#please respect me in this time I am curled up on my bed at 1am gnawing teeth marks into my hardcover copy

[takiki16]

TAKIKI WILL BE REBLOGGING NONA THE NINTH SPOILERS!!!!

Block my “locked tomb” and “spoilers” tags if you wish to avoid seeing them!!!

[the-darklings]

a soulmate au woth santi and v wouldnt end goof though, right? ugh its 1am and j dont

—SHE LIVES IN DAYDREAMS WITH ME;

warning: swearing, slight nsft but mostly suggestive

pairing: that one most of you seem to really like ft baba yaga

wc: 8.8k+ (started out as a warm-up exercise to flex my writing muscles and…well…it’s soulmate!AU…and mayhaps I SNAPPED)

YOU REALLY HAD TO TEMPT ME, HUH??

gif credit (x)

You always figured it would be John.

Even without the soulmate mark. Even if his words were not the ones marking your skin or vice versa.

It should—is—him.

Not—

Not this man with green eyes and a smug smirk that stretches wider and wider as he takes you in.

“Ah, the woman I have heard so much about.”

It’s a gentle, seductive purr and Tarasov—irritated and already scowling because Giovanni sent his son to bargain instead of coming himself—makes a noise at the back of his throat. A rough, annoyed sound that indicates that he’s not in the mood to play. Not today.

But those words. Those soft, elegantly spoken words.

You always imagined that your soulmate would speak them with subtle awe, respect, even adoration.

You’re not wrong.

The elegant imprint curling just beneath your left breast burns and scorches and you can’t breathe.

Your tongue has turned to lead inside your mouth and you are grateful for it.

Tarasov barks an order and the two parties step inside, ready for a long discussion.

You, as is expected of you, stay by Tarasov’s side the entire meeting.

Santino D’Antonio doesn’t look away from you once.

…

You spend the next few days learning everything there is about your—

Soulmate.

The word tastes bitter in your mouth.

No—no, that arrogant Italian is not your—he couldn’t be.

You haven’t spoken a word to him.

Even when after the meeting he made a point of coming over and kissing your hand goodbye with a sliver of that blood boiling smirk. So arrogant, so used to the world around him bending and breaking for him.

The words on your skin had ached at the touch, at the proximity, but your expression had given nothing away. Still, he lingered, for far longer than necessary, and you couldn’t help but fear that maybe he felt it, too. Some sort of allure driven by a deeper instinct that whispers to him that you are—

You are nothing to him. You love John.

That’s all there is to it.

…

Santino D’Antonio proves to be exactly who you expected him to be.

You can’t do as much digging as you would like though.

Camorra is power near unmatched by others.

They are cruel and they are ruthless and they protect their own viciously.

A small part of you can’t help but wonder what that’s like…belonging. Belonging so thoroughly to a faction—a family—that they would do anything for you. Belonging somewhere where you are trusted and can trust in return.

You can’t help but wonder.

D’Antonio—because he is not your soulmate, will never learn who you are to him—is the heir. One of the two. And he lives up to his title.

Arrogant, spoiled, vicious. Self-absorbed and with a loose to no moral code to abide by.

Exactly the type you will never want or care to spend more time around.

(You ignore the part of you that whispers that he is clever, and ambitious, and ruthless, too. All things you do admire. But no—you smother that part of you daily and tell it to disappear entirely).

…

Your second meeting is—for all intents and purposes—a complete accident.

It’s one of the few, rare days when you don’t have to work for Tarasov and there is no job to attend to.  

John is out of town, working, and you are left alone. For once.

You tried to work on your newest project but nothing was coming together so instead you had ventured out into the busy New York streets.

You window-shopped more than anything and even though you now have the money to buy all the expensive, pretty things you want, you rarely indulge yourself in the luxury of it. It feels wasteful. When you grew up having nothing—barely anything to even eat—spending 4k on a designer bag seems…silly. Wrong, somehow. You understand why people enjoy it, but can’t help but feel like you’ve been rob of that simple joy.

Life has robbed you of many things though.

Perhaps that’s why you found yourself at the Metropolitan Museum of Art only an hour later.

Even while busy, it’s still an escape from the bustling New York streets.

And it’s full of pretty things you don’t have to feel bad about not wanting to buy.

You study the large, sprawling painting of an ancient battlefield when you feel a presence behind you.

A blade slips into your hand and you turn, pausing sharply when you feel a blade press against your side, over the spot where your kidneys are. A foolish oversight on your part. But your own blade comes to rest against the exact same spot on the person in front of you, and you stare at the woman with a hard expression on your face.

A stalemate.  

To people around you, it would look like you’re simply standing close and gazing into each other’s eyes, but your mouth twists.

The woman—with her sharp features and bright blue eyes looks no less surprised or intrigued at the development—and you both regard each other for another tense second before a voice interrupts your standoff.

“Ares, please,” a smooth, accented voice interrupts. “We do not attack guests.”

Ares leans back slightly, and drags the blade slowly, suggestively, over your ribs before dropping her arm. She shoots you a wink, her mouth curling in a sensuous line and you blink.

You like her immediately.

For guts alone, if nothing else.

“Such a pleasure to see you again, cara mia.”

Your attention drops away from the woman in front of you, and comes to rest on your soul—

D’Antonio.

He looks pleased to see you. His hands buried deep in his suit pockets—a rich, dark brown three-piece that fits him to perfection—he stands in the gallery like a king in his throne room.

Your soulmate words tingle.

They dig and drag you closer to him but you remain stubbornly rooted in your spot.

He strolls closer towards you, eyes devouring as he blatantly takes you in, and you work your jaw.

You count five guards, excluding Ares.

Punching him and running for dear life is out then. Pity.

No—instead, you move towards him too. He halts, as if he didn’t expect that, and you meet him halfway.

Did he expect you to cower then? Fear him? You know there is a reason to fear. He is powerful and influential, and he could have you shot right here and now but you know deep in your gut that he won’t.

Stupid, idiotic soulmate bond, that’s not how real life works—

You stop in front of him. Scrutinise him for a long minute. His lips twitch upwards, all arrogance. Like he already knows how this will end. Judging by the look on his face it involves you, him, and his bed.

You almost scoff right in his face.

But you can’t give yourself away. Your jaw remains clamped shut.

You look him up and then down, and then back up again.

Your—nothing, he is nothing to you.

(but a part of you wants to scream at him, whisper to him, and shout at him anything and everything that’s on your mind just to see what words you might have branded him with—)

You can’t.

John. There is only John.

With that chaos roaring through your mind, you dismiss him with a single hum and sidestep him, intent on leaving this damn gallery.

His hand latches onto your forearm, stilling you and you tense.

“Wait.”

His is stare is wild, bewildered, and for a moment you can’t help but wonder if he’s truly that arrogant that the idea of someone not wanting him is shocking to him.

Or if it’s something else, something deeper, something like the feeling inside your gut that coils your insides at the simmering heat of his grip on your arm.

“Join me for dinner.”

He is nothing to you.

You jerk your arm out of his grip and walk away.

He surprises you by not stopping you again.

…

“I met him,” you choke out, your voice a croak. “I met him.”

Winston hums, not even glancing up as you collapse in the seat before him. It feels good to finally vocalise it. Like you’re no longer insane because you’ve acknowledged your reality.

“Am I suppose to read your mind?” he wonders idly. “Or do you expect me to just know what you’re blabbering about?”

“My—soulmate.”  

It comes out as half a curse and half a plea.

The older man looks up at you, thoughtful, but you don’t miss the faint glimmer of surprise in his eyes.

You’ve never asked Winston if he has a soulmate too. Whenever the subject comes up, he withdraws, growing more severe and serious. A part of you wonders if he, perhaps, had someone once and lost them. Losing a soulmate is said to be a loss you never recover from. A wound that never quite closes because it’s like losing half of yourself.

Such a rare gift, finding your soulmate. Such a tragedy, losing them.

“Congratulations.”

You ignore the sarcasm in his voice.

“I don’t want him. He’s wrong for me.”

Winston arches an eyebrow, and takes a slow sip of his drink. “Is that so?”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

The man sighs. “Is that you speaking or your supposed love for Johnathan?”

Your sharp reply dies on the tip of your tongue at that.

Winston only peers at you over his glasses with a knowing little smile. “That’s what I thought.”

…

He doesn’t want you.

John.

He doesn’t want you.

“Maybe if things were different.”

Maybe.

Maybe it’s just better to accept that no one wants you—

(but someone does.)

You cradle the glass in your hand and swat the irritating thought away. Briefly, your hand settles against your words, running just beneath the curve of your breast. Such a possessive place for soulmate words to manifest. Such a statement, such a promise, curling gently around your heart.

Ah, the woman I have heard so much about.

You shouldn’t linger at the bar for much longer.

Your flight to Tokyo is leaving in less than three hours.

But soaking in self-made misery seems preferable right now.

“What is a beautiful woman like yourself doing in such a miserable place, hm?”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Your head turns and the Italian before you grins, his teeth flashing as he approaches. He pauses before your table and nods his head towards the empty seat.

“May I?”

A part of you considers telling him no, just to see if he would sit down anyway.

Reluctantly, you dip your head, but your cool expression doesn’t ease. He seats himself with refined elegance, his cocky demeanour on full display as he takes you in.

You count six guards dotted around the lounge, but don’t let it show.

He’s favouring light colours today and you watch dully as he fixes his sleeve, his gaze not dropping from you. He looks impeccable despite the hour.

You’ve forgotten. Winston mentioned earlier about having business to attend to with the Italians. Italy has plenty of powerful players though. So you didn’t immediately assume it would be Camorra itself.

I apologise if I offended you the last time we met.

For a moment, you’re so taken aback that you freeze completely.

He signed his words at you.

Does he think you’re mute? Does he believe that’s the reason why you won’t speak with him?

You stare at him blankly.

His expression twitches and he chuckles under his breath, folding his fingers on the pristine tablecloth.

“I confess, cara mia,” he begins pleasantly, observing you like you are something peculiar and truly beautiful to him. “You are rather difficult for me to read. A rarity,” he adds in a murmur, thoughtful.

My dear.

Your throat bobs once, twice.

You’re not in the mood for this. For him.

John—he—

“We…can’t.”

Santino waits for a moment to see if you will speak and his eyes narrow when you don’t, still thoughtful. “Such a mystery,” he notes, but sounds delighted by it. “Perhaps, despite the hour, you would join me for food, cara mia? Drinks?”

And maybe it’s the ache in your chest, or the lingering alcohol in your system, or the soulmate words that burn and tug at you to say yes, yes, I’m here, you found me—

Or maybe it’s the way he watches you. With shameless, naked want and you are so much more than a slab of meat for some arrogant bastard to drool over. More than a subject of desire for some egotistical man who believes that the sun shines out of his ass.

“Call me that again and I’ll slit your throat.”

The words slip out before you can control them. Tumble and trash from deep within you and terror locks your muscles.

Shit, shit—

Santino’s face goes slack with shock, with raw disbelief. His lips part and you stare at him wide-eyed, horrified by your own slip-up.  

“You.”

He exhales it from somewhere deep inside his chest and your heart seizes for a second. Your own words are warm—a bond completed, both sets of words spoken and shared at last, and the feeling is so warm, right.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Jerking back, you rise from your seat hurriedly, your chair scrapping back and a few people glance over at the commotion.

“You,” he says again; soft, frenzied, his eyes drilling into you. “It’s you.”

It might as well be a prayer.

He might as well be damning you.

You don’t run from him, but it’s a close thing.

…

The knock comes only twenty minutes later.

Longer than you expected.

Staring at the door, you breathe deeply, laboured.

Don’t let him in.

(let him in. let him in. let him in.)

You swallow weakly.

The knock comes again—harder this time, more insistent.

Something tells you that he will not let this go. Will camp outside your damn door all night if that’s what it takes. You saw that look in his eyes when he realised what you were—are—to him.

The amazement, the wonder, the longing, the need—

You’ve never been needed before.

Soulmate bond is not some fairytale love-at-first-sight bullshit. It’s hard work just like any other relationship. But it’s the tug, the rightness and the knowledge that this person—this one person is yours as you are theirs. That they’re supposed to be that final puzzle piece that will help you find your best self.

Your fingers tremble around the handle.

Straightening your spine, you force your expression into neutrality before opening the door.

Santino stills from his restless fidgeting once the door swings open and stares.

And stares.

Like he’s appreciating and cataloguing every inch of you through new eyes. You, reluctantly, find yourself doing the same.

His suit is more crumpled but still fits him far too well. The dip in his round chin, the length of his eyelashes framing those bright green eyes, the curve of his mouth—

His hair is messier. You wonder if he ran his fingers through it as he tried to figure out what to do.

(what would it be like? to run your fingers through those curls, feel him close, to taste him—)

“We…can’t.”

That memory chills you, forces you back into the present.

Santino takes a step forward and your arm flies up, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re my soulmate,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, as he peers at you. He speaks those words as if they’re supposed to explain everything. For him, maybe, they do. But not for you. “May I come in, cara—”

He falters as if realising his mistake and waits for you to say something.

Your gaze lowers but you step aside, allowing him the space to enter.

No guards.

You wonder if the reason it took him so long to come up is because he had to convince them he was to go alone.

He looks around the room curiously.

“My name—”

“I know who you are,” you cut him off, and cringe at the defensive note in your voice. “I know.”

His eyes sweep over you again. “And you?”

Folding your arms over your chest, you wonder coolly, “What about me?”

He clicks his tongue and wanders a step closer, wisely cautious. “May I know the name of my soulmate?”

“I don’t want it,” you force out instead, and see his expression—the almost boyish lightness in his eyes—crack and crumble. “The bond between us. I love someone else.”

The haughty, proud gleam you’re so used to seeing gutters out. Like a candle being blown out.

“That’s why—that’s why I didn’t want you to know,” you continue you, even if those words taste like crushed glass in your mouth. “It’s pointless.”

His features are drawn, rigid, as he listens and you see the coldness taking over his demeanour. The hope you haven’t noticed till that moment fading bit by bit.

“But you’re my soulmate.”

He speaks those words with such obvious longing.

“You don’t even know me,” he insists firmly, taking another step closer. “Let me at least try.”

Shaking your head, you scoff. “I know enough.”

His lips purse and perhaps it’s a cruel thing to say and with such a dismissive, almost repulsed tone.

“Then let me prove you right,” he says instead, his chin tilting upwards with that cool arrogance. He’s stubborn, you realise. Stubborn and hotheaded. And… “At least get to know my awful self, yes? Then you can walk away, cara.”

“And you will let me? No strings attached?”

Because you don’t trust him—not even a little bit. But he seems to understand that if he lets you go now, he will never get another opportunity like this again.

He hesitates and that’s how you know that he’s at least serious about this.

“Yes.”

Reluctant, almost petulant.

You have a flight to catch—

(hello, you found me, hello, you, you, you—)    

“You have till dawn.”

…

There isn’t much to do in the early hours of the morning.

But Santino is money and power.

You expect something lavish, extravagant. He surprises you again.

He takes you to Central Park and you don’t question how you are able to get inside even though the park closes at 1am.

He walks with you.

He asks you questions.

Some you answer, some you don’t. He doesn’t linger on the latter, seemingly aware of his time constraint.

You ask him questions back, bold and unflinching. Some catch him off guard.

“Ever had shower sex?”

A sharp inhale. Did he really think that he’s the only one capable of playing this game? Besides, this is all about monitoring his reactions, his honesty.  

“…Yes. You?”

A slow, mischievous smile blooms across your face. “Won’t you like to know?”

He chuckles and relaxes just slightly, growing bolder with his own line of inquiry.

It’s chilly outside, and noting your shivering, he offers you his overcoat but you refuse him.

Instead, you take him to a diner not too far from the park.

Another test.

It’s a dingy place and the Italian before you looks comically out of place when you both sit down.

Santino’s guards stay outside, though you can feel them tracking your every move. It’s a pity the woman seems to be absent.

You ask him about her.

His grin stretches wide. “She likes you, bella,” he hums, sly and knowing. “It’s rare for us to agree on such things. She has, ah, peculiar taste.”

“Have you slept with her?”

He shifts in the cheap plastic chair. “No,” he tells you, and you examine him closely, looking for any sign of deception. “Ares is my friend. One of the very few. Our relationship is strictly platonic.”

You believe him. For some reason.

“And what about this…individual…I will be stealing you from?”

Taking another spoonful of your ice cream, you let his question hang between you.

“Confident, are we?”  

His mouth twists and he leans closer. There is determination—practically a burning flame—dancing in his eyes and if he wasn’t attractive before, he certainly is now. That lethal focus and grim determination.

“You will find that once I put my mind to something, bella,” he purrs, low and gentle; a lover’s caress, and your words tickle again. Suddenly, the only thing you do want to know is where your words are on him. “I never fail.”

Meeting your soulmate is not a love-at-first-sight type of affair, but it is an attraction. Pure and simple and intense.

You lean closer too, lowering your spoon and his breaths slow at the proximity. “Did you suspect? Before I spoke?”

He’s silent for a length of time and that surprises you. The city skyline is already bleeding delicate pink. Sunrise is only minutes away.

Santino blinks a few times, glancing away briefly before turning back at you. There is hesitation, and you wonder why. “I think I dreamt of you,” he utters quietly, guarded, cautious. “Just glimpses. Nothing that could help me find you quicker. Brief flashes. A laugh. A smile. Sunlight. I think I could have recognised you blind. Not your face, or name, or even where you lived, cara mia. Just you.”

You’ve heard about it. How some bonds are so powerful that there are…transferences. Usually in dreams just like he said. Ability to simply feel your other half.  

“So to answer your question, yes,” he admits and swallows, his eyes roaming over your features. “You attract me in a way no one else ever has. You did from the moment I first laid eyes on you, bella. Now,” he chuckles, but it sounds harsh. “Now, it certainly makes sense as to why.”

You haven’t expected him to bare such a fact before you so easily.

His lips part, as if to say something else, but you cut him off before he can. “Time’s up.”

Above New York, a new day dawns.

You sit in silence for a few minutes. He watches you watch him, but the silence is not awkward. Surprisingly.

“Did I—”

“No.”

You can’t lie now. He’s been honest with you.

His head dips, his gaze serious, no doubt already calculating what course of action to take next.

“My name is (Name).”

His features crease with confusion.

You stand and stare at him for a moment, considering. “I’ll see you around, Santi.”

A grin blooms across your face at the way his serious expression crumbles to pieces.

You turn to leave but his voice gives you a pause.

“Have dinner with me,” he calls out hurriedly, but you only wave at him over your shoulder without turning around, a brief laugh slipping free.

“Maybe next time.”

…

You miss your flight to Tokyo but can’t find it in yourself to care much.

That day is also the first time a present arrives at the Continental reception addressed to you.

A beautiful golden bracelet with green gems gleaming in the light.

Fitting scales for a mighty viper, won’t you agree? I look forward to seeing you soon—Santi

Your eyes roll, but a reluctant grin appears despite your attempt to smother it.

You close the box and give it back to clearly curious Charon. “Send it back.”

It’s the first present.

Over the next week, at least a dozen more follow.

You send every single one of them back.

…

Her name is Helen.

Her name is Helen and she’s beautiful.

Her name is Helen, she’s beautiful, and she’s John’s soulmate.

It’s like a punch.

Right in the heart.

Quick and brutal.

They met at a library, he tells you, and like in a fairytale they bumped into each other and she caught a glimpse of the book in his hands. Opened her pretty little mouth and spoke the words stretching over the wide, powerful expanse of John’s shoulders.

Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat.

A part of you wants to scream while another part of you remains cold, calm.

“I’m sorry.”

You know he is.

It still stings.

You always thought that it will be him—soulmate mark or not.

You wanted it to be him so badly.

Pressing your fingers under your left breast, you inhale and wait.

Wait for the pain, the rage, to hit you but…

(you, it’s you, you, you, you.)

Something does glimmer but it doesn’t feel like rage and more like disappointment. Sadness.

How can you be angry at him for finding his soulmate? Finding happiness?

He’s half in love with her already and he doesn’t even realise it. But you do because you know him.

Her name is Helen.

But you are not Helen.

And maybe, one day, you will learn to live with that fact.

Maybe, one day, it will not hurt at all.  

Perhaps sooner than you think.

…

Your phone keeps ringing, ringing, ringing.

Balancing the measuring cup in your hand, you finally pick up.

“What?”

“Good morning to you too,” a wry but highly amused voice greets; a voice you haven’t heard since the diner, since those shadowy hours where you exchanged a part of your soul for his. “I like the sound of your voice, bella. Have I told you that yet?”

“Where did you get this number?”

“Is there something wrong with my presents?”

“Yes,” you mutter, irritated. “It’s your belief that you can buy my favour with money.”

You hang up.

A text follows only a minute later. Grinding your teeth, you glare at the phone before picking it up and opening the text.

I’m not trying to buy your favour with money. I simply believe that you deserve beautiful things—Santi

Your finger finds the Block option and you hesitate over it.

You’ll regret it, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston drones in your ear.

Groaning, you drop the phone on your bed instead.

You don’t block the number, but you don’t answer him either.

The following week makes you regret that decision.

…

I have not seen you today, but I bet you look beautiful—Santi

…

Have you eaten yet? There is a wonderful Italian place I would like to take you to in Lower Manhattan—Santi

…

What’s your favourite colour? Mine is either blue or green—Santi

…

‘The woman I have heard so much about’. I think as far as first words go, I did pretty well, no?—Santi

…

Why Vipress? Not many vipers are venomous—Santi  

Stop bothering me.

We are conversing—Santi

No. You’re being annoying.

Are you flirting with me? How shameless of you—Santi

(middle finger emoji)

;)—Santi

…

“Help him.”

“Hello, cara mia, you look beautiful today,” Santino greets as he swivels the glass of wine in his hand. The red colour is as dark as blood and you stare at it. “So wonderful to see you again.”

He means that.

The words etched into your skin warm under the weight of his steady stare.

He looks unfairly handsome today.

Green looks best on him, you want to tell him. Brings out his eyes even more.

Almost two months of this back and forth between you. Of flirty texts and phone calls and brief meetings. Meetings that leave you smiling and breathless and aching. He knows how to get under your skin. But it’s a sentiment shared. 

You destroy him with nothing but a smile.

But things are different now.

Now, John’s life hangs in the balance.

“Help him,” you repeat, harsher this time. “Please.”

His eyes snap to yours, hard, and he studies you for a prolonged moment. His eyes gleam and the light in them is dangerous, dark. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

What would be the point of lying?

He rises to his feet and stalks closer. You stand your ground and he stops a breath away, gazing at you raptly, intently.

“And what would you give me in return?”

That part of you that whispers his name in your dreams withers at his words.

Perhaps—

No—it was foolish to think that maybe he would be different. Everyone always wants something from you. That’s the way it’s always been.

You try to swallow over the lump in your throat, over your bitter disappointment, “Anything.”

He smiles but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something bleaker, more frayed and torn around the edges. You feel a pinch against the skin where your words lay and you shift slightly in discomfort.

“Then consider it done.”

He lingers briefly before turning away and heading back towards the table as you stare at his retreating back in confusion.

“What do you want in return?” you wonder, uncomprehending.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “Nothing, cara mia,” he states calmly, flatly. “I want nothing you can give me because the one thing I do want is the one thing I cannot demand.”

But he could.

He could.  

And the fact that he doesn’t—

It warms something deep down.

It would be so easy to claim power over you now. So easy to bind you, chain you, demand everything.

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, instead, he goes back to his wine.

That image of him—shoulders curved, eyes empty, a glass of wine in hand like a shield—stays with you long after you leave.

It haunts your sleep for weeks.

…

The wedding is beautiful.

You sit through the entire thing and marvel at how well they just fit.

There is still an ache in your heart when you look at them—a part of you will likely always love John to some degree, it’s hard not to.

But they fit, Helen and him.

A harmony of cold and warm, of light and dark.

Soulmates.

You clap loudly when they kiss and find your smile surprisingly genuine. It’s easier than you thought it would be.

Easier, perhaps, because you—

Someone else has been occupying your thoughts.  

His texts stopped after your meeting and haven’t returned for a month now.

Last you heard, he went back to Italy.

Santino D’Antonio. Your soulmate.

John is not yours—was never meant to be yours.

But maybe someone else could be. If only you dared.

You slip away quietly, unnoticed.

But it really shouldn’t surprise you that John—Baba Yaga, the best assassin in the world—catches up with you easily.

Even when Helen finds you both talking, you don’t feel any bitterness towards either.

“Let’s stay in touch,” John suggests, his voice subdued but hopeful. “There are secure channels we can use.”

Looking towards the sky, you grin, almost cheekily. “Sure,” you say. “But don’t complain if I turn up at your doorstep at 2am covered in the blood of my enemies one day.”

Much to your surprise, it’s Helen that laughs at your morbid joke. Loud and genuine.  

Yeah, you might just like her after all.

…

Have dinner with me?

…

A week passes. Nothing.

…

Have dinner with me?

…

A reply comes another week later.

I’ll be in the city tomorrow. My driver will pick you up at 7pm—Santi

Demanding.

He doesn’t reply, and that night you sleep with your palm pressed against your—his—words.

…

His eyes devour you.

Good. You certainly made an effort.

A simple, well-cut black dress can do wonders.

He looks good as well, it would be a lie to say he doesn’t.

He’s wearing black as well and your mouth curves.

“A matching set.”

He grins, despite the fact that you can see him trying to fight it back. It looks good on him because it’s less arrogant and more him.

It surprises you yet again. The pang you feel at seeing him. You’ve missed him, you realise suddenly, and it startles you more than you would care to admit.

You’ve missed him and his irritating texts at all hours of day and night. You’ve missed the teasing and the tension and the flirting. The way you gravitate towards each other like magnets but never quite touch despite few lingering grazes.

“Thank you,” you say while you wait for food to arrive. “For helping him.”

Santino’s lips thin into a stiff line but he manages to keep his composure. “I didn’t do it for him.”

You know he didn’t.

But you could still kiss him for saying that with such quiet steel in his voice.

“He’s gotten married,” you divulge, watching the way he goes rigid in his seat. “She’s his soulmate. That’s why he wanted to get out.”

Candlelight dances over his features as he digests this information. You figured that would explain everything but Santino still looks furious, restless.

“He left you—just like that,” he states and bitter sort of iciness lingers in his soft words. “To have his fairytale life. Forgive me, cara mia, if I am not jumping at the opportunity to send him a celebratory bouquet of flowers.”

You peer at him over your glass for a long time, risking an equally soft, “Won’t you do the same?”

For me.

His eyes flash, his jaw clenching as his long fingers curl into loose fists. His Camorra ring gleams. A mark of who he is. Of what he might be one day.

“I would do anything. Anything at all.”

You believe him. Curse your silly, foolish, too-hopeful human heart but you do.

(it’s you, it’s you, it’s you—)

“Do you still—” his voice cracks.

But you know what he wants. Understand without him having to voice it what he cares to know.

“There will always be love between us,” you tell him, frank and direct, so he understands that John will always be a part of you. “But…no. Not that kind of love. Not anymore. He’s happy and I’m happy for him.”

It’s true.

You’ve spent months convincing yourself of that truth. A truth that has been a part of you for a long time now without you even realising it.

But it feels good. Good to say it and mean it.

A lightness shines bright and fierce in your chest and you feel a sense of freedom in that confession—in the acceptance of it.

Santino knows you mean it too.

Because you don’t think you have ever seen him look quite so happy.

…

The penthouse apartment is as magnificent, as him, as you expected it to be.

This is your first time inside his space. He’s invited you before—many times—but you have always refused him.

You’ve been missing out. The view is breathtaking.

He’s been staring at you for at least ten minutes now, not saying a word.

Loosening your crossed arms, you turn away from the view and move your eyes in his direction. He sits sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed loosely, a glass of wine in hand as he scrutinises you.

“What is it?” you wonder, curious and open.

He licks his lips and swallows heavily—both actions seem to give him trouble. “Just admiring the sight of you in my home.”

“And do you imagine me inside your home often?” you can’t help but tease with a slight grin.

He lowers his glass, stands, turns in your direction, and you distantly wonder if you made a mistake prompting him like this.  

He cuts across the room smoothly, easily, and comes to stand right in front of you.

This is another reason why you have never accepted his offers in the past.

This is intimate, this is dangerous, and the air between you is suffocating already. Neither of you has said a word or even touched the other but your soulmate words tingle and ache. That tug that always wants him closer, demands his touch, his mouth—

Your head turns but he grips your chin between his fingers, tilting your face back towards him.

“Every day,” he admits shamelessly while his hungry eyes journey over the planes of your face. “I see you everywhere. And if I don’t see you, then I feel you,” he whispers and leans closer, the sweet tang of wine still on his breath. “Tell me, (Name), do you ever touch your words and imagine it’s me as I do?”

Your heartbeat spikes at the use of your real name. It’s always ‘cara mia’ this and ‘bella’ that.

“If you want to know where they are,” you breathe and lean into his touch for a moment before gripping his hand and guiding it away from your face. “Then you only need to ask nicely.”

Something wild burns between you at your open challenge.

Suppressing a smirk, you guide those long, slender fingers lower and lower.

His breaths grow shallow when his fingertips ghost over the curve of your breast.

“Just a bit lower,” you promise; a teasing, hushed thing that only strains his self-control further.

You still your hand just beneath your left breast, and use your fingers to move his index finger across the curve of the words beneath your dress.

He lets out a sharp hiss of air and flattens his fingers across the space. You wonder if even with the material of the dress separating him from your skin, he can feel them. You certainly can.

It’s a whirlwind of longing and desire and need—

“It is…not a bad place…for my words,” he admits with great difficulty, his words a wrecked mess that only makes you grin wider. “Would you like to know where your words are, hm?”

(yes. yes. yes.)

You only dip your head in a nod.

He takes your hand and moves it down.

And down.

For a moment you think he’s going to place your hand right against his groin but he doesn’t.

His hand stops on the lowest dip of his inner thigh and he traces your fingers up and over his hip bone. His hand stills, your fingers still interlocked and you hum.

“It is not a bad place for my words.”

Prompt and simple.

Your eyes lift to his.

And you can pinpoint the exact moment the last of his self-control shreds itself into nothing.

You meet him halfway when he leans down and devours your mouth with his.

…

He takes his time with your soulmate words.

Or his words.

Santino traces them with his fingertips, over and over again; featherlight and delicate. Then worships them with his lips and teeth and tongue. Less gentle and more hungry, pleased, content.

There is such light in his eyes as he learns and explores. Traces and kisses and claims.

“That tickles,” you mumble sleepily, pressing your cheek deeper into the silk pillow. “I might kick you.”

He chuckles breathlessly, and when his head lifts from the expanse of your bare stomach, he looks half-drunk on you but his grin is unguarded, genuine. It makes you hungry for him again. Makes you ache for him again.

He moves up slowly, hot mouth ghosting over your skin. Over the dips and curves and patches of skin that he takes time to linger on.

He lingers the longest on the elegant curve of his handwriting curling under your breast, then your collarbone and finally your mouth.

Santino leans into you when you touch his face. Your other hand sweeping over the mess that is his curls and he tuts.

“Who could have thought you would be so impatient, amore,” he teases, sounding smugger than you’ve ever heard him. “I am shocked that I still have hair at all.”

You spin a lazy curl between your fingers. “Then stop making those noises whenever I pull on your hair.”

His eyebrows arch and his thumb brushes over your parted lips. “Hm, what’s this? Are we comparing notes on who moaned louder? Oh, amore, I do believe I have you beat.”

You sit up at his tone and find that his self-satisfied smirk is far, far too attractive. Your hand trails away from his hair and down his face, neck, chest. Your nails track down gently, playfully, and the lean muscle ripples under your touch.

“Careful.”

You ignore his strained warning.

Your fingers scratch against the familiar words on his smooth, tanned skin and it’s hard to control that part of you that’s full of feminine satisfaction.

A compliment and a threat. You wonder if it says something about you both as people that your soulmate words are what they are.

Your fingers press against his burning skin—the touch gentle and needy and greedy all at once.

(mine, you found me, mine, you found me, mine—)

It’s not about possession but it is about belonging. About happiness and this wild, untameable man that has blown into your life.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Found you.”

You freeze as if struck by lightning.

“What did you say?”

His eyes find yours and he takes your face in his hands.

“When I dreamt of you,” he murmurs carefully in the centimetres separating you. “You always asked me to find you. Find me, you always pleaded. I tried. Oh, how I tried, cara mia. For years. But here you are. Finally, eh? Found you.”

Your eyes burn.

“Oh.”

He lowers your back onto the pillow and kisses you.

Over and over again until you forget the world outside.

Until you forget every hurt and every sadness.

Until you forget the taste of your own name.

Until—under his strong, burning touch—you are remade anew.

…

When you wake up, it’s to the sensation of him tracing the naked skin of your back.

“Ah, good morning, soulmate.”

A slow kiss against your spine. Then a lighter peck, higher. And another.

Your eyes crack open and your toes curl.

His mouth is stretched into that grin you now think is your favourite. A crooked, slightly devious thing that makes his eyes gleam in the morning light.

“Don’t look so smug,” you grouse tiredly. “Or I might have to kick you.”

“So violent.”

His grin widens as his eyes drag slowly over your still naked body, just barely covered by his silken sheets.

“Shower sex?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

And learn that he has a very nice laugh.

…

He doesn’t get his shower sex.

He pouts about it for two days straight.

…

“Perfezione.”

“Smooth.”

Deflection is easier than admitting how nice it feels to have him look at you like that.

Like you are something special and beautiful. Like he can’t bear to look away from you.

Your lips press against the vicious slash of Call me that again and I’ll slit your throat.

“Did it ever bother you?” you question mildly, a distant worry gnawing on your nerves. “That it was a threat?”

Your voice sounds meeker that you’ve heard in a while but you need to know.  

Santino sits up, and wraps his arm around your waist so he could pull you closer to him.

He’s like a furnace of heat and safety, and your body instinctively curls further in his hold.

“Never,” he admits easily. “I loved my words. From the first moment they appeared on my skin. Hm, I knew they belonged to someone strong, and smart, and beautiful. Someone who would no doubt drive me crazy,” he mumbles, now in Italian, against the curve of your jaw. “And you do.”

“And did I meet them? Your expectations?”

He kisses your neck leisurely, nibbles on your earlobe and your nails sink into his back, steadying yourself with a shallow sigh.

“Better,” he breathes hotly into your ear. “So much better.”

You try, and fail, to hide your smile from him.

…

“Is he…you know?” the woman in front of you wiggles her eyebrows. “Well?”

Your own eyebrows rise slowly. “Is he what?”

Helen grins knowingly. “C’mon. You know what they say about Italian lovers. Is he any good?”

Smothering a cough, you give her a flat look. “Is John any good?”

The brunette sitting in front of you goes pink and you don’t bother hiding your biting grin. There’s no viciousness in it though. You’re happy to visit your old partner and friend. Even happier to get to know Helen who—much to your surprise—is both brilliant and delightfully witty. You can understand why John loves her. You can understand why she’s his soulmate. They compliment each other beautifully.

There is that energy between them.

Energy so similar but also vastly different to one you and Santino share.

The smug bastard finally got his shower sex this morning, and had spent the entire day strutting around the apartment like Cheshire Cat.

Brilliant, insufferable bastard.

“John is…fine.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Fine? Ouch.”

Helen splutters, flustered. “I just mean he’s amazing but I don’t want to brag—”

Practically cackling, you bend over your drink, wiping at the tears gathering in your eyes. “Oh man,” you wheeze out. “Poor John. I mean…Santino is…adequate, then.”

Helen’s eyes gleam with mirth even if she cringes. “Uh-oh. Don’t let him hear that. I don’t think his male pride can take such a beating.”

Your fingernails scrape against the rim of your cup and you give her a secretive smile. “Oh, putting a dent in his ego is one of my favourite hobbies now, I assure you.”

Staring at each other for a second, you both lose it at the exact same time.

That’s when John decides to make himself known, his eyes going from you to Helen and then back again.

“Should I be worried?” he wonders quietly.

Helen looks at you and you towards her.

You both grin at the same time and devilish is the only way you can describe it.

“Most certainly,” Helen says sweetly to her husband.

The world’s best assassin has the good sense to look spooked.

…

“Retirements suits you.”

“Certainly helps with the wrinkles,” comes John’s wry reply and you crack a smile.

He lowers himself on the seat beside you. Helen is back in the apartment, chatting happily on the phone with her friend who rang only minutes earlier.

“She likes you, you know,” he says, though sounds cautious about it. “She looks forward to your visits every time.”

Your smile softens and you can just see a glimpse of the beautiful woman inside as she moves around the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear.

“I like her too. She’s wonderful, John, really,” you tell him, and mean it. “And I’m very glad that you found each other. Name your firstborn after me, will you?”

John chuckles under his breath, but you see the way his eyes soften at the thought. “Duly noted.”

For a few minutes, you both sit in silence, soaking in each other’s quiet presence and the setting sun. Helen’s voice filters through the closed patio doors and you breathe deeply.

“I found him,” you confess to him quietly. “My soulmate.”

John’s head snaps in your direction. “You did?”

“Yeah. A while back. Even before Helen.”

That surprises him, you can tell. “Why didn’t you—”

Shooting a bland stare his way, you shrug, “You know why. And it was complicated. He’s not exactly someone I considered a fitting match at first.”

Curiosity burns in his dark eyes, but when you remain tight-lipped, he speaks, “Do I know him?”

Your laugh is sharp, almost shrill but you nod your head, venturing a look in his direction. “It’s Santino.”

John goes so still you fear he’s turned into a statue beside you. “Santino?” he echoes, at last. “Santino D’Antonio?”

You almost roll your eyes.

“Do you know many Santinos, John?”

A flutter of emotions flickers across his face but his lips remain a flat line, his eyes scrutinising you. And you know what he’s thinking, what’s going through his head. Santino’s reputation, all that he knows about him personally, the wild possibilities in regards to your future and Santino’s.

How dangerous and malicious he can be.

How ruthless and charismatic and manipulative.

But because John is John, he asks you only one question, “Does he make you happy?”

And you adore him so much at that moment. Even if it’s not love like it once was, you adore the fact that he understands and knows you better than anyone. Adore the fact that he doesn’t judge you or condemn you or think less of you. Doesn’t try to preach to you how it’s unwise to tie yourself to a man like Santino.

He’s just John with his patient dark eyes and silent strength. He is comfort and sanctuary and that’s never going to change. Not ever.

But his question remains.

Does Santino make you happy?

You think about it. Think about him and consider his flaws. Consider the fact that he hasn’t magically changed in the last few months. He’s still the Camorra heir. He’s still a sharpened blade. He’s still a cruel man. A ruthless businessman. He’s not good.

But neither are you.

The physical closeness is nice and fulfilling, but being with him is so much more. It’s the ease; the knowing that around him you can breathe and grow, that he will never smother you. That he trusts you and adores you and respects you. That when he touches you, he does so like he’s marvelling at every touch—like he’s lucky to do so, like he’s counting every instance your skin meets his, no matter how innocently. How he makes you laugh and fills your chest with a reluctant sort of fondness and affection. How he challenges and supports you. How stepping into his embrace feels like warmth and comfort and safety—more so than even John’s embrace ever did. 

“Yes,” you breathe faintly, your voice wobbly. “Yes. The happiest I’ve ever been.”

John smiles slightly and his fingers wrap around yours, squeezing once.

“Good.”

And that’s that.

The sun is almost set when Helen joins you on the balcony. She sits beside you, and you reach for her hand, too. She looks pleasantly surprised by the gesture but holds your hand like she can understand the need without a word.

“Thank you.”

Neither reply.

But they don’t need to.

…

“Join my family.”

Your heart skips a beat, or two.  

“What?”

He’s only just stepped through the door. He cut through the apartment the moment he caught sight of you and made a beeline straight for you.

The arms around your waist tighten, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Join my family,” he repeats, breathless, his eyes raging when they find yours. “You are a part of me, as I am of you, cara mia. My father could never deny you joining. You belong with my family—you are my family.”

The quiet intensity of the last sentences shreds your heart. Makes blood in your ears roar.

“Santi—”

His gaze is imploring as he presses your foreheads together, his fingers gentle but firm against the side of your face.

“Be with me, (Name),” he whispers tightly. “I don’t care about rules or waiting. I just need you.”

Need, not want.

“But Tarasov…”

Tarasov who has been too busy building and reaping the benefits of the slaughter John has unleashed to get out. Tarasov who will never let you go now that John is gone. The High Table values soulmate bonds—it’s a part of their sacred rule set—but not enough to wipe your debt away.

Even if you want to—and you do, so very much—it’s not that simple. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? What it would be like to belong to such a family? To be a part of something ancient and powerful. Feared.

Santino’s arms tighten around you—like he can keep you here and away from everything that exists outside the safety of this home—and you see the ruthlessness in him, then. More so than ever before.

“How many died during the Impossible Task, hm?” he poses sharply, shrewdly, and you know he’s already thought about this. Planned for this. “How many got buried by Tarasov’s order? Who is to stop anyone from retaliating?”

You suck in a breath, your gaze wide, searching. You know exactly what he’s saying.

Blood for blood.

His family’s words.

Tarasov took your family, took your freedom and now—

Now.

“You reckless, unbelievable—”

He kisses you.

“I can’t believe you—”

And again, except this time it’s hungrier, more intense.

He could kiss you a million more times and you would never grow bored of it.

(found you, found you, found you—)

Your heart beats with those words, and as if he can feel them too, his fingers settle over them.

“Yes,” you choke out, your eyes burning and chest tight from…happiness. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He kisses the tears that fall down your cheeks; careful and slow.

And maybe this can be love.

If it isn’t already.

…

Viggo and Iosef Tarasov die a week later.

You mourn by letting the world know exactly who you are.

The Vipress. The soulmate of Santino D’Antonio.  

Part of Camorra by oath and soul bond.

Willingly given.

You are your own master.  

Finally free of your chain.  

…

an: actually anon, soulmate!au is one of the few instances where everyone gets a happy ending. ahhh. sometimes we can have nice things :) writing V that’s not haunted by Tokyo was a damn joy, let me tell you. thank you so much for reading this. i did bare minimum editing so if this is riddled with mistakes rip me, i guess.