even praised you on your foresight. However, given how idiotically reckless you are being that can wait.”

Your grip on the glass tightens and you drag your attention back towards him.

“Why am I here?”

“It’s your birthday,” he says tightly, his eyes flashing. “But you had no idea, did you?”

Oh.

No—no, you didn’t.

Time has become…nothing.

A stream of existing and not existing. Of being lost, adrift.

You miss the sun.

You miss the dream that you could belong. That you could be a part of something and have companionship and trust.

You miss him.

John. Your John.

You miss him so much it makes you feel sick with longing for something that will never be yours again. He’s happy. Happy without you.  

“I know what I’m doing.”

Quiet, hollow words. You both know that.

“You’re killing yourself.”

There it is. The thing he’s been trying to avoid voicing out loud.

His words devour everything. Even Charon goes quiet behind the bar and you stare at the manager blankly.

Raising your trembling hand, you drown another gulp of your drink before placing the glass on the table and standing unsteadily to your feet.

“No one would care anyway.”

You step past him.

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he calls after you, his mild words full of something you don’t dare to class as concern. Not from a man like him. “Don’t let it consume you,” he adds, quieter, when you fail to respond.

You don’t reply to that, either.

Nor do you believe him.

.

You find flowers in your room the next day. You had planned to get them for research into a potential paralyser formula that’s been knocking around your mind for a while now.

There is no note attached to them.

But you don’t need it to know where they came from.

You suppose it should make you happy.

But there is nothing inside your chest.  

.

Some nights it feels like your bones are made out of all the nightmares living underneath your skin.

Some nights you think you will swim.

Other nights you think you will drown.

And you know all about drowning.

.

Humming weakly, you shake the vial in your hand till the liquid inside goes from dark blue to red.

Finally.

It’s a potent, haunting sort of colour. Thick and striking as it rolls in the confines of the glass it’s encased in. It reminds you of—

Just like when you tore my throat out, Kishi mutters in wonder, leaning his face closer as he squints at the vial. Shoulder to shoulder. Your only companion. I bled red just like it.

He’s still bleeding. He hasn’t stopped bleeding. He will never stop bleeding.

And you can still taste it in your mouth. Except you’re no longer sure if it’s his blood or yours.

Toying with the pencil between your fingers, you roughly cross out Baba Yaga and write Kishi on top of the crumpled sheet of paper instead.

Then you tilt your head back and drown it whole.

.

There is everything and then there is nothing.

.

.

.

Distant voices. Urgent. Hands on you. Shaking, pulling.

Then nothing again.

.

“—cannot go on like this—”

“—there is nothing you can do, sir—”

“—dead soon—called—only option—”

“—use her—can’t—he will not—”

“He will.”  

.

You wake up bathed in sunlight.

It almost makes you cry because for a moment you can’t help but think that you’re dead.

A faint rustle of paper reaches you, and you slant your head weakly.

Winston sits on an expensive leather armchair, his legs crossed and pen between his fingers.

This isn’t the hospital wing that lives beneath the ground floor of the hotel.

You know this room.

You just can’t believe the man next to you is sitting here with you.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” is the first thing to leave your mouth. A half-forced whisper on your tender throat. “I wasn’t.”

It’s true.

But you have no idea how to convince him of it.

The air seems thick with a thousand unsaid things and Winston lowers the newspaper from his face, taking off his glasses and placing both on his lap.

His expression is empty as he examines you.

You curl further into the clean, crisp sheets around you as the silence continues. An IV is attached to your arm and you cringe at the sight of it. Your skin is suddenly so itchy you want to tear it away from you but know better than to try.

“I know you weren’t,” the man voices, at last, his words steady. “You were punishing yourself instead. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You believe that you’re not good enough—that you are deserving of pain. Better to make yourself hurt than to let anyone else do it. Am I wrong?”

Your eyes sting but you don’t speak, staring at his gleaming shoes.

“Are you hoping that you will drown everything else out?” he questions but it’s not accusatory.  If anything he sounds like he’s trying to engage with you in a way no one has before. “Never give someone else the power to destroy you. Hurting yourself will not erase what happened to you at Tokyo nor will it bring Jonathan back,” he continues, his voice grim after several moments of deafening silence between you.

You flinch at the name, your eyes closing in shame as moisture clings to your lashes.

Curtains flutter in the slight breeze.

Why did he bring you here?

“You will be staying here from now on.”

Your eyes fly open and your head snaps to him as panic fills your veins. “No—you—you can’t kick me out,” you mumble thickly, trying to rise, your fingers tangling between the sheets. You try and fail. “I pay for my stay. I—I haven’t broken any rules. You—”

Please, don’t throw me out. Please. I have nowhere else to go.

Winston’s expression creases. “I am not throwing you out,” he pacifies quietly but a shadow seems to have settled across his weathered features. “You are welcome to come back whenever you can afford it again.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and noting your confusion the man continues with a twist of his lips that would be biting normally, “When was the last time you picked up a contract, dear? It’s been months. Viggo Tarasov never gave you much to begin with and now…well. Your account ran dry two weeks ago. You likely have another two weeks at best before the Russian comes looking for you. He will expect you to pay up. It’s rather good that you already have your next job lined up though.”

That gives you a pause.

“What?”

Some of your panic has retreated but in its place blooms unease.

Winston tuts and stands to his feet. The newspaper is still in his hand and he slips his glasses into his pocket.

The look he gives you next makes you feel like you will have no choice but to comply with whatever he says next.

“You already know where you are,” he tells you knowingly, his eyebrow arching slightly. “Your employer is ready to see you.”

Santino D’Antonio hasn’t changed since the last time you saw him.

Which was before John and his wife. Before the wedding.

It was the night you decided to take a leap and hope for the best with your decision to come back to New York. Not like you could stay in Rome. Not with Camorra protection null and void.

Not with Tarasov demanding payment as usual.

Last time you saw him, Santino offered you to go to Paris with him. His own version of an apology. For not doing more to stop Giovanni. But no one could. The entire room could have stood in defence of you and it still won’t have changed a damn thing.

Last time you saw him, he had taken your hand in his and with that familiar arrogance and burning eyes and kissed your knuckles, asking only one question, “Come away with me, cara mia?”

You had refused him then.

And you would still refuse him now.  

You will always refuse him because he’s not John.

That thought makes something deep down ache.

The Italian rises when he sees you emerge onto the terrace.

Your arm is hooked around Winston’s as you walk. Normally, you might have commented on how seeing the manager of all the people here is hilarious. You know that there is no love lost between the two so the fact that they have gone through the trouble of collaborating on this…

Do they really think you’re that helpless?

A lost cause?

You don’t have enough energy to ask.

Every step closer is a metamorphosis of expressions though.

Santino seems to go through a thousand emotions in those several seconds it takes you to cut across the terrace. Your steps are shaky, your muscles aching, and you’re sweating.

A tart bitterness still coats your tongue and your grip on Winston tightens.

The older man presses closer—just a touch—but the silent comfort that gives you is immeasurable. Surprising.

Ares stands behind Santino and her expression is stoic as she takes you in. Unlike Santino, her emotions are guarded.

They both look ready for a funeral. The atmosphere that greets you is near suffocating.

You sit down awkwardly, practically falling into your seat as Winston sits down beside you. Santino is the only one left standing but he seems frozen in place.

You see his fingers flex, his Camorra ring gleaming in the golden rays of the sun when he finally lowers himself in the seat opposite to you.

It’s too late for lunch but too early for dinner. Wine and fresh coffee are always present on the heir’s table though—this you know to be an absolute that never changes.

“Ciao, cara mia. A pleasure to see you as always.”

You blink. Right.

“Santino.”

Those brilliant green eyes narrow.

“What’s wrong with your vo—”

Winston clears his throat loudly and Santino falls quiet, frowning deeply. He tugs a napkin free and drops it on his lap carelessly, peering at you.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife but you simply stare at the table.

“I have a job offer for you, bella,” the man begins amiably, folding his fingers on the pristine tablecloth before reaching for a glass of wine beside him. He’s frustrated, angry even. The cords of his neck are tense and the subtle clenching of his jaw betrays him. The way he taps his fingers repeatedly against the table and doesn’t seem to notice even more so. “One that I think you will find most beneficial.”

New York is so damn noisy. The traffic reaches you even up here. It’s a serenade of concrete, shouting, rushing people, laughter, arguing—

“Bella? Are you listening to me?”

You blink again, squinting at him. “Sorry,” you mutter shortly, ignoring the way Winston is dead silent, Ares is glaring at some distant point over your head, and Santino is gripping the wine glass so hard you can almost hear the cracking glass from where you sit. “It’s been a rough few days. What,” you exhale, your voice raspy and try again, “What exactly did you want?”

The Italian’s head slants, his demanding gaze drilling into you with enough intensity to keep you focused for at least a second.

“A job,” he repeats, slower this time, his voice colder, too. “I will require you in Chicago in two weeks time. In peak condition. Which you are currently not,” he adds the last part with such deliberate slowness that your bristle, something flickering in your gut.

It lasts only a second before fizzling out.

Yet between the rays of the sun blinding you both, it’s hard to miss the way he latches onto that brief moment. His navy suit accents the severe curve of his shoulders and the unmissable tension there.

“Not interested.”

A furnace, a volcano—Santino D’Antonio looks ready to shatter this world under his too-expensive shoe. Something whispers to you that it’s not anger directed at you, however.  

Winston speaks before the Camorra heir can. “You need this job. It’s not a question of want or preference, I’m afraid.”

But you don’t want it.

Santino is just another reminder. A stark reminder that you don’t belong anywhere.

John didn’t want you, Camorra didn’t want you, Tarasov only needs you as long as you’re making him money, Winston is just doing his duty as the overseer of New York.

You belong in the pit with Kishi who seems absent for once.

Maybe it’s the brightness of the sun. He fears the light as much as you do now.

“It’s an undercover mission,” Santino endeavours to explain even though his voice is strained, deepening his accent. “Information gathering only. There are several individuals who have been, ah, causing problems for our trade as of late shall we say. It will be low risk, clean exit but no loose ends. What say you?”

He’s lying.

That’s for one.

Your eyes meet his stare and he leans closer like that can somehow keep your attention on him by doing that.

He’s lying.

So he either thinks you’re an idiot or he’s being purposely misleading due to Winston’s presence here. There is something else going on that he doesn’t want the manager of the Continental to know.

That calculating glimmer in his eyes is telling enough.

“No.”

You’re tired.

Downright, bone-weary type of exhausted.

Swaying, you stand to your feet.

“Tarasov is going to hunt you down—”

You don’t let Winston finish, turning to go. “I don’t care.”

A loud scrape of a chair fills the air and loud footsteps stalk after you. Deliberate. Furious. You ignore them, continuing on your way albeit sluggishly.

“And what are you going to do, hm?” Santino hisses from behind you, his fury spilling over. “Will you go cry a bit more about how your precious Johnathan left you? Will you just give up and go lock yourself away again?”

Your feet halt but you don’t turn around.

“D’Antonio.”

Winston’s warning is icy but Santino doesn’t heed it. That fire rages in him too brightly, scorching everything in its path. “When have you become such a coward, I wonder, hm? I knew a fighter, a tornado of a woman, now you can’t even look people in the eyes. Pity. To think that you have given up so easily—”

Fire doesn’t frighten you—it never has.

It’s a second, a breath, a heartbeat—

A blade stills against the curve of that elegant neck, and you stand face to face, seething when your eyes meet. It’s an echo from years ago, of your first meeting, and just like then Santino D’Antonio leans into danger, into the cold promise of death, into you and smirks. “Ah, there she is,” he purrs, enraptured, his voice a silky caress. “Are you going to kill me, cara mia?”

“I’m considering it.”

He raises his hand casually, stopping the guards who are no doubt ready to do their jobs and remove the threat—remove you.

“Yet you know that you cannot,” he dismisses, his voice still silky, smug. “For if you do the wrath of Camorra will rain down upon you till there is nothing left. Besides, it might be in bad taste to kill your host and friend, no?”

Friend?

You lean closer and Santino’s lips part at the proximity.

“I’m not staying here.”

His eyebrow cocks up and despite the residual anger you feel radiating from him, he still manages to sound effortlessly pompous when he speaks next. “You can’t afford to go back to the Continental,” he points out sharply and tilts his head, unruffled despite the bite of the blade against his pulse. “But if you prefer to sleep with the scum of this city then, by all means, be my guest.”

He’s right.

You have nothing. No home, no safe space to call your own, just nothing. John was your home once but he’s gone now, too.

For one hateful moment, you consider slicing Santino’s throat open just to have a quick out. But the truth is that you can’t.

He’s helped you too many times.

He helped John. He helped you. He gave you security when no one else could. He offered his hand despite everything—despite the fact that you still refuse to warm his bed to this day in spite of his clear eagerness for it. He keeps helping without pushing you.

For that alone, you know you owe him.

Ripping the blade away from his neck, you spin on your heels and stagger away, your skin damp with sweat.

Blood is rushing loudly in your ears and your tongue feels dry and bloated in your mouth as you stumble into the apartment. You manage a few steps before slumping against the wall, your breathing laboured. Wiping clumsily over your face, you take a moment to appreciate the suffocating silence your departure has left behind.

You linger just long enough to hear Santino’s clear, bitter command that rings like a death knell across the terrace.

“Postpone everything. We are staying in New York till this is sorted.”

.

You’re holding on.

But barely.

Just barely.

Maybe not even at all.

.

Winston leaves twenty minutes later.

He stops by the guest room you have claimed as your own and watches your prone figure on the bed.

You don’t turn to him, don’t say anything, either. You want to be angry that he’s as good as threw you out. That he’s forced you into this situation. That you found your clothes moved into the sleek closet behind you but not your solutions or poisons.

They don’t trust you.

They might believe the fact that you weren’t trying to end your life, but they don’t trust you not to do more harm.

The anger you felt only minutes ago in Santino’s presence has fizzled out and died. Darkness has cocooned you in its embrace once again even though something restless still scratches under your skin as always.

Even now, there is no peace.

“Let me come home.”

You don’t realise your slip up till you hear the older man exhale; a weary, ragged sound. You wonder what he must be thinking. If there’s some code he has to follow in a situation like this.

Home.

What sentiment.  

What’s the protocol for this?

“Your death will not be on my hands,” he says at last, cruel and kind all at once. “One day you will thank me for this.”

And then he leaves.

.

Ares knocks on your door by the time dinner rolls around.

You don’t answer.

She comes in anyway. Her stare as hard and uncompromising as always, and the dour expression on her face only makes you blink and press your cheek back into the pillow.

Dinner?

You don’t move.

She signs again.

Sits on your bed and repeats it.

And again.

You don’t move.

Eventually, she leaves and you’re relieved that she’s gone.

A distant, angry voice sounds from somewhere in the apartment several minutes later but it cuts out quickly.

Somehow the silence that follows is even louder.

.

You could leave. You should.

But there is nothing for you out there but death.

No weapons, no solutions, and a weak body.

You won’t last a day.

For one foolish, pathetic moment you consider calling John just to see if his number is still the same. If maybe—

You curl under the covers and sink deeper into the dark.

.

Ares comes to call you for breakfast the next day.

You pretend that you’re asleep.

She brings you a tray of food and leaves it on the table.

You don’t touch it.

.

You pick at some of the food eventually.

But you don’t leave your room, spending endless hours curled under the covers, thinking.

Let Tarasov come.

It’s finally perfect. The poison you’ve created just for him. Just a touch more lethality and it will be ready.

You can’t wait to see him erode into nothing.

When he is dead—and one day he will be—you will delight in every second of dizzying triumph that will follow the stilling of that dark heart.

One day, he will die with terror in his heart that wears your name.

.

John. John. John.

.

Kishi has been absent for so long that you’re surprised to see his grinning face appear in your nightmares.

Hello, viper. I’ve missed you so dearly.

He cups your cheeks, grinning wider, wider—

His face morphs. Raven hair. Dark, thoughtful eyes that you love—

John leans forward and sinks his teeth into your neck.

Blood spills down your chest.

Your scream is silent.

.

Hands try to hold you down as you trash, your skin slick with sweat, and clothes sticking to your skin.

“Wake up,” a voice urges. “Open your eyes!”

You do. A scream climbs up your throat but you force it down, your eyes frantically seeking the figure above you.

A familiar pair of green eyes stare down at you. Wild with an emotion you have no name for.

His fingers hold you by the forearms but his grip relaxes when he sees you’re lucid.

Gasping for breath, you twist from underneath the covers, shaking his arms off and dash for the bathroom. Your knees crack against the gleaming tiles and the content of your stomach empties itself in a brutal lurch. Next several moments are full of your suffering. Tears sting your eyes from the pain, and you bite your lip, your limbs still twitching as your stomach rolls.

You feel him hovering behind you.

“Cara mia?” there is a question in that breathless address but you ignore him. “Are you well enough to stand, at least?”

He sounds frustrated but his voice is still calm—just barely.  

Footsteps draw closer to where you lay half slumped over the toilet, your eyes closed.

You feel so drained that even tears won’t come. The skin of your neck feels dirty and torn. Faint traces of the feverish nightmare still cut into you and you shiver.

Hot fingers settle on your shoulder, light and cautious, and you snarl, jerking away from the touch. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’re unwell,” Santino shoots back tightly, his eyes blazing and body rigid. He’s clad in only a clean, white shirt and trousers but you don’t care to ask what the time is. “What is happening? Is it the poison? Did you take something—”

“Shut up and get out!”

“You need—”

“I don’t need you!” you scream; a raw, awful thing that leaves you gasping. You want to claw at your own skin but can’t—shouldn’t. “I don’t need anyone,” you add in a broken, quiet whisper and it’s like that awful hotel room all over again.

His expression darkens, strains. For the first time, Santino D’Antonio looks unsure of what to do. It’s like that finely honed arrogance with which he carries himself has abandoned him. Here, in this cold, dark bathroom he simply glares down at you.

“Very well, bella,” he says, his words biting, low. “Wallow in your misery alone if you must. But we are eating breakfast together.”

The last part isn’t up for negotiation.

A brief spark of anger ignites, nothing more than a tiny ember. Egoistical prick.

No response greets him.

He lingers for a few, expectant moments but you don’t move. The only dialogue between you is your shallow breaths and the weight of his overbearing regard.

Go, leave. Everyone always does.

You don’t feel yourself drift away.

.

The next morning, it’s the blinding sun that awakens you once more.

You’re back in your bed.

At first, you think that last night was a bizarre dream until you rub your face, and catch a whiff of vinous scent staining your skin.

Santino.

There is a feeling—

It flees as everything else does now—too fast for you to grasp onto it.

You don’t get up for breakfast.

.

You don’t get up the entire day.

Or the day after that.

.

It’s been at least a year and a half since Tokyo.

Yet it still feels like you’re drowning.

Maybe you’ll never stop.

.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

Your eyes crack open and you lick your cracked lips, turning towards the doorway.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him inside this room aside from that night when he woke you up from your nightmares.

He’s been sending in Ares to deliver you food and water, to try and engage.

“What?” you mumble, blinking sluggishly.

Santino stalks into the room and aggression lines his every step. He’s trying to control it, keep calm, and his hands buried inside his pockets say a lot. Behind him, Ares walks in with a tray of food. She moves closer towards you and places it on the bed before sitting down at the foot of it, the tray now between you.  

Much to your surprise, the heir of Camorra does the same.

He looks beyond uncomfortable, his mind clearly somewhere else, but Ares starts first by picking up a mango slice from one of the many plates, and placing it inside her mouth. She chews slowly and stares at you expectantly as she does.

She’s clad in dark burgundy today as is Santino and you know that colour holds a special significance at Camorra but you can’t think of one right now.

They’re both not used to this, you realise distantly, making an effort for someone.

This is weakness. This is something that’s ruthlessly crushed and disposed of at Camorra. Such...inability would never be tolerated.

Yet they’re trying.

Santino is scowling at a wall but he’s chewing his fruit obediently. Ares is doing the same.

It’s awkward.

No one speaks.

And yet—

Your fingers stretch towards the strawberries.

Santino’s eyes snap to your hand, focusing on the motion and you still briefly before pinching one between your fingers. Your head barely lifts from your pillow but you bring it to your lips, nibbling on it cautiously.

It’s delicious. Sweet and zesty taste explodes against your tongue the moment you bite down on it. It’s taken days for the wounds inside your mouth to close but now the full extent of your taste receptors seems to have come back.

No one speaks but the tension in the room seems to ease a touch as you continue nibbling away.

You manage three strawberries that morning.

Every single one of them feels like scarlet, gushing victory.  

For the first time in months, you don’t taste blood in your mouth.

You only taste the sweetness of life.

.

It’s hours later, long after they’ve both left, that information crawls up from the back of your mind.

An heir apparent and his right hand wearing burgundy outside of Camorra duties. No deaths, no coronation, no birthday or births to warrant that very deliberate choice of dress code.  

This is something else.

Burgundy they wore in a show of favour, companionship, respectful implication that they consider you an equal and are seeking an alliance.

All while you laid in bed with greasy hair, dark circles under your eyes, stale breath and vacant eyes.

Something deep down flutters at that. You try to grasp onto that spark with whatever little strength you still have left but it’s so hard.

Everything is so hard now.

.

Warmth.

Your nose presses into it, curling against it and you sigh faintly. There is something so comforting about having someone else in the bed with you—

Your eyes snap open and you scramble backwards, your legs tangling in the sheets.

Santino lays on the other side of the bed, one hand resting behind his head. He’s relaxed, his clothes immaculate as always—pale blue, cotton shirt and trousers, no doubt all designer—and Rolex gleaming around his wrist as he taps his fingers on his chest in a careless rhythm. His eyes drag slowly from the spot he was observing on the ceiling to you, and a slight smirk curves his lips.

A spark again and it flares enough to work your tongue.

“What are you doing here?”

He blinks at the sharpness of your question and you don’t miss the trace of surprise in those green depths.

“This is my home, cara,” he says pleasantly, his voice a lovely roll of syllables, and you’ve forgotten how effortlessly charming he can be. “I am resting.”

“Get out.”

It’s hardly a demand. It sounds more like a strangled, detached whisper.

His eyes roll at that, effortlessly dismissive and condescending.

“Hm. No.”

You claw deeper to dig out that ember of your old self back. The one who would have sliced his skin for using that tone. Thrown him off the bed without warning and threatened him for good measure, too. If only to see that smug gleam in his eyes after. Listen to him throw a deliberate, heated comment about how attractive you are when angry while his eyes drag over your figure with obvious desire.

The same dance.

Always trying to get under your skin.

Even now.

“Get out.”

His eyes spark. Eager. Coaxing.

He sits up unhurriedly, his chin lowering as he looks you right in the eye.

“Make me.”

A deliberate challenge. Everything since you’ve come here has been deliberate. From his actions to his words. He’s trying to get a reaction. Even more so than he used to before. Before it was about him and his ego. Now you have no idea what he’s trying to achieve with his goading.

“What are you doing?” you demand even though it sounds faint and takes more effort than it’s worth. “Trying to piss me off on purpose?”

He leans closer and your eyes narrow when you come face-to-face. This is the closest he’s been to you in months. Since Rome. Since before whatever little control you had got buried with your heart at John’s wedding.

“Yes, cara, indeed I am,” he admits easily, shameless as always, facing you unflinchingly because it’s who he is. He never shies away and expects the same from you. “Be angry with me. Rage, yell, scream till your lungs give out. Anything is better than this.”

A knot forms in your chest at his angry, disgusted hiss at the end. At the way he waits, agog—waits for that fire to rise up and match his own.

Play with me, come on, those eyes say and you stare at him flatly, your mouth tilting downwards.

“What do you know about it?” you breathe quietly, and there is a muted sort of rage there. It prickles your skin, and your fingers knot in the sheets beneath your palms. “Poor little D’Antonio with his mean daddy who won’t shower him in praise. You have it so hard. Mansions and cars and a mountain of wealth. Freedom to do whatever you want.”

If he wants to play this game, you will indulge him.

His expression smoothens, growing colder at your words, and he leans back a touch, his chin tilting. The moment of almost ends and the cool, collected heir is all that’s left.  

“So quick to pass judgment, cara mia,” he points out softly, icily. Still, his eyes drag over your weary features and there is determination there. “Join me for breakfast.”

“Why?”

His lips curve and he leans forward without warning again, his breath tickling against your ear. “Because I asked nicely and I rarely do that, no?”

You shove him back with your hand and he hums, seemingly entertained.  

“Asshole.”

He stands to his feet, not a stitch out of place, and stretches to his full height, glancing at you before offering you his hand.

You ignore it, pulling the covers back yourself as you stumble to your feet, trying to find your balance.

“Better,” you hear him acknowledge, and flip him off without looking back as you stride towards the bathroom on shaky legs.

His chuckle sounds immediately, pleased, and you make sure to slam the door shut extra loud behind you.

You didn’t have to get up. You didn’t even think you had it in you to do so.

You cup your hands around that ember inside your chest protectively and soak in its warmth.

Just for a little while.

.

“You’ve gotten worse.”

Stabbing a fork into the fluffy pancake on your plate, you don’t answer.

The sun is bearing down on you both, warming your neck as you sip on your juice without engaging him. It tastes good. Freshly squeezed and organic no doubt—only the best for the Italian prince.

Santino exhales forcefully. He’s not used to being ignored and he doesn’t like it.

Good.

“You weren’t like this when you were staying with us,” he tries again and you ignore the resentment you can hear coating his words. “He did this to you.”

Your head lifts, your mouth a hard line, and find Santino half leaning across the small table towards you. He always does that you realise suddenly. Like he’s being dragged closer by an invisible rope.

He’s right though. Even if you hate the fact that he is.

Camorra for all its awful brutality and endless ambition had been a safe haven. It had been routine and focus and purpose. Most days you were so busy you had no time to think about anything else. You were hunted and wanted to change that.

So you shed your skin—the skin that was soft because you hadn’t realised just how much John had shielded you from before—and became a hunter yourself.

The Hunt had been a poetic slaughter—a baptism of blood.

Giovanni D'Antonio allowed you space under his roof because you had been relentless. So relentless to return the favour that with time he might have even offered you a place in his ranks and tried to buy you out from the Russian.

Camorra had been a twisted hope of belonging somewhere.

It had been friendship and hope.

Had.

“Why burgundy?” you ask him instead because it’s been plaguing you. “I have no position of power for you to seek an alliance with me.”

He blinks, exhaling, and then his mouth quirks. His features soften a touch and you ignore the fact that he appears beyond pleased with you.

“You remembered.”

Only because his family and the endless list of traditions and laws infused into the very foundation upon which that empire of blood and bones stands is fascinating. You’ve always been eager for knowledge because that’s what keeps you alive and both heirs had obliged you happily.

Many things they kept from you because you were still seen as an outsider but it hadn’t mattered.

Santino never lacked enthusiasm when it came to you wanting to know more about Camorra.

Because he’s proud of his family. Because he’s proud of his position in it. Because if he’s capable of love you think that Camorra might be the only thing he truly loves.

But articulating all that seems exhausting so you offer him a half-hearted shrug in response.

Still, this seems to have brightened his previously foul mood and he rests his chin on his folded fingers, his elbows digging into the table as he peers at you. His ring glints in the sunlight, momentarily distracting you.

“My intention is exactly what you think it was,” he reveals calmly. “I need you to come with me to Chicago, cara mia. This job is rather important to me personally.”

“Important enough to lie Winston about it.”

His smile is slow coming this time around and all teeth. A sinful, wicked soul residing inside a shell of a man with golden skin, dark curls and piercing eyes. Handsome, dangerous package. A temptation very few have resisted, you know as much.

“Perhaps,” he purrs gently and you force yourself to lower your eyes back to your food. “But I need someone like you. An individual who can deliver and be discreet about it. Besides what Winston doesn’t know, won’t hurt him, no?”

I need you.

You wonder if he’s realised that he’s said it twice in a span of less than five minutes. There is no emphasis on words or deliberate pauses. No indication at all that he’s said them on purpose. In fact, he appears entirely focused on your conversation, his voice smooth and steady.

“What is it?”

He seems even more pleased with your show of interest.

“It wasn’t entirely a lie, bella,” he says breezily, leaning back in his seat as his hands lower back onto the table. “It is undercover. Every five years operational managers from our world meet for a conference of sorts. Everything from food to clothing to weaponry is discussed. Hands are shaken, deals are struck, ah you know how it goes, cara, no? This year this very special event is being held in Chicago. We will attend it.”

You stare at him as you chew and swallow before forcing another bite of pancake into your mouth. You feel full already but you’ve only eaten half of one. You can—need—to eat more. Easier to do so with this distraction, with those eyes tracking every bite you take.

“You need me to kill someone.”

Not a question and those round, pleasant features draw into something remote, downright chilling. In that look, you see something else, something bloodthirsty. It makes you remember the words you associated with his name before your first meeting.

Charming. Power-hungry. Not to be trusted.

Fitting even now.

No, looking at him right now, it’s more fitting than ever.

“Yes,” he admits lightly with a pleasant little hum but his eyes rage. “And I want him to suffer.”

Interesting.

“I could go in alone—”

“No. You will never make it. This is a High Table related event and the security there will be unlike anything you have ever encountered,” he rebukes, and his words wash over you with the intent that tells you he’s been waiting for this moment for a while. “My name is your ticket inside. But most importantly Continental style rules apply. No bloodshed. It’s neutral ground for trading. No one can know it was you or the consequences will be...severe.”

There is more he’s not telling you.

“What do I get in return?”

Santino D'Antonio raises the espresso cup to his mouth and watches you over the rim like he’s already won. “1.5 million USD, cara mia. Agree and it’s yours. You have till twilight to decide.”

.

Charon stands beside Winston as the manager goes through the documents in front of him.

The concierge notices you first, his glasses reflecting the warm glow of the fireplace as you approach.

Winston’s attention follows several seconds later and the man straightens when he sees you, slipping his glasses off as you halt before him.

You haven’t seen him in days. Almost two weeks, in fact.

He takes you in with a critical eye before gesturing to the unoccupied seat opposite to him.

Slipping smoothly into the space you both observe each other for several moments.

“So,” Winston begins, his tone loaded. “Is signor D’Antonio dead or did you finally grow weary of his company?”

That almost makes you smile.

“Neither.”

A twitch of his expression but it’s so slight that you can’t quite read it.

“Yet here you are,” he notes calmly and something lingers in his tone, in his gaze, too. “Out and about. Looking better as well.”

Do you?

You don’t feel like it but you haven’t been feeling much of anything lately.

“I need access to my room,” you decide to cut to the chase and tap your fingers against the table as your eyes slide around the room. Few pairs of eyes skitter away under your attention. Good. This is the legacy of your bloodshed. “I need to prepare.”

Winston exhales and his regard changes. “You agreed then?”

You don’t look at them but you can tell both men are tracking your every breath. “In theory.”

You don’t elaborate further because Winston knows better than anyone that business and confidentiality are key.

“Wonderful. Though I would take this moment to remind you what kind of man you are dealing with.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you do smile this time even if it feels hollow. “You mean the very same one you threw me at?”

Winston’s expression doesn’t so much as shift. “Do you expect me to apologise? Because I have no intention of doing so,” he voices curtly and you don’t feel surprised by his words. “I took a gamble that paid off. But Santino D’Antonio is vain, bloodthirsty and arrogant. You would be wise not to trust him.”

Typical Winston. Always three steps ahead of everyone else.

A small scoff escapes you at his words and you lean back into the comfortable, plush seat. “Believe me,” you state coolly and tap your foot against the floor, once and then again. It takes a lot of energy—just like this entire trip has with your weak muscles and heavy head—but you force yourself to do it anyway. “He’s at the very bottom of the list of people I would ever trust. I know what he is.”

Just as monstrous as the rest of you. Maybe even more so.

But you’re not here seriously considering his offer because he asked nicely or offered you a mountain of money that will feed Tarasov’s greed.

You’re here due to the unspoken thing you can’t help but wonder if he’s even aware of.

The initial two-week deadline is up in less than two hours and yet he’s made no other preparations. Has taken no extra precautionary measures in case his plan backfires and you don’t agree. Despite how he keeps stressing that this job is so important to him, he’s waiting on you.

In Camorra, there is no such thing as “irreplaceable”. If someone is unavailable or incapable other options are sought out with startling ease.  

He believes that you will do it.

It’s not about his need for you.

It’s that belief.

It…

It makes you want to fight, too, and you don’t know why but you want to at least try.

Winston takes a sip of his drink, considering you and bobs his head once. “Good. It’s still better than being alone.”

He reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a keycard, sliding it across the smooth mahogany table. Something in your chest ceases at the sight of it, at the fact that he’s had it on him this whole time.

“You figured that I will agree.”

It’s not a question but he still replies with a calm, “Not at all. I hoped that you won’t disappoint, of course,” he notes and there is a brief glimmer of a smile before it’s gone. “And you haven’t.”

You’re both quiet for several moments after that. Charon says nothing as always.

Your unsteady fingers wrap around the card eventually, and you stand with a nod in their direction, straightening.

“Charon. Winston.”

The older man salutes you with his martini. “Bonus fortuna.”

You turn to go and wonder what it means that men like Winston and Santino D’Antonio have more faith in you than you do.

LaGuardia airport appears in your sights half an hour later.

Santino’s men greet you at the entrance of the airport.

Private check-in, private everything. Security is nonexistent when you’re flying with a man of such power and influence.

Ares greets you outside the private jet and you watch a slight grin transform her steely expression into something a bit more cordial.

He is waiting for you inside. Good to be working with you again, pretty viper.

She goes slower than usual so you catch everything, and you appreciate it because you’re still learning ASL. Not to mention the fact that it feels like your brain is just barely functioning.

“Likewise.”

Climbing up the stairs, you nod at the flight attendant who beams back you when you pass her to get inside.

Even the vast, luxurious space can’t seem to contain Santino D’Antonio and his larger than life presence. Every line crisp and tidy, he hardly looks any different than usual. But tinted shades hide his eyes as he stares out of the window. Those long, graceful fingers tap restlessly against the table and you take him in for several stolen seconds.

His head snaps in your direction when you enter the plane and he stills at the sight of you.

You can’t see his eyes as you approach but feel the intensity of his regard all the same. “1.5 mil was it?”

You both know it’s not about the money. It never has been with you. But it’s easier to pretend that it is. If only because that’s safe and familiar.

Santino slips off his sunglasses with a slight chuckle, looking up at you from beneath his lashes as you plop down tiredly in the seat opposite to the heir. It’s like sitting down on a cloud.

He folds the shades and hooks them on his shirt pocket with practised ease. He seems to have a penchant for making every little gesture appear effortlessly elegant and pretentious at the same time.

That little quirk of his lips remains though.

“Indeed it was, cara mia,” he says and extends his hand towards you. “A deal is a deal.”

You grasp his warm hand in yours with the intention of shaking it but as always Santino acts on his own accord. He lifts your palm to his lips and kisses your knuckles instead, his heated breath tickling your skin as he peers at you. That ghost of a smirk is softer this time, and you pull your hand back with a roll of your eyes.

He considers you for a moment before glancing over your shoulder and nodding only once. Behind you, the crew prepares for take-off.

“How long were you going to wait for me?”

Santino’s head slants in thought but his expression is serious. The switch surprises you somewhat but you wait, ignoring the fatigue in your bones.

Ares passes you both with a wave and two guards behind her, heading towards the back of the plane without so much as a backwards glance and you blink.

Deliberate again. Clearly, Santino has something he wants to discuss in private.

He appears deep in thought, going between looking out of the window and you as the jet leaves the ground below. It’s a smooth and trouble-free take off because Santino always hires professionals of the highest degree. Certain things are routine with this man and there is a certain degree of comfort to be found in that.  

“You lied to me.”

It’s been long enough that his voice startles you and your muscles tense, your mind immediately flying to all the weapons you have on you.

He seems to notice the way your body locks up just for a moment before relaxing again and his gaze darkens.

“What?”

“When I check in after you left Rome,” he begins and you suddenly understand what this is about. “You told me that you were back at the Continental safe and well. Working.”

You did.

“I wasn’t lying,” you retort tightly, guarded. “I was working.”

“Oh? Is that so? Work.”

Ignoring the scorn in his voice, you give him a fair warning, “If we are to do this job together,” you state icily, a warning ringing through your words. “Then you don’t ask me anything. Better yet, don’t talk about the past at all.”

That dangerous flame licks across his features, tightening his expression. For a prolonged, charged moment you simply survey one another. He saw it after all. How terrible it can be.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the flight to Chicago.

.

The presidential suite is as grand as all other places Santino usually stays at.  

The spacious, high-ceilinged room is located on the top floor of the hotel, overlooking over the beautiful ravine that is Lake Michigan.

The sleek, white walls somehow manage to add dimension to an already large square footage by still remaining welcoming. Decorated tastefully with glossy cabinets, lavish loveseat and colourful armchairs to not detract from the massive canopy bed sitting in the furthest corner of the room. The velvety covers and plush cream pillows have never seemed more inviting and your eyes linger on it the longest.

There’s just enough bold colour sprinkled through the room to remove the clinical factor such bright space might bring to mind, and you peek an adjoined en-suite bathroom hiding behind one of the doors you walk by.

It’s curious how despite Santino’s life back in Italy being rooted in tradition whenever he stays anywhere else, he always chooses modern, contemporary designs.

This is the height of luxury—a welcoming card, cuvee white brut champagne, fresh fruit and chocolates already laid out in a neat manner—and behind the connecting door to your right lies this room’s twin image.

“We can discuss further details tomorrow, bella,” Santino says but doesn’t look at you as he does so. “You should rest.”

You wonder if he can tell that you’re standing upright by sheer will alone. There is a tremble in your knees as you move and your steps are heavier than usual.

You’ve grown weak.

The muscle that has been forged through years of brutal training has softened and diminished.

When did you allow yourself to become this?

When did you let Kishi win?

Never give someone else the power to destroy you.

But you have done exactly that. No matter how much you’ve been trying to dress it up, this fact still stands.

You have been punishing yourself.

It should make you feel something, you imagine. Furious, upset, determined, sad.

Anything at all.

Instead, you just feel tired.

Tired and cold, and like something has been raked right out of you, leaving a hole behind that might never be filled. A hole that you can pour happiness and hope and sadness into and it still won’t matter. Because nothing can fill what’s bottomless. Nothing can fix something like that.

You want to try but—

But you’re not sure if you’re strong enough.

Nodding your head, you head towards the bed without a word.

Santino slams the door to his half of the suite with enough force to rattle the hinges.

.

Water slides down your throat, scratching and tearing at your vocal cords as you choke on your screams.

You’re jerked back by the hair and Kishi smiles, caressing your cheek with stiff, cold fingers.

Your hands are dirty, viper, he hums lovingly and grabs you by the back of your neck, you are dirty. Time to get you clean.

You jolt into wakefulness as hands drag you forward abruptly and your forehead connects with a solid chest instead.

“Calm, shh, you are awake,” a voice urges with gentle but instant fingers digging into your shoulder blades. The comfort of that touch is so familiar that deep down it makes you gush with agony, some distant loss you can’t name. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

“John,” you sob, blindly clinging to that warmth, to silent strength there. “John.”

The figure freezes, tenses. A few shallow breaths follow and then a hand settles on the top of your head. Those muscles relax gradually and careful fingers stroke your hair. Soothing. Slow.

“Don’t—don’t leave,” you beg weakly and cling tighter, tighter because you love him so much and it hurts— “Please don’t leave m-me.”

That grip tightens and holds you closer, cocooning you in warmth. For once, the ever-present chill in your soul seems to ebb, fade just a little.

“I won’t, amore,” he reassures softly. “I won’t.”

You believe him.

.

You dreamt of John last night.

Of comfort and him staying. Fingers smoothing over your hair in that achingly familiar manner he used to touch you with when it was just you two alone. When you managed to mangle that iron-like willpower of his by leaning into him, seeking him out.

Remembering that warmth makes you both devastated and happy. It’s like a soothing balm against wounds that refuse to heal. But it’s also a knife cutting deeper and deeper.

You swore to yourself that you would let go but—

That, too, is hard.

A folder slides across the table surface and towards you, hitting your hands and you jump in your seat, rigid.

Ares shoots you an apologetic look as she goes to stand in the corner of the private breakfast room, clasping her hands in front of her, and you squint at the folder, forcing yourself back into reality.

“What’s this?”

“That, cara mia, is information about your target,” Santino explains over the rim of his espresso but his tone remains dispassionate. There’s something odd about him today but you don’t care enough to ask him. “Read it carefully.”

Opening the manila folder, you move several pieces of paper aside, blinking at the pictures of a stern-faced man. They’re black and white but they reveal a male who looks no more than five years older than Santino, his features handsome in a hard, rugged sort of way. His short hair is either brown or black and though all photos are too far away to be able to tell for sure, his eyes appear dark, too. Brown or hazel if you had to make a guess.

He’s handsome, but there is something about his features that makes you think of Tarasov. Makes you think of enough charm to get by but preference for brutality instead.

His face tells you that trusting this man would be unwise.

“Who is he and why do you want him dead?” you question after a moment of analysing the pictures.

Rafael Conte

A part of you can’t help but wonder what this man has done to evoke the wrath of the Camorra heir. Though, as always, it likely has something to do with greed and egos.  

Santino doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he spreads jam across his toast but there is something…violent about the way he drags the blade across the perfectly toasted surface. Something about the way his hair is unstyled today and a few messy, loose strands fall into his eyes. Something about the way his movements are jerkier than usual, less refined.

He’s back in a full three-piece this morning but a voice at the back of your mind whispers armour. Because this is different from those two weeks you spent at the penthouse. He rarely wore a suit at all during that time. There was something more open and casual about him then.

“Oh, you aren’t killing this man,” he finally speaks and you frown minutely at the way he lowers the butterknife back onto his plate a little too loudly, then sighs, and looks up at you with forced calmness. “We will be using him to get to your actual target. We need to be very careful about what we do here, cara mia. This man can lead us to the man he serves, and it’s him that I need you to dispose of.”

Still frowning, you look back towards the pictures. Santino’s attention lingers on your face but you ignore it.  

“Why wait this long?”

“What do you mean?”

Your head slants and you regard him with a knowing, calculated look. Santino doesn’t answer you, however, he simply stares back, and the look in his eyes challenging. You know he wants you to engage and so you do. After yesterday, after that fleeting memory of warmth, you feel like you have the strength to do so.

“Why wait for some obscure event with a ridiculous level of security when you could get rid of this man on a Tuesday afternoon while sipping lemonade in your parlour?”

Because that’s easy and clean. Because he won’t have to lift a finger and get needed results unless—

“Tell me, bella,” Santino begins, interrupting your racing thoughts and his index finger traces the rim of his cup lazily. “Have you heard of an organisation called the Black Dragon?”

Your tongue works quicker than your mind. “John—”

The words die in your throat; a feeble, pathetic crumbling of syllables.

The temperature inside the bright, sunny room seems to fall by several degrees.

Santino’s fingers are still, his attention focused on his cup. His toast remains untouched.

Forcing down the lump in your throat down, you force out a strained, “He’s told me about them before. Private organisation. Janitors of the High Table, right?”

“Indeed,” he intones coolly in reply and taps his fingers again, more agitated this time. “We are here to kill its current leader. A man by the name of Andre Boutin. The issue, however, is that if you search for a definition to word ‘paranoid’ in the dictionary that man’s name will be under it.”

He lifts the cup back to his lips again but those bright viridescent depths zero in on you. A shadow lingers across his features, and once again you can’t help but feel like he’s not being completely honest with you—there is more to this than he’s letting on.

“He never leaves his secret little lair unless the High Table forces his hand,” Santino continues and cuts a neat piece of his toast before biting into it. It doesn’t surprise you that like a true, refined heir he chews and swallows before speaking again. “Hm, but he will have to attend this event. Signor Rafael is his right-hand man. Aside from the standard proceedings, there will be…exclusive invitations into certain circles. We are to get Rafael’s attention and penetrate his. That’s the only way to get to Boutin, bella, and it’s crucial we do so. Tomorrow will be our only chance.”

“No traces?”

His eyes narrow and he nods his head once, dead serious. “None, not even a whisper of one,” he says solemnly, his heir ring tapping against the ceramic of the cup once, twice. “You are to be beautiful but harmless. I know Rafael personally. I will get you close enough.”

But he never places himself in the firing sight. Never dirties his own hands. Just how desperate is he to see this man dead to do so now? At an event that will have so many eyes from the highest circles of those under the High Table on you no less.

“You mean you need me to act as your whore,” you deadpan and go on before he can interject. “You need me to fool them, pull the wool over their eyes. But what if someone recognises me?”

Santino looks like he’s biting back a sigh and inclines backwards into his seat, staring at you. Those loose curls fall into his eyes and for a moment they distract you. “I would prefer if you did not use such…phrasing, but I suppose in a sense, yes,” he tells you and you stab a piece of melon with extra vigour before placing it between your lips. For the briefest of seconds, the man before you focuses on that tiny little movement before his attention shifts. “I also recognise the, ah, dangers. It does seem likely someone might but I’m not trying to hide you, carissima. You have spent a year with my family. You by my side is no longer a novelty. It might even be expected in certain circles.”

He pauses at that, his lips parting like that realisation is just hitting him, too.

You by his side is nothing new. You by his side. He says it with such ease, such boldness—like it’s as obvious as the sun rising every morning.

A silence that follows those words is different somehow. Almost like you have both become intimately aware of each other’s presence in your lives and all the time you have spent together.

“You don’t want this attached to your name,” you say frankly, at last, forcing casualness into your words. “Only a handful of guards with you. All this secrecy. This goes beyond killing a lackey of the High Table. What did this man do, Santino?”

Because he would never take such a personal risk unless he had no other choice. But that’s also why he needs you. A clean, untraceable kill. Even if people were to suspect him there would be nothing to stick on him personally. Clever, unprincipled bastard.

“That,” the Italian mutters, his voice wooden. “Is of no importance. You are here to kill Andre Boutin and that’s all that matters. Do you think you can you do that for me, bella, hm?”  

This is personal. That much you do know.

But something about this challenge fills you with determination to hold onto that warmth from last night.

Maybe wherever John is, his spirit is still looking out for you.

So for now at least, you decide to let the topic go. He does have a point after all. You’re not getting paid to ask questions.

“Sure I can,” you demure slyly and smother your grin against the glass of juice in your hand. Santino blinks, seemingly taken off guard by the unexpected teasing, at your spark of energy. “Anything specific wardrobe wise you want me to wear? Aside from the obvious.”

Something bold yet tantalising enough to make most people in that little get together hate you and want to fuck you in the same breath. Such is Santino D’Antonio’s way. He has to court attention at all times. You cannot be seen as less. When it comes to appearance Santino never spares expense. What a spoiled prick.

His gaze sharpens at your words, and that heat returns as he scrutinises you.

He hums quietly, his eyes dragging over your figure before saying, “Green. Wear something green,” he instructs lightly and when he meets your stare next, you do feel something inside you settle and still. “But I need them to look at you and feel like they can’t breathe.”

Where is the fire that I adore so? Do not tell me that he robbed you of it so completely, cara mia.

He hasn’t.

You had wanted to say that to Santino last night but couldn’t.

John hasn’t—

But hasn’t he?

It’s a destructive cocktail of anger and bitterness and doubt churning deep inside your chest. A part of you misses John with an intensity that shakes your bones; fracturing them and unmaking them with swift, expert proficiency. Another part of you hates him. He let you believe that he loved you but then chose another woman over you the moment a possibility of a normal life came up. Better drop the dead-weight. Better to erase the messed up, traumatised weakling from his life. Be done with it.

No, John hasn’t robbed you of anything.

He gave you a different sort of fire.

A flame of rage and longing all fusing together to create something far more devastating.

But last night…

You’ve almost forgotten what that’s like—being carefree, smiling, doing something so simple yet freeing.

Santino D’Antonio had given you a moment of yourself back without realising it. You’re not quite sure what to do with that knowledge. With the memory of your messy dance and that whisper of wonder in his eyes as he took in your smiling expression.

A knock resonates again your door and your head slants in the direction of the sound. “Come in.”

Ares pokes her head in first before stepping into the room already dressed in a tailored suit. It’s a dark, patterned number mixing black and deep grey tastefully. The black shirt she wears underneath is neatly pressed, and the pin she bears under her throat in an illusion of a tie is of Camorra making. She looks amazing and carries herself like she knows it, too. Dark makeup around her eyes accents the piercing nature of her blue eyes and you click your tongue.

“Trying to outshine me?” you joke but she doesn’t reply, taking in your appearance as well. Smiling, you run a hand down the body of the dress and towards the shimmering skirt. “What do you think?”

Her eyebrows jump up deliberately, staying that way as she signs with her eyes still on you. You fulfilled the brief.

You’ve certainly tried.

Your hair and makeup have all been done by expert hands because you didn’t trust your own. Not right now. Not with muscle weakness and the tremors.

You’re glad that this mission is not an active job that will require fighting your way out of a situation. Right now, you can admit—even only to yourself—that you would be more of a liability than an advantage in a physical fight. You can’t be seen shedding blood at this event and perhaps this is the best kind of job to ease yourself back into things.

That dedication to see an assignment through was bred into you by John, and now that you’re here no matter how empty things might feel, a part of you wants to see it finished no matter what.

It’s refreshing.

Wanting something.

“Where is Santino?” you ask her, turning to go, double-checking all your weapons—what few you could sneak in—are all on you. “I haven’t heard him in his room.”

Ares waits for you by the door as you approach, shrugging. He went ahead. He will meet us there.

“Is Piero with him?”

Ares nods and you both leave the room together, heading down the hallway.

Another security measure. Every invited person is allowed to take but one guard with them. Two, if they come with a plus one which in Santino’s case is you. A measure introduced to appease the inherently paranoid nature of the people attending but also avoid any potential…disagreements. When you have one guard you are far less likely to start making a nuisance of yourself.

A car is waiting for you outside when you and Ares exit the foyer, and you know the venue is only fifteen minutes drive from the hotel. You’ve made sure to analyse the site as much as possible.

A hotel and casino in one, Paradise has served as a hotspot and neutral meeting ground for anyone seeking an audience with Chicago’s Outfit and their Boss. The word is that you either make a deal with them or you don’t leave Paradise alive.

You suppose it’s just your luck that Chicago Outfit and Camorra have a long-running alliance from as early as the bloody 20ties era. Back when Italians have first set their sights on powerhouse cities like New York and Chicago amongst others, waging deadly wars amongst each other for territory.

An enemy of a friend is always good to have, Santino had told you with a secretive little smile and a dangerous air of viciousness thick in the air.

You can’t help but wonder if this has—to some degree—been planned for even longer than you first suspected.

If this gathering only happens once every five years and always in a different city and continent, just how long has Santino waited to put this plan into action?

Chicago. A city ruled by an Italian-American crime syndicate and ties to Camorra.

The Black Dragon. Janitors of the High Table. Trained killers who answer only to their leader and the Table.

You. A mission to kill the current leader Andre Boutin. A man who always hides as if fearing something.

What did this man do?

How do the puzzle pieces fit together?

The car rolls to a stop and you blink out of your stupor, glancing ahead and see Ares turn towards you from the front seat.

Ready?

You bob your head once and inhale deeply, letting the oxygen sit in your lungs for several seconds while she exits the expensive vehicle and opens the door for you. You take her offered hand with a silent squeeze of thanks.

From this moment on, you are no longer you.

Your heels hit the damp pavement and the Vipress steps out.

Ares shadows your side as you trek up the extravagant staircase to the Paradise hotel, ignoring the flurry of snowflakes that settle in your hair. The attendants greet you both, checking your name on the guest list, then weapons, and you’re both ushered inside with polite, stiff nods. Your coat gets taken at the door and you dip your head in a cool, disinterested manner—just enough to appear polite.

Ares is a silent phantom by your side.

The gathering has started already. S will be waiting for you by the staircase to the ballroom. You both need to be seen.

Should we not go straight for the target?

S believes appearing innocuous first is your priority.

Your eyes sweep over several individuals around the foyer who shift at being caught staring, clearly uncomfortable at your signing, and you suppress a remorseless smile. Good.

Santino wasn’t exaggerating though, most people around are unfamiliar to you. These people are the wheels that keep the underworld business rolling but they are not Tarasov or Giovanni. These people are at the top of their own food chain but under the Table, they are specks only.

The grand staircase leads up a level where the hotel rooms are located and downstairs where the ballroom and casino can be found.

Ares moves a step behind you as you descent slowly, taking your time with the gown and the shoes. A dull twinge of weakness still locks your knees and you force yourself to focus on your every move.

Just like the woman behind you warned, Santino waits a little away from the main staircase, chatting with the burly, brown-haired Piero in hushed voices.

He’s striking tonight.

Admittedly, Santino always looks good—he takes special pride in his appearance, you know that much—but today he made an effort and it shows.

The suit he wears is as dark as the richest night, tailored to fit him to perfection, and the light reflects a peculiar shine of the material whenever he moves. His hair is neatly combed and those unruly curls pulled back but you can already see a few rebellious strands trying to free themselves. The white shirt he sports under the suit is blinding and a satin bowtie rests around his throat, pulling the dignified image together.

His black dress shoes might as well be mirrors.

Santino looks like an arcane, sinful dream and you know many recognise the Camorra heir as he stands there with an air of effortless arrogance.

His eyes flicker away for a second, scanning the room and snag on you just as you reach the final step, your dress skirt dragging down the polished marble and falling against your legs as you walk with deliberate slowness towards the heir.

Santino doesn’t have to fake his reaction and that’s good—too many eyes on you.

He stills and you note the slight downwards dip of his shoulders as if whatever oxygen he did have in his lungs has fled.

His lips parted, he watches your approach unblinking and with pulse-pounding sort of intensity. He doesn’t bother masking the raw desire in his regard, either, and there is a nudge of surprise when you feel a flicker of warmth in your chest in response.

You’ve missed this. Being seen by someone. Being desired openly and without shame.

Not pausing, you walk right up to him and wrap your arms around him, resting your nose against the smooth skin of his neck.

Santino goes stiff with surprise and you tilt your head so your lips brush against his ear, “There are eyes on us. Wrap your arms around me right now,” you direct quietly and pull him closer with a smile. “Touch me as if we’re lovers.”

He does.

His right arm snakes around your waist before trailing up your back, his burning fingertips brushing against your bare shoulder blades. His breaths are shallow but he leans in and presses a brief kiss against your shoulder as his hand drags back down the arch of your spine. Slow, wanton. You have to suppress a genuine shiver despite your best efforts to play your own little act.

Pulling back, you remain right against him, meeting his stare and Santino’s eyes wander over your features, guarded.

The reservation is surprising. Is he gauging what he can get away with without you snapping at him?

He gave you a brief, a job to do. You intend to fulfil it. The last thing you need is to be caught as well. That means playing the part to perfection.

“Looking quite handsome, darling,” you tell him with the slightest curl of your mouth. Your fingers skim over the velvety material of his bow tie and you glance at him from under your lashes. “Am I to your liking tonight?”

He licks his bottom lip and his sizeable pause generates amusement deep down that you don’t let anyone see. For once the man with a silver tongue has nothing to say.

“Yes, amore,” he says thickly and his stare doesn’t stray from you. “You are breathtaking.”

Clever bastard.

He might as well be undressing you with his eyes but that’s the point.

The black gown you wear glimmers like a thousand little jewels—and indeed every inch of the light material is stitched with little gems that depending on light reflect silver or dark green. The dual-chrome aspect makes every step you take a visual feast and thin spaghetti straps made out of strings of tiny gems glitter in the light as well. The cut at the back of the dress dips all the way to your lower back and Santino’s fingers press into your skin. Tracing, lingering.

Leaning back slightly, you reach for your clutch, pulling out a silky piece of cloth that matches the reflective green of your dress.

Santino’s hand still rests securely against your lower back, and you peek at him as you place the handkerchief in the otherwise empty suit pocket. With delicate fingers you smooth the pocket square into neat lines, dragging your palm deliberately down his chest after. You stare at each other for several moments, ignoring everyone else around.

Well, not you. You’ve already counted the exits and the guards present with every guest in the nearby vicinity. Taken stock of most of their weapons, too.

Who is the biggest threat? John’s low voice questions in your ear and you take note of that as well. Keep them in your sight.  

Santino, on the other hand, looks like he can barely recall where he is.

“Shall we?”

Before he can answer another voice speaks first.

“Santino D’Antonio. It has been a while,” a deep voice calls with an accent you can’t quite place. It almost makes you think French but there is a sprinkling of something else there. “Giovanni couldn’t be bothered to attend himself?”

There is an accusation in that question and you control your expression. Letting surprise show now won’t be in your best interest. You are a shell, a plaything, a snake in the garden.

Still, not many would have the guts to speak like that about Giovanni D’Antonio—and to his son no less.

You only turn towards the owner of the voice after Santino does, and his grip on you tightens briefly before relaxing. You’re still practically hip to hip and behind you, Ares and Piero slip closer; a subtle manoeuvring.  

Tucking yourself into Santino’s right side, you give him room to shake hands with the man who comes to a stop before you. He’s taller and broader than you both and that handsome but stern face makes your instincts prickle in real life even more so than the pictures did.

“Rafael,” the Italian greets smoothly, and yet you can hear the subtle contempt in his tone as he drops the man’s hand. “Always a pleasure to see you. Father could not attend. Business with the Triad, I’m afraid.”

You have no idea if that’s true or not but regardless Santino says it with enough conviction that even a priest would believe him.

Your mark doesn’t look convinced though.

Rafael Conte in his immaculate grey two-piece suit eyes Santino with cool disdain that hides behind a ghost of a smile. Clearly, there is no love lost between the two. So much for knowing the man personally.

“I’m sure that’s the case,” he states flatly, and his dark eyes slide towards you. He looks you up and down like a butcher assessing livestock and you work to keep your expression open and friendly, shy even. “Your plus one, I assume.”

“Wonderful, is she not?” Santino poses icily and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

Rafael’s eyes linger on the skin of your thigh that peaks from between the slit in your dress. Then they drag towards your hips and deep plunge of your neckline before he finally meets your stare. The entire assessment lasts no longer than a scant few seconds but whatever he observes he seems to find lacking.

“Not your usual type,” he intones in deliberate, clipped Italian. “Couldn’t find an attractive model to fuck instead?”

The air crackles with tension as two men stare at each other, silent.

This isn’t going like expected, so reading the situation and its potential deterioration, you decide to gamble, “Actually,” you begin sweetly, in equally deliberate Italian, and Rafael’s attention snaps to you. “Most nights I fuck him so thoroughly that he doesn’t want to leave the bed the next morning. Isn’t that right, Santi?”

You’ve never called him that before and you sense the minute twitch of his muscles in reply.

His fingers sink into your hip firmly but his words are calm, genial. “I have nothing to complain about,” he admits mildly, turning to look at you and you meet his reticent gaze with a slight, coy smile. “You always impress, principessa.”

Turning back towards your mark, you find those inky eyes focused on you and blink innocently.

“This one has a mouth on her,” he says, his words terse and he looks you up and down again. “Might get her into trouble one day.”

Santino smiles but it’s more of a predator baring his teeth in warning as he presses you closer to him. “Ah, it’s a rather delightful mouth I reassure you, and I could never resist a bit of danger, Rafael. You know how it is.”

The muscular man scoffs. “Your lack of self-control is well known, D’Antonio,” he notes briskly, and the sarcastic bite of his deep voice is offset only by the easy smile he flashes you both. It softens his forbidding expression but doesn’t hide the contempt. “I certainly hope you’re here to do some actual business instead of wasting everyone’s time. But do enjoy your evening,” he adds with a purse of his lips.

He brushes past your party without another word, every step purposeful and you can practically hear the grind of Santino’s teeth beside you. Placing your hand on top of his, you pull his attention towards you.

“A dance, darling?”

He doesn’t reply, simply wrapping his arm tighter around your waist and leading you both towards the ballroom where the main event is being held. Behind you, Ares and Piero fall in step behind you.

The room itself is massive and decorated in tasteful greys and silvers—Chicago Outfit’s colours, you recall. A canopy hangs across the ceiling, a million tiny fairy lights creating an illusion of the night sky. Your gaze swings towards the massive dance floor where a glistering chandelier hangs suspended above the already dancing guests. In fact, the vast space is already full of people milling around and chatting business. Champagne, whiskey, bourbon and wine are only a couple of the drinks you spot being poured around the room. Later, when the masks fall away, you know everything from cocaine to ecstasy will be served just as openly.

Across the room, you spot the entrance to the private casino section but know that it won’t be in use till later. After these civilised people do their song and dance of being normal.

Santino cuts straight towards the dancing guests, only giving Ares and a vague tilt of his head to indicate that the plan is now in motion.

The said plan was always to catch Rafael’s attention here. Running into him this early had never been part of your previously discussed play.

A strain weighs across Santino’s face when he pulls you on the dance floor just as the live band finishes playing a song and starts another.  

His arm settles around your waist and you step closer towards him, your fingers lacing together.

He settles you into a rhythm smoothly and you spin across the shiny floor with other patrons.  

“What was that?”

His quiet, indignant question doesn’t surprise you. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his attention remaining on the attendees and you fight back a sigh.

“I was getting his attention,” you murmur in reply, giving his palm a measured squeeze. “Now we’re on his radar. He will watch us twice as often. We will dance and dine and have a great time,” you explain evenly and that familiar focused calm thrums through you. When your eyes meet next, you add a meaningful, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Hand in hand, you spin in a slow circle and his eyes find yours.

“Trust is not a currency I deal in often, cara mia.”

You part, your palms grazing as you circle each other, and you hold his heavy stare.

“See how this whole trust thing works is that you have to give some away before any can be given back,” you remind him when he pulls you back to him, and this time you stand close enough to smell his cologne and count his eyelashes as they flutter when he fleetingly looks towards your lips. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

He notices the mocking edge to your words and his eyebrows arch slightly when he draws you closer.

“Are we not friends, bella?”

You give him an honest answer. “Hardly.”

Something flickers across his expression but it’s gone in an instant and his answering smile is uncaring, forced.

“Such a cruel tongue you have.”

Smiling pleasantly, you hum, “I keep it especially sharpened for you.”

This time, the sharpness recedes and something more honest is left in its place as Santino dips you and unlike last night, this time you’re ready for him. Perhaps the awkward practice paid off after all.

The world tilts and then he pulls you back to him, an array of colours blurring your sight, and for the briefest of seconds, all you can see around you is him. Him and the crooked dip of his grin as he peers at you.

“I have missed this,” he admits in the space between you but even over the dancing guests and the music, you hear him. “This you. Could she perhaps be persuaded to stay, hm?”

It would be so easy, you can’t help but think, allowing yourself to tangle in his web. Allowing yourself the privilege of forgetting John and Kishi and Tarasov—of forgetting every dark shadow that haunts you. He almost makes it easy. Easy to breathe and forget. But you now know what it is to be broken apart when you allow someone else to complete you.

Never again.

Never with a man who will no doubt exchange your company for someone else’s soon. Winston had a point. Santino’s favour is bound to come with an expiration date. One day, he will grow bored of you or resentful because he’ll realise that you will never give him what he truly wants.

One day, inevitably, he will let you down. Replace you. Leave.

It’s simply who he is.

Pivoting on your heels, you turn your bodies in a different direction, your steps unfaltering as you move across the floor.

Santino blinks, his silent scrutiny letting up as he squints at you.  

“Are you trying to lead, cara mia?”

“Not trying,” you murmur slyly under your breath, a slight smile lingering across the seams of your mouth. “Succeeding.”

The soft set of his lips part and this time his grin shows teeth, dimpling his cheeks. He swiftly pushes your bodies apart, spinning you, and your skirt flares around your legs before he yanks you back to him, your bodies colliding. His arm envelops you immediately, keeping you pressed to him and the warmth of him seeps into you as he watches you through hooded eyes. His thumb caresses the bare skin of your lower back and a shiver crawls down your body as your warm breaths mingle.

You’re out of breath due to acute exhaustion still gnawing at your bones but—

“I could give you anything you want—anything at all. Power, money, jewels, pleasure,” he whispers faintly, leaning closer, and you fight to ignore the sultry drag of those words. “The world. All you need to do is ask.”

With his power—with the power he might still inherit—you imagine he could.

But—

“And what would you want in return? For me to be your pretty, obedient pet?” you whisper back but your voice lacks all the heat his has. Something far more critical twists your words and you meet his gaze, your faces inches apart. “Warming your bed whenever you feel like it until something more exciting comes along? No, I know how this game works, Santino. Men like you collect women and use them to appease your overinflated egos until we’re no longer interesting to you. Then you throw us out like trash. Even though the problem is rarely us but rather your inability to emotionally connect with another human because all you want or care about is fleeting excitement of the chase. Cheap sex on the side. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m no one’s pet.”

His jaw clenches, a ripple of emotions flitting across his features.

“I don’t want a pet.”

Low, wary.

But you push because you don’t believe him. Trust his word even less despite the fact that any and all promises he’s made so far, he’s followed through with.  

“Then what is it that you want?”

He stops. You’re the only two unmoving bodies in a sea of movement.

Those vivid green eyes glow with something you have never seen before as he studies you.

It is desire but—

He reaches up and caresses your cheek; nothing more than a whisper of a touch.  

“You.”

A breath rushes out of you.

A lump forms in your throat but you don’t move or speak. It’s like you’re both locked in your own private little bubble and the sheer intensity of Santino’s gaze leaves you with no escape. Your muscles seem to have stiffened up with disbelief. He’s always made it clear what he wanted but…

“Santino D’Antonio! It’s good to see you again.”

He exhales and whatever it was that you saw only moments ago is gone, leaving a far more familiar sight of a proud Camorra heir behind.

He turns to greet an unfamiliar man approaching, his grip on you loosening but not dropping entirely, and you remind yourself that you are nothing to him. Nothing more than an object of desire, a trophy to win, a conquest his damn pride won’t allow him to drop till he succeeds.

You hate the fact that for a second—just one—you had believed him.

Your eyes flicker over the crowd, a blur of faces, before a large man next to a bar catches your attention.  

Rafael Conte takes a slow sip of his drink that dark stare boring holes into you.

Your lips curl.

.

Santino does talk business.

He really has covered all his basis and found a legitimate reason to be here—be here and appear unsuspicious as well.

Camorra is one of the wealthiest families in the world and there are plenty of individuals eager to do business with them.

Santino talks—ruthlessness and charm weaving effortlessly—shakes hands and deals business. Number start blurring somewhere in their millions.

You stay by his side through it all. His grip around you is resolute, secure. It’s surprising how natural the fit is, comfortable. Especially because any and all foreign touch since Tokyo makes your skin crawl with disgust. You’ve only ever fit this well beside John but thinking about him now stings terribly so you push the thoughts of him away.

Instead, you focus on your role entirely. Submerge yourself in it so wholly that you can almost believe that’s truly all you are: your job.  

A mindless girl who is desperate for any scrap of attention from the powerful, handsome man beside you.

Fingers ghosting over his neck, leaning into him, giggling in his ear and playing with his fingers—you embody the desire you’re supposed to represent. Santino’s replies are rarely verbal but any and all attention from you always seems to distract him, shattering his concentration.

His fingers rub circles against the swell of your hip in response, and other times he wraps his arm around your shoulders. His cool Camorra ring grazing the skin of your arm as he traces random patterns on your skin.

People stare discreetly. You know by this point more than a few have recognised you. No one dares to comment though.

You imagine that to them you look completely caught in each other. Sharing breathing space and suggestive whispers; heat and something carnal, something only lovers could ever fully grasp.

Buying into the rampant tension between you must be easy.

You succeed in your mission.

Two hours in, a waiter approaches a spot where you and Santino sit—you draped over his lap and arms around his neck while he discusses weaponry with some Romanian crime syndicate representatives—and delivers a scrap of paper with a simple message.

Join us for poker and business, D’Antonio. Your plus-one can come along as well.—R

.

You’re in trouble.

Big, fat trouble.

Not because Santino is gambling three million away—though you imagine losing that won’t be in your best interest—but because this intimate setting is even more intimate than you ever would have suspected.

No guards, for one.

The game itself is between six players—counting Santino—in a small closed-off booth section of the casino. Your game is not the only one ongoing but you doubt this kind of money is being thrown around anywhere else. Every man playing seems to have brought their plus ones as well, including Rafael himself. A tall, stunning woman with glossy black hair, beautiful brown skin and shrewd almond eyes.

The problem is that unlike you, these women don’t have to pretend. Their interest is genuine, and when twenty minutes into the game you notice zippers being unzipped and hands starting to wander, you feel something inside your chest shrivel up.

Santino’s grip on you remains and you find yourself clinging to him for a different reason. At first, you play at being shy, burying your face against his neck. He notices, dragging his long fingers down your leg gradually, trying to calm you, as he considers his cards silently and takes another drag of his cigar. He’s purposely trying not to draw attention to either of you. It both amazes you and gives you a sense of reassurance. Perhaps there are some lows that even he won’t stoop to.  

The only issue is that Rafael Conte won’t stop staring at you.

He knows that you’re not too drunk or high enough to stop your hands from exploring. He’s been keeping track of your leisurely sips of champagne the entire evening. If he doesn’t suspect something is not right yet, he will soon. He’s smart. The same chilling, ruthless smart that reminds you of Tarasov.

If you don’t do this…

It all would have been for nothing. Another failure. If Rafael suspects something is amiss, if he thinks that you are here for any other reason other than being Santino’s lover—

You will never get access to Andre Boutin.

Fuck.

Something cold and slippery rolls inside your stomach at the muffled groan a man closest to you lets out, and the woman wrapped around him titters.

I—

You can do it, John reassures you gently, gripping your shoulder but you blink and it’s Santino’s hand on you instead.

Your eyes meet in the dim light and his hooded gaze is solemn, cautious. He, too, can see how this situation is escalating. Either you adapt or retreat.

All this preparation. You can’t help but wonder if he would still force you—

Fuck this.

And John.

And Santino.

And Kishi and Tarasov and every other asshole that’s ever hurt you.

They can all go to hell.

You’re more than this.

You didn’t survive Tokyo and John’s abandonment just to break apart now. To fail yet again.

Enough.

Enough.

It’s not real, it’s just an act.

Shifting, you practically straddle Santino and feel his breath hitch when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling his head back for better access. Your lips press against his jaw, neck, your other hand tugging on his bowtie till the silken material comes loose between your fingers.

His pulse pounds against your mouth and you kiss that golden skin, sucking on it, your lips tingling. You’ve never been physically this close to him before and the heat of him envelops you, his free hand sliding up your back and settling against the arch of your neck. Those strong digits sink in, firm and eager, but he doesn’t push you closer until you lean into him further. You’re chest to chest. Your fingernails scratch against his scalp deliberately and a small sigh escapes him, warming the blood in your veins.

“D’Antonio.”

Tugging on his shirt, you undo the first two buttons in a second, peppering eager little kisses against the curve of his collarbone. The scent of his musky his cologne sinks into your senses, making your head swim and your lips part, your tongue swiping against the skin—

Santino’s hand tangles in your hair and he pulls you back, his wild stare pitch black. With your fingers buried in each other’s hair, you gaze at him for a heated moment, and he at you. Reaching out, you let your fingertips lightly trace up his neck, pausing on his adam’s apple. You draw a lazy circle with the tip of your nail and his breaths grow heavier. Leaning even closer, you let your fingers trail up his chin before your thumb settles on his parted lips.

He’s staring up at you like he has never seen a sight more divine, more sublime, and the heat between you is sweltering.

You’ve forgotten what it is to feel like you’re burning, igniting, coming apart.  

“D’Antonio.”

This time his self-restraint doesn’t hold, he jerks you to him till you’re fully on his lap, your foreheads almost touching as you eye each other. His fingers slip from your hair, dragging downwards till he’s grasping the side of your face, his own fingers mapping the shape of your lips as he guides you closer. Like a magnet, you follow his pull. Your mouths hover over each other and the tip of your nose nudges against his cheek, mirroring his eagerness. You grasp onto his hair firmer, those strong strands like silk in your grip. If you pull hard enough, if you kissed him, would he moan—

“D’Antonio, do you mind?”

The haze lifts and you see Santino blink as if snapping himself back to reality, his breaths are laboured, heavy, and you know that you’re hiding him from sight. This slip-up, this moment of hungry eyes and needy touches, is for you alone.

He looks you up and down, as if memorising the sight of you like this—so close to being his—before licking his lips and swallowing as he gathers his composure. His elevated breathing and blown pupils betray him, however. His appearance is dishevelled in that gorgeous, seductive sort of way and a stab of satisfaction follows the realisation that you did this to him.

He slides you carefully to one side and you release your grip on his hair, wrapping both arms around him instead as you smile slightly.

The Italian doesn’t look away from you, giving Rafael only a distracted, “Hm?”

“Make your next play, then feel free to fuck her if you must,” the man drawls, and you focus on Santino and his hair and his eyes because the careless way Rafael speaks about you sets your teeth on edge. Keep calm, keep calm, this is not Kishi. “In fact, after that little display, I’m pretty sure I won’t mind a sampling myself. See if she’s really all mouth.”

Your nails sink into the back of Santino’s shoulders and it takes sizeable effort to keep that bashful smile on your face. The heir finally looks away from you, his attention turning towards your mark, his features hardening.

“Come again?”

Rafael Conte chuckles, a rumble of a sound that unsettles you. “Don’t be shy, D’Antonio,” the man speaks, amused. “You do mine and I’ll do yours. What do you say? Unless mine is not to your liking? I can get another one in here. Two? I’ve heard you’re into that.”

No one else in the room so much as shifts or protests. This is a typical party code for them. Swapping deals, drugs, women, and whatever else they please.

Your skin crawls, those words dousing whatever heat your moment with Santino has managed to awaken in you.

Don’t let him talk about me like that. Don’t let him touch me. Don’t, don’t, please don’t—

Those words burn at the back of your throat and you grit your teeth to hold them in. You can’t risk breaking character like this but—

Kishi grins from the shadowed corner of the enclosed room and you suddenly feel sick.

Santino is quiet for a moment.

You watch his side profile with a halted breath, and another beat of silence follows before a slight smile finally tugs one side of his mouth upwards.

It’s a dangerous, dark thing and your stomach twists into knots.

Please—

“No one touches my woman,” comes his silky, cold declaration and those long fingers rest on the bare skin of your thigh; possessive, protective. “No one.”

The terror and revulsion in your veins ebbs, ebbs, his words echoing—

You don’t care about how untrue they are. That you both know that you’re not his in any sense of the word nor will you ever be.  

The conviction, the threat, the protection—those are real.

For the first time since Tokyo, since John, you don’t feel alone.

A peculiar sort of hush falls over everyone at that.

“In fact, hm, why don’t you go and freshen up, principessa?” he suggests and lifts your chin with his index finger so he can look you in the eyes. “I’m almost done here. We can go back to the hotel after. I’ve missed those pretty sounds you make when I’m inside you. Yes?”

He can see it.

And feel it, too.

The way your skin has gone cold and clammy. How a tremor shakes your muscles. How you grip onto him but your eyes keep skipping towards every shadow in the room. How your serene, sensuous demeanour is no doubt splintering right in front of him.

He’s giving you an out.  

Your nails sink into him briefly and you force yourself to act, force yourself to continue on.

Cupping the side of his face, you press a lingering kiss to his cheek. There is nothing sexual about it. Only a distinct feeling of gratitude that strums through you with the same intensity your earlier interaction did.

Your eyes flutter close briefly, the tip of your nose pressing into the smell of his aftershave, and you image to everyone else it might look like you’re simply clinging onto him, unwilling to be parted.  

Standing on stiff legs, you straighten your spine, and don’t flinch as Santino continues the performance, staring up at you, lowering his cards so he can touch your knee. He rubs a soothing circle there and his lips twitch.

“Don’t take too long now, hm?”

Your hand trembles when you reach for him, and you hope that the darkness of the room helps to mask it. Despite that, you still manage to swipe back unruly strands of his hair that have fallen into his eyes. Like a refined feline, he arches into your touch, a faint smirk appearing, and you rearrange your facial expression into something unassuming.

Trying to speak fails, so you simply dip your head once, and pull away from him. It takes everything you have to keep your footsteps steady and unhurried as you exit the small room.

The world around you splinters.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

Look at you.

“Shut up.”

It’s a choked, weak mess of an exhale. It hurts to talk and you grip the sink harder, your knuckles straining under your skin as you wheeze.

Your frightened eyes reflect in the mirror and you note how your expression crumbles in despair. Just hours ago, you had looked at your reflection in the hotel room mirror and felt beautiful for the first time since Tokyo. Since something was tarnished and stolen away from you.

Now mascara smears under your eyes and your waxen expression betrays you.

You need—

John.

You need John.

I need you. I need you. Where are you?

Kishi sinks his bony fingers into your arm and you flinch, jerking backwards. The incandescent bathroom lights scorch behind your closed eyelids, and you grapple for the running tap, letting the freezing water pour over your hands.

It hurts more, petrifies you more, but it also keeps you lucid, coherent enough to hear the bathroom door opening behind you.

“So—sorry, it’s busy! Could—could you please use—”

“The Vipress.”

You freeze.

You’re trembling but your head tilts upwards, and in the mirror reflection you see Rafael Conte leaning against the bathroom door with his arms folded over his chest.

Those dark eyes narrow and the grin on his face makes you become terribly aware just how unprepared you are for this type of confrontation. He’s taller, stronger, and heavier.

While usually, that would hardly bother you—both John and Cassian have taught you plenty of ways to take down individuals who severely outclass you in a physical sense—that was then.

The husk of a person you have deteriorated to is not as confident in her skills.

How he even found you is beyond you. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, didn’t bother finding Ares in the crowd of people because she was instructed to mingle and collect information. You purposely didn’t go in the casino bathroom or the one right outside the ballroom. You went through the bother of trekking halfway across the hotel just to find a secluded bathroom far away from the main event.

Just your goddamn luck.  

Keeping him in your sight, you straighten.

Where is Santino?

“The viper that never strikes twice. I wondered why D’Antonio would bring you,” the man says after you keep silent and his smile turns more cutting. “But then I realised that this might be something more than just business.”

“This—this is neutral ground,” you force out, trying and failing to keep your voice even. “There is nothing—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man snaps, stepping from the door and you twist around, glaring at him. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know he’s up to something. You will tell me what, or I will send your head back to Viggo Tarasov as a present.”

Your hand flies down but he’s faster.

A pistol appears in front of your face just as your fingers wrap around a blade strapped to your inner thigh.

“I don’t think so,” the man growls and steps closer. “Drop it.”

The water from the tap keeps running noisily, and you try to calculate how quickly he would be able to pull that trigger. Would you be able to throw your blade faster? Or would he react quicker?

Don’t let him corner you, John warns sternly, or you will lose.

You let the blade drop. Rafael marches towards you, shoving the barrel of the pistol under your chin, tilting your head. He glowers at you, the heavy set of his eyebrows pinching. “Why are you here?”

“Get fucked.”

His palm connects with your cheek, a flare of agony numbing the right side of your face. He jerks you closer by the hair, pressing the barrel painfully into your cheek.

“I will blow your fucking brains out, princess,” he warns harshly, and shakes you once, your teeth clenching. “Is D’Antonio really worth dying for? Answer me!”

Your knee drives between his legs and you duck when his grip on your hair loosens, ignoring the painful tear. You strike his arm, the pistol slipping but he grabs it just before it falls, kicking you in the stomach as you slam against the sinks with a loud thud. You gasp in pain, trying to grab onto the edge of the basin to straighten yourself, but your weak muscles struggle to obey and Rafael grabs you by the throat. He slams you into the mirror and then again.

And again.

The mirror cracks and you choke down a sob of pain, everything blurring.

“You know,” the man pants, and his grip on your neck tightens, choking you. “I expected more from John Wick’s partner. His little protege. But you’re pathetic.”

He slams you against the mirror again. “Tell me what D’Antonio is doing here,” he demands, giving you another shake and you feel something wet staining the back of your head. “Tell me or I will drown the truth out of you.”

A handkerchief gets pushed into the sink, trapping the still pouring water, and you let out a whimper of pure terror.

No—no—no—

Rafael grasp you by the back of your neck, and you kick at him but your muscles are frail with exhaustion and panic, failing you when you need them most.

The man hits one of your legs and you crumple, your face flying towards the half-full sink as you let out a sob. No matter how much you struggle or try to push yourself back, you’re not strong enough.

Another brutal shove downwards.

You’re never—

The bathroom door slams open with a deafening bang.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

A slight chuckle against your neck. “D’Antonio. Slow as always.”

The grip on you loosens and you slump to the floor. Footsteps step over you, but Rafael’s gleaming shoes don’t miss your trembling digits. He steps on them on purpose and you flinch as the sink overflows, spilling water all over the white tile floor.

“I will skin you alive for this.”

You can’t remember ever hearing Santino so furious before.

“Sure you will,” Rafael remarks and the mirth in his voice is clear. “You know my father always told me to never trust you D’Antonio’s. He said that you all have the devil in you. Especially your psychopath father and that frigid bitch you have for a sister. You’re just the leftover people tolerate because they’re scared of your father. After San Diego, I knew my father was right.”

“What’s the matter, old friend,” Santino wonders in Italian, his voice honey and rage all at once. “Can’t handle a bit of competition, hm?”

Your forehead slides across the tiles when you turn your head, a wall of tears blurring your vision as you try to blink them away. Violent shivers wreck your body as water roars in your ears and your body convulses. Blinking, you try to tighten your bruised fingers into a fist. It’s then that your eyes snag onto an object an arm length away from you.

“I sure can. Because I don’t fear weak fuckers like you,” Rafael shoots back coolly and you hear the cocking of the pistol as he aims it at Santino. “I would be lying if I said that I will not enjoy this.”

Santino.

A meeting in a church.

“I always get what I want.”

A favour without a charge.

“I’m not doing this for him but for you.”

An offer of help.

“You can stay with me, cara mia. My home can be your home. It will not be for free but no harm will come to you.”

Burgundy suits.

“I need you.”

Arms around you, something in his eyes you have never seen before—something genuine.

“You.”

You slam into Rafael with full awareness of what this will mean.

“Fear me.”

You plunge the poisoned blade deep into his neck.

. . .

an: can you believe Santino D’Antonio really hit that high this early on and then....just never been able to hit it since lmao. amazing. anyway whooooooooooooo babey!!!! if you read this in one sitting, please pat yourself on the back, soldier. sorry that I didn’t have time to reply to everyone about the last chapter. life has just been a big ‘ol mess as you all know, and I’ve been really busy and blocked so if this chapter reads funny....well then......though, as always, I’m super excited to hear your thoughts. :D

as always you’re all incredible, amazing, and the best so please take care of yourselves! <333 

[allfandomxreader]

During // Till Death Do Us Part

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: You always knew marriage was never easy, you’ve heard that all your life. But this doesn’t feel like a marriage anymore, and hasn’t for a long time.

Warnings: Major angst and alluded depression

Words: 2.9k

A/N: I don’t know what I was on but in the last part I said Aiden was four… He’s definitely six. (I went back and edited that for new readers) Also!! Imagining Tom on FaceTime with the kids in this gif made me soft™

Part: 3/5

Main Masterlist // Series Masterlist

Not my gif, and as always, feedback loved and appreciated :)

The silence that fills the kitchen is deafening. Neither of you can look at one another, your statement still fresh in the air. You can’t ignore the heaviness you’ve been carrying any longer. It creeps off your shoulders and into the living room, it fills the whole house. You wonder if he can feel it too.

As any other couple, you’ve had your fair share of arguments over the years. Almost always they were stupid; someone said something that hurt the other’s feelings or one of you forgot to wash the dishes or lock the door.

There were very few times that you yelled at each other, and those were always the worst fights. The kind where you’re at each other’s throats, tossing blame back in forth for so long you don’t even remember whose fault it was in the first place, if there was even a fault at all. The kind where you’d scream and sometimes cry, where he’d pull his hair in frustration and raise his voice even more. But they were always fixable.

This one was different. You said the worst thing you possibly could, out of pain and anger or even as a threat, you can’t really tell. Nevertheless, Tom went along with it silently. He didn’t try to talk you out of it or say that you could work through this.

Nobody ever goes into marriage prepared for a divorce. You marry because you see yourself spending the rest of your life with someone you love, someone you can’t bear to live without. That’s exactly who Tom was. Maybe he didn’t see you in the same way anymore.

You think of the paper stashed in the wedding album upstairs. You don’t need it in front of you to know what exactly what’s written. The final line has always been your favorite part, “I promise I’ll love you forever. Even after my heart stops beating, know it still belongs to you.” You know those vows remain truthful, even now. You’ll love him forever, even if papers get signed and the two of you part ways, even when fifty years has passed, you’ll still love Tom with all of your being.

You’re torn at this thought. Divorce wouldn’t make much sense then if it causes so much pain, if you’re still this infatuated with your partner. You know that in the end, when the divorce gets finalized, you’ll never the same, you’ll never be able to love another the way you do him. Another person wouldn’t mean half as much to you as Tom does. But you also know that if you stay, if you keep pretending, you will lose every piece of yourself. You wonder if being in love with Tom is scarier than not loving him at all.

You can’t help but stare at the rings adorning your finger. The jewels glisten in the kitchen light, capturing all your attention. You often did this when they were first placed there, it never felt real that you married Tom, almost like a dream. You never thought a time would come where you’d take them off indefinitely.

Tom clears his throat suddenly. He twists the gold band on his finger, unsure of what to say, unsure of what comes next. “What uh—” he coughs, choking back tears. “Do we tell the kids?” He looks at you then, trying to read you only to find that it’s impossible. Your eyes are distant when you look back.

“I’ll tell them you’re filming,” You say finally, “they’re used to you being gone, they won’t know the difference.” Your statement hurts despite it being nothing but truthful. Has he really been gone for so long?

“Right,” He sighs. He doesn’t know how, but he finds the strength to stand. “I guess we’ll be in touch.” He waits for a moment, to see if you’ll follow his actions, to see if you reach for his hand and refuse to let go. But you don’t budge, you remain frozen in your chair, even as he reaches the front door.

You thought he’d take the heaviness with him. As if he could pack it into his suitcase and roll it out the door. But when he leaves, it becomes unbearable. You collapse under weight of his absence, finally facing what you’ve been hiding from for so long.

Goodbyes have been common throughout your life with him, each one getting progressively worse than the time before. You’d always hold him close, he’d promise it’d only be a short while until his return. And then, he’d board the plane and call you once he landed. You wish you would’ve kissed him a little longer back then, held him a little tighter. This time, there is no promise, there’s no kiss goodbye or a final ‘I love you’. He’s just gone. You know he’s never coming back to you.

It only gets harder as the days pass. Charlie and Aiden still call him at their usual time, and to your surprise, he answers every night. You try your best to stay out of the frame, mainly for yourself. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, you fear that the façade you’ve built will crumble the second you see him. You almost break each time you just hear his voice.

He sounds tired, his voice is strained. It’s not something the kids pick up on, something only you could know after spending so many years with him. You try to convince yourself that very few people have learned how to decode him by the way he speaks. Then again, maybe it’s just how he sounds these days. You can’t be sure.

Even though you’ve dodged as many FaceTime encounters as humanly possible, it’s still hard trying to avoid him. Living in the same house that’s full of his belongings, you see him everywhere. In his tea mug on the top shelf, his shoes still kicked by the front door. His clothes that hang in the closet, scent still fresh. It’s nauseating, it’s unbearable.

It’s been two weeks and Tom hasn’t seen you. He hasn’t your voice except for at night when you tell the kids it’s time for bed. He’s falling apart, unravelling at the seams.

He sits in his hotel room in silence, staring out the window. It’s only a few miles from where he calls home. He tries to spot the house in the distance, even though trees and buildings shield his view. He thinks of how easy it would be to reach you. He’d take a few right turns and drive straight to you. But he can’t bring himself to even grab the keys.

Harrison sits at the end of the bed, filling the room with the typing on his laptop. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have the words to say, he doesn’t know how to help his best friend. All he knows for sure is that Tom can’t be alone.

Tom moves towards his phone when it rings. There’s a brightness that returns to Tom’s eyes when he reads your name, a tinge of hope courses through his body. It’s an odd hour for you to be calling. He thinks it could Charlie or Aiden, that maybe they got ahold of your phone, but dismisses the idea when he remembers they’re in school.

“Hey, are you at the hotel?” His stomach erupts with butterflies, the kind he had when the two of you first started dating. “This is it” He thinks, “She’ll come over and we’ll sort everything out. We won’t need to end this. There’s still a chance.”

“Y-yeah,” He chokes out, clutching the cell closer to his ear, memorizing the way you sound. It’s been too long.

“Okay, great,” He notes that you’re just getting off work, he can hear you opening and closing the door to your car. He almost celebrates remembering your schedule, but quickly realizes that it’s been the same for years. “Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” He says softly. It occours to him, he doesn’t know what you’re apologizing for. Either way, you’re the last person that needs to. He can’t help but feel responsible, that you’re in this situation because of him.

“Right. Anyways, I’m having someone come with the papers, I can’t serve them to you myself.” He gulps, swallowing what he swore were butterflies but now they feel more like bees. No matter what they are, they drop dead one by one as you keep speaking. “I just didn’t want to do it while you were in public and bring attention to it for your sake.”

Even in the end, you’re still looking out for him. Putting the needs of his career before your own, making sure he was still a priority. Tom wishes never stopped making you his.

He hangs up after you say a soft farewell, dropping the phone to the floor. His eyes meet Harrison’s, already glossing with tears. “It’s over,” Tom whispers as Harrison crosses the room, wrapping Tom into his arms. “My marriage is over.”

It’s been hard for Tom to wake up in the mornings for almost a month straight, it’s even harder today. He forces himself to get out of bed. His eyes burn from lack of sleep and his back is stiff from the uncomfortable hotel mattress. He reaches for the nice dress pants and button up shirt Harrison bought for him a few days prior. Tom couldn’t bring himself to return home to grab more of his things.

He gets ready in a daze, going through his routine by pure muscle memory. He doesn’t feel like himself these days, he hasn’t felt like himself since he sat across from you in the kitchen. He wants to crawl back into bed even though he knows sleep won’t come. He wants to stay within the dark four walls and never leave again. But he also knows that this is not the day.

Of course, you’re already seated when Tom enters the office. He isn’t late, he’s actually a few minutes early, and yet, he feels like he’s let you down again. That seems to be what he’s best at lately.

“Good morning, Mr. Holland,” Thaddeus begins. Tom can’t remember the lawyer’s last name for the life of him, all he knows is Thaddeus has a reputation for getting divorces finalized as quick as possible. Is that what it’s come to? Ten years of marriage, of memories, of love, just to be thrown away in the few short months to follow? “Ms. Y/L/N,” Tom flinches then, he hasn’t heard anyone call you that in what feels like a lifetime.

You introduced yourself that morning with your maiden name. You figured you’d go back to it soon enough, might as well start getting used to it. And even though it’s the name you spent most of your life with, it feels so foreign, so unpleasant on the tongue.

“I wish we could meet on better circumstances,” Thaddeus continues, taking a seat after shaking Tom’s hand.

Tom listens but doesn’t retain much. He’s overwhelmed by the situation entirely. He doesn’t know what went wrong for the two of you to end up here, side by side ready to end it all. He doesn’t know why you chose to introduce yourself with any other last name but his.

He sneaks a glance your way. Your head nods along with whatever the lawyer says, your hands folded in your lap. He doesn’t know how you do it, how you sit there so elegantly and poised while he’s breaking, barely held together by a string.  

“Usually, when there’s children involved, they’ll stay with the mother for the weeks,” Thaddeus gestures your way, “And every other weekend they’ll go with the father.” He nods towards Tom. “Have the two of you talked about custody? We can hold a hearing but it’s usually better for the parents to decide on their own.”

“We haven’t talked about it,” You say softly, almost sadly, “I just assumed I would have them since that’s how it’s been.” You look almost guilty when you meet Tom’s eyes.

“Are you okay with that, Tom?” Both sets of eyes land on Tom, each expecting an answer.

“Yes.” He answers, avoiding their looks and focusing his gaze to the cup of pens on the desk.

“I want to make it clear that Tom can see them whenever he wants. I’m not trying to keep them away from him. Whenever he comes back from filming or if he wants to see them for a random weekend he can. If you needed that in writing,” You explain. “You’re an extraordinary dad, Tom. The best they could have.”

You say it with honesty, you’ve never doubted Tom’s fathering abilities, but you want to make sure he truly knows you believe that. That you didn’t entirely mean they were just yourkids, the way you made it sound almost a month ago while arguing.

“In cases like your own, most of this can be discussed individually.” Thaddeus continues and speaks for another hour. Tom should’ve been listening to the entire conversation, but he only focuses on the important parts and talks when necessary.

When the meeting comes to a close, you stand, giving a tight smile to the lawyer and leaving the room without a second glance at Tom. He’s never felt so alone in his entire life, he always had you by his side, you were always there when he needed you most. He wonders how many times you needed him and he was nowhere to be found.

Maybe this was a long time coming, inevitable. Maybe he deserves to feel this way, he decides he does and quickly excuses himself from Thaddeus’ presence.

Tom can breathe again once he’s locked himself in the bathroom. His grips the cold sink in efforts to stop his hands from shaking. He lets himself cry, as if he hasn’t been doing just that for weeks. This time, the tears don’t seem to stop. They keep coming as he slides down the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. He tries his best to quiet the sobs with his hand, he didn’t want the whole building to hear the breaking of his heart.

When he wills himself to stand, he splashes his face with water, trying his best to clean himself up. There’s no use when he finally stares at his reflection. It’s the worst he’s ever seen. His eyes are brimmed red and sunken in, dark circles clear as day. He can’t even look at himself.

He beelines towards his car that’s parked on the side of the road. He tries his best to unlock it with ease, but the keys drop to the cement from his shaking hands. Tom takes a moment to collect his breath, to try and calm down as he grabs them from the ground.

When he stands, his eyes land on you. Even from across the street you captivate him. You sit in the driver’s seat, shoulders wracking with your own sobs. Your head is in your hands, shielding yourself from the world. You’re breaking just as much as he is.

Every part of Tom wants to turn to you, to fold you in his arms and vow to never make you hurt this way again. But he stands frozen in place. He doesn’t know how to fix this or even if he could. Most importantly, he doesn’t know if you want him to.

In an instant, he watches as you pull yourself together. You inhale sharply and then deflate. You wipe away your running mascara and tears. You practice forced smiles in the rearview mirror, and suddenly, sadness doesn’t leave a trace on your features. You’re back to the strong woman who sat beside him half an hour ago. You’ve made hiding your pain into an art form.

Tom doesn’t know how long you’ve had to do this, to feel this broken and alone. To pick up your pieces and put yourself back together again, for the kids, for the people around you. If he’s had to do it for only a month, he can’t imagine how long you have. He assumes much longer than necessary, and he hates himself for it.

Tom paces the hotel room for hours when he returns. He thinks of Charlie, he thinks of Aiden. He thinks of you. He can’t stop thinking about you. It’s here when it dawns on him. It wasn’t you who stopped fighting for him. He was, he stopped fighting entirely. You had just given up, something the two of you promised to never do. It was his turn to fight, or rather, to start. Then maybe, this or something here could be salvaged.

By now, it’s seven o’clock. He finds himself staring at the phone. You’ve always called at seven, it’s been that way for years. It’s the hour before the children’s bedtime. In the past, he’d read to them or talk about their day. Sometimes he’d watch Charlie practice for her dance recital or listen to Aiden talk about his homework. Some nights, he’d just sit there and watch them brush their teeth.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s read to them over the phone. He hasn’t even bought new books the way he used to just for them to hear something different while he was away.

He looks out the window again. He tries to spot the house in the distance, even though trees and buildings still shield the view. He knows just how easy it would be to reach you. He knows the two right turns and then to drive North for a few miles. This time, he grabs the keys.

Tom Tags: @sophs-library

Forevertags: @superfrankie111 // @rueinn // @lemonadeorange73 // @simplechicwithacrazedheart // @youshutthefuckupville // @captainpeggy40 // @alexdamereysmith // @llatpdnmm​

Till Death Do Us Part: @hollandinq​ // @drishtisikarwar​ // @captainchrisstan​ // @chloecreatesfictions​ // @theliterarymess​ // @hollanddolanfangirl​

[redsandroses]

Genre: non-idol au, fluff and angst

Warnings: cheating (yes y/n is a jerk whereas Chan is an angel), swearing, acts of anger but no physical harm. Other than that, it starts really cute and soft and ends pretty fucking sad. 

Pairing: Bang Chan x reader 

Word count: 4.7k

A/N: So this one is really special to me. It was actually way longer than this but I cut some parts cause they felt really personal and could be a trigger for a lot, so here is the cut version. Just want to say if you’ve ever been in a situation where everyone turns their back to you or if people force you to do things you don’t want to, know that you are not alone. There is someone who understands and cares for you out here and you can come to me to vent. I will be all ears. Oh and please don't fucking cheat on people.

“No, no. You cannot leave me like this. Not after all we have been through.” was your last words before your boyfriend left your house.

Chan… He was the best you’ve ever had, he was also the worst you’ve ever had. You met Chan at a convention at his office. You went there as a representetive of your own company for a presentation. At first, he was like everyone else there. But during your presentation his boss made a really offensive and sexist comment which was completely irrelevant to the topic and when you came back at him, no one was on your side since they were all kiss asses but Chan, he stood up with you there. Then he helped you the way out and gave you a glass of water to help you relax. And at that moment you knew you needed him in your life, as a friend as a lover, anything.

A week later that day, your boss who was also your dad, made an announcement that there was going to be a welcoming party for a new employee. You were used to these, your company was a family company and they accepted everyone there as one of them. For the party, your job was to bake a cake cause you baked delicious cakes and cookies. It was one of your specialties. So you did, you baked a half chocolate-half vanilla cake. 

The party was at the back garden of your office. When you arrived, everyone was already there. You looked around to find the new employee but everyone seemed familiar. After a while of searching with the cake in your hands, you bumped into someone. There he was, Chan was the new employee and now you smeared cake all over his jacket. You panicked and started apologising over and over again, trying to clean up the mess you made. Chan was just laughing and he stopped you by holding your hands. 

“Please calm down. It’s just a jacket and I was gonna spill something on it till the end of the night anyways so don’t worry about it.” You looked at him, that was the moment you realised how beautiful his eyes were. They were glowing under the moonlight. He realised you were staring. “Oh I’m sorry, forgive me for being this rude and not introducing myself. I’m Chan but you can also call me Chris and you are…” He peeked at your fingers for a second. “Miss Y/LN, right?” you laughed at how cute he was. “Yes yes, I’m that but you can call me by my first name which is Y/n. You don’t have to call anyone with their last name in the office, not even your boss. We all know we respect each other and trust me it’s easier like this. Oh and also don’t you remember me from last week from your convention?” 

“Ah yes of course I do but since we didn’t met officially there I wanted to do this part again.” 

“Okay I’m a curious cat so I’m just gonna ask, why did you leave your company?” 

“Ahh that. After seeing what a jerk my boss was to you, I simply had to. I couldn’t keep on helping him make money.” You smiled at him. “Drinks?”

That was your first night together. You said your goodbyes there and for a month or so you were just co-workers. He was always smiling at everyone, he was kind and helpful. He got used to the place quickly cause of how warm-hearted he was. You guys practically became best friends since you spent all your breaks and lunches with him. Then one day you decided to invite him over dinner, just for fun and to get to know him better. 

He came with your favourite flower, he was wearing a black shirt with the top two buttons open. Seeing him in his casual fits was nice, he looked even better all chill like that. His cologne was one of your favourite smells now. All night through dinner, he kept complimenting your cooking and acting like he was passing out cause of the deliciousness, it was a fun time after so long. Then you poured yourselves some wine and went to your rooftop. 

It was a full moon that day. You believed in the saying “The moon is there when nobody else is.” So you always felt a special feeling when it’s full moon. Either something good or bad happenned when it’s full moon and they all somehow affected your life. You were looking at the moon thinking about what would happen that month, then something hit you. It was there, he was right there. He was the thing happening this time. You turned to him just to find out he was looking at you too. You chuckled. 

“What? Is there something on my face? Oh god there’s sauce on my mouth isn’t it?”

“Hey hey y/n, nothing is wrong with your face. Everything is perfect. Everything about you is actually.” You were shocked, you knew there was something special between you two but you weren’t expecting this. “I uh I um thank you Chan. You are not so bad yourself.” You winked, trying not to show how he caught you off-guard. He took a sip of his wine and chuckled. 

“You think I’m just being nice, don’t you? But I’m serious y/n, there’s something about you that makes me adore you. Since you entered that meeting room, I felt it. You are so smart, you are independent, you always know what to do when things are going bad and on top of those you’re gorgeous.” You didn’t know what to say. You were looking down, drawing circles on the glass. That silence was awkward. “But I will get it if you don’t want a relationship and just want to be friends, that won’t change my feelings for you.” 

He tucked your hair behind your ear. “No matter where we end up, you’re amazing and you will always have me by your side.” You wanted him but you weren’t ready.

“Chan, it’s not that I don’t want to be with you. It’s that I’m not ready for a relationship for now but I don’t want to lose you either.”

“Heyy hey, please. I understand that, and you will not lose me for this. I enjoy your company and I have no intention on leaving you. You are not getting rid of me that soon.” He smiled. There was something with his smile, you could feel his sincerity. You knew he was real. “I don’t want to get rid of you silly.” “Hug?” you nodded and hugged him. Oh how safe it felt to be between his arms. The cold breeze on your face with his warmth on your body felt so peaceful but you had to let go. You knew you couldn’t be with someone, not yet.

After that night, things became a bit weird between you two but he was acting like everything was normal. You hated the feeling that you messed things up. It was keeping you awake at nights, not that you got sleep that much before that but still it was always on your mind. He was always on your mind. You kept asking yourself ‘why did it have to be like this? Why didn’t he come in my life before?’ but that was no use. Questioning wasn’t changing anything. You just couldn’t trust anyone anymore. It wasn’t his fault, he was all one could ask for. It was about you. It was about all the people who let you down.

Days passed one after another and at one night out with him, you decided to open up to him. You told him about all the things you’ve been through and he listened to you attentively. He was shocked by how evil people could get, he cried with you that night and gave you assurance that he would never do anything to hurt you and that he will protect you from bad things coming up your way. He hugged you all night, neither of you got even a minute of sleep but it was worth it. It was worth feeling his presence there with you. It was worth hearing him singing for you the most beautiful songs. It was worth being in that moment with him. 

When it was nearly dawn, he offered to take you to a hill. He prepared breakfast for you to eat there. You were up there half an hour before sunrise. You sat there covered in a blanket, him hugging you. It was so peaceful, there was a breeze but it wasn’t too cold, you could hear the birds waking up and chirping, you could smell the nature and most importantly you could feel Chan’s warmth. It was so quite that you could hear his heart beats and it was a sound you never thought you would need to hear for the rest of your life.

You watched the sunrise while he sang for you. You kept asking for him to sing for you and he kept choosing your comfort songs like he knew all of them. During those peaceful moments, your stomach started rumbling. You got shy and hid your face, he chuckled “Someone’s hungry. Come on don’t be shy, mine does that too.” You shook your head no. He took your hands away from your face. “But you cannot hide your face from me, it’s illegal. And you cannot eat if you stay like that so show me your pretty face.” You opened your phone camera and looked at yourself. “You still call me pretty with these?” You pointed at your fluffy eyes from crying. He took your phone and pointed at his eyes “Well I call myself handsome with these so yeah. You’re still a beauty to my eyes.” You snuggled into his arms and took a photo there. That photo was going to be the reminder of how right he felt for the rest of your relationship. “If you took our best shots, we should eat now baby.”

You spent the rest of that day together and at the end of the night, you got up on the rooftop. It was again full moon and you were snuggled up in his chest watching the moon and the stars. Talking about the shapes they created. Then with an instinct, you looked up at him. He asked what it was but you didn’t say anything, instead you leaned in and kissed him. When you pulled back, he was shocked. His eyes were as big as the moon, it was clear that he wasn’t expecting that. “Chan, I think I’m ready.”

“Y/n, this was amazing but please don’t do anything you are not really ready for. You know I will be here whatever you call the thing between us.” He kept telling you this until you kissed him again to shush him. “Then welcome to your new life as my partner.” He said while giving you an eskimo kiss. This was how your story started.

You’ve been with him for six months now. Everything was going great. You were working together, coming back home together. You did everything with him. There were times he begged you to go out with your friends cause they kept telling him how much they missed you, so you did but it wasn’t any fun without him. You always ended up coming back home to him before even ten p.m. He was your everything and you were his. There was a small problem though, which was your dad. For some reason he wasn’t approving your relationship. He was okay with you dating him but he didn’t want this to turn into something serious. He had some others in mind for you. And you hated all those rich arrogant bastards. Of course not all of them were bad but the ones you knew were just a bunch of assholes.

Even though your dad wasn’t okay with you and Chan, you knew you were going to find a way to be with him for the rest of your life. How could you not? But these perfect dreamy days came to an end when you made one of the biggest mistakes in your life.

One night you were sitting on the couch, crawled up in his arms watching whatever was on the tv. Then between your talks, he mentioned an ex of his was in town for a week and he told you that they were going to meet. Jealousy was never a problem in your relationship. He was the most understanding person ever and he trusted you. And it was the same for him too. You trusted that man with all your heart. But for some reason you got jealous over his ex being in town just to meet with him. You just said okay to him there and went to bed. But there was something eating you from the inside, you couldn’t sleep. So you thought it would be a good idea to check their socials and fuck they were hot, also they seemed familiar. Later you found out you were friends in high school. From seeing those photos, the worries in you grew and grew.

The day they were going to meet came. You decided to follow him which you knew was stupid but for some reason you needed to do it. So after kissing him goodbye, you got out right after him and followed him to the cafe they were meeting at. You thought you were hiding and being smart but you shouldn’t have underestimated your boyfriend. They sat there for an hour then he excused himself to the bathroom. When he went in, your phone rang. It was him. “Hi baby, what’s up? Are you having fun, say hi to your friend for me.” You were trying to act normal. “Y/n, please cut the act. I know you’re sitting at the table behind us. Why are you doing this? Please go home and I’ll be back in an hour, then we will talk.” And he closed. You were embarrased. You wished the ground could open and take you in at that moment. You knew it was wrong, you knew it.

You were walking around the house nervously, biting your nails, waiting for Chan to come home. All these scenarios of lies you were writing in your head but none was good enough to explain why you did that. After exactly and hour, he came. ‘I’m so fucked.’ You thought. He came in, sat on the couch and patted next to him, implying you to come sit. 

“Y/n before you say anything, I just want to say I’m not mad or anything. I’m just sad and disappointed. Why wouldn’t you trust me? Couldn’t I build that trust? I just don’t get it. Care to explain yourself now?” You wished he was mad, him being disappointed was so much worse.

“I uh I don’t know why I did that. I guess I got jealous but Chan I’m so so sorry. I know it was wrong. Please don’t hate me for this. It was so stupid of me.” 

“It’s okay y/n, I won’t hate you for this and you know that. Just... I don’t understand why you felt like that. Can’t I make you feel enough? Is it about that?” 

“No no you make me feel more than enough but I don’t know what got into me I’m sorry. You know I trust you.”

“I just need some time to understand this okay? We will figure it out.” Then he got up and left for a business dinner. You were upset, you were mad at yourself for not trusting a man like him who has never said a word about your friends, your clothes, nothing. He knew you could think for yourself and he respected you enough not to say anything. You changed into your pyjamas and poured yourself a drink. You needed to get your head off of this.

It was now past midnight and you were still drinking but it was not enough. So you changed into a night outfit and decided to go to a bar where you could dance it off. You drank there as well, the idea of not being able to think was in your mind and you were going for it. There were people hitting on you but you refused all of them. But there was this one guy you knew from college there, you talked about your old days for a while. After a couple of drinks together, you offered to take him home, not saying a single word about Chan, which you were going to regret later.

One thing led to another and there you were sitting on him, making out on your couch. The couch you and your boyfriend sat on every night. You were so wasted to realize what you were doing but then you heard the door unlock. And that was the most effective thing to wake you up from the world you were in. The front door opened right to the living room so the first thing Chan saw when he lifted his head was you, half-naked on top of another guy. He just looked at you in disgust. You could feel him being disgusted from his eyes, you could see the disappointment in his eyes. You fucked up. He wore his shoes back on and slammed the door. 

You froze, immediately got up and put on your shirt then asked for the guy to leave. He was judging you with his look. “Wow if I knew this was who you were, I wouldn’t have even said hi. I’ve met Chan before and you, oh you do not deserve him. You should be ashamed of yourself y/n. Please never contact me ever again.” And left.

How could one go back from this? What explanation could make this better? Chan was the most forgiving person you’ve ever came across to but this was something else. You knew you couldn’t expect him to forgive this. And even if he did, how were you going to forgive yourself? Your whole world shattered, you could physically feel your heart aching. What were you even thinking when you took your friend home? Why did you ever need another man’s touch when what you had was perfect? ‘Fuck how am I going to fix this?’ you kept asking yourself. You wanted to cry so bad but you couldn’t. 

There was a knot stuck at your throat and you couldn’t even gulp. Your chest has never felt this heavy before. You didn’t even know where he went, heck even if you did, you didn’t have the courage to face him right now. But you needed to know he was at least physically okay and safe. He was not the type to hurt himself but again you’ve never seen him this disappointed before.

After seeing you with some stranger man on your couch, Chan didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t feeling mad which was making it all worse. If he was mad, at least he could’ve punched a wall or something and get his anger out but no. All he could feel was disgust and for some reason, shame. Shame for you and shame for trusting you this much. He was planning on confronting you about you following him. All he needed was a reason and a sorry, then he was ready to forget it all. He was definetely not expecting to see what he just saw. 

He walked for an hour in the cold, empty streets, not even caring about where he was heading. The imagine of you there on the couch was choking him, he could feel his breathing getting hard. ‘I didn’t deserve this. Or maybe I did, yeah I probably did. There was something missing and I couldn’t fill that in. Why else would this happen?’ he kept thinking. He was this type to blame himself even when he didn’t do anything and he couldn’t help it. He loved you way too much to be mad at you, however he knew you were wrong.

He stayed at one of his friend’s place that night and you, you passed out on the bathroom floor. It was nearly sunrise when you woke up with a horrible headache and nausea. At first, you thought it was a normal hangover but then you remembered last night and you felt the cold tile under you. That realization that Chan was not besides you, hurt your heart once again. You wished there was a way to turn back time and fix all this. You slowly got up, your head was spinning like crazy. That moment you realized, once again, how much you got used to the existence of Chan. You knew if he was there, he would hold you, prepare you one of his magical hangover juices, help you take a warm bath and just be there for you through all day. You knew it and knowing that hurt even more. When you saw your reflection at the mirror, you burst into tears. 

‘He did not deserve this.’ you thought, knowing damn well he was blaming himself even for this. You needed to go to him and get him back. You washed your face and got dressed, ready to go to all of his friends’ houses then you heard the door open. You heard Chan putting down his keys and taking off his shoes. You had no idea how to approach to him, everything felt wrong. You slowly got out of the bedroom and head to the living room with your head down. You could feel his eyes on you but you couldn’t even dare to look at him. You were ashamed, never felt this low before.

“Y/n…”

Hearing your name from him made your heart jump. He never called you by your name, only when things were not cool between you two which has been like that for two days now. You liked being his baby, his sunshine, he even called you his star and his moon cause he knew how much they meant to you. Fuck, you made the biggest mistake. You looked up at him and immediately looked away, it was unbearable looking into his eyes while he is looking at you with such disbelief.

“We have to talk y/n. Please sit.”

He came up to the couch but then went to sit on a chair. He hated that couch, which was his relaxing and safe space for months. You sat on another chair in front of him. “Chan, can I first-” he cut you off. 

“Please, don’t say sorry y/n. You know I won’t buy that. Not this time. All night last night, I blamed myself, yes even for this. Then I realized how much I gave up of myself for you. It was all worth it, till yesterday. It fucking hurt to see you there spying on me y/n. Me out of all people huh? I tried everything I can to make you trust people again. I gave my everything to you. And this is what I get? Heck I was thinking of putting all this behind us but then I come home to see you half naked on top of a guy? What the fuck y/n?” he took his head between his hands, massaging his temples. It was weird seeing him like this, he never talked to you like that. But he had every right to do at that point. He was still being too nice actually.  

“I… I know Chan. I know I fucked up but please please tell me what I can do to make things right again. I’m ready to do everything for you... I know you don’t want my apology but that’s all I can say right now.”

Pure silence…

“Chan… please say something, please. Did I lose you?”

He lifted his head harshly. “I don’t know y/n, what do you think huh? How can I stay with you when you had some man’s hands all over your body? How can I still sit on that couch? How can I even breathe in this room? You give me the answers to that for fucks sake.”

You have never felt this sad before, not this ashamed. You felt dirty, thinking about someone else’s hand on your body and all the lies you told him to follow him that day.

“I can’t give any answers to those Chan, there’s nothing I can say to make it better. I’m ashamed of my behaviour. I don’t know what had gotten into me, you know I trust you mo-” he stopped you.

“Please don’t. You’ve lied enough. If you trusted me, then why did you follow me huh? You think I would ruin my relationship for some random person? You think I would do anything to lose you?” you opened your mouth to say something but he slammed a fist on the table.  You flinched. 

“I’m being naive again. You never cared enough to think those. Maybe at first you did but then you lost it. What was it that I couldn’t give to you? What made you sit on that fucker’s lap?” he shook his head. “This is fucking useless. This talk won’t change shit.”

“Chan… please don’t say things like that. I cared about us, I still do. I know my actions stated otherwise but you have to believe me. You are the one I love.”  

“I find that really hard to believe now y/n. You cannot expect me to forgive you for this.”

“I know I can’t but there has to be a way to fix this, to go back to how we were…”

He was shaking his leg, this always showed he needed to say something he didn’t want to. And you wished you didn’t know what he was going to say.

“There is no way y/n. Why is it this hard for you to understand it? I can forgive a lot but not this. I saw you with my own fucking eyes for fucks sake. How am I going to get that image out of my head? How am I going to delete that face you were making while he was kissing your neck huh? Would you be able to forgive me if I did the same? Fuck no.”

He was right, you hated that he was right. Just for this once you needed him to be wrong. He got up and took his jacket. “I guess this is goodbye y/n. I cannot stand to be here, not even one more second. Thank you for everything, this was good, we were good, while it lasted but I can’t do it anymore I’m sorry.”

Instinctively, you reached to hug him but then he gave you a look written ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ all over it. You immediately pulled yourself back. He was now at the door.

“Oh and you will not see me at work so don’t worry about that either. I’ll be leaving the company, already talked to your dad and oh good news by the way, he was so happy to hear that. You can be happy, we made the old man happy. I will come here in the office hours to collect my stuff.” You ran to the door to hold it so he can’t close. “Chan… please don’t go. I’m begging you please...This can’t be the end. I still love you so fucking much.” You got tears in your eyes, clenching your teeth not to cry.

“I’m sorry y/n, I cannot stay with you anymore. This is too much for me. Goodbye.” Then he left, not even looking behind. You crushed down on the floor, head between your hands, shaking, sobbing until to a point where you couldn’t even breath.

“No, no. You cannot leave me like this. Not after all we have been through.” You said but he was nowhere to hear those.

You never saw him ever again, didn’t hear a word from him. Nothing. He left nothing behind, just the good memories and his scent over his pillow. The only way to reach him was the moon. You talked to the moon every night, hoping somehow he will hear you..