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dancingazaleas · 3 years

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𖨆. 07 / all for us

summary: it feels as if god is blessing you personally when levi decides to spare you. but as the day goes on, you can’t help but notice things and ask questions, some of which you didn’t ask.

note: why was this chapter so hard to write

taglist: @voltairelesecond @baelo80 @the-sun-baby @uniquepickle @ascybous @messyhairday-me @stupid-stinky @saturnalya @megumitodoroki @kouyume @quacksonlover81 @gipumar

word count: +3.0k

warnings/notes: cursing, mentions of murder, mentions of drinking and driving, vomiting, mentions of blood, mentions of ocd, the reader is confused

LEVI ackerman knew he wasn't a good person. he knew from the moment he watched his uncle slaughter a man in front of him at the age of eight.

levi knew the moment he killed a man for theft. he knew the moment people would cower before him in highschool when he'd walk through the halls. he knew the moment he was sucking the smoke from a cigarette into his mouth.

he knew the moment he found himself fighting police officers. he knew the moment he was pushed against the hood of a car with his hands cuffed behind his back.

he knew the moment when erwin smith sat down in front of him with no emotion written on his face. the moment when erwin said he knew levi had done it, but he would be defending him either way. the moment when levi disobeyed the oath as he spat out his testimony. the moment the gavel was slammed down along with the verdict of 'not guilty'. the moment he stepped into the sunshine, erwin's hand in his, for the first time in months, knowing damn well he didn't deserve it.

but levi didn't care, he never did. the world he was born into was cruel. he had to fight for his place at the top, for his food, for his clothes, for everything. if no one cared about him, then why should he care for others.

but as he stares down at you trembling from fear on the floor, he can't help but think that he's incorrect.

"please don't hurt me again," you plead in a whisper, tilting your head to the floor.

levi only sighs, walking in and shutting the door behind him. he crouches in front of you, hand now awkwardly stroking your head.

"what happened," he asks, and it's something that comes as a shock to you. you were slightly prepared for a beating.

you snap your head up to look at him in shock.

"what have you got in your hands," he points at the scrapbook held to your chest.

"oh!" you fumble to show him, "i saw this earlier... i wanted to look but i didn't think you'd allowed me. i'm sorry, please don't hurt me."

"i would've let you, i barely look at this thing anymore. can you tell me what happened now," he scoffs at the front cover of the scrapbook.

"when i was going to put it back, a book on the shelf fell. then another book on the top shelf fell off, so i used the lower shelves as a ladder. as you can see, it didn't work," you look ashamed while you gesturing towards the shelf.

he just huffs, "go sit on the couch. we can look through that book after i clean."

you obey and watch levi heft the bookshelf back onto its legs. his fists clench as he looks down at the pile of books surrounding his feet.

hastily, levi's picking up the books by the color and placing them back onto the shelf. when he's finished, he takes a step back to look at it. he's unsatisfied, instead more frustrated as he starts to take all of the books off of the second bookshelf he has.

but in the middle of taking the books off the shelf, he twitches and taps the book against the wood five times. he's putting the books back onto the shelf, going back to the other bookshelf and taking all the books off of that.

you stare in absolute bewilderment. the shelves had looked perfect and identical to you, not to mention clean. as he's in the midst of taking the books off the shelf, he taps the book against the wood again.

and with that, he's placing it all back onto the shelf again. he sighs in relief after he's checked everything, finally trotting to you and plopping down next to you on the loveseat.

nervously, you scoot closer to him in order for you both to be able to see the scrapbook. he watches you flip it open past his baby picture, instead turning to the page that showed his mother feeding him.

"that's my mom, kuchel," he gently rubs his finger on the photograph, "think i was around a year at this point."

humming, you flip to the next page. when you realize it's the picture of levi at his mother's funeral, you try to flip the page but levi stops you.

a sigh, he explains, "my mother always had a very weak immune system, according to my uncle. because of where we lived, we both ended up getting deathly ill and we were too weak to get any help. i had to watch her die and wait for someone to come check up on us."

"i'm assuming it was your uncle," you tilt your head.

"it was. he took me in afterwards, gave me food and a shower. he even taught me how to hold a knife and how to fight for future reference. he had some work to do while i would fight for food."

you point to the one of levi standing in front of a building. to which he replies with, "first day of kindergarten. my mother was still alive back then so she decided to take the picture."

he turns the page for you, a relieved look in his eyes at he stares at the next photograph. it's a picture of levi, in high school, wearing a tux while standing next to another man with a bubbly girl holding onto levi as she holds up a peace sign.

the boy, who's also wearing a tux, has ice blue eyes and wavy dirty blonde hair that obviously hasn't been styled. he's got a gentle smile on his face while he looks at both the girl and levi, someone who levi was obviously fond of.

the girl has dark red hair in low and loose ponytails with freckles painting her tan cheeks. her eyes shine an emerald green along with her pearly white teeth.

"that's... isabel and farlan. met them in 8th grade, and we were at junior prom in this. farlan took me as his date while isabel went stag. i'm glad i still have this picture."

you resist the urge to fight back the joke of his type in men, instead asking, "are you not friends anymore?"

levi stays quiet for a moment, "they died in a horrible car crash a month later. some asshole decided to drink and drive while driving a semi. rear ended them at 45 miles per hour and killed them on impact. isabel was slouching in her seat and farlan was hunched over the wheel apparently. it was gruesome."

"i.... i'm so sorry," you reluctantly touch his arm.

he waves his free hand up and down in dismissal, despite hurt he actually was, "it's fine. happened years ago."

he turns the next page in order to distract himself from the sheer awkwardness that bathes the room. the next picture is of him, around the age of 24, standing in the sunlight while he smiles softly to the sky.

"erwin was my attorney, before he became a prosecutor, when i went to jail. he proved me not guilty and this was the picture he managed to take of me right after we left the courthouse. it was the first time i'd seen the sun without handcuffs on in months," he huffs with slight annoyance at the memory, something that surprises you just a bit.

"why'd you get arrested?"

"nothing you need to worry about," telling you would only make you fear him more. and that would be a pain to deal with.

the next page after is blank, along with the rest that follow.

"i stopped because i thought it was stupid," he crosses his arms, nudging the back of the scrapbook with his knee.

"i don't think it's stupid," you shake your head, fingertips gently tracing the grainy and textured paper.

"why's that?"

"well," you smile a bit while your mind wonders to the scrapbook pieck made you one year for your birthday, "it shows you the good memories that you might've missed as the time passed. reminds you that there's something in every little small day. it helps you keep the memory alive, even if some of it is upsetting, and i think it shows how much you've changed as a person."

levi stares at you, slightly flustered at your words as you relook at the photographs with gentle hands.

he stands up, "i just remembered the tea." ah, a sound excuse. if only levi had made tea.

you watch as he seems to rush out of the room, something you shrug off while gently putting the scrapbook on levi's desk and laying back down on the couch. you play another movie on the television that hangs on the wall, perking up when levi walks back into the room with a tray. it holds finger sandwiches and some lettuce mixed with some fruit in a small bowl along with tea. cracked sunflower seeds sit on a small plate on the side, and you feel yourself droll when you realize at there's cheese, lettuce, and ham on your sandwich.

levi places it on your lap, simply nodding at your kind, "thank you, levi."

he doesn't answer and just goes back to his desk, while you chew quietly.

it stays that way until erwin comes home.

————

it isn't until your eyes are fluttering open that you realize you've fallen asleep. you flinch at the sight of erwin's face close to your's, but slowly relax when he pulls away.

"i'm sorry, i didn't think my kiss would wake you," he places a loving hand on your head.

"'s fine, probably needed to get up anyway," you reply groggily while rubbing an eye, "how long have i been asleep for?"

"levi said since a little bit after lunch. it's only three o'clock at the moment," he sits on the edge of the couch, smiling at how you shuffle to accommodate him.

"sandwiches must've been tasty.... did you just get off work," you sigh and snuggle up under the thin blanket that's been laid on top of you while you were sleeping.

erwin lays his large hand on your cheek, which has you tense for just a moment and then relaxing.

"i got off a little while ago but i needed to run errands," a thumb strokes at the apple of your cheek, something that you disgustingly find comfort in.

"where did levi go?"

"went to make himself some tea," he chuckles with a shake of his head, "he claimed that he felt withdrawals."

you shake your head while laughing, "i doubt he said that. how was work?"

"i guess i can say it was adequate. i missed you and levi the whole day, but would often get distracted by my clients and their necessities. i'm dealing with a kidnapping case at the moment. a girl around your age named ymir was recently found by her girlfriend, historia. i can't say anything more," he pulls his hand away from you and uses it to pinch the bridge of his nose.

you feel yourself get the chills.

he's.... working on a kidnapping case.

he's prosecuting.... a kidnapper.

he's punishing someone who's doing the same thing as him. someone who took away a girl and kept her trapped for months. god knows what the man did to the girl.

and here you are, letting erwin hold your cheek and looking through an old photo album with levi.

you feel sick to your stomach, shooting up while slapping a hand to your mouth and grabbing at her's shirt.

"i'm gonna throw up," you barely are able to speak without the feeling of your food coming out of your stomach.

startled, erwin stares, "what?"

"can... need a can," you gag and lean over the edge of the couch.

erwin gets up when he realizes just what it is you're asking for, rushing across the room only for you to spill your guts out onto the floor.

it's been forever since you've thrown up, minus when levi kicked your stomach, and it has your whole body shaking. the intensity of it all has your nose dripping with blood and tears falling from your eyes, forcing you to seal your eyes closed.

"what happened here," levi sounds scared as he stands in the doorway, but before erwin can even finish his sentence levi is slamming the door behind him while he storms out.

erwin sighs with frustration, helping you scoot down the couch so he can place the trash can in front of you without the bottom being dirtied. with shaky hands, erwin's pulling all of your hair out of your face while you sob and gag into the trash.

it's ten more minutes before you're able to lay back down. blood and tears stain your face and you dazedly stare up at the ceiling.

"i'll be back with a towel and some water, levi will be back soon with an avalanche of cleaning products," erwin reassurances while he stumbles out of the door.

just as erwin leaves, levi enters. he's got a mask that covers his nose and mouth and rubber gloves that match with his cleaning apron. he's carrying a sponge, some spray, a towel, a broom/dustpan, along with some breath mints.

levi squats on all fours, scrubbing at the floor aggressively as he rides the room of the stench and the stain.

"s... sorry," you croak and levi grimaces.

he ignores you in order to keep scrubbing at the floor just as erwin rushes in with a warm towel and some water. he wipes off your blood, tears, and the mouth to rid you of your vomit. you look at him dazedly as he helps you drink the water he's given you.

levi passes a few breath mints to you when you're done drinking the water, which you eagerly take. you plop them into your mouth, sighing as you rest back against the couch cushions.

"take her to her room," levi orders erwin while spraying the spray onto the floor and couch.

erwin does so in silence, carefully carrying you to your room and laying you on the bed.

"levi won't hurt me will he...? please tell me he won't," you grit your teeth while holding onto erwin's shirt sleeve, tears welling up in your eyes.

"no, he won't. he's just scared," erwin grabs the hand on his sleeve and holds it in his own.

"of what?"

"uncleanliness. a while after he started living with me, i took him to a psychiatrist as i had noticed strange behaviors. he ended up getting diagnosed with ocd, and the psychiatrist thought it had to do with his upbringing in poverty. if things aren't a certain way or clean enough, it causes him to spiral," erwin explains carefully, trying to find the correct words and meanings as he speaks.

"doesn't that... give him more of a reason to hurt me...?" you squeeze his hand tightly and pulling it closer to you in fear.

"it doesn't. why are you insistent at how levi might hurt you," he bunches his eyebrows up in concern while scooting closer to you.

"he's done it so many times before... remember? if i say the wrong thing... i'll get slapped. if i make a mistake, he'll beat me.. i just don't want to hurt anymore," you sob hysterically, bringing your free hand up to your face to cover your eyes.

erwin stares in bewilderment. he hadn't realized just how much levi's beatings effected you. of course, they were supposed to affect you in some way, but not enough where you were terrified of making a wrong move.

"he won't hurt you unless you've deserved it, and you've done nothing in a while. he loves you," erwin stroked his thumb across your skin.

you raise your hand from your eyes to stare at him, heat swarming your face, "he does? he doesn't act like it.."

"of course he loves you," erwin smiles, "i love you as well. we'd never hurt you unless given a reason."

something about his sentence makes your head throb in pain. maybe it was the secret confusion that lingered in your head. they said they loved you, even though they kidnapped you and beat you half to death. but then again, they did provide you with things you'd mentioned to them before in order to keep you happy. they even bought a grand piano for you.

it has your heart speeding up and your body hot, bashfully looking to the side.

you loved them back didn't you? they'd treated you with such care, hadn't they? bathing you, feeding you, dressing you, and even visiting you. anytime they were around you, your heart would speed up and you'd get a weird feeling in your stomach.

that meant love, did it not?

subconsciously, you furrow your eyes and grit your teeth. they didn't love you. they were just crazy.

well, maybe they weren't crazy, maybe just misled. you've yet to learn about erwin's past, but based on the way he acts, you assume that it might be a sensitive topic. that had to be the only logical solution, right?

but if they weren't crazy, they'd let you outside, right?

but then again, the outside world could be dangerous at times. when you went outside last time, you did get scuffed and bruised because of the concrete. maybe they just wanted to protect you? that had to be it.

you open your mouth to reply, but the sound of your door opening and closing has you slamming it shut.

"she's still crying," levi asks while walking closer, frowning at how you grip erwin's hand tighter.

"it's best if i let you and her speak about it," erwin says sadly, letting go of your hand and making his way to the door, "alone."

you gulp as soon as erwin shuts the door behind him, staring at levi anxiously. he plops himself next to your body, just like erwin did before.

"please don't hurt me..."

sighing, he lays himself down next to you and pulls you close to him.

"i'm not going to hurt you," he pulls your head into his chest and wraps his arms around you, "not unless you deserve it."

"but...," you quiver, "you were so angry earlier."

"i wasn't angry. i was just... nervous, i guess. and it wasn't at you, or because of you, it was at the mess."

a silence floods the room as you relax in levi's embrace, heat once again spreading to your cheeks.

"what made you puke? i know lunch wasn't that bad," levi grumbles while rubbing your back, arm slightly stiff.

"erwin... was telling me about his case. the one about the girl getting kidnapped...," you tense up again while levi sighs.

"why would he tell you that? i swear he's gonna end up shooting himself in the foot one day," he shakes his head, "you're not like that girl."

"how so..."

"we did it because we love you, not because we wanted to use your body," he scoffs, "surprised you think of us that lowly."

"n-no! i-i don't," you exclaim.

"i know, i'm just teasing. but don't doubt us like that. we want to love you and care for you, not use you," you trace your finger in a circle at levi's sentence, embarrassment washing over you like a wave.

"you love me?"

"yeah, wouldn't do what i did otherwise."

"i think..." you furrow your eyebrows, unaware of the slightly shocked expression of levi, "i think i love you too..."

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #levi ackerman #snk levi #levi x you #levi x reader #erwin x levi #shingeki no kyoujin levi #levi aot #erwin x you #attack on titan erwin #erwin smith #aot erwin #erwin x reader #sorrels.allforus💒#sorrels.darkcontent👛

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maxdark158 · 3 years

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OOOH two chapters in one week??? damn even i’m jealous. of myself. though this also isn’t edited so i might read it tomorrow morning and regret life, soooo

Angel in Gotham: Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Ao3

Demon in Gotham: Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Ao3

Fanart for AiG: Riddler ~ Joker thank you @thegreysman

Please tag me in any fanart you draw for this guys ^^

oooOOOooo

The large plant in the street wasn’t promising.

Neither was the very loud scream of pain they heard as they arrived to the scene.

Damian might’ve popped some knuckles when he clenched his fists, he wasn’t fully paying attention. What the ever-loving fucking hell in a fuck was Ivy doing? Harley best not be here too or Damian may strangle both of them for coming near his Angel.

Deep fucking breaths I’m going to fucking lose it-

When they arrived, father signaled a quick “to first two follow” plan and he and Grayson went ahead, leaving Damian and Drake on the roof. Damian itched to jump and move forward. The worry was awful, filling his mind with the most unrealistic of thoughts. He tried to correct them, prove them wrong, but they were overwhelming.

What if I check through her window to make sure she’s in there and oka- he didn’t know which room she had and it would take too long.

What if the scream was hers- It was deeper, male sounding.

What if she was crushed under that plant- She wouldn’t be, right? There wasn’t any evidence of someone being under there-

What if she’s hurt? Afraid? Dying?

He heard yelling. Angry yelling, in a male voice. The constricting worry reminded him of every dangerous male villain in Gotham right now. He went through a list of those currently MIA, those who might’ve yelled. It didn’t make sense, no villain sighting was reported aside from Ivy…

But it was possible.

And the possibility made Damian want to puke.

He had to move he had to do something. He jumped down. It hadn’t been enough time yet but he didn’t care. He heard Drake hiss something in warning about Batman’s orders or something Damian didn’t fucking care about, because he had to see for himself. He had to walk in there and he had to make sure she was okay.

Before he could go in, he saw Ivy walk out through the door. What?! he moved to intercept her before seeing the blood going down her leg- What the fucking fuck happened?! Why was she bleeding?

Ivy raised a brow when she saw him. “I got a pass this time, bird. Might want to help them in there.”

The sick feeling returned. He didn’t want to trust a villain, a criminal… but Ivy wasn’t the most horrible.

He eyed the blood, the worried weeds supplying images of his Angel bleeding in the same way. Ivy was not the worst that could happen… His mind went through that handy list of villains again. Many much worse than Ivy.

Damian turned away from Ivy. Father and Grayson shattered the window the plant hadn’t gone through, he made a motion toward it before Drake grabbed his shoulder.

“Let go of me you-“

“If you’re going to disobey Batman, at least let me go with you,” Drake looked exasperated. “You’re focused on your friend, right? Someone needs to watch your ass then.”

Damian glared before prying Drake’s hand off his shoulder. If he wanted to follow, fine. Damian wouldn’t stop him. He went through the broken window and finally entered the hotel.

The vending machine was unplugged and face down on the ground, glass surrounding it. Ivy’s giant plant was in the middle of the room, steam thicker than the pot it previously inhabited and petals as big as the Batmobile’s tires. Other miscellaneous things were strewn across the room, including cut hair near the elevator.

But what had Damian’s heart pounding was the playing cards. Playing cards that were embedded in the walls and the front desk and the floor. Razor sharp playing cards. A certain villain’s playing cards.

Fucking fucking shit fuck bitch ass fuck-

“Father,” Damian’s voice was surprisingly level as he spoke. His eyes landed on the fucking purple suited clown mother fucker himself. “What is Joker doing here?”

Father however seemed to be answering something Grayson must have said, “It appears she was rescuing…”

Ivy was rescuing.

Ivy was helping.

Damian’s eyes scanned the room right as someone else made themselves known.

Marinette!

The air left his lungs. She looked worse for wear, dark circles under her eyes and blood- fucking hell blood on her person. She was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and Damian wanted nothing more than to comfort her. Help her.

He opened his mouth to speak, stepping toward her.

She began to sob.

As if Damian somehow needed to panic even more.

“I’m sorry,” the words were quietly choked out between hics and sobs. “I’m a hor- horrible person and-”

“Hey now,” Grayson took a step closer, trying to comfort her. Damian’s feet were stuck to the floor, the words stuck in his mouth, preventing him from doing the same. “I’m sure you’re not-”

She held up her hands, showing the blood on them. Damian inhaled sharply when he saw the bits of glass embedded into her palm – the green haired fuck hurt her.

“I broke his leg,” she took a big gulp of air. Damian bit back the words and he deserved it. “With a rock. And I threw things at him. A chocolate bar, a cookie, a phone, a lamp, a vending machine-”

“A vending machine?” His father glanced at the vending machine on the ground. Damian didn’t bother trying to decipher his expression, Marinette was turning red and gasping between her sobs. She needed to breathe.

“Miss, please calm down,” Grayson began to step toward her. Damian’s feet finally moved, and he began surging toward her as well.

She fell, nearly hitting her head on the way down. Damian caught her before she could though, barely. Fuck, she needed to breathe like yesterday.

“I’m terrible, horrible, I shouldn’t have done this,” the words used the last of her breath and were only a whisper.

Panic made his throat feel stuck and his voice thick. “Angel,” Damian spoke as calmly as he could. “You need to breathe.”

She didn’t breathe.

oooOOOooo

Usually, lack of sleep was associated with the coffee obsessed Drake, but it seemed Damian’s own mind was determined to show him what it was like to live like a lunatic. He wasn’t able to sleep even when he tried, though he didn’t try that much either. He’s pretty sure he spent an hour staring at his weedkiller order – an order that somehow got lost in Kentucky – wishing it to suddenly appear at the front gate. Then again after coming home, most of the night was a blur.

He rubbed his eyes and let his thoughts wander through the memories of last night. Or, early morning technically.

Marinette looked delicate and broken on the stretcher as she was loaded into the ambulance. Damian had to turn his head away. He saw Drake and Todd looking at him, but he didn’t want their fucking pity.

She’d be fine.

She had to be.

After Angel had passed out, she began to breathe again. She immediately got medical attention for her injuries, riding in a different ambulance than Joker, who also got medical attention at Arkham. Damian wanted nothing more than to skin him alive as he left, but he avoided doing it for the time being. Barely.

“There’s some of Joker’s laughing shit over here, B-man.”

“Have Red Robin neutralize it. We’ll have to check the tapes and see if anyone was affected.”

“Besides the guy who’s body we found behind the desk, I don’t think anyone else got hit. But good call. Red Robin, over here!”

Drake got the security camera feed and Damian saw the entirety of what happened in the hotel lobby. His Angel fought bravely and intelligently, though he couldn’t say he was a fan of the bitch who left her behind.

“Why did she go for the elevator? I’d hate being stuck in there with the Joker. And she let her classmate just fight?”

“Maybe she called for help once she got away. And even if she didn’t, we can’t judge a teenager for panicking in this situation, Tim. Damian’s friend is an anomaly.”

“I don’t know… too bad the cameras don’t have audio, I wonder what she’s saying before they realize that Joker is there.”

“Are you able to read her lips?”

“Golly jee I wish I fucking thought of that! Thanks for reminding me to read her lips on this old and grainy camera footage where you can barely tell her eyes from her nose!”

“Jesus Replacement, no need to bite my head off.”

Damian looked into it,and found that no calls were made to the police until the plant fell through the window. The calls then were about Ivy appearing, deduced by people nearby who saw the plant. That good for nothing bitch left my Angel with the Joker-

“No calls were made by anyone within the hotel. All the calls were made by people on the street or living nearby who saw the plant.”

“Hmm… Odd…”

“…I’m sorry but how the fuck did someone sleep through a giant ass plant breaking the main floor windows? How?!”

“Maybe it’s a French secret.”

He shook his head. After they got all the information, father decided to send the French children back early and pay for it himself. Damian, internally, knew why. He painted a target on Angel’s back, if she didn’t have one before.

“You realize he heard you, right?”

“What do you want, Todd?”

“Fucks’ sake demon spawn, listen to me. Joker heard you call her Angel.”

“…”

“I was already aware of that. I’ve made plans to have the class moved back in Paris. If it gets around, She’ll be an ocean away and more difficult to harm.”

“Alright, B. Was just trying to warn Demon Spawn.”

“Maybe next time he won’t fuck up.”

“Tim, no need to be harsh.”

“It’s vigilante 101, Bruce. Damian’s been doing this for years.”

“Perhaps instead of being berated for a mistake he didn’t intend, you should let Master Damian retire to his room to rest.”

Damian grumbled to himself, trying to push the intrusive awful worrisome thoughts out of his head. The ones that said maybe going back to Paris wouldn’t be enough to protect her. The ones that said Joker would want revenge, the ones that-

The ones that he wasn’t fucking listening to right now thank you very fucking much!

Damian sighed to himself. He needed some sleep. After handling the news, getting the class handled, and looking into everything involving Joker’s break in at the hotel he was told to get to bed as the sun began rising. It hadn’t really worked, as now a few hours later he was debating stealing some of Drake’s coffee to make it through the day.

Because he did have one very important task to do today. He needed to check on his Angel, and say goodbye to her. He had her number of course, and they could text as often as possible for the two of them, but he still needed to see her. See her and apologize for how horrible this trip must’ve turned out for her.

I’m bad luck, being near me ruined her trip.

Damian went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, ignoring that train of thought.

Riddler attacked her when I was there. Joker appeared after I dropped her off. I made her unlucky. I got her hurt.

It’d be easier to ignore that train of thought if it weren’t so fucking loud.

Time felt blurry right now. Probably because he was tired. But soon he was dressed in a hoodie and sunglasses, disguised so he didn’t get mobbed by paparazzi while visiting his Angel in the hotel. He was pulling his shoes on when there was a knock at the door.

“What do you want?” The knocking bounced in his head and made it hurt. Maybe he had a migraine, he wasn’t sure.

“Such a nice way to say good morning Demon Spawn,” Todd strolled in like he fucking owned the place and leaned against the wall next to the door. Damian wondered what it’d be like to have Jon’s laser sight so he could glare at Todd and kill him.

“You didn’t have permission to come in.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to.”

“Tough shit,” Todd rolled his eyes. “…You… alright?”

Damian narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you asking something like that?”

“Your friend got attacked and is leaving the city because of a target on her back. Which, while I did point out that you called her a petname in front of Joker-“

“It isn’t a petname-“

“-It isn’t your fault.”

The words starkly contrasted Damian’s internal beliefs and he had to blink a few moments to make sure what he heard was real. Because what the fuck? Why would Todd try to convince him his fuck up somehow wasn’t his fucking fault!?

“It’s… not my fault that I stupidly revealed a relationship connection to a civilian in front of one of the worst villains this city has suffered?”

“Okay, that was all you, smartass,” Todd sighed. “but the other shit isn’t your fault. You didn’t hurt her, the fucked up clown did. You didn’t put her in danger, her fucking teacher and class did by abandoning her. You’re at fault for your actions, not other people’s, so if you’re blaming yourself then fucking stop. Freckles’d probably get upset if you were using her to hate yourself.”

“What on this planet makes you think I’m doing that?!” Damian’s voice rose in a snap, hypocritically, because he realized as he spoke the words that he… kind of was doing that.

Fucking feelings and fucking worry and fucking weeds in his head were the reason, of course, but he… was… fuck, he’s tired isn’t he?

“I died, Demon Spawn.” Damian raised a brow at Todd, waiting for the halfwit to continue. “Bruce and I… aren’t on the best of terms, but I did realize he… he did that. Where what Joker did was his fault. I’m not happy the fucker is still alive, but that doesn’t mean Bruce was the one who killed me. No that was all Joker.”

“What does that have to do with anything again?” Damian really just wanted Todd out of his room and not talking about things in the past. He totally understood his point and everything, but it wasn’t anything a gallon sized bottle of weedkiller wouldn’t fix.

“Wow, you must be really tired, damn,” the fucker smirked before his expression changed into something less asshole-ish. “I’m saying that if you’re blaming yourself for what the Joker did to Freckles, stop it. The fucker lost a leg and she’s on her way to the hotel from the hospital now.”

Wait.

Wait what?

“Wait what?!” Damian wasn’t even sure which one he was reacting to – the news that Angel was okay or the news that the Joker was permanently damaged.

Angel’s self defense might’ve permanently helped Gotham?!

Okay maybe he knew what he was reacting to.

Todd turned to leave like a fucking dickhead and Damian could hear the smirk in his voice as he walked away. “Check the news for the Joker thing and ask Alfred to take you to Freckles in like an hour.”

Damian was smart enough to realize that not checking out of spite for Todd would only disadvantage himself.

He still only checked a couple minutes later though. After glaring at his phone willing himself to somehow know without checking.

He needing headache pills.

oooOOOooo

The Unnamed Teenager That Defeated The Riddler Cripples Joker!

Just days after beating The Riddler at his own game, the same teenage girl holds off The Joker until Batman arrives!

“We had to amputate him below the knee,” Arkham doctor says. “There was too much glass in the wound, it cut several muscles, tendons, and arties. The shattered bone didn’t help.”

French Teenager Unavailable for Comment.

[Read More]

oooOOOooo

Damian had snuck through the lobby up to his Angel’s room. Some of her classmates were downstairs, but he hadn’t paid much attention to them, not caring at the moment.

The last memory he had of her was the blood on her hands and tears in her eyes before she fell to the floor. He wanted to change that, wanted to maybe even see if he could get her to smile. Though that felt ambitious…

He just… needed to make sure she was okay.

Damian knocked on Marinette’s hotel room door.

#daminette #maribat #damimari #maridami #marinettexdamian #damian x marinette #Damian Wayne #Marinette #joker #joker mention #he's pretty quiet in this POV #the badassness is in AiG #rip mari's health #in a week alfred be like master wayne #why is there a delivery for weedkiller in your name #damian takes it from his hands #and chugs

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heli0s-writes · 4 years

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IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud.

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again.

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

“She was one of a kind.”

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses.

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay. “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.”

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.”

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

#marvel #stucky #stucky x reader #pacific rim au #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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oftenderweapons · 3 years

Note

Can you write a drabble about jealous taehyung with lace? Ty 🥺

So... I had to brainstorm with my dear mate abt this one since we never really saw Taehyung as someone who could be openly jealous or would even consider the feeling, since we see him as a confident person, and even more than that, we think that he and Lace are very open about trust and loyalty. We think that both of them would be happy with introducing a third party in the bedroom — not on a regular basis though. Lace is a sucker for Taehyung — and Taehyung alone; he knows it, and he also knows that he has a beautiful girlfriend who is bound to attract people’s attention and make them believe that they can flirt with her. Still, Lace gives the cold shoulder to anyone but her man.

HOWEVER

We found out a potential loophole.

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x reader (nicknamed Lace)

Wordcount: 1.5k (sorry, I got carried away)

Genre: angst/smut/fluff

Rating: 18+

TRIGGER WARNINGS: uhm, there are dirty thoughts in the middle (mild) and smut at the end (mention of oral male receiving, female receiving, rough penetration, biting). Possessive!Tae. Takes place a few weeks after Love Talk and mentions a few events in Illicit Affairs (which should — hopefully — come out soon).

As you walked down the long corridor of the small gallery, Taehyung tried not to notice — or better, not to care about — the young artist waiting by the door, walking several steps behind you.

Taehyung’s hand twitched before he shoved it in his pocket. He wanted to touch you.

Having that... that vulture staring at you... It made his stomach sour.

Maybe it was because this was your first date after having you all to himself, after knowing how you taste and how you moan, how your breasts flush when you’re about to cum, how good it feels to grip your hips while you ride him, to feel his fingers sink in the flesh of your ass.

He took his hands out of his pockets and joined them behind his back, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders in an attempt to calm down.

You stopped in front of a picture, observing it for a moment. It was a hyper-realistic painting of a watermelon sculpted into a cube, placed there in the middle of the white canvas. It was truly the game of a virtuoso.

“Impressive.” You said, before turning toward the man about a metre or two away. “How long did it take?” You asked nicely, still impressed by the amount of details: the seeds, the small veins, the grainy texture of the watermelon.

“About three months.” He replied. “I had started it as a still life, but I changed my mind and redid it with a more... Surrealistic approach.” He explained.

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his annoyance at bait, licking his lip before biting it. “Good job.” He said, trying to be grateful even though he wanted to rip the man’s eyes away from his skull.

The only thing holding him back was that he didn’t know how you would react to that. And if you would ever love his fingers as much after seeing him perform such a crude act.

You smiled at the artist and took a few steps to the next painting, this time a basket of cherries — only barely visible from behind a lace curtain. It was alarmingly realistic, truly breathtaking in the amount of precision poured into every small thread making the see-through effect. “Wow.” You commented under your breath.

Taehyung thought about how different his style was from these pictures. Sure, they were very good and they showed great talent, but that didn’t mean that he would want one in his own house.

“I was in Greece when I made that one.” The artist explained. “Beautiful country. Have you ever been there?” He asked.

You turned, making your light summer gown twirl in the motion, exposing more of your calves and the soft skin of the inner side of the knee as the slit parted, the plump, soft flesh of your thigh still protected by the row of small buttons that ran from your belly button to your knees.

Taehyung thought you were too beautiful for this universe. Nevertheless, as he stared at you and the artist there, right in front of his face, he felt actually menaced, for the first time. Something ugly slithered around his chest, tightening and tightening as your calm, composed voice said: “No, I’ve never been to Greece. I’ve only ever visited Jeju once, and I’ve travelled to Japan a couple times but normally I don’t get the chance to travel much.” You explained, blushing.

He would take you all around the world, Taehyung thought. He would spend Christmas with you in the Alps and make love to you in Amsterdam for your birthday, and of course, he would take you to Greece, feed you grapes and cherries and damn watermelon too. He would have you in white, light clothes and take pictures of you standing by the sea, your bright, flowy skirts contrasting with the deep blue of the sea — like the one he saw in Malta. He would rent a small house away from anyone and watch you sunbathe naked, with no one interrupting him as he drew you again, and again and again, until his hand could draw you with his eyes closed. He would leave the windows always open, the long white curtains flowing in the breeze as he would wake up from his afternoon nap and wrap his naked body around yours, kissing you and rubbing against you until you were nothing but two bodies melting into each other, like an embrace could naturally slide into passionate lovemaking. He couldn’t even think about nights. Nights were something he was too weak to think about.

Lost in his musings, he didn’t even realise your visit had come to an end, the gallery empty just like it had been when you had arrived, booked for a private visit for Taehyung and you alone, for safety and viewing pleasure.

“Thank you for visiting,” the artist said, bowing to Taehyung.

“Thank you for guiding us,” Taehyung replied. “I’ll let you know if I find any of the pictures fit.”

“Of course.” The artist said, kindly.

Taehyung nodded and was ready to leave the moment he heard the artist speak again. “Excuse me, miss, I’d like to ask... I’ve been working on portraits for my new collection, and I would be extremely pleased if you would pose for me.” He said. “I don’t usually... I usually book professional models but I thought someone with your looks could be really interesting to portray.” He explained. “I can leave you... Uhm.” He rummaged in his pocket and offered you a small piece of paper. His business card. Stealing a pen from the entry table, he wrote something on it. “I’d be honoured.” He commented, offering you the card.

You raised your eyebrows and smiled. “Thank you. I can already tell you I don’t think I’ll accept.” You looked at the floor. “I don’t have much spare time and I’m a bit too uncomfortable when people stare at me.” You chuckled embarrassedly. “Plus, I don’t think my boyfriend would be very happy with it.” You said, giving him a hint.

Taehyung was furious, still he kept all his inner turmoil to himself. Until you reached the car. The moment you sat at his side on the passenger’s seat, he started the car and began driving silently.

“Are you upset?” You asked, looking at him, keeping all the enthusiasm about the exhibition to yourself. You were more than capable to divide the artist from the person behind it. He was talented, maybe a bit sleazy as a person — and a bit too flirty — but still, talented. Plus, Taehyung hadn’t made it clear that he was with you as your boyfriend.

Taehyung tutted. “No.” He replied.

“Did he make you uncomfortable?” You could feel his mood poison the air in the car like dark waves of black oil covering the surface of the sea. It reminded you of a scene from Howl’s Moving Castle, when the young, beautiful wizard gets depressed and all his house starts getting covered in green slime.

“I’m okay.”

Catching his free hand, you placed it on your thigh pulling it toward the inner side.

He couldn’t resist, his thumb immediately drawing slow, lazy circles on the smooth, tender skin.

You noticed him taking the route to his apartment. “Aren’t we going out for dinner?”

“Mh.” He noted, counting the minutes until he could claim you all to himself.

“Do I need to un-book?” You asked with a mischievous grin.

He looked at you, his mouth forming a slow, insecure smile before he nodded in reply.

The rest of the night is a fuzzy memory of his mouth hungry and his hands grabby on the lift on your way up to his apartment, the shape of him hard in your palm as you entered the door, your attempt at offering him a blowjob, already lowering yourself to one knee before he pulled you up.

“That’s generous of you but I need inside.” He growled as he walked the both of you to his bedroom.

You didn’t even remember anything of him undressing you, it was all a whirlwind of limbs until you found yourself with your legs spread open and his mouth on your clit, his fingers stretching you before he stood on his knees and grabbed a condom.

You remembered his groan as he slid inside, your walls welcoming him with their tight embrace. “Dammit Lace, love this pussy.” He spoke through gritted teeth, your hands landing on his butt and pulling him toward you, inside you, harder, faster. “That’s my pussy.” He said, ramming in. “All mine.” He said, slowing down only to get the right angle. “My girlfriend.” He said, biting your breast, and giving the most precise jabs to your g-spot, suckling your tit, tugging at it, stretching it with his mouth before letting it fall back heavy to your chest. “My nymph. All mine. Mine.” He said again, your body too tense for speaking. Your high reached you as his fingers started toying with your bundle of nerves, rubbing it furiously until both you and him were nothing but two desperate beasts fucking each other.

“I love you.” He said, as soon as he was back to planet Earth, his body heavy on top of yours, his cheek glued to your chest with a mix of drool and sweat. “Love you, my precious dove.” He said again, rubbing the outside of your leg. “My love.” He repeated as you patted his head and reassured him yourself.

“Only yours.”

#kim taehyung x reader #kim taehyung smut #taehyung drabble #taehyung imagine #taehyung x yn

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sonoftatooine · 3 years

Text

Whumpay 2021

DAY 31: ALT DAY - SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Shaak Ti

Summary: When Anakin makes the decision to go and save Palpatine from Mace Windu, his lack of sleep over the past week chooses the worst possible moment to catch up with him. Shaak Ti attempts to intervene.

***

It was said that the Force, in the hands of a competent Jedi, could do many things. It was also said��with greater and greater frequency over the course of the war—that in the hands of Anakin Skywalker, it could do the impossible. Right now, however, Anakin himself was of the opinion that this was a bold-faced lie, for the one thing he could not make it do, as he staggered unsteadily yet imperturbably toward the main doors of the Jedi Temple, was have it chase away the fog that was threatening to take over his over-tired mind and send him spiralling into the deep, impenetrable darkness of forced rest. He had been fighting it for days, drawing on the Force to fend off sleep as he searched desperately for a solution to save his wife from the awful fate that plagued his dreams whenever he tried to rest. And now, only now, when he was so close to finding the solution that the Jedi had denied him, when a moment's delay meant that he could lose that knowledge for ever, did his reserves finally run out, and the ability to stay awake and moving start to slip through his durasteel grip like sand.

Sand. Sand. His head felt like it was full of sand. Scratchy and grainy, lodged in unlikely places, disrupting all the whirring mechanisms that governed his thoughts. He'd had the same problem with Threepio when he was building him, without his coverings to protect him from the ravages of Tatooine, and he'd spent hours cleaning the stuff out of his servos just as he had with Watto's junk at the shop. He wanted to shake his head to dislodge it, but nothing he did made it—

He had been so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that he barely realised when he collided full on with a tall, slim figure standing directly in front of the door. The world swam before as one of the frequent waves of dizziness overcame him, and he felt strong, slim fingers circling about the flesh of his biceps to keep him upright. Dazed, he blinked, trying to chase away the strange blur that had overtaken his vision, and the smudge of red and white and purple before him coalesced into the face of Jedi Master Shaak Ti. Her hairless brows were drawn into a frown, and she looked very concerned.

“Anakin,” she said. “Are you alright? Where are you going?”

Anakin wished he could dislodge the sand from his brain, but his thoughts wouldn't come coherently, and all he could force out from his lips was a garbled, “the Chancellor— I need—”

Shaak Ti's frown deepened.

“The Chancellor?,” she asked. “But the Masters have already gone to confront him. You need not worry—the situation is already in hand.”

Anakin could only shake his head wordlessly, immediately wishing that he hadn't as his vision swam once again at the sudden movement. She didn't understand. The situation wasn't in hand because Windu might kill Palpatine who was the only one who knew how to save Padmé and he couldn't let Padmé die, he couldn't live without her -

“Shaak Ti,” he gasped out. “Get out of my way.”

He had to get to the door, had to— If he could just get to the door— He tried to pull out of her grasp, but Shaak Ti held on, the press of her fingers on his arms gentle yet firm.

“The Temple is sealed,” she reminded him. “The door is code-locked.”

Oh. Yes. They were expecting retaliation from Palpatine should the Masters fail. Windu had put Shaak Ti in charge of the Temple's defence as a precautionary measure when he had ordered Anakin to wait like a good little Jedi in the Council Chambers while he marched off to kill the man who had always been kind to him, had lied to him, had been the only one to offer to help him save Padmé— But what did it matter? He was a Jedi himself. He had the codes, and Shaak Ti couldn't keep him here when he needed to go—

“And you're in the way of the pad” he snapped.

He jerked back, and this time, he managed break free, but the force of the movement had unbalanced him, bringing on another alarming wave of faintness. His vision blurred, the world spun, his head throbbing painfully with exhaustion and hunger and fear. Hands shot out to catch him once again, and he pitched forward, forced to lean against Shaak Ti to keep his knees from buckling.

“You're not well, Anakin,” the Jedi Master's soft voice spoke somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, but despite how close she was, she sounded distant, muffled, as if she were talking over a bad comm connection. “You should be in the Halls of Healing.”

“I— No. I can't—,” Anakin stammered desperately. He couldn't afford distractions, not with Padmé's life on the line. He had to get to Palpatine now, before Windu— “I'm fine,” he added, trying to push himself back upright again. “I need to go—”

Shaak Ti shook her head.

“What can you possibly do?,” she asked. “Master Windu and the others will handle it. You have done your duty. Let yourself rest.”

Yes, Windu will handle it, Anakin wanted to shout. That's precisely the problem. Padmé was going to die because he couldn't get away, because he couldn't get there on time. His head swam again, and to his horror, he felt tears of fear and frustration pricking at his eyes.

“You don't understand!,” he babbled. How could she understand? How could he explain it to her after he had broken the Code so badly? “There's no time. I have go! I have to do something! I can't just—”

“Anakin, please,” Shaak Ti cut across him. She looked deeply worried. “Let me take you to the healers. You are in no state to be fighting battles against a Sith Lord. You will get yourself killed.”

Anakin shook his head.

“He...he won't kill me,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “He wants—”

Realising exactly what it is he was about to say, Anakin cut himself off abruptly. He wants me as his apprentice, he thought. That's the price of Padmé's life. My life in service so she and the baby can live. He knew this deeply, instinctively, with all the knowledge of the little boy on Tatooine who had spent his life at the mercy of his masters, even though the part of him that wanted to think not of the Chancellor's lies but of their long friendship tried to tell him that there wouldn't be a price for his help. He couldn't tell Shaak Ti that. Couldn't tell her that, as much as the prospect alarmed him, there was a tiny spark in him beneath the furious insistence that all he wanted was to make sure that Palpatine wasn't killed that was actually considering it. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, however, for a look of severe alarm found its way into Shaak Ti's violet eyes.

“He wants what?,” she said, and there was a note of urgency in her tone that he had never heard from her before—usually, she was the very epitome of Jedi calm. “Anakin, what does he want. What has he told you—?”

But before she could demand anything further of him, and before he could even begin to think about evading her questions, four lights blinked out of existence, and the Force screamed. Both Anakin and Shaak Ti staggered under the weight of it.

“What—?” Anakin gasps. He knew those lights. Windu. Fisto. Kolar. Tiin. Where were they? They couldn't just be gone. They couldn't be— There had been four of them and only one of Palpatine. He couldn't have—

“It cannot be,” Shaak Ti breathed, her eyes wide with horror. “Four Jedi Masters... How could he have—?”

She shook herself, as if she could rid herself of fear the way an akk dog did water after a swim.

“We must see to the Temple's defences. I fear he will come for us next, and without—”

But she never got to finish, as Anakin took advantage of her distraction to dart around her towards the keypad. Another wave of dizziness overcame him, and he nearly crumpled in a heap on the floor, but he flung out an arm to break his fall. Bracing his right arm against the wall, he raised his trembling flesh hand to the pad, intent on typing in his code. If only he could stop it from shaking so violently, let alone shift the sand in his head to remember what the damned code was—

A hand circled around his wrist, and he froze.

“Anakin, no,” Shaak Ti said sternly, even as her voice shook at the feeling in the Force of four Jedi Masters dead. “I cannot let you go to him. Whatever he wants with you, it will bring you nothing but harm.”

Harm. Harm. Palpatine had harmed Windu and the others. Had killed them. He should want to kill him, as he had for one short moment in the man's office when he revealed to him that he was the Sith Lord behind the war. Did he want to kill him now? No, he needed him to save Padmé. He needed that knowledge, that power. Who cared if it harmed him as long as it helped her? A small voice in his head whispered to him that if Sidious had the power to defeat four Jedi alone, then surely being able to save Padmé would be nothing by comparison. Oh Force, he felt sick.

“Please,” he begged, appalled to hear his voice tremble and break as he spoke. He wanted to cry, wanted to rest, to fall asleep in Padmé's arms knowing that she was safe, that he would no longer be plagued by dreams of her death and that he wouldn't have to turn to the Sith Lord that had just killed four Jedi Masters for help. But he couldn't have any of that. All he had was one possible way to save her life that Shaak Ti wouldn't let him take. “Please, it's not me, it's— She's going to die! Padmé's going to die and I have to...”

Shaak Ti's eyes widened in sudden realisation, but he could barely see her through the blackness that was encroaching on his vision. She tilted sideways or—no, he tilted sideways, tumbling to the floor and what was that? Was the door opening? Had she opened the door? No, it was someone coming in—many someones with heavy booted feet and blue and white armour and weapons pointed—

There was a click of many weapons being primed, a shout, the snap-hiss of a lightsaber being ignited, and then the darkness consumed him amid a hurricane of blaster fire.

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sugarmaplewings-fics · 4 years

Text

Hot Cakes

Pairing: Midoriya (Deku) x reader

Warnings: Slight suggestive content; groping; slight language

Author’s Note:

So for the next two weeks or so, all regular oneshots (aside from DBF) are going to have Izuku in them. This wasn’t really intentional, it just kind of happened, but here you go. This one was my least favorite, so I’m posting it first. It’s short, goofy, kinda nasty, and just really stupid, and I promise I have better stuff for later.

And for safety, I’ll say you’re both in your . . . second year. Yeah. But for reals, this is less suggestive than some of my other stuff soo . . . ?

Whatever, I’m going to stop thinking about it.

Enjoy, I guess?

-Sugar

| ) )ԅ(‾⌣‾ԅ)

The two of you were goofing around at your house, attempting to bake cupcakes. Somehow you managed to get everything covered in a fine layer of flour, only broken up by flecks of batter splattered haphazardly on both of your arms and shirts.

You finally slid the last pan into the oven, setting your timer for when to take them out.

"Wow, (Y/N), those smell amazing," Izuku said, leaning back against the counter and inhaling deeply, a dreamy smile crawling over his lips. He turned to a separate batch that was cooling on the counter, leaning over to inspect them. "These cupcakes look perfect!"

Wound up from the last half hour of joking around and flirting, your eyes flicked down to his pants. Damn, he was fine, and you smirked at the idea of letting him know it.

"There are some other perfect cakes I'm thinking about," you said, sidling up next to him with a flirtatious glint in your eyes.

"Huh?" Izuku asked, not catching on.

In a sudden spike of adrenaline, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and landed a good smack over his behind. It was in no way harsh, but you had purposely cupped your hand so it would make the most satisfyingly loud noise possible.

The green-haired boy suddenly straightened in surprise, his eyes growing wide with shock. He finally roved his gaze back toward you, green irises meeting yours. His face went completely red, complimenting his high tops well, as the realization of what you'd done sank over the both of you.

He swallowed, trying to process your advance. "You—y-y-you, um—just—"

Your face heated with a blush of your own, and you had to fight to keep yourself from panicking. "I-I'm sorry!" you finally said, attempting to hide your burning face in your hands. "I went too far—"

"No."

You peeked out at your boyfriend from between your fingers, not sure if you'd heard him correctly. "What?"

His blush deepened even further, averting his eyes from yours. "Would it be weird if I kinda wanted you to . . . do it again?"

You finally lowered your hands from your face, and Deku suddenly snorted with laughter, clapping a hand over his mouth.

"What?" you asked again, still trying to get over your embarrassment from before.

"You've got a little—there's ah,—" he stopped, bursting out into full-on giggles now.

You frowned, bending towards him in hopes to gain his attention. "What is it?" you asked, still oblivious to why Izuku was cracking up.

"Your hands," he finally said. "They had flour on them. And now it's all over your face!"

You reached two fingers up and experimentally dragged them over your cheek, finding that he was, in fact, correct. A slightly grainy film was dusted upon you, and you must have looked like an idiot.

You burst out laughing too, your face still warmed with mirth blended with leftover embarrassment.

A thought made you choke, pausing in your moment of joy. "Hold up," you said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Turn around."

Deku lifted a green brow at you, suspicious, but finally complied.

A completely new wave of laughter crashed over you, your legs almost weak with how much of it you were experiencing.

"What?" Izuku asked, trying to turn his head so he could see you.

A white handprint laid solidly on his posterior, vividly contrasting his dark wash jeans.

"Um," you said, trying to catch your breath, "I think I'm going to have to clean you up before you go home, because there's evidence that my hand was on your ass."

"Oh, crap, really?" Izuku blushed again, but he still kept himself positioned so you had a nice view of it.

You whipped out your phone and took a picture of the offending print, showing your accidental art to Izuku. He laughed and grabbed your phone, going to your messaging app so he could send it to himself.

You bent over and started brushing him off, watching as the flour only lightened and smeared around more. At least now you might be able to say he had just backed up into a flour-covered counter, but it also kinda looked like you'd went crazy on him. Maybe that was just your mind leaping into a gutter at the context of the situation.

You also couldn't help but notice that he'd changed his breathing as you ran your hands over him, even though your motions had no double meaning behind them. You experimentally poked a finger at his cheek, watching as it slightly sunk in before stopping at hard muscle. You glanced up for a response, noticing how his face had stilled and he subtly rocked back towards you.

"Not gonna lie," you murmured just loud enough for him to hear, glancing back down, "you really do have a nice mass up in here."

Izuku locked your phone and set it on the counter beside him, keeping his eyes on you. "You . . . like it?"

You blushed and nodded, giving him a gentle squeeze.

He gulped, unsure of what to say. "I'm . . . glad you do."

Both of you resembled tomatoes while you stood there in silence, him letting you softly grope him in a slight daze. It wasn't as though you'd never wanted to do this before, it was just that it was never at a good time. And besides, the two of you were quite shy when it came to public affection in your relationship, opting for long hugs and brief, sweet kisses in the comfort of being together behind a closed door. But now you finally had the chance to live out your fantasy, your mind focused on his ample hindquarters.

A beeping sound made the both of you jump and you straightened, taking your hands back to your sides. "That would mean the cakes are done!" you said, maybe a little too high pitched. "The cupcakes, that is. You—um . . . hi. Pardon me."

He practically leaped out of the way, letting you get into your kitchen drawer to find your trusty oven mit. You walked back to the oven and pulled out the pan, setting them on a cooling rack on the counter.

"They're done," you ruled after poking them with a toothpick and seeing it come out clean. You moved your hand to hover over the first set, checking their temperature. "These are still too hot to ice yet. We're going to have to wait another five minutes or so."

You suddenly felt a large hand hesitantly press itself against your lower cheek, gently massaging the soft and malleable flesh beneath it. You involuntarily pushed back, savoring the feeling of each finger sink into your plush clothed skin.

"While we wait," Izuku's shaky warm breath tickled the back of your ear as he shuffled closer, "I believe I have a bit of a favor to repay."

| ) )ԅ(‾⌣‾ԅ)

Author’s Note:

Oop—

This was really stupid and I don’t love it. Sorry for messing up our pure, innocent green bean.

-Sugar

Taglist: @basicaegyo @iiminibattlehero @pyrofanatic @sokkasangel @xoxopam4

#izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #deku #izuku midoriya bnha #midoriya izuku bnha #deku bnha #izuku midoriya imagine #deku imagine #midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #reader insert #sugar fics

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writethelifeyouwant · 3 years

Text

Dive Bar Ch 9/?

Pairing: Dean x Sam (finally)

Rating: 18+

Prompt/Summary: After a one night stand with a random college chick turns into a threesome that also featured his little brother, Dean- well, frankly, he panics. What’s even worse than gay panicking? Gay incest panicking. Luckily, Sam winds up being a little more cool about the whole thing than Dean ever would have imagined.

WC: 3,152

Tags: brother/brother incest, gay panic, angst, blow job, finger sucking, dirty talk, cum swallowing

Created for: @spnkinkbingo | Square - Finger Sucking

Beta: @daydream3r-xo 😘

Divider: @firefly-graphics ❤️

Fic Masterlist

Chapter 8

Chase said he didn’t mind, that it didn’t matter that Sam had said an ex boyfriend’s name. They both knew this was a one time thing, no big deal. But Sam was spiralling. Chase didn’t know that ‘Dean’ was his brother. He had to get home, back to the motel, just out of here. He couldn’t take Chase looking at him all understandingly, with a little pity mixed in, like he was a lost puppy or something. He wasn’t.

Sam got his bearings and started the walk back to the motel. It was a couple of miles but not that far, and the desert night hadn’t turned too cold yet. He welcomed the long walk. He had needed to get out of Chase’s apartment but he wasn’t exactly rushing to get back to his motel room. That he shared with his brother. Whose name he had just moaned when he came inside another guy.

Sam couldn’t fathom how this had happened, how he’d let it get this far. Sure, he’d had a crush on Dean as a kid (honestly it was the one thing he ever had in common with everyone at the schools he crashed in and out of every few months), but he’d pushed past that. When he left for Stanford, he turned over a new leaf, and messed around, and then found Jess and he was better. He had fixed this. He thought he had fixed this.

Sure, Dean would still creep into his dreams every now and then, hanging on the edges like some voyeur watching his thoughts, but Sam hadn’t actually had a sex dream about him since he was a teenager. Well, until the fucking threesome. What the hell made him think that would be a good idea?

Sure, Sam, go ahead. Have a threesome with your biggest childhood crush, that’ll be fine. Hey, now you’re here you may as well suck him off, that won’t make things worse at all. What a fucking idiot he had been.

Dean was everywhere now. In his life, in his thoughts, in his dreams, there was no escaping him. And then a month ago, when Dean had said he was thinking about doing it again? Sam had had to work very hard to cover his erection with his beer and some tactical leaning forward on his knees. And when Dean had said he was thinking about guys in that way … except it didn’t sound like he was thinking about 'guys’ exactly, it had sounded like he was thinking about Sam .

Sam didn’t know what had come over him but before he could stop the words from tumbling out he was offering ‘hey, if you ever need a hand figuring it out...’ Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had absolutely fucked it up, then. Dean had been acting weird ever since that night. Not obviously weird but noticeably like he was holding parts of himself back around Sam, like he wasn’t fully comfortable anymore. And Sam was just waiting for the next screw up to happen and drive Dean away from him for good.

Thank god he hadn’t taken Chase back to their motel room. If Dean had come back early and heard that, heard him…

Sam shuddered and hunched himself tighter inside his jacket, tempted to pull up his hood and run away into the night and never have to face Dean ever again. But he knew he could never do that. No matter how fucked up it was, Dean would have to tell him to get lost himself, nothing less would keep Sam away from him.

Up ahead, the broken neon of the motel sign glinted in and out of sight as cars passed him, rushing off to better places and normal lives. Sam wondered if Dean would be back yet, checking his watch. Yeah, most likely. Not too many bars stayed open this late. That means unless he’d found someone to go home with after all, Dean would be inside waiting for him.

Dean yawned and stretched, scratching his stomach where a bit of dried cum had clung to his happy trail. He should just go to sleep but he didn’t want to dream what he knew he’d dream about. If he passed out though, at least he probably wouldn’t remember the dreams in the morning. He’d flicked on the grainy tv and found some bad porn where the girls were all fake boobs and fake orgasms. Not his kind of thing, but honestly more entertaining than the soap opera reruns the other channels were showing.

A crunch of gravel outside caught his attention and he sat up in bed, taking another swig of Jack. The handle of the door twisted softly and Dean reached for the gun he’d slid under his pillow. As much as common sense told him it would be Sam coming back to the room, he was very much not expecting Sam home tonight. But a moment later Sam crept through the door, trying to be quiet, assuming Dean would be asleep by now.

“And what time do you call this?” Dean smirked from the bed, taking another drink.

“Gah!” Sam shouted, drawing his gun and aiming at Dean.

“Woah, easy tiger,” Dean held up his hands in peace, “s’jus me.”

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face to compose himself. “Why are you still up?”

“Why are you already back?” Dean countered.

“Didn’t want to stay over,” Sam shrugged, shuffling to his bed and discarding his gun and jacket.

“Was he that bad?” Dean cringed.

“No,” Sam grimaced.

“Were you that bad?”

“Wh - no! I was not bad,” Sam shot back.

“Someone’s a little touchy,” Dean teased.

“Am not!”

“Definitely touchy,” Dean confirmed, more to himself than to Sam.

“Shut up dude,” Sam grunted, pulling off his shirts and throwing them into the dirty laundry bag he had inside his duffel. Dean stared at Sam’s bare back. Why not, right? Sam couldn’t see him doing it. His eyes traced the muscle definition, noticed the slight glisten of sweat that had no doubt arisen from Sam’s walk home, noticed a dark halo at the top of Sam’s shoulder that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen Sam shirtless.

“What the fuck is that?” Dean staggered off his bed and over to Sam to poke at his shoulder.

“Huh?” Sam looked down to where Dean’s fingers were prodding the bruised ring of a bite mark on his skin. “Nothing, just uh- he got a bit excited.” Sam blushed.

Sam’s skin seared when Dean’s fingers landed on the bite mark Chase had left behind when he came. The touch had startled him but he didn’t flinch away, and now Dean was still standing there, just running his fingers over and over and over the mark.

“Whatever, man,” Sam shrugged his brother off and bent to grab a clean t-shirt out of his duffle bag but Dean’s hand on his chest stopped him. “Dean?” Dean didn’t answer, just kept Sam still and straight while he continued to trace the bruise with his eyes. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean didn’t answer, he just stood there. Sam saw his tongue dart out and wet his bottom lip, followed by his teeth digging in, something he always did when he was thinking. Dean’s eyes were dark and clouded. He’d clearly been drinking the whole time Sam was gone, but there was a latent concentration behind the haze that had descended over them.

“What’s on your mind, man?” Sam turned out of Dean’s grip to face him.

“You know,” Dean sat down on Sam’s bed, bringing his head level with Sam’s waist. “A guy at the bar told me that I had, and I quote, ‘the best damn blowjob lips’ he’d ever seen,” Dean smirked lazily. If Sam had been drinking anything he would have spit it across the room.

“What?”

“What do you think?” Dean looked up at Sam, a new sort of determination in his eyes.

“What do I think about what?” Sam stuttered.

“Well, you’ve been around. You’ve been with guys. You get blowjobs, you give blowjobs too. You think I have good blowjob lips?”

Sam was flabbergasted. If his walk hadn’t done the job of sobering him up, this conversation definitely would have. He felt his throat closing up. He couldn’t tell Dean what he thought about his lips. He couldn’t tell Dean that he used to fantasise about his lips so much he would spit in his hand and pretend it was Dean’s mouth wrapped around his cock instead. “Wh - I … um.”

“You have good blowjob lips,” Dean stated matter of factly. “I remember, they were really good.”

“Um, thanks –” Sam’s voice came out much higher than he’d wanted, “– I guess.”

“Real pretty lips,” Dean mumbled, staring at Sam’s lips, then dragging his eyes down. Down Sam’s chest, and lightly defined abs, and the white strip of cotton peeking out of the waist of his jeans, to the button that all of the sudden Dean’s fingers were on.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam knew he should push his brother off himself but he was frozen in place, watching Dean’s fingers flicking the brass button through its buttonhole.

“Taking you up on your offer,” Dean grunted, tugging Sam’s jeans down his legs.

“What the he-”

“You said if I ever needed a hand figuring it out…” Dean dropped to his knees. “Well, I’m trying to figure it out, figure this out.” Dean gestured to the bulge in front of his face where Sam’s cock had started to chub up in his underwear. “Just, just let me?”

Dean looked up at Sam from his knees, his hands in the waist of Sam’s briefs. Sam looked down at him stoically, mouth gaping as he tried to calm his breathing. He nodded, and Dean nodded back, and gulped down his nerves. He tucked his fingers into the elastic and pulled the briefs down too, revealing Sam’s semi-erect cock.

Dean’s eyes lit up. Yeah he’d seen it before but never this close. He brought his hands up hesitantly, planting one on Sam’s thigh to steady himself, and bringing the other to brush against the head of his dick, which was still hanging down between his legs not standing tall yet. Sam hissed when Dean’s fingers brushed against him, and Dean darted his eyes back up to his brother’s face.

His eyes were crushed closed, lips parted and glistening in the low light of the lamp between their beds. Dean caressed his fingers along Sam’s length and watched his face contort, wrinkle and pinch. He wrapped his hand around the whole and squeezed lightly, drawing a gasp from Sam. The cock in his hand was nearly fully hard now, and Dean spotted a small bead of moisture at the slit. Without thinking about it at all he stuck his tongue out and touched it to the tip. Dean could swear what he heard from Sam then might have actually been a whimper.

He looked back up at Sam, fascinated by his face as he touched him. This time, when he brought his tongue back to Sam’s cock, he kept his eyes on Sam’s face and watched the pleasure rinse across it. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing but he had a dick, he knew what he liked people to do to it, he figured it couldn’t be that hard, right?

Dean licked his lips and kissed the tip of Sam’s cock, then kissed it harder, used his tongue, heard Sam moan. He uncurled his fingers and held Sam in his palm as he kissed down his shaft to the base and down, kissing across his balls. Sam moaned again. Right, Dean thought, time to actually do this. He licked a long strip up the vein that was pulsing obviously in Sam’s length and pulled the head into his mouth, giving an experimental suck.

“Aah,” Sam groaned, his hand landing on the top of Dean’s head and combing through his hair. Dean began to bob his head up and down a little, testing how it felt in his mouth. He found he really liked the feel of the skin against his tongue. There wasn’t something he could pinpoint it feeling like, but it was soft, smooth even though he could also feel the veins running close under the skin when he dragged his tongue along their lines.

Dean felt Sam’s hand travel to the back of his head, where it pushed forward slightly, encouraging him down further. He let Sam guide him, remembering at the last second to pull his lips over his teeth on the way down. Sam’s groan rattled through his body, and Dean smiled around the cock in his mouth, loving that he’d pulled that sound from his baby brother.

“So good,” Sam sighed under his breath. Dean’s eyes flicked back to Sam’s face as he sucked harder and pulled off.

“Is this okay?” Dean asked, pumping his fist around Sam teasingly.

“Yeah. God , yeah,” Sam moaned as Dean twisted his thumb over the tip. Sam’s hand slid around to Dean’s face and rested on his cheek, thumb stroking over his lips. “That guy was right,” Sam huffed, “you’ve got great blowjob lips.”

Dean smiled and darted his tongue out to wet his lips again, catching Sam’s thumb as he did. Sam made a little hum at the contact, so Dean did it again. He brought Sam’s thumb in his mouth and twirled his tongue around it, pulling a grunt from him. Dean’s eyes lit up.

“So, your cock isn’t the only thing you like me sucking on, then.”

“How about you shut up and keep sucking, hm?” Sam’s eyes were hard and burning, and Dean wasn’t about to disobey him. Sam’s thumb hooked into Dean’s cheek and pulled him back to his cock, dragging him down its length until he couldn’t breathe, his moans growing deeper the further Dean took him. “Now keep your head moving,” Sam instructed, tugging back on Dean’s hair so he understood. The sharp pull sent a thrill down Dean’s spine and a little moan escaped him, resonating through Sam.

“Yeah, that, do that,” Sam gasped, and Dean moaned again as he drew off Sam’s cock and plunged back down. “Fuck, you look pretty with my cock in your mouth,” Dean groaned in approval, trying to communicate to Sam how much he was appreciating the commentary.

“Oh, you like that? Like me telling you how hot you look on your knees for me? Want me to tell you how much I’ve wanted you there since Dany asked you to touch me?”

Dean’s moan choked off into something higher and more desperate than he would ever admit to. He really, really liked Sam talking to him. Redoubling his efforts, he started to move more quickly, hollowing his cheeks and sucking harder every time he pulled back. He kept one hand on the base of Sam’s cock, holding it in place so he could move around it, but his other hand crept down into his own boxers. Sam’s noises had all gone straight to Dean’s cock, and he’d been painfully hard for too long, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

When Dean pulled his cock out from under his waistband he groaned at the cool air hitting it, and in relief at finally being able to touch himself properly. Sam felt Dean slow and peeled his eyes open to check what had changed. He caught sight of Dean’s hand around his own cock and chuckled darkly.

“I don’t think so,” Sam shook his head and used his leg to bat Dean’s hand away from himself. “You can touch yourself after I cum.”

Dean whined and took his hand off his cock, bringing it up to Sam’s instead.

“Good boy,” Sam smirked.

Now motivated by the fact that he couldn’t get himself off until he finished Sam, Dean tried to take his brother's cock deeper than he had been, but had to pull back when he gagged.

“Woah,” Sam tugged Dean back and rubbed his neck while he caught his breath. “You don’t need to kill yourself, dude,” he chuckled and brought Dean’s lips back to his cock. “Just focus on the tip, keep that real nice and wet,” Dean followed the instruction eagerly and closed his lips around the ruddy head of Sam’s shaft. “Mm, yeah,” Sam groaned appreciatively, “and use your hands at the base, fuck, yeah, like that.”

Dean did what Sam said, suckling at the head of his cock enthusiastically, spit leaking from his lips, which he used to ease the glide of his hand along the shaft. He built his pace up, quicker and quicker, humming when he felt Sam start to tighten and heard his breath begin to catch.

“M’close, De, clos- shit !”

Dean felt Sam’s balls draw up tight to his body and fuck , if that wasn’t so hot. He pulled his lips tight around Sam and laved his tongue over the slit and something salty and warm gushed out. Dean moaned at the taste, his mouth falling open. Sam’s cum painted his tongue, spurted against his lips, dripped down his chin. It was filthy, and Dean loved it.

“Fuck,” Sam groaned, looking down at his big brother. “Lips look even better with my cum on them.” He reached out and smeared it around Dean’s mouth, pushing it back between his lips for Dean to swallow down.

Dean sucked down every drop Sam gave him, pulling another finger into his mouth. He figured he was safe now, and brought his hand back to his dick, squeezing to relieve the pressure that was building. As he stroked messily at himself he sucked harder on Sam's fingers, swirling his tongue around them in lyrical patterns and trying to memorise every groove of his fingerprints.

“Guess my cock is the only thing you like sucking on,” Sam panted teasingly, parodying Dean’s own words back to him. He dropped to his knees next to Dean and began to nuzzle against his brother’s neck, nipping and licking as he went.

Dean was past caring how desperate he looked, he needed to cum so badly he felt himself almost whine around Sam’s fingers in his mouth. Sam started to pump his fingers in and out, fucking Dean’s mouth while he frantically jerked himself off.

“God you really like this don’t you?” Sam whispered against Dean’s ear reverently. “Such a little slut for me,” he bit at Dean’s ear and brought his hand to join Dean’s on his cock. Sam’s touch was the final stroke for Dean, and he crumpled against Sam, coming over their hands with a hoarse shout and Sam’s fingers pressing against his tongue. He whimpered as Sam withdrew his fingers but that was quickly stifled when Sam brought his other hand to Dean’s lips, hesitantly, but Dean didn’t need to think about it before he lapped at Sam’s hand, sucking his own come off his baby brother.

Sam stared at Dean, soberly, cautiously, but still with the burn of arousal in his eyes. Dean met his gaze, eyes glassy and unfocused, still coming down from his high. Sam’s finger pulled out of his mouth.

“So,” Sam cleared his throat, “did that help?”

Tags: @vulgar-library @jackandthesoulmates @negans-lucille-tblr @fandomfic-galore @petitgateau911 @whoreforackles @schaefchenherde @hawkerz12 @dylansbabygirl24 @mineshinamary @popsensationnicole23 @spn-problems @donthateme454 @doyouknowsamw @peridottea91 @delightfulbakeryaliendeputy @fictionallemons @natastic @Marvelfansworld @half-closeted-bi-girl @j-ai-adore-dean @kiss-my-peachy-arse @tftumblin @alice101macwil @disneysloot @caitlinvd @crashlyrose @miufel @itsthedoctah10 @leftlokiofpuppy @devilsbbyy @akshi8278 @deandreamernp@lyarr24 @lovealways-j @kickingitwithkirk @delightfullykrispypeach

#dive bar #wincest #spnkinkbingo #dom!sam #sub!dean

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merryfortune · 2 years

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your my dearest friend (we should be lovers instead)

Clover and Violets 2022

Day 4. Kiss

Title: your my dearest friend (we should be lovers instead)

Ship: Groupieshipping | Junko/Momoe

Word Count: 1,295

Universe: GX - Canon Compliant

Rating: T

Tags: Light Angst, Light Fluff, Internalised Homophobia, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Making Out

AN: there are some oblique references to the song Jenny by Studio Killers (hence the title) but also to Jennifer’s Body, if you catch those that makes you my new best friend

Their shared room in the Obelisk Blue dorm was dark, save for the bright flashes of their television. Tonight was movie night and Asuka wanted to study so it was just Junko and Momoe enjoying a midnight fest of all their favourite rom-coms on VHS. They were piled up in their lounge together, Momoe in Junko’s lap and Junko’s hand in Momoe’s hair, petting it idly as they watched the movie together. They had a large bowl of popcorn next to Junko, given that she was sitting up straight, that was half-eaten, more by Momoe than Junko, funnily enough.

They were at the climax of the second movie that they had put on together. There was a third movie they had lined up for after this one but they were both getting sleepy, barely keeping their eyes open for what was meant to be the biggest and best part of the movie: the kiss.

The handsome male lead and the gorgeous female lead had been going to and fro with miscommunication after miscommunication, battling their fate and mutual attraction with all sorts of random plot elements thrown at them and now, finally, it was their time to resolve all that then enjoy ten minutes of on-screen happily ever after. But before the credits rolled, all the tension between the two protagonists had to be resolved with nothing but the biggest, damn kiss imaginable. Tongue was in cheek and there was moaning. The colours around them were bright, the lighting was magical, but honestly, it looked more gross.

So Junko asked, “Have you ever been kissed, Momoe?”

“No, I haven’t,” Momoe replied, “have you?”

“Me either.” Junko murmured.

The kiss on the television screen, in that grainy VHS pattern, was still going and it still looked gross. Momoe snickered to herself.

“I’ve come close though.” Momoe confessed.

“Really?” Junko asked, sounding more surprised than she actually was.

“Yeah, a couple boys from Ra Yellow, and this one guy from our dorm but its weird.” Momoe mused. “I always get scared at the last minute. Like I’m not going to be good enough.”

Junko’s lips soured. She knew that impulse well. Though, for her, it wasn’t so much that she wasn’t going to be good enough, it was more that…

“Or like I’m not going to enjoy it.” Momoe continued.

That was exactly what Junko was thinking. It was more that she was worried that she wouldn’t enjoy it and suddenly, her body just turned into a brick wall and she had to scurry out of this situation she created. Some boys were more kind about it than others.

“Maybe it's because you’re putting too many expectations on it. The first kiss is pretty important but… there’ll be others, probably.” Junko commented.

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Momoe cheerfully agreed but she could sense that the mood was weird now.

The movie wasn’t enjoyable anymore and truth be told, this conversation wasn’t enjoyable from the get go. They felt so close to one another - Momoe was literally in Junko’s lap, after all, cuddled up to her friend - but weirdly distant from another. Like there was a truth that neither of them wanted to confront, at least realistically. Maybe as a game or something silly, perhaps. As a dare, well, it was just like the song set to the rolling ending credits was trying to tell them, sometimes, there ought to be a little bit of risk when it came to relationships.

“Maybe we just need to get it over and done with, yeah?” Momoe suggested.

“And who would you pick, hm? It would have to be someone with low stakes, right?” Junko replied and she increasingly got the feeling that she maybe shouldn’t be encouraging this line of topic, that it might go somewhere that they couldn’t take back.

Such feelings were right on the money when Momoe earnestly retorted: “You.”

Junko felt her nerves prickle at that. She didn’t think Momoe was wrong but she didn’t think Momoe was right either. Junko felt herself getting very warm underneath Momoe all of a sudden - and doubly so when Momoe began to wriggle around and got up on her knees. She propped herself up on her hands and looked Junko right in the eyes.

“We should kiss.” Momoe insisted.

Junko felt her heart pound. It was slow but it was hard, “I dunno…” she hesitated. “It's not really something friends do.”

“I think, um, I think friends kiss all the time. So it shouldn’t be a big deal, especially when done between girls.” Momoe reasoned but she sounded entirely unreasonable.

“Y-yeah, good point.” Junko replied, not caring how frantic Momoe sounded.

The veneer was giving way, all those fleeting crushes that never panned out, that was more performative than of genuine attraction, that anxiety of not living up to expectation when it came to boys. It was glaringly obvious, so long as neither of them said - or at least peppering it with that one word. Friend. Keep it platonic, deny that it was romantic. That one word would make it all okay.

Momoe eased up on Junko and let her get comfortable. Momoe knelt on the lounge and waited for Junko to be ready. Junko didn’t think she would ever be. So, it was just like the conclusion they had come to. It was better for it to be over and done with than savoured, that way, they could, you know, do it when the time was good and right and proper. Exactly what was expected of them.

Junko kissed Momoe, surprising her and Momoe liked it. She really liked it. They both did. Junko kissed aggressively and she had poor technique; not that Momoe would know or realise but it was certainly better than what they were watching in the movie together. Momoe giggled as Junko kissed her, pecking her lips and trying to get her to hold still, trying to maintain the myth of a good kiss being about seven seconds long, but Momoe made it difficult when she couldn’t help but smile.

“Was I good at that? Junko asked, hotly, embarrassed.

“Yup.” Momoe replied and then tilted her head cutely to the right. “But we should keep going, just to make sure. Also, I wanna be the boyfriend, this time.” She winked. “After all, that’s all we’re really doing. Playing a game of girlfriend-boyfriend.”

“Yeah…” Junko hesitantly agreed. Something about Momoe’s nonchalance rubbed her the wrong way but it’s not like she wasn’t clinging to some veneer of heteronormativity either. She swallowed, she half smiled, and changed the subject, “Do you wanna put another movie on, too?”

“Hm, nah, I’m good.” Momoe replied.

Momoe looked all cute and pouty as she played the aggressor - or the boyfriend, as she called it. Junko found herself melting into the lounge and Momoe took the opportunity to straddle her as they kissed. And suddenly, she was recalling all the times that they had borrowed lip balms and the like between each other. Scant, indirect kisses that totally didn’t count and would never count but the peachy taste was still there, even though Momoe hadn’t reapplied at all in between all that salty, buttery popcorn she had eaten. The mesh was peculiar but Junko wouldn’t have it any other way. She let a sigh escape her mouth as Momoe kissed her and her lips were soft that they may have been sublime but this was just a mere second kiss.

A second kiss, to make sure they knew what they were doing but it was more than apparent they weren’t doing it as friends. Somehow, they were doing it as girl and boyfriend which meant, inevitably, the smush of lips would be as girlfriends but maybe that would be okay.

#femslash #femslash february #femslash february 2022 #groupieshipping #yugioh gx #gx #yugioh #makurada junko #hamaguchi momoe #writing tag #clover and violets #clover and violets 2022

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perpetually-forgettable · 3 years

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Chapter Five

Chapter Summary: Bucky is kinda of a creep in this chapter, and he makes a notable revelation. Reader and Steve get some game time in and we also get to learn a bit about a traumatic event that happened to the reader and some more background information.

Warnings: mentions of a car crash that resulted in mild injury, voyeurism(?), mild sexual content, jealousy, video game violence

Word Count: 3,162

A/N: I'm not 100% in love with certain parts of this chapter and I think it's because there are some parts that may seem random and don't make sense but it'll be explained and discussed more later on. Also, are the POV changes of the same things okay? I try not to get too descriptive with both but there are certain things that happen that need to be addressed by both of them, I think. Is it weird? Too much? Not enough? Please let me know!!!

As you blindly began the process of stripping your clothes and getting into the shower you couldn't get those images of Bucky out of your mind. It was mind-blowing how much you enjoyed it all, that whole interaction just replaying in your mind, over and over again. ‘Baby doll.’ God, how did such a simple phrase turn you on so much? Well, that was easy to figure out, it's because he said them, looking like that. Why? It was so frustrating, he was so frustrating. It's not like you could just ask him out like you would literally any other person, he was different. He was your friend before anything else. And you just could not risk it. Knowing you had no other option, you were determined to simply ignore your insane attraction and the way you felt about Bucky. Plain and simple. Maybe it would go away if you didn't acknowledge it. Yeah....that's a good idea.

Getting out of the shower, you dried your hair quickly then put on your boy shorts and a tank top, doing your best to pretend that everything with Bucky was just gonna go back to normal. It had to. Walking back into your room you decided to text Steve and see if he'd be up for a few rounds of Warzone or something. You needed something to distract you, so you plopped down on your belly near the foot of your bed, idly swinging your feet above your backside as you used your elbows to prop yourself up. Scrolling through your contacts you found Steve's name and typed a quick message. *Hey Steve, you up?* You decided to scroll through various social media pages before your phone buzzed with a response. *hey y/n! Yea I'm up, what's up?* *Was just wondering if you wanted to play something. I said I'd text you. Lol.* *oh yea...I forgot about that. Lol.* *Obviously. Lol. So you gettin' on or no?* *yeah, lemme log on really quick* *Okay, doing the same* You got up from your bed, hit with a sudden wave of grogginess, and yawned and stretched, your arms raising above your head before you went over to the computer to get everything set up to play with Steve. Putting on your headset and placing yourself in your gaming chair, you shivered when the backside of your upper thigh hit the cold leather, opting to pull your knees to your chest in between your arms as they reached out to the mouse and keyboard. Now comfortable, you opened up the game launcher, seeing Steve was already online and added him to your party, and turned the microphone on your headset on before saying hello to Steve. "Hey man, you ready to pay for my new favorite gun?" You laughed as you scrolled through the available bundles for purchase, looking for a specific weapon that recently came out. "A deal's a deal y/n, I'd be honored to." He huffed amused. You hummed in response as you searched for what you wanted when your phone buzzed. You picked it up off the desk and saw a snap chat notification from Bucky and with a sigh, you opened it. All around him was dark, but his face and upper body was exposed in the dim light from his screen, his face was in a forced pout with the caption *I can't sleep:(* And despite your previous wishes to ignore the way your body responded to the sight of him, it betrayed you. You immediately felt your pulse pick up speed and noted that the grainy quality of the photo did nothing to deter from the quality of the subject...and his pecs...and abs...and his puffy pink lips... Snapping back into reality you held your phone above you, getting an angle that showed you sitting in your chair and that you were obviously playing Warzone with the caption *Sorry boutcha. Lol. Wanna play with me and Steve?* Making some small talk with Steve while the purchase went through the various avenues needed you got another notification and opened it. Bucky was sneering, his lip curled up in obvious disgust. No caption needed for that one you thought to yourself. You replied with turning your chair to display the new weapon Steve bought you with your hand held out like one of those ladies on a TV game show presenting a prize, an exaggerated smile on your face and your eyebrows raised high. No caption.

You and Steve were done getting your loadouts the way you wanted them, both of you asking questions and making suggestions along the way, now ready to begin playing. You hadn’t gotten a reply from Bucky so you tried not to think about him, and after a while, it was easy to become engrossed in the game. You and Steve worked well together, both of you made sure to call out any enemies in the vicinity and give each other cover when needed. There was now only one other squad of duos and if you and Steve could take them out, you’d win. With the circle getting smaller and smaller, you found yourself unable to precisely locate the last two players. The circle was located on a hill with rock formations jutting out precariously, you and Steve were currently hiding behind trees, hating the fact that the other two players had the high ground.

“Hey, you good on armor? I got nothing on the heartbeat sensor so we’re gonna have to chance it going up the hill.” You asked Steve, explaining what you hoped was a foolproof plan to secure your combined victory.

“Hold on,” He said as he filled up his armor and checked the ammo on his weapons, “Alright, think this is as good as it's gonna get. Ready?” He asked.

“Ready.” You replied before the two of you slowly and quietly parted ways, branching off on either side of where you assumed the enemy team to be. Steve positioned himself a distance away, crouched next to a tree so he could observe and assist when needed without drawing notice to his position. You were just underneath a rock ledge and quickly threw a grenade overhead to scatter the enemy, moving quickly up the hill and positioned yourself in a way to give Steve a clean shot if needed. You heard footsteps and barely saw a figure running behind a small bush, you took aim and opened fire, downing your enemy then delivering the finishing move.

“Downed one of 'em.” You told Steve, just as shots rang out and you got hit. You quickly tried to find cover before you yourself got downed. Crawling to Steve so he could revive you. “I’m hit, I’m hit! I couldn’t see him.”

“Get your ass over here y/n.” Steve admonished, still scanning the area for the final person between you and victory. He healed you and you used your last two armor plates, not quite at full defenses. You both got the notification a grenade was in your vicinity before you scattered just in time to miss the damage. As Steve went right and you went left you saw the final player behind a large rock, taking aim at Steve. You quickly pinged his location, telling Steve he was right there, but not quick enough before he delivered a series of fatal shots at Steve. You took your chance and took aim, earning you and Steve your victory.

“YES!!” You roared, jolting from your seat with your hands up in the air before you did a little victory jig while Steve laughed and congratulated you.

“I am the best ever. Bow before me.” You said more to yourself than anyone else. Steve only laughed before you finally sat back down, beaming with pride. Neither of you starting another game, electing to instead just talk a bit, not about anything in particular. He asked about when your truck was gonna be out of the shop and you told him what the garage told you, hopefully, Monday. He asked about your photography business. “It’s doing well, I got commissioned by the school board again to do the homecoming photos so that’ll be fun, I’ve got some neat ideas for the photo station that line up with the theme they’re choosing. I’ve had to reschedule a few photoshoots since my truck was dinged up so bad by that damn drunk driver, but I’m just glad their insurance covered the full cost of repairs because my truck was perfect. I had just gotten it done up the way I wanted it.” You chucked as you recalled all the additions you had done to your truck when your phone buzzed again. It was another photo of Bucky looking sad with the caption *I’m sad* and you typed a quick message instead of taking a photo and asked why he was sad.

“Well, I’m happy for you y/n. I'm glad that asshole had to pay for what he did, it’s crazy you didn’t get hurt more than you did in that accident. I saw the damage to your truck and I was sure you were gonna be in the hospital for a few weeks. We were all worried for you. Who is that drunk that early in the damn morning anyway?” He said as he remembered the story going around the school and seeing the pictures you sent to Bucky when he showed Steve.

“Yeah…my truck took most of the hit thankfully.” You said softly, being transported back to the moment it happened. You were at a red light, on your way to school, your light turned green and you pressed off the brake when a smaller truck t boned you, hitting you directly on the driver's door at a speed the police report said was roughly 40-50 miles per hour. You remember the way your body was violently thrown to the side and you could vividly recall the sound of breaking glass, tires screeching and the hiss of the engine as it was damaged. You could smell the smoke and the burnt rubber. Everything happened so fast it took you a second to realize that you had been in an accident, you didn’t know it at the time but you had a concussion, some scrapes here and there and some sprains to your neck and back and you were gonna be sore for quite a while. The offending driver wasn’t so lucky, he was hurt pretty bad but he would live. You spent about two days in the hospital and had to take it easy for a while afterward. The doctors and the police all said you were lucky to be alive, that they’d seen the exact same accident where there were no survivors. It was a bit daunting.

Your phone buzzed, bringing you out of your reverie. It was Bucky again. He was curled up in his bed on his side, one arm angled under head like a pillow. *just miss you* the caption read.

“So with you taking pictures and everything at homecoming are you not gonna have time to dance or anything ?” Steve asked hesitantly, your mind coming back to the present.

You shrugged even though you knew he couldn’t see, force of habit. “I dunno, I wasn’t really planning on going with anyone. I usually don’t.”

He was still slouched on the couch, his imagination going back and forth between her in the shower and other various compromising positions, enjoying the way his briefs became tighter and tighter when she finally came back from her shower. And his breath halted when he had a perfect view of what she was wearing, sitting up slowly as if in a trance.

Her hair was still wet as it fell from her shoulders and landed on her chest, she was wearing a black tank top that she often used when they worked out together, it was tight and he quite enjoyed the way it clung to her stomach, ending shortly below her belly button and how it left nothing to the imagination about the shape and size of her breasts.

Her legs laid bare before him as she was in a pair of boy shorts that resembled boxers but were barely more than a regular pair of underwear. The waistband sitting nicely on her hip bones, not quite meeting the hem of her tank, left a sliver of skin on her lower belly he longed to run his hand over. When she laid on her bed, her back was to him, so he dared to get up from his spot and get a better look as she swung her legs back and forth, the way her shorts rode up a bit gave him a tantalizing glimpse of her thighs and how the muscles there behaved with the action of her legs. Her tank top had now ridden up and he could see the skin of her lower back, just above where the slopes of her cheeks began. He was mesmerized. He had seen her wear that shirt often enough but he had a whole new appreciation for it now. Her fingers were tapping the screen in front of her and he idly wondered what she was doing before he had to practically run back to the couch when she got up. And then she stretched. And dear lord he almost came just at the sight. Her arms reached up high, and she was on her tippy toes, her shirt rode up even more and he fought the urge to roll his eyes in pleasure, not wanting to miss the display before him. He wished more than anything he could feel her soft skin as his hands roamed her body, feeling the way she would tremble at his touch.

Now finished stretching she made her way to the computer, jumping a little as she sat down and repositioned herself. He chuckled at her, knowing the seat was probably cold and he envied the black leather. He saw that she was getting ready to play Warzone and remembered that she had made plans with Steve and he scoffed at the notion. Seeing she was scrolling through the weapons he decided to see if he could fluster her a bit as he opened the app with a yellow background. He snapped a photo, making sure to not give away his position in his room but giving enough away he knew she would enjoy the view, pouting his lips as enticingly as he could.

He saw her reaction to the image and he grinned proudly, knowing he had succeeded, seeing her pose and send a picture in response. Seeing the way her breasts were pressed up against her knees he licked his lip before taking it between his teeth. God, she was sexy. He sat there looking over the photo as he grabbed himself through his pajama pants briefly before the image timed out and he finally noticed her question. He basked in the feeling in his briefs for a small second before he replied. He decided to just show his distaste for joining instead of voicing it. He watched as she angled her chair in a way that displayed her monitor and her face and his phone buzzed, seeing the actual photo he smiled, she was showing him her new gun that Steve bought as a result of that fated bet, the one that kind of changed everything.

He was lost in thought at how much things had changed in such a small amount of time since then and he felt conflicted for the first time about what exactly he was doing. He was being a bit of a creep…right? With a sigh, he realized he needed to stop, realized he was invading her privacy and it wasn’t right, he felt bad. He took one last glance at the window and saw her take out a player before the screen quickly indicated her and Steve won 1st place. He smiled when he could hear and see her reaction. She shot up out of her chair and raised her arms in victory, then began lightly running in place with her arms bent by her sides before she spread her legs with a jump and began swinging her hips in a circle as she did the same with her arms out in front of her. He laughed out loud at how dorky and sexy she could be at the same time. This, this right here is why he loved her. It was confounding and blew him away, but he loved it. He loved her.

He saw they hadn’t started another game and wondered why before he noticed she was talking animatedly about something…with Steve. He didn’t like the feelings he was feeling right now, he had no right to be jealous or angry but that’s the position he found himself in. With a huff he went to his bed and sent her another photo, this time genuinely pouting and being sad. Much to his dismay, she just sent a quick message instead of a photo. He rolled to the side and answered honestly with a photo and caption, he did miss her. He wanted her to be in his bed, laying next to him on her side and with his arm wrapped around her middle, her back to his chest. And then he realized he could technically have that, or a version of that. So, he sent another quick photo asking her if she wanted to come over and watch a movie with him since they were both up. They’d done it before, both of their parents knew it wasn’t all that strange to find them in each other’s beds in the morning or find them empty, whenever they did sneak over to each other’s room at night, they always left a note for their parents. His phone buzzed with a response in the affirmative and his heart soared. He quickly got out of bed and closed his curtains, not wanting her to know what he had done earlier before he walked downstairs to meet her at the door. He sat on the porch steps waiting for her, realizing she had to log off the computer as he was stealing her away from Steve and she also had to leave a note for her mom. Hearing her front door open and her keys jingle as she locked it, he looked in her direction and watched her walk towards him, still in the outfit from earlier. He smiled at her as she reached him and stood up.

“Hey, doll.” He said as he lifted his arm to take her into a side hug, wrapping his arm around the back of her neck and pulling her to his bare chest, and kissing the top of her head.

“Hey, Buck.” She responded quietly, smiling softly as she pulled away from him to open the door and start up the stairs.

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#a/u bucky x reader #teenager bucky x teenager reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #reader #slow burn #friends to lovers

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sparksflamesembersashes · 3 years

Text

Random musings on 10.18 Find Me

Other Carylers have spoken about the episode and their interpretations of it and what it means for Caryl and their future and I've been sharing those and don't have that much to add to what’s already been discussed. Others have written well thought out and detailed analyses and interpretations and said it way better than I ever could. Most of them have been writing about Caryl forever and I started less than a year ago. I do want to speak to some technical stuff and a few other things, since I never do know when to shut up. Spoilers for 10.18 below the cut.

Brief talk on techie stuff... Wow, the cinematography in the plus six are really taking it up a notch. 10.18 has some of the most gorgeous images in the history of the show. The colors, the framing, and Caryl; separated by a stretch of water that's a literal stand-in for the divide between them, in an episode stuffed with signs and symbols and parallels. "Find Me" has some of the most visually breathtaking shots in the history of TWD... and do you know why? Because the plus six were filmed on digital cameras, for the first time in the history of a show that has always been shot on 16 millimeter film. Turns out, the digital process not only has fewer "touch points" (thanks for nothing, COVID) but it's also cheaper, faster, and easier on the environment.

TWD almost switched to digital for Season 2, and while AK claims now that they can still give it that classic TWD look, in a 2019 interview posted on comicbook.com, she said they were committed to shooting on film to preserve it's look and feel (confirming that film and digital are noticeably not created equal, an opinion/truth they are apparently backing off of, now). If the new episodes look different, its because they are. I am torn between which style I prefer. The grainy, Kodak-y type images of TWD as shot on film are increasingly rare on any screen, simultaneously nostalgic and beautiful and born of toxicity. The gallons of chemicals used in developing standard film are not environmentally friendly and probably need to go the way of the dinosaur.

Digital is wonderful in its own ways, so minute in its details, and can easily capture images and light conditions otherwise incredibly difficult to duplicate on actual film... But digital doesn't look the same, it doesn't feel the same, in the way that CD's and vinyl records don't sound the same. Purists curl their lip at the new and improved version of the medium, but the truth is,most people don't notice the differences.

TWD has always used the sun and the moon to their best visual advantage and both the celestial backdrops show up in "Find Me." The sun filtering through the trees onto Daryl or in his general direction has made repeat appearances in S10. Is this a metaphor for his finally finding his enlightenment? (Or is it nothing deeper than AMC uses the light to make everything look as cool as possible?)

10.18 shows us more of Daryl's soul (in a single episode) than we've seen before. His character goes through all sorts of colors, screaming in the rainstorm, grimacing as puppy Dog licks his face, meeting and spending time with this strange, lonely, gruff, almost mirror reflection of himself, someone who is grieving and angry and alone. Fighting with Carol! A real fight, but an honest and not altogether unhealthy one. You gotta work through to acceptance and let go of the past before you can look forward to a future, and these two have enough trauma issues between them to fill a psychiatric journal. They’ve a long, arduous road ahead of them, but they WILL reach their destination. Together.

Daryl throwing the fish at Leah's door and Leah throwing the fish at Daryl are my favorite moments in the episode. I laughed out loud. I did not get the impression that they only encountered each other once every several months, I took it that the time jumps measured the progression of their relationship, i.e. that it took that long for them to warm up to each other. When Daryl did go to stay at Leah's, it was literally out of necessity, as he was getting frost bitten in the woods and probably would have lost at least a digit or two had he remained in his camp.

For the first time, I didn't really enjoy the Caryl banter? (Please don't hurt me.) There was a sadness, a tension, and a sense of loss there I just couldn't shake. Carol was trying to run away from the horrors of the Whisperer's aftermath, and Daryl knew it, and he was annoyed by it. Carol's attempts at lightheartedness seemed forced. I feel like Daryl is a man with a whole lot on his mind at this point, and that Carol is a woman who is habitually trying not to think about the real stuff if she can avoid it. She jokes and banters but she's almost too cheerful... or maybe it just seems that way because Daryl's so grim. Not grim as in we're-all-facing-our-end-of-days-doom grim, but not in a laughing mood where Carol's concerned. He thinks she's running again, and seeing Leah's cabin reminds him that Leah probably ran from him, too. He lost both his brothers, Rick and Merle. Daryl has abandonment issues and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility going back as far as we know. He loses people and can't find them again, no matter how much he searches.

Revisiting Leah's cabin, the devastation of Alexandria, and everything that's been building up over, about, and because of Carol has pressurized within Daryl till he finally takes a shot, and who can blame him? But he also shows his development and maturity by trying to express his disappointment with controlled words of frustration (compared to camp- or barn-rage Daryl in S2), telling Carol exactly what it is she does that's widening the chasm between them.

Carol to Daryl early in the episode "I don't want to lose you because you can't figure out when to stop," and Daryl to Carol "That's on you. 'Cause you don't know when to stop.") Daryl doesn't know when to stop searching for his lost brother and blaming himself for things, Carol didn't know when to stop her revenge-fueled pursuit of Alpha. Daryl also tells Carol "That's all that matters. You being right." (after she says she was right to go after and destroy Alpha to avenge her son.) At the end of the ep., Carol says it again: "I was right" (this time about their luck having run out), then she goes to fix the door.

So now Caryl know and have established what gets each other's goat. That could be a good thing, but tptb will undoubtedly attempt to convince us its a bad thing,, ya think? Neither of the characters knowing when to stop and their mutual annoyance over the fact could be something the show runners milk for a while.

Î wanted to know whether Daryl went back to the cabin after leaving his note, to see whether Leah had returned to it, or not. I want to know what Carol did with the note. Did she take it with her, or did she put it back? They never showed us. Daryl seemed anxious and tense about her finding it, and I did not miss the symbolism of Carol being the woman who eventually finds the note Daryl left behind years ago: "I belong with you. Find me." I mean, how perfect is that?

Contrary to spoilery bullshit stinking up the Twittersphere, Carol did not seem exactly “upset” at finding the note, though clearly she was sad. She knew exactly what the note was, so Daryl must’ve told her about it, that he left it. Maybe he didn't tell her exactly what it said or everything about Leah, but my impression was that she realized what it was and where they were, and it was all yesterday's news to her. Seeing the note seemed to make her sad for Daryl because she knows Daryl can't handle losing people, and that he punishes himself for failing to help or save people by pushing everybody away and isolating.

Leah didn't so much choose to be there in the cabin as she ran for her life from a dangerous situation and the cabin was just the place where she and her bitten son ended up.

So many yawning gaps in the Leah storyline. How often did they see each other? Did Daryl move in with her toward the end of their relationship? I felt like he did after the time she found him freezing in the woods, but that he'd leave for days to go look for Rick, or hunt, or who tf knows. Maybe he'd leave to see or meet Carol. Carol knew about Leah, but when? Before, or after it was happening? Why is that important? I just want to know when he told her. Really hoping they didn’t leave things purposely vague so they can fill in the gaps to screw with us later.

Timing is everything. Like, how much time passed between Leah telling Daryl to choose, and the time Carol told Daryl she couldn't keep visiting? Or did he leave Leah's cabin and return to it that same day? Which would imply Leah abandoned Daryl practically the instant he walked out the door following her ultimatum. It seems like Daryl was gone a while, it was dark when Leah told him to choose, and daylight in the scene with Carol at his camp and when he was walking in the woods. It could have been days. That makes a difference. Leah was obviously not Daryl's first choice, no matter that he ran back to her in the end.

The fact that Carol knew about Daryl's relationship with Leah is a crafty move on the show runner's part because we can't really be pissed at Daryl if Carol knew about it the whole time and was cool with it.... but we all know now that Daryl didn't tell her everything.

No one is talking about how Leah obviously abandoned Dog, she left him shut in the damn cabin for who knows how long after she left. And she DID leave. The cabin looked abandoned when Daryl left the note. He obviously went searching for her with Dog, but for how long?

Not to say there was nothing between them, but I never felt for an instant that Leah had Daryl's heart, or that he ever offered it up to her in the first place, but I am also 100% sure that’s because I’m ride-or-die for Caryl and can’t bear to entertain the thought. No matter what else they were, Daryl and Leah are isolated, damaged, traumatized people who wanted someone to hold on to. Someone to try and forget with. It's not like there were a lot of other people around to choose from.

So did Leah just leave Dog behind because the memories associated with him were too painful? (i.e. he was born on the day Leah's son died) Or did she feel that Daryl needed the companionship and gambled that Daryl would drop by soon and take him in? It really bothers me that she just split and left the dog locked in the cabin like that.

Grateful they didn't show us anything extra of Daryl seeming to genuinely give a shit, tbh. (Throwing a fish at someone's door, having sex with them, sleeping in their bed or eating their cooking doesn't necessarily constitute giving a shit in this world, just saying.) That was both refreshing (cuz u know, Caryl is endgame), and kind of tragic. I felt like Daryl was rather emotionally detached the entire time, but that Leah was maybe falling in love with him. Not in a good way, but in a possessive, demanding, all-or-nothing type of way.

How very very clever of AMC to leave us with all these ambiguities. So much room for interpretation, so many gaps to never be filled in. Bastards. On the bright side, all these holes in the story and missing material provide endless new opportunities for fanfic writers like me who can't break free of the bonds of canon. So, yay, I guess?

I am sad to give up the virgin Daryl trope, I was beginning to think that one was ours in canon to keep, but you know, it is what it is. It was a good, long run while it lasted, and I'm grateful we got to write inexperienced Daryl fics while we could still entertain the fantasy that Daryl was actually inexperienced. So, R.I.P. virgin Daryl. I'm not as upset about his getting laid as I thought I'd be (although it was incredibly underhanded, AMC, to pull this shit so very late in the game, there better be a good reason for it).

All the Leah thing means to me right now is that our man has probably picked up some skills during his time with her, and Carol's gonna be the ultimate beneficiary. Plus, Daryl's evolved over the years from throwing a fish at a woman's door to delivering her dinner on a tray with a flower, so...progress was made, even if he didn't start out with the woman we wish he had. (News Flash: The love of his life was unavailable and actually married to another man at the time, so there's that.)

There are a staggering number of Caryllels in this episode. Someone once said here that Kang loves her symbolism and they weren't wrong. No matter what's to come, we can be confident about where this road ends. At this point in TWD, to not eventually give us Caryl canon would be the absolute greatest trolling of a fandom in the history of trolling fandoms, and besides, we're getting a spin-off.

Another thing, the fact that Rick and Leah both basically disappeared on him shines a bright light on Daryl's determination to stick to Carol like glue in 10A and B. He was terrified that she was going to disappear on him, too.

What happened to the Caryl fandom following the spoilers wasn't worth it. How many times have we freaked out over spoilers? You think we'd learn. And you KNOW we are valued because AMC went so very far out of their way to provide the vaguest-ever depiction of a sexual encounter for Daryl. Remember the Eugene spying scene with Abe and Rosita, guys? Shane and Lori screwing on the ground in the woods? They could really have tortured us, and they chose to be kind.

I'm looking forward to "Diverged." Honestly, I could give a shit about most of the other characters, but they'll have to make do for us over the next couple of weeks. Just about the time 10.18's been dissected and interpreted to death, Caryl will reappear on our screens and mess with our hearts and minds some more. I can't wait.

Thank you for coming to my rant, and Caryl on!

#caryl rant #caryl spoilers

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆;

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

word count: 13.2k+

summary: “You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.”

warnings: swearing, a dash of drama, a seasoning of angst.

notes: Wow. Suffering for a week was worth it because I wrote this whole thing in like 2 days. I apologise if I haven’t responded to your comments on the last update. I’m a clown, it is known. I love you all though. Please enjoy. *rubs hands eagerly* :)

children of ares series: 01 | .... | 09 | 10 | . . | 12 |

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

It’s easier to remember you like that than to think about what’s currently happening. Better than thinking about you in those damp, cold tunnels. Better than imagining how very easily it can all go wrong.

It’s easier to think about his home, a year ago, and the stinging disappointment of knowing you won’t be there for his birthday transforming into something else—something joyous.

Tarasov had changed his plans last second, putting your own plans of flying out to Naples in jeopardy and it was not the first time Santino had contemplated murdering the Russian, all consequences be damned. But you found a way to see him. Found way to come to him. He never asked how. A part of him had never cared enough to know because you’ve been simply there and it had been enough.

Santino remembers every single detail about those three days. Because it was like something straight out one of his dreams.

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and open.

He recalls the warmth of you in his arms as he spun you in a clumsy circle till you were both dizzy with laughter. He recalls the too sweet taste of that god awful wine you brought because you couldn’t find anything else last minute. He did get drunk.

But on more than just the wine.

The next day when he came from the family meeting with his head splitting apart and his throat dry from the hangover, he found you with Gia, cooking and chatting. The older woman had taken it onto herself to teach you some words in the local dialect and your efforts were valiant if a little awkward.

Oh, but the sight of you.

Hair messy, feet bare, a pale sundress wrapping around your frame and a wide smile on your lips as warm Italian sun bathed you in a golden glow. Standing in the same spot he’s seen his mother stand a hundred times, and it had been like a punch right in the heart, right through him.

You had turned towards him a few, breathless seconds later and your smile had widened at sight of him and—

And if he hadn’t already been stupidly, irritatingly, pathetically in love with you by then—

That would have been the final straw.

Sometimes, he still wishes it was as simple as wanting to fuck you. Simply get it out of his system and move onto another pretty face—of which there had been plenty. But no. Of course not. Of course, you had to attach yourself to him, burrow yourself under his skin so fucking deep it’s like a permanent ache— longing, need—that he can’t get rid of.

Because now…

“How long has it been?”

The guards shift at his tone, wary. None of them want to speak first but they also seem to know that keeping silent will only unleash his barely suppressed wrath quicker.

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Sir.

Not boss.

Because he isn’t one. Not to these lowlife Camorra nobodies. At least before they showed some degree of respect to him as an heir. But now he’s just…what even is he? An afterthought, an irritation. To everyone.

Only twenty minutes though.

During planning, they determined that it would take fifteen minutes just to get there, and that’s assuming they don’t run into any trouble first.

He works his jaw, restless. He hates waiting. He fucking abhors it. He’s been waiting for almost six years—his entire goddamn life—and he’s tired of it already. But it’s not like he can do anything short of taking his pistol and marching into the filthy tunnels to get you back himself.

He wants to. But he’s not a complete idiot despite what you believe him to be.

So he waits. He paces back and worth, his expensive shoes sinking into the wet mud and gravel beneath them. The rain is coming down heavy and harsh now, beating against his umbrella in a relentless rhythm of strength.

He just needs you to come back out already.

Come on, amore. Come back to me. Come and call me your idiot. Just come back.

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

Sunshine, laughter, the gentle expression on your face when you danced, when he gave you his mother’s necklace—

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

He halts, immediately thinking that he’s imagined it, but then a muffled series of bangs echo that shake the ground once again, stronger this time. The guards' curse, pulling their weapons out as if that’s going to do anything.

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

A destructive chain of concrete, water, and death that stretches far, far too wide.

They’re also pyromaniacs. Experts from what I’ve gathered.

It is then, only for the third time in his entire life, that Santino D’Antonio feels awful, raw sort of fear flood through his veins, leaving him completely immobile.

No.

You dream of sunshine.

You dream of sitting in the sun’s embrace and burning, burning, burning.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Fire doesn’t scare you. It has never hurt you, either.

Darkness you fear because it drips with pain and loneliness. Water you hate because you can’t breathe with it lodged in your throat. But fire rages around you and keeps you safe in its destructive cocoon, letting you have your momentary peace.

Golden tears drip down your cheeks as you kneel on the burning, golden surface. Perhaps you are repenting, perhaps you are mourning. But there is something missing and you want it back—a distant, painful ache you can’t shake but one that tugs you back, back, back—

“Why are you crying, viper?”

A touch against your hair, gentle but firm. It brings you no comfort though. In fact, it leaves you feeling cold deep in your bones even if you don’t pull away.

“Because I am alone,” you whisper through hot tears, your eyes sore and throat tender. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

“There is no shame in being alone.”

You curl deeper into yourself, your forehead pressing against the scorching surface. “But I don’t want to be alone. I just want to be happy. I want to be free.”

A hand smooths over your head once again, patient and kind. Something inside your chest coils at the contact. “There is no happiness for you on this path. You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

“To you.”

The hand on top of your head stills. “Yes,” the voice confirms mildly. “To me. You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. That is how your story began and that is how it will end.”

Your head lifts, but the figure in front of you blurs through your tears

and

then

you

fall.

Darkness spits you out with a violence that jolts your entire body back to wakefulness.

A slow groan slips out first before you even open your eyes.

There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and when your eyes open they feel grainy and dry.

The room is vaguely familiar with its sleek and modern interior.

You try to inhale and find an oxygen mask over your face. Gritting your teeth, your clumsily pull on it. It takes three tries to drag it to one side of your cheek. Almost immediately breathing becomes more difficult, your throat sore and aching, but you ignore it.

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

Dizziness is slow to pass, as is the queasiness you feel rolling through your stomach like a heavy rock, but when your vision finally settles, a wave of relief washes over you.

Familiar, brilliant blue eyes are staring back at you, unblinking.

Ares is gripping your hand so tightly her own hand trembles and you want to tease her about her unwashed, still dusty hair and red eyes but don’t.

She’s alive. Relatively unharmed except for few scratches and bruises against her neck.

The sight of her sends a rush of memories back into your skull.

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

A weak rasp escapes you and your fingers tighten around Ares’.

She looks awful. If she’s this bad then you can’t even imagine what—

“Santino?” you croak out, trying to sit up but her fingers constrict around yours, near painful, and you still.

He is fine, she signs when she releases your hand. Physically.

You understand the addition for what it is.

Swallowing weakly, you dip your head slightly and move onto another pressing inquiry.

“The Lovers?”

Her expression tightens and the subdued worry in her eyes transforms into ice; honed and piercing.

Got away in the chaos, she signs and her tattooed fingers tremble again before she clenches them and drops them into her lap abruptly. She looks both furious and upset all at once and it’s startling to see. Ares is cocky, confident, brilliant. Seeing her as anything other than self-assured is unsettling.

You’re about to ask her what’s wrong but before you can she sniffs and her hands form slow signs, letting you piece together her next words little by little.

I could not call for help. You were dying and I could not call for help.

Your heart squeezes.

You can’t even imagine what she must have felt.

Ares. Ares who was left by her parents at an orphanage when she was still a baby—no more than two weeks old, simply because unlike other children she never made a sound. Because they believed that there was something wrong with her, some form of defect that made her unwanted in their eyes. Ares who never allowed her muteness to hold her back or define her. She was the one who reshaped the world around her as she wished. She was strong enough to stand for herself, fight for herself.

Ares who had been chosen by the heir of Camorra to be his right hand.

A title and an honour never held by another female in Camorra’s history before.

And to be stuck in those tunnels unable to call for help, unable to do anything when she’s always been so capable, so ready to face down whatever came her way—

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

Ares swallows and blinks her eyes, glancing away. You allow her that moment, though the gratitude in your heart should make it clear that she doesn’t need to hide from you.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They’re simply a sign that you’re alive.

Your phone, she signs with a little twitch of her mouth. You still had it on you. I messaged S-A-N-T-I-N-O. Had you partially dug out of the rubble by the time he found us. I have never seen him look so afraid before. Had you stood less than a foot further back you would be dead. Lucky you got away with only a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.

“Lucky me,” you repeat softly, your voice frayed, and place your hand on hers, squeezing. You can’t bring yourself to ask why he’s not beside you like she is. “Thank you, Ares. If it weren’t for you—”

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists into half a snarl. Do not dare thank me. You saved my life.

Your own eyes sting and you force out a soft, exhausted, “We’re a team.”

Her mouth presses shut at that, and she examines you shrewdly. She licks her lips once, and you know its more about controlling her emotions when she glances away again, her tattooed fingers squeezing around yours once before she lets go.

Perhaps we are all more than that.

Yes. All this time you’ve been so afraid of calling them your team you never considered the notion they might have become something even more important. Something like family.

Your eyes flutter shut and you smile slightly. “We are, we…”

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again.

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

His head is bowed, his thumb delicately tracing over your knuckles.

You’re at the penthouse, you realise distantly, and it’s stopped raining outside.

Your oxygen mask is missing but you feel clearer, steadier, this time around and blink owlishly to clear the remaining fuzziness from your vision. Then, you take a moment to gather yourself and observe him.

Santino’s shoulders are curved into a tense, weary line with his tie loose around his neck. You only need to look at his messy hair to know he’s destroyed his usually immaculate, gelled curls by continuously running his fingers through them.

I have never seen him look so afraid before.

He asked you to sacrifice everyone and anything to walk out of those tunnels unharmed, but instead, you had placed Ares’ life above your own.

You’re glad that you did not make him any promises because he’s no doubt upset as it is.

You turn your fingers carefully, tracing your fingertips over the tanned surface of his smooth palm. He freezes at the dainty touch, his head jerking up as his wild stare takes you in.

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

You can almost see the invisible weight dropping away from him, and it makes you feel even worse. If the situations were reversed—

Your fingers settle on top of his.

After a moment, his expression clears and his own hold on your hand constricts.

“Foolish, brave woman,” he mutters tightly in Italian. “Why must you always do this to yourself?”

“I couldn’t let Ares die,” you reply softly because you can see the bags under his eyes, note how his skin looks more wan and tired, and a permanent frown seems to have settled between his brows. He worried and it’s your fault. Even if he won’t admit it, won’t voice it, it’s marking every inch of him. “I failed, Santi. They knew about it. About the underground and the water, and I was too weak—and—I failed—”

His expression turns stormy in a blink. “You did not fail,” he shoots back hotly, his eyes flashing. “I assure you, (Name). When I find them, I will make them beg for death long before I grant them the mercy of it. They will pay for what they did to you in blood.”

“How did they get away?”

Santino sighs, looking down for a moment. “Ah, I��m afraid that’s on me. Once the explosions went off, I called all the teams to a search, regardless of their location,” he divulges and you understand the heaviness in his tone. It was a choice he had to make. A choice between potentially stopping the people after your heads, or looking for you. You’re not foolish enough to think that Santino won’t have sacrificed the rest of the team if it had meant stopping the Lovers. “If it hadn’t been for the phone Ares found…”

He fades off, staring at your joined hands and you trace your thumb over his knuckles this time.

“I—”

“Do not say sorry,” he breathes, his voice soft with fury, just barely leashed. “Do you know what it felt like, hm? Hearing those explosions. The silence after was far worse, amore, I assure you. Then the searching and the waiting. Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing Roberto pulling you out of that wreckage? Covered in blood, unconscious, barely breathing. It was like—”

His mother.

His mother all over again.

Bloodied, barely conscious, choking, and then eternally still.

You remember every word of his story.

With his gaze empty and hair wet, he had sat against the backdrop of a Chicago blizzard and told you every last detail of what happened. And it had since seared itself onto your mind, onto your heart. Every single word of it. That night had been the first time you saw cracks in his cocky demeanour. The very first time you saw him as a normal man. More than a nuisance, more than an arrogant mobster prick with a one-track mind.

You try to keep your breathing steady but fail. “I’m sorry,” you choke out anyway because you need to say it. “And thank you for finding u-us.”

His head rises slowly. “I will always find you,” he tells you, his expression serious. “Always. I promised to never abandon you, amore.”

“Even with one ear?” you joke through a pained smile.

Santino exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing and he mutters a bitter, “Hm, yes. Despite their best attempts, you still have an ear,” he informs you and you ghost your fingers over the bandage. There is dull ache there but nothing as bad as it was before. “It will heal quickly because it was a clean cut. Almost like—”

“He was trying to mark me,” you assume and he nods shortly. You can almost taste his keen rage. He’s like a band stretched too wide to a point of snapping. “Well I gutted the bastard, so I feel better already.”

Shifting in your spot, you wince immediately at the shooting pain down your shoulder and neck, hissing under your breath. Santino presses his hand against your shoulder, pushing you back gently.

“You are not allowed to move,” he chides, giving you a displeased look. “While the injuries are superficial, you do need to rest. Tsk, troublesome woman.”

“Shut up Mr If-It’s-Dangerous-It-Turns-Me-On.”

His lips part, outraged, but for a long minute, he only gapes at you before his mouth finally snaps shut. You can’t quite hold back your snort of laughter and wince in pain right after. His expression makes it worth it though.

“Wicked tongue,” he notes with an arched eyebrow; an invitation to play. “Throwing around such accusations, hm?”

You grin slightly at the way your teasing cools his rage, soothes his worry. “And you’re a bossy bastard. Were you like that when you were little, too?”

One side of his mouth twitches upwards; a half-smile, and another victory for you. “I have you know that I was very charming when I was little, cara mia. Can’t you tell?”

It takes effort to control your outright cackle this time, and he leans closer, his own eyes dancing with mirth as a faint smile lingers across his face, too.

“I’m sure.”

He gazes at you, seemingly lost in thought before his mouth opens and closes again. He wants to say something but you can read his hesitance, though the reason for it is unclear.

“What is it?”

He swallows before his eyes drag back to you again. “Do you ever wonder how different things might have been if we met first?”

You feel his words clatter through you before settling inside your bones.

Right up until that moment, you never have.

The past is a dark pit, you don’t like remembering or thinking about on a good day much less lately.

He meets your steady stare and you think about his question carefully. Try to consider how different things are between you now compared to when you first met. All that you know about him now oppose to then.

“Well,” you begin deliberately, thoughtful, “Considering that I looked no better than one of Bowery King’s little rodents for most of my life and you were Camorra’s darling prince…I think you would have hated me on sight. And I you.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

But before he can retort, you continue, this time with a faint smile. “But with time…well, I won’t say you would grow on me but maybe I would find you less annoying. Maybe I would learn that outside of that spoiled, cocky, asshole demeanour you’re half-decent on the inside. Maybe. And maybe with time, we could be friends, too. And I would trust you while you would have no choice but to stick with me because I’m the only person in all of Italy that could handle your little tantrums.”

His lips stretch into a slow smile, his demeanour lighter now, calmer. The look in his eyes is gentler too and you rest your cheek against the fluffy pillow, still peering at him.

The silence between you is softer this time as well, almost hazy.

“I think,” you begin in a hoarse whisper. “That if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.”

His expression creases, coming undone slowly as his lips part in wonder. His grip on your hand constricts again but this time it doesn’t ease off quickly. He’s clutching onto you, his Camorra ring cutting into your skin but you let him.

Because it’s true.

If you had never met John, everything between you would be so easy.

But that’s not the reality you live in.

Reality is that you’re no longer sure if you’re capable of the type of love you felt for John anymore.

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

The next four days are a slog.

You’re able to walk and move around mostly freely by the end of the first day but Doc is as strict as always.

Rest, and more rest, and no strenuous activity with your previously dislocated shoulder or you’re looking at permanent joint damage. Considering how much you rely on your hands, and the fact that you have two psychopaths still out there somewhere who want you dead, for once, you listen to his orders.

You eat. You sleep. You work on getting rid of the layer of dust coating your tongue whenever you speak.

It makes you feel antsy but you rest.

It also doesn’t help that you have three not-so-subtle guard dogs scrutinising your every move.

You’re not sure who is worse Santino or Ares, or both. Roberto usually backs away from one hard stare but Ares is not so easily moved, and Santino might as well be an immovable object.

When it comes to your recovery, he doesn’t compromise.

His men have been working hard on tracking the Lovers or any remaining members of the Black Dragon but they have seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. That’s more worrying. You have now lost the element of surprise. But they came out of the confrontation between you with far more severe injuries.

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

Lucien’s cold, soft voice promising you a dance next time you meet.

Your whole body tenses whenever the memory comes back to you which is often. There is no doubt in your mind that you will be seeing him again soon. But he won’t catch you off guard like that again. This time there will be no darkness or water. No weakness for either of them to poke and exploit.

But there is something else.

A shift.

You feel it in the very foundation of every interaction Ares and Santino share with you around. They are good at masking it but you know them both too well. Something is happening, some sort of disagreement, and both are trying to hide it from you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re still in “recovery” or because it’s something sensitive and Camorra related.

While they have never hidden anything family related from you, there are still boundaries you have never tried to step over. You’re not Camorra. Some things you are simply not privy to.

So you wait for Santino to bring it up first. He always addresses things out loud, unable to contain himself if something is plaguing his mind. Sometimes, on occasion, he even seeks out any advice you have to offer.

But not this time.

He seems to have retreated into himself a little too much.

Your interactions haven’t changed but something in his regard has.

It’s like he’s removing himself, taking a step back, preparing for something.

It worries you—it worries you because you have seen this once before. The last time it happened, John left you and shattered your world into pieces.

You can’t—

“You shouldn’t go,” he mutters as he watches you put your shoes on. “The Lovers could still be out there. Waiting.”

“Winston is old school,” you inform him with a brief, reassuring smile. “He doesn’t do business over the phone. And I’m not about to go to the Bowery King again. Besides I look worse than I feel, you know that. Enough resting.”

He steps closer, blocking your path and you look up at him.

It’s been comfortable spending the last few days with him. With Ares and Roberto and the other guard. Comfortable to a point it’s easy to forget everything going on outside the penthouse walls.

“How do you know he will even help, hm?” he questions but you can tell it’s only an effort to divert your attention. “He cannot get involved in these affairs, you know this, cara mia.”

You dip your head in a nod and ignore the slight twinge in your still bandaged ear. “Yes, and he also likes making exceptions…sometimes,” you say, giving him a pointed stare.

Santino exhales slowly, and mutters a defeated, “Stubborn.”

A grin blooms across your face but it withers moments later as you stare at him. Perhaps—

“What’s going on, Santi?”

His face is calm, his stare focused on you as always. His eyes never stray too far from you whenever you’re around but it’s only lately that you’ve become so aware of them.

He touches you with his eyes almost as gently as he does with his hands. Like he can feel you with his gaze alone.

“Is something suppose to be ‘going on’?” he wonders, his accent twisting his question into something almost teasing, and if you weren’t so sure that something is, in fact, going on, you might have dropped it.

You stare at him expectantly, and after another moment he sighs, one of his hands slipping into his pockets. “Do not worry, amore. Everything is fine.”

“Promise?”

His eyebrows arch, his expression practically oozing arrogance. “Have I ever lied to you?”

No. He’s always been honest with you. Often painfully, directly so.

Your eyes snag onto his tie and you reach forward, smoothing your fingertips over the silky material. The dark brown tie with blue pattern is familiar to you—as is the golden pin with pale green gem holding it in place.

Both presents from you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek. “If anything happens—”

His hand settles on top of yours and your eyes jump up to him. There is something heavy about his scrutiny and his hand lifts in the air between you, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek. “I should be the one saying that, no?” he muses and his eyes roam over your features with that flustering intensity. “Trouble follows you everywhere, bella. But I will keep you safe.”

“That’s rich. You’re just as bad as I am.”

He only offers a slight, crooked grin in reply and you shake your head in mock disbelief, pulling away from him and checking the pistol under your coat.

“I’ll ring you after I’m done talking with Winston,” you inform him and give him one last look over your shoulder as you pull the door open. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, grumpy.”

He lifts his hand in a slight wave but doesn’t answer.

And you wonder the entire elevator journey down why it makes you feel so unease that he didn’t.

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

John straightens, his bones creaking as he raises his head slightly and listens.

He’s not expecting guests, and certainly not at this hour.

His mind jumps to you for a brief second, wondering if perhaps something awful has happened after all. He hasn’t heard from you in days but he’s also been busy himself. Finally, his revenge was completed, and the remains of his old life now buried once again.

He treks up the stairs, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that plagues his every step. A shadow of a figure stands behind the door patiently, knowing to wait instead of just leaving. And not you. He knows the shape of you as well as he knows his own, and whoever has come is unlikely to be here for a pleasant chat at this hour. There is a brief instant in which he contemplates not opening the door at all.

After the events of the last few weeks, he just wants to sit and—

Perhaps just sit and think and be with his thoughts for a bit.

With a subdued exhale, he pulls on the handle, the door swinging open silently.

The sight that greets him on the other side stills something inside him.

A familiar man. A man who helped him get out stands before him.

Five years have changed Santino D’Antonio. There is something about the way the man now holds himself that’s different to whatever recollections John still has of him from years ago.

He knew an arrogant, charismatic man who liked setting things on fire just to see if they would burn to nothing or endure. The Santino he remembers never cared about anyone or anything except for himself. That’s why John has always felt so apprehensive about Santino’s keen interest in you—an interest the man has never tried to hide, not even from him.

“John.”

No smirk; not even a show of superiority with which Santino always handled his affairs so effortlessly. Something more cunning, more honed and focused, stares back at him and John’s instincts go on high alert. He has changed.

That focused calm almost reminds him—

Of you.

The same way your cool mocking with Perkins and the priest inside Viggo’s church had reminded him of the man standing at his doorway now.

“Santino.”

The Italian extends his arm and John clasps his hand in his, shaking it even as his eyes skip over the man to take count of his many guards. A familiar, elegant face catches his attention and John’s eyes pause on the woman he recognises from the cemetery.

She’s a friend.

Yes, apparently Santino’s guards are now your friends, too. The woman’s eyes narrow on him when their stares meet, judging and warning all at once, and John drags his stare back towards the Italian.

“May I come in?”

It’s a polite, pleasant request—just barely.

Something in the man’s expression tells John that even if he were to refuse, he would still hear about the reason for this late-night visit regardless. There is just enough iciness in the man’s stare that guarantees a confrontation John would rather avoid.

“Of course,” he says instead, opening the door wider and inviting the Italian inside. Santino steps forward, turning to nod his head at the woman. His second in command? John doesn’t let his surprise show as the door closes. “Café?”

“Grazie.”

John pauses by the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing towards the lounge. The man nods his head in thanks but his expression remains solemn.

It pulls at something—a worry—deep inside his gut. “Is it V?”

Santino’s eyes snap to him, something sparking there, but he controls his expression. The man John knew was expressive and easily provoked. That, too, seems to have changed to a degree.

But he shouldn’t be surprised. That Santino has changed, or that you have, either. Five years is a long time, and the forming picture of that time he was away…

He doesn’t know the specifics, but all the implications press against his heart like a weight.

A part of him doesn’t want to even consider how bad it might have been for you.

Hunted, hurt. All because of him.

“No, (Name) is fine.”

Your name—your real name; it flows from Santino’s tongue like molten honey. He utters it with ease and familiarity, an intimacy that shows years of use. Once, John was one of the select few to know your real name, and he can’t help but wonder what the Italian had to do to gain that level of trust from you.

Something buried deep, deep down coils tortuously at the thought of it.

He blinks and turns to enter the kitchen, moving towards the coffee machine as if on automatic. Silence reigns from the hallways where he left Santino for a few minutes before his voice floats over.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife, John.”

He can’t help but wonder if the man means that.

The last time they saw each other, on the night of his task, Santino wore an expression of such poorly controlled fury that John expected the Italian to pull a gun on him instead. He never asked what had put him in such a foul mood because his only focus had been on getting out. The Camorra heir never did pull a gun on him, though his parting words have haunted John regardless.

“Have a very happy life, John.”

Back then, Santino had sounded like he was cursing him. Wishing him the exact opposite of a happy life. One of the many reasons why his sudden change of heart from not helping him to helping him has never quite made sense to John.

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

“And the dog?” Santino wonders loudly. “Does he have a name?”

John leans his palms against the counter for a moment, exhaling, “No.”

If you are fine, then there is only one other reason as to why Santino might be here. Why he would seek John out now.

He gathers the coffee cup in his hand and walks towards the lounge. Santino is already there, shrugging off his finely made overcoat. As always, the Italian man is immaculate. Every seam and inch of him breathes power and money.

He sets down the espresso in front of the man before sitting down himself.

Santino doesn’t waste time though. He’s barely seated before the man begins speaking, “Listen, John,” he says promptly. “With all sincerity, I don’t want to be here.”

That much is true. It’s perhaps the most honest thing Santino has ever said to him. Irony, perhaps, at its finest.

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

“Please, don’t,” he says softly. “I’m asking you not to do this.”

But Santino appears unmoved by his request, by his subtle pleading not to go down this path. His green eyes take John in coolly and he shakes his head slightly, pulling a familiar object from his suit pocket. The familiar round curve of the Marker gleams in the light and it clangs deafeningly onto the table as Santino places it down between them.

“No one gets out and comes back without repercussions, John,” he tells him tersely, and a muscle inside Santino’s jaw ticks with a subtle clench. There is a spark of something like resentment there for a second before the man pulls it back, hides it. “Don’t be so quick to forget that the only reason why you are here, like this, is because of what she did for you. If it weren’t for her, you won’t be sitting here right now. So all of this is in part hers…and mine.”

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

His genuine confusion seems to give the heir a pause too, and Santino releases a shallow breath, a sudden understanding gleaming in his too clever, too conniving eyes.

“So you don’t know,” he concludes and this time his bitterness is palpable. He’s still more controlled than usual and John decides he’s better off waiting for some semblance of explanation. What do you have to do with— “She never told you, did she? To spare you, I presume. Ah, such kindness from someone you disregarded so easily.”

That stings but it’s deserved. He could try and explain to Santino that what he did was the only way to make sure you lived, but judging by the pinched expression on the man’s face, he doubts Santino would care much for his reasonings.

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio care—

“Why do you think I changed my mind about helping you, hm?” Santino speaks up, dashing his thoughts apart and John listens, an awful understanding starting to take place instead of confusion. “It’s because (Name) came to me, heartbroken and haunted, and asked me to help you with your Impossible Task. And I did, for her. You owe her your life. A debt that needs paying, John.”

“That’s not yours to call in,” he whispers tightly.

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

After the hotel. After saying something as final and as destructive as If you walk out of that door, I never want to see you again to still go asking for help on his behalf—

“No, but this is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t want this.

You had given him this life, this time with Helen. You could have told him what you did but you never did. If it hadn’t been for you, Santino never would have helped him. Not after Tokyo.

“Take it back.”

It’s like a switch being flipped, and Santino’s calm expression seems to stutter, straining, before he manages to rope himself back in. But this time his anger is palpable.

“Take it back?” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

He doesn’t want this life that’s bled him dry again. This life that has made him sick with guilt.

“A Marker is no small thing, John,” the Italian intones icily, his eyes blazing as his fingers motion between them. “For a man to grant a Marker to another, is to bind a soul to a blood oath.”

He knows. He knows this but—

“Find someone else.”

Whatever final shred of self-control Santino seems to be clinging to cracks briefly. He reaches forward abruptly, grabbing the Marker and John hears the tell-tale click of the device opening. In an instant, he is faced with a bloody imprint of his thumb inside the metal. His oath.

“Listen to me,” Santino hisses, his previous pleasantries forgotten. He points his finger at the blood and his head tilts with a mocking little smile. “What is this? Hmm? Do you remember? This is your blood. You came to me asking for help and I helped you. She suffered because of your negligence and then you broke our deal by keeping her away from me instead.”

The Italian releases a laboured breath and gathers his fleeing composure swiftly. Swallowing, he tries again, calmer this time, “Honour the Marker, John, and I’ll have the power to always keep her safe. You can go back to your...make-believe, and never hear from either of us ever again. If you don’t do this, you know the consequences.”

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

He can still see your expression at the Continental when your phone rang. How your severe, taut features had softened at the name on the screen, and lightness in your voice when you had picked up, “Hey, grumpy.”

How much has changed between you and Santino?

Are you—

His head turns and his stare snags onto a photo of him and Helen.

Helen.

God, he loves her. Misses her daily. His time with her was the happiest he’s ever been.

You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time.

You bought him this time and he regrets so many things. Regrets not doing a better job of warning you, preparing you, protecting you, trying to fix things between you sooner.

And even after everything—even now, you still understand him better than anyone. Understand how he doesn’t want this, can’t handle the thought of being back much less actually going back.

He could. But there would be no way back. No second ticket just like you said and whatever he is—whatever little good there might still reside inside him—would be wrecked and destroyed beyond repair if he did.

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s you.

Maybe because it is you, he turns back towards Santino and tells him, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

The Italian’s expression falters, growing slack. He regards John critically for a long moment and snaps the Marker shut, pointing at him. “You are always that guy, John,” he retorts calmly, his voice soft with accusation. “You have no idea how much suffering you have caused her. This is the least you can do.”

He places the Marker between them again; a final chance, and waits.

John stares at it.

I’m respecting your decision to stay retired.

“I can’t help you,” he whispers heavily, and slides the Marker back across towards the Camorra heir. “I’m sorry. She understands.”

He knows you do. That you will. He hopes you will. He doesn’t want to lose you again.

It’s in a slow look upwards from the Marker to his face, that John sees a glimpse of the old Santino again. That cold-blooded rage that’s practically spilling out from him as he lightly licks his lips, trying to keep himself in check. But no matter how much he tries to contain it, Santino’s anger is so tangible John can almost feel its destructive burn.

He rises to his feet, and Santino does too. The Marker is already in the Italian’s hand and he pockets it carefully. He then slips his tightly clenched fists into his pockets, too, and cocks his head in a proud, scornful manner. If there’s one thing John can say about Santino, is that the man has never flinched away from his stare. Never looked away or lowered his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s arrogance or genuine lack of fear but he’s always admired that in Santino.

The Italian’s next words might as well be a knife straight to the chest though.

“You don’t deserve her,” he states calmly, coldly, looking him up and down as if disgusted. “You never did.”

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

For a moment, John is rooted in his spot, unable to form a coherent thought in his suddenly too empty head.

He follows after the heir moments later, dragging his feet after him.

Santino pauses in the doorway of his home, fixing his sleeves as he gives John a dispassionate little smile.

“You have a beautiful home, John,” he remarks thoughtfully, glancing around briefly with a slight grin. It dies seconds later and Santino turns away, dropping his overcoat around his shoulders with a sweep of his arms. “Buona notte,” he calls out loudly as he walks away.

John closes the door with a soft click and moves across the hallway a few deliberate steps at the time. His eyes trace over his home slowly, savouring the sight and the feel of it. He lifts a photo of him and Helen to his face, staring at those adoring, happy faces.

He can’t recall the feeling of that happiness anymore. Everything in his life has turned to ash.

A distant crash tears through the house and he raises his head.

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

“Charon.”

The man greets you with a faint glimmer of levity in his eyes. His glasses reflect the light emitting from the computer in front of him, and he inclines his head in your direction.

“Miss Vipress. It is a pleasure to have you back with us again,” he says and your own smile stretches. “How may I help? A doctor, perhaps?”

Biting back a sarcastic retort, you quirk your eyebrow at his deliberate baiting and lean your elbows on the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” you reassure, tapping your fingers in a restless little rhythm. “Winston?”

Charon’s lips flatten in a professional line, and you already know what will come out of his mouth before he speaks. You have seen him adapt this cast many times before.

“Sir is currently away on business but he will be back by the morning,” he divulges and clicks the computer keys a few times without even glancing down. “Should I schedule a time for you?”

You both know it’s a formality and nothing more than that. For the sake of equality and appearance, you still “schedule” appointments if there are people around. Usually, you go to Winston whenever you please and the man has no choice but to put up with you. Obviously, he loves it when you do that.

But right now, Winston may be the only one able to get you information on where the Lovers have disappeared to. The rules state he can’t get involved in such matters as a manager but Winston is Winston. He lives by his own code, too. One you can’t help but respect and imitate yourself.

You hope he’ll help you because the alternatives make you battle down a weary groan.

“Please,” you voice politely, stilling your fingers when Charon’s attention drifts towards them. “As early as you can.”

He inclines his head in a courteous manner, ever the professional. “Of course. I’ll be sure to let Sir know you are looking for him as soon as he arrives.”

Bobbing your head, you let your hand settle on your phone and glance towards the lounge.

“Thanks. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Anything good on?”

A thin smile appears on the man’s face, and his rare show of amusement surprises you.

“I do believe your favourite dessert is being served today, Miss.”

You snort, pushing yourself away from the counter with a brief look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not falling into anyone.

“Lucky.”

Giving him another smile, you move towards the lounge, definitely ready for some food.

During the brief walk, you also take a moment to text Santino.

Winston is out. Will be back by the morning. I’ll stay at the Continental for the night. Breakfast tomorrow?

You send the text and sit down at an empty table further away, grabbing the menu as you get comfortable. This thing is so long and changes so often that reading it feels like reading a fresh newspaper every time you come here.

You’re barely done with the starters when distinct footsteps approach your table.

“Sorry I’m not ready to order yet,” you call out without looking up. “Can you give me another five?”

No answer.

And then—

A scent tickles your nose. You know that scent. The strong, heady cologne.

Your head jerks up, your muscles locking at the sight of a large, looming figure standing before you.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you’ve seen him.

Everything from the strong, sharp cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the icy, bored gleam in his bright blue eyes. His large, muscular build is as menacing as it’s always been, as is the pitch-black suit he wears that only accents it. But the most telling is the heavy tattoos marking almost every inch of his skin apart from his face. The ink is masterfully etched along his fingers and peeks from under his shirt as it trails all the way up to his neck.

He’s the type of man you would cross the street just to avoid.

“Lady Camorra,” he greets gruffly with a derivative curve of his mouth.

It splits his face apart into something as handsome as it is terrible. His beauty isn’t really beautiful. His beauty is the type you can cut yourself onto but still be fascinated by it.

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

He scoffs at your reaction and wanders towards the empty seat, gracelessly dragging the chair back as he seats himself down without permission. “Relax,” he mutters, irritated, and then adds a mocking, “And don’t forget about the rules.”

He looks huge seated against such a small, intimate backdrop. Danger crowds you, your instincts recognising the predator before you, and you slant your body at an angle, your fingers smoothing over a vial of poison in the seam of your coat.

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around.

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl lowly and he tracks your subtle movements with dull disinterest.

“Oh dear,” he drones with a slight sneer. “Did I accidentally reveal one of Santi’s wet dreams? My bad.”

“What are you doing here Hector?”

The man before you smirks, his expression morphing into something frightening, and the Camorra’s Devil bares his teeth at you in what passed for a polite greeting for him.

“Sightseeing.”

Your expression tightens, and you don’t bother masking your heated glare. “Feed that cork of shit to someone who actually believes it.”

As if Hector, one of Camorra’s elite guards, would come to New York for sightseeing. Hector who is known for his ruthlessness, for his unbreakable loyalty to Camorra. He was handpicked by Giovanni himself, recruited when he was only eight, and made into an elite guard at age eighteen. Only four such positions exist, and these individuals protect and answer only to the head of Camorra and no one else. He was the youngest and first non-native Italian to ever inherit the position. Many say Giovanni favoured Hector even above his own heirs for his brutality alone.

From what you’ve seen of how Giovanni D’Antonio treated his children, you would be inclined to agree.

Hector reaches into his jacket, and his smirk stretches at the way you gradually lower the menu onto the table, your blade glinting between you.

But the man only pulls out an envelope from his pocket, placing it between you. The cut is familiar as is the faint perfume exuding from it.

“Judging by your frowny little face, you already know what this is,” he notes and taps his knuckles against the invite once before his tattooed fingers lift. The rings donning them click softly and you follow the motion. You once saw those hands break bones like popsicle sticks. Effortless, quick, and brutal. “Good. That means I won’t have to waste my breath explaining it to you.”

Your eyes meet his warily. You don’t trust him or this entire encounter. “Why is she inviting me?”

To invite Santino to the inheritance ceremony is one thing, but you—

Hector sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair as if this conversation is already boring him. He grabs a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with expert ease. As one would expect from two pack a day man.

Sometimes it still surprises you his lungs haven’t given out yet.

“Why won’t she?” he ponders with a tone that implies he doesn’t care to hear your thoughts on the matter. The vicious set of his features disappears in a puff of smoke but you don’t blink. Hector is not the type of man you take your eyes away from if you want to live. “She’s about to inherit Camorra and you’re the Vipress. You’ve worked for Camorra plenty of times before. Maybe she’s simply trying to build bridges.”

This time, you scoff. “Funny. Considering she’s the one who burned them.”

How funny that Gianna would come seeking to make amends now. After all this time, you don’t even think you’re upset or angry at her anymore but the timing of this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Bore someone else with your little dramas,” Hector deadpans and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “If she was stupid enough to make an enemy out of you, I don’t particularly care.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

Giovanni’s prized little monster. Best of the best.

But Giovanni is dead now. And Camorra is in suspension.

It’s then, more than ever, that you see the reason for Hector’s dismissiveness.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he is, and Camorra doesn’t just send its best killer for delivery service. No matter how much of a personal touch Gianna may believe you will require.

“Don’t tell Hector.”

Step had known. His hesitance during your call days ago suddenly makes sense.

“Careful,” you purr slowly and tilt your chin. “That’s your new boss you’re talking about. Show a little respect. I thought you liked Gianna.”

He snorts, and slants his head back, staring at the ceiling above. Completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s baring his throat to you. He’s one of the very few you won’t immediately call an idiot for doing so.

“Like her? This has nothing to do with liking her or Santino better. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about either of them. Same bullshit over and over again with those two. ‘Papi loves me best’, Papi didn’t give a shit about either of them,” he mutters tensely, and his attention swings back to you, his pale eyes cutting. He leans on his elbows, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering. “Giovanni loved Camorra and that’s who I now serve. The family, not the individual. Besides, you of all people should know respect is earned, not demanded.”

You toy with the blade on the table, your fingertips grazing against the honed edges.

The door is wide open for a metaphorical knife so you sink it deep.

“Yes, it must be very hard no longer being Giovanni’s favourite little pet,” you drawl knowingly and watch the way his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “Why are you here, Hector? Why didn’t Gianna send someone else? Why not Cassian?”

“Cassian,” Hector begins pointedly. “Is probably too busy fucking her to have time and play the delivery boy. Maybe she simply knows I’m your favourite,” he adds knowingly.

The fucking nerve of this prick.

The blade slips in between your index and middle fingers, and you spin it on the table smoothly; once, twice, thrice.

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused.

“When Giovanni threw me out of their estate, I recall your hands on me,” you remind him, and there is a frigid bite to your soft words. “If Gianna wants to make enemies, then she did well in sending you to me.”

His head tilts and he puts out his almost gone cigarette against the silver spoon next to him before glancing back towards you.

“Giovanni was my boss,” he states flatly. “If he had asked, I would have put a bullet in your head, too.”

It’s that simple for him. He, unlike you, or John, or even Santino doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.

That’s always been Giovanni’s genius. His ability to assure such absolute loyalty through any means necessary the individuals in question don’t even hesitate in carrying out his orders. Most in Camorra are recruited young so by the time they grow up, they have nothing else outside of it. Camorra is the only path for them; a maze without end. All the way until their deaths, and then they’re replaced in a matter of hours.

You have never met anyone who embodies Camorra more than the man before you.

“Assuming you could.”

A glimmer of a chilling smile graces his face. “Sweetheart, I’m not like the other three,” he points out lightly. “I would snap your pretty, little neck faster than you can blink.”

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

Hector makes a small, amused sound at the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, a flash of white teeth filling your sight. “I’ll admit, things have been pretty boring without you around to cause havoc. You know how they get. So stiff.”

You hum, contemplative. “Is that why they sent you?”

Hector doesn’t like to waste his time on pointless chitchat, but he hates stupidity even more.

He nods his head, pleased you’ve caught on, and plays with the lighter between his fingers. It’s a motion just slightly too agitated to come off as completely casual though.

“Yes, well, it’s not every day darling Santi goes around throwing the word of old Camorra around, now is it?” he speaks and his tone is monotonous. “Do you think the old fuckers took it well? When they learned he tied the entire family to your whims? And now that you’re free of your chain it gives you a little too much power for their liking. What happened with the Lovers? Well that’s a pretty good reason to call in the said oath, now isn’t it?”

Your throat is dry and your own fingers are still around the blade. It had slipped your mind. The fact that for Santino’s oath to be binding, he would have had to inform the family head in order for it to be officially acknowledged. Since Gianna has not officially taken over yet, the news would have reached the collective council of Camorra first.

You can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that room had to learning about what Santino did.

Which makes you wonder only one thing.

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

This time, Hector does laugh. It’s a wrapped, ugly sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. Like the act itself is unfamiliar to him.

“If I were you would be dead already,” he states mildly and seems entertained by the slight, annoyed pinch of your expression at his statement. “But no, not yet. Hence the invite.”

“So Gianna wants to buy me instead,” is your bitter, tepid assessment.

The harsh planes of Hector’s features crease with exasperation.

“I don’t particularly care what she wants,” he shoots back briskly. “I’m only here to make sure that Santino doesn’t fuck up again because he’s so desperate to stick his cock inside you.”

He ignores your seething glower and rises to his feet, throwing the lighter in the air before catching it easily in his palm and pocketing it. He fixes his suit as he stares down at you, judging every scrape and bruise marring your face. The expensive, dark material stretches over his powerful, tall frame and you watch him carefully.

“Relax already, but do grow eyes at the back of your head,” he advises, almost pleasantly, and looks you up and down, unbothered by your glare. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

And then he leaves you sitting at your table alone, your appetite long since gone.

You take the painkillers dry, not wasting time with water as you emerge onto the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over you.

Today is pleasant. These last few days have brought a spell of bright, warm weather and you can’t help but incline your head towards the light.

It reminds you of your dream when you just woke up after the attack but you shake it off, trying not to think about it.

You’re here only for the man you can already see seated at the table and drinking tea.

Winston’s head lifts at the sound of your approach, and his sharp gaze does one quick sweep over you before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Good God,” he mutters dryly before you can speak. “Did they drag you through those tunnels by the hair?”

Rolling your eyes, you huff a small breath, falling unceremoniously onto the empty chair before him.

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” you retort dully and pinch your voice lower. “I’ve missed you, V. So good to see you’re alive and well, my dear.”

Winston pauses, giving you a flat stare but his eyebrows furrow slightly as he examines you closely, seemingly confused. Maybe even a touch surprised.

“Hmm, you are in a chipper mood this morning,” he notes, sounding just a bit nonplussed, and takes another sip before writing something down in his notebook. “Handling this better than I expected.”

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what better?”

This time it’s Winston who pauses, his pen scratching to a halt as he looks up at you.

“You didn’t see Johnathan on your way up here?” he questions, his voice deceptively calm.

Something sinks in the pit of your stomach; an awful, curdling feeling of unease.

“John?” you murmur, confused. “Why would I see John here?”

John should be back home. Back with his dog. Enjoying his retirement. He should not be here, at the beating heart of your shadow world.

Winston’s expression eases into a cool mask you have seen hundreds of times before, and his next words make your heartbeat spike just slightly, “You don’t know.”

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady.

“Winston,” you begin softly. “Know what?”

The man sighs deeply, the look in his eyes probably the weariest you have ever seen, and he moves the teapot in your direction.

“Join me for tea, dear,” he says and gives you a look that makes you sit up. “I’m afraid this will be rather unpleasant.”

You have no idea what expression you have on your face but whatever it is, it makes Roberto cringe. His anxious stare as you approach is telling enough.

“V, wait!”

“Don’t.”

It’s a rasp of fury that manages to freeze the guard in front of you and makes his partially extended hand fall back to his side. His expression is torn, almost pained as he peers at you.

“He did it for you.”

He might as well have dropped a burning match into your stomach that’s full of gasoline ready to scorch its way through everything it comes into contact with.

“For me? For me?”

Ares steps from behind Roberto, her expression guarded and your glare narrows on her.

She knew. What happened last night must have been the reason for the tension between her and Santino over these last few days. The blood roaring inside your ears drowns out the sounds of lively chatter around you. The gallery is full, but you will see him. Regardless of the audience.

Roberto moves to the side, the look on his face full of understanding if not trepidation, and your eyes slide back to Ares. She’s blocking your way, but even she cannot hide Santino from you. Though you can tell by her expression it’s not because he ordered her to do so, and more so because neither she nor Roberto wishes to witness this confrontation.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit about what either of them wants right now.

He did it to keep you safe.

You ignore her words, instead biting out a grim, “Get out of my way. Now.”

Her blue eyes watch you for a tense moment, but she moves eventually. Only one small step to the side.

You brush past them both without a word.

The muffled noise your shoes create as you walk down the hallway echoes around you, and you emerge into a small section that houses a well-known collection to you.

He sits in front of an enormous painting of a battlefield, silent and alone. But doesn’t speak a word as you approach even though you’re the only ones here.

He knows you well. So he knew you would come.

This morning you woke up to a simple: Something has come up. Dinner instead?—Santi without any additional information.

Now, you know the something in question was going to John’s home to demand payment for a Marker you had no idea even existed until this morning. John never told you, and neither did Santino.

Winston thought you knew about the deal made to get you out of Tokyo, but he was wrong.

For his help in getting you out, Santino had asked for a blood oath in exchange. An oath he almost tied you to as well, even if he ended up changing his mind last second.

Bitterness in your chest swells till it’s almost suffocating you as you come to a halt before him.

His expression is serene, a melancholic smile lingering across the seams of his mouth while he sits with his hands clasped in his lap.

You’re so angry, you can’t even form a coherent thought, much less words. But he speaks first, still not looking at you.

“When I was little, my home used to be a kaleidoscope of colour,” he begins, and his voice is soft, almost dreamy. “Paintings everywhere you looked. My mother—she adored art. She even had a painting studio in the west wing. Did I ever tell you that?”

You don’t answer and he still doesn’t look at you.

“To be fair,” he continues after a beat of suffocating silence. “She was not particularly good at it but she loved it so that my father used to buy all these expensive paintings for her to hang around the house. One day, I worked up the courage to ask him why he would pay so much money for something he did not care for. To him, it was nothing more than a bit of paint on canvas. He had no interest in art nor its beauty. So I asked him, and he thought about it for a long time. So long that I feared my question might have angered him, but no. Mhm. He leaned back in his chair, blew out a puff of smoke, and said to me: ‘They make your mother smile.’ As simple as that. You see it was then I realised it had nothing to do with how much money they cost, or even the prestige of owning them. He bought them simply because they made my mother happy. Her happiness was worth any price to him.”

He pauses, swallowing thickly, and his lips tremble for a second before he presses them into a tight line. “Of course after she died, his indifference grew into hatred. He demanded that every painting was to be removed from his sight and from the house. The once vibrant walls of my home became cold and barren. And now, hm, now I look at these paintings from my childhood but they are only distant echoes of a past long since dead. Now, I see what my father saw. Some paint on canvas and nothing more.”

There is something lonely about his expression. About the way he stares at the grand painting before him like he’s half a foot in his past and half in the present.

“What did you do?”

It comes out softer than you’ve intended, but your anger hasn’t cooled—not even at hearing his little story.

Finally, Santino looks towards you. His eyes take you in and his slight smile sharpens.

“Judging by your expression, amore, you already know,” he states and blinks a few times before looking away. The smile on his face is growing colder and colder by the second, and you hate it. “Let me guess. Was it Winston?”

But you’re too angry right now and cut straight to the heart of it. “You blew up his house.”

John’s home; a home that’s a lot more than just a home to him. That house has been a part of Helen too. One of the very few reminders of her, and it was a place of comfort for John—a place where he could be soothed by the happy memories they’ve shared. And now—

Now it’s ash.

“And he refused a Marker,” Santino announces, his tone growing colder, more unforgiving. “We both know I could have demanded his head for that alone.”

You suck in a deep breath, taking a step towards him. “You had no right to that Marker in the first place!”

Your words are like a whip, brimming with fury, and Santino’s self-control crumbles. He rises to his feet abruptly and steps towards you too, his eyes a green flame.

“No right? I had every right,” he hisses and points his index finger between you. “We are not children, cara mia. We do not hand out charity, especially not me.”

Your slight chuckle is icy, as is your sarcastic smile. “No, you don’t,” you agree softly and your heart clenches in your chest. Why would he do this? Why else if not— “You just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by, could you?”

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

Santino leans back with an understanding exhale of breath as he regards you.

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t everything with you?”

He saw an opportunity to get a Marker from the most feared man in the world, and he took it. You’re not foolish enough to believe it’s because whatever Santino felt for you back then was so pure and special.

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

You don’t think you have ever seen him so furious in all the years you have known him. Except, maybe, once before. Back in Chicago. When that man—

“Let me tell you something about your precious Johnathan,” Santino bites out, his voice forcefully calm, but only just barely. “Let me shed some light onto his heroic actions in regards to Tokyo because clearly you either don’t know or could use a reminder. How many days were you stuck in that pit, amore? Hm?”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

“Ten days,” he forces out after a brief pause, and his words quicken with his fraying temper. This is not new. This is years of bottled-up frustration, spilling out at the most inopportune time. This is a result of you refusing to discuss John or anything relating to him for years. “Next question, when did John come to me, do you think? Did he ever tell you, hm? Did he?”

“No,” you choke out.

“No,” he repeats, but doesn’t look surprised by it. “How delightful of him. Day eight, cara mia. Over a week. But wait, it gets better. It was Winston who contacted him about you being missing. So he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to check on you himself.”

Those words burn and sting and tear at the leftover shards of the girl you once were. So long ago now. Because no matter what, that’s exactly what you always feared, isn’t it? That either John didn’t notice or didn’t care enough. But you were the one who cut contact with him before Tokyo, so can you really blame him for not noticing your absence sooner? Can Santino?

For a very long time, you did.

But you’re tired of feeling the suffocating shroud of hatred and bitterness all the time. You’ve moved past it.

“Next question—and you are going to love this part, amore—how long do you think it took for my people to track down who took you? Hm?” he proceeds without waiting, and in every word he speaks, you hear the days, weeks, months, years all of this has plagued him. A storm he’s been holding back because it hurt you too much to talk about it. But everyone has a breaking point and it seems like Santino has reached his. “Six hours. Only six. You were there for over a week suffering and alone while dear John was busy charming, dining, and fucking some woman while I found you in six hours.”

Your heart, oh your heart, it hurts. It hurts so much it’s an effort to keep yourself still, composed.

Six hours.

Did it really only take Santino six hours to track your location?

All those days of pain and torture and—

You feel sick. Deep in your stomach, deep in your soul.

“So forgive me, amore, but demanding a Marker had little to do with having power over him,” Santino tells you, a bit calmer now, even if his breaths are still uneven. “It was a punishment. I am punishing him and I will continue doing so because it will never be enough. Because he failed you, broke our agreement, and then almost broke you, too. Because I, unlike you, am not so forgiving when it comes to his sins, cara mia.”

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless.

Another present from you. A little piece of you given to him because—

Because he’s important to you.

“He didn’t know,” you whisper weakly, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

“Oh, but if he loved you as much as he claimed,” Santino tells you quietly, and you see his expression soften a touch at your helplessness, his previous rage retreating somewhat. “Then perhaps he should have.”

You’re not sure what you can say in defence to that. If anything.

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

“What did you ask?” you ask him instead. “To kill the Lovers?”

Why else would he want to drag John Wick into this? A quick, clean sweep to get rid of your enemies. A way for both of you to stay out of a volatile situation and safe while John hunts them down.

Santino stills and something in your stomach sinks at the look in his eyes. It’s that retreat again. Like he’s mentally preparing himself for whatever is going to happen next.

“Ah, not quite,” he says cautiously, and you can see him measuring his words—a rarity. “That is only a temporary solution. There will always be the next enemy and the one after that, yes? The only way to keep us both safe permanently...is if I become the head of Camorra.”

A breath shudders out of you, and with it the numbing understanding, a realisation of what he’s saying. There are only two ways he could become the head of Camorra.

If Gianna passes him the title willingly in an official ceremony.

Or—

“No,” you breathe, pained, and see his expression crumple at your reaction. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Santino.”

He reaches for you, desperate, “It is the only way—”

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your sister!”

Santino chuckles, his expression stony and his wild stare cuts away from you, frustrated.

“My sister—” he begins and cuts himself off abruptly, exhaling once before he looks back at you. He takes a step closer, only a step separating you now. “Let’s not stand here and pretend that if the situation was reversed she wouldn’t do the exact same to me, amore. Tell me, if she set her loyal dog onto me, would you still be so defensive of them then? Still call them your friends? Or would you let them kill me? Eh?”

The anger blazing inside your chest grows cold and hard in a blink. Stinging hurt follows swiftly after.

“How dare you?” you whisper softly and his lips part, a glint of regret appearing before he masks it quickly. “How dare you stand there and ask me that? After everything,” you practically gag on the last word.

After all these years. After everything you’ve been through together.

Santino’s hands slip inside his pockets, a shield against you when you can see how your reactions are affecting him, weakening him.

“Perhaps it’s because unlike saint Johnathan, I don’t get all my sins blindly forgiven,” he states evenly, an old resentment coating his words. “Tell me, (Name), do I even exist in your eyes? Or am I simply a replacement?”

His words are delicate, almost like a part of him knows the answer but is preparing to hear you confirm it.

And you feel so angry—so angry he would just assume he knows how you feel better than you do.

“Stop. Stop dragging John into this when what this is really about is you,” you whisper harshly, your voice hoarse as you stare up at him. “This is all it’s ever been about. You and your thirst for power. You were always going to do this, weren’t you? You always wanted the seat above all else, except now you can stand there and feel justified in your decision.”

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

“What is it that you want from me, (Name)?” he wonders curiously. “Do you want me to play at being a good man? Well, I am not a good man. I always thought you knew that.”

Shaking your head, you hate the helplessness you feel rolling in your chest, the despair of knowing how terribly everything is about to crumble apart.

“I never cared about you being good,” you confess gently, weakly, and his jaw clenches so tightly you can see the rigidness of it. “But how many will die in order for you to take that seat?”

Too many. All because of Chicago and what you both did. Or perhaps it would always end up the same. With both of you here, aching with things unsaid.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Santino hums, mock thoughtful. But his expression is still vacant. “Do you want me to confess the depth of my indifference then? Is that it?” he murmurs calmly and frees his hand, placing his fingers against your cheek, his touch as tender as always. He leans closer until you can almost feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Very well, cara mia. I would let everyone at Camorra, this city, and even my own sister die if it means keeping you safe.”

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it, you will never be loved like that again.”

“Is that what you think I want, Santino?” you wonder faintly, leaning your cheek into his palm for a fleeting moment. “For you to tell me you would let people die for me?”

His grin grows more crooked and his eyes devour you like he’s imprinting the sight of you to memory.

“No, amore. I want you to understand that I don’t need them but I do need you.”

If this happens—if John does this, it will unleash a storm you will never be able to force back into the genie bottle. It will destroy everything you have ever cared about or change it irrecoverably.

“Take it back,” you plead, your voice thick. “The Marker. Take it back.”

The light in those familiar, green eyes gutters out. “Take it back?” he echoes distantly, and his hand drops away from your face. “If it were for you, (Name), I would not even hesitate.”

His hand lowers, his fingers tracing over the chain around your neck. Your expression contorts, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. “But I know you’re only doing this in an attempt to spare him. So no. For the first time, I’m afraid I must refuse you.”

The weight of his words settles inside your heart, squeezing it painfully. You feel hollow and empty all at once.

“Then we’re done here.”

You turn away from him, staggering away. But his hand latches onto your wrist, pulling you back.

His stare is frantic, desolate.

“Amore—”

You yank your hand out of his hold violently, breathing heavily as you meet his stare, “Don’t call me that! I’m not your ‘love’,” you choke out, your voice cracking as you add a trembling, “I’m not your anything.”

He reels back as if struck, his lips parting and his eyes—

I will never abandon you.

Spinning around, you stride away and don’t look back once.

There is nothing left to say.

. . .

an: ah, things we do for love, eh? :)

jkhfsdjkhf i aM SO READY TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES ABOUT WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT *AHEM* we also got both Santi and John POVs this chapter and hoo boi they were rushed and bad but any feedback (and whether you would like to see more of them) are welcome!!! also, if this chapter reads a bit at a rapid-fire pace, that’s intentional. domino effect, and we’re in the thick of it now heh. also,,,, hector? he’s going to be pretty important so keep him in mind. reddit crew sorry for the delay but here he is as promised lol. as always, I can’t thank you all enough for supporting this dumb series. it, and you guys, bring me so much happiness it’s crazy <33

see you next time!!

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #john wick imagine #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #fic: children of ares

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