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hoodieofholland · 3 years

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Prove you something // Mob!Tom Smut

Summary: you get jealous over a meeting Tom have with another woman without your knowledge, and he has to prove you something.

Pairing: mob!tom x reader

Word count: ~4.5K

Warnings: smut (18+), fingering (f.), oral (f.), language.

A/n: I’m a sucker for mob!Tom, judge me, but these last contents we’ve been receiving for the past month are the blame. here we go again, enjoy.

Masterlist

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As a mob, Tom had to deal with a lot of different people throughout his busy day. You were used to the meetings all the time, even when it was past afternoon, hiting the midnight. Patiently, you'd wait your turn to share some good time with your boyfriend, unless he wanted you to stay for the day, besides him, in the conference room.

Today was slightly different. Tom was held for hours in the conference room, talking business, while you distracted yourself with some other work. But by the time it was around 7p.m., you were bored enough to walk up the place, wanting to know when he'd be over.

Wearing your favorite pyjamas, you walked through the silent house, and just as approaching the conference room, you heard an unusual type of voice.

"Listen, Tom, I'm not here to discuss the shitty situation..."

It got your attention, made you stop in your tracks to hear better, all because it was a female voice. Normally, Tom would always meet with men, them being the mob leaders around London. Not a woman.

You tried to sneak around and see if there were another voice in the room, but as soon as you put your ear to the door's thick wood, Harrison came up behind your figure, making you jump.

"Holy shit!" You screamed in whispers. "Jesus, Harrison, you scared the hell out of me!"

Harrison didn't make any effort to cover his laughter, making you shush him.

"Sneaking around, uh?" He teased through laughters. "You know what Tom says about listening behind closed doors. Someday it might come back to you".

Trying to contain your madness, you cross your arms around your chest and snort. "It's meant for you guys, you idiot. He's not talking about his girlfriend".

"Are you really sure?", still holding his teasing smile, he tilts his head a little. Eyeing the door again, he pouted. "Why didn't he invite you tonight, then?"

"Said it was some small business and wouldn't take that long". You shrugged, though you knew it was bullshit. Tom had already been inside that fucking room for what seemed forever. It wasn't any small business talk, for what it matters.

"I can tell you that there's not small talking inside there" he pointed his chin in the room's direction. "Melissa is right there".

A little confused, but still not wanting to give your feelings away, you stay cool with your voice. "Who is Melissa?"

Harrison’s eyes narrowed and you can tell he had no idea you didn’t know about a single thing that was going on inside there.

“Melissa. The majoriest woman in this whole fucking city. She’s, like, the only female mobster leader in England”. The emphasis in his voice made you feel the message he wanted to deliver. You felt even somewhat a little weak, as if the weight of the presence of that woman could be sensed in your lungs.

Harrison quirked a brow, waiting for your answer, but you didn’t say nothing. Why was Tom lying to you? Why he didn’t want you to know that this woman was right inside the room with him?

“Is he alone there?” You questioned Haz, who shakes his head negatively.

“No, I was there a couple of minutes ago. Just grabbing a cup of tea”. He lifted the mug on his hand. “There’s also her guard or something. The chick is a bit... ugh”

You felt the weight again. “What the fuck does ugh means?!”

Harrison was about to explain, but seeing your exasperated reaction, he just smiled teasingly again. “I think someone is jealous”.

You puffed your cheeks out in frustration, wanting to tug on your hair, or maybe on Harrison’s.

“You’re being ridiculous” you tried your best to sound neutral about the fact that your boyfriend was inside a not very large room with a woman you didn’t know nothing about, but it was getting harder as Harrison seemed like having some fun torturing you.

“Don’t worry, y/n, that’s not what I meant” he chuckled softly and gave you a apologetic smile. “It’s just business, that’s all. You know Tom is far from being suspicious”.

You knew that very well, and if you were being honest, that was not your concern. That didn’t make you less jealous, though. Tom was the most faithful man you knew, not only with you, but with his mates. He could do anything for you and he surely had already proved that you’re the only woman in his life.

Anyways, the thought of that powerful woman inside the fucking room was driving you mad.

“I wanna go inside”, you stated, already turning on your heels. Harrison was quick to grab your wrist, trying to stop you from entering the room.

“Y/n, what the fuck, he doesn’t want to-“

But you were too fast. Yanking the door open, you hear a slight gasp coming from Harrison and the entire room goes silent.

The first thing you notice is Tom, who were crudely interrupted by you. He looked tense with the conversation, eyes heavy, shoulders rigid. His elbow was supported by the large desk in front of his chair, while he seemed to gesticulate with his hand whilst talking to the woman, Melissa. His gaze was directed on you, a questioning look on his features, which didn’t softened like it always did when he talked to you.

“Sorry, I told her-“ Harrison was quick to say, but Tom interrupted him.

“What took you so long?” Ignoring your presence, without changing a single word with you, Tom averted his eyes to Harrison, who came out behind you and sat back at his chair.

“She wanted to come” he answered quietly, unsure of what to say.

Tom looked at you once more, face serious, as he seemed to calculate what say next.

“Why don’t you go wait in the living room, y/n?”

You open your mouth, just to close it again immediately. You didn’t recognize the way Tom was talking to you, almost harshly.

"What, Thomas? You don't enjoy a good woman's company? C'mon, let the girl sit with us" Melissa, who you just had the worry to look at said, putting her long polished nails over her chin. She eyed you up and down before speaking again. "What a beautiful girl you have, by the way. You didn't tell me she was all of that".

Tom closed his eyes briefly, jaw clenching, as he sighed heavily in frustration. You knew he was getting mad, and though you still didn't know why, you made up your mind.

"I'm fine, gonna wait in the room. Sorry for-"

"It's alright", he shook his head and looked back to Melissa. "It was good talking to you, but I need time to figure it out before we decide anything", Tom stood up from his chair and waited until the woman did the same. "I'm going to have a talk with my men and then I call you back".

Melissa smiled, but you could see very clearly that it was nothing but a false smile. "I'll keep in touch".

Tom just nodded once and waited for Melissa to walk out of the room, guided by Harrison, who was equally tense as he made his way to the door. Before she exited the room, Melissa had an eye on you again, a tiny smile making its presence on her face.

You shivered, too aware of the dangerous and power Harrison told you she held, clear in the way she wasn't afraid to show she was staring at you.

When the doors were closed, you couldn't lift your gaze from the floor. However, it was possible to see Tom by the corner of your eyes and the way he was supporting both of his hands on the desk, staring so intently at you that you bet he could see your goosebumps.

"Now that you have my attention", he started, voice deep. "Won't you say what was so important that you couldn't wait 'til I was over?"

You didn't say anything, neither looked at him, frozen on your spot.

"I'm talking to you".

His stern act had you conflicted. He would always use it in bed with you, but never got so mad at something that you did. Something that you didn't even know what was all about.

"You were taking too long, so I wanted to see if everything was alright", you answered, keeping your voice loud and clear enough, not wanting to give him the impression that you were intimidated by his words.

Tom snorted. "That's bullshit. I've already been out until later than this and you stayed in our room".

You roll your eyes, voice cheating you as the irritation consumes your thoughts. "Well, in these nights you weren't with a girl inside here".

Tom's face changed and a brow arched as a trace of a smirk made its way to his face. You had lost your though posture and you knew it.

"Are you jealous?" He chuckles, incredulous, "Really?"

You snort, unfolding your arms. Looking relaxed is the last thing you seem to be able to do right now, but also you didn't want to sound so immature being jealous over nothing.

"No, I am not. I'm just mad that... that you didn't tell me who you were meeting with." You corrected him, though you were too aware it was pretty much a lie. With an unwanted whine, you continue "And why you didn't let me in this time? You see, you just left a whole amount of suspicious things to my imagination."

Tom narrows his eyes, a mix of curiosity and confusion evident on his face.

"You don't actually believe it yourself, do you?" He questioned, a suspicious tone in his voice. A bit ashamed, you glanced down and nodded two times.

"I mean, Harrison just told me she's the biggest woman in London, or some shit like that" you shrugged involuntarily and felt tired, as you started to realise how silly you must be sounding.

It was pretty obvious to you that none of that should matter. Actually, it never did. Tom never turned his head to another woman but you, since you met. He never talked about any other girl than you, and you could tell he bragged about how much of a "lucky motherfucker" he was, as Harrison started complaining about Tom's random rambling just the other day.

Tom had done nothing but adored you since the first time he called you darling. And now you were overreacting because of a common meeting of his.

Tom sighed heavily and offered you his hand. Looking at it for one second, you reach for him, and he brings you closer. "That's probably my fault".

You tilt your head, not understanding his point. Tom sits down back on his chair e mention for you to take a seat on his thigh.

"Don't get me wrong, darling. I let you come to meetings only if I'm one hundred percent sure there's no harm on that. When I'm with friends, not my enemies" he caress two slender fingers through your cheek and you almost close your eyes in please, if it wasn't for his deep stare, full of concern and comprehension. "That woman is nothing but trouble for me and my men. She doesn't like us, I don't like her, but, apparently, one of my man messed up with one of her best one, so I was trying to settle everything down before one of us start a fucking fight about it. Obviously, she hates me and every single one of my mates, and that's why I didn't want you here today. My most important job is to keep you safe, y/n. I've already dragged you too far into this mess, I can't expose you even more."

By the look in his eyes, anyone could tell how Tom meant it. He worried about you and your protection had become a topic of discussions too much for your liking.

He shifts his position, making it more comfortable for you, hand resting in your cheek. His expression earned an even more stern look, almost in pain as he looked deeper in your eyes.

"Do you really think that you should worry about Melissa?" He asks, voice low and soft.

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you tugged at his white plain shirt's collar, breathing slowly as you tried to manifest more of your composure than before.

"A little" you confess, shrugging slightly as if it wasn't that big of a deal. But for Tom, it surely was.

"Darling... why would you be jealous over that woman?" The pad of his index finger touched in the slightest move your bottom lip, tracing delicate paths over it. "Why would you ever be jealous over any woman? You know I love you". He looked up once again, a brow arching as he seemed to doubt his own conviction. "Don't you know?"

You shake your head yes and bite your lip. "Of course I do".

"Then why did you have something in your imagination?"

You sigh quietly. "Yeah, it was silly", taking his free hand and in yours, you play with his fingers, trying to hide your embarrassment. "I'm sorry-"

"It's alright, love", he gives you a small yet sweet smile. "You see, I get jealous all the time. Much more than you do. Think it's fair enough".

You giggle. "Yes, you do. I hate that and did the same. Sorry".

Tom shakes his head and brings his face closer to yours, planting a soft kiss in the corner of your mouth. "What a silly little girl you are. How would you ever think I'd ever have eyes for another girl, when I've got the prettiest with me?"

You release a breathe, your grip at Tom's shirt stronger, pulling him closer. "You'd be really dumb if you did, yeah."

Tom smiles in your mouth and you do as well. "Guess I haven't been showing my girl how much I appreciate her properly lately" he whispers, heading his lips along your jaw, to chase a soft spot on your neck. "Tell me, love, would you like to feel it?" His low and seductive words sent a shiver right through your spine, making you release a quiet moan in anticipation.

"Do you want to feel how much I adore you?" He breaths in your neck, smelling your sweet scent, as carefully grabs your thighs to get you to straddle his lap. "How much I adore your pretty little moans and whines? Those wonderful sounds you make just for me?"

You nod yes, adjusting your position on Tom's lap, rubbing against his crotch on accident and feeling he grunt with the contact.

"Use your words, my love. Need to hear you". He insists, running both his hands to your ass, grabbing each cheek firmly. When you whine a timid 'yes', he smirks against your smooth skin. "Always so eager for me", with precise movements, he guides your hips to meet his, creating a perfect friction between both of you. You could feel his hard against your pulsing center, claiming for more.

Tom lets out a struggled sigh, as if he was holding himself back when feeling your center pressing against him. "See? Only you can make me this hard".

You gulp, trying to catch your breath as your hands make its way to his trousers, but Tom is quick to deny it and stop you. "No, pretty girl. As much as I'm aching to feel you right now, I need to prove you something" he smirks playfully. His right hand releases your bum and goes to your front, making a smooth path in his way to your breast. He put your hard nipples between two fingers, pulling it softly. You moan and move your hips over his lap. Tom's jaw tenses up. "Fuck, darling". He presses his hand firmly on your hip to settle you down, as you smile apologetic.

"Need you, Tom". You whine, arching your back so you were even closer to him.

"Yeah?" He smirks, hand going back to work, sliding inside your pyjamas' short. Tom's brows arch in surprise. "No panties?"

You bite your lip. "When I came down here, I was thinking that maybe we could do something. After you were done".

He chuckled a bit, his cocky smile showing off. "So you were planning on getting fucked in my office?" You only nod once, feeling your center pulse and your cheek heat up. "You dirty, dirty girl".

Tom reaches your pulsing core, a single digit sliding through your wet folds. "God, baby, you're so wet". You moan, letting your weight loose on top of Tom, whose strong arms could handle it. "I barely touched you".

"Stop teasing me, Tom" you claim, eyes closed, as you feel he was threatening to enter two fingers inside you, but collecting them all together again.

"Darling, I think you shouldn't have a word about anything today" he says calmly. "After all, you interrupted my meeting, messed my work up. All because you couldn't wait to get fucked. Do you think you were good, y/n?"

You swallow hard, voice trembling. "N-no".

Tom smiles satisfied. "Yes. Now, though you don't deserve any of that, I'm a man of my word, and I said I was going to show you what my girl is worth of". He gesticulates briefly and you have to take a few seconds to understand he wants you to get up.

You do so, waiting until he gets up too. Confused, you stare at him, who cups your face, kissing the tip of your nose.

"I want you to sit in my chair". He murmurs and you can't help the surprise in your face.

"Why's that?" You frown and he only gestures his head to the chair again. With no other choice, you find yourself doing as you were told.

It was a strange feeling, the soft material of his chair against the bare skin of your exposed leg, where your thin shorts couldn't reach. Strange, because nobody would ever sit on Tom's chair. It wasn't exactly a rule, but everyone did better than risking taking what was his, and that being the biggest and most imposing chair in the conference room, only he could sit there. And maybe that's what entertained him that moment, the sight of you in a place that held so much power as that chair.

It took a good few seconds for you to relax there, and Tom didn't take his eyes from you the whole time. Staring, he would lick his lips, arms crossed over his chest, making his muscular arms very visible for you.

"You know, you could do this. I can picture you sitting here, making demands", he says, as if he was deep in thoughts moments ago, approaching you with hungry eyes. He puts his hands over the chairs' arm rest and lean in you, smiling.

You feel your heart race and try to correct your breathing. "Really?" You arch a brow incredulously. "Don't think I could be so tough".

"You learn this with time, darling", he reassures you, "But I think we'd have to manage who'd be in charge from time to time. I can share it with you, but not give it all. Would you like that?" You knew that by this time he wasn't talking about the mob.

With a charming smile, Tom gets down on both knees and puts his hands in yours. "Yeah, I think", you say in a whisper, too concentrated in his actions to say otherwise or anything else.

"Mmm. You're such a delicate angel", he opens your legs slowly, grabbing the back of your knee to pull you in to him. You gasp in surprise, holding the arm rest to keep yourself steady. "I imagine how you'd look like taking control. Perfect, I know".

It was a sight to see, a powerful man like Tom on his knees, a position you never thought you'd see him at. He looked like he was at your mercy, under your control, just as if he was there to please you, though he still did take the command.

"Tom, please", you whine, not giving a care about sounding desperate anymore.

"Patient, my love. Wanna take my sweet time with you", he pats your leg so you can lift your hips to help him take off your shorts. "Cause that's what I appreciate doing with you. Take every single part of you, make you mine. Slowly". He brings you closer and you pant when he kisses the inner of your thigh, eyes never leaving yours. "Take care of my girl, as she deserves".

You feel yourself growing anxious as you tried to stay still when he brought his lips up to your core. "You smell so good, love. Can't wait to taste it". His lips make no hurry to reach your folds, hot breath hitting your aching center. He looks up at you, wicked smile, as his mouth hover you, teasing.

By this time, you’re already dripping, walls clenching around nothing for the expectation. Finally, you felt Tom's lips connecting with your pussy lips, skillful tongue smoothly licking your arousal, spreading it all over your core.

He put his tongue inside of you, tasting it, adoring the way you'd roll your eyes back with pleasure. "Sweet as fucking candy". He murmurs with his mouth against you, causing vibrations all over your cunt.

You moan when he flicks his tongue over your bud, and tug at his hair. The reaction comes right away and Tom moans against you, putting one of his fingers inside you, but not deep enough, waiting for you to adjust as your walls stretched deliciously. "Can feel you swallowing my finger, baby. You want me?”

"Tom", you whine, arching your back as Tom pushes his fingers deeper inside you. "Please. Gimme more".

"You want more, sweet girl?" Tom smirks, entering you as much as he could, adding a second finger to your pulsing core. You felt the cold of his silver ring against your hot skin, causing you to have goosebumps. Feeling you clench around him, Tom started fingering you, hands precisely moving to stuff you in the most raving way. He took his pace, fast enough to the sound of your wetness fill up the room.

He laps your bud once again, repeatedly, catching it between his lips once in a while and sucking, making you release a loud moan.

You tugged harder in his curls and that's when he realized you were close. "My beautiful girl is close? Can feel you clenching, baby."

You nod once, trying to catch your breath as your hips rock against his fingers. Tom took them out and you almost pulled his hair for that, but he soon replaced it with his firm tongue. "C'mon, darling, fuck yourself on my tongue".

You did so, not caring about your messed movements or your loud noises. Tom was right there, holding you hip down with one hand to keep you steady and stimulating your clit with his thumb with another. It was the most beautiful sight you could have and you were on the verge of your edge.

"You're- fuck, so fucking hot, Tom" you cry out, head falling back. "Shit! 'M close"

Tom started to fuck his tongue inside you again. Your toes curl, your belly burns and your heart couldn't beat faster. Tom grabbed the back of your legs and abruptly brought you closer to his face, keeping his tongue firm and thumb working on your bud. He replaced it with his two wet fingers for a moment, just to speak to you and coax your orgasm. “Look at you, baby, so, so beautiful when you’re coming. Fuck, wish they all could see what a pretty and dirty girl I’ve got right here, angel”.

You moan and Tom can tell you’re about to lose it, putting his tongue back to work. "That's it, love, cum on my tongue, make a sweet mess on my face".

You couldn't hold back anymore. Your whole body felt like sparkles, as you tightened your grip on Tom's hair, chest panting, muscles rigid, voice coming out as the loudest moan of your night. It’s all about you now, what you feel. Tom is right there, holding you, controlling your body squirming with his strong hands.

Tom helps you ride out your orgasm, tongue and fingers never leaving you. His noise bumped into your clit as he seemed to enjoy licking your juices, face still lost between your legs. But when you finally saw him again, you thought you could have another orgasm just from the look on his face.

"Fuck", you pant, still trying to catch your breath. "You're- you're all covered-"

Before you could even finish, Tom got up from his knees and took your face in between his hands, capturing your lips on his. The kiss was messy, clashing tongues and teeth, but it was all pleasure. You could taste yourself, take what Tom had left on his lips. It was sweet - a mix of both of you.

"You're a fucking mess right now" you tell him, a slight giggle coming out of your dry throat, wiping some of the wetness from his chin.

"I know", he smiles back at you, pecking your lips once more. He catches the fingers you used to clean his face and leads it to him mouth, sucking on them gently. "Proudly. Who else in this fucking world can have the pleasure of being a mess with your cum, eh?"

You shove his shoulders playfully and spin the chair. "Well, I think I could truly run things here. Feel very powerful now".

Tom puts his hand on the back of the chair to stop it from moving. "That's because you had me between your legs just a few seconds ago, love", he smirks "But I think we can manage that".

You get up from the chair and put your hands on the collar of his shirt, gripping it between your fingers. "Good", you look up at him, smiling devilishly. "First thing, though, I remember you were here to prove me something".

"Oh, darling" he chuckled darkly. "We surely are not finished yet".

#Tom Holland #tom holland kink #tom holland blurbs #Tom x reader #mob!tom #mob!tom x reader #hoodie of holland smut #Tom holland smut

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riotwritesthings · 3 years

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I'll cave in (whenever you see fit)

A BIG BIG HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!! to @warmachinesocks

thanks for being you that’s big sexie of you. Here’s a thing.

Winteriron, M, 5k - Vampire!Bucky, human!Tony, an abduction, a rescue, and some dry humping

Bucky knows better than to get involved with a mortal, and he pays the price when Hydra kidnaps his boyfriend. Tony is human, he's questionably in distress, and he is Handling It. (minor violence, surprisingly soft all things considered.)

~~~

Bucky should have known this would happen. Fuck, he should have known.

An immortal should never get involved with a human, that’s rule fucking one because it never ends well for anyone.

Especially not for the human.

But he’s selfish, so fucking selfish, and the first time Tony smiled up at him, open and happy, Bucky knew he was doomed.

He knows something is wrong the second pushes the door open to find the basement apartment completely dark. The only light is the weak streetlight pouring in through the one tiny window, near the ceiling in the kitchen.

Even in the dark, Bucky can easily tell that the place has been trashed, though it is only a subtle difference from the organized chaos Tony usually keeps his workspace in.

The apartment is too quiet, too still, and he knows instantly.

Bucky fucked up. Badly.

Because it had been entirely too easy to get used to the warmth of Tony’s smile, of his skin, the way he so easily made a space for Bucky in his life.

It had been so easy to let himself get comfortable in Tony’s weird basement apartment that’s half home and half machine shop, perfectly Tony. The way the apartment is brightly lit with industrial lights at all hours of the day and night so Tony can see whatever brilliant new invention he’s working on next.

Bucky never had a chance at not getting attached, because in all his years he’s never met anyone like Tony.

Tony is perfect, and brilliant, left with nothing after his father's company was stolen out from under him and Tony just built himself a new life, tries to help wherever he can. He keeps erratic hours and never minds that Bucky comes and goes at all hours of the night, that Bucky can't go out in the daylight.

Bucky hasn’t been in the sun in nearly a thousand years, but with Tony in his arms, so warm and bright and alive, he could almost remember what it felt like.

And now Tony has been taken.

Bucky knew who was responsible even before he found the symbol burned into the wall. It’s Hydra. Of course it is, and those bastards won’t care that he’s human, that he never should have been involved in any of this, all they’ll care about is hurting Bucky as much as they can.

And they picked exactly the right target.

Hydra has been after him for nearly as long as Bucky has been not-alive, determined to wipe out all vampires at any cost. Even once the war was over, even after all the other hunter’s guilds signed the peace treaty, Hydra refused to give up their mission and for some reason they’ve taken a personal vendetta against Bucky. Probably because he’s evaded them so many times.

And now they have Tony.

The thing is that Bucky hasn't really known Tony that long, not even by human standards, but he is completely, irretrievably in love. He’s ready to burn the whole world down to get Tony back, even if Tony never forgives him for it.

But he’s not going to be able to find where Tony is being held, not on his own. Not in time.

The downside to immortal friends though, is that Bucky hasn’t actually seen any of them in years, because what’s a couple decades between centuries old beings? Steve is back in Europe for a while, working on his painting, and Bucky hasn’t seen Natalia in nearly fifty years now, which means she probably won’t turn back up for another fifty.

There is one more option, Bucky is just less than thrilled about it.

It’s no secret that the other hunter’s guilds don’t approve of Hydra’s methods, the amount of collateral damage they leave in their wake. The lengths they’re willing to go to.

Like kidnapping innocent humans.

It’s definitely still a stretch to hope they’ll be willing to help someone like Bucky find Hydra, but he has to try.

And he does have one idea of where to start.

Bucky and Sam don’t like each other very much, and that’s been the standing opinion for the last decade. Which for a hunter and vampire, is basically a lifelong friendship.

It’s at least enough that Bucky can show up at Sam’s door without immediately getting himself staked.

The door flies open and Bucky blinks, because it never fails to surprise him how old Sam has gotten. Every time, Bucky is a little bit expecting Sam-as-he-met-him, still a kid, on his first hunt and clearly terrified but so determined to save the world, so idealistic. And now he’s so jaded, older and tired and it’s just one more reminder of just how badly Bucky has fucked up.

Tony is going to go cold and tired and it will be all Bucky’s fault.

“You’re here about Hydra,” Sam says flatly, no preamble, and at least that answers Bucky’s question about whether or not Sam even knows that Hydra is setting up camp in his territory.

"Tell me where they are," Bucky demands, resisting the urge to flash his fangs just yet because he's not here to threaten answers out of anyone. Not unless he has to.

Although he doesn't find it encouraging that Sam doesn't answer, just clenches his jaw and swings the door open a little wider, letting Bucky see that the extra heartbeat he hears belongs to Clint. Standing in the hallway with a crossbow in hand.

Bucky lets his lip curl up a little, because apparently this is going to be that kind of conversation.

“What do they have against you, anyways?" Clint asks conversationally, like he's not holding a loaded weapon with an expression that says he'd really like to use it. "Seems very personal at this point."

“What, you want the entire list?” Bucky snaps and finds that he is more than willing to give the whole sordid story if that's what it takes.

But he doesn't have the time for that, Tony doesn't have the time.

Instead he grits his teeth and demands “Tell me where they would take a human hostage."

It has the desired effect, both of the hunters tense and Clint’s eyes go wide, and maybe now they’ll realize that this isn’t about him.

The only thing that matters is Tony, and Bucky doesn’t even care that he’s not just admitting to that weakness, he’s basically screaming it from the rooftops by telling them. Doesn’t care that Sam’s eyes narrow in painful understanding.

“We can’t tell you that,” Sam says and he really does sound regretful, but Bucky snarls because that is not what he wants to hear. “Even if we don’t agree with what they’ve done, they’re still—“

“If you don’t tell me, I will kill you,” Bucky interrupts, his voice low and harsh and it’s gratifying to hear the spike in heart rates, it means he still has a chance of convincing them, whether by threat or force.

“Barnes—“ Sam tries to interrupt, but Bucky doesn’t have time for this.

“And then I’ll find out where he is anyways,” Bucky promises, “the only thing you’ll accomplish is slowing me down.”

“You wouldn’t,” Clint says, but he doesn’t sound sure and his grip on the crossbow is white-knuckled, “you’ll start a war you can never come back from.”

“Try me,” Bucky hisses, flashes his teeth and lets his eyes flare. He wants them to know how deadly serious he is.

Clint raises his crossbow, but Sam sighs.

“In the old warehouse district,” Sam says, shoulders tight with anger and fear, “on the far west edge of the city.”

“You’ll regret this,” Clint calls after him as he stalks away, but Bucky knows that he won’t.

Not if he can just get to Tony in time. Nothing matters beyond making sure his selfishness doesn’t get Tony killed. He doesn’t care what it costs, Bucky is more than willing to leave everything and go on the run again, all he cares about is making sure Tony is alive to hate him.

Sam’s information is good, so at least Bucky won’t have to go back when he’s done here.

He’s been dealing with Hydra for centuries now, and Bucky can easily identify the abandoned factory as a Hydra base. It’s the new bars over the windows, the reinforced doors, the impression of movement just below the surface of the dilapidated building.

He only has a couple hours before the sun comes up, and then he’ll be trapped in the building with who knows how many Hydra hunters. He has to find Tony and get out as quickly as possible.

He has to make sure that at least gets Tony out.

Hydra are still setting up their bases more or less the same way they always have, the same holes in security, and getting into the building is easy. Finding the makeshift holding cells is even easier, on the south-most side of the building, but the problem is that all of the cells are empty.

The entire wing of the factory seems to be empty and there’s fresh blood splattered across the walls and the floor, still wet and shining in the fluorescent lights.

The building is too filled with the smell of mold and decay for him to tell whose blood it is, for him to have a hope of picking out the familiar sweet tang that means Tony.

He can hear the sounds of commotion in the distance, what sounds like screams and gunshots further into the factory. It’s the same direction the trail of spilled blood is leading, and Bucky grits his teeth as he follows it.

The base is nearly deserted. Bucky only sees a couple hunters as he follows the sounds of the fight. Everyone he runs into is scrambling for weapons or the exits, and they don’t seem to be expecting him at all. They seem like they’re afraid of something else entirely, like they’re trying to escape.

Bucky doesn’t let them.

They took Tony, and he doesn’t even want to let himself imagine what they’ve done to him. On the slim chance he manages to get Tony out of here, Bucky can’t have any of them going after him again.

He has to make sure they never even think about going after Tony again.

The sounds of screams get louder as he moves into the heart of the warehouse, up the stairs to the offices. The blood is thicker here, splattered across the walls and the floors with evidence of a struggle. Smeared like someone has been dragged down the long hallway kicking and fighting.

With every empty room and bloody handprint he passes his rage grows, and by the time Bucky reaches the last door all he can see is red.

He slams in the door so hard that it splinters apart, chunks of cheap plywood flying everywhere. There’s a smell in the air like acrid smoke, like melting electronics and fire and blood, nearly overwhelming.

Bodies litter the room, dead and dying, but all he sees is Tony.

Bucky has spent the last four hours trying not to let himself imagine all sorts of horrible things. Tony hurt, Tony dead, bleeding, tortured, screaming. Rightfully cursing Bucky for getting him into this mess, rightfully wishing they'd never met.

He’s not prepared for what he actually finds.

Tony is alive, bloodied and bruised but so vibrantly alive, a knife in his hand and a vicious smile on his face as he plunges it into the chest of a Hydra hunter.

Bucky freezes uselessly in the doorway, watching in awe as Tony rips the knife free again, paying no mind to the spray of blood as he spins on his heel. Buries his blade in the gut of someone trying to creep up behind him.

And all at once it’s over.

The room goes still as the last hunter falls with Tony’s knife in his neck, Tony’s knees against his chest baring him down to the ground.

Bucky doesn’t even need to breathe, but still he finds himself choking on air as he watches Tony slowly right himself again, looking over all the destruction he’s caused.

Then Tony looks up, catches sight of him, and the expression on his face shifts from cold and vicious to warm and happy in an instant. Bucky’s cold dead heart lurches in his chest.

“Hey sweetheart, about time you got here,” Tony says, tossing him a jaunty wave with the knife still in hand.

Bucky crosses the room almost in a daze, headless of the blood that slicks the floor and the bodies he has to step over. All he can see is Tony and as soon as he’s close enough he traces his fingers reverently along the line of Tony’s jaw, ghosting over the dark bruise starting to form.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks, nonsensically, leaning into Bucky’s hands on him like Bucky isn’t the most dangerous thing in the room.

And hell maybe he’s not, Bucky certainly doesn’t feel dangerous. Not faced with Tony’s bright eyes and warm skin.

He feels weak, feels completely undone.

Bucky laughs, soft and strangled, and he hasn’t been cold in centuries but his hands are shaking as he cups Tony’s face in his palms.

“No,” he chokes out around another laugh, because he’s not okay, not anywhere close. “I thought- I didn’t know if you were- Tony--”

“Hey, hey,” Tony cuts him off, pulling him in closer and tucking Bucky’s face down into the curve of his neck. Where Bucky can hear the rapid thump of his heart, smell the adrenaline and the sweat that clings to his skin beneath all the blood.

And oh god there’s so much blood, covering Tony’s skin and his clothes and the room around them. Bucky can barely smell Tony through it and he tucks his face a little harder into the hollow of Tony’s throat.

“I’m okay,” Tony promises, fingers of one hand pressing into Bucky’s hair, his other hand resting on Bucky’s side and still wrapped tightly around the knife. Still prepared, and Bucky has never loved him more.

He drags his tongue up the line of Tony’s neck, through smears and splatters of blood. It’s almost a disappointment, definitely a thrill, that none of it is Tony’s.

“What did you- how did you even-“ Bucky keeps interrupting himself, can��t get a full thought out. He’s too concerned with lifting his head and pressing his lips to every inch of Tony’s perfect, unharmed face.

“I keep telling you, I’m a bad bitch,” Tony says, that beautiful smug grin on his face and Bucky just has to taste it.

Tony melts into it so easily when Bucky kisses him, his hands demanding but so gentle, like the room around them isn’t full of carnage. Like Tony isn’t the one who put it there, like he doesn’t have a care in the world except letting Bucky lick into his mouth, taste the adrenaline and determination and life straight from his lips.

Bucky has never tasted anything like it, has never met anyone like Tony, and he could have lost this.

He has to get closer, closer. He doesn’t even realize he’s backing Tony across the room until the back of Tony’s thighs hit a metal table, and Bucky just keeps pushing. Until the table clangs against the wall, until Tony is bent backwards over the surface.

Bucky follows him down, breathing him in, pressing between Tony’s thighs and still trying to get closer.

The table clatters, covered in knives and crossbows and stakes and Bucky doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. It doesn’t matter how much noise he makes now, Tony is the only living person in the warehouse, the only heartbeat on this rundown block. The only thing Bucky needs to worry about.

He certainly doesn’t give a fuck about the bodies that still litter the floor except that none of them are Tony, thatTony put them there.

Bucky doesn’t care about the bridges he’s burned, has never cared less about the impending sunrise. All that matters is Tony.

And Tony isn’t pushing him away, isn’t complaining. He just hooks one leg over Bucky’s hip and arches up against him, finally dropping his knife to drag both palms up Bucky’s back, pulling him in closer.

Tony is so warm beneath him, wrapped around him, always pulling Bucky in when he should be pushing him away.

“Fuck,” Tony sighs against his lips, one hand in Bucky’s hair again. Tony’s legs tighten around his waist, entire body rolling against Bucky’s, his voice shaking slightly as he says “I was so worried about you.”

Bucky wants to laugh again, because that’s soTony, worrying about Bucky while abducted and fighting for his life. Caring about Bucky in the first place when he should have run, should still be running, should leave Bucky far behind and never think about him again.

Nevermind that the idea has pain lancing through Bucky’s chest like he didn’t even think was possible anymore. He’d take the pain of losing Tony happily if he knew it meant Tony would be safe.

He will walk away, once they get out of here, that’s what Bucky tells himself. He just has to breathe Tony in this one last time and then he’ll walk away.

If Tony will let him. Which doesn’t seem likely, so far Tony has seemed determined to stay by Bucky’s side no matter what, and Bucky can never deny him anything.

The warehouse might be empty now but there’s no telling how long it’ll be before more hunters show up, and they should be getting out of here, Bucky knows that. But he can’t tear himself away from Tony’s warmth, from Tony’s hands moving over him.

Bucky can’t stop thinking that he could have lost this. That if he hadn’t found Tony alive and well Bucky would have made an even bigger mess. There would be no end to the carnage.

When he pulls away from the kiss Tony is panting raggedly and if Bucky had the spare brain power he’d feel bad about that but oh, he really doesn’t right now. Doesn’t care about anything but pressing his lips to Tony’s blood-splattered cheek swearing “I never would have stopped looking for you, never.”

“I know,” Tony promises, still trying to pull Bucky back into another kiss despite the way his words come out weak and breathy, his chest heaving against Bucky’s and his heart thundering.

So alive, alive, alive.

“I’d have done anything to get you back,” Bucky growls, dragging one hand down Tony’s side to his hip, digging his fingers in and shifting them until he can feel the hot brand of Tony’s cock against his hip.

“Fuck!” Tony gasps and the scent of his adrenaline spikes higher, turns sweet and warm as his fingers tighten in Bucky’s hair. “I know, I know, c’mon honey--”

And Bucky can’t say no to that, can never deny Tony anything.

Still, even as he lets Tony haul his face up again Bucky can’t stop the words from spilling out, his voice an awful snarl as he says “and if they’d hurt you--”

It’s probably for the best that Tony slams their lips together again and cuts him off, he doesn’t need to know all the monstrous things Bucky would do in his name. Much better to just let Tony kiss him, let Tony flick his warm tongue over Bucky’s blood smeared lips and the tips of his fangs, like he doesn’t have a fear in the world.

Tony’s heart rate kicks up harder, his next inhale weak and ragged against Bucky’s lips and Bucky forces himself to pull away. He lets Tony catch his breath and moves on to biting his way along Tony’s jaw, not enough to break the skin, just enough to get the taste of his skin on Bucky’s lips.

He tastes like sweat and arousal and need, so much love pouring off of him that Bucky can practically taste it. He’ll never get enough of it, doesn’t ever think he’ll stop being caught off guard by it.

“I told you,” Tony pants out when he finally gets his breath back and for a second Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, too distracted with the wet drag of Tony’s lips over his cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me,” Tony says, one of his hands landing on Bucky’s ass to pull him in closer, harder, arching up into the demanding roll of Bucky’s hips as he moans out “‘m not gonna let anything happen to you either.”

Bucky laughs raggedly, grits his teeth, presses his face into the curve of Tony’s throat and the craziest part is that Bucky believes him. As crazy as it is he has no problem believing that Tony is equally ready to burn the world down. That the bloodbath around them is only the start of what Tony would have done.

The heat building between them is so intense that even Bucky feels warm, feels like he’s burning. Like he’s absorbing all that wonderful warmth and still Tony has so much to give, never runs out of it, never pushes him away.

Bucky growls, lifts his head to make it easier to resist the urge to sink his teeth in and instead rolls his hips against Tony’s, swallows Tony’s shaking moan with another fierce kiss. “You’re so- fuck, gorgeous, the way you looked tearing thorugh them--” Bucky can’t even find the words to describe it but Tony’s scent spikes, proud and smug and fond.

So damn addictive.

He can feel the needy throb of Tony’s cock against his hip, against his own when Bucky shifts a little more, and he grinds himself down against Tony. Chasing the shocks of heat and pleasure that shoot through his system everytime Tony jerks beneath him, everytime Tony cires out and drags in a ragged breath and then clings to Bucky harder, pulling him in and rocking up against him, so alive. Tony’s heels digging into the back of his thighs, hands moving restlessly over Bucky’s skin, sliding up under the back of Bucky’s shirt and leaving burning trails in his wake.

Tony feels so amazing wrapped around him, so alive, warm and demanding as his fingers dig into Bucky’s skin, his breath escaping in gasps and moans. The impossible heat between them continues to grow, until Bucky is sure it’s going to burn him away entirely, he can’t possibly survive something like this.

He can’t possibly keep it, not something like him.

“Bucky,” Tony whines and he’s shaking now, blood roaring through his veins. So close to Bucky’s fangs as he drags his lips up Tony’s throat.

“C’mon baby,” Bucky growls, clenching his teeth against the urge to bite, “lemme feel you sweet thing, wanna hear you.”

“I’m-” Tony gasps and then cuts off with a keening moan as Bucky pins him down more firmly, grinds against him harder. Tony tries to wiggle a hand between their bodies but Bucky grabs his wrist, presses Tony’s hand to the table beside his head.

“Just like this,” Bucky pleads, his own cock throbbing as he slows the rock of his hips, dragging his cock firmly along Tony’s until he shakes. “Just like this baby, wanna watch you make an even bigger mess of yourself, wanna fuckin’ lick you clean when we get home.”

It’s a nice thought, even if Bucky doesn’t know if he’ll actually get a chance, has no idea what’s going to happen next. At least the idea of it has Tony moaning louder, arching up against Bucky’s grip on his hip and on his wrist, always trying to get closer.

“Bucky, Bucky-” Tony wails beneath him, nails digging into Bucky’s skin, thighs tightening around Bucky’s hips, and Bucky can feel the way Tony’s breath catches in his chest. The way his heart pounds as he drags in one more breath and then breaks.

And this, this is Bucky’s favorite sound, the way Tony’s voice cracks on a loud moan as he falls apart, the stuttering jump-skip of his heartbeat. Hundreds of years wandering the earth and he’s never heard anything like it, could happily listen to all the sounds Tony makes for the rest of his endless life.

“Bucky,” Tony sighs, dazed and slurred, fingers still tight in Bucky’s hair even as his entire body shakes. “Fuck, c’mon honey, I’m right here, let me have it, let me feel you.”

He can hear Tony’s thundering heartbeat like it’s his own, can practically taste it on his tongue, and a feral sound rumbles out of Bucky’s chest as he tips over the edge, snarling against the all too delicate skin of Tony’s throat and clutching at him tighter, tighter.

“I love you,” Bucky confesses in a voice that’s so broken it’s practically a whisper, like his greatest secret. The worst thing he’s ever done.

They need to leave, need to get the hell out of here. Bucky should probably leave the city entirely, go back on the move, leave Tony far behind where he won’t get hurt.

That’s the plan.

He knows all that, but Bucky can’t seem to bring himself to let go, can’t stop kissing Tony over and over and over, feeling the warmth of Tony’s skin beneath his hands. Like it’s the last time he’ll ever feel it.

“Come on,” Tony breathes against his lips, “we gotta get out of here before the sun comes up.”

Bucky groans, but he knows Tony is right. He can feel the approaching dawn in his bones and the last thing he wants is to be trapped in a Hydra base full of corpses all day. Or to still be here when more hunters show up, to have to leave through the sewers.

So he reluctantly pushes himself upright, mourning the way Tony’s lingering warmth starts to fade as soon as they’re not pressed together anymore. Tony’s hand is so much steadier than his own as Bucky helps him to his feet, so warm and alive and unafraid.

Bucky wants to pull him into another kiss. Wants to drop to his knees and press his face to the wet patch slowly spreading across the front of Tony’s jeans, taste him, lick him clean just like Bucky had promised. Doesn’t want to face the real world just yet because that means facing the fact that he has to leave.

That he doesn’t get to keep this.

Tony’s hand is still steady in his, his smile small and fond and he leads Bucky out of the warehouse, through the room of bodies and the bloodsplattered halls. Bucky pulls them to a stop just outside the heavy door he’d ripped his way through, paying no mind to the lightening color of the sky.

Burning to dust would hurt less than this.

“I need to leave,” Bucky says, the words tearing their way out of his throat, “I may have... made some threats. In order to find you. And Hydra isn’t going to stop as long as I’m here.”

He hasn’t even told Tony why Hydra is so determined to ruin his afterlife, not entirely, and now he doesn’t have time. Tony has been dragged into Bucky’s mess and he’ll never know why, and the only upside is Hydra will blame the bloody mess inside on Bucky. They’ll hunt for him more furiously than ever, and the best thing Bucky can do is lead them far, far away.

This is why not getting involved with humans is rule fucking one but Bucky doesn’t regret it, knows he never will. And as much as it kills him he can’t ask Tony to come with him.

Tony nods, like he expected it, and then asks “where are we going, and how long do I have to pack whatever’s left of my apartment?”

Bucky gapes at him.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he wouldn’t need to ask, and Bucky knows he should be relieved but all he feels is guilt. He loves Tony, but at what cost? He would do anything for Tony, and Bucky is ruining his life.

“You- your home,” Bucky tries to protest, his entire body going cold, colder than anything he’s ever felt before. “Your workshop--”

“You saying I can’t rebuild?” Tony interrupts, “I’m insulted, honestly. How dare you doubt me.” His smile is wide, and cajoling, like he’s trying to cheer Bucky up. Like he’s trying to convince Bucky.

“You’ll have to leave everything,” Bucky insists and maybe he does need convincing. It feels a little like he’s lost his mind, like he’s dreaming. He had a plan. “Your entire life, to hide with me, I can’t- I can’t promise the next time you’ll even see the sun.”

Bucky doesn’t need to breathe but he’s wheezing for breath now, his empty chest aching it’s so full of confusion and guilt and hope. He can’t let Tony do this, he can’t ask for this, he can’t--

Tony grabs Bucky’s face in his warm hands, palms calloused and still tacky with blood, as steady as they are when he’s building the future. As steady as they were around the knife, as when he was leading Bucky out of the bloodbath.

“Bucky,” Tony says simply, dark eyes so impossibly bright even in the sickly fluorescent light that spills out of the warehouse. “Bucky,” he repeats, low and sweet and amused, his voice wavering slightly as says “You are my sunshine.”

Bucky laughs again, can’t believe how much he’s laughed on a night that started out with his absolute worst nightmare. Even if it is a little hysterical.

He had a plan, but he also knew better than to get involved with a human, knew better than to stay in one place this long in the first place. Tony has been wrecking all of his plans without even knowing it for months now anyways.

What’s one more.

“You’re stealin’ all my lines,” Bucky accuses but he doesn’t mind, oh he doesn’t mind at all. He gets to keep this, keep Tony, the brightest thing he’s ever seen.

“I love you,” Tony says, so matter-of-fact, and it almost knocks Bucky’s legs out from under him. Every single time.

“That’s my line,” Bucky says, and he smiles, and his hand is steady as he wraps it around Tony’s wrist. “I love you,” he says anyways and tangles their fingers together, doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. “Let’s go.”

#my fic #bucky/tony #winteriron #starkbucks #everybody loves vampire bucky AMIRIGHT #anywhooo HAPPYBIRFDAY 😘

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odos-bucket · 3 years

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So I was reading @andillwriteyouatragedy‘s incredible Brand New Day where Bruce and Clark adopt a young Dick Grayson together, and was thinking about a sort of companion story where they take in Jason together too. Using that story as a rough reference, I’m gonna say they’ve been together for a decade or so here. Dick is somewhere in his late teens. I’m figuring Clark probably offers to tag along on Bruce’s annual trip to crime alley every year. Bruce always politely declines. It’s basically become a part of the day’s bleak tradition. Clark is surprised when for once his offer is accepted. Later on, if pressed, neither of them would be able to pinpoint what was different about that night that made Bruce decide that it might be okay to have some company for once. Clark probably feels weird about it at first. Even though he’d asked Bruce if he wanted company, and Bruce had said yes, which he never would have unless he’d absolutely meant it (and Clark knows that). It still feels a little like he’s intruding on something private, even sacred. Then of course they get there, and there’s nothing going on. Superman’s senses don’t pick up the slightest hint of disruption anywhere in the neighborhood. Maybe they start patrolling around it anyways, maybe they just wander for a couple of blocks. Sooner or later they overhear someone talking about how it’s this night every year that Batman comes calling. Local criminals have picked up on the fact that if they just keep their heads down for this one specific night they can pretty much avoid him. Bruce is all grumbly about it, and immediately goes into ~strategy mode~ like, “Okay, I’ll have to start coming here on different days, on an irregular schedule.” He immediately opens up a dozen different tabs in his brain with calendars, and crime statistics, and is thinking a mile a minute, because that’s what he does. He’s kind of agitated about needing to change something that’s been a ritual for so long (because Batman has OCD, fight me) and he’s annoyed at himself for being bothered by it. Absolutely none of this sudden inner turmoil is detectable in his expression or body language. But Clark knows Bruce, knows how he reacts to things, and that there’s no way he’s not annoyed right now. He says, “Sounds like tonight will be a bust if we stay here,” then when Bruce grunts in response, continues, “We could go back to the manor. Watch a movie.” Then after a pause. “Or we could patrol somewhere else.” A moment passes. When Bruce says, “Okay,” Clark isn’t sure which suggestion he’s agreeing to, but they start back towards the car. It’s not a long walk, but they aren’t moving particularly quickly. By the time they get back to the batmobile it only has one wheel.

Clark frowns as he walks closer, before being stopped in his tracks by a surprising sound. It’s a sound that he recognizes immediately, that he hears all too infrequently. Bruce is laughing. Clark’s mouth quirks into a half smile. He takes a few steps forward, thinking about just picking the whole thing up and flying it back home. Then from a few paces ahead he hears Bruce’s low, gravelly Batman voice say, “Hi there.” Once he’s tuned in to the idea of another presence nearby, it becomes obvious to his advanced senses that someone is lurking behind the car. “Shit,” a small voice says. Bruce takes a few steps closer. “Planning on finishing the job?” He gestures to their remaining wheel. Clark shifts until he can get the kid partially in his sight without the aid of x-ray vision. He’s small, and looks to be somewhere in his pre-teens. “I got no idea what you’re talking about,” he says quickly. “Oh really?” Bruce asks. The boy glares at him. “Nice tire iron,” Bruce continues. “Comes in handy.” “I bet it does.” No sooner than the words are out of Bruce’s mouth, the tool is colliding with his shin. The boy shoots out from behind the car, and down a nearby street. Clark starts toward Bruce, who quickly gestures for him to go after the kid instead. He catches up with him in less than a second. When his hand falls onto the kid’s shoulder he freezes, muscles tightening throughout his body, and heart rate speeding up rapidly. The fear response is so sudden and extreme that Clark finds himself pulling away as if he’s been burned. The anxiety around being feared is something he’s mostly left in his past, but there’s a deep rooted insecurity within him that it still prods at. The kid stumbles when he starts to run again, and by then Bruce has caught up. They hang back, but trail after the boy at a distance, until they reach a condemned building a few blocks away. “Should we go in?” Clark asks. “Probably where my tires are,” Bruce says, before climbing through an uncovered doorway. It isn’t hard to find him again. There aren’t too many heartbeats in the area to distinguish between. When Bruce opens the door to the dilapidated room, the boy’s pulse rate jumps through the roof. Nothing changes externally about him though, and Clark wonders whether or not Bruce can tell that he’s afraid of them. There’s the slightest vibration to his words when he speaks. “Okay, take your stupid tires already. I’m sorry, all right? Just leave me alone!” Bruce isn’t looking at his tires. He’s looking around the room, no doubt noticing the same things that Clark has, mold, water damage, a broken window. The place is freezing. Then in the corner there’s a cardboard box with some pasta and canned goods in it, a small stack of books, and a mattress on the floor. “Do you… live here?” Bruce asks. “Yeah. What of it?” Bruce takes a few more steps into the room. “Where are your parents, son?” Clark asks. “Mom’s dead. I dunno where Dad is; don’t really care, if I’m being honest. Now take your stuff and go already!” He’s holding the iron up again, wielding it in a manner that’s clearly meant to be threatening. Bruce plucks it out of his hands with relative ease, inspects it, then turns it around and hands it back. “Move your thumb up like this, and you’ll have a sturdier grip. And don’t stand with your legs so far apart, it’ll put you off balance.” He sighs. “What’s your name?” “… Jason.” He grabs the tire iron back, shuffling to adjust his grip and footing, keeping his stance defensive. Bruce looks around the place again. “You can’t stay here, Jason.” “Oh yeah? Says who? I can take care of myself! Been doing it for long enough.” Bruce glances up at Clark, who can see the wheels turning in his head, before looking back at Jason. “I’d really like the wheels of my car back,” he says carefully, then hurries to continue before Jason can interject. “Can I make you a deal? We’ll buy you dinner if you reattach the batmobile’s tires?”

There’s a fast food place a couple of blocks away that’s open 24 hours. Jason agrees to accompany them, but walks a few yards behind. The employees at the place aren’t at all phased by the appearance of the two vigilantes. Bruce inspects a suspicious stain on one of the walls, while Jason and Clark look at the menu posted above the counter. They order- Bruce gets two of what Jason asks for- then go outside to eat. Bruce is lost in thought as they exit the restaurant, wondering what it would take to bring free food trucks to the area. Jason’s halfway done with his meal by the time they sit down on the sidewalk. “Do you go to school around here?” Bruce asks, wanting to put together a fuller picture of the boy’s situation. Jason gets a distant look in his eyes in response to the question. He finishes chewing slowly, swallows, then shakes his head, clearing his throat before replying. “No. Not for a long time now.” He shrugs. “I got all I needed to out of it.” “You had some pretty advanced reading material back at your place for someone who didn’t finish middle school.” Bruce recalled seeing The Odyssey amongst his few possessions, as well as a couple of Shakespeare plays. Jason shrugs again. “Reading’s not that hard.” “Some people find it very difficult,” Clark says. “Some people are stupid.” Bruce cuts in before Clark can start on the gentle reprimand he can see him preparing. “Ever think that maybe you’re just smart?” Jason gives him a curious look, like that really wasn’t a possibility that he had considered before, then takes another bite, and stares off thoughtfully. “So, Homer,” Bruce prompts. Jason nods. “It’s a fun story. Odi-seuss is a dick though.” Bruce resists both the compulsion to correct his pronunciation of ‘Odysseus’, and Alfred’s voice in the back of his head urging him to tell the kid not to swear. “What makes you say that?” He asks instead. Jason looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe all the pillaging, and murdering he does throughout the entire book.” “Poem,” Bruce corrects. “What?” “The Odyssey is a poem.” “Wait, really?” Bruce hums an affirmative. “Huh… cool. But the point still stands.” “I’m inclined to agree with you. Have you ever read The Scarlet Pimpernel?” Jason shakes his head. “It’s been a personal favorite for a long time,” says Bruce. Clark shoots him an amused grin. “I’ll keep an eye out for anyone throwing out a copy,” Jason says. Bruce frowns. “You have a library around here.” The remark earns him an unamused snort. “It’s a Gotham library; people don’t go there to read books, they go there to buy, sell and/or ingest drugs, and they tend not to be too happy with anybody who’s lingering around while they’re doing it.” Bruce feels a pang, not for the first time that night. “Jason,” he starts, before realizing he isn’t sure what to say. Jason keeps angled to watch him expectantly as he rises to deposit his napkins and bag in a nearby trashcan. “We’d like to help you,” Clark says. “Yeah,” Jason scoffs. “Right. Just how do you plan on doing that? Because I’ve heard that before. I’ve done the whole foster care thing already, and I’m not about to go through it again.” “No,” Bruce is quick to agree. “But there are residential schools in the city. We could help you to get enrolled in one.” Jason seems taken aback by the offer. “…Why?” He asks slowly. “Well for one, because kids should be in school. You’d be provided with room and board for the duration of your time there, which would leave you with less to worry about.” He reaches out to pass Jason the second takeout bag. He’s still lingering at a distance from them. “At least think about it?” “No. I mean, like, why?” Bruce’s eyebrow raises, tugging at the material of his cowl. “What’s in this for you?” Jason continues. “Why do you even care?” “It’s our job,” Clark says. “You’re job is to beat up bad guys.” Clark smiles when Jason mimes punching someone, before saying, “Our job is to help people.” Jason purses his lips. “Don’t boarding schools cost money?” “Most of them offer scholarships,” Bruce says. “I have a few friends who are deans. I could make the necessary introductions to ensure you a place at one of their institutions.“ Jason’s arms are crossed high over his chest, and his expression is set like he’s deep in thought. “I don’t want to end up stuck somewhere where someone else is the boss of me.” “How about you at least come with us to check a couple of these places out,” Bruce suggests. “Just see how you feel about them. No commitment.” Jason’s nose scrunches up. “Where exactly are these places?” He asks. “It varies,” Bruce says. “All within the city.” They watch the boy chew on the inside of his lip for a moment. “Just to see,” he says eventually. Bruce nods. “I’m not getting into a car with you,” Jason adds. “We can take the bus,” Clark offers. Jason raises an eyebrow at that, and his mouth quirks almost into a smile. “Batman and Superman are gonna ride on Gotham’s shitty public transit?” “Why not?” Clark asks. “… Okay,” Jason says, still plainly unconvinced. “Let’s meet back here,” Bruce suggests. “Tomorrow?” Jason takes a minute, but eventually starts to nod. “Sure,” he says. “Why not.” They part ways after Clark disposes of his empty bag. The heroes return to their car.

While they’re driving back Clark says, “I know that look.” Bruce pauses to take stock of his own expression, and makes sure to neutralize anything on his face that might be out of the ordinary. Clark continues, unbothered by the lack of response. “It’s your ‘I’m already deeply emotionally invested in this kid’ look.” Bruce hums noncommittally. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight,” Clark adds. Bruce doesn’t either, but that’s par for the course at this point.

Part Two

#batman #superbat #superman #clark kent #bruce wayne #jason todd #dc comics #my writing #batfam #batfamily #dc #haven't shared any of my writing anywhere in a while but I'm desperately craving validation so here we are

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fuckyouquiznak · 3 years

Text

Dream's past

(pretty long but this is Tumblr, am I right?)

Puffy is the captain of a pirate ship and has two children, Cornelius and Tobias (yes Dream with horns is my kink + I am not over the name Cornelius Dream used during one of Karl’s tale).

Cornelius is the elder one, around six years older than Toby, and he loves the sea and the pirate life. He is a sunny kid, always smiling and telling jokes. Everybody in the crew loves him.

He and his mother are really close. They share the same kindness and curiosity, which makes them always ready go on adventures. Cornelius also loves his little brother, Toby. They haven't a dad, so he acts very protective and defensive around him. They are an happy family.

Until one day everything changes.

***

The ship docks at a strange place. A creepy island maybe, dark and mysterious.

Cornelius is told to stay on the ship because it might be dangerous, but he is too curious to stay still. He is grown up after all, he can handle an adventure. Moreover he is sure the island is hiding a secret. A treasure? A temple? He needs to know.

When nobody is watching he sneaks out of the ship and goes exploring on his own. But then he'll eventually find something there, something wicked and scary. Maybe it is just a cage... something Cornelius is not supposed to open. But again how could he know? And there are voices... they tell him to free them... (dreamons or maybe even DreamXD?)

And you know what they say... "curiosity killed the cat". Excepts Cornelius doesn't die. As soon as he opens the cage he hears a loud and shrill scream and then everything goes black. He wakes up a little after, but nothing has changed. Or at least it seems so.

He grabs his things and quickly comes back to the ship, pretending nothing happened.

***

However after a couple of days things get worse. Now the voices keep visiting him, especially during night. And he doesn't feel alright.

His mother thinks it might be just fatigue or scurvy. But Cornelius doesn't tell her about the voices and the cage. He stays silent even when he sees a white stain growing on his hand.

It can't be that bad, can it?

***

After a week or two Cornelius is not getting better: his head spins, his heart hurts and the voices keep being louder and louder in his mind, till he passes out.

When he wakes up the ship is burning. He has a lighter in his right hand. Fire starts spreading everywhere and the crew panic, trying to stop it with water. But it doesn't work. It's too late.

Cornelius stares at this hands horrified. He doesn't remember anything. Why is he in the middle of the fire? What happened? He cannot breath and closes his eyes. "Let it be just a dream" he prays "He can't be me". His voice cracks, noticing the white stain has grown all over his arm. (imagine it like Ranboo’s left side... these two are connected)

Puffy quickly reaches him and helps him get out of the cabin. They are both burned and covered in ash. Toby cries and squirms in his mother's hands. "It'll be ok" she says culling the baby too calmly to be in a middle of a fire. "Cornelius, you two will take the lifeboat". Cornelius hesitates. "What about you?" Puffy smiles back at him, her cheeks buried in tears: "A captain never leaves her own ship, duckling.. I've got responsibilities here".

"What about us? Mom you don't have to this" he prays, his voice broken. He doesn't want to leave his mother...

But she doesn't listen.

"Take your brother away from here. Row till you find a coast, then ask for help, ok? I'll find you both eventually. I swear" Her smile is weak and tired. They both know it's a lie. They will never meet again.

Puffy gives Cornelius a compass. "Will be together again" she promises. "Do it for Toby".

Cornelius grabs his little brother and finally leaves. He doesn't have the bravery to hold his mother one last time.

(Puffy will actually survive, but she'll forget everything)

The rest is like a memory.

He manages to reach a little beach a couple of days after the accident. When they touch the ground Cornelius collapses. (Tubbo, Puffy and Dream would have scars and marks after the ship break)

***

The following months are horrifying.

It's cold and desolate where they landed. Nobody is willing to help, mainly because they're scared of Cornelius' white mark.

He can't blame them anyway. There's something wrong and scary inside him. They had found a village at some point, but Cornelius had one of his episode and burned down the place.

Toby cries all the time. He is hungry and, most of all, he misses mom.

The voices are not helping.

Cornelius can't keep him anymore. It's already difficult being alone out there. He can't... he can't let his brother live in misery like this. And what if has an episode close to him?

When they reach a wooden house in the middle of the snow (SBI house of course), Cornelius is sure it's time.

He leaves Toby out of the house, with a letter that says: "Save Toby". He has seen a woman doing that with a blonde hair baby a couple of months before (Tommy’s mother y’all).

The owners seem fine. Cornelius had watched them laughing and eating all together next to the fireplace a couple of times. He is sure they could give Toby the love and the warmth he can't provide him. He'll be safe there.

He gives the compass to Toby, just in case he'll need it one day to find him. It's hard, but it's the only choice. They can't be together.

As soon as his brother walks away, Toby starts crying louder. Cornelius does the same. For a moment he even thinks about turning around and take him back. He doesn't want to leave him: he is the only family he has left. But he is doing the right thing, he tells himself. He needs to be strong. For Toby's sake.

The first one to notice the screams is Wilbur, who jumps out of the door worried and scared. He looks at the baby on the top of the stairs and then looks directly at the tree Cornelius is hidden behind.

Philza exits a few moments later. He grabs the baby softly and he looks up to the sky where is crawls are flying. "There's someone" Wilbur whispers, pointing at the tree. Philza stops him and gives him the card. "Whoever left this baby here has a reason, Will".

Cornelius keeps crying. He wishes he could be there too. But the thing that is growing inside him... he is not sure he can handle it.

Techno is out in the forest eventually. He sees Cornelius. "Have some food, nerd", he says, before leaving him with a potato.

***

Cornelius stays close to that house anyway. At least he can keep an eye on Toby from there. He has found a nice spot, next to a cage. It's not that much, but he can't complain.

Toby is growing fast, even if his horns haven't shown up yet. Cornelius likes to watch him play outside with the other blonde kid, Tommy. They seem to get along well. He is as happy and carefree as a child his age should be.

Cornelius instead is sicker than ever. The white stain is growing on his skin day by day. His left arm, part of the chest and even his eye, now red, are surrounded by that. He doesn't know what to do. The voices keep him awake almost every night. They whisper something about "Dream".

Sometimes he wishes he could think about his mother, but the voices are louder than his thoughts. He can't remember her, nor his past life.

The stain is slowly erasing his memory. He is afraid one day he'll even forget Toby.

***

He meets Sapnap when he most needs a friend.

He hasn't talked with someone for ages (except for Techno who sometimes leave him food), so he is not sure he can remember how to do it, but with Sapnap is easy and comfortable.

He saves him from a spider.

Sapnap is scared and lost in the forest. Cornelius happens to be right next to him when the monster comes out. He grabs his sword and kills it.

"Woah, dude you saved me!" Sapnap says, jumping around. "What's your name?" Cornelius hesitates. It's been so long since someone called with his name. He can't really remember it. Was it something with a C? Maybe. Why can't he remember?

"I think it's Dream" he lies, feeling his skin burning. The other one however doesn't seem to notice it. "That's nice, mine is Sapnap! Do you live here? All alone?"

Dream nods, still unsure he should trust or not this new guy. He stays in the shadow. Sapnap smiles. "Dope! I wish I could have an house just for myself" then the smiles runs away from his face "I actually came here to do that... I got into a fight with my dad. Do you have parents?"

"I don't"

Sapnap laughs a bit. "Me neither actually.. Bad is my guardian to be honest. But he is a great guy, really. It's just... I needed space, you know?" Dream is sure he hasn't understood a word of what this kid has said. Bad? Guardian? Space?

"Not really" he answers, lighting a fire. Sapnap immediately steps back, and Dream realises he has finally seen his face. Now he'll go away too, he reckons. I'll be alone forever.

However Sapnap's smile grows bigger then ever. "Whoa that's sick" he screams "I mean in a cool way, dude. Loving your style".

Dream blushes. "I... don't really like it"

Sapnap raises his eyebrows, sighing. "Maybe my dad could fix it"

***

Bad has never been so worried in his entire life - which is a looooong life.

Sapnap wasn't in his bed this morning. He really thought he lost him for good after their last fight, but he luckily came back safe and sound.

He even made a friend.

Bad was so angry, but the happiness of holding his child again was bigger then every other feeling.

"Does it grow?" he asks, touching Dream's face. The kid nods uncomfortably. "Your left eye.. was it green before?" He nods again. "Do you have memory loss?" Dream hesitates. Bad writes something down.

"Well, Dream, I can't erase the stain. What I can do is preventing it from growing bigger. Your memory is damaged, so I can't fix it, but form now on you should remember things more clearly"

"What does that mean?"

"It means I can't give you back your memories, but you can make new ones"

Dream stares at his feet. He is sure there was someone important in his life before worth to remember.

"It'll hurt a bit"

***

"You can stay here if you want" Bad says.

The "operation" went pretty well. Bad and Sapnap offered him to stay with them as long as he wants. Dream is glad. He likes it here. It feels like... family. The voices are gone. Is he really free?

Sapnap enters the room with a big smile. "Dream, I made you something! I know you have to wear bandages everyday, because the mark is still there – Dream touches is face - so my dad and I came up with this little idea" Sapnap hands him a mask.

"It's easier to take off. I drew the smile"

Dream feels his eyes burning. No one has ever done something like that for him. A gift! "I like it. Thank you Sapnap"

“Don’t worry! That’s what friends do”

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sophiainspace · 3 years

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Zari Tomaz and Zari Tarazi 💫

I leave in the morning - I don’t wanna go

I said to the teller, “If this is the future I don’t wanna know”

I’m afraid of meaning nothing again, after all this is over

This is over after all…

‘Teller,’ Throwing Muses

Hanging out in the totem waiting for her counterpart to return is the worst boredom that Zari Tarazi has ever had the misfortune of experiencing. And she lived through the great Tarazi Residence Internet Outtage of 2031.

And then, one day when she’s very quietly exploring places she probably shouldn’t be - though no one’s actually told her not to - Zari finds the rec lounge. At least, that’s the vibe this room is clearly going for. There’s no TV or internet, of course. (The other totem-bearers went over long explanations of why technology doesn’t work in the totem - something something astral realm - but Zari wasn’t really listening.) Otherwise, this laid-back room is kind of nice. There’s lots of comfy seats and ottomans arranged for ease of socialising, and a few games on the tables - a chess set and jigsaw puzzles. And there’s a shisha bar, of all things, with only delightfully non-alcoholic drinks behind the bar. Most of the time, this room is empty. Zari half-wonders why no one uses it, then remembers that the totem bearers are all old, uppity types who’d never darken the doors of a friendly, social rec room. Which kind of defeats its purpose. Zari goes there to chill a lot anyway. It’s nicer than the ridiculous room with the terrible couches and weird wall hangings.

One morning, Zari wanders into the rec room and nearly falls over. There’s someone behind the bar. Someone familiar.

“Charlie?” she breathes.

It’s not Charlie. As soon as the woman looks up and smiles at her, Zari can tell that much. (Her excited heartbeat slows to something oddly… disappointed.) “No,” the woman says softly. “I’m sorry - I’m not your friend.” She taps a bottle of cordial with a smile. “Let me make it up to you. Mocktail?”

“I could have sworn…” Zari shakes her head and scoots onto a stool. “Sure. Mocktail. Why not?”

“What takes your fancy?” the bartender is asking, running a lithe hand across the bottles.

“Hmm. Not coffee, that’s for sure. You people have the worst coffee on the astral plane. Virgin daiquiri?” Zari eyes the bartender. Yellow dress, printed in southern African patterns. Hair wound up in a matching yellow scarf. She’s not Charlie, but she’s gorgeous - in her own, softer way. “I’m Zari.”

Halfway through mixing drinks, the bartender gives Zari an unexpected wink. “Oh, I know who you are,” she almost purrs. Zari blinks at her. She’d been getting a ‘wise elder’ vibe from this one, right up till that wink. Now there’s a hint of something much more fun in the woman’s eyes. And fun isn’t how Zari would describe most of the staid old totem bearers around here.

Before Zari can ask the bartender’s name, a drink is passed across the bar, and Zari accepts it with thanks. Then sips it, and feels her eyes get wide. “Oh, this is good.” It’s sweet, but not laden with sugar, and cut with enough real lime to give it a kick. Zari grins at the bartender. “You have a talent.”

“So I’m told,” the bartender says, leaning back with an unreadable look at Zari. It makes Zari feel things. Another unexpected reaction. Who is this woman?

But, once again, Zari doesn’t have time to ask. The bartender distracts her. “You look like someone stole the lime out of your drink,” she observes wryly. “Want to tell me about it?”

Zari snorts, bouncing her eyebrows at the woman. “Tell me all your troubles? Seems a bit stereotypical for you, barkeep. Since I’m guessing this is not exactly your main gig.”

The bartender’s shrug is adorable. “You got me.” She sits down across the bar from Zari. “My other job around here is seeing the currents of the past and the future. The way the patterns of the universe weave themselves slowly towards justice.”

That sounds like a good starting point for giving advice. Zari really has no reason to tell this stranger anything, but she finds herself sighing anyway, as she sips her drink. “I’m guessing that whole ‘weaving towards justice’ thing is kinda cosmic, and doesn’t work on a personal level.” The woman’s wry little head-tilt tells Zari she’s right. Fate is a tricky thing, Charlie always said. You can’t always control where your life is headed. Not that that’s ever stopped Zari from doing her best. “I’m afraid they won’t want me back.”

The bartender raises her eyes. “The Legends.” It’s not even a question.

Zari’s head snaps up. Today is just full of surprises. “You know them?”

A smile, almost nostalgic. “I know some of them very well. And… I’m not sure where you fit in the timeline, but I know that team. The more they change, the more they stay the same.” The bartender taps on the countertop. “Why wouldn’t they want you back?”

“They’ve got the other Zari back now,” she murmurs. Saying it aloud sounds self-pitying, like being the worst version of herself. She hates that. But it’s too late to stop talking. She’s jumped in with both feet, and Zari Tarazi always commits to the bit. “I know they miss her a lot. They talk about her all the time. Even Behrad - especially Behrad. He’s her number one fan. Like he never was of me…” Zari trails off, feeling like she’s gone too far. Bitterness helps no one. She knows Behrad loves her. It’s just that he remembers his other life, with the other Zari. They were close - the way he always wanted to be with his version of his sister. “Anyway. They must be happy to have her home. And they can only have one of us at a time, so…” She shrugs.

The bartender’s thoughtful eyes get sharper. “And you think that means they don’t need you anymore?”

Zari shrugs. “They’ve got the OG,” she mumbles. “Why would they want little new me?” She should know that’s nonsense. There’s no OG except her. Zari Tarazi, the one and only. But a few weeks in a totem, with no one to talk to, no CatChat, and no business to run - well, it could make the most confident girl lose her nerve.

The bartender goes a little fuzzy, like she’s watching something off in the distance. When she focuses on Zari again, her beautiful eyes have that joy in them again, with a bit of a wicked edge. “Because you give them something no one else can. Your drive. Your spirit. Your unique, powerful kind of wisdom.” She grins at Zari. “And your serious business acumen. Don’t tell me you think your brother’s filling in for you there.”

Zari snorts. “I’d like to hope he’d rise to the occasion, but - nope, he will not be.” She hums at the beautiful bartender. She must turn some girls’ heads around here. That’s quite some cosmic wisdom she’s got going on. “You really think they need me?”

She gets a smile back. “I do. But what I think doesn’t really matter, does it?” She raises a challenging eyebrow at Zari.

Zari thinks back over so many missions where the team needed her unique skills… and many more times when her friends looked at her like she mattered. For herself, not for anyone else she might resemble. “Oh, they’ve gotta be so very lost without me,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“You are not wrong,” says a voice behind her. Zari Tomaz slides onto the stool beside her. “Hey, Amaya. Can you get me something caffeinated? Triple espresso. Ooh, and something sweet. Got any donuts back there?” She tilts her head at the other Zari. “I forgot how exhausting the Legends are. I’m kinda pleased to get some time to myself, back in here.”

Amaya - of course that’s who it is, and Zari can’t believe she didn’t figure it out - passes a coffee over to Zari 1.0. “Hi, beautiful. Missed you.” She nods at Zari. “But I’ve been getting to know your lovely counterpart here, while we were waiting for you.”

Zari 1.0 makes a thoughtful face at her other self. “I hope being in here hasn’t bummed you out too much. Ready to go back and face the chaos?” She pats Zari on the back. “And I hate to break it you, but it really is peak chaos back in the time stream right now.”

“Oh, please.” Zari downs the last of her mocktail. “When is it not peak chaos on the Waverider?” She holds up a hand when Zari 1.0 starts to speak. “Don’t fill me in. I wanna walk right onto that bridge full of ridiculous disasters and experience what I’ve missed first-hand.”

Laughing, Zari 1.0 shrugs. “Enjoy yourself, hon. Or maybe that should be ‘on your own head be it.’ One of those.” She reaches out a hand for Amaya’s across the bar, and they share the cutest smile Zari has seen a couple give each other in a while. Oh, these two are adorable. As Zari takes them both in - gorgeous, wise Amaya, and the way Zari 1.0 looks at her - Zari is almost not jealous.

Time to make an exit. Zari pushes back her chair with a squeak. “Bye, OG.” She gives the beautiful bartender a little wave. “Bye, Amaya.” And she walks away with just a little bit of flair, all too aware that the other two are watching her leave. Just perfect.

At the door, Zari turns around. “Have a simply lovely time catching up, Zamaya.” She nods at Zari 1.0, who’s now looking at her girlfriend like Amaya flew to the moon and brought it back for her. “I think this one’s missed you, Amaya. I hope you get to spoil her a little.”

Zari 1.0 chuckles, turning to give Zari a smile. “Take care, hon. And there’s some people out there who’ve missed you too, you know. Go let them celebrate you. You deserve it.” Maybe it’s her imagination, but Zari thinks her counterpart’s guarded eyes get a little softer. “And Zari… thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Zari lifts her fingers, ready to click them and disappear in a haze of totem magic. Always leave them wanting more. “Be seeing you, OG Z, next time you want to switch places. Oh, and…” Zari winks at Amaya. “Next time I visit, I want internet - fast enough to run a business with. And better coffee. And an easier way to watch the Waverider crew, that doesn’t involve being stuck in that awful room with the wall hangings. And some people to play all these games with! And—”

Rolling her eyes, the other Zari clicks her fingers.

“Rude,” Zari snarks to herself, in the middle of the empty Waverider hallway. She turns on her heel, heading for the kitchen. She can hear the sounds of a firefight on the bridge, and she needs a decent cup of coffee before she goes to anyone’s aid. The Legends will understand.

#ficlet #zari tarazi #zari tomaz #amaya jiwe #zamaya #zarlie #(hinted)#my fic #legends of tomorrow fanfic #prompt fills #none of us can queue this alone

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adhdsix · 3 years

Text

ok so i was thinking abt the main ln kids as that “brains, brawn and heart” thing or however it goes (idk but i also dont care and its too late anyways) and i realised i could never put each of them in just one bc they all have a little of each so as fun as it is to stuff things into boxes (figuratively and literally) today i will be doing not that and analyzing the ln kids once again! by urs truly <3 (all based on my own characterization! i wont be doing rcg but?? idk maybe later?? sometime??) (also ln, vln, and ln2 spoilers)

my first thought for six was brain which makes sense. it’s stated in all sorts of official media that she’s insanely clever, especially for her age might i add. she navigates the entirety of the maw on her own, facing brutal monsters that want her dead, solving puzzles and doing a whole ton of dirty work. she’s clearly adapted to this world as well, and doesn’t break easily. shes strong too. physically and mentally. theres an astounding amount of things she has to go through, keeping in mind that this world was not made for her in mind at all. everything around her is huge, and on top of that shes basically considered vermin. but she surpasses everyones expectations with her skills, and escapes the maw alive; harmed certainly, but alive. and i was going to start this with heart is what she’s lacking, but that’s worded horribly and just .. wrong. she has tons of heart, she just doesnt really. like it. and so she deals with it differently; she pushes it down. that’s not always easy though. sometimes she lets her guard down. in vln, she helps out rcg, even if that ends horribly, her heart was in the right place. throughout the first game, she hugs nomes, and provides them a source of light and warmth. and in ln2, she becomes attached to mono possibly more than she’s ever been to anyone else. even if it wasn’t her intent, she definitely grows to care for him atleast a little; but survive is still her top priority, and always will be (as it should be tbh). we see this at the beginning when they meet; the moment mono provides an exit and shows he isn’t a threat, six bolts, and only allows him nearby when she realises he can help her. this situation ends in defeat because before she knows it, they’ve been through all of it together, and they’re friends. .. but still she pushes it down. because getting attached could be dangerous. she’s independent, strong and clever, and anyone who can’t match her wit is weak to her, and could slow her down. and even if she’s right, what she doesn’t know is that it will hurt anyways. she tries so hard not to get attached but it doesn’t always work, and pretending those feelings aren’t there only ends up hurting more than she thinks, and it will keep hurting again and again and again. as for mono, i thought he’d fit in brawn. he’s definitely the strongest of them (not to say the others aren’t strong of course), again both mentally and physically. he’s born naturally with a decent amount of strength, and like i believe i said before, you have to be strong to survive this world for long, or yknow, at all. he’s good at facing danger upfront, using tools to his advantage. mentally, he definitely worries a lot, but he also does his best to stay on the positive side of things and look for the silver lining, and help others lean towards that track too; even if they dont want it, cough cough. that’s where heart comes in. he’s got a lot of that, and isn’t very afraid to show it. having someone to protect gives him a purpose, and a feeling of fulfillment; again, even if that someone doesnt want/need it. his big heart helps him gain allies, friends even, but his need to protect can get in the way of his own survival as well. even if he’s doing the right thing, that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous. counterpoint, like i said, having someone to protect gives him purpose; it gives him a reason to stay alive and really do his best. it’s a huge motivation for him, which is why he can easily get attached to others. as for brain, he’s also insanely clever, and is especially crafty with tools, in a similar way six is crafty with her environment, which is one of the many reasons they make a great team. onto rk! the reason i ended up with brain for six and brawn for mono is actually because i immediately thought of rk as heart; and he is. he’s kind, and very willing to help out, but he isn’t a doormat either. he’s emotionally clever and very in-tune with his own thoughts, and has a great amount of determination (hence his name/title, duh). he’s willing to give everyone a chance but knows boundaries and limitations too; there’s no manipulating or tricking him. he can tell when he’s gone too far, or when others have, and can befriend almost anyone; although that doesn’t mean he will. if someone is rude, or just doesn’t want anything to do with him, he’s aware of that and will likely return the feeling. he won’t really push (mono on the other hand definitely will, which can be both a positive and negative trait). he definitely isn’t the strongest, but again, say it with me, you have to be strong to survive in this world, mentally and physically. no amount of just heart or brains can get you out alive, even if it gets you far. although it’s not like there’s an escape at all, i suppose. while the ln world wasn’t always the way it is, it really does seem like there’s no turning back. this world is twisted and that’s just how it is now, sometimes not even strength, or all 3 traits i’ve mentioned, can get you “out” alive. rk knows firsthand.

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myhauntedsalem · 3 years

Text

10 Cops Share Their Scariest Paranormal Encounters

1. THE PHONE CALL

My uncle works for dispatch in my town and he recently told my family of the weirdest call he’s ever gotten. He says that he had received a call from a landline one night and when he answered it there was only static on the other end. This happened two more times. Finally, he calls a squad to go check out the address from the caller ID. When the cops got there and walked into the house they immediately saw that there was a dead body. The person had been dead for 5 months.

The craziest part about it was that there was no electricity or any other utility working. So there is no way they should have been able to get those calls into dispatch. But if they hadn’t, who knows how long that person’s body would have stayed there.

2. THE HANGING SOLDIER

I had a call to a residence for a mental evaluation or a “5150.” Anyways, I get there and speak to a 50-something-year-old woman, who states her 20-something-year-od son is under the influence of an unknown drug, and kept repeating that he can’t go in his bedroom because there was an old man hanging in his room. She stated she was too scared to go in his room and investigate it for herself, because he constantly brings over friends that are drug addicts, and is unsure if his claims were true or not.

I then go speak to the son, who is clearly under the influence of a stimulate. He goes on to tell me that he was told by a “spirit” to not enter the bedroom, because her father, dressed in his military “Class A” uniform was hanging in his bedroom.

I check the room out and of course there was no body hanging in the room. As I’m in the middle of explaining to the mother that there was no body in the bedroom, a veteran officer arrives on scene to assist me.

He pulls me aside and stated earlier in his career he responded to this residence, and that same bedroom, he had to investigate a suicide by hanging of an older male subject. He didn’t remember all the details, so I looked it up in our report management system in my patrol car and sure enough the officer was correct. The subject who died was a WWII veteran and had dressed in his military uniform and hung himself.

3. “SHE’S INSIDE THE HOUSE”

I’ve never been a believer in the paranormal, but that day I made an exception. I responded to a call made by an elderly lady. She reported that she kept seeing a young girl running through her yard and she was afraid of vandalism or maybe worse.

On my way over, it started to pour like there’s no tomorrow, lightning and thunder too. When I arrived at the residence, she pointed to where the yard was and I made my way over there. I tried to shine my flashlight along and asked, “Is anyone out here? C’mon out.” But nothing, all I heard was the sound of loud thunder in the back.

I made my way back inside the house and the lady (now trembling in a corner) told me, “She’s inside the house.”

I hear a thump in the background and I see a young girl (about 13) running from one side of the house to the other. I quickly moved towards her and asked her to stop, but then she disappears right in front of me. I thought it was my eyes playing a trick on me but then the lady yells out, “There, there she is, right outside.”

I turned towards a big window leading to the backyard and there she was running around, but how did she get passed me to exit to the back door?? I immediately went outside and she had vanished, again. After I wasn’t able to find anything and with no logical explanation, I told the lady the girl had run away and I wasn’t able to catch her due to the weather. I asked her to calm her down. Some months later passed and I found out the elderly woman had passed away and some new people had moved into her old home. Not long after that, dispatch picked up a call from the same house. Now the new tenants reported a young girl running around in their backyard and suddenly appearing inside their house. I let someone else pick the call.

4. THE ABANDONED HOUSE

I worked as a police officer in a small town in rural Nebraska. Back in the 90’s, I was patrolling through town in winter. We had several abandoned houses in town, but one seemed to have the attraction of copper thieves, so we were told to keep an eye on it. Drove by it around 7:00pm, since it sat on a corner lot, I had a clear view of all four sides of the house. As I drove around the corner. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. About two hours later I drive by again and the back door is wide open.

I know that the back door was not open when I drove by it earlier. Looking at the snow on the ground around the house, there were no footprints. So I think “What the hell?”. Call dispatch, tell them I’m investigating an open door at that address and ask for a county sheriff to start my way. I walk to the open door, pull out my flashlight and shine it inside. The house has obviously been gutted for the most part. The plaster walls have been torn down, debris piles everywhere. Since there were no footprints in the snow around the door other than mine, and with all the dust on the floor not showing any footprints, I chalk it up to the wind or maybe the door just opened on its own. I was about to secure the door when I heard a loud thump come from upstairs and what sounded like kids laughing. So I enter the house and yell out “Police department, come downstairs!” More of what sounds like kids playing. I tell dispatch that it sounds like there are kids in the house and start making my way through the kitchen into the living room where the stairs are. All the while cautiously checking the main floor.

Two more times I hear something upstairs, but since I’ve had no response, I start thinking maybe it’s an animal. Still, I hear what I’d swear was kids laughing. I head upstairs and it all gets quiet. The upstairs is relatively small with a hallway at the top of the stairs that has one bedroom on the right, one straight ahead at the end of the hall, and a bedroom on the left. As I get to the top of the stairs, I hear a thump in the bedroom to the left. I carefully peek around the door and it’s an empty room with a small pile of plaster and wood debris in the middle. No kidding, sitting on top of the pile of debris was a page torn out of a child’s book with a picture of a police officer on it. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, I got out of that room, quickly cleared the other rooms upstairs and got the fuck out of there.

Told dispatch nobody was in the house, locked the back door and never went back in there again.

5. THE DISAPPEARING PASSENGER

As a controller about 15 years ago, I took a call from a hysterical man who had picked up a motorcyclist on the slip road to the M6 who had been standing in pouring rain at the side of the road with a petrol can next to an old Norton style motorbike. He drove on the short distance down the motorway to the next service station and as he pulled off the carriageway he turned to talk to his passenger and he had disappeared.

Besides himself he contacted the police, it later transpired that at the very point the passenger disappeared there had been a fatal accident involving a motorcyclist about 20yrs previously.

It still sends shivers up my spine and I still have a copy of the incident print. I spoke with the officers who attended and they were confident the man was a genuine everyday fella!

6. THE FOOTPRINT

Back when I was working as a cop on a military base, I loved working night shift. Didn’t deal with 99% of the bullshit that day shift dealt with and what little stuff we did deal with was usually really interesting.

Well most every building on a base is alarmed and the alarms are tied right into the desk so we know the instant they go off. When we get an alarm activation, we close the base, and go check the building, pull on all the doors, see if we can get in. If we can, we go into the building and secure it, check all the doors and corners to see if someone set the alarm off.

Well, one night I was on patrol with my alpha (partner) and we get called to respond to an alarm activation at the elementary school. So we go, secure the building, and call in that the building is all secure. No problem, keep patrolling. So about 15-20 minutes go by and we get another alarm activation. We get back out there and check and now there is a maintenance door open that leads into a boiler roomish thing. Nothing in it, we close it, lock it and get out.

Another 20 minutes. and another alarm. We respond, all the doors are still locked and we can’t get in, maintenance door is locked. Call in the all clear. This time my buddy and I sit on opposite sides of the school and watch to see if someone is coming and yanking the doors real hard to set the alarm off. We sit there and watch, nothing happens and right as we’re about to leave, another alarm activation as we’re sitting there. We inform the desk that we’d like the building manager on site to help us secure the interior and to let us in. (This is like now 3 am.)

Building custodian shows up and we start doing a walk through, checking all the classrooms and checking all the maintenance rooms and that’s when we see one of the maintenance doors open with the lights on in the room. Now, this room is literally the size of a closet.

We walk down there and look in, no ones in it and that door is locked when it closes. We look in there and we find a single footprint of a bare foot made of water (Left foot as a recall) of a small child. Freaked the living hell out of us because no one reported a missing child and the entire building was clear and still locked up. No one left, no one entered and we checked every inch of that damn place (literally a 3 hour deep sweep including ceiling tiles.)

Freaked the ever loving shit out of us and to this day, my partner refuses to go into that school.

7. THE FLYING MAN

Whilst working in remote Australia, we were forced to ‘move on’ an elderly aboriginal man because the other locals had accused him of witchcraft, and other things. We drove him to his township approximately one and half hours drive away. The other locals were terrified of him as he was rumored to be a witch doctor. We dropped him off and warned him not to return to town for three days. We turned the vehicle around and drove back to town, flying, probably 100mph+. It took 45minutes to drive back, upon our return, we find the SAME elderly aboriginal sitting in the street. To this day neither of us can explain it, maybe the other locals had every right to be scared.

8. “I NEED YOUR HELP”

Not a police officer, but a 911 dispatcher.

There was an old couple who lived on a run-down ranch house about 20 miles east of town. When the husband passed away, the woman would call 911 at least three times a week, asking for assistance with very mundane tasks not normally dealt to first responders. “I need help turning the thermostat up”, “I need help boiling water for my tea”, etc.

The woman developed dementia, and eventually, it progressed to the point where she believed she was calling 911 to ask her deceased husband for help. All of the dispatchers would recognize the address immediately, even though all she could say was “(husband’s name), I need help. Please come home and help me”

One day she called, and again was only able to repeat her husband’s (I’ll call him “John”) name. “John, I need help. Please come home and help me John.” By the time the first responders arrived on scene, they found the woman lying dead in her bed. The first unit on scene called dispatch to confirm that it was the woman herself who had called 911, as rigor Morris had already set in. We wrote it off as the fact that the heater in her house wasn’t working, and the ambient temperature in the room was about 50 degrees.

We continued to receive 911 calls from that woman, at that address for just over a year after she passed away. Even after her home was vandalized, and burned to the ground, the phone calls did not stop. “John, I need your help. John, please come home and help me.” We were obligated to send a response each and every time, but not once did we find anyone on or near the property.

Multiple calls to the phone company confirmed that the phone line had been disconnected, and the call was not coming from another address.

9. POSSESSED

I was a 911 call taker 10 years ago when I received one of the creepiest calls ever. It was freezing that night, which usually equaled a calm, quiet shift due to even the criminals not wanting to go outside. Around 3am my call box popped up green and as usual I asked what was the emergency. A man starting frantically screaming that his still was possessed by a demon and tried to cut his heart while he slept. He had ran when the attack started and locked himself in his bathroom. I ask him a series of questions trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I ask him a series of questions trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Everytime he tried to answer I heard what sounded like scratching and banging on the bathroom door. He whispered “There is a demon in my sister’s body, it has been battling me for days. It got free from the chains…” I swear what I heard next chilled me to the core. This unearthly voice began taunting my caller through the door. It didn’t sound like a 20-something woman. It was low and guttural, like she had gargled razor blades before speaking. She continued to growl and speak in a strange sounding language until police arrived. She let out a terrifying scream when the officers broke in, then dead end.

The call was over, I was shaking and had to know what happened? Even my supervisor (who had been listening to the call in real time) was pale and speechless when the line abruptly ended. Before my shift ended the commanding officer on my creepy call called in to tell me what they found. He told me he would have nightmares for the rest of his life.

Apparently, when my caller said his sister got out of her chains, he wasn’t joking around. She still had a chain tied to a bloody handcuff when the officers came in. Her whole body was covered in self-inflicted scratches, her one eye had popped a blood vessel and was bright red. Most of what she was wearing was also shredded and her skin looked like she had been drained of her blood. She was taken in for a psych consult and as you probably guessed, stayed there for a long time. The brother was okay except for deep gouges in his chest. His sister literally tried to dig out his heart.

There was some talk about arresting the brother but nothing ever came of it. I still can vividly remember that voice, it still makes my blood run cold.

10. BREAK IN AT THE MORGUE

A friend’s father is a police officer in one of the larger villages of Illinois. He and his partner were working night-shift when they were called to investigate a suspected break-in at the local morgue. They arrived to find the custodian waiting for them out front. The custodian said that he’d been mopping one of the corridors and had seen something move in his peripheral vision. He looked up and saw a person quickly cross from one side of the hallway to the other. He couldn’t tell much about the person as he’d been turning the lights off as he worked his way through the building. Just a dim outline, but enough to be sure of what he’d seen. He was unarmed, so called the police and stepped outside to wait.

My friend’s dad and his partner entered the morgue. They started off by calling out to anyone who might be inside (no answer), then began to do a sweep, walking down the central corridor with hands on their guns, checking each room to the side, occasionally calling out for any intruder to show themselves. My friend’s dad came upon a room with the light off, pitch black inside. He fumbled for the switch and flicked it. The room lit up, nothing but an empty waiting room for relatives of the dead.

He heard his partner call out “Hey, stop! Turn around!” Friend’s dad swung back out into the corridor and his partner had unholstered his gun, was pointing it at the end of the long corridor. He said: “She went around that corner.” The custodian said: “She’s trapped, no exits that way.”

They had the custodian lock himself in the waiting room for safety, then advanced down the corridor, calling out to the woman to show herself, that they wouldn’t hurt her. This time my friend’s dad reached the end first, and with his back to the wall, peered around the corner. The woman was standing by a big grey door. Lights were off here too, so it was hard to see her clearly. But he could see she wasn’t holding a gun, had long, fair hair. He stepped out from behind the corner to talk to her, but she opened the door, disappeared into the dark inside, and shut it firmly behind her.

He sprinted up to the door and pulled at the handle. Locked. Banged on it for a while and called out to her, but no answer. The door had a deadlock on it, so his partner brought over the custodian to unlock it. They turned on their flashlights to see better. The custodian rounded the corner and faltered a little. “This door? You sure? This door doesn’t lock from the inside.”

The custodian found the right key and carefully turned it in the lock. Click. “We’re coming in! Have your hands up!”

They entered the room, flashlights illuminating every corner. The custodian hit the light switch and the room lit up. It was empty except for some equipment against the wall, and two gurneys in the middle of the room. One was empty, and one was covered in a sheet with what appeared to be a body underneath it. Nice hiding spot.

My friend’s dad approached and it was the smell that first spooked him. It smelled like a corpse. He pulled the sheet down and there the woman lay, straggly light-brown hair all around her face. The tag on her toe said she’d died four days ago.

Friend’s father is a devout Christian, does not believe in ghosts or the supernatural (even now), doesn’t know what to make of this event.

#10 Cops Share Their Scariest Paranormal Encounters #shared stories #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits #haunted salem #myhauntedsalem

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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years

Text

you've got that young blood (set it free)

“I saw them, Roman,” Virgil says simply.

It takes a long moment for Roman to understand what he means. All he can think about is the sensation of his hand, warm and soft, against his face.

But then, it clicks, and his heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason.

Of Roman, Virgil, scars, and self-worth.

(Virgil would prefer to have this conversation when Roman isn't bleeding all over the place, but beggars can't be choosers. Roman would prefer not to have this conversation at all.)

Content Warnings: blood, injury, scars, brief and non-graphic panic attack, briefly implied past self-harm

Word Count: 6,509

Pairing: Prinxiety

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

He doesn’t expect Virgil to be waiting for him.

Later, he tells himself that he would have done it differently if he knew, that he would have made an effort to stand upright, would have tried not to waver, would have downplayed his injuries as best he could. And he tells himself that he would have succeeded, too, that with his acting prowess, he would have easily been able to assure him that nothing was amiss, would have been able to allay suspicion and send him on his way if only he’d had time to prepare.

None of that matters, though, in the end. Because he doesn’t know that Virgil is there, doesn’t know that he is perched on the edge of his bed (and has been for hours, though he will only learn that later), and so when he finally stumbles through the wardrobe that connects his room to the Imagination, he allows his knees to give out, allows himself to collapse to the floor, arm pressed against the deep gash in his side. He lets a moan escape his lips, half pain and half relief, because he has made it back, has returned, if not safely, then at least in possession of all of his limbs and most of his faculties. And he is practiced in stitching his own wounds and emerging into the commons a few hours later, any pain hidden carefully behind a dazzling grin, a few more scars added to the collection he never lets anyone see.

There is no reason for this time to be any different. So at first, when he hears the choked gasp, he thinks that his mind is playing tricks on him, that the blood loss is more severe than he thought.

But then, his bedsprings creak, and there is a rush of movement, and there is someone kneeling in front of him, hands trembling, hovering over his body, afraid to touch. He blinks, forcing his vision into focus, and the black-purple blur resolves into a pale face, wide eyes, and a patched hoodie.

Virgil.

He is speaking, words flowing from his mouth like a heavy rainfall, and he tunes in with an effort.

“--ell me where it’s coming from,” he’s saying, voice rushed, frantic, scared. “Oh my fucking god that’s a lot of blood, you gotta tell me where you’re hurt so I can fix it. Can you even hear me right now? Roman? Roman, please, you gotta--”

“I hear you,” he whispers. Pushing the words past his lips at all is difficult; he doesn’t have the strength to be louder. Most of his brain has devoted itself to figuring this out, trying to solve the puzzle of why, exactly, Virgil is here, appearing in front of him like a vision from the gods. And why, exactly, his heart is beating so fast.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Virgil says, quite vehemently. “Can you-- god, can you move? Like, your arm? I need to see how bad it is. Holy shit, Roman, where did--” He cuts off, leaving Roman unsure of what he was about to ask. And he doesn’t know what to do with the rest of it, numbness creeping into his brain, so he just tries to do what Virgil has asked of him, tries to sit up straighter and remove his arm from his throbbing side. The motion sends pain bursting up through his torso, like tiny fireworks going off in his flesh, and he bites back a groan. His sleeve is slick with blood.

“Oh, god,” Virgil says. He sounds so distressed, so frightened, and Roman wants nothing more than to tell him that it’s alright, that it will be alright, that he’s taken far more damage than this and come out the other side. He just needs his first aid kit, and though he could get it himself if he concentrated, it would be easier to ask Virgil to fetch it for him before he leaves.

But the words won’t come. He stares as Virgil pulls lightly at the fabric sticking to his skin, inhaling sharply as the pain flares again. And then, Virgil looks up at him, staring into his eyes, and he wonders, were they that color before? He’s always thought that Virgil’s eyes were brown, like Thomas’ are, but this close he can tell that they’re not, that they’re a dark purple instead, and how he mistook that color for brown, he has no idea. But they’re beautiful, like fractals of thousands of the darkest amethysts, glimmering with reflected light.

Virgil reaches up, brushes some hair back from his face, his fingertips barely grazing his skin. It would be a strangely intimate gesture if not for the sharp sting it causes, and Roman remembers, ah, yes, he took a rather nasty knock on the head as well. And head wounds always seem worse than they are, he knows that, knows that the drying blood smeared across his face is not indicative of a truly serious problem. But from the way Virgil’s staring, he’s not sure that Virgil is aware of it.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, though the words come out sounding more like, “‘M ‘kay,” and the slurring likely doesn’t inspire any confidence. But he wants Virgil to realize that he’s fine, that he can take care of himself, that he doesn’t need to stick around and take care of him out of some misplaced worry or misguided obligation. He has treated injuries far worse than this and lived to tell the tale. Or rather, to keep the tale a secret.

Virgil laughs, short and humorless. Roman doesn’t like it; it’s too dry, too bitter. “Where’s your first aid kit?” he asks, and though the fear is not gone from his voice, it is contained in a trembling undertone. He sounds determined, resolute, and Roman’s not quite sure why. But he was going to ask Virgil to get the first aid kit anyway.

“Bathroom,” he manages. “Cabinet under the sink.”

Virgil nods, and for a few moments, disappears from his line of sight. He feels oddly bereft without him there, like he’s been left in the cold, which is truly ridiculous. Virgil’s about to leave anyway. Once he retrieves the first aid kit, there’s no reason for him to stay. Roman can handle this on his own, should handle this on his own, frankly, because he’s the one who got himself injured in the first place.

But then Virgil returns, crouching in front of him, and rather than dropping the kit off and making his exit, he opens it, laying out gauze and bandages and thread for stitches.

“Can you take off your shirt?” Virgil asks. “Or do you need me to do it?” He doesn’t look up as he says it, continuing to rummage around in the kit, which leaves Roman to gape at him, because what? His mind feels slow and muddled, but he thinks that even if it didn’t, something about that request doesn’t make any sense. He spends so long trying to work through it that Virgil pauses, glancing up at him, brow furrowed.

“Roman?” he asks, more urgently.

The thing that Roman doesn’t understand is that he hasn’t left yet. That he seems to be staying. That he looks for all the world like he’s about to take care of Roman’s wounds himself.

Why is he doing that? There’s no need. Perhaps he hasn’t made that clear enough.

“I can do it,” he says, and proceeds to struggle out of his shirt, and then his undershirt. Every movement sets his body alight, but he grits his teeth and pushes through it, dropping each piece of fabric on the ground in a heap. The bloodstains are never going to come out of those, and not for the first time, he regrets designing the Imagination so that its effects linger. It would feel like cheating to do it any other way, but it’s in times like these that he wouldn’t mind a bit of cheating.

What a noble sentiment. Some prince he is.

He wrests his mind away from that line of thinking, reaching for the antiseptic that Virgil has set out. His hand closes around the bottle, but then, Virgil’s fingers land on his, and he stops short. Virgil is glaring at him, and he forgets how to breathe.

“What are you doing?” Virgil asks.

He frowns. “I told you,” he says, putting extra effort into enunciating clearly. “I can do it myself.”

There is silence for a long moment. Virgil stares at him, not saying anything at all.

Then, he does.

“What,” he grits out, “the fuck. No you can’t.”

That irritates him a bit. Dimly, it occurs to him that this might not be the time or place to have an argument, but he ignores that thought. “Yes, I can,” he says. “I do it all the time.”

For some reason, Virgil goes very, very still. His eyes flicker from Roman’s face to his chest, tracing across his abdomen with startling intensity. Under any other circumstance, this might fluster him, but he has the sneaking suspicion that there is something he’s forgetting, that Virgil is examining something he doesn’t mean to reveal. And Virgil is angry about it, Roman can tell; his eyes flare and his breaths become slow and deliberate, the same pattern he uses to avoid a panic attack, or to stop himself from lashing out.

Roman doesn’t want him to be angry with him. But he doesn’t know how to make him not be. He and Virgil have come so far from the unwavering animosity that used to lie between them, but he is well aware that his own inclinations and desires tend to exacerbate Virgil’s worries, and he has never been able to work out how to avoid that.

And yet, when Virgil speaks again, his voice is low and gentle, like he’s addressing a startled animal, and Roman might be insulted by that if it weren’t so pleasant a voice to hear. Sometimes, when the world is calm and there is nothing pressing to accomplish, he thinks he could listen to Virgil speak for hours, listen to his low rasp and unique cadence, the teasing, sarcastic tone that does things to his heart.

“Well,” Virgil says, “you’re not going to this time, okay? Lie back for me.”

He pushes Roman’s shoulder, gently lowering him to lie flat against the floor, and Roman is so startled that he lets him. He doesn’t understand this sudden softness, doesn’t understand why Virgil is insistent on doing this when he could easily do it himself, doesn’t understand why Virgil was even here to begin with. And along with the pain, exhaustion is crashing over him in waves, the last dregs of his adrenaline finally fading away. So he watches with half-lidded eyes as Virgil moves to his side, carefully rubbing a dripping washcloth-- did he conjure that? When did that happen?-- across his chest, wiping away the crusted blood. His motions are deft and sure, even as he begins to clean the wound itself, exchanging water for alcohol. Roman arches his back against the pain, gasping as lightning bolts lance through his side, but otherwise keeps as still as he can.

“Sorry,” Virgil murmurs, but doesn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna stitch it up now.”

“‘Kay,” Roman says, and despite the haze that has overtaken him, a thought occurs to him, and he lacks just enough filter to ask. “How’re you so good at this?”

Because Virgil is good at this, is clearly practiced, has done this before. He wouldn’t have expected it from someone so anxious, would have expected shaking hands and crippling indecisiveness instead. But Virgil displays only a steady, uncharacteristic confidence, and Roman doesn’t know why.

For along minute, Virgil doesn’t answer. The bite of the needle as he begins to stitch the wound shut is almost unbearable, almost sends him squirming and panting for breath. He holds himself still, but something in his face must reveal the effort it takes him, because Virgil stops, staring at him.

“Shit,” he says suddenly, loudly, and Roman jolts as he dives for the first aid kit. “Shit, shit, shit! Painkillers, I didn’t even think to--! Fuck, I am so sorry, can you--?” He holds up the bottle of Tylenol, shaking a few out into his hands, and he looks so angry with himself, so worried, that Roman can’t help but try for a reassuring smile.

“I c’n take ‘em dry,” he confirms, and does so once Virgil hands them over. “‘S okay.”

But Virgil shakes his head. “It’s not,” he says, looking at him miserably. “God, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m just…” He trails off, taking a breath. “I used to do this for Remus, sometimes,” he confesses quietly. “When he’d come back from the Imagination beat to shit. Usually it was Janus, but sometimes it was me, when Jan couldn’t be there, and painkillers do fuck-all for him, so I completely fucking forgot.” He pauses, eyes trailing over his torso once again, something like sadness in the set of his mouth. “Remus does this a lot,” he says, so softly that Roman barely hears it. “I should’ve figured that you might, too. I should’ve--”

He cuts off, and Roman is glad of it, because he has no idea what to say.

He used to avoid thinking about Remus as much as he could. These days, he thinks about him too much. There is no middle ground, and this just feels like another nail in the coffin that marks their countless similarities, another entry in the ever-growing list of reminders that he is not nearly as different from his brother as he has always pretended to be, not nearly as heroic, as noble, as good as he wants everyone else to believe.

He’s spending so much time in the Imagination, lately, and in his heart of hearts, he knows he’s trying to escape himself. What are a few more scars, easily concealed, if it means he finds a little bit of balance, a little bit of peace?

Virgil waits a few minutes before starting his ministrations again, giving the painkillers time to kick in. The needle still stings, still makes him clench his fists and bite his lip as he longs for a distraction, but the pain is dulled, now, and Virgil moves quickly and efficiently.

“Okay,” he murmurs at length. “That’s as good as that’s gonna get. I’m gonna look at your head now.”

He shifts positions, and is suddenly very, very close, filling up Roman’s field of vision. He doesn’t seem to care much about where Roman’s gaze falls, which gives him free rein to stare at him, at the determination that sets his face and the way his eyeshadow brings out the color of his eyes.

They really are lovely eyes. How has he never noticed that before?

Virgil swipes the washcloth across his face, motions gentle and firm and soothing, and Roman feels his eyelids drooping. There is something in the way Virgil is looking at him, something that Roman would almost call tenderness if he wasn’t well aware of the fact that Virgil doesn’t do tenderness, tries not to do vulnerability at all. Roman can’t throw stones; he dislikes showing vulnerability too, dislikes presenting himself as anything less than strong and brave and put together. The fact that he is in this position, showing weakness, allowing himself to be cared for, is almost more than he can stand, and he’s sure that he would be far more upset about it if he were less tired, less in pain. If it were someone else here, if it weren’t Virgil.

He’s too exhausted to examine that right now.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped closed until he hears Virgil chuckle, soft and far more genuine than before, and he pries them open again. Virgil’s face is blurry, hovering just above his.

“The head wound looks a lot worse than it is,” Virgil tells him, voice distant, and if he had the energy to do so, he would respond with something along the lines of, I could’ve told you that. Because he could have, if his words would cooperate with him. “You’re gonna be okay, Princey. You can go to sleep.”

Sleep. It sounds appealing. Isn’t there something else he should do, though, something else to say? Something to say to Virgil, specifically, Virgil, who is here, taking care of him, even when there was no need, when he would have been fine doing it himself just like always.

“‘Kay,” he whispers, his eyes sliding shut again. The world seems distant now, the pain barely a blip on his radar. “‘M sorry… you had to spend so much time…”

There is a conclusion to that sentence. But he can’t find it.

Dimly, he is aware of the washcloth’s motions pausing, resting warmly on his cheek. Virgil says something, then, something that travels down a long tunnel to reach him and that sounds something like, “You have nothing to apologize for,” but that can’t be right, because he knows that’s not true. And he thinks, too, that he feels a finger graze his face, tracing a line that Virgil cannot know, because Roman has always taken such great care to hide the markings that mar his skin.

But consciousness is slipping away, and he lets it go.

-----

Roman wakes, and immediately tries to move. This ends up being a mistake; pain shoots through him, originating from his side, and it rips a whimper from his lips. His head throbs, too, and reaching up with a shaky hand reveals that there is a bandage wrapped firmly around his forehead. Further investigation shows him that there are bandages around his abdomen, too, secure and restricting, and that his chest is otherwise bare.

“Oh my god, you dumbass,” someone says, and suddenly, Virgil is there, leaning over him, hair disheveled and eyeshadow deeper than usual, and Roman cannot help but stare. “What are you doing, you’re gonna tear something open. I’m not stitching you up again, genius.”

Oh. Right. He settles back against the pillows and does his best not to react externally as the memories come rushing back. Practically falling out of his own wardrobe, letting Virgil take care of him, making a fool of himself in general. Fantastic.

“Right,” he says, and winces at the hoarseness of his voice. “Sorry about that. How long have I been asleep?”

Virgil sighs, perching next to him on the edge of the bed. “Not too long,” he says. “A few hours. You could probably do with some more.”

Oh, absolutely not. A few hours is more than enough time to be well on the way to recovery, or at least, enough time to seem as if he is. Though, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Surely, the whole mindscape knows about this by now. Surely, Virgil’s told Patton and Logan, or at least answered their questions if they asked what he’s been doing. He’s surprised they’re not in here, Logan ready with a lecture and Patton full of guilt, guilt that is entirely undeserved, since all of this is Roman’s own fault.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Virgil shifts his weight, glancing away.

“I told the others that I was helping you with a project,” he says, casually, as if he’s not upending Roman’s entire worldview, as if Roman doesn’t know full well that Virgil absolutely hates lying. “I think they bought it, so, uh. Janus might know something’s up, but he probably knows anyway, since you’ve been lying to us about it for so long.”

Roman’s stomach drops into his shoes. There is no bite to Virgil’s words, but it must be there, because Virgil must be angry at the deception. He didn’t plan to ever reveal the truth; he didn’t want to worry them, and more than that, he didn’t want them to know how weak he truly is, how imperfect. Though that’s another thing that they’re surely well-versed in by now, so he’s not sure why he bothers.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Virgil frowns.

“I didn’t mean it like--” He stops, shaking his head, and takes a few steadying breaths. Four-seven-eight. “Okay. I’m kinda scared shitless of having this conversation, but it clearly needs to happen, so. How long has this been going on?”

He’d hoped that Virgil would let it go. That Virgil’s tendency toward conflict avoidance would guide him away from asking any of the difficult questions. He should have remembered that only half of Virgil is flight, that he is just as capable of fight, of raising his voice and demanding his answers, that Virgil’s brand of courage is odd but no less present for that.

“What do you mean?” he asks weakly, and even as he says the words, he knows that the avoidance tactic won’t work. Not here, not now, and wouldn’t have even if he didn’t sound like he’s on death’s door.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Virgil says. He gestures, and then crosses his arms. “You. This. Getting hurt, and not telling us about it. Not letting us help.”

He chews on that for a moment, on the idea that helping would be a thing that they would want to do. Surely, there are better uses for their time? This is another reason why he made sure to hide it; if they knew, they would feel obligated to come to his aid, just as Virgil has. Perhaps it’s selfish, but he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want them to help him because they’ve fooled themselves into thinking they have to.

He clears his throat. “Not terribly often,” he says, and hopes that the lie isn’t powerful enough, isn’t loud enough to draw Deceit’s attention. “And even when it does, it’s nothing I can’t handle, really. I’m quite capable of patching myself up, you know.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I roped you into doing it.”

Virgil exhales sharply. “Roped me-- okay. Alright, that’s bullshit. You didn’t rope me into taking care of you, I did it because I was fucking worried about you.”

“I didn’t want to upset--”

“If you’re about to tell me you didn’t want to upset me, I swear to god, I will scream.” Roman dutifully shuts his mouth. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but you didn’t force me into helping you. I did that because I... I fucking care about you, alright? And I don’t want you to be hurt.” Throughout the speech, Virgil’s face grows steadily redder under his foundation, his knees beginning to bounce up and down like pogo sticks. He looks very much like he would like to run from the room, and perhaps it is a sign of how important he considers this to be that he doesn’t.

Roman stares, trying to process that. He has no idea how to respond.

Virgil takes another breath, visibly calming himself. “Look, I… this isn’t even what I wanted to talk about.” He meets Roman’s eyes, regarding him steadily. “I know you’re lying. About it not happening often. It happens a lot, doesn’t it?”

“How do you--” He breaks off, his mind racing in an effort to figure out how Virgil could possibly know that. This is the first time he’s been caught, after all, not just by Virgil but by anyone, and one time does not a pattern make. He shouldn’t be able to guess, shouldn’t be able to say it with such stark certainty, not unless he already had a low opinion of his fighting prowess, and that burns in a way he would like to not scrutinize too closely--

“Roman.”

Virgil’s voice breaks him out of his reverie, and he glances over. Virgil is staring at him, an odd expression on his face, somewhere between resignation and sorrow, and for a split second, Roman is almost overwhelmed by the urge to try to smooth that expression away, to do anything to put a smile on his face. Virgil’s smiles are rare, but that makes them all the more precious.

“You don’t even know that you’re doing it, do you,” Virgil says. “It comes naturally. You don’t even think about it.”

He blinks, because what? What is he talking about?

And then, Virgil reaches out to caress his face, and his brain bluescreens.

It’s a caress. There’s no other way to describe it, no other way to label the way his fingers lightly stroke his skin and hold his cheek. His face feels as though it has been set aflame, sparks going off wherever contact is made. He wants Virgil to stop. He wants to bury his face in his pillow for the rest of time and scream. He wants Virgil to keep holding him forever.

“I saw them, Roman,” Virgil says simply.

It takes a long moment for Roman to understand what he means. All he can think about is the sensation of his hand, warm and soft, against his face.

But then, it clicks, and his heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason. He remembers it, then, remembers the way Virgil looked at his chest, at his face while he was treating him. He didn’t have the awareness to realize it then, but he does now, realizes exactly what Virgil saw, what he put together, and his breaths come short and quick as the implications catch up to him.

Virgil is right. He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about the multitude of scars that cover his body, a patchwork of lines and grooves and valleys marring his skin, years and years of injuries piling up and tearing him apart, memories of blood and pain traced into him forever. He doesn’t think about it, because usually, they are out of sight, out of mind; from the moment he received his first, he began the habit of shapeshifting them away, showing off skin that is flawless, unblemished by his failures. He does it all the time, unceasing, because presentation is everything and he has never wanted the others to know, never wanted them to see him as he truly is. It is a constant expenditure of energy, but one well worth it, one that he barely notices after all these years.

Injured and weak as he was, the disguise must have slipped away. He must have fallen to his knees, scars on full display, in all their messy, ugly glory. And of course, Virgil saw.

And now, Virgil knows.

“Hey, hey,” Virgil says, and he can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. “C’mon, Roman, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. Try to match my breathing, alright?”

And Virgil breathes, in and out, loud and intentional, and counts. Four-seven-eight. It takes a while for Roman to copy him, for his breathing to steady and his heart to slow, and once it does, he feels exhausted, wrung out, like bubblegum stretched too thin.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He can’t find it in himself to meet Virgil’s eyes.

“I told you, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Virgil says seriously. He pauses. “Except for scaring the shit out of me, but um. We can do that later, so just. Look, when you first got back, you were covered in them, and I wanted to ask then, but it wasn’t the time. And then you shifted them away literally while you were sleeping, which I didn’t even know was possible, but I guess you’re used to doing it? So I guess what I actually wanted to ask is, why’ve you been hiding them?”

He stiffens, and can’t stop the incredulous laugh from bursting from his lips, even as his mind reels with this new information. “Are you serious?” he asks, and forces himself to meet Virgil’s gaze, even though he would like nothing more than to hide his face, hide away under his covers until all of this goes away and he can pretend that things are normal again. “You can’t figure that out?”

But Virgil doesn’t react. “Pretend I’m stupid,” he offers, voice flat. “Walk me through it.”

“I--” He wishes he could gesture, redirect attention with waving arms and comical expressions. But every movement sends bolts of pain down his side, sets his head to throbbing again. “Really? You-- you saw them.” His voice cracks, and he tries not to let it get to him. What’s a little more humiliation at this point, right?

“So?” Virgil asks.

He can’t believe he’s going to have to explain this.

“So?” he repeats. “So? So they’re ugly! So they’re… they’re just reminders of every time I’ve failed, every time I’ve been dumb enough to let myself get hurt! So I don’t like them, and I don’t… I didn’t want--”

“You didn’t want us to see,” Virgil finishes, and really, he has no right being this astute, no right to see through him like this. His gaze is level, piercing, pinning him to the spot with its sheer intensity, and Roman feels entirely too exposed. “Well, I want to see.”

He becomes very aware that Virgil is still holding his face.

“You what?” he rasps.

“I want to see them,” Virgil repeats. “Will you let me see them?”

His first instinct is to deny him, to push him away and proceed to act like this conversation never occurred in the first place. He knows exactly how they look, knows exactly how unappealing they are; how long has he stood in front of the mirror, glaring at a reflection that is never up to his standards? And for some reason, the thought of Virgil of all people looking at them, judging them, judging him and finding him wanting, is absolutely unbearable. He thinks he would die if that happened, thinks he would shatter into a million pieces on the floor, break apart into so much dust.

But Virgil is asking. Asking, not demanding, and there is no disgust in his voice.

And he’s seen them. So really, what harm could be done that has not been done already?

Virgil is likely to keep pushing if he refuses. And Roman is so tired.

“Okay,” he says, and he shuts his eyes, and drops his shifted form. It feels like a layer of water sliding from his skin, or like an eggshell cracking open and revealing the messy yolk beneath. For a long moment, there is silence, heavy and oppressive, and he doesn’t dare open his eyes to look, doesn’t dare see the expression on Virgil’s face, the horror, the disdain, or worse, the pity.

And then, Virgil’s hand moves, lightly tracing across his face in patterns that are all too familiar. He can’t move, can’t breathe. He knows all too well the scars that he is counting: the slashes across his cheeks from too many careless swords, the line cutting through his lips from a harpy that tried to claw his face off, and the biggest of all, the slash from a dragon’s talons, a deep gash that begins on his forehead and trails across his nose, reaching all the way to his jawline, narrowly avoiding his eyes. Virgil’s fingers linger there longest of all.

And then, he pulls away. Roman braces himself.

“You think you’re the only one with scars?”

His eyes shoot open.

“What?”

Virgil is watching him, an odd light in his eyes. He’s rubbing his arm with one hand, up and down, a repetitive, subconscious motion.

“Look,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, just ever so slightly. “I get it. More than you might think. You have these scars, and you think they mean that you fucked up, or that you failed at something, and... Maybe. Fuck, I don’t know. But you know what else they are?”

Roman can’t speak. Virgil continues, not waiting for an answer.

“They mean that you’re still alive,” he says. “It means that you’re still here, that you survived, and that you kept going. That doesn’t make you a failure, it makes you strong. And I’m not gonna tell you that you have to think that they’re beautiful, or some shit like that, but they’re not ugly, they’re not gross, and they don’t make you worthless.”

His breath hitches. Tears pool in his eyes, and he is powerless to dispel them.

“It took me a really long time to learn that,” Virgil says. “They’re a part of you, and you don’t have to feel lesser for that. And you don’t have to hide them, not if you don’t want to. No one’s going to judge you for them.” He pauses, a strange look passing across his face. “And that’s coming from me, so, uh. You know. If the literal personification of anxiety is telling you that you don’t need to worry about it. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Roman laughs a little, despite himself, more out of disbelief than anything else.

“You really think it’s that simple?” he asks, and hopes that Virgil doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“I know it’s not that simple,” Virgil returns. “I know how hard it is to change how you think about yourself. I mean, god, Roman, you know who you’re talking to, right? I’m kind of the king of negativity. But you’re not on your own on this.” He shifts, scooting a bit closer. “If you ask us for help, we’d do anything for you, but that’s not because we think we have to. It’s because we love you. And you deserve that love. Never think that you don’t. Scars or no scars.”

Roman shudders, emotions rolling through him with the force of a thousand rushing rivers.

“And I think, I mean--” Virgil stops. “Your-- fuck. Just, for the record, I--” He sucks in a breath, turning away sharply. “Fuck,” he says again, as if to himself, and then, in one smooth motion, he turns back to Roman, places both hands on the side of his face, and plants a kiss on his cheek, right over one of his scars. It’s like a thousand volts of energy, like a fire burning just beneath his skin, like a symphony crescendoing to its climax. Roman gasps, and Virgil pulls back, and Roman is absolutely certain that his face is melting off right now, that the warmth flooding his face and body is searing the flesh from his bones.

Virgil stares at him, face red. And then, to Roman’s shock, he does it again, on his nose, right where the biggest scar crosses his face. Slower, this time, his lips lingering for a heartbeat too long, giving Roman the chance to think about how soft they are, how much he would like them to be on his lips instead.

Well, that’s… huh. Part of him knew that already, has known for a very long time that he wants this, but the confirmation has his brain buzzing.

“I think they’re hot,” Virgil says, just above a mumble.

“You what?” Roman says, even though he’s fairly sure he didn’t mishear, even though hope, bright and warm and traitorous, is rising in his chest like a bird taking wing. He has never loved his scars, has never thought of them as attractive at all, and never so much as considered the possibility that someone else might disagree.

But Virgil doesn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie, not about this. It is a miracle that Virgil is acting this way at all, is behaving in a manner that clearly puts him far outside his comfort zone.

“Don’t make me say it again,” Virgil snaps, and there is the Virgil that Roman is most familiar with, hackles raised and spitting insults. Despite everything that’s happened, despite the fact that his mind is spinning and he still feels entirely too hot, he smiles. “Fuck, I’m just gonna go die in a hole now. See if I do anything for you ever again.”

He moves as if to stand from the bed, as if to leave, and though hours ago he wanted him to do that very thing, Roman feels a flash of panic at the prospect. Before he can think better of it, his hand snakes out and latches on to the sleeve of Virgil’s hoodie, stopping him in his tracks. For a moment, they stare at each other, both silent, almost expectant as Roman casts about for something to say, something to keep Virgil here.

“I have a scar on my lips,” he blurts out. “You, uh, wanna… do… something?”

He congratulates himself on his smoothness. He should give up being Thomas’ creativity and open up a smoothie place, that’s how smooth he is.

Virgil glares. “If you’re just gonna make fun of me, you can fuck right off and--”

“What? No,” he says. “I’m not-- what made you think I was making fun of you? I’m asking you to kiss me!”

Virgil stares, silent. He feels himself begin to waver.

“If… uh, just if you want to, I guess,” he says, voice weakening. “I just thought that maybe…”

“You’re an idiot,” Virgil declares, and captures his lips with his own.

A far as declarations of love go, it’s not the best Roman has ever heard. But as far as kisses, well.

“Don’t think this gets you out of talking about this,” Virgil murmurs, pulling back a centimeter or two. “I’m gonna sic Patton on you. You’re gonna get so much love and emotional support, and so many cookies, and you’re not gonna escape until we get it into your dumbass head that you’re worth so much more than you think you are.”

Even moments ago, the thought would have filled him with horror, horror at the prospect of anyone else knowing, anyone else seeing, anyone else wanting to talk to him about it. And maybe this is only a respite, a brief moment of insanity before that horror returns. And it’s not just the scars. Perhaps it’s never been about the scars, not really.

But right now, his head is buzzing with Virgil’s words, his lips still alight with the imprint of his kiss, and his scars are bared and Virgil likes them, thinks they make him strong, thinks that he’s not a failure at all. And most of him rejects that, suspects that in time, Virgil will come to see the ugly truth, and if that is the case, he should pull back now, save both of them the trouble.

Virgil won’t allow that, though; if he knows anything about Virgil, it is that he is stubborn, incredibly so, enough to be a match for him. And there is a voice, buried deep in his brain, telling him that he should listen, that Virgil is right, and that he deserves this. He doesn’t make a habit of listening to that voice.

But perhaps he should. And Virgil smiles at him, just slightly, and he thinks that perhaps he can.

“Cookies,” he repeats. “Sounds good.” And to his surprise, finds that he means it.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii

#sanders sides #ts sides #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #ts virgil #my fic #long post #roman (while bleeding out): haha don't worry i'll just patch myself up #virgil (softly but with great feeling): what the fuck

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actress4him · 3 years

Text

Querencia 2 - Abandoned

(Prompt #4 for Summer of Whump)

Taglist: @darthsutrich

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Warnings: lady whumpee, teenage whumpee, mild blood, fantastic prejudice (for lack of a better term??), parental abandonment, foster system

Some people’s powers manifest when they hit puberty. Others when they face a traumatic event, whether they’re a child or an adult.

Liliana isn’t really sure precisely when hers started, but she’s fourteen when she discovers what she can do. It’s a normal day at school, she’s hanging out with her friend Camila on the playground during recess, unaware that her life is about to change. Then Camila falls off the monkey bars and scrapes her elbow.

As she begins to cry, blood beading up around the torn skin, Liliana rushes to her and takes the injured elbow in her hands. Suddenly there’s some kind of blue aura dancing between the two girls’ skin. Gasping, Liliana lets go and falls back, but it’s too late. Camila is staring at her with impossibly wide eyes, cradling an elbow with only a bit of blood as evidence that it was ever hurt, and Liliana’s own elbow is smarting. She can hardly pay that any mind, though, not with her thoughts swirling around what she just saw.

Because she’s one of them. She’s a Non.

She’d been young when people with strange powers started popping up on the news all of a sudden, so she doesn’t know where the slang term came from. All she knows is that Nons aren’t to be trusted. Her father has said so, many a time over the dinner table. Her mother watches the news stories about Nons with a hand over her heart, frightened.

Camila’s mouth gapes open. “You...you’re…”

“Don’t, please.” She shakes her head frantically, tears stinging her eyes. “No lo sabia, I swear, Mila, por favor no...you can’t tell anyone.”

Her friend’s eyes are wide, uncertain. She looks from her own elbow, to Liliana’s hands, to her face. “Okay. Está bien, no lo haré. No se lo diré a nadie. I promise.”

And she keeps her promise. Camila never breathes a word of Liliana’s newfound powers to anyone, and Liliana makes sure not to touch anyone who’s hurt for a very long time.

Or at least she tries.

One time she touches her brother’s forehead when he’s sick, and he makes a ‘miraculous’ recovery. She, on the other hand ‘catches’ his cold, only she never actually runs a fever or needs to blow her nose. She just feels sick.

Thankfully no one suspects.

Another time she bumps into someone in the grocery store and hisses as her arm begins to throb. At home, she pushes up her sleeve to find out what’s wrong and sees nothing. Just her skin, smooth and brown as always. It feels like there’s a giant purple bruise there, though, the pain much worse when she brushes a finger across it.

Accidents happen. Liliana takes to wearing shirts with sleeves long enough to pull over her hands, no matter what the weather, to try to further avoid contact. She’d wear gloves all the time if that wasn’t sure to raise questions.

And all the while, the foreboding news about the Nons continues.

A Non robbed a bank. A Non killed three people. A Non cut off the electricity to an entire city.

She’s convinced that she’s the only good person with powers in the world. And her power could be so helpful for so many people, too, if only she was free to use it. Sure, it seems to transfer pain and sickness directly to her, but it never lasts. Even the scar that she got from Camila faded after a while, about the same time she stopped noticing it on her friend’s elbow, too. It’s possible that she could save people’s lives, rather than threatening them like all the other Nons seem to do.

Liliana manages to keep her secret for over a year before everything falls apart.

Her whole family is at the neighborhood’s Fourth of July celebration. Her mother is introducing her to Mrs. Bently, an elderly woman with kind blue eyes and wrinkled, gnarled hands. One of those hands is reaching for hers, and Liliana is frozen, wanting to pull away, afraid of what it will look like if she does, knowing somehow without a doubt that she cannot let this lady touch her hand, but unable to figure out how to stop it before it’s happening. The small white hand is clasped around her own. Liliana’s wearing long sleeves, as usual, despite the heat of July, but that doesn’t keep her fingertips from sticking out and touching skin.

She doesn’t dare to look down. She can feel the power going out of her, can hardly bite back a gasp as her fingers stiffen and begin to ache. But there’s still a smile on Mrs. Bently’s face, she hasn’t looked down, either, hasn’t seemed to notice. Maybe she can get away with this one more time, maybe her luck will continue and no one will know…

A strangled sound comes from somewhere to her right, and she remembers. Mamá is watching.

Don’t look don’t look don’t look she might not have seen she might not know if you look she’ll know she’ll see it on your face

Mrs. Bently’s friendly smile fades into a frown. Releasing Liliana’s hand, she brings her own hand up to look at it, flexing her fingers in a way that Liliana knows she can’t do herself right now.

“That’s...that’s so strange. My hand...it…” She laughs, incredulously, and Liliana wants to laugh with her, anything to break through the fear that’s pounding in her eardrums, but all she can do is pull her sleeve farther down to hide her aching fingers, pull until the shirt is threatening to fall off her shoulder. “It’s almost like when you touched my hand, my arthritis just...disappeared.” Another short laugh, and she reaches the same hand up to softly pat Liliana’s cheek. “Either I’m finally starting to lose my mind, or...or maybe you’re an angel sent to help an old woman.”

Another strange noise from the right, and Liliana finally gives in and looks.The expression that she sees is exactly what she feared. Mamá knows.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. All she’s aware of is that she’s bundled quickly into the car, harried excuses are made to friends, and she spends the evening in her room, hiding underneath the covers.

She doesn’t know what her parents are thinking right now. Are they mad? Disappointed? Scared?

“Anyone who says not all Nons are bad is an idiot,” Papá’s voice echoes in her mind. “An idiot who clearly isn’t keeping up with what’s going on in the world. None of them can be trusted. They all need to be rounded up and locked away for good.”

Liliana buries her head further and tries desperately to let sleep take her away from her worries.

The next morning someone knocks on her bedroom door. It isn’t locked, so she sits up quickly, combing her fingers through her mussed up hair - the fingers of her left hand, after she discovers that those on her right aren’t fond of the motion - and tries to rub away the restless night of tears from her face. “Come in.”

It isn’t her mother, father, or even her brother who enters. It’s a stranger, a tall, thin woman with her blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. Liliana bolts upright, heart thumping wildly.

“¿Quién eres?”

“You need to pack your things.”

Shaking, Liliana attempts to back away, her thighs quickly bumping into the mattress. “What? Why?”

The woman sighs, pursing her lips, though it’s unclear whether she’s actually sympathetic or she’s just aggravated that whatever this is about hasn’t been explained yet. “Your parents have turned you over to the care of the state. I’m here to escort you to your new home.”

Liliana’s mind goes blank other than a high-pitched screeching in her ears. The woman is saying something else, she thinks, but nothing is processing. Finally she finds her voice enough to murmur, “No, no no no no no, that can’t...que no puede ser cierto, that’s...that’s not right, they wouldn’t...they can’t…”

The next thing she knows she’s pushing past the woman, ignoring whatever protests she’s giving. The house is quiet. Too quiet. There’s no music coming from her brother’s room, no pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, no tv incessantly blaring the news. But she searches each corner of the downstairs anyway, still hoping that she’ll find someone in her family who will tell her that this is all a mistake, a nightmare, maybe, that they would never, ever, send her away just because of something that she can’t control, that she would never use for anything but good.

She approaches the front door and it opens suddenly, letting in yet another stranger, a broad-shouldered man who just stands there, blocking the exit. “I’m going to have to ask you to follow the lady back upstairs and do what she says.”

The blonde woman appears behind her, at the foot of the stairs. “Your parents aren’t here. Everyone knows that Nons can be...volatile. It’s generally best if the family isn’t present when they’re taken into custody.”

Tears finally begin pouring down Liliana’s cheeks. “But I’m not, I’m not, I swear...I’ve never...I wouldn’t hurt anyone! My power is healing, anyway, I don’t…” Her babbling trails off, lost in the tornado of her thoughts.

Her family really called the government on her and...and left her.

They never even asked her any questions.

They didn’t try to find out what was going on, didn’t ask what her powers could do, weren’t concerned about the fact that she apparently has arthritis now, at the age of fifteen.

The fact that she’s their daughter, that they raised themselves and that they know, means nothing to them. She doesn’t even get the benefit of the doubt.

The blonde woman plasters a fake smile onto her face. “I know, sweetie. I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I’m afraid there are rules in place that have to be followed in cases like this.”

She doesn’t really have a choice. Between the two of them, they have her trapped, and what’s her alternative, anyway? Stay here and wait for a family that doesn’t want her anymore? Live her life with them always watching her, always distrusting, always waiting for her to snap and turn evil like the Non she is?

Liliana follows the woman back up the stairs and throws a few belongings into a backpack. She’s numb, moving on autopilot, no idea what she should actually be bringing. It feels like she’s packing for a weekend trip, not for the rest of her life.

The tears never stop the whole time.

As she’s escorted out to the black sedan waiting in the driveway, she swears she sees a glimpse of her parents’ car across the street. The driver is staring straight ahead, refusing to look this way, but the woman in the passenger’s seat’s cheeks glisten.

It’s probably just her imagination, though.

Spanish translations (please please let me know if I got something wrong):

“No lo sabia, I swear, Mila, por favor no...” - I didn’t know, I swear, Mila, please don’t...”

“Está bien, no lo haré. No se lo diré a nadie.” - Okay, I won’t. I won’t tell anyone.

“¿Quién eres?” - who are you?

“que no puede ser cierto” - that can’t be true

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump4 #abandoned #querencia #liliana the healer #lady whumpee #lady whump #teenage whumpee #backstory #mild blood tw #parental abandonment tw #foster system #prejudice tw #magical whumpee #magic powers #healing power #painful healing

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 3 years

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Please tell me there’s a part 3 to amnesia ethan? This is too heartbreakingly good -ohdolans

Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: angst, language

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"I'm not breaking up with you." Ethan states, making Y/N frown. She sits up, abandoning his chest with a puzzled look she simply couldn't hide.

"I'm sorry, were you planning to?!" Her voice is pitchy, enough to show the underlying anxiety he caused with his words and enough to make him chuckle as he props himself up.

"No. That's what I'm saying, I'm not breaking up with you. Ever. Even if this whole thing goes to shit, I'm never going to pull the cord on us. You'll have to do it because I-I can't."

Raising an eyebrow, she gives him a pointed look, "That's not fair. I don't want to break up with you." Using air quotes, she adds, "Ever", in the same tone Ethan used.

"Well, we'll just have to get married then." Ethan shrugs, plopping back down as she playfully rolls her eyes.

"Guess so. Grayson's gonna be living with us longer than the kids." Joking, she lays back down beside Ethan, ignoring the surprised glances he sent her way.

"We're having kids?!"

"Might as well if we get married." Pecking his cheek, she nestles back onto his chest, enjoying the sound of his heart beating. She doesn't miss when his voice sounds in a whisper.

"I'd like that."

Arms folded, she stood outside Ethan's room, unsure what to do. It's been a few days since she saw him last and it ended in tears and heartbreak. How many times can a heart break before it's beyond help?

A part of her knows she shouldn't take it personally, his words are coated in venom because he's fighting his inner demons and she's practically a stranger, but another part of her is just as angry and frustrated as he seems to be.

Memory loss? This is what marks their end? It's horrible to day, but it feels like he died and someone else woke up in his body. Ethan she loved is gone and she still can't seem to let it go; let him go.

Licking her lips, she swallows thickly before walking into the room once again. Grayson suggested so, but she was reluctant. Ethan's unpredictable at best, even with Grayson, but he's downright cruel to Y/N. At least she percieved it that way.

"I'm really not in the mood today." Ethan mutters, his voice low and tone unmistakably disgruntled.

"Wow, this is a new record. One step in and you already want me out." Y/N tried to laugh it off, keeping her tone light.

He turns to her with eyes slightly widened, lips parting as he takes note of her clothes - most notably his Positivity hoodie.

"I didn't know it's you." Ethan admits, licking his lips before turning away and toward the window he's gotten used to staring at. It was the closest connection to the outside world he's had in almost two months.

"I'm sorry I ran out the other day." She speaks up, determined not to let him wreck her mood. She didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing he said he didn't realize it was here - would he not still say the same if he did?

"I was being a dick. It's understandable." Ethan glances at her, realizing she'd come closer to him than before. He couldn't help but notice the wary look in her eyes, aware he's the reason why.

"You were reacting to a stranger inserting herself in your life. That's understandable too." She sighs, moving to the wall just inches away from the bed. She leans back on it, folding her arms as her eyes fall on the door, lessening her anxiety. Knowing where the exit is somehow made it easier, but also sad. She never had to think about an exit strategy with Ethan before.

"Except you're not a stranger, are you?" Ethan's eyes are fixed on her, taking every little change in her expression to heart. He didn't want to make her cry again. The sight of her tears left him in pain and just because he didn't remember her didn't mean some part of him didn't care for her, deeply.

Her lips part with his question, eyes meeting his so quickly Ethan's heart jumped. She's taken aback, hopeful and he knows he made a mistake again. He should have worded it better instead of giving her hope he remembered something. Truth be told, he had fuzzy memories of a girl's laugh echoing in his head but he didn't know for sure if it's hers. He doesn't seem to be capable of making her laugh.

"You left a bag here last time and I snooped. I saw the scrapbooks." Scratching his eyebrow, Ethan continues, "I recognized my handwriting on some of the pages. It's so fucking weird."

"Which part?" Y/N tries, afraid she's going to say something wrong and he'd stop talking. It's the first time he's the one keeping the conversation flowing.

"All of it. I read these thing and watch our videos and photos and it's so clear I was smitten with you and then I can't fucking remember a thing. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore."

Wetting her lips, Y/N sighs. "But you do. You're still Ethan Dolan. You are a brother, a son, a creative pain in the ass. Your mind is something to admire, your sarcasm something to enjoy, and while you may be confused now, I still see the man I fell in love with. You're kind and funny and so sweet. You make everyone's lives better just by existing."

Holding out his right hand, Ethan's eyes flickered to Y/N's who focused on his hand with wonder. He could tell she was uncertain about what she should do, but she reached for his hand anyway.

Her shaky fingers run across his palm and they're icy cold to touch. Her bracelet passes the tips of his fingers as hers curl around his wrist. It's impossible to ignore the number 8 and E charms on her bracelet. They signified him. To Y/N, Ethan was her lucky charm. He always will be.

"Why does touching you make me feel like everything will be alright yet your presence here makes me wanna scream for you to leave?" Ethan speaks softly, quietly as if she wasn't meant to hear him, but she does. It pains her to hear his conflicting emotions, even more so knowing they're just the tip of a very deep running iceberg.

"What about my presence unnerves you the most?"

Pulling her hand up to his face, Ethan plants a tender kiss on the back of it, bringing goosebumps to her skin.

"The expectations. I'm supposed to be the Ethan you love and I'm scared I'm not him anymore. I'm scared I never will be and that I'll lose whatever this was between us and it clearly meant a lot to me then." Pausing, he traces his thumb along her wrist, wistfully flicking the letter E.

"It's also the pain and love I see on you. It's like I stole something from you I can never give back."

Sniffling, Y/N swallows thickly. Ethan looks up, seeing tears brimming in her eyes. "See? I always make you cry."

Shaking her head, Y/N giggles. "These are happy tears because I see and hear the Ethan you think is lost."

And that's when Ethan drops her hand. The laugh echoing really is hers. The giggle confirms it. "What if I never get my memories back? What if I don't fall in love with you again?"

Closing her eyes, the tears brimming before fall. "I don't know."

Part 4

#dolan twins #ethan dolan #ethan dolan x reader #ethan dolan imagine #ethan dolan fanfiction #ethan dolan angst #ethan dolan fanfic #ethan dolan fic

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sugachaes · 3 years

Text

Blue Hour

A/N: Soooo this is like... the first fanfic I’ve ever written lol, I don’t usually write stuff like this, but it was fun! I should have more coming at some point in the future, but for now, here’s what I’ve got! My other socials are in my bio if you wanna see more of my work!

This fic has been cross posted to AO3 here.

Word count: 10k+

Content: Mutual pining, some light smut?, childhood friends to lovers, some angst, Jimin is either the best or worst life coach, no one is sure which, Hoseok is always drunk but I think he’s neat, Jungkook and Taehyung share one brain cell but it’s shaped like a heart, Shownu best boy

Jungkook is running late.

He’s rushing to exit his dorm building, not even waiting for the elevator to make it to his floor, rushing down the stairs in hopes that it’ll take less time. In his haste, he still manages to have time to regret choosing the top floor of the four story building.

Upon exiting the building, Jungkook takes off in the direction of his lecture, thanking his lucky stars it isn’t too far away from where he lives. He weaves his way through other students, trying to cause as little damage while also moving as fast as he can.

At last, he’s made it to the right building, bursting through the first door he sees and hoping he’s in the right place.

When he enters, the class has gone quiet, all eyes turned in the direction of the disturbance. The professor, after giving him a quick once over, decides to let the interruption slide and continue her presentation.

Jungkook makes his way through the lecture hall, hoping his seat hasn’t been taken by someone who was actually on time for the class. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that no one has taken his beloved spot from him, and plants himself there before moving to pull out his materials.

“Dude, what happened to you? I don’t think you’ve ever been late for anything.”

Jungkook looks up and meets the eyes of his best friend, Taehyung. The two of them go way back, all the way back to middle school when Jungkook had moved from his small town to the big city. After watching the boy desperately try to find a place in a school that was much larger than what he was used to, his constant confusion attracting stares from already established students, Taehyung decided he would help this clueless stranger for as long as he could.

“I must’ve forgotten to set my alarm last night,” Jungkook says, finally pulling out the book he was looking for.

“That’s not like you. Maybe it was a glitch?”

“Maybe.”

Taehyung turns his head to face the front of the room, having gotten the answers to all his questions. Jungkook follows suit, deciding he should at least pay attention to what was left of the class and hope he could piece the rest of it together on his own.

Though, his eyes can’t help but drift over occasionally, stealing glances at the boy next to him.

He’s not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, between the late nights watching movies together, Jungkook had fallen for Taehyung. Naturally, he pushed those feelings down, afraid that they may make him act selfishly, or worse, ruin their friendship. As much as he would like for things to turn out like they do in fanfiction, where it turns out the two of them have been pining after each other the whole time, he knows better.

So instead, he hides his feelings away, hoping that one day he’ll be able to go back to seeing Taehyung as nothing more than a friend. Though, it’s becoming harder to keep his emotions at bay lately. He finds himself relishing in Taehyung’s touch, whether he means to or not. Hugs when something goes good or bad for one of them, touches that last just a bit longer than they would for others, Jungkook takes advantage of each of those little moments.

Even though it causes him to fall deeper each time.

Once the lecture ends, the students begin filing out, likely off to more stress-inducing classes. As Taehyung and Jungkook are leaving the building, Taehyung decides this is the perfect opportunity to ask his friend a very important question.

“Hey, Kook?” Jungkook turns to offer his full attention to his friend. “So there’s this party-”

“Absolutely not.” Taehyung lets out a groan.

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“Tae, you know how I feel about parties.”

“I do! But this one will be different.”

“Last time you said that I ended up carrying you home.” Taehyung scratches the back of his head, recalling the incident himself.

“Ah, I’m a different person now!” Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Besides that was like… a year ago?”

“Four months.”

“It’s in the past!”

“Barely.”

“Please just come this one time? You only have to stay for an hour.” Jungkook stares at him. “Do it for me?”

A sigh leaves Jungkook’s lips.

“Only for an hour.”

Jungkook doesn’t even bother putting too much effort into what he’s wearing, throwing on jeans and a T-shirt and deciding it’s presentable enough.

“Good enough to get me bye for an hour,” Jungkook says, looking at himself in the mirror briefly.

As if on cue, Jungkook hears a knock at the door. He exits his room and goes to open the door, revealing a similarly dressed Taehyung. The only real difference lies in the leather jacket Taehyung has thrown over his shoulders.

“You don’t think you’re a bit underdressed?” Taehyung asks, taking in Jungkook’s work, or lack thereof.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Taehyung reassures him. “You look fine. Let’s go.”

The two of them head out, deciding to walk to the party given that it’s relatively close to their campus. As they grow closer to their destination, they can already hear the faint sound of music in the distance. They follow the sound until they arrive at the source of the music.

The house, no, the estate, that the party is taking place in is practically vibrating on its foundation as the bass flows through it and out into the air. There’s a few people loitering outside, the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol wafting through the air. Someone is already passed out on the lawn. They likely won’t remember anything once they wake up. Taehyung takes a big inhale.

“I love the smell of regret in the evening.” He turns around to look at Jungkook, who already looks visibly sick as he takes in his surroundings. “Hey, are you good?” Jungkook appears to shake himself out of whatever stupor he’s in.

“Yeah, yeah I’m alright,” he says, moreso trying to convince himself than he is trying to convince Taehyung. “Just a little overwhelmed, that’s all.”

“Will you be alright?”

“I think so. I’ll just find a corner to hide away in.” Though he knows it’s just because he’s a good friend, Jungkook’s heart can’t help but flutter at Taehyuns’s concern for him.

“Nah, you don’t have to do that! I’ll stay with you the whole time.” At this, Jungkook gives him an incredulous look. “I’m serious! I want you to have fun, too.” Jungkook considers his words for a moment.

“If you disappear on me you’re buying me lunch for a week.”

“Deal.”

The party is well underway when Taehyung and Jungkook walk in. Bass coming from the speakers pulsates throughout the house. There’s a crowd of people on the dance floor, some swaying to the beat, others moving wildly. It’s not hard to tell who only has a slight buzz and who’s clearly overdoing it. Jungkook expects to see more people scattered across the lawn by the end of the night. As his eyes continue to sweep over the crowd, taking note of the guy currently hunched over and about to let loose every toxic brew he’d ingested hours prior, he hears a call of his name.

Following the direction of the sound, he turns his head and is met with the sight of a (very drunk) Hoseok.

Hoseok was one of the first people Jungkook had befriended when he first started attending school. When Jungkook had joined the campus dance team, Hoseok had welcomed him with open arms and a warm, inviting smile.

“What are you doing here?” Hoseok slurs slightly. “I thought you didn’t like coming to these things.”

“I don’t,” Jungkook confirms. “I’m here against my will.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” Taehyung chimes in. He turns his attention to Hoseok. “I knew he’d just hole himself up in his room all night, so I dragged him out for some fresh air.”

“Calling this air fresh is a little misleading, don’t you think?”

“Ah, it’s really not that bad!” Hoseok says. “This is pretty tame compared to other parties here.” Hoseok stumbles a bit, and Jungkook reaches out to steady him.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Dunno. Stopped counting after four, though.”

“Aren’t you a bit of a light weight?”

“I don’t appreciate being interrogated like this.” Hoseok begins to walk away. “I’m off to get another drink!”

Jungkook watches his friend drunkenly stumble away, presumably to get even more wasted than he already is. He briefly worries if he’ll get home safely, but Hoseok’s done this before, he’ll be fine.

“Whose house is this, anyway?” Jungkook asks, taking in the valuable looking artwork displayed on the walls.

“Kim Seokjin’s.” Jungkook gives him a confused look. “Richest guy on campus. Only met him a couple times, he’s cool.”

Jungkook looks around again.

“I’m only staying for an hour.” Jungkook reminds himself. “I can last that long.”

“You’ll be fine,” Taehyung reassures him. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friends.” he takes Jungkook’s hand and drags him further into the party. Jungkook’s lips can’t help but turn upwards in a small smile at the gesture.

Much to his surprise, Jungkook finds himself getting along with Taehyung’s friends. They seem to be much more outgoing people compared to himself, specifically Taehyung’s friend Jimin. He’s seen Jimin around a couple times, but never talked to him, the two of them existing in different social circles. It seems that a lot of time has passed since the two of them began talking, when really it’s only been about twenty minutes.

Jimin is in the middle of a story, dramatically waving his hands around to add to the narrative, when a song that some of the group, including Taehyung, recognize. They’re quick to rush to the dance floor, not wanting to be seated during what is apparantly the most well known song to most of the partygoers. Jungkook supposes he can let this one slide.

It’s when one song shifts into another, and then another, that Jungkook becomes nervous. He’s in a strange house surrounded by people he doesn’t know, all of which are a different level of inebreiated. He decides to look around for his friend, ready to remind him that he’ll now be feeding him for a week.

It doesn’t take long for him to locate Taehyung. He’s still on the dance floor, though he now has a drink in hand. He moves to get his attention when he notes that he isn’t dancing alone.

He’s not sure who the guy is, he’s never seen him before right now. He just knows the way he runs his hands along Taehyung’s body, the way they sway sensually to the song currently playing, is making him sick to his stomach.

He finds himself running to the door, hoping that Taehyung didn’t see him standing there, intruding on the moment he was sharing with this stranger. The longer he stays, the harder he finds it to breathe. He eventually makes it out onto the front porch, catching his breath as if he’s just completed a marathon. Once he calms down, he begins his walk back to the dorm, unable to get the images out of his mind. He checks the time. 10:47 pm.

He didn’t even make it the full hour.

Like Jungkook often does when he’s upset, he holes himself up in his room. He spends the entirety of the next day hunched over his computer, completing assignments before he turns to video games to ease his mind. While in the middle of a particularly tough fight, his phone dings. He groans before pausing, picking up the device to see who could possibly be disturbing him.

He visibly deflates when he sees that it’s Taehyung.

Not long after he left the party last night, he had seen a flurry of messages sent from the man in question. He elected to ignore them, deciding he had been through enough for one night. Now, though, he feels that he should at least let him know he’s okay and that he made it home safely. Sighing, he opens the text thread.

Tae Tae: Whered u go

Tae Tae: I thought i saw u

Great. So Jungkook’s staring didn’t go unnoticed. He drags a hand down his face before he continues reading.

Tae Tae: Were u not having fun

Tae Tae: m sorry

Tae Tae: :(

Jungkook finds his resolve cracking, if only a little. That is, until he reads the next message.

Tae Tae: I wanted u to neet someone

Well, this confirms everything he needed to know. His feelings were completely one sided. All the moments he worried he was reading too far into were just that, his own hopes being projected on to his friends. With his heart now heavier than it’s ever been, he finally reads the most recent message, though it barely registers in his mind.

Tae Tae: Hey, I’m sorry I left you alone last night. Time kind of got away from me, but I wanna make it up to you. Please let me know that you’re safe.

Jungkook finally responds, a half hearted “I’m okay,” and shuts his phone off immediately, not wanting to hear Taehyung’s apologetic messages that likely came in after.

It’s been days since the party, and Taehyung is beginning to worry.

He knows he messed up. He knows he promised Jungkook that he wouldn’t leave him alone for too long, but he ultimately wasn’t able to keep that promise. No, it’s not that he wasn’t able to, but rather he didn’t.

He told himself he’d return to Jungkook’s side after one song. That one song turned into him grabbing a drink, and ending up back on the dance floor with his friends. One more song, one more drink, one more song, one more drink, he cycled through these until an hour had passed since he left. He thought at one point he’d seen Jungkook, watching him in real time as he failed in doing the one thing he promised to do. He thinks now that it was likely just his imagination, his mind’s way of making him feel guilty.

He feels that he’s missed an opportunity. He wasn’t lying about wanting Jungkook to have a fun night out, that much is true. He’s always tried to push Jungkook out of his comfort zone from time to time. The other reason, the one he planned on surprising Jerry with, was introducing him to the guy he’d been seeing. He’d been friends with Shownu for about a year now, and they’d just recently decided if they wanted to explore being something more.

He thought this would be as good an opportunity as any to introduce the two of them, but he’d gotten carried away, and now Jungkook wasn’t speaking to him.

He felt a bit better knowing that Jungkook had made it home safely, but the coldness in his answer told him that he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. He’d really messed up this time.

Jungkook wasn’t only not speaking to him, he was even avoiding him.

He knows that Jungkook has been going to his other classes, if Jimin’s word is to be trusted, but for some reason he’s been absent in their one shared class. He’s likely been asking to be sent any work that he’s missed, being one of the proffesor’s favorite students. It’s unlike him to stay upset for this long. Soemthing must’ve happened before he decided to leave.

He decides that today, he’ll go and apologize in person. Somtehing he probably should’ve done in the first place.

He visits Jungkook’s dorm on a Wednesday afternoon, knowing that he’s in between classes right now and likely taking a nap. He makes his way through the small lobby and to the elevator, and suddenly he finds himself getting nervous. What happens if Jungkook doesn’t answer the door? Or worse, what if he does answer the door, but tells Taehyung he wants nothing to do with him? Or what if he knocks on his door and it creaks open slightly revealing Jungkook’s lifeless body and he gets framed for his murder only to suddenly be transported back in time-

Taehyung shakes his head. That’s the first episode of Erased. He’s spiralling.

The elevator dings, signalling that it’s almost time to either get his friend back or become the protagonist of an anime.

He should really finish Erased.

He makes his way to the dorm, operating purely on muscle memory after having been here so many times. When he arrives, he doesn’t bother hesitating, knowing he’ll think too hard and talk himself out of doing this, as he often does. He hears shuffling on the other side of the door, and suddenly, it swings open.

Taehyung doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jungkook in such a disheveled state.

His hair sticks out all over his head, he’s got on sweatpants and a hoodie, covered in wrinkles and mismatched. If Taehyung looks close enough, he can see a slight red tint to the skin around Jungkook’s eyes, signifying he’s been crying.

Taehyung feels something within him stir at the sight, but he ignores it.

Jungkook’s eyes are directed at the floor when the door first swings open, and when he looks up to meet Taehyung’s eyes, his own widen in disbelief.

They stand there in awkward silence for a few brief moments, not sure how to approach each other after how their last encounter had gone. Jungkook sighs, a tired, sad sound.

“Why don’t you come in?”

Jungkook is at a loss for words.

He was fast asleep when he’d heard the knock at the door, the sound waking him from his restless slumber. He drags himself out of bed, tossing on the first hoodie he sees lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, and tosses it on.

Nothing could have prepared him for when he opened the door.

Taehyung looks like he usually does, sweats and a hoodie with hair that was perfectly tossed. “People like the effortless look,” Taehyung had explained one day. He thinks he understands what he meant now.

After the two of them stand there akwardly, not sure where to go from here, Jungkook decides to invite him in. He decides if they’re going to stare at each other and say nothing, he’d prefer to do so within the comfort of his dorm.

Taehyung seems to look around the room, likely taking note of the mess that Jungkook currently resides in. A wave of insecurity washes over Jungkook at this.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” Jungkook explains weakly.

“I didn’t think so,” Taehyung says. “I’m sorry I showed up unannounced like this. You’ve kind of been…”

“Avoiding you?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence goes by before Taehyung speaks again.

“Look, I know I said I wouldn’t need to-”

“It’s okay.” Taehyung pauses, confused.

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve already forgiven you.”

“Then why-”

“I just needed space, that’s all.”

“So you’re not mad anymore?”

“Nope.”

“Promise?

“Yup.”

“Does this mean I don’t still have to buy you food?”

“Oh, no. You’re still buying me food.” The two of them share a laugh. The air feels much lighter than when Taehyung first arrived here.

Truth be told, Jungkook had forgiven Taehyung as soon as he opened the door. He’d started to feel bad about ghosting his friend, knowing that he would worry. He felt even wrose knowing that it wasn’t really Taehyung leaving him that had made him so upset, but rather his own feelings that were getting in the way.

If putting his own feelings aside would ultimately make Taehyung happy, then that’s just something he would have to do.

Taehyung coaxes Jungkook out of his dorm with the promise of greasy food from the campus diner, and he happily accepts.

A week has gone by since the two of them made up.

It hasn’t been mentioned yet, but Jungkook has a feeling that Taehyung will ask to introduce him to that other guy again. He knows it’ll happen eventually, and despite his dread, he just wishes Taehyung would ask so he can get it over with.

The two of them are at Taehyung’s apartment, claiming to be “studying” when in reality this was just an excuse for them to lounge around and watch reruns of Hell’s Kitchen. It’s when Taehyung keeps glancing over at Jungkook thinking he’s being subtle that he knows something is up. He grabs the remote and pauses, just as Chef Ramsay has finished calling someone a panini head.

“Okay, you’ve been watching me like you’re waiting for me to explode.” Taehyung chuckles, having been caught.

“Alright, you got me. You are so observant, you know that?”

“You’re stalling.”

“I would never!” Taehyung puts his hand over his heart, feigning offense.

“Please just spit it out already, you're making me nervous.”

“Fine, fine.” Taehyung takes a deep breath. “I want you to come to a bar with me this weekend.” Jungkook opens his mouth to speak, but Taehyung cuts him off. “Before you argue! I’ve been to the place before, it’s really chill. It’s like a grill and bar place. Not a lot of people go there, so don’t worry about crowds. It’s totally fine-”

“Now you’re rambling.”

“Sorry, sorry. I just really wanted you to be comfortable.”

It’s a sweet gesture, and Jungkook’s heart flutters against his will. He does his best to ignore it. He pretends to think for a bit about Taehyung’s proposal.

“You promise we’re not gonna get there and immediately be met with a huge crowd like we’re in some old tv show?” Taehyung lights up.

“I’ll see what I can do!”

“Then I’ll be there.” At this, Taehyung lets out a sigh of relief.

“I was worried you’d say no for a second.” Jungkook picks up the remote and resumes the show. “I think you and Shownu will really get along.”

Jungkook freezes. He’d never heard the other guy’s name before. Now, reality is starting to set in. This is real. He’s meeting the guy that’s in the place he’s wanted to be in for such a long time.

He has a feeling he and Shownu will not, in fact, get along.

Jungkook doesn’t ever think he’s taken longer to get ready for something in his life.

He’s still going to go, of course. He wouldn’t just stand his friend up after he did everything he could to accomodate him and his mildly crippling anxiety. He just wouldn’t pretend to be enthusiastic about it. At least, not until he had to.

He decides that this time he’ll follow Taehyung’s advice, throwing a leather jacket on to add to his otherwise plain outfit. He doesn’t know why he does it, maybe just to keep himself grounded, but he finds it comforting in a way. Like when he was a kid and he believed hiding under the blankets would protect him from whatever creatures may be lurking in the night.

Only this time the creatures are his stupid feelings. His stupid feelings which won’t go away no matter how many blankets he piles onto himself to burrow away from them.

The universe decides to break him out of the rabbit hole of overthinking he finds himself peering over the edge of, as there’s a knock on the door.

He opens the door and comes face to face with Taehyung once again. He manages to find humor in his current situation, the similarities to the diasastrous night that began all of his inner turmoil uncanny.

“I see you decided to take my advice,” Taehyung remarks, looking at his leather jacket. “It looks good.” Jungkook offers him a small smile.

“We should go before the crowd gets there,” Jungkook teases.

“There won’t be a crowd!” Taehyung says, exasperated. “You keep talking about them and you’re gonna jinx it.”

“If it means I get more free food, I think I’ll manage.” Taehyung playfully shoves him, and the two of them head off.

The bar doesn’t seem particularly busy tonight, much to Jungkook’s delight.

There’s a decent amount of cars, but given that it’s a Saturday night it could be much worse.

Entering the bar, it’s clear to see that this place is much different compared to the other bars Jungkook has been dragged to over the years. There’s tables and booths scattered arund the building, along with an actual bar for the people who would prefer the more traditional experience. There’s music flowing through the speakers, much lower in volume compared to the likely heavily packed clubs spread around the city, but still loud enough that the lyrics can be heard. The smell of food floats through the air from the kitchen in the back, the enticing scent having Jungkook almost floating in the air like he’s in a cartoon. There’s a few groups of people sitting at the tables and bars, chatting away, others on the small dance floor.

“This is the nicest place you’ve ever taken me to,” Jungkook says as the two of them make their way to an empty booth. “Are you sure we’re allowed in here?” Taehyung chuckles.

“Oh don’t be like that, the other places weren’t even that bad!” Jungkook raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, they were bad, but I can go to nice places too!”

“A broken clock is right two times a day, I suppose.” Taehyung ignores Jungkook’s thinly veiled insult.

“I invited Jimin to join us as well since you two seemed to get along.”

“For what?”

“I just…” Taehyung trails off for a second. “I didn’t want you to be a tird wheel.”

“Oh. Right.”

Jungkook hadn’t even considered that before agreeing to come. He’s glad he’ll have at least someone else to focus on to keep him from curling in on himself entirely.

As if on cue, Taehyung spots the two in question and, in an extremely embarrassing fashion for anyone else, waves both his arms at them to catch their attention. Jungkook hides his face, hoping that no one other than the two people now coming over, if Taehyung’s satisfied smile is anything to go by, will recognize him.

“Sorry we’re so late! Lots of traffic tonight,” a voice that Jungkook recognizes as Jimin says. Jungkook looks up to greet him, when his eyes drift over to who he assumes is Shownu.

The first thing Jungkook notices about Shownu is that he’s significantly more built than what he was expecting. The second thing he ntoices is that Shownu could easily drop out of college and pursue a modeling career. This is possibly the most beautiful man Jungkook has ever seen, and he finds himself fixing his hair because of it.

Jungkook has already decided that Shownu is his mortal enemy.

The animosity doesn’t last as long as Jungkook would have liked.

Shownu is funny, well put together, and just an all around nice guy. He does his best to include them all in conversation, and even offered to pay for the first round of drinks.

He’s almost distracted, not expecting to actually enjoy himself tonight, until Shownu plants a kiss on Taehyung’s cheek while Jimin tells a story. He feels his stomach start to turn at the sight, but he does his best to ignore it, not wanting to to ruin everyone’s mood with his jealousy.

The night goes on, the increasing alcohol in his system making Taehyung more and more affectionate as time passes. He’s leaning on Shownu more now, the latter seeming to enjoy the attention while also signalling to the waitor to serve Taehyung water in place of alcohol.

Jungkook sighs. He really can’t bring himself to dislike the guy.

Taehyung decides that he wants to dance, so he drags Shownu away and begins leading him to the dance floor, a few other couples having moved that way as hell.

Once the two of them leave, Jungkook lets out a breath, now feeling like he can breathe while the two of them are off being all over each other in a place outside of his field of vision.

“So how long have you had feelings for Tae?” Jimin asks casually, taking a sip of his wine as if he’d just made a remark about the weather. Jungkook is, understandably, caught off guard. He does his best to maintain his composure.

“What are you talking about?” Jungkook says after what felt like way too long to be an honest answer.

“Dude, you can drop the act. I won’t tell anyone,” Jimin says. “Though I’m surprised you haven’t told on yourself just yet. You’ve been trying to stare daggers at Shownu since we got here.”

“Trying?”

“Yes. And failing. Because you don’t even hate Shownu, you barely know him. You’re just jealous he’s in the position you wish you were.” Jungkook sighs.

“Y’know, I didn’t come out tonight to be read like this,” He says with a chuckle.

“It’s part of my charm. Consider me your traumatizing life coach.”

“Did you steal that from a TikTok?”

“Hey, I’m the one doing the reading here.” The two of them share a laugh. “But between you and me,” Jimin starts, suddenly sounding serious, “I don’t think their relationship will really go anywhere.” Jungkook’s interest has peaked now, and he turns to face Jimin fully.

“What makes you say that?”

“Can’t say. I’m sworn to secrecy.” Jimin thinks for a moment. “Besides, it’s best you don’t hear it from me. It would probably cause chaos otherwise.”

“You’re beginning to worry me.”

“Also part of my charm.”

“Is Shownu like…. A murderer or something?” Jimin shakes his head, an amused smile gracing his features. “A bank robber? A secret agent?” Jungkook goes silent for a moment, and then gasps. “Is the government after him for committing tax faud?” Jimin begins to laugh.

“Nah, nothing as interesting as any of those.” Jimin says, and then leans in. “He’s an alien.” When Jungkook’s eyes widen, Jimin laughs again. “I’m kidding! Just kidding. He’s just a normal guy.”

“Should I just move on then?” Jungkook asks, his cheerful demeanor starting to fade away.

“That’s up to you to decide,” Jimin says. “But.. don’t lose hope just yet. That’s all I can tell you.” Jungkook sighs for the umpteenth time tonight. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“But what about-”

“They’ll be fine. They probably won’t even notice we’re gone.”

The two of them wave a passing waitress over to pay their tab, and head out the door.

The drive is quiet, save for the soft melody coming from the radio. They arrive at Jungkook’s dorm and, though the end of the night left him confused, he still had a good time. He thinks he and Jimin will be really good friends one day. When he opens the dorm of the car, he turns to face Jimin.

“Hey, um,” Jungkook starts, “thanks for talking to me.”

“Ah, no problem,” Jimin insists. “I’ll see you around, yeah?” Jungkook nods before stepping out of the car and heading to the dorm, thoughts floating through his head as he tries to figure out what Jimin knows about Shownu and Taehyung’s relationship that he doesn’t.

Unbeknownst to Jimin and Jungkook, Taehyung did, in fact, notice that the two of them had left together, if the tears that flowed so freely were anything to go by.

The next week, classes are cancelled, most buildings on campus are closed, save for the necessities like the dorms and dining hall, and people all over campus have either gone home or decided to hibernate in their dorms.

There’s a winter storm coming.

The snowfall predicted is said to be a few feet at least, and the roads will be iced over. Campus slowly becomes a ghost town, with no one wanting to be trapped in their tiny dorms under these conditions.

Jungkook opts to stay put where he is. He likes the idea of there being significantly less people around, snow falling and turning the once boring school into a winter wonderland. It reminds him of when he was a kid, and he would get to stay home and play in the snow, until his mom would call him inside, worried he would get sick.

He’s in the middle of a game now, deciding today was a good day to do the most challenging levels of Super Mario Maker he could find, when he hears his phone ding on his bed. The noise distracts him, causing him to fall into an awaiting pit of lava, the sound signalling his character’s demise mocking him.

He turns around to grab the device, lighting the screen up and revealing a text from Taehyung.

Tae Tae: Wanna go get lunch?

Jungkook is about to type out his response when another message comes through.

Tae Tae: You’re never gonna beat that level

Tae Tae: Too many trick moves

Jungkook is almost shocked that Taehyung knows what he’s up to, before remembering he’d been struggling with this particular level for weeks now and had made that fact very known. He begins typing out his response.

Kook: I’ll have you know I’m an expert gamer

Kook: Where we meeting up?

They end up going to the same diner they went to just last week, having already formed an addiction for the unhealthy food they have to offer.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much snow in my life,” Taehyung says after they’ve placed their orders.

“Me either. Normally I like the cold but I think even I have my limits.” Taehyung laughs.

“Man, we’re getting old huh? We’re sitting here talking about the weather. I thought we had at least another ten years before we got to this point.” It’s Jungkook’s turn to laugh now.

“Only ten?”

“Maybe not. I did just have to drag you away from a video game.”

“There’s no age limit on video games!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard this rant before.”

“You keep calling me out and you’ll hear it again.” The two share a laugh.

“Do you ever miss being a kid?” Taehyung asks, suddenly sounds serious.

“Who wouldn’t? I didn’t even know student debt existed when I was a kid, now look at me drowning in it.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Taehyung says, then pauses. “But what about like, I dunno, feelings and stuff?” This catches Jungkook’s attention.

“What like, hormones and stuff?” Taehyung chuckles.

“Kind of. Like, the only emotions we understood as kids were like anger and sadness and sadness. But not even like, fully either.”

“I think I get what you mean. When did things get so complicated?”

“Exactly. Everything used to be so simple.”

The two of them sit in silence for a moment. Neither of them usually discuss things like this with each other. Something has shifted between the two of them, thought what that shift might be, neither is sure. This is new territory for them, so neither is sure how to go about such a seemingly sudden change.

“Y’know,” Taehyung starts, “even with everything that’s changed, I’m glad you’ve stuck with me throughout all of it.”

“Of course I did,” Jungkook responds immediately. “How could I not after you were pretty much my guide throughout middle school?”

“You were wandering the halls looking for your next class for three days! I couldn’t just leave you hanging like that.”

“I totally could’ve managed.”

“And you’re also totally gonna beat that level you’ve been struggling with.”

“I was close!” Jungkook says, dramatically slamming his hands on the table. “I was so close, but then you dragged me away.”

“Oh sure, blame your lack of skills on me.”

The two of them continue to banter and bicker with each other, and things feel like they always did between the two of them. When their food arrives, they immediately begin trying to catch the food in their mouths, tossing it to each other and keeping score, and it feels like they’re back in middle school.

It feels like everything is simple again.

Once the two of them leave the diner, having filled themselves with unhealthy food that they’ll definitely regret later, they begin the trek back to Jungkook’s dorm. On the way, they pass by the school’s fountain at the center of campus. It’s frozen over now, coins that students tossed in for good luck rest at the bottom of the ice.

“Think we could break this and make some money?” Taehyung asks.

“It’s probably mostly pennies. Would it even be worth all the trouble?” Jungkook responds, looking into the fountain and examining the copper toned coins frozen in place.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Taehyung is turned away from Jungkook now, but goes unnoticed as Jungkook continues his search. He spots an old band aid among the coins, scrunching his nose in disgust.

“The same place the coins are.” He looks up and sees Taehyung is facing away from him, but thinks nothing of it. “Your ideas of adventure usually end with us getting in trouble anyway. You’d be in jail by now if it weren’t for-”

Jungkook is cut off when a snowball is hurled at him, hitting the side of his face. He looks up immediately, meeting the mischievous eyes of his best friend.

“What? Too mature for a snowball fight?”

“You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jungkook scoops up snow and begins forming it in no time, and Taehyung’s eyes widen in fear.

It’s not long before a war has broken out in the quad. They throw what feels like hundreds of snowballs between the two of them, laughing and screaming with delight as they do so. Eventually, the two of them tired themselves out, lying next to each other and laughing, the absurdity of their impromptu snowball fight finally setting in.

“We haven’t hung out like this in such a long time,” Jungkook says through giggles.

“Yea, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you over the past week,” Taehyung agrees.

“I’ve missed you, too.” Jungkook says. The next part, he lets slip out on accident, lowering his voice so that Taehyung can’t hear him. “I love you.’

He didn’t lower it enough.

“What’d you just say?”

Jungkook’s stomach drops. He couldn’t have heard him. He didn’t.

“I just said I missed you.”

“No, no. You said something after that.”

“I think you’re just hearing things. Did you get snow in your ears?”

“Jungkook.”

“I have to go.”

Jungkook stands from his spot and adjusts his jacket. Before he can make his escape and regret every life choice that brought him to this moment, he feels a tug on his arm.

“Say it again.”

“No. Please let me go.” He refuses to turn around and face Taehyung, and something in his chest aches at the realization.

“Don’t leave.” Jungkook says nothing, but he doesn’t move to get away either.

“I need to go.”

“You don’t.”

“Yes I do!” Jungkook yells, catching both of them off guard. “I can’t be around you. Not when I’ve felt like this for years.” Jungkook finally turns to face Taehyung, tears streaking down his face. “Not when I’m watching you fall for someone else. Someone who isn’t me.”

Taehyung finds his hold on Jungkook’s arm is weakening, and he lets Jungkook walk away.

Jungkook starts back on his way to his dorm, moving quickly, hoping that the faster he got to his drm the faster the embarrassment he felt would disappear. Taehyung’s touch, he found, burned against his skin, completely different from the gentle warmth he’d grown accustomed to. Taehyung would go to Shownu, and after some time, he’d forget about Jungkook. That’s what he believed.

He would never know that Taehyung stayed frozen in place as he watched Jungkook’s retreating form, tears of his own staining his face.

Taehyung has lost track of how long it’s been since that fateful day in the snow.

A few days? A week? Two weeks? He’s honestly not sure anymore.

Jungkook’s confession had woken up so many things in him at once. Sadness upon realizing that his friend has been holding onto those feelings fornsuch a long time. Guilt knowing that he’d essentially been flaunting his new relationship in his face, blatantly letting his friend know that he wasn’t interested in the most callous way he could do so. The worst part, though?

It had brought back old feelings he’d thought he had moved on from.

There was a time where Taehyung was certain that he and Jungkook would end up together at some point. The two of them were inseperable from the time they first became friends to a few weeks ago. It always made sense to him that they would get together and stay that way for a long time.

But things didn’t work out that way.

Taehyung had taken Jungkook’s shyness about the subject of them as a silent rejection. As a result, he’d told himself he had to move on from him, and for a while, he did. That is, until they’d started college together.

Once their environment had changed, Taehyung had noticed a change in Jungkook..

He was still averse to parties, that was still the same. But he’d grown more confident in himself. He’d been exploring different hobbies, started getting tattoos like he always talked about doing, he’d even joined a few clubs. Even with his newfound confidence, he was still the same boy that Taehyung had helped create a place for when they were kids.

Against his better judgement, Taehyung found himself falling for him again.

He thought that now, since he’d grown as a person, surely now he would confess his feelings. But the confession never came, and Taehyung had to once again push his feelings away. This is when Shownu came in.

Originally, they were just friends with benefits. No strings attached, they had agreed. They got along quite well, and that was all there was to it.

But Taehyung’s feelings for Jungkook still lingered, and he decided he needed to take it a step further.

He was thankful that Shownu had been okay with getting to know each other outside of the bedroom. Eventually, the guilt of using Shownu for his own reasons had started to eat away at him. He was leading someone else on but he couldn’t stop himself from doing it.

But when he’d noticed that Jungkook and Jimin left together that night at the bar, the dam broke.

That night, he’d told Shownu everything. The years of pining that had resulted in nothing, the reason he’d started their arrangement, everything, and Shownu had been nothing but understanding.

So here he was now. Cooped up in his room, sittting with the fact that he’d been casuing his friend so much strife, all because of his own selfishness. Even now knowing Jungkook’s feelings, he fears that he’s messed up too many times for them to ever have something more than they already do.

He’s in the midst of wallowing in self pity when he hears a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” he says, refusing to leave from the cocoon of blankets he’s buried himself in.

The door creaks open slowly, and Jimin walks in, rattling a bag of food like someone would do for their pet cat.

“I’ve got a piping hot bag of bad decisions with me,” Jimin says, approaching the vaguely human shaped pile he believes is his friend. Taehyung grumbles in response. “Still havent’ heard from Jungkook?”

“No.”

“You gonna reach out to him?’

“No.”

“You gonna stay in here and watch Bob Ross painting videos instead of facing your fears head on?”

“Yup.” Jimin sighs.

“You two are very similar, you know that?” Taehyung says nothing. “You guys really need to talk about… whatever it is you’ve got going on. That’s the main problem here.”

“What good will that do?” Taehyung asks, irritation present in his voice. “He probably hates me. And I don’t even blame him.”

“Well, at least we’ve crossed that bar.” Taehyung glares at him. “You’re not the only one at fault here, though. He bottles his feelings up as much as you do.”

“So what am I supposed to do, Jimin?” a sniffle. “I don’t know what to do anymore.’

Jimin’s heart aches at the pain in Taehyung’s voice. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the younger boy so distraught. He moves to comfort him, placing a hand on Taehyung’s back to try to calm him down, if even a little.

“I’m not sure,” Jimin says. “I think right now you should be honest with him. I think at this point, all he needs is for you to tell him how you really feel.”

“Do you think it’s that easy?”

“I do.”

Taehyung considers this for a moment. If he’d been honest from the beginning, years ago even, they wouldn’t be here. He just hopes that later is better than never.

“Okay. Then that’s what I’ll do.” Jimin smiles at him.

“Good. Now move over, Bob Ross’ voice eases the troubles of my soul.”

“What troubles do you have?”

“Two idiots not knowing how to communicate.”

“You’re sitting on the floor.”

Jungkook has never felt embarrassment as intensely as he does now.

It’s been long enough that any other person likely would’ve moved on, but this wasn’t something as simple as dropping your lunch plate in the middle of the cafeteria and having the entire room clap. Been there, done that.

He’d confessed to his best friend of several years that he’s in love with him. His best friend who he knew was seeing someone, at that.

He’s locked himself in his dorm once again, not even bothering to distract himself. Instead, he opts to just lie in bed and think about where everything had gone wrong in his life over the past few weeks.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let Taehyung talk him into going to that party. What if he hadn’t gone looking for Taehyung when he disappeared that night? Perhaps he shouldn’t have forgiven him so easily. He knew that last one wasn’t an option, though. He would’ve softened up eventually.

Now, things are different. He was okay with livivng with his feelings knowing that they would nver be reciprocated. He would still have Taehyung as a friend, and if he was happy, that would be enough for him, even if he wasn’t the one making him happy.

He’s been getting a lot of texts from Hoseok recently, likely wondering why he hasn’t been showing up to practices. Jungkook takes advantage of the weather conditions, claiming to have gotten sick. Hoseok had believed him at first, but the longer time passed, the more suspicious he got.

Jungkook has sent a couple messages in response, assuring him that everything would be okay, along with other vague promises.

He’s not sure what to do at this point. Maybe he hopes Jimin really has been lying so he can move on properly. He wouldn’t be shocked if Shownu showed up to beat him up at some point. He supposes he deserves it. Shownu hasn’t done anything wrong, and now he’s in the middle of this mess.

While Jungkook begins to spiral from regret to guilt, there’s a knock at the door. This time, he’s a lot less willing to deal with whatever this could be.

“Go away, no one’s here,” Jungkook says halfl heartedly.

“Hmmm, alrighty then,” a voice he recognizes as Hoseok says. “I guess I’ll take my snacks and Marvel movie box set elsewhere!” Jungkook’s eyes widen.

“Fine, it’s open.”

Hoseok walks in, a smug smile on his lips.

“Knew that would work.” He places his bags down before taking a seat at Jungkook’s desk, turning to face him. “So what’s up with you?”

“I told you, I’m sick.”

“If you were sick you wouldn’t have let me in.”

“Maybe I’m in the mood to infect someone.”

“You also get sassier when you’re lying.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The two of them stare at each other, waiting for the other to break. A few more seconds go by.

“If I talk can we watch Iron Man first?” Jungkook says, not enjoying the silence in the room.

“Yes.” Jungkook sighs.

“Alright.”

Jungkook tells Hoseok everything, starting from how they met in middle school all the way up to what happened that day in the quad. He tells him about all the time they spent together in high school, how they had gone to prom with a group and ended up alone together in a park from their childhoof at the end of the night. He went through the details of Taehyung getting his first apartment, and how Jungkook had spent the first night there with him.

He talks for about an hour, and Hoseok lets him talk, not wanting to interrupt what appears to be the retelling of happy memories. Up until the current events that have him hiding out in his room, that is.

It’s only when Jungkook finishes that Hoseok decides to speak.

“It sounds like you love him a lot,” he says.

“I do,” Jungkook says. “I really do.”

“But it also sounds like he loves you, too.”

“Okay now you’re just making up things to say.’

“No, I’m serious. If what you’ve told me really did happen then it sounds like he’s just as ass over tits in love with you as you are with him.”

“Don’t you mean head over heels?”

“I know what I said.”

“But that can’t be right. He literally invited me on a date with Shownu.”

“Are you sure that night was for Shownu? He went out of his way to find a place you would find the most comfortable. Did he even once mention Shownu liking the place when he was telling you about it?”

Jungkook thinks about this for a moment. He remembers Taehyung ensuring that he would have fun, that this was the most comfortable place for him. He’d even invited Jimin out to ensure he wouldn’t feel left out at any point.

“I mean, I guess. But I think he was just afraid I’d cut him off if he dragged me to some noisy club.”

“Maybe it was both?”

“Maybe. But there’s definitely something there. I know there is.”

“And if there is? What do I do then? I’ve already confessed to him. On accident, like a moron.”

“Well, you already know how you feel. You just gotta wait for him to figure his feelings out.”

“And if he figures out he feels nothing for me?”

“Then you move on. You deserve to be happy too, you know. You shouldn’t have to hurt yourself just to keep him happy. If he was ever your friend he’ll understand that and respect whatever decision you make.”

Jungkook considers his friend's words. It’ll hurt, but if this is what causes the end of a precious friendship, then this is where it ends. He does a lot for other people, never thinking of how that could benefit him. But maybe it’s time for him to do that. At least once.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll just have to wait until I hear from him again. And when the time comes to make a decision, I’ll know which one I need to make.”

Hoseok stands from where he’s sitting and crosses the small distance between the two of them, wrapping his arms around Jungkook’s frame. Jungkook returns the gesture.

“Thanks for being here, Hobi.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m always here if you need me.”

“Can we watch Iron Man now? That was emotionally exhausting.”

“You do know that Iron Man-”

“One emotional outburst at a time, please.”

Jungkook is feeling much better these days.

He still hasn’t heard from Taehyung, but that’s okay. He’ll reach out when he’s ready.

The school has reopened, the storm finally passing and the ice starting to melt. Life slowly but surely trickles back onto campus, musch like the way the fountain in the quad has begun to flow like it used to.

It’s when Jungkook is heading back to the dorm to change for practice that he recieves a message he’s been both apprehensive about and excited to recieve.

Tae Tae: Can you come to my apartment tonight? I think it’s time we talked.

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to answer this time.

Kook: No problem, I’ll see you then.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Hoseok asks from the driver’s seat of his car.

“Yea, I’m sure. I’ll just catch a bus if things go bad.”

“Do not do that. Call me if you need to.”

“Okay dad, anything else?”

“Remember what we talked about.”

“I will.”

Jungkook gets out of the car and makes his way to the door. He turns around before knocking, seeing Hoseok shoot him a thumbs up to cheer him on. Jungkook turns around, takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. Almost immediately, the door swings open, scaring him.

“Were you like, right by the door?” Jungkook asks, obviously startled.

“Yeah. Sorry, I was just nervous.” He peaks over Jungkook’s shoulder and spots Hoseok in the driveway. Taehyung waves at him, which Hoseok mimics before he pulls away. “Do you wanna head in?”

“That’s probably for the best. It’s still pretty cold out here.”

Jungkook lets Taehyung lead him to the living room, despite having already been here more times than he can count. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, not sure how to start after how they left things the last time they saw each other.

“So, um,” Taehyung starts, “how’ve you been?”

“Oh, god, can we please skip the awkward small talk? My head might explode,” Jungkook says, chucling slightly.

“Sorry,” Taehyung says. “I’m just not sure where to start.”

“Do you want me to go first?”

“Please?” Jungkook nods. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m nervous too.” He takes a deep breath. “Well, I think it’s safe to say we both know how I feel about you.” Taehyung nods. “It’s okay that you don’t feel the way that I do. You aren’t obligated to do so just because we’ve known each other for so long.” He pauses. “But I won’t pretend this isn’t hurting me. I can’t keep doing that to myself. I’ll do my best to hold on to our friendship but it becomes too much for me… then I’ll just have to go.”

Taehyung can only stare at him in shock. He can’t believe the words that he’s hearing right now.

“You think… that I don’t feel the same about you?”

“I mean… you didn’t say anything when I confessed to you.”

“You kinda caught me off guard.”

“That makes two of us.”

“But that’s actually what I invited you over to talk about.” A pause. “I’ve been in love with you since high school.” Jerry’s eyes widen. “Maybe even before that.”

“Wait, but what about-”

“Shownu? I just started hooking up with him to try to get over you. We just tried the dating thing to see where he would go.”

“So you guys are-”

“Broken up? Yeah, we split after that night at the bar.” Jungkook is about to ask another question, and this time Taehyung beats him to it. “I kinda thought you left with Jimin so you guys could… you know.”

“Why the hell would you think that?”

“In my defense I’d had a lot to drink that night.”

“You seem to do that a lot.”

“So I like a good cocktail, sue me!”

“You like several good cocktails”

The air feels significantly lighter than it had when they first sat down, now that their feelings are out in the open. The silence that settles over them after a bit more bantering is comfortable. They’ve moved closer to each other now as they catch each other up on everything they’ve been up to.

Jungkook decides he can’t help himself.

“Can I kiss you?”

Taehyung pauses immediately. He thinks he’s misheard him at first, until he sees Jungkook’s eyes flicker down to his lips. He’s certain his voice will betray him as soon as he speaks, so he decides to nod instead.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they inch closer to one another.

When their lips finally connect, there are no fireworks. It doesn’t feel like time has stopped around them, and it doesn’t feel like the rest of the world has faded away and they’re the only ones left.

It feels like coming inside and having hot chocolate after playing in the snow all day. It feels like your parents cooking your favorite meal after you’ve had a hard day. It feels like putting on an old, worn pair of shoes after spending the day trying to break in a new pair all day.

Kissing Taehyung feels like home.

One kiss turns into two, which melts into five, and eventually the two of them find themselves unable to separate from one another. Jungkook pushes Taehyung down until his back meets the cushion of the sofa, and Taehyung allows him to do so. Jungkook’s dragging his hands wherever he can reach, wanting to memorize every detail of Taehyung’s body. Taehyung slides his hands under Jungkook’s shirt, drawing small shapes in his skin.

It’s when Jungkook grinds his hips into Taehyung’s by mistake, a whimper being ripped from Taehyung’s throat because of it, that they realize the compromising position they’re in. Jungkook pulls away, his eyes drifitng down to Taehyung’s kiss swollen lips.

“Do you want to-”

“Yes.” Jungkook blinks.

“You didn’t even let me-”

“Don’t need to. I’ve been waiting for this for years.”

“I just don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Ooooh, you think you could?” Jungkook squints at him.

“You think I can’t?”

“I’m just saying, I’ve been with a lot of guys-”

“Can we please not talk you hooking up with other guys when I’m on top of you-”

“-and only one has ever been able to make me cry.”

“Wait, who?” Taehyung freezes.

“Forget I said anything,” he tries to lean up to kiss him again, but Jungkook pushes him back down immediately.

“Tell me who it was.”

“But-”

Now.” Jungkook’s demeanor has changed completely, but Taehyung can’t help but continue to tease him.

“Hmm I can’t seem to remember his name now. How odd! Bizarre, even”

“Taehyung.”

“Fine, you’re no fun. It was Shownu.” Jungkook tenses up. “It’s fine, don’t worry if you can’t-”

“Are you challenging me?”

“Maybe a little.”

Jungkook captures Taehyung’s lips again, much more vigorously than he had before. He grinds into Taehyung again, his movements deliberate, rough. The action elicits another sound from Taehyung’s lips, and Jungkook wishes he could make it his ringtone.

“Be careful what you wish for, baby boy.”

It’s not long before clothes are shed, scattered about the apartment in a careless fashion. They continue their minstrations, touches evolving into grabbing, light whimpers turning into loud moans.

Sounds of skin slapping against skin bounce off every wall of the apartment. Breathy moans and whines blend together, creating a symphony of pleasure between the two of them. They continue on until the wee hours of the morning, their bodies having grown slick with sweat.

Jungkook is the second person to ever make Taehyung cry.

The following weekend, there’s another party held at Kim Seokjin’s house.

Taehyung convinces Jungkook once again to go with him, promising they could leave whenever he was ready.

Jungkook is much more confident now, his arm slung over Taehyung’s shoulder as the two of them walk in. Mirroring the last time, Hoseok spots the two of them immediately when they walk in. Much like last time, he’s drunk.

“Jungkook! You came! I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“You saw me two days ago.”

“Exactly. That’s practically years!” He leans in closer to try, and fail,to whisper to Jungkook. “So what’s up with him.” He very blatantly gestures to Taehyung, who’s watching the two of them interact, amusement written all over his features.

“Things are good. We’re good.” Hoseok smiles before directing his attention to Taehyung.

“If you’d hurt him I swear I would’ve destroyed you.”

“You cried in the mall because a bunch of middle school kids tripped you and called your shoes stupid.”

“Middle schoolers are mean, man.” Hoseok hears someone call his name somewhere in the distance, and stumbles in that direction.

“Is he gonna be plastered every time we meet?” Taehyung asks, watching as Hoseok turns to wave goodbye to them.

“Honestly? Probably.”

They find their way to the same area they had been the last time they were last time, occupied by the very same people as well. This time, Shownu sits among them. For the first time tonight, Jungkook feels nervous. Shownu sees the two of them coming and waves them over.

“Hey, Jungkook! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yea, Guess it has been a long time.” A beat of silence. “Listen, I-”

“No no, don’t you dare apologize. It’s completely fine. I didn’t expect things to get serious anyway.”

“Are you sure? Because-”

“No, really. I’m completely fine. I’m glad you two are happy.” He smiles, and Jungkook returns it.

He decides he thinks Shownu is actually a pretty cool guy.

Taehyung and Jungkook stay for a while, laughing and talking with the other people seated in the area. Taehyung eventually begins drinking to the point of heavy intoxication, as he often does, and Jungkook opts to take him home. They say their goodbyes, and Jungkook carries Taehyung out on his back and all the way back to campus.

Though it’s only been about a month since they were last here, the walk home makes Jungkook feel nostalgic. The night that had ended so badly for him had resulted in a whirlwind of emotions and unfortunate events. Even so, he thinks he’d do it all over again if he had the chance.

He glances over his shoulder and is met with the sleeping face of Taehyung, him having dozed off halfway through the walk home. As he gazes at the view before him he thinks yes, he absolutely would go through all of that again.

As long as he ended up with Taehyung in the end, he would do anything.

#taekook #taehuyng #jungkook #btsv #bts smut #bts au fanfic #bts fic #bts fanfic

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midnightsnapdragon · 3 years

Note

Oops I’m bad at tumblr. I think I’m supposed to use this thing lol: Yayyyy! I’m a huge fan of all your stuff on Ao3 and have been dying for more good Cresswell fic lately :) How about: “It still surprises him, sometimes.”

...

“Carswell?”

Thorne bites back a swear word and swivels around in his girlfriend’s office chair, grinning widely. “Cress! You’re back early!” With one hand behind his back, he tries to close the program he’d been snooping in.

Cress leans against the doorway of her office and gives him a shy look through her hair. “You know we have security cameras in here, right?”

Uh-oh. Thorne forces himself to keep grinning. “Yeah?”

“And I keep an eye on my office 24/7.” She waves her phone at him, where a little app shows him a bird’s-eye view of himself, seated at her computer.

A drop of sweat creeps down the back of his neck. Shell Tech is a top information security company, and Cress is known to be its secret weapon. That’s why he was sent here in the first place. Carswell Thorne is six months deep undercover trying to get Shell’s secrets out of this five-foot-tall, twenty-four-year-old nerd, and if he just blew his cover because he forgot to disable one camera, he is never going to hear the end of it from his bosses. “Right,” he says, tilting his head with a quizzical smile.

Cress laughs. “So if you were planning to surprise me, this kind of isn’t the best place to do it!”

Thorne relaxes. “Oh. Yeah, you got me. Kind of dumb, huh?”

Her eyes widen. “No!” She steps closer, her fingers knitted together in front of her stomach: a bashful gesture that he’s starting to see less and less as their relationship progresses. “No,” she says again. “It’s really sweet of you. I was actually thinking we could go out for drinks after work, if you’re not too ...” Then she sees the computer screen Thorne is trying to shield with his body. “... busy,” she finishes, frowning. “Is that ... the beta?”

He glances over his shoulder, as if in surprise. “Oh. I guess. Is that what you were working on?”

“It’s kind of an important project.” She lets her hands fall. Crap. She’s not in bashful mode anymore. “What were you doing here?”

If he doesn’t come up with a really, really good cover story in the next five seconds, he can say good-bye to both his mission and his career.

��Okay, full disclosure? I was trying to see your calendar,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish way. “I know your birthday is coming up, and I’ve always wanted to throw someone a surprise party. But you can’t exactly do that if the person is already busy, right?”

Cress’s face lights up. Without preamble, she throws her arms around him, and he catches her and hugs her close. With him in a seated position and her standing, there’s not even much of a height difference to deal with. In fact, he wouldn’t mind staying like this for a few minutes. But only because she’s warm and soft and smells nice. No one ever said you couldn’t find pleasure in your work.

“You were going to throw me a party?” The words are muffled against his neck.

Thorne smiles into her hair. “Yup. And invite all your coworkers who hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” she says unconvincingly. “I’m sure if they just gave you a chance ...”

“Well, then this is the perfect opportunity.”

Looks like his cover is still intact. Carswell Thorne, devoted romantic partner and thrower of parties. It still surprises him, sometimes, how utterly naïve this girl is, how trusting, and so tragically gullible. This isn’t even the first time she’s caught him trying to snoop on her tech conglomerate’s projects. Next time, he promises himself. Next time, I’ll get her secrets. I just need a little more time.

“Carswell?”

“Hm?”

“I really, really like you.”

Thorne becomes aware of a warm, expanding feeling behind his ribcage. He shuts his eyes and lets out a breath into Cress’s hair. “I really like you, too. But you already knew that.”

She pulls away. For a moment he’s afraid that she’s detected something in his voice, that he’s somehow given himself away, but her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks turning pinker every second.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling down at him. “I already knew.”

...

“Jeez, Cress. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Cress says, and pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a cell phone, smudged with fingerprints and locked with a measly 8-character code. “Here. I got something for you.”

Linh Garan, founder and CEO of Shell Tech, frowns at her across his desk, but he takes the phone and turns it over in his hands. “Is it his? The agent’s?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“How did you even get it?”

“I ... picked his pocket.” She feels unsure of herself just saying it, like she might be boasting or lying. But she’s not. She went through hours and hours of YouTube tutorials and even got Cinder, Garan’s adopted daughter, to practice with her. Which wasn’t hard, seeing as Cinder would have signed up for anything that made “that idiot American” look like a chump. In the end, Thorne hadn’t felt a thing when she slipped the phone from his jacket. Of course, she was hugging him at the time, and he was already flustered knowing he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Guilty people never consider the possibility that someone else might be deceiving them.

It still surprises her, sometimes. How easy it is to play someone who thinks they’ve got you wrapped around their finger.

Garan raises his eyebrows at the phone, clearly impressed. “Well, this is obviously Rikan-issue. We’ll do a full scan and decryption and have it back to you before you leave for drinks. If it’s his work phone, odds are we can get a lot of intel out of it. Good work, Cress.”

“Thanks.”

"And you know you don’t have to do this, right? Rikan’s the one that planted him here. We’d be well within our rights to fire him. Don’t feel pressured to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Cress bites her lip. “I know. I won’t.”

“Good.”

When she leaves the office, she finds Thorne chatting up Michelle Benoit, co-founder of Shell Tech, who’s holding a coffee cup and nodding along politely to everything he says. Michelle has been twisting the necks off of farm chickens since she was a little girl, and she’s currently looking at Thorne like he’s a very noisy, very juicy chicken. Cress wants to be a grandma like her when she grows up.

“The work day’s not over yet,” she tells Thorne, sidling up to him in an apologetic sort of way. “You should probably let Michelle get back to work.”

Thorne makes Michelle an elaborate little bow. “Au revoir, Madame. Until le next time.”

Michelle smiles indulgently. “Ton français est franchement abominable. Je me demande quel bête t’a enseigné.”

Cress walks him to the exit, and as they walk he whispers, “What did she say? I didn’t get the last part.”

“She said your French is pretty good and you should come by again soon.”

“Ah,” he says, relieved. “Well, I’ll have to brush up on my Italian next. I hear it makes a very good impression with the ladies.” And as he opens the door, he leans back down to murmur lowly in her ear. “Non vedo l'ora di vederti stasera.”

Cress has no idea what that means, but her face goes tomato red anyway, and Thorne twinkles his eyes at her before disappearing into the street.

She’s going to have to wear something really distracting when he realizes who has his missing phone.

...

send me a prompt and I’ll write a quick(ish) drabble!

#the lunar chronicles #cresswell #cresswell fanfic #tlc fanfic #cresswell fanfiction #the lunar chronicles fanfiction

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robinrunsfiction · 3 years

Text

The Moment I Knew

Pairing: Gerard Way x Female Reader Rating: Teen (mentions of violence) Requested By: None Word Count: ~1,700 Author’s Note: Part two of my Taylor Swift inspiration series. This has a hefty dose of angst, but I hope it’s enjoyable. Also the ending is weak, I know it, but I want to post this and I’m not sure what else I can do with it. Oh and this is set in 2005.

(YN) glanced around the room again, wondering if she’d missed him coming in. The room was full of people she liked, but she didn't even want a big birthday party this year. She just wanted to spend the night with a few of her favorite people, but her friend Christine had decided otherwise, opting instead to throw her a party in the back room of their favorite restaurant. And now the one person she most wanted to spend the night with was very late.

“Happy birthday (YN)!” a familiar voice said behind her.

“Hey Mikey, thank you,” she smiled when she turned around, but her smile faltered when she saw he was alone. “Oh, Gerard isn’t with you?”

“No, he said he’d meet me here. He's not here yet?”

(YN) shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen or heard from him.” A thought nagged at the back of her mind, a thought she didn’t want to verbalize to anyone, but especially not to her boyfriend’s brother.

“I’m sure he’ll get here soon,” Mikey shrugged.

“Yea, I’m sure,” she nodded as Mikey made his way over to get himself a drink.

(YN) sat down by herself at a table where she could watch the door for when Gerard finally arrived. The way her friends were mingling and having a wonderful time at her party was in stark contrast to how she felt; sitting alone, her heart breaking more and more each moment that passed without him there. “He said he’d be here,” (YN) murmured to herself as she checked the time again.

From across the room, cheers went up and she jumped to her feet, wondering what the commotion was all about. That’s when she saw Christine walking in carrying a birthday cake, glowing with candles and sparklers. Everyone followed her across the room to (YN), singing Happy Birthday along the way. (YN) forced a smile, looking around at all the happy faces wishing her well, but they had no idea how her world was crumbling.

As she blew out the candles, she wished silently 'I just want to know if he still loves me.'

The cake was cut and passed out to all the guests. Once the attention of the crowd was off her again, (YN) rushed to the bathroom.

“(YN), (YN) wait!” She heard Christine calling after her, but she didn’t slow down her stride, she couldn’t or else she’d be breaking down within earshot of all her guests. “(YN) what’s going on?”

“Gerard said he’d be here, and he isn’t!” (YN) sobbed as her friend pulled her into a hug.

“Maybe he got busy with something?”

“Something more important than me on my birthday?! Maybe he’s got some other girl he’d rather be with! Or maybe he’s drinking, or using again, and couldn’t get himself together to be here!”

Christine stepped back, looking at her friend horrified. “(YN), why would you say that?”

“I don’t know!” (YN) exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “My brain goes to these worst case scenarios because he’s been acting strange lately. Maybe this is him saying ‘I don’t love you’ ya know? Like he wants me to break up with him?”

“Do you want to break up with Gee?”

“No! I just wanna know why he couldn’t make it to my birthday party when he said he’d be here,” (YN) answered before breaking down again.

Christine let her cry on her shoulder for a while before stepping out to tell the guests that were still there that (YN) wasn’t feeling well and the party was basically over. When (YN) finally emerged from the bathroom, she had to let go of the last shred of hope that Gerard would be there.

Frank and Christine gave her a ride home, and asked if she wanted them to stick around, or to try to get a hold of Gerard for her, but (YN) insisted she didn’t need anyone to come up with her. She just wanted to go to bed and be as alone as she felt.

Walking into her cold, dark apartment, she tossed her bag on the table. She glanced at the answering machine and saw no new messages. Shaking her head, she trudged into her room and was just about to unzip her party dress when her phone rang.

"Hello?" She sighed.

"(YN) you gotta get down here to St Joseph's," Mikey answered in a panicked voice.

"Mikey? Do you mean the hospital? Wha-what's going on?"

"Gee, he was mugged, he's in surgery," Mikey replied, clearly on the verge of tears.

"Oh my god, yea, I'm on my way!"

When she burst through the entrance to the emergency department, she saw Mikey pacing, looking scared.

"Mikey! What happened? Is he ok?"

"I haven't heard anything more since I called you," he shook his head, pulling off glasses and wiping his eyes. "I’d left your party and was on my way to my girlfriend’s house when the police called me, someone found him on the street, they think he got mugged and the robber stabbed him."

(YN) sank into a chair, stunned as tears began to roll down her cheeks silently. It felt like all she'd done that night was cry. Mikey sat down next to her, putting an arm around her comfortingly.

"Michael Way?"

Both of them lifted their heads to look at the doctor that had walked in. "Yea, that's me," Mikey said, getting up and (YN) followed.

"Gerard is out of surgery. He lost a lot of blood, but he is expected to make a full recovery."

(YN) started crying all over again, this time tears of relief. “Oh my god,” she murmured, a shaking hand covering her mouth.

"If you want to go back and see him you can, family only."

"I'm his girlfriend," you whimpered.

"Then you'll have to wait," the doctor said sternly.

"I'll tell him you’re here, he’ll be glad to know you came," Mikey nodded.

(YN) conceded and retreated back to her seat. As she picked at the hem of her party dress every thought she had over course of the evening came rushing back. She thought he hadn't come to her birthday because he had started drinking again or worse. She been worried he had been cheating. And all the while he was almost dying on a street. She felt so guilty for doubting him for a second. (YN) felt someone watching her and she glanced up. A nurse was looking at her with pity in her eyes.

“I like your dress,” the nurse said.

“Thanks. It’s my birthday,” she sighed. “And my boyfriend almost died.”

The nurse shook her head sadly and turned back to her work.

(YN) didn't even feel herself fall asleep until she was woken up by Mikey shaking her shoulder gently. "They said you can go back now."

(YN) nodded and followed him back. She felt foggy, exhausted both emotionally and physically, and suddenly very anxious.

"I'm gonna run and get some things from his place since they think it will be a few days before they release him," Mikey said. She nodded again and cautiously opened the door.

"Hey," Gerard said weakly as she walked in. His black hair stark against the white pillows, he looked so pale.

"Gee," (YN) whispered as she slowly crossed the room.

"Sorry I missed your birthday, sugar."

She shook her head hard, tears welling up in her eyes again. "Nooo, no don't say that, don't feel sorry. Oh my god Gee."

"Come 'ere," he patted the space next to him. She sat down carefully, afraid she might break him.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry.”

"You don't have anything to be sorry 'bout," he smiled softly.

She shook her head. Now wasn't the time to tell him all the doubts she had when he wasn't there. All that mattered now was he was alive. "What happened?"

"I stopped to get some cigarettes and when I left the store, some asshole held me up. He grabbed my wallet, but shanked me anyway," Gerard grumbled.

"Where?"

"Here," he motioned to his lower abdomen.

"Oh my god.”

"All I could think of was how bad I wanted to see you, and tell you how much you mean to me, and give you your present."

"No, don’t worry about that, it can wait until you're better," (YN) shook her head.

"But I don't wanna wait anymore (YN). I know the last few years have been crazy, but the fact that you stayed by my side, even during my lowest point with the alcohol and drugs,” he shook his head. “I know I broke your trust before, but the fact that you never gave up on us means more to me than you'll ever know and I just hope I can repay that to you somehow. I love you so much," he said before reaching under his pillow. "And I'm really glad the mugger didn't go for my jacket pocket," he laughed lightly as he pulled out a small box.

(YN)’s eyes went wide. "Gerard," she gasped as he opened it.

"I'm sorry I can't get down on one knee, but will you marry me?"

She was rendered speechless. The whole night had been such an emotional roller coaster she could barely process what he had said. "Yes!" she finally squeaked out, nodding emphatically.

Gerard grinned and pulled her down to kiss him. "You aren't just saying that cause I almost died, right?" He laughed when they pulled back.

"No, no no, I- oh my god, I would say yes if you asked me anywhere, anytime!"

Gerard finally took the ring out and placed it on her finger before she leaned in again, kissing him hard.

When Mikey returned a few hours later, he found (YN) and Gerard asleep, curled up together on the hospital bed. He spotted the ring on (YN)’s finger and smiled, quietly taking out his phone and snapping a photo of the pair.

"Welcome to the family," he whispered as he set down Gerard's things and exiting the room quietly.

#gerard way x reader #gerard way fan fic #gerard way fan fiction #gerard way imagine #my chemical romance fan fic #my chemical romance fan fiction #gerard way angst

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐;

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

word count: 15.2k+

summary: “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

warnings: swearing, violence, angst (?)

notes: So straight up: no John this chapter. But we are doing a lot of groundwork for plot and characters (hence why the chapter is so long because I’m getting it all out of the way in one, big sweep) cause covering just the movies would be boring anyway, and when have I ever made life easy for myself? So strap in, grab a snack, and enjoy this monster chapter!!

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

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. “In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast.

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

Shit, shit, what is he doing?

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he doing?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so full of secrets.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with.

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are here. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult and a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “Your city?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “Bravo, bravo. So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, no? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? Tourists?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the why,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually wink at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be impressed. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his favourite. Which makes you…a nobody, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave now.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s right. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then some.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“Deal.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“Meraviglioso,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he ever played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant idiot.

“Ah, women, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because angry is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“Inside,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

Go easy on him, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“Bella,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for you. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I am also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m flattered,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People do that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the slightest criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even remotely genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “For now, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they are getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. Sciocco.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you are. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he does know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

Tomorrow morning, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

I should secure us a location, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. Appreciate it.

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious.

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“Oh?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is dangerous. For both of you.

That he is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else.

“You know why,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It always means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—vital—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will never abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, amore,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll wait.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we will have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will not let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“Flavio!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you doing? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve ever purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course not.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running late. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is always displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I will have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him.

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, focus,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do not talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are forever. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you? With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really did think you got away with it. But nah, we were always going to find you out. And now you’re both exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“Shit.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

Get him out of here, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this.

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. Not without you, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums now.

“You stay here and you die,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a goddamn machine gun joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, and the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig.

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel nothing. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all not understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause no matter what.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“Now.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

45 seconds? Still too slow.

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather easy. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected yourself, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be so easy to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man howls.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the least of your worries. Yeah, that’s right that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think this hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well enough—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

Finally, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. He is starting to become grumpy.

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole eight minutes is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your incompetence,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You will get me more—I will call you back.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with you, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to his actions.

“They’re all yours,” you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

We are going to collect the prisoners, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He will punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He will inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You know I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this isn’t about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, certainly,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. I will make them sing.”

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together.

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi

Frowning, you immediately text him back. Is everything okay?

For Santino to text instead of calling—“I like hearing your voice much better.”—it would have to be something truly important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. Yes, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. I like it when you worry about me, cara mia. :)

Rolling your eyes, you text back. Don’t get carried away. It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “Why?”

“He—please don’t kill me—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “No one demands anything of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“Or,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you failed. Tomorrow noon.”

“Next time call instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a hole in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does not like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, your majesty?”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you have,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just full, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King doesn’t know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? Ha! That is the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good friend to have.��

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am so very fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But no. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, unfortunately, departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon’s head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting old.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him any less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. After your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that Winston of all the people is busy making retirement plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I have been paying attention. And it’s all very…peaceful, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s not coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “Peace. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

That gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and God if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “Who is it?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so hate to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I care when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because you mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in my kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, your majesty,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time.

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio insists that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that doesn’t mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please do come in.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means a lot of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is different.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows exactly why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips.

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe a team. Because you’re certainly a something—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost pained and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh fuck.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“And,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the Spare of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, life,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And now—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for decades has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when exactly you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

Chicago is when you knew, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted more, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it.

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a better idea.”

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would ever leave either of you here of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy diner of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times before and after, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had everything growing up expect that which he needed most. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what he wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other.

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did everything in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at what price?

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of his actions.

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to break himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is not a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come after.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, Santi?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute idiot sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s not practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really do consider him a friend.

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can promise.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…vexing sometimes.”

“Have you met you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you adore me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything but. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He must release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been so long. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else definitely knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on you and was tracking you instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus should be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

There’s a storm coming.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife died. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he found it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so easy but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to forget. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you too well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt more, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause.

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously.

“Oh my.”

“John.”

Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog.

. . .

an: heh. now that all that is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D

as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support! x

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick fic #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #viggo tarasov #winston #fic: children of ares

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