#bella ily but it just doesn’t hit the same

[obsessedelusional]

read your mind

paring ↬ Bella Ramsey x Fem!Reader

summary ↬ you’re a famous singer. you meet Bella at a event. the two of you end up spending an intoxicating two weeks together. one day you wake up and Bella is no where to be found. this turns into a vicious cycle of Bella hitting you up whenever it’s convenient for them. when you finally have enough Bella does something extreme to prove their case to you. requested here & inspired by read your mind - sabrina carpenter

word count ↬ 2.4kish

authors note ↬ I love writing but It’s hard to find the motivation. Anyways slowly working through my Bella request. someone requested this so long ago and I started it and never finished it. thank you ily (also I physically can’t imagine Bella as anything but the sweetest ever so this was hard omf)

masterlist

Feedback & Reblogs are helpful and extremely appreciated ♡

⊹ ꙳ ✦ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹

Bumping in to Bella Ramsey at an a event and becoming “a thing” was something you didn’t have planned for yourself. Yet here you are, have spent nearly everyday together in one way or another since the day you met. The two of you had been following each other on social media for a while so when you to were invited to the same award show you approached Bella. An innocent hello turned into an intoxicating two weeks.

Bella was in town for press, who knows how long they’d be in town? Two famous celebrities running a muck all over Los Angeles. Of course it becomes public knowledge, paparazzi photos of you guys walking out your home get taken. Neither of you aware until the next morning when they’re plastered all over the internet.

You wake up reaching over to find the bed empty. Unusual but you’re not worried yet reaching for your phone. You have several miss calls and texts. All asking about Bella. Your best friend the first to notify you of the photos and then asking if you seen Bella’s Instagram story. Closing your messages app to open it, notifications ten times more than normal.

Bella just posted on their story, twenty minutes ago. You click it open, you are presented with a selfie of you two Bella took a few days ago. Your sat basically on top of Bella with the biggest smile, they’re smiling too. Your feel your heart drop to your stomach when you read what they captioned it. “my best friend”

“Bella?” You call out loud, excepting them to respond. Only there is no response. You try to phone them, no answer either so you typed out a text and press send.

You: best friend? really?

Only a few moments pass before they respond. So they were purposely ignoring your phone call, noted.

Bella: its better than every one knowing

You: knowing what? that this morning you woke up in MY bed and now we’re just friends

Bella: it doesn’t matter anyways I’m leaving back home

Now your infuriated, you call again no answer.

You: so wtf was the last two weeks then?

Bella: we’re just friends

You: you are not my friend and you never were

Bella: I just need to be alone

—

You don’t warrant that with a response. It’s a rough couple of weeks but you eventually move on, accepting that it’s over. The internet finally moving on from the thought of you and Bella being more than friends. For a while you couldn’t open your phone with out more than half of your notifications being related to Bella. Whatever that was is done. For good.

Or so you thought because as soon as you feel like you’ve stopped thinking about it Bella is hitting you up. Your sitting at your birthday dinner when your phone vibrates. Surrounded by everyone you love so your unsure who it could possibly be.

Bella: happy birthday I miss you xx

Your best friend notices your change in mood.

“You okay?” She asks. You don’t even respond just pass the phone her way, watching as she reads it.

“I thought you blocked them.” She says, quiet enough the others around don’t hear. You can’t form a response because you know whatever comes out will not be what she wants to hear. Knowing damn well you’re about to do something stupid. You take your phone back, shooting her an unsure look at her before tucking it away in your purse. Deciding you’d deal with it later, when you are alone.

—

Later that night when you’re alone you respond with a simple thank you. What was suppose to be a good night was filled with stress thanks to the text waiting for a response from Bella. As soon as your message says delivered Bella is calling you. You let it ring for a few moments before answering.

“Hello?” Bella says over the phone.

“Hi.”

“I missed you.” They say and you physically can’t come up with a response. Sitting in silence forcing Bella to speak.

“I’m sorrry, I never should of ended things the way I did. I need you.”

“As a friend?” You question, referring to the comment that lead to the downfall of the blossoming relationship.

“No I miss you in my life. I thought I needed to be alone but I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” You later find out that Bella is in town wanting to see you. It crosses your mind that it seems they only want you when it’s convenient for them. Against your brain telling you this is a horrible idea you agree to hang out.

It’s akward for a short moment but when Bella is the first to initiate conversation you two fall into the same feelings as before. This time Bella’s time in town is longer. They’ll be around for two months filming. Between your two busy schedules you make time for each other. Bella fills your worried mind with empty promises of being something more than just friends. You let the delusions of a possible relationship influence your decisions. Night and day your at Bella’s beck and call.

Only for the painful cycle to begin again. A month into Bella being in town they decide to exit your life with no warning. Your attempts to contact them go unanswered. Until a week later, Bella shows up to your home with some lame ass excuse about needing to be alone. They continue with this nonsense only to keep calling you at late hours of the night. The two of you only communicate and see each other on Bella’s time.

—

Eventually Bella goes home and just as you had expected to happened, Bellas doesn’t make an effort to make things work long distance. A few weeks pass since the two of you last speak. You pretend you don’t care any more, growing used to this treatment. Swearing one day you’ll find the courage to break it off officially. Only this time you see on social media that Bella is back in town, probably for an award show coming up in a few days. In the past by now, Bella has already slid their way back into your bed. You don’t dare text them first.

Your going to start tour in a week and you know that once that starts there’s no way you’ll get a chance to see Bella. Your tour is a few months long and will have you all over the United States. Eventually the award show passes and it’s safe to assume Bella is home or headed home. Their inactivity on social media not giving you much to work off of. You’re checking for the millionth time when you finally get a sign of Bella being alive, a short test message.

Bella: miss you gonna be in la soon

You read the text over and over again, only fueling you with anger. Bella was in town and not once did they think to reach out and suddenly they’re back on the other side of the planet and they want to hit you up. Before you can think about it you send a text.

You: I’m going on tour won’t be here

No response.

You’ve been on tour for a few days now, driving to your second show. Started in Seattle and now your in the tour bus headed for Portland. The first night went smoothly, exactly as you had hoped. Now sat on the tour bus doom scrolling through TikTok, waiting for tiredness to find you. Rolling onto your side and closing the app, opening Instagram. Greeted by a new post from Bella. It’s a black and white photo mirror selfie. Bella’s smiles as they take the picture. A girl stood behind them arms wrapped around Bella’s waist perfectly hiding her face in Bella’s shoulder. The caption a date in the near future.

A mixture of sadness and anger take over, quickly becoming only anger. Bella messages you a week ago about how they miss you. You don’t reciprocate the same energy and suddenly they’re publicly telling the world about this girl. You start feeling sick looking at the photo, blocking Bella on instagram. It’s not enough, so you block their number too. Taking this level of disrespect as a sign to stop whatever the two of you were completely.

When you arrive to Portland, your sad demeanor is noted by the people around you. Even when you go to perform your usual happy self is no where to be seen. At one point you cry on stage, as you sing on of your sadder songs. It gets video taped and plastered all over social media. You singing as tears fall down your face. Fans speculate what it could be about but nobody knows what caused truly your sadness.

After that hiccup it was rough for a good few days. Being surrounded by your team, always being busy, and not wanting a repeat of that night things get better. You alow the hustle of tour sweep you up so you can pretend to forget. The tour goes by quickly, last show left has you back in California. One of your biggest shows yet in your hometown, Los Angeles. You’re filled with excitement as it’s completely sold out.

Only for it to all come crashing down when you’re about to go on stage in a few minutes. One of your team members is cheery about the fact that your friend Bella is in the crowd, not knowing about your past with them. You had done such a wonderful job at avoiding Bella. Limiting your exposure to social media because you figured what you didn’t know, couldn’t hurt you. Allowing a team member post for you, you couldn’t entirely disappear like you wanted.

“Please don’t let them back stage.” Is all you say, your team member nods face filled with confusion. Not questioning your request and leaving you alone. Your sat in front of a mirror, looking at your self. So excited just a few moments ago, now you look miserable. Bella somehow succeeding in ruining another important day in your life.

—

You’re thankful for the large venue because wherever Bella is you can’t see them. Your eyes stay towards the front and rarely venture past the first few rows, doing everything in your power to not see Bella. When the concert finally comes to an end, your exhausted more than normal. Sweating bullets as you head back stage. Your team surrounds you momentarily, congratulating you and sharing a brief moment of excitement over your coming to an end.

You feel bad because you can’t be as excited as they are, eventually getting away from everyone and finally finding solitude in your dressing room. As you walk in your greeted by Bella stood there, looking as uncomfortable as possible.

“What are you doing in here?” You snap, turning your back to Bella fully prepared to leave and get security.

“I know I’m crossing so many lines right now. I have no choice you blocked me. I just needed to talk to you.” Bella speaks, your stomach dropping at the sound of their voice.

“Yeah because you were wasting my time. You only wanted me when it was convenient for you. Then your proudly posting som girl on social media. Not even a week before that you were trying to see me.” You snap, finally letting all your anger out on the source.

“That was a promo photo for the show coming out this month. It was a ploy to get people interested enough to watch my story, if you watched it. There was several stories about it.” Bella explains, a slight grin on their face.

“Doesn’t change anything. Why are you here?” You retort, feeling stupid but not wanting to show it. Bella’s grin disappears before they respond.

“I want to make this work, I miss you.” Bella admits.

“What even is this? One day you say you want to be alone, the next you just want to be mine. I can’t read your mind.” You say, sighing exhaustion heavy.

“I’m serious this time. I promise.” Bella says, looking at you. Trying to gauge your feelings on this.

“I can’t believe a single word that comes out from your mouth.”

“What can I do to prove it?” Bella asks, you don’t have an answer. Bella pulls out their phone suddenly typing away.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” Bella grins, causing you to move closer.

“Check your phone.” Bella adds. You change your course and head for where you left your phone at the vanity. As soon as you unlock it you have a dozen texts from friends and family upset that you didn’t let them know about your relationship with Bella.

“What the fuck did you do?” You ask.

“You’re gonna have to unblock me on Instagram to see.” Bella smiles, laughing softly.

“No thank you.” You snap, switching to your private account. Typing Bella’s name into the search bar and seeing a recent Instagram story. When you open it a picture Bella took of you months ago, when you two first met. Your hand reaching for the camera, in the middle of telling Bella to stop. The smile in your eyes making it known that you don’t want them to stop.

the caption: my girlfriend

“Are you kidding me?” You groan, facing Bella.

“I thought that’s what you wanted..”

“Oh my god. I can’t believe you right now. The whole world thinks we’re together now and we’re not.” You say, mostly thinking aloud. You look over to Bella who’s just sat there laughing at the situation.

“Don’t fucking laugh. This is a big deal.” You snap, stopping Bella.

“It’s not too late to post lol just kidding you all have been pranked.” Bella respond causing you to crack a smile.

“No.” You say.

“Oh so you wanna be my girlfriend now?” Bella teases.

“If I say yes you’re gonna have to make up for being such a dick head.” You respond.

“Anything.” Bella responds, desperately.

“I want to go on a real date. Out in public.” You demand.

“Okay. Let’s go.” Bella eagerly smiles.

“Not today. You’re coming home with me tonight.” You smoke, ready to pick up where the relationship ended. Hoping that you aren’t making a huge mistake.

[pierregaslays]

the urge to just rewatch s1 of h2o and not s3 bc i miss emma too much

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude i ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3k

warnings: clown to clown communication! dassit.

rating: m/t

notes: little flashback/interlude chapter where we can all pretend we don't know the inevitable doom that euphie and santino are hurtling towards at breakneck speed ♡ thank you everyone for your love and support on this fic!!!

and thank you to my beta @starcrier who has been reading this content and proofing it not for the first time, but now for the SECOND time, after beginning this fixation for me from the start. you are an angel and ily! ♡♡

Two Years Earlier

It’s the second time that Euphemia meets Santino that she realizes some things in her life have been decided for her, by Fate, and against her will.

Down the road, it will be come a hallmark of their love. Santino will say it against her mouth, her jaw, her neck; il destino, he’ll murmur, you are my destiny. But Euphie will have felt it, that inevitable pull of him, long before he says it.

It’s a black tie even at his museum. She’s been here once before, for a different event he’s thrown, with a different man as a date. That one had been Italian; this one, tonight, is Russian. She would try to remember their names if they mattered, but they don’t.

Admittedly, it’s not quite a date for her, but it is for the Russian. He’s been courting her well and good for the last week, has taken to calling her my girl, is unaware that just two weeks ago she had let another man call her that (or if he knows, he refuses to acknowledge it). She won’t think about it very much; if there’s a little bit of her that hates it, she is reminded that almost all of the money goes home, and that’s what matters.

So, yes—the evening she meets Santino for what is, technically, the second time, she’s on the arm of another man, and Santino walks by with what she’s sure is every intention of ignoring her date for the evening. Her partner says his name, bright and friendly, and the Golden Boy stops and turns with a smile planted on his face that only thinly veils his annoyance at being detained.

“Buonasera,” Santi greets, hands tucked into the pocket of his slacks as he drags his gaze once over her date and then turns his eyes to her. The linger, longer than Euphie might like—men, she thinks, nothing they do doesn’t feel intrusive—and then turn back to her paramour for the evening. “Thank you for coming. Are you two enjoying the evening?”

“Yes, thank you,” the Russian says, and then with a pleased little smile, he plunges on to introduce her. “This is my Euphemia.”

The words leave a sour taste in her mouth. My Euphemia, this fucking gangster says, like he hasn’t paid for her attendance in expensive gifts that she promptly turns around for profit, like she won’t slide his credit card out of his wallet when he isn’t looking. She knows what he expects out of the evening—but he won’t get it. It wouldn’t be a party if he didn’t end up sorely disappointed and thoroughly vexed.

“Euphemia,” Santino repeats, looking more than pleased to savor her name. “That’s Greek, isn’t it? And your last name is...”

“Volpe,” she supplies, despite the warning bells going off in her head. She immediately regrets it. Idiot, she thinks to herself viciously, monsters love to know your name.

Santino’s expression warms. “Italian, then.”

“Yes,” Euphie replies, even though it’s not a question. She’s unaccustomed to being the center of attention at these things. “My parents have a taste for elaborate, long-winded names that people are prone to stumbling over and mispronouncing.”

A smile—one that does not look strained in the least—drags the corners of his mouth upward. He says, “It suits you,” his eyes flickering over her admiringly before he looks back to her date, feigning a grin at a joke that he makes.

They begin discussing niceties that Euphemia doesn’t care about; business, that which goes on under the Table, and yes, Euphemia is there too, but not really. She belongs to no organization, no man. She doesn’t contract work, necessarily—she gets picked up by mafiosos and gangsters that want a pretty slice of arm candy, finds ways to bleed them out just enough that they consider her an inconvenience and not a threat, and gets on with it. She’s selected by word of mouth alone, which means she has spent more time with the regulars of the underworld more than she would like.

As the old adage went, if it’s not broke...

And because she does not care about what they’re discussing—this and that, him or her, the gossip and annoyances of life under the Table—and desperately wants to get out of this dragging social obligation, Euphemia exhales a little sigh and sets her empty champagne flute on a passing tray and says, “Excuse me, I’m going to go freshen up.”

Santino’s gaze lands on her, heavy. There is something sly in his voice when he says, “Let me show you where to go, bella. It’s easy to get lost if you’ve never been here before.”

She knows where the restrooms are, because she has been here before; Santino must know this, she thinks, must be aware that this is not the same man she was with the last time they met in passing (although last time, her date had hardly deigned to introduce her, instead bustling right on to the business portion of it).

Her date is look at her expectantly, displeased that Santino has taken an interest in her but insistent that she not embarrass him by refusing a polite offer. She cannot afford to say, it’s fine, I know where to go, because men don’t like to acknowledge that Their Girl might have also been courted to attend an event with another man, once. The Russian will be in a bad mood all evening if she says that. Unfortunately for her, her particular brand of clientele are especially tedious when they’re in bad moods.

Euphemia stifles a sigh. “That’s very nice, thank you,” she murmurs, wishing desperately that she could just leave. It’s almost not worth it anymore to keep going. It would be a net loss; maybe she would be better off just eating crow and taking it.

Santino plants a hand on the small of her back and guides her out of the conversation, through the crowd of people and toward the back of the room. The low, scooping back of her dress allows him purchase to the skin there, and he takes a lot of care in guiding her—one hand on her back, the other occasionally taking her hand to wind her through the crowd, almost in a sort of waltz. Any excuse to be close to her, he takes, and even if he stops to talk to someone, his hand stays on her. A permanent fixture.

A marking of territory.

It’s always a pissing contest, with men.

She knows that the restrooms are, in fact, not this way, and for a second, she thinks about saying so—but what would be the point? To kick up a fuss now would be almost worse than breaking the magical illusion that she is there for her companion and not for his money.

“You can imagine my surprise to find you here again,” Santino says when the sounds of the party are drowned out by a closed door behind them. The quiet stillness of the hall seems to enshroud them, almost womblike; dulling out the roar of incessant chatter and elbow-rubbing and peacocking.

She keeps walking down the hall despite knowing that it’s not the direction of the restroom. A part of her hopes that if she continues to play dumb, Santino will tire of her more quickly.

And then he prompts, from behind her, “It is again, isn’t it? I could have sworn I saw you here just a few weeks ago, but you were here with...Abarca, wasn’t it?”

“Is there a point to the little thesis you’re writing out loud?” Euphemia asks coolly, not bothering to hide her irritation. She stops walking and turns to face the man, who seems quite pleased with himself; it’s his turn to move, an attempt at closing the gap between them, and each step he takes forward is a step that Euphemia inches backwards until her back hits the wall.

“My point is, Euphemia Volpe,” he rumbles, “that you might be breaking my poor friend’s heart. Can’t I be concerned about that?”

Her eyes narrow. “Your dear friend? Do you know his name?”

“Do you?” Santino replies evenly. He props a hand up on the wall beside her head, blocking her in—but while Euphie’s knee-jerk reaction is to throw up a red flag and bolt, there is something lovely about the gesture, as though he’s made their conversation that much more intimate by one single movement.

It’s dark in the hallway, dimly effused in an amber glow from lowered lights. They cast eerie, handsome shadows across Santino D’Antonio’s face. Absently, Euphie wishes she was more drunk, but she’d been taking the evening slow in preparation of disappearing from her Russian benefactor.

And no. She doesn't remember his name.

Santino seems to take her silence as affirmation, and he grins.

“Don’t worry, I won’t spill your secret,” he purrs. “If you do something for me.”

Euphemia’s mind races. She jumps to the worst case scenario immediately; but she can’t afford to think like that, can’t afford to sweat in front of the man who leans into her with all of the deadliness of a jungle cat. He’ll eat her up if she does, gnash his teeth and sink his claws in and grind her up between his molars. She’s sure of it.

Her predatory conversation partner arches a dark brow at her. He is handsome, Euphie thinks—pretty, the way an oil slick is, dark and iridescent.

“Do you agree?” he prompts. She stifles a grimace.

“Tell me what the favor is first.”

This drags a laugh out of him. “Sei una piccola volpe, aren’t you? Let loose in a hen house of idiot men.” He sounds particularly delighted by this revelation, like maybe he was worried she wouldn’t live up to his expectations. “The favor is just your favor.” He pauses and tilts his head, gauging her. “Go to dinner with me.”

It feels like a trick. It probably is a trick. She’s thinking of all the way that she can turn him down, squirm her way out of this trap that Santino—because she’s not stupid; she knows who and what he is—has laid out for her.

She’s trying to, anyway, but then Santino’s hand comes up to cradle her jaw, fingers slotting through the hair at the base of her skull, and he brushes their noses together.

“Gorgeous little fox,” Santino murmurs, his voice a pleasant rumble, crushed velvet and the sticky, dark-wet of blood. The air bubbles with a strange, hypnotic emotion, lulling her. “I think that I just have to have you. Say that you’ll come to dinner with me.”

The words send her heart fluttering. This is not the first time that a man has said such a thing to her, but it is the first time a man has said it to her this way—as though he is swallowed by his want of her.

Euphemia impulsively says, “Yes,” before she can turn the acquiescence over in her head forty times and smooth the edges down. The second the word comes out of her mouth, Santino is kissing her—electric, demanding, impatient. She’s been kissed by men many times before, and none of them like this; starved for her. She has never known she wanted someone to be driven insatiable by her presence until Santino D’Antonio is kissing her like a man incensed in a dark hallway.

I am always hungry for someone else, she has thought time and time before. I want someone to be hungry for me.

Satino bunches a fistful of velvet in his hand, gathering the fabric between his fingers at her hip and sighing, almost ruefully, like he wants to do more but he won't.

“I should take you from the idiot right now,” he says against her mouth, and he sounds almost breathless. “But I imagine you’re not through with him yet.”

It’s funny to hear him say it like that. When people look at Euphie on the arm of a Russian gangster, they think, he’s not done yet with that poor girl, but unsurprisingly, Santino sees right through it. He pulls back and gives her a half-cocked grin that’s only a little wicked.

Oh, she thinks, feeling a little more than desperate for another kiss, this was a mistake. But though a mistake he may be, Santino D’Antonio is adept at dressing himself up as a delicious one.

“No,” Euphemia replies. Her chest tightens when the warmth of his body leaves hers, pulling back, hand letting loose the fabric. “I don’t suppose that I am.”

“Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” Santi replies, that grin on his face not once faltering. He seems very assured that he’s going to sweep her off her feet. Absently, he reaches up and presses the pad of his thumb against her lower lip, dragging it across the skin still tender from the bruising of his kiss. “And what will you say, Euphemia Volpe, when you go back to your Russian friend and he asks you what you think of Santino D’Antonio?”

What could she say? That she wishes that he would kiss her again, the way that he just had, with longing?

“That I don’t,” Euphemia replies, her voice coming out of her silky. The words darken Santino’s gaze; he looks amused and ruffled, all at the same time. “Think of you at all.”

“Oh, that won’t do.” Santino is leaning in close again, the smell of his cologne washing over her, their lips so close they might as well be kissing. “How can I endear myself to you, belladonna?”

Euphemia knows who he is; she knows exactly the kind of man he plays at, at least in public. Even still, she wants to say something reckless, like, you could kiss me again; but she knows better than that, for now. It’s always ‘for now’, with fools.

“Don’t take me out to dinner,” she says after a heartbeat. “Cook it for me.”

Santino pauses and leans back, like maybe he was thinking she would have just asked him for another kiss, and then he laughs.

“Of course, how could I be such a fool?” He grins at her, wide and pearly-white. “Then I will pick you up tomorrow, and cook you dinner.” He starts walking down the hall, and Euphemia can’t help the disappointment that blooms warm and red in her chest, the petals unfurling and reaching each edge of her rib cage.

“You don’t have my address,” she calls after him, still leaned against the wall. Santino turns. His smile has not dimmed in the least.

“I don’t need it,” he replies back casually. “I can find you just fine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Santino is a fine cook. By most standards, he is probably even an excellent cook, but he is a fine cook to a woman who has grown up with traditional Italian recipes that she has made most every day since she was trusted in front of the stove.

Euphie tries not to micromanage as he cooks, but it’s difficult. The man is wearing an apron over his five thousand dollar suit—probably more; she’s shooting low when she estimates that—and he lets the sauce that’s meant to simmer start boiling before he turns the heat down, and he doesn’t season his water with anything when he starts heating it up for the pasta, and Euphie just can’t stand it.

“Santino, have you ever made dinner for your family in your entire life?” she demands, nudging him out of the way and empty out half of the semi-hot water to replace it with chicken stock, setting the burner up again.

“No, darling,” he replies amusedly, watching her fuss over the sauce. “Just you.”

She stops. It shouldn’t be sweet—it is Santino, after all—but it is. He does a very good job of being the unassuming viper in this situation, she thinks. So she continues what she’s doing, keeping her hands and her eyes and mouth busy because if she doesn’t, they’ll find ways to busy themselves.

“This was supposed to be you making me dinner,” she chides, “not me teaching you how to cook. I think that it will take a lot of making up for me to—”

Santino’s hand tilts her face to him, and he leans down and kisses her. It’s softer than how he’d kissed her in the hallway, but it doesn’t lack the urgency. He still feels hungry.

She’s dreadfully caught up in it, letting him come back a second and then a third time, letting the flicker of his tongue against her lips part them obediently, letting the gentle reprimand of his teeth in her lower lip inspire a little noise out of her. It’s somehow too long and not enough, and when Euphemia drops the spoon on the counter to grip the front of Santino’s shirt (apron), his hands go to her hips.

“Sit down,” he orders playfully against her mouth, “and let me cook for you. And then we will see who will be doing the making-up, won’t we?”

Euphemia has half a mind to tell him to forget dinner—turn the burners off, she wants to say, and kiss me like that again, but more, and everywhere, and and and—but the competitor in her won’t let go. She exhales a short, impatient breath and says, “Fine, but you are on thin ice, amico.”

He laughs and shuffles her away from the stove to a stool at the kitchen island. In what can only be an effort to properly shmooze her, he follows it up with a glass of wine presented neatly in front of her, glittering-ruby, before returning to his half-done dinner on the stove.

“Amico, huh?” The dark-honey blonde glances over his shoulder at her. “Do you kiss all of your friends like that, Euphemia Volpe?”

The words send a pleased little flurry through her chest. As she watches him over her glass of wine, she replies, “Only the very handsome ones.”

When the food is served up, they don't bother going to the dining table. In Santino's loft, it appears that the dining table likely goes without much use, despite it being seated for a full party of people; instead, they stay at the kitchen island, and Santino deposits the apron on the counter before he leans against the edge of the island.

“You are a hard woman to track down, Euphemia,” Santino says, reaching over and scooping and olive off of her plate for himself. She makes an affronted noise.

“I thought you would have no trouble finding me?”

“I did not anticipate you were so efficient at covering your tracks.” He smiles, watching her across the countertop. “No family in New York. No employment history. Rent paid in cash. Most frequently spotted at the Continental, too, but otherwise your recreational hours are spent entertaining influential figureheads. If I did not know any better, I would think you were preparing to disappear.”

Euphemia shrugs. It would be unsettling, that he went digging on her, but she supposes that's life under the Table. It's not as though she anticipated he wouldn't, anyway.

“You are obsessed with me, Santi, it's alright, you can say,” she demurs. It's easier than saying I never want to have to try very hard to disappear.

He grins at her. “Maybe I am just offended that you never offered me your services.” And then, as though to be a good sport: “Because I am obsessed with you, Euphemia Volpe.”

She takes a sip of her wine, sets the glass down on the countertop, and plants her chin in her hand to regard him. His gaze is playful; he looks almost earnest about his words, even though she'd said them in jest. At any rate, it's a relief to have navigated the prying, for the moment.

Euphemia says, “How were you able to focus on cooking when you have me here, then?”

There is a crooked little smile on his face at her words, a smile that she can only see for half of a moment before he says, “Don’t you know the saying?” He leans in and tilts her chin up with his fingers, his gaze sweeping her, as though to admire the most opulent work of art.

“Senza tentazioni, senza onore.”

[johnnydora]

someone close to amy dies, jake (and maybe kids) do their best to get her through it. also sending hugs!!!

how did u know i think about this concept all the time?? also this ended up being the longest fic i’ve written in two years did u just cure my depression?? shoutout to @elsaclack for giving this a read thru ily!!!!

When Detective Peralta steps through the doors of the Brooklyn’s 61st precinct, he’s greeted with a smile. “Jake! It’s so lovely to see you again. She’s in a meeting right now, but I’ll let her know you’re here!”

“Thank you, Lucy.” He tries his best, but his own smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

It’s nearly twenty minutes before the captain’s door opens and Amy steps out, shaking hands with the man exiting her office. She smiles, too, when she sees Jake, and he almost drops to the floor there and then. He vowed to preserve her happiness, until death do them apart, and he hasn’t broken that promise in five years. Today, he will.

“Hey, babe! We didn’t have plans today, did we?” In the quick moment she takes to check her watch, Jake lets his smile drop. “It can’t be your lunch break already.”

“No, actually, I’m still on the job.”

He slides past her, without the usual kiss on her cheek, and closes the door behind her when she follows. The light filtering in through the windows is clear and bright, a beautiful spring morning. Just a few hours ago, Amy was opening the windows in the kitchen, little Sadie in her arms, pointing out the new sprouts blooming after the heavy winter. She was smiling, laughing, sprinkling kisses over Jake’s face before they left for work. It was supposed to be a happy day.

“You should sit down.”

He directs her to one of the seats in the back of the room where he can sit next to her, hold her hand between his.

“Jake?” He won’t meet her eyes. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Carlos was found dead Tuesday evening.”

There’s a moment where Amy’s face falls, but she builds it back up, and takes her hand from his. “Okay,” she says. “Is that all?”

He watches her stand up, rearrange a few items on her desk that were already straight.

“Amy.”

“You should get back to the 99. I’ll see you tonight.”

And she smiles, teeth white and eyes shining. Jake takes a deep breath.

“Yeah. See you tonight.”

She’s home before he is, which isn’t a surprise. It was her turn to pick up the kids from daycare. One of them comes running at him before he can close the door, her pigtails flying. He swoops her up in the air, dangling her upside down just a little until she squeals.

“Hey, peanut, how was your day?”

As she tells him something about the robot they built out of recycled materials, Jake wanders further into the apartment. The television is on, playing one of Bella’s shows. The kitchen is empty except for some animal crackers left under the cabinet.

“Where’s Mama?” he asks, flying the four-year-old back to the couch.

She screeches until he plops her down. “Napping.”

“And your sister?”

“Napping.”

She’s getting engrossed back into her tv show, so he knows he has to act fast to get any information out of her.

“Did you have anything to eat?”

“Shh, Daddy.”

He leans over the couch to kiss her cheek, even if she pushes him away a little. On his way down the hall, he checks on Sadie first, who’s sound asleep in her crib. Amy, however, is wide awake in bed and staring at the ceiling. Gently, he climbs in next to her.

“How you doing?”

She doesn’t answer for a while, so he turns his head to look at her.

“Mom called.” She drifts her eyes down to meet his. “The funeral’s next weekend.”

When he reaches for her hand, she drifts closer, curling into his chest. She’s motionless against him, her breath steady, and he knows she isn’t crying. Hasn’t cried yet. He thought he’d seen her and all of her ways—screaming rage and silent tears and that small smile when she can’t meet your gaze. He’s never seen her lose a brother.

“Do you need anything?”

“They identified him this morning,” she whispers. “Why did it take so long?”

“Ames—”

“I need to know how it happened.”

The air grows darker around them, pressing down. Or perhaps that’s his lungs, collapsing under the weight of his knowledge of the crime. Seeing the body, bloody and crushed halfway under the car. Jake runs his hand down her back, hoping she can’t tell that they’re shaking.

“It was a hit and run. Literally, the man climbed out of his totaled car and ran.” He stops to take a deep breath. When he was first assigned the case to find the runaway, he laughed. Run, run, as fast as you can, Toyata-man! His throat tightens, and he presses a small kiss to the top of Amy’s head. An apology. “Carlos was just a pedestrian, caught in the middle.”

“Why could no one identify him?”

“He—he was hit pretty bad.”

“How bad?”

He moves his lips to her forehead. “I don’t think—”

“I have a right to know.”

His arm is thrown off her as she gets up and starts pacing the floor. She’s mad now. He just watches, waits for her to slow down, maybe collapse and start sobbing. Her feelings always go in and out like waves, and he can’t tell what to expect next. But she stops, sits back on the bed by his feet.

“I have a right to know,” she whispers again.

He’s about to sit up and join her at the end of the bed, but their door squeaks open, and Bella pushes her face through the crack.

“Is it dinner time?”

Amy scoops her up with a smile. “Of course, mi reina. What do you want?”

As “marshmallows!” trails down the hall, Jake rubs a hand down his face. He stays there until the pizza delivery man arrives.

It’s not even two days until Amy gets her hands on the case file. He recognizes it immediately—it was on his desk only two hours ago. She’s hunched over the coffee table, spoon feeding bananas to Sadie as she goes. He’d heard her greet him when he came in through the door, but he still approaches cautiously, sitting gently by her feet.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Rosa.”

Amy flips to the next page, and he silently takes over banana duty.

It’s another three days when her steady facade falters. They took the girls out to the city today—Bella loves staring up at the skyscrapers, and she swears she’s going to build her own next year when she’s all grown up. She’s dancing through a little play fountain when Jake catches Amy fiddling with something in her purse.

He leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek, stealing a glance down as he does. Amy notices the moment she’s been caught.

“I haven’t opened it,” she says.

“Okay.”

“I don’t even carry a lighter anymore.”

He knows. She threw them all away the second they learned she was pregnant the first time around. Leaning his head against hers, he slips the cigarette box out of her hands and intertwines his fingers with hers instead. For a moment, he thinks she’s finally about to cry, but then she shifts away from him, and calls for Bella to come over. It’s time to head home.

Sometimes, she moves slowly. Like in the mornings when she waits for the third alarm before rising to her feet and starting her day, putting in a little less effort than usual. Other times, she’s unstoppable. Juggling two kids at once and managing three other chores at the same time.

Only once does she acknowledge her feelings on the matter, when they’re tucked in bed with the lights off. She mumbles into his chest, “Why did it have to be him?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

The funeral is louder than he anticipated. It makes sense, with the entire Santiago clan, including relatives he’s never even heard of, milling around and spreading condolences. Jake’s on daughter duty for the most part, watching from a distance and not getting too involved. But it’s hard to ignore the lump in his throat after his sixth brother-in-law says hello, and he keeps expecting the seventh that will never show.

He watches Amy drift slowly around, though she never strays too far from him. Every few minutes she returns to his side for a quick break. But she always puts a smile back on, braving herself for the next overbearing hug.

“You don’t have to be strong, y’know.” It’s something he’s been telling her every day since the accident.

She just puts on another smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

The first time Jake cries, Bella’s tugging on his sleeve as the immediate family gathers around the coffin with flowers.

“Where’s Tio Carlos?” she asks.

They tried to explain it before the funeral, sitting down with her and introducing the concept of an afterlife—they never wanted to force a religion on their children, but it was the only explanation they had. She only shrugged it off, asked if she could wear her light up sneakers instead of the boring Mary Janes.

So he stays silent and holds her closer to him, pressing kiss after kiss to her hair. She puts up with it for a few moments, then wriggles out of his grasp.

“Can I throw a flower, too?”

He sneaks a final kiss onto her nose, and decides it’s not worth the fight to keep her in her seat.

“Go ask Mama.” He sets her free.

It’s one month after the accident when Amy wakes up shaking and sweaty. Jake frowns as he slowly becomes conscious—he’s always been slow to wake—and throws a hand loosely in his wife’s direction before he manages to regain full function of his limbs and pull himself up to firmly wrap his arms around her.

“Breathe, Ames.” His lips ghost over the shell of her ear.

She takes a staggering breath in, then falls into him, sobs wracking her frame. He continues whispering in her ear, breathing through his mouth to encourage her to match his breaths. Though his hands are shaking where they trace her skin. He’s used to her occasional panic attack and her less often night terrors, but he’s never seen her quite this far gone.

It all stops abruptly, and Jake lifts her from him to look into her eyes. He recognizes what she needs instantly, and pulls her with him off the bed. They only make it just past the bathroom door  before she’s heaving and vomiting onto the tiles at her feet. Her knees buckle, and he carries her the few feet to the toilet before setting her down.

“Deep breaths,” he reminds her, pulling back her hair and securing it with an elastic band. He kisses her temple before fetching her a glass of water, then goes to clean up the bathroom floor as well.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers.

He sits behind her when he’s done, stroking her back as she continues emptying out the contents of her stomach.

“What for?” he asks when she’s done, leaning back into him and away from the toilet.

She doesn’t have an answer for him, just turns her head into his chest and relearns how to breathe.

The nightmares aren’t a constant, but they return every once in a while. Some nights, they stay up talking, taking turns sharing their fears, what they’re grateful for. One night, Bella pokes her head through the door, tears on her face.

Jake beckons her towards him, pulls her up into his lap.

“What’s wrong, peanut?”

She grabs his shirt into fists, stealing glances at Amy. “Is Mama okay?”

He glances at her, too. She’s still against Jake’s side, but she curled more into the pillows when Bella arrived. Her head is turned away, though, probably to keep Bella from seeing her tears.

“Mama just misses Tio Carlos,” he says.

Bella crawls forward, trying to wrap her arms around her mother’s middle. “It’s okay, Mama. He’s in the heaven. It’s good. It has ice cream.”

There’s a moment where Amy’s breath catches, then she’s turning back towards Bella and enveloping her in her arms. Jake leans in and surrounds them both, and there they remain. For a little while.

“Mama?” Bella whispers. “Mama, mama, mama?”

“What is it, mi reina?”

“Can we have ice cream, too?”

She smiles and wipes away her tears. No more seem to follow.

“Of course.”

On their way to the kitchen, Jake grabs a sleeping Sadie and sits down with her on the floor, his back against the counters. Bella jumps around, way too hyper for three in the morning, so Jake tugs her down, too. Tells her stories about the ice cream monster.

Amy joins them with three giant bowls of ice cream moments later, settling down on Jake’s other side. She leans her head against his shoulder as he finishes his wild tales, tickling Bella with his free hand at the finale. Amy laughs along, her fingers tracing along Sadie’s head. He’s a bit delirious, a bit sleep deprived, but he’s certain it’s the happiest he’s ever been.

As for Amy, she never has a nightmare about her brother again.