#simmers love being miserable in convinced

[barbylion]

Simmers on twt are so exhausting, like, why are you complaining about a FREE update not being good enough

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: hello my love! ik you’ve already made a couple but i was wondering if you could make another one of those mouse ones, if you’re not up for it that’s completely fine! thank you for taking the time to read this!

𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: we all need more remus x mouse!!!

𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: please write another remus lupin x mouse fluff please. i love your writing style. it's just perfect<33

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: injured reader, the nickname 'mouse', some embarrassing (possibly?) moments, nothing else i can think of??

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: after convincing the reader to go ice skating, things end up going a bit sideways for the marauders.

𝑨/𝑵: merry christmas (and happy holidays) everyone! here is a bit of a late gift for you all! i was astonished to see the amount of requests for more remus x mouse! i didn't even include all of them here. i'm sorry i've been mia for so long! this one may be a bit rusty, but i hope you all enjoy even if i am a little out of practice! (also this is unedited so if you see any typos/mistakes no you didn't)

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 3.3k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

“it’s bloody freezing out here,” mutters sirius, his voice gruff in the early morning air.

you roll your eyes, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. in your peripheral, you can see his mussed hair and dark circles, as well as the scowl that colours his handsome features. 

“you should’ve stayed behind if you’re going to whine, sirius,” you respond, raising your brows.

he wrinkles his nose, looking an awful lot like he’s smelled something foul. “are you mad? i’m not staying cooped up in that castle when you lot are out here having fun. where’s moony?” he looks at you expectantly.

“running late, i suppose,” you glance at your watch, a christmas gift from remus. it’s charmed, the tiny mice printed on the watch frolicking around as you get the time. your face turns pink, embarrassed although you love the little watch. you hope sirius doesn’t see. you’d never hear the end of it. 

“well, it’s half eight. earliest i’ve been up in weeks.” sirius yawns, swiping his sleeve across his face.

you roll your eyes again. you knew the lot of them would be menaces upon returning from the christmas holidays. sirius spent the two weeks of holiday break at james’s house, the two of them likely driving the potters out of their minds. the pair of them had clearly suffered from a lack of sleep, made clear by sirius’s incessant complaining about being up early. 

you wanted to spend the holidays at hogwarts, hoping that remus might convince his parents to let him do the same, with no luck. you suffered a miserable two weeks at home, your parents refusing to let you out of their sight for a second. you hardly even had time to respond to the owls sent by your friends; notably, a muggle christmas card of lily and her family, an odd photo of sirius and james wearing charmed elves’ hats, and a sweet note from remus wishing you a merry christmas and promising you a gift upon your return to school. 

thus, you are excited to spend a few hours having fun with your friends without worrying about lessons. if only you can wrestle sirius out of his grumpy mood. 

there’s a chorus of boots crunching through snow behind you, and you turn to find lily approaching. james and remus trail close behind, with marlene at the back. 

“what’s with the frown?” lily makes a face at sirius, who makes another disgruntled face.

“hasn’t got his beauty sleep,” you warn, a smile playing on your lips.

“you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” sirius says crossly.

you raise your eyebrows at him.

“simmer down, pads,” james says, bright as ever. “don’t mind him. he’s just peeved because of that detention mcgonagall gave him.”

he pats his friend on the back, accompanied only by a grumble from the long-haired boy.

“yes,” says remus, “who knew she would catch him trying to turn marie littletree’s quill into a bowtruckle?” 

“all right,” says sirius. “i get it. i’ll paint a stupid little grin on my face like prongs here. can we get on with it?” he grins at the confused half-smile on james’s face, then nudges his friend in the shoulder. 

“right,” says marlene. “lily’s got an itinerary.”

“yes,” says the redhead. “first hogsmeade weekend back, and i’ve got plans. now, the three broomsticks is going to be absolutely swimming with people.”

“it’s always swimming with people,” james chimes.

“right,” she gives him a sharp look, and he scratches his neck awkwardly. “i was thinking, we should skip the morning crowd, and have a go at ice skating.”

“ice skating!”

“ice skating?”

james and your exclamations mirror one another, as you both gawk at lily. james looks like a child on christmas morning, and you look… well, terrified. 

“oh, godric, i’m going to be so embarrassed. i can hardly walk, lils, much less skate!” you groan, feeling the exasperation sirius has been bleeding all morning. 

“c’mon, y/n!” james gives you a shake around the shoulders, looking excited. “you’ll be fine. a little arresto momentum, and you’re saved.”

“right, and which one of you is going to babysit me to keep me from face planting?” you glare at him.

“sounds like a job for moony, if y’ask me,” says sirius smugly. he’s already strutting towards the pond, james close on his heels. 

marlene grins, and lily looks at you pleadingly. “c’mon, y/n,” she begs, pouting like a child.

“it’ll be fun,” marlene adds.

you huff, not wanting to feel like a buzzkill. 

remus places a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. you sigh.

“you’ll be all right,” he urges, voice soft. 

you sigh, but concede. “fine.” 

lily and marlene cheer, taking off behind james and sirius on their way to the pond.

you frown, glancing over at remus as you fall into a slow pace following them.

“do i have to?” you wonder aloud, hooking your arm through his as you crunch through the hardened snow.

remus smiles down at you, a gentle smile finding his lips. his cheeks are pink from the cold already, his honeyed hair sticking out in tufts from beneath his knit hat. your stomach does a flip, and you have to force yourself not to look away.

“don’t tell me you’re scared, mouse,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“scared? pfft, i don’t get scared,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“oh, really?”

“really. but i know my strengths. and ice-foot coordination is not one of them. i’m preparing to embarrass the wits out of myself.” 

“it can’t possibly be that bad,” he says.

“have you met me, rem? i tripped over the air just last night.”

“i actually think that was a badly timed jinx from sirius.”

“i hope you’re joking.”

“afraid not.”

“oh, he’s got it coming.” you shake your head, remembering the burn of your cheeks as you tumbled in a heap in the common room. remus came over, smiling to himself as he helped pick up your things. you’d wanted to crawl into a hole and hide for the rest of the night.

as you approach the pond, you blink at the sight of a few other students gliding over the frozen water. you blink, not feeling confident in your abilities. you can feel your legs wobbling already, hearing the sound of yourself crashing into the ice. 

“okay,” you stop in your tracks, grabbing remus by his wrists. he faces you, eyes expectant.

“yes?” he humours you, looking as serious as you feel.

“promise you won’t laugh if i fall.”

his features crack into a smile, his head falling as he laughs softly. “c’mon, mouse,” he nudges you, draping an arm over your shoulders. he’s warm, and you lean into him as he leads you closer to the water’s edge, where your friends have already conjured up their ice skates. 

“if you laugh, i’ll never forgive you.”

“i’ll keep an eye on you,” he says, “and i promise i won’t laugh.” 

“holding you to it,” you say, joining marlene and lily by the pond.

“here,” marlene takes half a second and conjures you a pair of skates, untied on your feet. 

james and sirius are already on the ice, flitting around faster than you can keep up with. they’re a pair of blurs, their laughter ringing through the air. 

you make a face, your ears burning just at the thought of how you’re going to look trying to keep your feet beneath yourself. you don’t even notice your untied laces as you wobble towards the ice.

“just a second, mouse,” remus says softly, his large frame stooping to tie your shoes.

your face goes red as you glance down at him, feeling sheepish. “sorry,” you say, “i could have done that.”

“i’ve got it,” remus hums, his scarred hands tying your skate laces with expertise. 

he’s towering over you again in half a second, winking at you as he reaches down to grasp your hand. his skin is warm, even through both pairs of your gloves, and you feel a bit better. 

“y’alright?” remus wonders aloud, guiding you to the edge of the ice. he steps on gracefully, somehow able to keep his feet from sliding beneath him. you stare down at his skates, nervous.

you frown. “i’m scared,” you admit, face darkening with embarrassment.

“don’t be scared,” remus says. 

he tugs your hand, smiling warmly. you hate how persuasive he is; his soft voice and gentle smile have a way of turning you into a gushing mess in the palm of his hands. no one knows how to make you feel better like remus does. 

“you’ll still love me if i make a fool out of myself, right?” you wonder aloud, stepping slowly onto the ice. you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, focused on keeping yourself upright. 

“i’d love you even if you made a fool out of the whole world, love.”

he’s laughing as you join him on the ice, the velvety deep sound sending butterflies rampaging through your stomach. he grasps your hand, ever so gently, and pulls you to the center of the ice, where fewer of the other students are. your classmates fly by, agile and quick on the ice. you feel somewhat like a baby deer, your legs wobbly beneath you. 

“see, not so bad, is it?” remus encourages, his features now split in a jovial grin. his tawny eyes glitter with amusement, the corners crinkled by his big smile.

“no, i guess not,” you agree, fingers still gripping the sleeve of his coat in a vice.

“d’you want to try on your own?” he inquires. his long fingers loosen their hold on your wrist, but you tighten your own around him.

“no–not yet!” you squeak, moving closer to him and throwing your arms around his middle. he laughs, his chest rumbling against your cheek. you take a deep breath.

“sorry,” he chuckles, smoothing a hand over your hair. “i’ve got you, m’little mouse.” 

you blink, peeking around his frame to see sirius and lily engaged in a race across the pond, their speeding frames silhouetted by the snowy landscape behind them. a grin spreads over your features, watching as james and marlene cheer them on. 

“i don’t know how they do it,” you muse, shaking your head.

“you’ll be racing them in no time,” remus says teasingly, slowly unraveling your death grip around him. 

“if you say so,” you murmur.

remus pulls you along gently, gaining some speed as you become more comfortable at the feeling of being on the ice. after several minutes, you’re no longer as unstable on your feet. you hardly even shriek when james charges at the pair of you at full speed, spraying you with a shower of ice as he stops at the last second.

“you git,” you hiss, sending a snowball his way with a flick of your wand.

he curses loudly, already halfway across the pond when it hits his back. lily and marlene dissolve into a fit of giggles, while remus chuckles gently. 

you don’t even notice that he isn’t holding you steady anymore. distracted, you’ve released your grasp on his sleeve, and are slowly gliding alongside him. you’re closer to the edge of the pond, your feet steady beneath you as you gather confidence. 

“feeling okay?” remus has spun around, facing you as he skates backwards.

what a showoff, you think, but you say nothing. he doesn’t know it, but you adore just how easily he picks up on the things you find to be absolutely mind-boggling. despite his insistence that he’s nothing special, he picks up on skills with ease. he’s a talented wizard, quick-witted and good at solving problems under pressure. it’s precisely why he excels in school, despite being out around each full moon and sometimes struggling to come out of his shell.

“thanks to you,” you say, flushing. “i wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for you, you know.”

he smiles sheepishly, his wind-chapped face going a deeper shade of pink. “sure you would.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i’m serious, rem,” you say. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me,” he says, looking more than a little embarrassed. 

you reach for him, wanting to hold his hand, but you see concern flash in his eyes. your eyes widen, but before you can say anything he’s already reaching for you.

“watch out–”

but you’ve both reacted too late. another student slams into your shoulder, knocking you off kilter. you squeal, falling to the ice too quickly for either you or remus to react. the air feels as if you’re caught in slow motion for a second; the ice is approaching your face with extreme speed, glistening in the morning sun. without thinking, you brace with one hand, the other halfway reaching towards remus. 

your arm breaks your fall, and there’s a sickening crack as you hit the ice. it’s harder than you thought. you shriek, a sickening pain rocketing up your wrist and shoulder as you finally collapse completely.

“shit,” remus hisses, crouching as you feel his hands on your shoulders, trying to help you up to a sitting position.

you’re too focused on the excruciating pain in your arm to realize that you’re crying. the tears are hot against your skin, burning your cold cheeks as you sit up. you clutch your arm with your other hand, looking at the horrible purple lump already protruding at your wrist.

“merlin,” you sob, “it’s broken!” the sight of the bone jabbing at the inside of your arm makes your stomach do a turn, and you force yourself to look away. remus crouches in front of you, his worried face swimming in your teary vision. 

you hear your friends shouting, and several nasty words directed at the student who slammed into you. you glance over, seeing marlene dragging sirius away by his scarf as he tries to throttle the poor third-year student. 

lily skates towards you, slowing as she approaches.

“oh, dear,” she says, as she sees your arm.

“it’s bad, isn’t it?” you ask, glancing between remus and lily. you can’t force yourself to look back at the arm, feeling as if you’re going to faint if you have to see the bruises blooming over your arm.

“not so bad,” lily lies, offering a forced smile.

“we’ve got to get some help. you need to see madam pomfrey.” remus says. he’s crouched, one hand coming out to wipe the tears from your face. you breathe in his scent, trying to ground yourself. 

james, sirius, and marlene finally join you, sirius still cursing the student as marlene drags him over. 

“ugh,” james says as he sees your injury. 

sirius peers over remus’ shoulder, his eyes blazing with fury as he sees the extent of your injury. “i’m going to curse the bollocks off of that kid!” he hisses, reaching for his wand, tucked into his coat pocket.

“sirius, stop it!” marlene scolds. “we have to do something about that arm. there’s no way y/n’s making it back to the castle in this state.”

“i’m fine,” you insist, though your stomach is rolling unpleasantly. you think you’d likely vomit if you had to stand. 

“you’re not fine,” remus says, his voice stern. “your arm’s gone sideways. you need to be in the hospital wing.”

“we can’t move her like this,” james says, sounding as sick as you are.

“let lily have a go at it. she put my pinky right when that bludger hit it at practice,” says sirius. 

“your pinky?” remus says incredulously. “i think an arm’s a bit more important than a pinky.”

“rem,” you say, nudging him with your foot. “it’s fine. i trust lily. besides, i think i’ll be sick if we don’t do something now.”

remus sighs, his eyes dark with worry. he places a hand on your knee, shifting slightly to let lily get closer. “fine.” you can tell he’s not happy about it. 

“marlene, go get some help, will you?” you say, your head swimming. you feel closer to fainting by the minute, shock setting in.

“‘course i will.” she’s gone in a flash.

“okay,” you breathe, closing your eyes as you wait for lily to fix your arm. 

“right, then,” she pulls her want out of her pocket, leaning closer. there’s a second of silence before she says, “episkey!”

only, the spell doesn’t go quite right. a blinding hot pain blooms in your arm, and you shriek again. this time, you’re not strong enough to keep from fainting. white spots bloom behind your vision, and you collapse. 

you wake hours later, in the hospital wing. you stir, your throat dry as you turn over in the cot. your vision is blurry as you peel your eyes open, finding your arm wrapped in some kind of sling. madam pomfrey is nowhere in sight, but remus is slumped in a chair at your beside.

his eyes are closed, his breathing steady as he sits. his head rests lazily against the back of the chair. you study his face; his scars shine in the sliver of evening light that spills in from the window behind you. you groan as you move, your entire body aching.

your muscles throb, the fall having taken its toll on you. you watch him for a few minutes, the delicate rise and fall of his chest. his hair falls in golden wisps over his forehead and his ears, tickling the nape of his neck. you smile, glad he’s getting some rest. you’re sure he’s been perched in that uncomfortable chair all day. he’s probably missed all of his meals, crouched by your bed worrying.

you smile to yourself, wondering how you’ve ended up with someone so perfect. 

he stirs finally, his eyes crinkling as he yawns.

“rem,” you say softly, catching his attention as he opens his eyes.

“hey, sleepyhead,” he says, a tired smile painting his features.

you reach for him with your good hand, his long fingers reaching out and enveloping yours with ease. his skin is warm as he brings your hand to his lips, holding it there for a moment. your face heats up. embarrassed, you want to sink down into the cot and disappear, but you can’t run from him. he knows you too well.

“have you been here all day?” you wonder.

“of course,” he says, as if you’d be crazy to think otherwise. 

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“yes i did,” he says, frowning. “it’s my fault you went out there in the first place. you wouldn’t be hurt if i hadn’t convinced you to go skating.”

“hey,” you scold, “don’t say that. it’s not your fault. none of it’s your fault.”

he shakes his head, looking apologetic. you sigh, squeezing his hand.

“i’m serious, rem. i don’t blame you. i had a lot of fun, until that kid ran into me, at least.” you grin, trying to lighten the mood.

he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his features. “poor guy,” he says, “sirius wanted to hunt him down so badly. said he was willing to have detention for the rest of the year, if it meant he got his revenge.”

you roll your eyes. “what a hothead,” you laugh. 

“yeah, think the kid was pretty scared too. he send a card up, and some chocolate frogs.” remus passes you a card. you open it up, and a flock of little birds explodes from the paper, as well as a bright, sparkling message that says get well soon!

you smile, feeling much better already. you squeeze remus’s hand again, closing the card as he passes you a chocolate frog. 

“thank you,” you say in response, though both of you know you’re not just thanking him for the chocolate.

he nods in response, leaning over to press a kiss against your forehead.

tags: @delulu4marauders

[strwberri-milk]

For Kaeya, Childe, Diluc, and any other Genshin man of your choice, may I please have a scenario where their s/o is trying to break up with them either due to outside forces trying to force their hand and/or they are scared of ruining their relationship so they are trying to run away? I’m in the mood for some angst!

Kaeya doesn't really believe you. It doesn't matter how many times you try to convince him that yes, you want to break up with him, no there's nothing he can do about it.

Being as perceptive as he is, he doesn't easily fall for your tricks. You're beginning to wear him out though, the yelling match that you initiated slowly coming down to just become a light simmer of coals burning out, an uncomfortable warmth burning just under his ribcage as you continue to try.

He can't help but feel like it's deserved, that somewhere you're telling the truth, and the awful things he's been hiding about himself were all found out by you. His eye carefully watches your nervous ticks, the pounding in his ears and faint whispers in the back of his head that taunt him only able to be silenced when he sees a tear slip down your cheek.

He gives you a bitter smile, shaking his head a little before leaning forward, every part of your body trying to tell you to sit back but failing miserably as you can't help but try to soak him in one last time.

"Why are you lying to me?"

The words shake your core and you know he means them, voice painfully honest. He doesn't sugar his words, smirk at you mischievously or try to pull you into his lap to fluster you. Instead, he simply waits, knowing the silence will get at you soon enough.

"I don't love you anymore. I want to leave."

You try to stand up, almost falling when your knees buckle unexpectedly. When you land against his chest, arms pulling you into his hold you can't help but sob, desperately clinging to the fabric of his shirt and telling him everything you could remember. He can barely make out you mentioning the name of some small time criminal organization that had apparently gotten it into your head that you were risking Kaeya's life by staying with him.

It doesn't take him too much time to console you now that he knows the truth, sitting on the floor with you as he reminds you how much he loves you, and that there's no way he'd ever let you go just because some assholes thought it was a good idea to hurt someone he cares about.

Childe listens to you tell him all these awful things about yourself as though they're fact, not yet wanting to say anything until you're done. For now, he thinks you simply just want to vent and then he can cuddle you up and everything will be right as rain.

"-and because of all that I think the only logical thing for us to do now is break up."

His eyes widen, reaching toward where you sit on the other side of the couch and easily scooping you up to put you in his lap.

"You really think I'd accept that excuse, no questions asked?" he asks, whispering into your ear as you feel his nails dig lightly into your hips to keep you in place.

"You really think that the best thing to do here is to break up?"

You nod again, ignoring the way you immediately curl into his chest and the pounding of your heart that signals his proximity to you.

"I'm just going to hold you down. You deserve so much better than me and I wish you could just see it already."

He can't help but laugh at how cute you look to him, sniffling and leaning into his touch when he gently runs his thumb over your cheek to wipe away your tears. You flinch a little at the soft pressure of his lips pressing on your cheek, looking up at him.

"I'm not going to let you run away that easily," he says with a twinkle in his eye, laughing a little at the surprise on your face.

"You don't get to decide something like that for me. I'll show you that you really have nothing to worry about, okay?"

You try to retaliate, the weight of your insecurities almost making you choke when he kisses your lips, shaking his head.

"I told you already. You have nothing to worry about. I'm not leaving you."

Diluc has many enemies. This is a fact that he is always aware of thanks to his moonlighting and just being one of the richest people in Mondstat. Because of this, he's always a little wary of you going anywhere unfamiliar without someone with you. Being with him puts a target on your back and every time he takes someone down he's happy to think it's one less person that could hurt you.

When you step into his office and refuse to meet his eyes he immediately assumes the worst, coming over to your side and taking your hands in his. He opens his mouth, about to say something when you ask him to break up with you.

The fact that you refuse to look him in the eyes despite holding onto his hand so tightly rouses his suspicions but he pushes that aside for now, taking his free hand to tilt your face up to his.

"I don't believe you."

It only takes that for your words to begin desperately spilling over themselves as you try to convince him. He catches some random business jargon and slowly pieces together that some heir to another company had their eyes set on him and decided the best way to expand the family business was to marry rich, Diluc being their target.

Somehow, it got into your head after their weasling that you weren't good enough for him and that if you stayed with him you'd put both of your lives in a less-than-optimal situation. You were both terrified and insecure, a combination that had you waking up in bed after falling asleep due to exhaustion with his sweater pulled over your torso.

You vaguely remember the press of his lips against your skin, him holding you tightly as he told you over and over again that none of that matters. At some point, you guess he must have gotten out of bed to do his nightly runs, unaware that he was actually spending this evening doing all he could to ensure some light-hearted misfortune befell an unassuming company.

[tiffyfoundsomething]

And now for something completely different!

A while back I thrifted a bright yellow, nearly complete box of musty Betty Crocker recipe cards (one was missing and whomever owned it wrote the missing recipe on a blank card), and my S.O. asked me to make the Connecticut Beef Supper. We were curious.

I need to preface this with:  I loathe cooking. I do. I hate it. I hate cooking so much.

It’s “Budget Casseroles” #12 and cost $30 to make. Just the meat was $20.

I want you to look at the product they’re holding in that spoon and keep that in mind for later.

Here’s the recipe. You can easily find it and variants online.

Now, if you cook often, and you look at this recipe, you’ll see some issues with it.

No draining when cooking the meat and onions + 1 cup of water + 1.25 cups of milk into a 13x9x2 casserole dish, and 1 WHOLE TEASPOON of salt in addition to the salt in cheddar cheese and canned cream soup, only seasonings being a little salt and pepper...

I’m not convinced housewives in the 70′s weren’t deliberately trying to kill their families with the help of Hitman Crocker.

We did have to make some substitutions. S.O. won’t eat mushrooms so we subbed in cream of potato soup. We don’t generally eat shortening so I used butter. None of us loves sharp cheese so instead of straight cheddar, we used Walmart brand “fiesta blend” which Walmart says is “Monterey Jack, cheddar, queso quesadilla, and asadero cheeses”. The store didn’t even have a shelf tag for Wheaties and S.O. chose Wheat Chex in their place. I would have gone with corn flakes or bread crumbs, myself.

I hate cooking.

This recipe wasn’t difficult, at least. It’s pretty easy to put together.

There’s a lot of hands-off time like the 50 minutes simmering on the stove (great time to wash up the dishes you’ve dirtied at this point, prep the potatoes, and crush the cereal), and 1.5 hours in the oven (more dishes...).

The biggest problems I ran into were my large skillet was over-full and difficult to brown the meat because there wasn’t room to turn it, and the casserole dish was full to the rim and heavy. Thankfully I was smart enough to put a baking sheet in the oven to catch drips. It did boil over.

Following the instructions as given, with substitutions (and 5x more black pepper), we got this:

Looks nothing like the picture on the card. Doesn’t look even vaguely appealing.

It was very wet. So very wet. The cheese and cream soups curdled and separated in the excessive amount of water. That yellow in the corner is oil that was sitting on top...

Disgusting.

It tasted fine...

the meat was great other than the pieces that I didn’t get browned all around that lost their juices in the rest of the process

the potatoes turned out just right

the sauce was just water with curdles of dairy

the cheese and cereal crust was too dense

My whole family felt like hot garbage once the salt hit, though.

I have hypertension and was vibrating. S.O. usually can eat a lot of salt no problem and he said he had “the salt tingles”. My son was just generally miserable.

I went to bed with swollen gums and legs.

So.

Changes I’d make if I were to make this in the future:

And I might! It was easy to make and tasted good enough.

brown the meat first just so there’s room to do so properly, then add the onions

omit the tsp of salt outright

either drain the meat and onions or omit the milk (likely omit the milk since the water that the meat and onions were simmered in carries a lot of flavor and milk does not)

MORE pepper and add some other seasonings

less cereal, like maybe 1/2c all together sprinkled lightly across the top

[cyberdragoninfinity]

god yeah ive simmered on it for months now but Z-ONE is definitely my favorite ygo series Ultimate Big Bad (as of right now, for series I’ve finished!!) by LEAPS AND BOUNDS. like i like Darkness/Nightshroud well enough and Zorc is a classic, gotta appreciate him, but Z-ONE and his entire deal just grab me in a way those others don’t even come close to.

Just something about how Darkness and Zorc are both these great and powerful otherworldly entities, these embodiments of nihilism and chaos and, uh, darkness lol, and then you get to Z-one and he is JUST some fucking guy!! Just some angry, lonely old man at the end of the world who willed something akin to divinity onto himself in the centuries-long throes of madness. I know a Bunch of people feel like he Should have just been Fucked Up and Evil Yusei From the Future, but that read doesn’t do anything for me. Yugioh is such a franchise that plays with themes of identity and Who You Are, and imo it’s much more fun narratively that Z-one ISN’T Yuse;, that he’s Just some nobody scientist who stole another man’s identity and tried so hard to convince everyone including himself that he Was yusei, and that certainly That would be the key to fixing his ruined future. (And then he has the GALL to get mad AT YUSEI when that inevitably doesn’t work!!! Like, DUDE!!!)

He’s just such a miserable dramatic old cunt obsessed with being the hero here.  He loves the few friends he has and got all of them killed in one way or another. He’s so far gone in his own time-travel-deepfried brain that he thinks he’s God and refuses to see the androids who did everything for him as his friends anymore. He’s so desperate at this point that it’s agonizing. He gets his ass beat by the guy he was factkinning and then dies in a body that isn’t his own. He’s just so human (the last human) and I’m obsessed with him.

[sparkywrites25]

Lost - Chapter 3

Story Summary: Petra survives her encounter with the female titan but when she’s hurt and goes missing, her comrades believe her to be dead and make for home. Now she has to try and survive long enough to get back home. If she can manage that, what will be waiting for her there? What will Levi do if he’s faced with a second chance at having Petra in his life? Chapter Summary: Levi and Eld reflect on their situation while Petra tries to plan for the possibilities of her future.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Petra Ral | Rivetra Taglist: @lunar-rainclouds @captain-natey @1wholeheartedly-nii

Over the next four days, Petra battled with a new routine. Each day, she was flung out of sleep’s sweet embrace after only several hours at a time. The thumps of titan footsteps and giant fists knocking at the tree would send jolts through her and so her amber eyes would flash open, her insides swarmed with that sense of paranoia, wrapped in instinctual tension. Even though it only lasted half a minute or so, it still burned her chest like she’d scalded herself. She would take great gulpfuls of air before her body would be convinced that she was not, in fact, being faced with imminent death. Sometimes, it wasn’t enough and her bites of ration bars would slide awkwardly down her stomach only to be greeted by a simmer of nausea. 

She used her daylight waking hours to watch her enemy, to check her supplies and to indulge the thoughts she’d been holding back. Stewing over the fates of Eld and Gunther, and maybe Oluo too. In a way, the uncertainty around Oluo was worse. As big of a pain in the ass as he was, he was important to her. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have her back and that left no room for any question that he would have gone after the Female Titan with a vengeance, on his own. So crept in the unpleasant thought of whether he had been waiting for her to come join him, if he had expected it. 

Of course he did, Petra thought callously. Of course he’d been counting on me but I was careless and got myself hurt. If he….if he’s dead… could I have saved him? Then Gunther’s image would dangle in front of her mind just like the fleeting image of his swinging body, inviting more nausea. After that, her eyelids would burn with the sight of Eld’s body crashing to the floor. 

In those hours, she let the tears flow, the sobs break out of her throat and the memories of their time as a squad fill her up. Why shouldn’t she take up those miserable hours with reminiscence about those she loved? Even their painfully vivid faces in her mind was better than the darkness that surrounded her at night, whether she was awake or asleep. It was a cathartic feeling to unleash all the thoughts she buried during the day, under a need for survival and focus. She didn’t care if the titans heard her cry or swear or scream her woes to the moon. Who cared what monsters thought about the misery they left behind?

But that female titan… she was a specific brand of evil. A human monster who chose to use their power to harm people. Maybe for ordinary titans, it was just how they were. Like an animal’s hunting instinct. But most of the encounters that day could have been avoided if this person had just chosen to stay away. 

The spurts of energy from her few hours of sleep at a time carried Petra about as long as the sleep itself did. She would disappear back into that netherworld of dreams and her mind would not rest. Her dreams filled themselves with images of blonde hair, giant limbs and callous eyes that shifted to flint-grey-blue orbs beneath dark strands of hair that brushed across pale skin. Followed by twin flashes of steel and a spinning blur. Her family’s weeping faces would take the most vivid hold and their wails ripped through Petra. Often pushing her out of dreamland long before anxiety and paranoia could get the chance.

Dusk and pre-dawn’s light became her favourite times of the day, offering her time for safer activity, for searching the forest. Bright enough to see but darkened enough to render the titans useless. Petra would cut some of them down first, channeling rage and grief into revenge and reveling in her success. It kept her active, kept her strong. 

When exploring the woods some more, she used her blades to mark trees with particularly memorable features such as twisted or broken branches or dried sap coating the trunk. Sometimes she even cut branches down and laid them across the roots in various shapes. Within the next four days, she was able to recognize a lot of her handiwork. There was still much woodland to explore but finding her way back was getting easier and so she was using less gas on navigation. Even so, after these days so far, she’d already changed her cannisters twice. 

However, what she was lacking in gas, Petra had found in water thanks to a woodland pool about an hour’s walk from her tree. Meanwhile, she’d come across another wagon only this one was half crushed and only a couple of broken food portions and two gas cannisters had escaped being mushed by titans. After collecting them and refilling her water, the growing darkness had driven her back to her new “home”.

—————————————————

“Thanks for this, Captain,” Eld murmured as Levi rolled his wheelchair out of the hospital and along the street. 

Dusk had fallen over the city and the veteran scout (sometimes he could scarcely believe he was considered one of those) stared across the city. Most of the ground rubble from the battle had been cleared away along with the titan and human remains but he could still see the occasional scaffolding as repairs were made on rooftops and upper floors. The city was still healing.

“Tch, I could use the walk.” Levi answered quietly.

Eld huffed with a smile. “Not sure you should be pushing me around on your ankle, sir?” There was a tease to his voice though. 

The captain had already been chided about not resting his leg enough even though he didn’t appear to be terribly afflicted by the damage to it. Not that the chides had done anything but invite assertions that he was fine and that they should worry about their more critical patients and goddamn leave him alone, as Captain Levi had charmingly told them. Eld bit back a laugh just thinking about it.

“The leg’s all right,” Levi muttered. Eld could hear the bitterness in his tone that had come from being forced to sit out of the situations that had arisen in Stohess and in Southern Wall Rose. Erwin had ordered him to remain in the hospital alongside Eld. But the news had still been delivered to them both. The uncovering of Annie Leonhardt as the female titan and Reiner Braun and Berthold Hoover as the Armoured and Colossal stood out as some pretty major developments. The success of both, despite the absence of the Captain’s help had only reinforced Eld’s confidence in the Scouts. But he knew that the captain would have resented missing the chance to confront the traitors. Eld didn’t need to be told anything by Levi himself to know that.

“You should worry more about your own recovery,” Levi told him as the hospital moved out of Eld’s line of sight. 

All things considered, Eld knew he was lucky to be alive and that neither his spine nor his legs weren’t snapped after his fall. All had taken a serious hit and walking wasn’t a viable option right now, not nearly six days after the injuries. They were wary enough about having him travelling around in a wheelchair. It seemed almost ridiculous that they were worrying about him so much after the losses that humanity had taken recently, and continued to take. Yet here he was along with Captain Levi while the rest of their squad perished. Eld’s stomach churned as he thought about Petra’s missing body. It made no difference to her being dead but it would have been something to give to her family. The inability to give her a funeral which had been afforded to Gunther and Oluo stung at Eld’s chest. 

He brought a hand up to his eyes as tears of frustration gathered. He forced them back at once.

“Tired?” The wheelchair slowed down. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Eld muttered, after a pause so he didn’t sound as choked up as he felt. 

The night air felt cool and fresh on his face after sitting in the hospital room which was too warm and stuffy and closed off for his liking.He’d managed to shuffle into some loose brown trousers and a pale shirt that reminded him of something that kid Eren would wear. But even weirder was watching the captain walk around in a smart shirt and dark slacks instead of his uniform. Anyone watching the two of them now might not recognize the captain in his dark jacket. He probably looked closer to a nobleman. Not that Eld would say that as it would only piss the shorter man off.

Having the captain confined to medical leave alongside Eld had helped since he was just as loathe to stay in their shared room all day. He would wheel his subordinate out into the garden so they could both escape the fussing and anxious warnings of the staff for a while. Maybe it was their occupation that drove them to feel so comfortable outside. Although, for the captain, his background may play a part in it too.

Sometimes, like tonight, they would trade the hospital grounds for the city. 

Eld clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms turning rigid. “I’m sorry to be a burden, Captain.” Even though it was Levi’s choice, it couldn’t be easy pushing him around on an injured leg. Eld wasn’t exactly light. He was just under a foot taller than the captain and he was far from thinly built. His youth helping out his father in his workshop had seen to that.

“Tch,” the common sound escaping from his captain’s mouth didn’t hold all of its usual harshness. “Quit talking bullshit. You think I’d let you be a burden?” he scoffed. “You’re doing what you have to right now. If you were still trying to fuck that up by trying to rush your recovery - now that would be a shitty burden.” When Eld turned his head to look up at him, he glimpsed a slight smirk on his superior officer’s face. Blue-grey eyes flicked towards Eld’s dark ones knowingly. 

“Okay,” Eld held up his hands with a grimace, “I know I didn’t handle the wheelchair very well.”

“You tried to force yourself to walk, tripped over your bed post, twisted your ankle and fell ass up. Your bare ass, which I did not need to see.”

Eld grimaced. “Not a fine moment, I grant you.”

“How many times are you going to dress up the fact that you made a literal ass out of yourself.”

“For as long as you’re going to keep painfully reminding me, sir. My ego is very delicate. I need reassurance not reminders,” Eld joked back although his humour had lost a great deal of the heart behind it in recent days.

“If you want some sugarcoating, perhaps I should fetch Greta to come attend to you.” 

Eld sucked in a breath and swore he heard the briefest chuckle slip from the captain’s mouth. “No thanks. I’ll take the mockery.”

“Thought you might.”

The flickering flames of amusement were quickly wiped from Eld’s chest as he stared up at the stars once more. It didn’t seem long ago when their squad had been sat on the roof of HQ, watching them. Oluo teasing Petra because she adored stargazing. He called her a not-so-secret romantic and challenged her not to try and break the bonds of professionalism by getting him up here alone. She’d laughed when he bit his tongue and told him to bleed out. How had that been four years ago already? It was just after the mission to retake Wall Maria, when the world had lost so much colour and everyone was in need of a little beauty.

As second in command, Eld had been questioning if he could have done something different. Petra had been the youngest of their squad. He’d never doubted her capabilities as a woman but still, should he have sent her away as the captain sometimes did. 

Some minutes of silence had passed before Eld spoke the question that was lingering on his mind tonight. “Should I have sent Petra away with Eren?” He reached up to scratch his temple. “Eren might not have gone after the female titan if Petra had stayed with him.” And Levi may not have gotten hurt as well. He would have been able to go and help Eren in Wall Rose and maybe they would not have lost so many veterans in that battle. Maybe the commander would not have lost an arm. Too many things could be traced back to the damn 57th expedition.

Levi didn’t answer immediately which only fed credibility into Eld’s theory, like a stubborn child being made to eat something they didn’t like. Maybe the captain did think that Eld should have acted differently. Maybe he blamed him. After all, Petra was different… or at least Eld suspected so.

“Talking shit again.” Levi finally muttered.

“Hm?”

“You’re talking shit. If you think Petra wouldn’t have gone chasing your ass once she heard you being injured then you’re an idiot. She would have told Eren to keep running and come back to help. That was as much her damn job as your orders.” Levi’s voice was hard but not altogether brutal in his honesty. ”Eren wouldn’t have been able to resist interfering either. At some point he’d have heard something that he didn’t like and that would be the end of it. That fucking kid doesn’t know the meaning of restraint or thinking with his head.” 

Eld huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that. Kid’s got a soft heart and a hot temper. A troublesome combination in anyone.”

“Even worse with someone with his abilities,” the captain grumbled. He came to a stop. As Eld looked up at him, he watched the raven-haired man rub at the bridge of his nose. “He’s a fucking headache.” The shadows under his eyes looked even darker than usual, Eld thought. He looked stretched out. 

“Do you need to stop?” the younger man asked.

“Hm?” Levi lowered his hand. “No. I’m fine.” Eld doubted that but he said nothing. “Eren’s just a pain in the ass,” Levi continued with a grumble. He began moving again, turning Eld down another street, close to a small park they both knew fairly well by now. 

“A pain you’re stuck with?”

“Yeah. Hange would love to take him into their squad. Erwin’s not going to go for that.” 

Eld couldn’t exactly disagree with Erwin’s logic. It would take Humanity’s Strongest to be able to handle Eren and Levi proving that in court was largely what had convinced Premier Zackly by all accounts. Still, Eld felt more than a touch of sympathy for the captain, having to handle someone with the complete opposite nature to him. Fire and ice. Captain Levi wasn’t a man who was best known for his patience or nurturing nature with children. Or many adults for that matter.

Nevertheless, Eld couldn’t help his sympathy for the young man. The teenage years were intense enough without finding you that you could turn into the very kind of monster that ravaged your home town and ate your mother five years ago. On top of which, this taking place after you’d spent three years learning how to kill them. That had to mess with one’s mind. The fact that this kid seemed to be holding it together as much as he was - temper and recklessness aside- was remarkable. It was just one of those scenarios where you felt for all parties involved.

“The kid’s going to be experimented enough without being in Hange’s squad.” Levi continued. “May as well give him some kind of reprieve even though he’s a reckless shit.”

A chuckle escaped Eld as he recalled Levi’s own introduction to the Scouts. How he ignored traditional odm blade-wielding techniques in favour of his own. Eld had only been a new recruit at the time and he could admit to finding Levi’s presence galling at the time. A former trio of criminals skipping military training and joining the Scouts? Levi’s prowess had spoken for itself in the end but Eld wouldn’t pretend that it had been shocking to watch him being promoted to Captain after only a year of service. Between Erwin’s choices and Levi’s background and skills, it presented quite a fascinating story to civilians. 

“The kid may be trouble,” Eld agreed, running a hand along his bun, “but I can’t say I wouldn’t consider doing what he did with what we were facing. Leaving comrades behind is a horrible call, however necessary, and there’s no way Eren is going to face up to that yet. The kid’s too idealistic for his own good.”

“He’s going to have to make hard calls soon enough. Even so, Erwin’s plan was always going to go to shit as soon as Annie showed up to murder us. Whatever Eren decided to do wasn’t going to drastically change what happened. She’d have come after him anyway.” Levi conceded, “The mission was doomed from start to finish.” He pushed the wheelchair faster. 

On their right, the shadowy gates of the park appeared and Eld leaned forward to shove one of them open as Levi pushed him inside. 

—————————————————

For about ten minutes or so, neither of them spoke. The captain guided the wheelchair along the smoother, wider pathways of pale stone, contrasting with dark overhanging trees and sleeping flower beds. If Eld objected to the quickened pace of the chair, he didn’t say anything. The increased speed and the navigation of the park allowed Levi a focus that took him away from thinking about Eren, about the three traitors and about the rising number of dead comrades.

Levi had lost so many people in his life. Between his mother’s death, Kenny’s abandonment and his unstable and often shifting home status down in the Underground, you might even say that he was born into a life that was set up to take everything from him. 

Farlan and Isabel were further proof. The loss of Gunther, Oluo and Petra at this point was, quite literally, overkill and yet of course he had to lose them. Because the world had to keep taking from him. At this point, he was amazed he’d been allowed Eld’s survival yet a more bitter, cynical voice reminded him that that could still change anytime. Hanging onto these survivals was like trying to cup water in one hand. 

No amount of mental preparation he could do could prepare him for the fact that this loss had hit him just as hard as losing Farlan and Isabel. Once more he’d had people who’d been teammates for years snatched from him. People he’d respected and learned to trust; two things that didn’t come easily to the captain. 

Their faces, growing in number, admiring and trusting, watched him in front of his eyes, like ghosts. Petra’s face and her sweet kind eyes, the colour of caramel (a delicacy Levi had only encountered two of three times in the interior), formed with the most definition, appearing so close that he could almost trick himself into believing that he could smell the rosewater on her skin, the aura of cleanliness that radiated in waves. 

His fingers tightened on the wheelchair handles so tight that he could feel the wood creak beneath his fingers, forcing him to loosen his grip.

He was so fucking tired of grief. Of the exhaustion of holding together everything he felt so that nobody would lose their faith in Humanity’s Strongest. Of burying himself in paperwork that only heightened the reminders of his shitty duties, of the Scouts’ shitty success rates and the shitty people living in the interior who didn’t have a fucking clue. 

In the heart of the park was a long stretch of trimmed lawn, divided only by a path leading two thirds through the middle. The path ended in a paved circle and a bench that sat in the middle. The darkness of the guarding trees barely touched the borders of the space and as such most of the lawn was coated in moonlight. As Levi rolled the chair up to the bench and repositioned it, he allowed his gaze to sweep over the blanket of stars that shone down on them. 

Something clenched at his heart and squeezed, nails like pincers. The world should not be beautiful when it’s this fucked up.

The image of Petra brightened in his mind. He watched her raise her eyes to the heavens, her admiration reflected the twinkling stars. His fingers itched to reach for her but he forced them down to his knees as he sank down onto the bench near Eld.

“Petra would love this,” Eld remarked, as though he’d plucked the thought right out of Levi’s own.

—————————————————

Five days now.

Despite the warmer temperatures of the season, the cold evening air seeped through Petra’s body as she huddled in the back of her hiding hole. 

She caught sight of her dirty hands as she reached to tug her cloak closer around her and pondered how disgusted the captain would be to look at her now. She’d used the nearby pool to clean her hands and face but it was too dangerous to strip off her gear and clothes to bathe. Maybe all the dirt would disguise the smell of her flesh.  It was one of the many things she’d had time to consider. No doubt Hange would like to ponder about Petra’s findings and experiences. Petra grimaced as images of Hange’s experiments came to mind. Still, any of them were preferable right now.

Petra thanked mercy that had gotten her trapped out here in spring and not winter. She wasn’t convinced that she would have survived this far regardless of her efforts. She had more hope of survival and rescue in the warmer months although the next expedition would be weeks off and it might not come this way at all. No, Petra would need to rely on herself or a horse, to leave this forest. The likelihood of the latter was shrinking each day. 

Below her makeshift home, the forest was soundless. A handful of titans were lurking beneath her tree. Many of the ones from the expedition had either been killed or given up, moving on to hunt for humans elsewhere. Still, she couldn’t get complacent. More could still end up roaming here on their search. Although Petra had searched much of the forest already, there was still plenty of areas where titans could be lurking. Maybe once she’d explored those unknown areas and killed more of them she might be able to move around the forest in the day. It wouldn’t take much gas to get up to a high spot if she needed to.

Her head ached. She’d had so much time already to come up with various scenarios where she could claim more safety or freedom yet none of these actually brought her any closer to coming home. With each passing day, more troubling thoughts visited her. 

Am I just deluding myself here. Am I just prolonging my own death? Would it be better to just let them eat or crush me? Should I just make a run for it and try and make it home? Am I being a coward for waiting? Am I making things worse for my family? Should I take a risk?

It hurt. It physically hurt to over-think and yet her options for spending the time she was stuck here were limited.

She would have to make a decision soon, she thought, as she eyed her rations. Her stomach rumbled most of the day after she was limiting herself on bites. She had to find the balance between eating enough to keep her strong and alive, and over-indulging. She would need to find other sources of food soon too.

Petra ran a hand down her face, no doubt streaking more dirt down it. Another cold blast of air rushed through her and she thought about the heat that generated from a titan’s dying corpse. That sounded pretty lovely right now. Wiping her hands on her filthy trousers, she grabbed a ration bar and took a couple of bites from it. Looking up at the rapidly darkening sky, she frowned. She’d slept too far into evening for it to be worth searching more of the forest today. But she could at least take out some titans.

Once she’d waited long enough to not give herself indigestion, she dropped out of the tree, towards her lethargic prey. 

She counted five titans in the vicinity. Three of them were slumped back against the trees which was a nuisance. She might have even credited the titans with some cleverness if it hadn’t been for the two lying against the forest floor. One lay on its side, giving Petra a perfect opportunity to slice the nape as she landed. The other, lay directly on its front, beneath another tree. 

Just that one attack, smooth as it was, sapped more energy from Petra than she’d like to admit. Days of disjointed sleep and minimal rations were taking their toll. She stumbled upon landing, just as a wave of intense, beautiful heat shot through her. While welcome, the heat also wafted a somewhat soporific urge through her. Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to lay down in this lovely warmth? But Petra fought against it despite the heavy dropping of her eyelids. 

No. She pinched her wrist and the sharp pain restored some focus to her. The heat was spreading around the forest. If she could dispatch the others quickly, she might be able to enjoy more of the benefit once she returned to her hole. Passing a hand over her face, she took a breath and readied herself. 

She crossed the space between trees towards the titan lying down, grateful for the easy target. Once she’d cut its nape, she fired her cables into an opposing tree. The heat hit her as she flew through the air. It was marginally easier to fight off the sleepy feeling when she was speeding through the air.

Nearing one of the titans leaning against the trees, she moved her swords into position. Her blades slashed its stomach in a vicious swing as she passed. The giant creature slumped forward and Petra saw her opening. She spun around, sending her cables into another tree which enabled her to cut across the titan’s nape.

The last two titans were a nuisance. She had to cut both arms off and slice up the chest of one of them before it fell forward enough for her to finish it off. As for the final titan, she tried to engage the kicking technique that Hange had spoken off but it still had to be sliced and kicked far too much before the nape was exposed. By the time she was surrounded by heat and disintegrating corpses, she was exhausted and had gone through too much gas.

That’s it, she thought as she swung back into her hideaway, I can’t afford to waste any more gas. Unless she found more supplies soon, her activities were about to become very, very limited.

[imagine-sterek]

So i’ve been rewatching the nanny lately, which naturally made me start imagining a sterek au. It’s not a perfect 1:1 conversion, but uh...

Derek, the hot older widow still grieving the death of his first love, is struggling to juggle the demands of his high pressure job and raising his three children, boyd, erica, and isaac, when he somewhat impulsively hires stiles, the witty, streetwise guy who shows up at his door one day, as his new nanny.

Stiles is immediately attracted to derek, especially that salt and pepper beard he’s rocking, and derek is reluctantly enthralled by stiles’ flair and the way his ass looks in those red pants, but they don’t really get along at first.

Derek’s so grumpy and authoritative and stiles isn’t great at following orders or figuring out all the weird new social rules he’s supposed to be adapting to. Stiles injects a metric fuckton of chaos into a previously static environment, creating quite a ripple effect in his wake, and derek absolutely hates this at first. They argue a bunch in the first couple of weeks and stiles threatens to quit at least twice; derek definitely threatens to fire stiles way more than twice.

Things start to settle down, though, when stiles realizes that under all that bluster, derek’s actually a softie who would do anything for his kids and derek starts noticing just how beautifully the children are flourishing under stiles’ care. His eldest, boyd, always so shy and quiet, has started opening up more and has even started bringing friends home after school. Erica, suffering a textbook case of middle child syndrome, chills out some when she sees that unlike the other nannies, stiles remains unflappably calm in the face of her pre teen rebellion. Young neurotic isaac, still coming to grips with his mother’s death, decreases his angst by at least 50% after stiles convinces him to replace a couple of his daily therapy sessions with playdates instead.

Since the children are doing better and the whole house has settled into a nice groove, stiles is able to round out his social life by hanging out with his lifelong doofus of a best bro, scott; bantering his way to bff status with the whip smart butler, lydia; dodging mostly harmless barbs from derek’s blonde ice queen of a business partner who’s obsessed with getting stiles fired, jackson; and occasionally visiting the old neighborhood to obsess over his father’s diet.

Overall, things are going pretty fucking well. The children are great, lydia’s content being the smartest person in every room, jackson’s miserable which makes everyone else happy, but derek and stiles. Derek and stiles are really great. Really, really great. They get along so, so well. Shockingly well. Stiles makes derek laugh like he hasn’t in years, and derek helps stiles take the important things more seriously.

And they talk, like all the time, constantly with the talking is them. Derek hasn’t talked this much since his wife died. Stiles is always barging into derek’s office while he’s trying to work, plopping down on the edge of his desk, and drawing him into these random conversations that derek accidentally loses whole hours at a time to. Because this talking? It’s easy, easier than either of them can believe, natural even. They just get each other in a way no one else does.

Derek and stiles have come to rely on each other so much that they’re both absolutely terrified of acting on the simmering chemistry between them. They have a good thing going with the kids, and the house, and the friendship they’ve developed that means everything; why risk all that for something as fleeting as lust? No, gotta keep that shit locked down platonic as hell. It’s for the best.

So everyone – the kids, lydia, scott, stiles’ dad, jackson, everyone – is forced to watch as stiles and derek engage in a frustrating dance of denial and repression for years. For. Years. Derek and stiles spend actual literal years pretending that it’s normal for a professional relationship to consist of casual eyefucking over waffles at the breakfast table every morning, popping semis while sublimating their passion into biweekly screaming matches, and wishing violent death on every single one of each other’s romantic interests.

Everyone knows they’re so completely, hopelessly in love that it’s actually pathetic. Boyd and erica keep hinting about hypothetical wedding bells, and isaac’s been calling stiles “dad” for a couple years now. Scott is perpetually confused over why derek and stiles aren’t already together. Lydia is so team sterek otp that she’s about to lose her goddamn mind with this bullshit. Stiles’ dad doesn’t even try to be subtle anymore during his routine interrogations over why derek hasn’t proposed to his son yet. Jackson, even jackson, just wants the misery to end at this point.

What’s funny, is it’s actually a near death experience that finally forces the issue. Stiles and derek are both staring down the face of possible imminent death, side by side, as usual, when they finally break. The prospect of dying without ever saying “i love you” is too much, even for them.

Things happen, of course; it takes longer than it should for those “i love you”s to stick, but they do eventually get married. And it’s beautiful. And everyone is happy, including/except for jackson, which really just makes it all that much sweeter for everyone.

[fandomsonrequests]

unexpected friend

fandom: ATEEZ

characters: choi san

reader: fem

word count: 5.4k

summary:  fate decided to test this decade long feud between you and choi san

notes: enemies to lovers AU, toxic themes, character death, substance abuse (it’s not explicit) such as alcohol and cigarettes, heavy themes, language, violence 

You had no idea where it started— you just knew that you hated Choi San with every fiber of your being. And unsurprisingly, the feeling is mutual with you.

Maybe it started in kindergarten when he accidentally pushed you to the ground in the game of tag. You got so mad at him, saying that he meant it when he obviously didn’t, calling him stupid because “all boys are stupid.”. Or maybe it started when you knocked over his tower of building blocks as revenge. Or was it when he dipped your pigtails in paint to get back at you? Or maybe the time he spread rumors that you had cooties causing everyone to avoid you like the plague.

Whatever the reason, it spiraled into a childhood rivalry that continued as you grew older. The endless cycle of cat versus dog, taking revenge on one another, followed into grade school, where you reached your horse phase and he reached his gun dam phase. It was inevitable you’d see him again— you both lived in a fairly small town after all.

Petty actions like drawing on the other’s homework turned into stealing each other’s lunches or setting some sort of prank at each other’s seats— whatever your ten-year-old brains could think of. Your screaming matches grew even worse and at one point, you both started throwing punches. The teachers always had to watch you during breaks because eventually, you’d be on top of each other and pulling at each other’s hair.

San had an advantage of course since he took taekwondo, you always ended up as the loser. But in retaliation, you managed to convince your mother to enroll you in some other martial art to protect yourself. And when you won your first little fistfight— you always made sure to lord it over him.

“Hah, you got beat by a little girl! Not so tough now huh potato-head?”

“Shut up horse-face!”

San saw your kindness and charisma towards others as an act. It was your own way of reeling others in to be on your side, gathering some sort of army to help you gang up against him. You on the other hand managed to convince yourself that his cute little dimples and selflessness for others was a facade, You couldn’t believe how many people he’s managed to fool or turn against you. And you’ve always hated him for that. You let it fester as you go through grade school and towards middle school. That hatred you harbored for him was always lit inside you.

Your parents and his were always apologizing to each other during parent-teacher meetings or school events, having to hold you back from jumping on one another. Your dad had given up on the whole thing so he was totally useless; that left you to run to your mother for comfort. Whatever the situation was, at the end of the day, she was always on your side.

“Things will blow over soon. But please, honey, try to stay out of trouble for me?”

So when she died in your junior year of high school, you couldn’t help but feel alone. Your dad had taken to smoking to cope with the loss, marrying a woman who was in love with alcohol while bringing her two hellish twin daughters with her into your home. Things grew miserable for you at home; your dad became a pathetic pushover, letting his new wife run the household. That made you angry— how could he get over your mother so easily? How could he let himself get walked over like that? How could he ignore the way your older step-sisters trampled all over you?

How could he let all this happen?

San’s endless taunting at school didn’t help either. His harmless pranks grew worse as time passed: spray-painting some nasty words on your locker, or setting a bucket of paint on top of the gym doors since you’re always the last one to head out. You’d heed your mother’s words, always doing your best to ignore him. For a while, it had worked and he pestered you less than usual but your mom’s death and the situation at home had triggered something in you, making you snap back. You’d shove his face down into his food during lunch or knock his books down the stairwell whenever you pass by each other. You had even managed to sneak some of the insects from the lab into his gym clothes, causing him to end up with nasty rashes all over his body for a week.

Your physical fights weren’t frequent but they became more violent, with one or both of you having to go to the nurses, holding an ice pack to your busted lips while a piece of gauze was stuck up his bloodied nose. It took several students or even teachers to pull you apart because most of the time no one wanted to jump in and separate you two; it was always so messy with fists and kicks flying everywhere. There was even one point where you both had to go to the hospital for fractured bones. You were both suspended for a week.

Fortunately, things had toned down now that you both were in your final year of high school with the pressure of college and meeting requirements looming over you. Although, neither of you managed to make up. You’d still exchange some foul words but the stupid pranks and fights had simmered down. That never meant you were on good terms though.

But then fate decided to be a little shit and put you in a situation you never thought you’d find yourself in.

Your new biology teacher didn’t seem to be informed about the decade-long feud between you and San. So when she assigned the both of you as partners, you felt your heart drop to your stomach as a sick feeling crawled over you. You wanted to cry and throw up at the same time- that’s just how much you despised him. You both tried to plead with her to change partners but she was as stubborn as a mule, insisting that you two can “sort out your differences” and finish this project as a team.

And now here you were, avoiding each other’s stares despite being sat next to each other. The proximity between you two was suffocating, it made it hard to focus on the project being explained to you by your cruel teacher. Your skin tingles unpleasantly whenever either of you shifted in your seat, your arms just several centimeters away from touching each other. Many thoughts ran through your head on how you can get out of this. But you knew that you had to find some time to work on the damn thing together or else you’d flunk high school— and being stuck in community college, never being able to leave this town, was not worth hitting San at the back of the head and gloating at him.

“You have the rest of the period to plan with each other. Make sure to have your presentation set and ready for next week.” Your teacher says and sits at her desk.

The room was filled with chatter as the students started conversing with each other. Many pairs threw knowing stares at you, worried that you’d be at each other’s throats. Surprisingly you weren’t… at least not yet anyway.

For a while, neither of you said anything to each other. San simply scrolled through his phone hidden under his desk while you organized your final notes. Minutes tick by and the class slowly comes to an end. With a heavy sigh, you decided to swallow your pride and talk to the guy.

You turn to the boy, roughly shoving his knee with yours and he sends you an irritated glare. “C’mon we need to plan for this.” You deadpan, ignoring the look he gave you.

San returned the sigh and pocketed his phone, shifting to face you. “Alright then. So what’s the plan?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to be talking about, dumbass.” You mutter, growing irritated. You clench your fists together in an attempt to keep your calm before continuing. “Anyway, we’re supposed to make some model of the nerve cells then present it.”

San stays quiet for a moment before speaking up. “My sister has some spare clay and wires from her sculpting hobby. I could ask for some.”

“Great. You work on that while I work on the script.” You conclude before going back to your notes.

“Hold on- you’re gonna leave me with all of the hard work?”

“We have the same workload?? I’m making the script.”

“That’s easy- scripts can be finished within a day or something.” San shot back, finding the arrangement you had set, without his consultation by the way, as unfair.

“Then I’ll help you when I’m done. Quit whining like a bitch.” You sigh, having no energy to continue the argument with him.

“Asshat…” He mumbles under his breath, pulling out his phone to text his sister. He expected some sort of retaliation from you but you simply remained quiet. That was odd- considering that you never missed the chance to have the last word in. Maybe you just weren’t feeling it today.

Nevertheless, he ignored you, deciding that it wasn’t worth pestering you at the moment. The bell rings, signaling the end of the class, and you’re immediately up and out of your seat, stuffing your notebook into your bag and swinging it over your shoulder. It almost hits San’s cheek in the process but you were already walking out the door before he could call you out on it.

“Geez…” He huffs and keeps his own things, glaring after you while hoping that time would fly by fast so that the project was done and over with.

~~

A few days have passed by since the biology class. True enough, you’ve finished writing and even printing the script within the day the project was assigned to you. So now you were stuck helping out San with sculpting the whole model. You two would work together at the back of the library after school. Initially the librarian was hesitant about letting the two of you inside given your reputation and all. But when she saw that neither of you were at each other’s throats, surprisingly, she allowed for you to work on it in the library.

Of course you and San still had some disputes— how it’s supposed to be positioned, what shape it’s supposed to take, yadda yadda. But it had never escalated into a full blown argument because it always ended up with you taking the blow of his harsh words. That alone started to concern the boy, you’d always get back at him. But your resigned silence after every quip he threw at you started to worry him. Sure he hated your guts but San wasn’t a nasty person. He knew something was bothering you. But, he never took the initiative to ask what was bothering you; it wasn’t his problem anyway.

~~

A weekend away from Monday aka the day of your presentation. The model was almost done— it just needed a paint job. Since it was a Saturday afternoon, meaning the school was closed, neither of you were able to work at your usual spot. So San decided to just take the whole thing to your home to finish it. Of course he could finish the whole thing himself but he had a party to attend later in the evening, and he didn’t want to miss out on it.

He arrives at your home, model in one hand and a crate of paints in the other. He takes note of the absence of your dad’s and step-sister’s cars in the driveway and assumed that you were all out. He sighs in frustration, hoping that that wasn’t the case. Jogging up to the porch, the boy sets down the crate and rings the doorbell a couple of times, foot tapping against the wooden floorboards as he waits.

When there was no response after a few minutes he tried again, this time ringing the doorbell a bit more frantically. Before he could turn around and head back home after getting no response, he hears frantic footsteps scurrying inside and steps back as the door swings open. There you were, hair looking like a bird’s nest while your week-old cardigan hung off your shoulders. There were dark circles under your eyes and you looked like a hobo who had the opportunity to clean after themselves. In other words: you were a mess.

“The fuck are you doing here?” You snap the minute your hazy mind registers that San was standing at your door.

The said boy snaps out of his own trance and shoves the model in your face. “We need to finish this.”

You stare at the figure in his hand then to the crate by his foot and then to his face that displayed an expectant expression. You sigh and rub your face. “Couldn’t you have finished it yourself?”

“I’m busy later.”

Another sigh leaves you and you step back to let him in. He enters the house, leaving his shoes by the door as he looks around the place. It was a bit messier than he had expected. There were rumpled coats hanging off of the arm of the couch, a small pack of cigarettes and a few bottles of cheap beer on the coffee table. The wallpaper was starting to fade with a few faint stains here and there.

San stays quiet as he follows you through the house, seeing the small stack of dishes waiting to be washed in the sink. He turns back to look at you, finding your silence as unnerving. You only trudged up the stairs, motioning for you to follow him. He expected to see you turn down the hallway and enter one of the rooms but was quite surprised to see you stop by a frayed rope hanging from the ceiling of the hall. You reach up and tug down on it, revealing the ladder towards the attic.

“Don’t tell me you live up there,” San jabs.

“Yeah and what of it?” You grumble, sending him a tired glare over your shoulder before climbing up the ladder.

He was stunned into silence when he realized that you were serious. He bites his tongue and refrains from jeering at you, handing the box of paints to you before climbing up. Several thoughts ran through his mind— why was your room in an attic? And since when did you start smoking and drinking? Was it even yours?

His head pokes into the surprisingly clean but small room. Your bed was pressed up near the slanted wall of the roof, several polaroids of you, your few friends, and your mother plastered along it. On the opposite side was your desk and your wardrobe whose paint was starting to chip off. Several boxes, labeled and not labeled, were pushed to the corner of the room, stacked in a way for them to take up less space.

San looks to you rummaging through your desk, probably finding a brush or something. He wordlessly steps into the room and pulls the rope, closing the trapdoor beneath him. He turns to you again and before he could stop himself, he found himself blurting the question that was plaguing his mind: “What the hell happened to you?”

You turn on your heel, almost knocking over the picture frame of you and your mom. Your hand reached out to steady it before answering San. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.”

“Why do you live up here?” He motioned to the whole attic space with his arm. “Don’t you have a room downstairs?”

“I do.” You simply say and take the crate of paints, pulling out the needed colors and some paper cups for you to place them in.

When you don’t elaborate, San squats down to your level on the ground and tugs the purple paint tube out your hand. “What happened to it?”

“Why do you care?” You snatch the tube back with a hiss, preparing all the things needed. “It’s none of your business…”

The boy sighs, running a hand through his dark locks. He nibbles at his cheeks, carefully going over what he wanted to say. “...look, _____,” he starts, voice surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to tell me everything but you don’t have to keep everything in.”

You don’t answer him or make any move to acknowledge what he had said. But you were listening; part of you decided to take down your walls for just a moment and hear what he has to say. And San seemed to sense this because he continues.

“I’m not gonna say that ‘I’m here for you’ and all that crap but, there are people who're willing to listen to you. Whatever you’re going through right now, no matter how big or small it is, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Again, you don’t respond. A moment of silence full of high strung tension passed by. It was only a few seconds but it felt longer than that— especially since you both stopped in what you were doing and stared at the ground or at each other’s hands.

You always hated San but you couldn’t help but sense the sincerity in his words. It’s kind of pathetic but at the moment, his genuinity, the softness of the way he spoke was what you were craving for. At that moment, you just wanted assurance that things will be okay and that whatever you were doing in life wasn’t useless. And the guy you seemed to hate most was offering you that.

Tears prick at your eyes and you hastily brush it away with the sleeve of your cardigan, refusing to show any weakness to your nemesis. But it was hard; once the tears started flowing it was difficult for you to stop. You play it off by finishing up in preparing the paints, suppressing any hiccups or sobs that would escape before eventually giving up and bringing your legs up to your chin, crying into your sweats. Fuck it if San sees.

You curled up into yourself, crying into your pants when you felt a gentle but hesitant hand on your shoulder. You jolt at the touch, seeing San back away quickly. His brows were furrowed in concern and his lips were pursed, almost as if he were thinking about what he was going to say.

“G-go on, gloat,” You hiccup, choking on your tears. “I look like a m-mess anyway…”

You were surprised, and a little bit embarrassed, that he didn’t follow with what you said. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small packet of tissues and handing it over to you. He looked up to your desk, seeing your water container on your desk. He stands up to take it, shaking it to check if there was still some water in it, before placing it by your foot.

“I’m not going to lie, you are a mess,” San says before returning to his previous spot on the floor. “But I guess that’s normal when you’re having a shitty day.”

“More like a shitty life…” You mumble. You chug down the rest of your water, managing to stop your tears as you wipe them away with the tissues. You look up at the boy across you and sigh heavily. “It’s my step-mom,” you say.

“I’m sorry?”

“My step-mom. She made me move up here so that her daughters could take my room.” You explain. “My dad didn’t say anything because he’s a pushover, wasting his life away on cigarettes and the alcohol his wife buys…”

San nods slowly in understanding, finally making sense of what he saw in the living room and kitchen. That explained a lot of things: why you would always faintly smell of alcohol or nicotine a few months after your mother had died. It had honestly shocked him to hear that— your dad and step-mom always looked presentable in public. Your step-sisters were a bit more extravagant but neat nonetheless. The way they talked and carried themselves didn’t seem to indicate that they had any substance addiction.

Thinking back on it, it had also explained why you were so irate and moody almost all the time, leading to you losing some friends in high school as you fell back into yourself or into violence. It was a defense mechanism— you didn’t want to seem vulnerable because at home, you were vulnerable enough.

An idea pops into his head and he promptly stands up, momentarily making you jump from his sudden movement. You look up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Come with me.”

“What???”

“I said get up and come with me.” San says and actually held his hand out to you.

You look at it skeptically before looking up at him, contemplating about any consequences in following him— if there were any. He wiggles his fingers, impatiently coaxing you to join him and you finally make up your mind. Might as well follow him; you had nothing to lose anyway.

You swat his hand away to get up on your own, mumbling something along the lines that you could get up yourself before straightening yourself out and placing your hands on your hips. He gives a satisfied nod and grabs his shoes to put them on. He then kicks open the trapdoor before heading back down for you to follow.

He returns to the living room with you trailing behind, still wondering where exactly he wanted you to go. When you glance at the clock you see that it’s already 5:30 in the afternoon. Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt something land by your feet. You whipped your head around to see San pointing at your shoes which he probably threw at you from the door.

“We’re heading out for a while.” He says as he exits your house. You take a moment to process what was happening when he pops his head in. “Come on slowpoke.” He ushers you.

You hastily throw on your shoes, grabbing the house keys hanging by the coat rack, and hop out of the house. You lock the door behind you and approach San who was sitting upon his notoriously loud motorbike. “Where are we going?” You ask, settling down behind him.

Your arms awkwardly flutter beside you, opting to hold onto whatever space was left on your seat. You jump in surprise when you hear and feel the engine roar to life, eliciting an amused chuckle from the boy in front of you. You glare at the back of his head, smacking his shoulder and settling yourself once more.

“Hold on tight,” San tells you as he revs up the motorbike.

“I am.” You argue and strengthen your grip on the seat, shaking the bike a little to emphasize your point.

“No you aren’t.” You feel heat rise to your face when he tutted in annoyance, taking your arms and placing them around his waist. “There you go. See? No harm done.”

You only grumble something in response, making him chuckle to himself. It was a bit strange to see you tame like this. Sure it kind of boosted his ego considering that he managed to make you flustered with just a few words and a simple action but he actually kind of liked it when you weren’t at each other’s throats. He revved up the engine again before taking off and speeding down the road.

The evening breeze is cool as it whips through your hair and brushes against you, sending small goosebumps running down your skin. A small yelp escapes you when San picks up speed, causing your grip on him to tighten. He glanced back at you for a moment before taking the turn that exits the town and towards the road uphill. It led to the small forest that overlooked the city; it was a popular place in town for hiking or camping. You remember going there to play as a kid.

The air gets chillier as you both reach a higher altitude. You unconsciously nuzzle closer to the boy in front of you in an attempt to seek some body heat. The sky grows darker, turning into a deeper blue shade as the night slowly creeps upon the town. Some stars start to peek and settle themselves in the dark blanket of the sky by the time San slows down to a stop. He had stopped by the edge of the forest, a metal railing along the opposite end to keep people or vehicles from falling off the edge.

“We’re here.” San says and looks back at you. “You can let go if you want now.”

At that, you peel yourself away from him and hop off his bike mumbling something about how cocky he was while walking over to the railings. He joins you soon after, keeping a respectable distance from you. None of you say anything at first, simply taking in the view of the city in front of you. Now know why San took you out here: to breathe and clear your mind of things; something that you didn’t know you needed at the moment.

The spot you were in allowed you to overlook the town, seeing the lights from the roads and houses down below. You could spot the water tower in the distance along with the radio tower next to it. As you survey the scene before you, you make out one house in the distance with a multitude of colored lights flashing around it.

“Looks like someone’s having a party.” You muse, finally breaking the silence.

San hums in acknowledgement. “I hope they aren’t missing me.”

It takes a moment for you to understand what he said, perking up when it made sense to you. “So that’s what you meant when you were ‘busy.’” You say as you lightly punch his arm. “You’re such an ass.”

“What? I wasn’t lying; I would’ve been busy.” He defends himself, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Yeah,” You huff. “Busy shoving your tongue down people’s throats.”

A mischievous hum. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Ew no, gross- I’ll pass.”

You share a small laugh together before settling into silence again. It was… kind of cathartic, being able to actually laugh for a long while-even if it was with your longtime nemesis. It was better than crying yourself to sleep almost every night.

You turn to lean your back against the railing, using your arms to support you as you mull over the forest.

“I used to come here a lot as a kid.” You say, managing to capture San’s attention. “Pretended to gallop along the trees like some sort of princess when I was in my horse phase… I would always come home with scraped knees. I was a clumsy kid.”

“Except when you’d throw punches at me,” San interjected, ghosting a hand over his jaw. “You sure knew how to pack a punch.”

You smile apologetically, a sheepish flush on your cheeks, and look over to him. “Well you did deliver some pretty good kicks- I needed to learn how to defend myself.”

San shrugged in agreement. “I guess,” He muses and offers you a small smile, lapsing into silence again. “You know… it’s actually kind of surprising but you aren’t so bad to talk to.”

You nibble at your lower lip at his confession, unsure of what to make of it. When you look up at him, you see that he had inched a little closer to you. He still kept a reasonable amount of space between you two but it was apparent that he wanted to get closer. He drums his fingers against the cool metal of the railing, brows furrowed as he thinks over his next words carefully.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out. “I’m sorry for all the times I’ve been an asshole to you. I know that I’ve hurt you, not just physically, but emotionally too. And I want to apologize for that… I know, words are just words. It won’t do anything to reverse or take back what I’ve done to you then, but please, take it as a first step to making it up to you.”

San decided to meet your watery gaze, his chest clenching at the tears you were trying so hard to hold back. He holds his hand out instinctively, wanting to offer some sort of physical comfort. He stops himself midway, opting to just settle it on the rail halfway from you. “You don’t have to make a decision right here and now. You can still hate me all you want, but I promise to leave you alone from now on.”

You whimper pathetically, finally letting the tears flow down your cheeks. You felt guilt consume you at his apology. Why was he taking the blame for everything? It should be you who was saying sorry. After all,you were just as cruel as him. And thinking back on it, this feud had most likely started with you. You raise a sweater paw to wipe at your tears, sobbing into your hand.

God you were a mess.

“Don’t, don’t blame yourself… I should be apologizing too. It takes two to tango right?” You hiccup, managing to give him a shaky smile. “I could’ve chosen to ignore you or direct my anger elsewhere but I still ended up targeting you at the end of the day…”

“_______, it’s okay—“

“No it’s not.” You hiss. “I’m not just talking about what I did in high school. I’m talking about every instance I was cruel to you. It was petty, extremely childish, and just horrible overall. I don’t expect you to forgive me but I want to apologize too. I’ve made part of your life a living hell.”

You glance at his hand on the railing before holding your own out towards him. “Truce?” You offer. “We don’t have to be all buddy-buddy after this but at least we can just end this whole thing.”

San gripped your hand in a gentle but firm handshake. “Truce.” His touch lingered for

just a second before he gave a gentle squeeze and pulled away. He returned it to the previous spot on the railing.

The both of you remain for a while, just overlooking the town and reflecting on what had happened. The quiet atmosphere that you both shared suddenly didn’t seem so awkward anymore. Instead, it was filled with some tension but with a bit of comfort at the same time. It was similar to the feeling of a thorn being plucked out of your side: painful but relief that it was finally out.

You don’t expect that things would go right at once— this wasn’t like the movies or the books where everything was magically solved. You both had left some scars on each other, some that are too hard to forget or too deep to heal easily. But you two were working on it: healing and forgiving each other. It was still a long journey but it was something you were both willing to go on together.

You glance to San, seeing how relaxed he was right now. He didn’t look so annoying or so terrifying anymore. A tiny grin makes its way to your lips; never in a million years did you think you’d find solace in someone you despised so much.

“Hey San,” You call out to him, resting your hand beside his, your pinkies brushing against each other. “...thanks for this. I really needed it.”

He smiles at you, flashing his cute dimples at you. It sends a warm, tingly feeling down your spine and you couldn’t help but feel calm at that. “Glad I could help.” He momentarily pat the back of your hand, engulfing it with his larger one when you didn’t pull away.

It was late when he drove you home to finish the project. Unsurprisingly, your family was still out, probably at an event they forgot to tell you about. But you didn’t mind, you had an unexpected friend with you right now.

You smile to yourself as you wave goodbye to San from the doorway, seeing him speed down the road and into the night. He may have been the bad guy in your life but it turns out, he wasn’t such a bad guy. And you were thankful that you were able to see that because at least you knew you had someone in your corner.

[highqueenofelfhame]

fafs - twenty

A/n: Sorry for the delay! This chapter was just too important to rush. If you wanna set the mood, listen to simmer by hayley williams. Also a super special shout out to katie for basically becoming my beta and making my writing better!!

Aelin had a ritual for a normal job.

In the days leading up to a job, she would perfect her cover, altering her appearance enough that she wasn’t so easily recognizable. Brown contacts would disguise the blue and gold of her eyes. Sometimes she would dye her golden hair red or brown, forgoing the heat of a wig, and spend weeks following the hit annoyed she had done it.

Sometimes she even used special effects products to craft scars on her face, or to give her nose an entirely different shape than what it was. She perfected walking with a convincing limp, mastered several accents that were so wildly different from her own, and could blend in seamlessly with any crowd from the seedy underbelly of the city all the way to the intricate court of esteemed royalty. Celaena Sardothien was a chameleon, a whisper on the wind that could vanish just as soon as she appeared.

Before a hit, Aelin would spend hours playing music loudly enough for it to reverberate through the walls of her apartment.  The music was the same each time - a symphony of songs that rose in tempo and volume so that by the time she was dressed, she was bouncing on her toes and ready for what may come.

She would have sharpened her weapons in time with the melody. She would have pulled on her suit in a methodical way, zipping up the back as a song came to a climax. A slow grin would have spread across her lips as her playlist progressed, her adrenaline pumping,  unable to stop from jumping in place.

But this was not a normal job. Aelin hadn’t taken care when pulling on her suit, her body littered with small cuts and scrapes from the hidden weapons all over.  She  hadn’t even cared to alter her appearance for this foray into the underworld. Aelin hadn’t even bothered with a mask. She wanted them all to know who it was that ended their miserable lives. She wanted them to feel the wrath of the queen of assassins descending upon them. Most of all, she wanted them to see the raging inferno burning in the golden iris of her eyes while they took their last, shuddering breaths.

There would be no music for her this time.The only song she could hear in her head was the relentless pounding of  the volatile rage that rushed through her veins . The rage that had always lay in wait, a predator ready to strike at any given moment, and now, was poised to make its first attack. It was a song about finding a line between wrath and mercy— a line that she always toed, but could not find herself anywhere near, not today. Not where Rowan was concerned.

So instead of her usual ritual, she had settled into what was undoubtedly the numbest and most chilling killing calm she had ever felt. Nothing could pierce the veil she had around her as she prepared to make her move. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart. All she could see was red.

Squatting on a rooftop, Aelin’s eyes narrowed on a window across the alley. Nox knelt beside her, flipping a knife between his fingers while they both mapped out what lay before them. With no one knowing that he was in close contact with Aelin, Nox was able to slither through the underground network of assassins and black market dealings to figure out who had Rowan and where he was being kept.

All roads lead to Arobynn Hammel— something that didn’t surprise Aelin in the slightest. He had killed Sam first and made a point to slaughter everyone she had ever loved. Now he was trying to take Rowan from her, too. He should have known better. If anyone knew about her deadly precision and taste for revenge, it was Arobynn. He knew she would come for him. He knew it would rain blood when she did.

Bright blue eyes scanned the building she watched, looking for any sign of anyone being near any of the windows. Nox pocketed his knife and rested his forearms against his knees. Like Aelin, he was poised on his toes with alert eyes roving over the streets below. Fortunately they were hidden well enough in the shadows as the sun sank below the horizon behind them.

“What’s your plan? Are you going to call your contacts?” Aelin turned his question over in her mind, knowing full well that she should call Fenrys and give them a full report of the situation. She knew they would come in and Rowan would be safe. Aelin would be free of any damning action that could potentially send her back to prison.

But if she did call, the scum that had taken Rowan from her were likely to live another day. Some of them would slither back into the underworld, some of them would end up in prison. The imprisoned ones might end up out on the streets again due to technicalities, or successful escapes, though that was a slim possibility. She needed to get inside that building before the FBI checked her anklet and found out she wasn’t at the apartment where she was supposed to be.

“No,” she finally said, tapping her thumb against her knee. No, she wouldn’t call. No, she wouldn’t leave this up to fate. Everyone in that building was going to pay for their crimes. Today, she was the judge, jury, and executioner. Aelin Galathynius was a vengeful god, one with fire flowing through her veins. She would not stop until everyone had paid for what they’d done.

The wind blew a loose strand of hair across her face as she stood, the bite of the breeze keeping her focused on the task at hand. She brought her foot up to rest on the ledge of the roof, eyes narrowing in on the four-paned window across the way. There was a shadow several paces deep, likely someone paroling the room— waiting on her. She couldn’t see through the rest of the windows well enough, but there was no movement detected. Aelin pursed her lips, gaze dropping down the side of the gray wall before she looked over at Nox.

“You should leave. You don’t need to be here when they come,” she told him absently, licking her lips as she stepped up onto the ledge.

“Celaena—” The look she gave him cut him off; whatever he saw in her face, her eyes had him nodding once. A cruel, twisted smile curled at her lips as the wind whipped at her face ferociously. Aelin stepped fully onto the ledge, giving the alley below a final once over before she tipped her head back and inhaled deeply.

And then she jumped.

~*~

It had been a long while since Aelin had performed a free-fall through a window. She had almost forgotten what rolling over shattered glass could do, bits stabbing through her arms and sides. The momentum had her slamming into a metal post that she had mistaken as a person. It knocked the wind completely out of her, and she had to take a few extra seconds to gasp down several lungfuls of air before she could roll to her feet.

But it was one hell of an entrance— one that would send a signal to everyone below that death was raining down upon them. The knowledge sent a shock of adrenaline through her body just as footsteps had begun to scuffle down the hall.

Two voices were speaking in hushed tones. By the time the heavy, metal door was pulled open with a discordant squeak that made her cringe, Aelin had effectively disappeared into the shadows. The whispers died off as their boots crunched over broken glass. One of the men swore, his voice entirely unfamiliar to Aelin. Peering through the shelving unit she hid behind, neither of them looked like anyone she’d ever come in contact with.

Good. It would make killing them easier.

From the little cave she had backed herself into, she watched them exchange uneasy glances. Their heads turned, trying to figure out where she’d disappeared to in the sixty-seconds it had taken them to respond to a silent alarm she’d likely sounded. The two men didn’t speak while they looked around the room, unable to see her where she’d crouched down. All she could see now was their feet shuffling across the floor, making their way back toward the exit.

This, she was sure, was supposed to be a trap. Something that was supposed to make her feel at ease that they didn’t believe she was here, that they’d found nothing but a broken window. They would pretend to leave, either one or both, and then they’d be waiting for her when she thought she had the freedom to slip from the room. Clearly, these two morons did not quite know the ocean of rage that she was drowning in. They were unaware of exactly who stalked her prey like a lioness hunting for dinner.

Aelin thought about waiting, thought about letting them think they were going to leave this room alive. But she remembered that Rowan was in here somewhere, likely incapacitated in some way, and she decided she didn’t care. What was the point in giving  them false hope when they’d taken every bit of hope she’d ever had? No. They didn’t deserve the hope of living another day. They deserved to die like the rest: eyes wide and gaping, piss staining their thighs, and blood pooling beneath them.

She struck so quickly, that one fell before the other could pull a weapon and turn it on her. It was so easy, too easy. It was almost disappointing, the way they hit the ground with heavy thuds. Blood bubbled from their necks while they choked, eyes wide and fingers clawing at their skin.

“Didn’t anyone ever warn you about the monsters that lurk in the dark?” She asked, kneeling beside them with her arms draped over her knees. She spoke to them the way a mother might comfort her children after they’d woken from a nightmare. Except this was the last nightmare they would ever have, and it was a vivid reality. Aelin’s lips curved into a wicked grin, the palm of her gloved hand patting the cheek of the man that laid nearest to her. The other merely got a nudge of her boot before she left the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

Aelin paused outside of the door, nimble fingers undoing the buttons of her cloak. To remain as silent as possible, she tossed it back into the room behind her. One man had stopped breathing, the other was still gasping and gurgling blood in the back of his throat. She didn’t care. She hoped he was still alive when his comrades found him, hoped he would try to gasp her name between breaths.

The only other thing Aelin wanted out of this mission, besides Rowan safe and in her arms, it was that they all knew who it was they’d chosen to fuck with. It was that they all paced with the anticipation of angering the most vindictive god they could imagine.

Her walk down the hallway was silent.  Arobynn had once told her that he only heard her coming when she wanted him to. Even now, there had been several moments in Rowan’s apartment where she’d snuck up on him accidentally, making him startle when she seemed to appear out of thin air. Her favorite pastime at the bureau was giving Lorcan a good shock to his system. It was better than her morning coffee.

It almost made her smile, but the doom and gloom of the day pulled her lips back down. She wasn’t so sure she would be able to walk out of this situation without her hands cuffed behind her back. It would be worth it, she knew. Getting carted off to prison again with Rowan safe and sound was better than the alternative. Any reality where he was safe and alive was better than one where he was cold and dead— even if it meant she spent the rest of her life behind bars. It was a sacrifice she was more than willing to make, one she was ready to take.

The building was old, and everything inside was damp and rusted. It was located where the Avery emptied into the Great Ocean, not too far from the import docks. When they’d been on the roof of the neighboring building, Aelin and Nox had been able to see large import ships unloading their freight with massive cranes. It was a relatively empty part of town, save for the people that worked on the ships. The block this building was on was particularly empty with no foot traffic on the sidewalks. There had been no prying eyes to think anything of the assassin and the thief perched on the rooftop.

The lower she crept into the building, toward the basement where she knew Arobynn liked to keep his prisoners, the air got thicker. Mustier. Harder to breathe. The heavy scent of mildew settled in her lungs, making her lip curl in disgust. It was getting darker, too, the light dim enough that had she not heard someone sneaking her way, she wouldn’t have seen them. Thankfully, there was a quiet squelching of boots at the far end of the hall that gave her enough of a heads up to keep her assailant from getting the drop on her.

So few opponents had ever been a true challenge. At her best, Ansel had been one of the few to really challenge her. Today, though, nobody would be able to go up against her and win. It was that simple. There was too much at stake. Losing a fight with Rowan Whitethorn’s life on the line was non-negotiable.

“I’m feeling generous,” she called out, leaning against the wall between two doors. Her tongue ran over her teeth as the footsteps faltered. The gait was heavy and unfamiliar, but she assumed it would be a male judging by the very faint outline of the body she could see. “If you tell me where Rowan Whitethorn is, I’ll consider letting you live.”

“Are you the witch Arobynn keeps ranting about?” Indeed, the voice had a low, scratchy timbre. Still unfamiliar, but he did confirm that Arobynn was at the head of this. What an idiot.

“Is that what he’s calling me now? A witch?”

“Maybe he said bitch,” the man replied, a chuckle rusty as the pipes in this building falling from his lips. “Either way, he said you didn’t like to get your hands dirty.”

“Must be someone else then.” Since when did she not like to get her hands dirty? It almost made her frown, the complete mischaracterization of her. “Where is he.”

“Arobynn?”

“Or the agent. I’ll find them both either way,” she drawled, flicking her wrist in a smooth motion that had a dagger sliding down into her palm. Aelin flipped the blade in her hand, catching it by the tip and readying herself to send it flying toward her target. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She could see the man about halfway down the hall, roughly six feet tall with a similar build to what Chaol had been. None of his features were decipherable, but it didn’t matter. In a few seconds time he would have a stunning new accessory through his chest.

“You’ll be dead before you do,” the man taunted, and a delighted, bright laugh exploded from her lips.

“Then you definitely don’t know who I am.” Her words took on a sickly sweet tone as she released the first dagger, sending it hurtling down the hall until it struck home. He was close enough by then that the sound of dagger piercing flesh was the sweet music she would have used during her pre-job ritual. Her latest victim staggered back as she threw a second dagger with her left hand, letting it nail him in his neck. A howl of pain, the climax in her impromptu concert, shook the building as he tripped over his own feet and hit the ground, the crack of his skull a final note to a very short symphony.

~*~

Between four floors, Aelin killed eleven men. None of them were skilled enough with their weapons to be anything more than half rate mercenaries. If she had to guess, Arobynn wanted it to look like he had more bodies than he really did. All of his good assassins were dead, likely at his own hand in the rage of her capture.

Everyone she’d come in contact today suffered. None of them were getting off easy. Her suit was damp in several places, her skin sticky with their blood. Few of them gave her any real information. The last guy she killed had shakily exclaimed that Rowan was in the basement as he soiled himself, the stench of urine proof of his fear. And then she had sliced through his body so many times he’d passed out from the shock and pain before death had claimed him.

It almost scared her how little she felt while she dug her blades into his bones. There was nothing but the crystal clarity that she would walk backwards into hell and take the crown from Hellas himself before she let anyone take Rowan away from her. Her throne would be built of bones, rivers of blood would flow at her feet.

It should have at least startled her, the cold depravity. None of her jobs had ever held such cruel calculation, none of them had ever been more than a paycheck. But she supposed that as soon as Sam had been shot right in front of her, she’d fallen down a slippery slope into a dark and twisted wonderland that she would have never escaped, if it hadn’t been for Rowan. And maybe she wouldn’t come back from this, but at least Rowan would be safe.

The sentiment of his safety ricocheted in her skull as she yanked the last door between her and her love open. It didn’t matter that it squealed so loud it made her ears ache, that she may as well have set off a warning bell to alert Arobynn of her arrival.

The rusted iron door gave way to an unlit alcove with a set of metal stairs that looked precarious enough she was skeptical about them holding her weight. It had been dark everywhere else in shit hole she was carefully navigating, but down here it was even worse. The only light she could see seemed to be coming from somewhere far enough away that it barely illuminated the stairs. If the dark wasn’t perhaps her closest companion, if she was unaware of how to use all her senses to slip through the shadows, Aelin likely would have taken an untimely tumble all the way down to the floor.

Much to her surprise the room seemed mostly empty. There were several wooden crates stacked in the far corner where a green-ish light cast an eerie glow throughout the space. Somewhere, something was dripping from the walls or ceiling. Aelin headed for the crates after pausing to pull new daggers from her boots, her grip tightening around the handle at the prospect of not finding Rowan— or finding him beyond her help.

“I’ve been expecting you,” a voice said, echoing in the damp chamber. Her blood heated immediately, flame sparking in her veins at the sound of Arobynn Hammel’s voice. She squeezed the hilt of her dagger as she rounded the corner, eyes immediately going to the red-haired bastard.

“I’d say you weren’t fully prepared because you didn’t have nearly enough men to keep you safe, Arobynn,” she drawled, giving her knife a loose twirl between her fingers. It was interesting, the way he looked at her like he was seeing a ghost. While he gaped, Aelin shifted her gaze to the left, over to a corner where she finally found him.

Rowan. He was slumped forward in his chair, head hanging at such an odd angle she knew he was unconscious. Blood was dried beneath his nose and at his temple but that was all the visible blood she could see. His usually shiny shoes were scuffed and his jacket was pulling tight over his arms and shoulders. Blue nautical rope had him tightly bound to the arms  and legs of the chair, and even from where she stood she could tell his watch was cutting into his skin uncomfortably.

But his chest was still rising and falling while he breathed and, for the most part, he seemed unharmed. Still, she didn’t let the relief flood her body. She didn’t dare give herself an inch over to the other side of that line she toed. There would be no mercy from her today.

“Celaena? Are you ready to come home at last, or have you come to exact your revenge on Agent Whitethorn for locking you up?”

“I’m here to take back what is mine and ensure that you never slither out of your little hole to see the daylight ever again. You know why I’m here.”

“I thought you were in prison,” he rebutted, pushing out of his seat and daring to pace toward her. Aelin cocked her head, appraising the man that had raised her, trained her, made her into a weapon through pain and sorrow. She felt nothing but rage.

“That is bullshit, and you know it.”

“You are not the person I was expecting to see when I took Rowan Whitethorn this afternoon, I can assure you. Why are you here, Celaena? How did you get out?”

It was tricky, dealing with someone so slippery. Workingwith Arobynn always felt greasy, felt like trying to wrangle an eel out of the ocean. If you weren’t careful he would slip through your fingers and disappear into the cracks of the world. To the untrained ear, he sounded genuine. But Arobynn lied, and lied well. He clawed his way to the top of the black market empire, twisting words and half-truths, cunning and vicious. He would always take, and take, and take. While there were many faces he had worn around her, the face of truth was one that he seldom donned. Never did he give an inch. It was where Aelin herself had learned to be so ruthless.

“Why am I here? We can start with Sam, talk about Lysandra, Ansel, Wesley,” her blue eyes flashed up to his face where his stormy gray eyes stayed fixed on her. “We can end with Dorian, and Nehemia, and Chaol, and Aedion. And then I will kill you for trying to take Rowan from me, too.”

There were names she hadn’t listed that still mattered but not quite as much. Her voice had broken over Aedion and Rowan’s names, those thoughts still too fresh in her mind to hold at bay. She hated that she was showing so much emotion to him, yet it was fear that flickered in his gaze at the rage that seeped into every syllable.

“I will take responsibility for Sam. I will take responsibility for taking Agent Whitethorn.” Arobynn paused, his eyes tracing over her features like he was stripping her bare, seeing her heart on her sleeve. Something like amusement twisted his lips into a tight smirk as he looked over his shoulder where Rowan was still unconscious. “The others, I had nothing to do with. Actually, if I didn’t know you so well I would have assumed you broke out and had gone on a little spree of your own.”

“I didn’t touch them,” she hissed.

“I know. Everything about those killings was messy. You haven’t been messy since you were fifteen. Tell me, Celaena, what is it that you’re here to take revenge for?”

“I already told you—“

“Sam was killed because he was going to cross me. I wasn’t going to harm a hair on your head. As for Agent Whitethorn…” Arobynn laughed, dry and twisted as he raked his fingers through his hair. “How did you manage to form such an attachment to the man? Were you not stalking him through the city for months leading up to your arrest?”

“My arrest that you played a significant part in? It was a setup. You know it. I know it. You wanted me dead so that I wouldn’t be a problem after you put that hit out on Sam.”

“I beat them senseless for what they did to you that day,” Arobynn said, his voice like that of a lover as his fingers moved to caress her cheek. Aelin brought a dagger up to the inside of his wrist, positioned the other at the hollow of his throat before he could touch her skin. His hand dropped and slipped back into his pocket.

“I don’t believe you.” And she didn’t. It was a half-truth from him at best. Maybe he had punished them to some degree for trying to end her life that way if he didn’t tell them to do it directly, but she doubted it was any large effort. Or maybe that was why they’d wound up dead. Still, it didn’t matter. He’d taken enough from her.

“Why would I lie to you? What do I have to gain from it? I’ve openly admitted to killing Sam and taking your agent. If I was going to lie, wouldn’t I have started with Sam? I was not expecting you to walk down those stairs, Celaena.” Arobynn’s keys jingled in his pocket when he removed his hand to point toward the stairs. Aelin shook her head, licked her lips and tasted the metallic tang of blood. That didn’t make any sense.

“Stop talking.” It was too much. The sound of his voice, the almond scent that tickled her nose from his close proximity. Arobynn had ruined her life in a thousand ways, had spent the majority of her life manipulating her, and this was no different. Anything he said now were lies so potent she could almost taste them.

“I know you may think me to be your enemy, but I love you. I care for you. Surely you must know that.”

There was a single part of her emotions that she kept under lock and key. Inside that room in her head, there was some part of her that cared for him, too. When her parents were murdered and he’d taken her in, Arobynn had become the only parental figure she would ever truly know. Memories about her parents were few and far between, most of them hazy.

She didn’t remember what they looked like without looking at a photo. Their voices had been lost to time and her memory. There were plenty of interviews of them on the internet, but she refused to indulge herself. It was too haunting to think of them somehow knowing that she was who she was. That, maybe, if she watched those old videos, they would be able to see the blood covering her hands.

Arobynn, though, knew her. He had made her, forged her himself. Everything she knew, he had taught her. There had been moments throughout her life where she thought that, perhaps, he did care. Moments where she had looked up at him and wondered if this was what it was like to have a father. There were days before her training that he’d brushed her hair in front of the fire and read her stories. Some nights he had tucked her into bed and had servants wake her with breakfast.

Then there were the moments where he’d beaten her until she couldn’t push herself off the floor. Moments where he’d broken her hand, her fingers, so that she could use her left hand as well as her right. Moments where he’d seared her skin with a white-hot poker and told her that it would make her stronger to endure the pain. Those were the moments that played over in her mind now. All the pain and trauma he had inflicted upon her rising to the surface, her blood piping hot beneath her skin.

His lips were moving, mouthing that he loved her, that he wasn’t lying to her, but she couldn’t hear a thing. People that loved you didn’t intentionally hurt you. They didn’t beat you within an inch of your life and leave you to suffer through it. They didn’t kill the people you cared about. They didn’t go to such lengths to ensure that you were alone and isolated for the rest of your miserable existence.

“Celaena,” Arobynn said, his hand moving to rest on her shoulder. But the tether keeping her from flying into the void snapped, his use of that name the last nail in his coffin. There was hardly time for her to process the movements of her body, the muscle memory taking over as she drove the dagger between his fourth and fifth ribs.

Arobynn had the audacity to laugh, the sound of disbelief falling heavily from his lips as his hand curled around her shoulder. Aelin didn’t falter, only shoved harder as he staggered backward and collapsed on the floor. Still, he laughed, tears lining his silver eyes that silently began to stream down his temples.

“You have… always just been… a pawn.” Each word was more breathless than the last as they tumbled from his mouth. Despite the gloves she wore, her hands were warm. Blood was seeping through her suit, pulsing into the cracks where her skin was exposed. “It will not… end with… me.”

Aelin’s brow furrowed, torn between wanting questions answered and the overcoming desire to twist the knife further to make him stop talking. It was all he ever did. Lie after lie building doubts in her mind until she questioned her sanity. It was what he was good at.

The knife won out. Her wrist twisted sharply, blade dragging over bone in a reverberation she felt down to her toes. Arobynn’s eyes widened in shock and she knew the pain was not a subtle feeling. Gray eyes scanned her face, a ghost of a smile that would haunt her nightmares pulling at his lips. Aelin gritted her teeth as he took a final, shuddering breath.

She wasn’t sure what she felt as the light faded from his eyes and they went completely glassy. All she knew was that it wasn’t quite relief.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Prompt # 22: Toothache 

@sicktember Alternate prompt #5: Asleep on the Couch

Title: Waiting on Company

Fandom: Hannibal (TV)

Will comes to his appointment with Dr. Lecter while ill. He has to wait for Hannibal to finish with another patient and falls asleep on the couch. Set in early season 1 (my favorite time in the series, before Will begins to suspect Hannibal.)

(Author's note: Could I do all of this writing without including my favorite murder husbands? Nope of course not. Of note, Will's fever here is from normal illness, not encephalitis.)

Will liked having his appointments with Dr. Lecter in the evening. For one thing, he was able to avoid painful small talk and awkwardly exchanged glances with other patients in the waiting room simply because he arrived after all of them should have left.  For another, he usually had no wait to meet with the doctor. However, Will's evening appointment time also had a drawback: most days, by the time the appointment rolled around, Will was bone tired. Any sort of socializing sapped him of energy quickly, even lecturing the FBI cadets, so many days he felt more dead than alive by the time he was sitting down with Hannibal. 

This was one of those times. Will had arrived for his appointment to learn Dr. Lecter was still with another patient. In the rare instance this happened, Hannibal always encouraged Will to go into their normal room and wait, rather than sit in the waiting room, so Will did just that. 

He wandered around the book-filled room for a while, glancing at the doctor's drawings and idly picking things up and putting them back down. Will really wasn't feeling well, though, and the aimless waiting was not improving his mood. He had had a miserable cold for three days now, and it was getting worse, not better. Lecturing today had been a tremendous effort. He'd almost cancelled this appointment, sniffly and exhausted as he was, but these appointments were one of the things that made him feel the most sane, so he'd kept it. He was regretting that now.

Eventually Will found himself seated on the couch, too tired to stand any longer, and still waiting. He intended to tell Hannibal that if he was going to be this late in the future to let him know so he could cancel. It seemed a waste to leave now that he was already here however. Will let his mind wander, stifling yawn after yawn. It occurred to him that he'd never sat on the couch in this room before, in all the hours he'd spent here. He and Hannibal preferred to speak to each other like equals rather than doctor and patient, so neither were fond of the couch.

Will wrapped his arms around himself with a shiver and a sniffle, sinking further into the cool leather and leaning his head back. Hannibal's rooms were always cold. Usually he appreciated that. Today he did not, as he felt gooseflesh appearing on his arms. But he was so tired…

A cool hand on his face startled him awake some time later. The first thing he registered was Hannibal's face hovering above him, looking concerned. Will realized he was lying on his side, still on the couch in Hannibal's office.

"Are you alright, Will?" asked the doctor.

Will groaned softly, too groggy to formulate sentences and rub his eyes at the same time.

"I'm sorry I was late, but it's not like you to fall asleep," Hannibal said, scrutinizing him expertly.

"I've been sick this week," Will mumbled, slowly sitting up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Guess I’m pretty tired.”

"It appears you're still sick. You have more than a touch of a fever."

"Do I? I didn't this morning," Will said, sniffling fruitlessly against his swollen sinuses. 

"You do indeed. We cannot go forward with our appointment with you in this state. You're hardly awake. You need rest, and would likely benefit from some medication as well."

Will nodded. "I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter. I didn't mean to waste your time."

"Likewise. I shouldn't have kept you waiting for so long. Are you able to get yourself home?"

Will nodded, aggravating his splitting headache in the process. He must not have been very convincing however, for the look Hannibal gave him was skeptical. 

"Have you had supper?" Hannibal asked.

"Um… no. I haven't had much of an appetite."

"I haven't eaten either. Would you care to accompany me to my home for a meal? I've had a lovely vegetable stew simmering, made with some homemade beef stock. Then perhaps we can have our discussion after all, since you came all this way while ill."

"I wouldn't want to impose," Will mumbled, though the idea of a hot meal that he didn't have to prepare was more than tempting.

"On the contrary, I would love the company. One can only eat alone so much before wishing to have some company over supper. And if I'm being honest, I'd like to keep an eye on you. You have me a bit worried. You really don't seem like yourself."

The idea of a formal dinner with anyone else would have turned Will away entirely, but with Hannibal, he didn't mind the prospect. After all, who better to spend an evening with than a physician when ill?

"Ok. If you're sure," Will said reluctantly. "But I don't want to get you sick."

"Don't trouble yourself about me. Come, let's head out. You can follow me in your car."

The misery of his cold had not abated in the slightest, but Will couldn't help but feel somewhat better as he walked out with Dr. Lecter, because at least for the moment he wasn't alone. 

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Hold Me Close

John Constantine x Original Female Character, Angst/Hurt Comfort

A/N: So this little bit of self-indulgence turned into a thing, because it's me and of course it did. I'm still in the early stages of developing Evie and her relationships, so please let me know what you think.

Warning: Mentions of child neglect, lots of crying

Summary: After an emotionally draining day, Evie finds herself with some unexpected company.

Word Count: 2.6K

The Waverider was completely silent, a rarity on the best of days, and a blessed relief to Evie.

She sat in the kitchen, holding a warm cup of tea in her hands. She hadn't taken a single sip in the fifteen minutes since she made it.

All the emotions of the day were simmering to the surface. A tightness clung to her throat making it hard for her to breath. She needed to cry. She needed to sleep. She needed to scream. She needed so many things, all she could do was sit and stare into nothing.

"Are you ever going to drink that?"

Evie blinked. Looking up, she finally noticed John leaning against the doorway, fully dressed in his usual white shirt and tie.

"John? What time is it? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

She wanted to say something smart. On any other day she might have, but she was just too tired to be clever. Instead, she raised her mug to her lips and finally took a sip.

It was warm and did its job, loosening the lump in her throat, but it did little to help with the one in her chest.

"Need something stronger?" John suggested.

She shook her head. "This is about as strong as I can handle right now."

"Fair enough."

She expected that to be the end of it. But he surprised her, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself a drink.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Well, you know what they say, misery loves company."

"And what have you got to be miserable about?"

He gave her a cynical smile. "Oh don't you worry love, I’ll think of something."

He took a seat beside her and raised his glass in a toast.

Evie obliged, clicking her mug against the tumbler before drinking.

They sat in silence for a moment. It was comfortable, but there were questions hanging in the air that needed to be addressed.

"What are you doing here, John?"

"I told you."

She shot him a skeptical look.

He let out a sigh. "I don't sleep most nights. I saw you in here and..." He met her eyes, his expression softening. "I saw the look on your face when you saw your mum."

The tightness came back in her throat. Quickly, she turned back to her tea and took a long swig. All it did was stall the inevitable.

"How much did Michael tell you?" she asked, with a twist in her stomach.

"Not much," he admitted. "Just that his dad died before he knew him, didn't talk to his mum and that his sister was about the only parent he ever really had."

Evie huffed out a short laugh. It certainly sounded like the description Michael would give, and a more accurate one than she was willing to admit before.

"I take it there's a bit more to it than that," he continued.

She nodded. "Just a bit."

She took a drink, once again assuming a natural end to the conversation.

"You're just going to leave me with that?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

"You seem to know most everything about me, whether I like it or not,” he answered, casually. “I like to work on an even playing field."

Evie considered him for a moment. It seemed like a reasonable answer. Still she couldn't help but feel her problems were childish compared to his. There was a reason she kept them to herself. Nobody actually wanted to know.

She turned her head away, her fingers rubbing absentmindedly against the mug. If she kept her mouth shut for just a few moments, he'd forget the whole thing.

She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes. Her grip tightened. She willed herself to breathe.

"Evelyn..."

She stopped.

Looking down, she finally noticed rough fingers pressed gently around her wrist. She followed the line connecting the fingers to a hand, then to an arm, moving her gaze ever up until she dared a glance at the man they were attached to.

John’s expression was not soft, but his eyes held something she had not seen in a long time; a need to understand. How could she say no to that?

“My dad died when I was eight,” she began, swallowing the roughness of her voice. “My mum took it really hard. She might as well have been dead that first year. I’m not sure she even left her bed. Gran watched after her and didn’t want me or Michael causing trouble.

“Eventually though Mum was able to leave the house and Gran even got her a job at a pub not far from where we lived. But, it didn’t last long. Mum just...wasn’t there anymore. She’d forget to go into work or mess up orders or any number of other things until eventually they had to let her go. She didn’t work after that. Dad’s life insurance kept us afloat and Gran helped so, it wasn’t like we were starving. Even so, she would still...forget. By the time I was ten I was cooking most of the meals and made sure to stop by the shop on my way home from school, that sort of thing. And Mum would just...drift. It was like living with a ghost.”

Evie paused, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts.

“I can remember my dad, before he died. I can see his face. I remember bedtime stories and how he called me his little Evie Rose. But, for whatever reason, any time I try to remember what my mum was like, I draw a blank. Every memory I have of her is as this...corpse. It was easy for me to believe she was always like that. I convinced myself she couldn’t help it. She didn’t choose not to be there. She was trying and I just needed to pick up where she couldn’t. That was my job.”

Her throat tightened. She sucked in a breath and let it out with a slow quaver.

“But seeing her today, before...everything. She was real. She was real and alive and...there.”

Warm tears spilled down her face. She wiped them away, trying and failing to keep them in check.

“I know grief affects people differently. I know it does. I can’t imagine losing the love of my life like that. But I was her child. Michael was just three years old. We were alive and scared and confused, and we needed her. I needed my Mom and she wouldn’t…”

There was no stopping the tears now. Anger and resentment and grief twenty six years in the making poured out of her. It burned her skin, even if she tried to hide it, ever aware of the man watching her in careful silence.

“I spent so long telling myself it wasn’t her fault. I blamed myself for not doing better by her. But she never cared. I know she was grieving, but at some point she decided her grief was more important than her own children.”

She stopped, forcing herself to fill her lungs with much needed air.

“And I would get so angry. I used to think Michael was just being selfish, that he only cared about himself. But he knew. He knew what she was doing was wrong. He just wanted me to see it too. God, I said so many awful things.”

Guilt weighed in her stomach as she pushed away her straggling tears. She could still feel the prickling behind her eyes, but she didn’t want to spill any more than she had. She had no right to them.

“I’m just a horrible mess of a person.”

A scoff came at her side.

She turned, to see John shaking his head.

“Something funny?”

“Aye, everything,” he said, sardonically. “Trust a Catholic to come to that conclusion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh c’mon Evie, you’re not a horrible anything. You looked after your brother and your mum when no one else would. When you should have given up on her is a matter for yourself to deal with, but you’re not a bad person for holding out hope. As for Michael, I have a feeling he’s not as resentful as you think he is. Besides, he definitely had some of it coming.”

Evie couldn’t think of what to say, but the corner of her lip did quirk up, just a little. Still, guilt lingered and exhaustion was now taking the place of her anger. The prickling was back, reminding her of the tears still left to shed.

“Now, how about that drink,” John said.

Evie let out a long sigh, rubbing her hand across her face. "Not a bad idea. Honestly, what I could really go for is someone to just hold me for two or three...hours." She tried to make it sound like a joke, but the strain on her voice made her attempt at laughter come off as forced and awkward.

The look on John's face only made her feel worse. He had been uncharacteristically kind to her already. Now, she just made an embarrassing situation down right uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry I laid this all on you,” she said. “I should just go to bed.”

She stood quickly, not even bothering to grab her mug as she headed towards the exit.

She barely made it two steps when a hand grasped at her own.

“Wait.”

She turned.

He was still sitting. His eyes focused on their intertwined fingers. The expression on his face was unreadable. For a moment, she thought he’d let go and forget the whole thing. But then, he came to a decision.

Standing, he took a step toward her, never dropping his grip for a moment. He watched her, carefully checking she had no objections to how close he was.

Her stillness was his answer.

Reaching out his free hand, he cradled her head and guided her to him.

For a moment, neither of them knew what to do.

His hand slipped from hers, but found no place to land, as if he wasn't sure where exactly to touch her. All the same, the intent was felt.

Taking initiative, she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him.

His clothes still held the scent of detergent with just a bit the tobacco smoke she secretly loved. She let herself breathe it in, enjoying the warmth against her cheek and the firmness of his body.

Slowly his hands found purpose. One wrapped tight around her waist while the other curled gently in her hair.

For a while, they just stood there, neither of them daring to break the quiet calm that had settled in the air.

"It's alright Eves," John whispered into her ear. "I've got you, love. It's alright."

It was only then Evie realized she was crying again. The tears and emotions leaked out of her, spilling over the side like an over filled sink. She was starting to shake, trying and failing to keep her breath in check all the while John held on, pressing her even closer into him.

"You're alright," he promised. "I've got you, Eves. You're alright."

The tears weren’t as violent as before. This was catharsis. The last breath of emotional release she needed. So, she let herself feel.

She cried for her brother. She cried for her father. She cried for what might have been and what was. All of it came out in gentle sobs made bearable by the man who wouldn’t let go.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but after a while she had nothing more to give. Her breath returned to something manageable. Her heart, no longer quiet as heavy. Still, she couldn’t pull away from John just yet. She was too tired and he felt too good. She could see herself closing her eyes and staying right there until her legs gave out.

“Not that I’ve got anywhere to be,” he said, gently. “But were you serious about the two to three hours thing?”

She laughed, a real one this time; short, but bright and welcome.

“No,” she assured. “I wouldn’t do that to your reputation.”

He didn’t say anything back, but she took the hint.

With a great effort, she pulled herself from him, leaving her skin colder for it. Now that she had a proper view, a sudden spike of embarrassment shot through her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately reaching to brush away the obvious stain on his shirt.

John looked down as if just noticing himself.

“Oh believe me, I’ve been covered in worse. Besides, holy woman’s oughta be good for something.”

“I’m not that holy,” she said, with not as much annoyance as that sentence usually carried.

“But you are good,” he countered. “You can’t be anything else.”

Again, something was missing from this usual exchange. The irony had somehow disappeared. The way he was looking at her now, she could believe he meant them.

Then, something happened. His expression became pensive. His eyes shifted away as he took a small step back, putting some visible distance between them.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, his tone now back to its usual guarded self.

Her brow creased in confusion. “You sure you don’t want company?”

“I think if this whole exercise has taught us anything it’s that you need to stop worrying about other people all the time.”

His tone was curt, but there was something performative in it, making it land awkwardly on its intended audience.

All the same, Evie knew rejection when she heard it and felt the intended hurt in her chest.

Apparently it showed on her face as John gave a long sigh. “Look just, get some rest and you can worry about me tomorrow, yeah?”

She nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave just yet. She didn’t know what she had done to make John’s mood shift so abruptly, but she needed to fix it. He had helped her, after all. It didn’t feel right to end the night like this.

With cautious determination, she took a step forward, effectively closing the gap he had created.

John appeared frozen in place, his brow creased in confusion.

Taking the opportunity, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. She was met with rough stubble and the smell of whiskey, a combination she was surprised to find she liked. But couldn’t appreciate it as John turned his head, meeting her eyes.

“Now, why would you do something like that?”

Evie swallowed, a sudden dryness coming to her throat. His lips were much closer to hers than she anticipated.

“I just wanted to say, thank you,” she said, softly. “You’re a good man, John Constantine.”

He looked down at her, his throat and lip tightening as he shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

She smiled knowingly. “Yes you are.”

She kissed his cheek again, this time lingering just a moment as if touch would convey the truth of her statement more than her words could.

“Goodnight, John,” she whispered.

To her surprise, he didn’t push her away. His eyes lingered, floating between her eyes and lips and back again.

She held her breath, wondering if he would lean down and feel her lips for himself. She wondered if she would let him.

But he hesitated. A breath was drawn in and his gaze settled on her eyes.

“Sweet dreams, Evie.”

She nodded, feeling the moment slip away as quickly as it had come.

She settled back down on two solid feet, turned and walked back to her room without looking back. Only when the door closed did she allow herself to linger on the burning of her lips and the hard thumping in her chest.

She didn’t know what truly happened between her and John, but there was no use denying it. Something was different and time would only tell what that meant.

[moviewarfare]

A Review of “Nobody (2021)”

Nobody (2021) is directed by Ilya Naishuller, director of Hardcore Henry, and written by Derek Kolstad who also wrote the first 3 John Wick movies.  David Leitch is also the producer of this and also directed the John Wick series. Seeing who worked on this gave me an expectation of fun and exciting action sequences similar to that of John Wick. The premise is "Hutch Mansell fails to defend himself or his family when two thieves break into his suburban home one night. The aftermath of the incident soon strikes a match to his long-simmering rage. In a barrage of fists, gunfire and squealing tires, Hutch must now save his wife and son from a dangerous adversary -- and ensure that he will never be underestimated again". So does Nobody (2021) live up to my expectations or fail miserably?

Firstly, Bob Odenkirk gives a great performance as the main character, Hutch Mansell. Bob Odenkirk doesn't look like an action star, no offence, so he perfectly fits the mundane and plain character of Hutch. He is perfect in really making it seem like this guy is really "nobody" special. However, when it is time for Hutch to become a super badass, Bob Odenkirk somehow manages to convince the audience that this bland and unimpressive guy is actually able to kick your ass. It feels completely natural and believable. He also does every stunt and it definitely shows. I also have to praise Christopher Lloyd as David Mansell, Hutch's father, as he is playing a role that you wouldn't expect from that actor.

The action scenes are as exciting as you would expect. One thing about the action sequences that sets it apart from John Wick is that he isn't perfect and actually gets beaten up a lot. John Wick feels like a superhero and there is never really a feeling that he is actually in danger. In Nobody (2021) it honestly feels like Hutch is vulnerable and that his old age is making him weaker to his opponents to a certain extent. It gives a sense of danger and makes it feel like Hutch could potentially die which I appreciate. Additionally, the tone of this is a lot more comedic and this works well. I did get quite a fair bit of chuckle from certain scenes and it definitely gives a breather from all the murder.

Nevertheless, Nobody (2021) feels way too much of a carbon copy of John Wick. There is an action scene where the bad guys invade the main characters home, there is the unfortunate mishap of the bad guys robbing the wrong persons home, there is the main lead coming out of retirement because they did something unforgivable, there is the people being scared of his reputation moment, there is him getting help from friends from old times, there is an evil Russian group that feels beat for beat from John Wick. It just feels kind of lazy and definitely doesn't do anything groundbreaking.

The story and characters also lack a lot of polish. I don't end up caring about any of the characters because they don't spend enough time developing them including the main character. They sprinkle in some flashbacks or conversation about the main character that gives a sort of understanding why he is a badass but they don't explore any of the supporting characters. Nobody (2021) begins with him and his wife's relationship being trouble but why? Hutch has a half brother and his dad who appears but we don't get a complete understanding about their relationship either. Nobody (2021) needed 10 more minutes of runtime to explore this. The main Russian villain is just so generic as well that it is kind of disappointing.

Overall, I wanted a fun action movie and that's exactly what I got. It didn't surprise me or anything and I feel like it was quite a forgettable movie by the end. However, I had a great time with its 90-minute runtime and I still would love a sequel. Heck I would even love for it to become a part of the John Wick universe and have Hutch meet John Wick. Bob Odenkirk is the biggest reason to give this a watch thanks to his amazing performance and stunt work. 

[fukurodanni]

everything stays (but it still changes)

part 1 || part 2 || PART 3

pairing: tsukishima kei x photographer!reader summary: so the same man (that broke your heart 3 years ago) accidentally gets drunk with you at a work event. how bad could it be? word count: 2.5k note: includes cursing, drunken actions. this whole thing reads a bit like a rom-com, if u haven’t gotten that by now lol

The only thing left to do after it all is to push it all into the back of your mind because you have a job to do tomorrow and you need to be well rested, so you pull the covers over yourself and hope to every deity out there that he isn’t in your dreams, too.

And funnily enough, he isn’t. You stop by for tea before the photoshoot - it’s the Thursday afterwards and Tsukishima isn’t there but you don’t have the time to question it, so you stuff your phone into your back pocket and head off. It’s in a big studio building, and the set is gorgeous, based in off-white and decked with pale yellows and citrus colors. The models seem to have been there for a while, already in makeup, but the stylist is still hanging around so maybe they haven’t been there for very long after all. They straighten a little when you greet them, easy smiles coloring their faces.

Off to business, then.

The work distracts from your wandering thoughts - the flex of Tsukishima’s hands across the table, eyes like swirling honey. It’s easy to lose yourself in the routine of it all, the ridges of a camera lens under your fingertips and the gentle click of the shutter.

Sometime after lunch and before wrapping up, you’re talking with one of the models, Mika, about how her brother is a photography major. She’s been his guinea pig for about two weeks now - you laugh gently as she jokes about how refreshing it is to be in a set that isn’t the corner of a college dorm. Incidentally, you manage not to hear the heavy click of the door behind you.

Mika’s gaze drifts behind you and you don’t think much of it until you notice it drift back to you. That’s when you hear the rest of the production crew and glance over at them, confused. They’re all standing in a little huddle.

“They’re looking for the photographer,” Mika explains, having heard a bit of the conversation.

You get up quickly and stand a little straighter. “I’m the photographer,” you announce, and immediately regret it.

Their heads all turn at once to look at you and it’s only a little unnerving but one of the heads turns out to be Kei Tsukishima and you think your jaw might have decided to glue itself to the floor in response. You realize, now, that perhaps you should have asked him to elaborate about his career. You allow yourself a split second of shock before wiping the expression and walking up to them.

You ask, very politely and not at all like you have weird tension with one of these men, what the issue is. It’s Tsukishima that addresses you, in a short, clipped tone.

“They want the color scheme changed.”

And you gape. “What, why?” you ask, completely forgetting your resolve to ignore him. “We’re finished shooting, they would have told us this beforehand - the whole thing?”

Tsukishima looks unbothered, mostly. “Didn’t reach in time, I guess.”

Part of you wants to strangle him, another part wants to strangle the client, but it’s all fine and well. The photographer’s assistant (who you haven’t talked with, in favor of doing most of the work yourself - you aren’t even sure why he was hired) cracks a joke about checking your schedule and it only serves to piss you off even more. It seems to show on your face though, and - Jun, you think - looks a little sheepish at having joked about it in the first place.

He comes up to you a moment later, after you’ve wandered back towards the set.

“I haven’t done much,” he starts in a low, nervous tone, “I feel sorta bad.” You’re unsure about where the hell he’s going with this but he only grows more nervous and it looks like it’s taking physical exertion from him:

“We could go out for drinks after. On me.”

A little voice in you wants to ask, shamelessly, if he means a date. You’re co-workers, though, and that would cross the line of professionalism, just a bit, but he keeps talking and you realize your chance to ask has probably passed.

The models, besides Mika, have long gone - and it’ll only be four or five people including yourself. It doesn’t sound so bad. And he’s offering to pay. The messenger bag is barely over your shoulder before you reply, “Okay.”

-

The bar is about as well lit as an 8pm bar should be, lights in pale yellows that, for a moment, remind you of the set. You drink, bitterly.

Everyone is loose with the alcohol and atmosphere, movements and dialogue easy. Jun, funnily enough, is the first to go - absolutely plastered and claiming otherwise. One of the production managers calls him an Uber and excuses himself as well.

Mika leaves after accidentally oversharing. The most your brain could comprehend from that spiel, drunken or not, came in the form of ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s. She makes an excuse for herself too, clearly not having expected to divulge so much.

You’re tipsy at most, having been careful with your drinks and generally reserved to keeping polite conversation. That, or it hasn’t hit you yet. (At least your tolerance is higher than Jun’s.)

Eventually, it dawns on you that you and Tsukishima are the only ones left. You haven’t noticed how much he’d drank, having spent half the night trying not to look at him. You talk to him with a warbled sort of exhaustion. Conversation seems filmy and vague and you’re not bothered by that weird date-thing anymore. You’re sure it’ll come back to you at some point, just not now.

“God, starlight,” he says, and it isn’t as much of a slur as it is a slant, because as soon as it leaves his mouth he seems to realize it. “Out of all the people who could’ve been working that set….”

He chuckles mirthlessly, but you’re frozen in your seat because the nickname falls from his lips with such ease. It is, at once, unerring and much more sobering than it has any right to be.

The rest of the bar is suddenly oceans away. “What gives you any right to call me that again?” you ask, except it comes out in a mangled, jarring breath. The familiarity of it all hits you again just thinking about it, like constellations traced across your shoulder and the warmth of a bed that isn’t yours. “M’not taking any of this starlight bullshit after the stunt you pulled.”

Tsukishima furrows his eyebrows in a semblance of anger. It comes off more like dazed confusion, but it gets the point across. “That I pulled? That was a mutual… pulling. You left me on a bench after giving me mixed signals for two hours.”

“You’re hot, okay? What the hell was I supposed to do?” You’re not thinking very hard about these responses - you’re mostly on autopilot, watching the way his fist tightens and loosens, the way he crosses his arms. Arms that spent hours snaked around you, swaying along to music so low it made it seem like you were the only two in the world who could hear.

“Thanks,” he replies bluntly.

You think about replying for a second, think about the way he’d flick your forehead, enough to calm your skin but never your heart. And then, eloquently: “Fuck off.”

You sit in silence.

It’s in the instant that you’re coming up with an excuse to leave that you hear him, quiet and somber as if you weren’t supposed to hear it at all. “I still…” Tsukishima glances at the table in front of him, fingertips gliding over glossy wood.

“Loved you,” he finishes, lamely. “Love you. Past tense. I don’t know.”  

You’re watching him unravel like this, face flushed and pointedly avoiding your gaze. Except suddenly it’s like the crack of lightning, breakneck and furious and long overdue. “Fucking what?”

“Huh?” Tsukishima raises his head.

“The hell did you dump me for, then?” Your voice comes out a little more shrill than you’d meant, a little louder and a little more brash. So be it. He looks lost for words, foggy with drink and unresolved emotion, probably.

He isn’t answering, so you prod again. “Why did you dump me if you still fucking loved me? Why is this coming out now? Motherfucker, I still loved you!”

He stares numbly, hazily. “I didn’t want to deal with it.”

You want to smack the glasses off his face.

“So what, you dealt with me for 3 years and got tired of it?”

“You know that’s not what happened.”

“You could’ve fucking talked to me. Could’ve lied to my face instead of just walking out that fucking door without an explanation. Kei.”

The look on his face is desperate, disdainful. He doesn’t want to have this conversation but goddamn are you going to force it out of him.

He glances at the other bar patrons. “Can we talk about this? Outside?”

Which is how you find yourself in Kei Tsukishima’s passenger seat at 11pm on a weekday, screaming enough profanities to scare your grandmother into an early grave.

When it’s all out of your system, the only dredges left are of simmering regret. There is no anger left to give and only the hollow, mournful feeling that you’d spent so long trying to internalize. You remember contentedness and routine being ripped out from under your feet, kicking and thrashing as it was overtaken by shame. Shame and distress and the sharpest edges of remorse - of thinking that maybe - maybe Tsuki wouldn’t have left if you had been a little more careful. That somehow, despite everything, maybe you could have convinced him to stay.

His eyes are a miserable amber under parking lot lights and maybe yours are a little watery, but he takes the silence as a cue to talk.

And god, does he talk - staring holes into his hands as he does, never once meeting your eyes - about his fears, about letting you slip through his fingers and watching you go. “Because I saw forever with you,” he says, quiet and prayerful. “I thought I saw forever and I wanted it so badly, I ran when I thought it wouldn’t come.”

Like sand in an hourglass, watching grain by grain slip past the point of return and thinking that maybe there wasn’t going to be a forever - and if it ended, it would be on his own terms, running to put effort into everything that wasn’t you, shameful and laden with guilt. His hand is barely shaking in his lap and against it all, you want to take it in yours. It takes a special, sobering kind of talking down to restrain the urge.

And then, wonder of wonders, he apologizes.

Tsuki apologizes, only just managing to meet your eyes, nervous and different and new. For the misunderstandings and the endless fear and the regret of not having realized it sooner. You laugh, a wet and broken thing, and apologize too. It’s barely midnight and you’re still in the parking lot but the buoyant, hopeful feeling in your chest tells you that there are only two people in the world right now; only two that matter.

-

You wake up in a hotel bed.

It takes you about two seconds to absolutely lose your shit before realizing you’re still dressed and by that fact, nothing eventful happened. Kei sits next to you, scrolling idly on his phone and it hits you all at once - how content you feel, sitting quietly with him - keeping watch as the sun kisses his hair into shining ivory, glasses glinting in the light.

You feel as if heavy wires of tension have been removed from your limbs. They aren’t so leaden anymore but lighter and easier. Kei glances at you.

“Morning.”

You blink at him. “How the fuck did we get here?” and then, belatedly, “G’morning.”

He chuckles lightly and you consider, momentarily, that this is all a dream. Much too idyllic for your taste, but he explains that it was the most convenient option after a long crying session because you were in no state to drive and it was right there, anyway, and he had the money. He sounds a little sheepish by the end, but it’s all the more endearing. None of this makes sense, anyway.

You order room service - not breakfast, he has a habit of saying ‘good morning’ during odd hours of the afternoon. (A part of you wants to ask where he picked it up, and the other already knows the answer.) And talk all the while, same as before. You feel very grown up sitting with him like this, talking over bagels and tea having hashed everything out in a half-drunken therapy session the night before.

Part of it is so, so familiar. The way he doesn’t quite grin when he’s trying to hide it - the corners of his mouth turn up in an almost-smile and his eyes light with mirth. Another is new - two adults who happen to know each other, talking about everything and nothing at all. It feels a bit like a first date and it fills you with something rare and electric.

He has to drop you off at the bar again, walking you to your car and cracking a joke about the absurdity of it all. It’s about as awkward as it sounds on paper, but it’s perfect and good and you look up at him with new eyes. You’re opening the car door when Kei calls for you in a rushed, harried tone.

“Go out with me,” he says, halfway across the parking lot. “It doesn’t have to be with forever in mind but I’d like a second chance. If you’re willing to take a second chance.”

“Not forever?” you ask, and it’s supposed to come out joking. You take a few steps closer and watch as he does, too.

“Focus on what’s happening now. No running away from what I think the future holds.”

“Sounds good. Sounds solid.”

“Yeah. Good.”

A beat of silence. You’re closer than you were a second ago; you can see the smudge on the edge of his lens where you jokingly smacked him earlier. Your heart does a funny, acrobatic sort of thing.

His mouth opens, a sentence starts and ends. He tries again.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What? Ye- mmph.”

He tastes like 2pm breakfast food and black tea with too much lemon in and you melt like sugar in the rain. He kisses like home, warm and comfortable and easy. It makes you think that no matter how much has changed - how much you’ve grown - there’s a distinctness in Kei Tsukishima that will always feel familiar. Home after a lifetime away, coming up for air after hours underwater. Maybe it’ll always be like that with him, no matter how much time goes by.

You can’t wait to find out.

[jessiebanethedragon]

Hey. Anon who requested the Kung fu one shot with the bad batch here. I saw the one shot and I really liked it. Now I’m wondering what it would be like if the bad batch saw the reader take out a bunch of droids on a mission with her Kung fu skills and staff.

I’m so glad you liked it! heres part 2 with a lot of Hunter Fluff (just kinda happened sorryyyyy) Part one 

You had never used the Bo Staff in combat in front of Clone force 99 before. So as far as they knew, it was a harmless object. Tech asked you endless questions about it, where you got it, what the engravings meant, ect. Wrecker at one point tried to copy one of your moves using an entire steel bar that he found in a destroyed building. Crosshair liked watching you click the pieces together, as they reminded him of all the special parts to his sniper rifle. 

And Hunter, well Hunter didn't really talk about you and the Bo Staff, but the second it ever entered your hands you seemed to catch his eye watching you. You had tried to convince him to let you show him a simple move, but he was hesitant to even touch the staff. 

“It just seems so intimate,” he told you, feeling like he was touching a part of your soul. And you smiled at him.

“That's because it is.” you pressed, wrapping his hand around an object that hadn't been touched by anyone but you before. 

Your relationship with the Bad Batches sergeant was as confusing as it was unspoken. There were the nights when his senses were so strong he crawled into your bed, desperate to overpower everything else by you. But then there were times when he pushed you aside on a mission in favour of the task being completed by someone else. And you would argue with him over it until he pulled rank and told you it was an order. Without any other kind of explanation. 

This was one of those times. It was Tech who was sent on reconnaissance and not you, the job that had been given to you was watching the scanners. Apparently the fact that they all had built in scanners on their helmets wasn't enough. No you had to be stuck on the ship, staring at blips as your crew and friends moved around the rolling meadows searching for signs of separatist activity. 

“Stay with the ship.” You said mocking Hunters voice. “We need someone to update the scanners.” Maybe you were just a tad bitter.  “I’m Hunter, and I make the rules because i have stupid luscious hair.” You were fully in ‘character’ now. “Oh i’m Hunter, you have to stay on the ship because I have a face tattoo and i’m in charge-” 

“You know i can hear you right?” The sergeant's voice crackled through the comms.  “And while i’m not sure I appreciate the impression, it’s nice to know you like my hair.” You know him well enough to know he already knew how much you love his hair. And so you cross your arms and slump back into your chair. Watching Tech’s blip move further and further away as he gathers intel that was supposed to be yours. 

You’re still pouting when you hear the familiar ting of a blaster bolt against plastiod. 

“What was that?” you say into the comm, checking your scanners for droids. But according to the holomap the area is still clear. 

“Commando droids!” you hear Hunter shout to the others, and then the comm line goes dead. 

“Hunter! Hunter!” you shout into the earpiece, and here isn't even static for a response. You reach for your rifle and hesitate. Commando droid armour is too strong for a regular blaster bolt. Which leaves you one option. 

The Bo Staff. You don’t think twice about grabbing it and assembling the pieces as you take off running down the ramp of the ship. You can see a maze of blaster fire in the distance, and you just have to hope they’re all still alive by the time you reach them. 

“Bad Batch, plan 19! Bundle!” Hunter yells to his brothers as they move towards making a defensive circle. Kriffing droids everywhere. They need a miracle, air support, thermal detonators, but they’re surrounded and vastly outnumbered. And just as Hunter begins to accept the worst, you come bounding through the air over one of the rolling hills, landing in front of the group, Staff in hand. 

It doesn't deflect bolts the way a sabre would, more so just prevents them from hitting you or people near the Bo staff itself. But what it can do is go right through the center of any commando droid it meets. 

Fighting with a Bo staff, Hunter notes, is very different to practicing with one. Dare he say it’s more entrancing? He’s not sure, but some part of his brain forgets the fight he is currently in, in favour of pointing out how good you look kicking ass with the Bo staff in hand. He  must look like a gungan right about now, wide eyed and tongue tied as you have taken down more droids with that staff then the whole batch has managed to kill as a unit. 

He is so distracted with admiration for you in the moment that his senses, for the first time in his life, fail him. 

Your ears pick up the telltale ping of a bolt on armour again, and you whip around in time to see Hunter hit the ground. Gripping the left side of his stomach in pain. it ignites an anger in you that you didn't know was there. And by the time all the droids are smoking in ruins, Hunter still is trying to pull himself up. Collapsing your Bo Staff you rush to him, Tech jams some kind of needle in his neck and Wrecker carries him back to the ship. 

“What. Happened.” You try not to sound angry but you fail miserably. Even in the time it took the crew to dress the wound and take off the rage hadn't simmered down. 

“I think I got shot.” He tells you, sitting up on the floor of the Havoc Marauder. 

“How.” It’s Crosshair this time, and if it’s possible he sounds more angry then you. “How does a man with genetically enhanced senses get shot in close combat.” His ori'vod groans in pain and rests his head against the cool durasteel.

“What were you doing Sergeant?” Crosshair pushes, clearly knowing something the rest of you do not. 

“Hunter?” you ask, becoming afraid at the look on the snipers face. 

“Got distracted.” Hunter grunts out, eyes closed. 

“And what distracted you?” Crosshair snaps a toothpick in his hand, out of anger. Before he adds: “or should I ask who distracted you?” He puts far too much emphasis on the word ‘who’. And it’s a very awkward silence as all eyes fall to you. 

Surprisingly it’s Tech who bursts out into laughter first. Looking from you to him, and then a very pissed Crosshair pointing and laughing. 

“He… got shot…” He stops to laugh some more. 

“Yep.” Crosshair confirms whatever secret they just shared with one another. 

“Hunter you’re such a di'kut!” He exclaims. Causing Crosshair to cross his arms.

“It’s not funny Tech.” He grimaces. As Wrecker leans over to listen to whatever Tech is whispering in his ear. Before he joins the laughing hyena pack that is his smaller brother. 

“He could’ve died.” Crosshair states, before  looking at you again. “That's getting confiscated.” he tells you pointing at the collapsed Bo Staff in the corner before leaving the room  and dragging his very immature brothers with him. 

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” You question the man on the floor, who’s looking like he needs another dose of pain meds right about now. He lets out a painted breath 

“Lost focus, watching you.” He admits rather sheepishly. And you’re very confused for a moment before it all clicks, this was the first time you’d ever fought in front of them with your Staff and if the day on the lake was evidence, you’re pretty sure you know why tech was laughing so much. 

“You were so intent on watching me fight with my Bo Staff that you got shot?” You gasp out a breath of laughter, “really Hunter?” You walk over to slide down next to him, letting his head rest on your shoulder as your hand finds his hair. 

“Didn’t do it on purpose.” He mumbles, “Just happened.” 

“You’re so stupid.” You say smiling at him, before helping him up to get him into his bunk down the ship. 

“Only for you.” he shoots back at you and you shake your head. 

“You need to work on your game Sarge,” you tease, as the doors to his little area slide open. 

“I thought i was doing well.” He says, pulling you into the small bunk with him, milking his injury for all its worth. 

“You were doing alright until you got shot.” you tell him, sitting on the edge of his bed, and placing a soft kiss to his forehead. He lets out a soft hum of approval at the action. Still trying to pull you down to lay with him. 

“I need the refresher, I'm still in all my armour.” You tell him, pulling away. 

“Come back after.” He  tells you, finally laying down. 

“Actually,” you say from his doorway, “I think I'll go outside and practice with my Bo Staff while you're stuck here.” 

You hear his pained groan as the door slides shut.

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔;

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

word count: 12.6k+

summary: You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

warnings: swearing, angst, ptsd/trauma symptoms. 

notes: a very late birthday present to my wonderful friend @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast​ who is the OG Team Santi and the proud captain of the ship. Thank you for always putting up with me, rascal. You’re the best. :’) 

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | . . | 09 |

gif credit (x)

Your shaky fingers wrap around the crystal glass, going for the bottle in front of you. There is no telling what it even is. Brandy? Bourbon? Whiskey?

It doesn’t matter at this point. Your skin is frigid but your insides burn.

You had pushed right past Santino who was clearly caught off guard by your blunt, choked words, going straight for the drinks table. Despite the chill deep in your bones, you find that the penthouse is as open and as welcoming as always.

The glass in your hand shakes so badly you fear for a moment that you’re going to drop it. But it’s not like he doesn’t have another dozen to replace this one with and yet—

His larger hand suddenly wraps around your wrist from behind, stilling you, and you flinch at the searing heat of his skin. Your wrist looks pathetically fragile in his grip. You’ve never considered your hands as weak before, not even before Tokyo. But now you do. Your fingers fold tighter around the glass and you suck in a sharp breath.

“You don’t like hard liquor, amore,” he states, his words carefully neutral. But his voice is wrapped, heavy.

You tug your wrist free and chuckle. It sounds a touch manic and your forced smile wobbles. “Well, why not,” you whisper wetly, turning the glass from side to side before finally placing it back on the table with a jarring clatter. “Might find it—”

“What happened, cara mia?”

Your eyes lift to his. You laugh this time; it sounds miserable and strangled and you step away from him, ashamed. It’s so good to see him again but you can’t stand the look in his eyes. It’s eerily similar to the look he often wore before and during Chicago. That calm rage is when Santino is at his worst. At his most dangerous.

“I killed him,” you force out, your voice frayed as you wander further into the room. The fireplace is lit—warm and inviting as always—but you feel numb to its soothing embrace. “I killed him, Santi. Shot him right in the head. And I felt nothing—I—I feel nothing. And now they will come and—the debt is unpaid, they will kill me…or…or…”

You hear him step closer to you but can’t find it in yourself to look at him. Instead, you focus on your hands. The grooves and the ridges, the lines and the dips. You see blood on them even though there is none.

There is so much blood on your hands that you can wash it away but it still clings to you.

“No one is going to kill you,” Santino tells you, quiet and calm, but his words are laced with an icy sort of finality. Like that fact is an absolute and he will not consider anything else. “And no one is going to harm you either, cara mia.”

Your head shakes at his words and you hate how powerless you suddenly feel.

“There are rules, Santino, the High Table—”

He cuts the remaining distance between you in two brisk steps, his hands coming to grip your forearms firmly as he pulls you closer. Your eyes jump to him and you see his calm demeanour beginning to crack too. His stare is hard, unforgiving.

“Fuck the rules,” he hisses, his words sharp with fury. “And fuck the High Table.”

His grip on you tightens when he notices your attention dropping from him, still lost in your head. In the terror of your own vulnerability.

“Look at me,” he insists, strained, but when you don’t, his hands release you and he cups your face instead, pulling you even closer till the only thing you can look at is him. The heat of his hands against your skin burns into you and you stare at him, suspended and startled. “Look at me. I swore to you that night, no? I swore that I will never allow anyone to ever harm you again. I swore, (Name), and I do not do so lightly.”

The severity of his expression eases somewhat when he notes the way you tremble before him. His thumb brushes delicately against your cheek, lingering, while his eyes flicker over your expression slowly. Devouring as always. You see his anger buried deep, simmering just beneath the calm he tries to force into his face but fails. His jaw keeps clenching, and you can see something close to worry in that restless tick.

“If anyone tries to take you from me,” he whispers, low and resolute, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine as his eyes search yours. “I will burn this city to the ground, do you understand? I will never let them touch you. Hm, yes? Come here.”

You practically collapse against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck. Dry sobs leave you but tears don’t come. Santino is warm and unmoving as always, and you bury yourself in the safety of his arms, gasping and afraid. You feel one of his hands come to rest on your head, smoothing his fingers over your hair while his other wraps around your shoulders.

“Shh, amore. Nothing and no one will hurt you here,” he hums, his voice thick with wrath he no doubt wants to unleash, and his grip only tightens when he feels your arms wrap around his waist. Desperately so. “You are under my protection. Oh, amore mio. No one. My word to you. Word of the old Camorra.”

Word of the old Camorra.

Their own internal version of a binding Marker. Only to be given out by the head or lady of Camorra and the heirs. Rare and powerful as jewels.

You shudder in his embrace, not saying a word.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, wrapped up in his arms like it can shield you from everything.

But for the first time in your life, you allow the sensation of being someone else's priority to soothe your restless mind.

It takes you an hour to get out of the shower.

The process is…difficult.

After Tokyo, simple things like showering became hard, and baths are still unbearable to this day. You can’t submerge yourself into the warm depths without the horrifying sensation of being forced underwater clawing up from your past.

You hate the feeling of losing control, the feeling of teetering too close to the edge again. Despite your less than savoury mental state, Santino insisted that you need to warm up, and you both hate and adore the amount of faith he has in your inner strength.

You’ve been forced to stay at the penthouse a few times in the past. Mostly due to injuries, and Santino has more than prepped his home for the possibility of you staying again. It used to make you feel terrible because it always seemed like he was waiting for you to reach out and come home to him. Now, it just makes you feel grateful that you have some form of shelter away from the world. That he keeps his door open to you despite the dozens upon dozens of times you have rejected and pushed him away in the past.

For a man who is so proud and so easy to sway towards resentment, he is unfailingly patient with you.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it—”

Gianna’s words crawl up from the deepest recesses of your mind and you swallow, your throat dry. You have chosen to wipe them from your mind in the past. Back then you rebelled against the very notion. It was easier to convince yourself that something between you and Santino hasn’t fundamentally changed since Chicago—that it’s still simple lust and playful teasing between you with his intentions clear and easy to see through.

Standing in the doorway to the lounge, you watch his profile for a moment, and think that nothing is easy between you anymore.

His hair is a mess. You wonder if he has been running his fingers through it again while he waited, and the usually combed and neat curls rest in a disarray. The round curve of his chin and jaw are familiar to you too. He sits on the sofa like a king; legs folded, spread out, and arms extended elegantly, a drink in one hand while he absentmindedly turns his Camorra ring. Even relaxed he doesn’t lose that edge of arrogance that is so integral to him as a man.

When have you stopped resenting that? Did you ever?

Santino and John couldn’t be more different and yet it makes you wonder how, exactly, you are able to find common ground with both.

You are under my protection.

You can’t help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. How easily he has sworn himself as a Camorra’s heir to your protection. But it makes you wary as well. Santino is vicious and he is volatile. You believed him when he said that he would make New York bleed for you and it worries you. He’s been so focused lately. Steady. He took Gianna inheriting the seat well, perhaps too well. Then the attack on you both. Now, this. Something will give and soon.

Santino has only one true love.

Power.

Is there anything he won’t give up for it?

You can’t help but wonder if that’s why—even after all these years—you still hesitate.

If John left you for love, what is to stop a selfish man like Santino from leaving you for power?

How many times can you be left behind before—

His attention remains focused on the flickering flame as you continue observing him from your spot, and you can’t help but wonder what put him in such deep thought.

He blinks suddenly, seemingly coming back to the present and his head turns in your direction.

A slight smile greets you. “Ah, feeling better, cara? You took a while.”

You shuffle inside. Tired—no, exhausted. It seeps into the very soul of you but you’ve been unable to shake the sense of hyper-vigilance. Every second seems so precious yet slips through your fingers too quickly.

“Shower was…difficult.”

His expression falters at your confession, and then his features smooth with every second that passes. There is no pity in those bright green depths, just an old understanding.

You approach him and try not to cringe under the quiet intensity of his stare as his eyes follow you. From this close up he looks tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and you feel a stab of guilt. What’s the time? 3am? Later?

Exhaling, you sit down beside him, staring at your knees.

The emptiness inside your chest throbs and your fingers twitch in response.

Santino shifts and you glance at his hand beside yours. He turns his fingers around, palm facing upwards, and it rests like that; a silent offering.

Your own features fall, soften, and you don’t think there are any words in any language either of you knows that can express the depth of your gratitude for his offer.

Carefully, you place your fingers in-between his and he gently folds them around yours.

He holds your hand in his like it’s something important—precious—to him and your eyes flutter closed.    

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you bask in the comfort of his touch for a while longer. His thumb traces small, tender circles against your skin but when you finally glance at him you find his expression drawn, solemn. Focused on the bruises, on the swollen knuckles.

“Tell me what happened.”

You’re grateful that he doesn’t phrase it like another order he’s so used to giving others.

You swallow twice before finding enough strength to open your mouth and begin speaking.

Then, you tell him everything.

From John to Tarasov, and all the things in-between.

It pours out of you like a river, swift and untamed.

Santino doesn’t say a word the entire time you talk.

His silence stretches on even after you’re done, and as long minutes start adding up so does your unease.

He places his drink back on the table, not releasing your hand, and finally, his head turns in your direction. His expression is carefully devoid of anything that may hint at how he feels but the coil of his back muscles is rigid.

Santino simply gazes at you for another minute, his stare burning, and then his eyes settle on your neck. On the scratches that after your long shower must be looking especially tender. “And these?”

His voice is sharp enough to cut yet somehow even lower than usual.

“Perkins,” you choke out, tightening your grip on his hand when you see the way his expression comes undone for just a second. In that split, you don’t see a man you know but the Smiling Shark instead. Camorra’s unruly wildcard. Bloodthirsty and dangerous as the first time you met him. “Tarasov sent her. She attacked me in my room. Got some hits in before I finished it.”

You can almost hear his teeth gritting together. He reaches out, his fingers delicate against your throat as he ghosts his fingertips over the deep gnashes. With every second that passes you can see his fury mounting, twisting his expression into something unforgiving.

“That woman? After I told her what happens if—”

You place your hand on top of his when he touches the silver chain around your neck, and his eyes jump to you. “Winston took care of it. She broke the Continental rules. We won’t be seeing her again.”

Despite your words, a slight sneer still lingers across Santino’s expression, and he lifts your connected hands to his lips, pressing them lightly against your damaged skin.

The iciness of his stare suggests that the gesture is more for himself than you.

“That makes her, hm, rather lucky, then,” he murmurs, barely audible against your skin before lowering your hands. You keep your fingers on his, if only to hold him still. “I would have not shown her similar mercy.”

Exhaling unsteadily, you shake your head a little before tightening your grip on him, and lean your cheek against his shoulder for a moment.

“You’re very bloodthirsty, have I told you that?” you try to banter but it comes off flat. Santino breathes deeply beside you, barely restrained and your eyes close. His warmth sinks into your cheek through his shirt and you inhale his cologne; something warm and heady, a spice that unlike with most scents you encounter, you don’t try to analyse. “You’re angry at me too.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, amore,” he says. “I am.”

“I’m sorry—”

His grip on you constricts before loosening. When he speaks next, it’s an effort to stay calm, you can tell, “I do not need nor want an apology from you,” he informs you flatly. “That phonecall—”

Your head lifts and you know your expression is as devastated as you feel. “I just thought that it would be easier.”

“Easier?” he repeats, his lips twitching into a cool, cutting smile. “Tell me, cara mia. Who exactly would it have been easier for? You?”

Your head turns away from him, stung. You’re so tired. So tired. You don’t want to fight with him too. Not when these might very well be your last moments together. Everyone, always, wants to fight and you just want—

His hand comes to cup the side of your jaw, turning your face back towards him, and you feel the coolness of his Camorra ring caress your skin. His eyebrows are furrowed and he stares at you seriously.

“Do you truly think that if were the end—” he cuts himself off, swallows, and you notice his jaw twitch. His expression is grave and his voice a low drawl. “You misunderstand my anger, cara. If it had truly been the end, you would have robbed me of my only chance to say goodbye. You would have been lost to me because of him.”

Oh.

“This has nothing to do with him.”

It surprises you when he releases his hold on you and rises to his feet abruptly. His hands slip into his trousers and he wanders closer towards the fire, leaning his forearm against the mantle as he stares at the flame. He chuckles, harsh and disbelieving, and it sounds almost cruel.

“Ah, but it is him, it’s always him,” he notes so quietly you barely hear him. His lips are twisted into a smile but it lacks joy, lacks the easy charm you know him for. “After everything that he has done. After all the hurt he has caused. He still thinks he has any right to drag you back—”

He curses in Italian, coarse and muffled, and you only manage to pick out a few words before he turns away with a shake of his head and a loud sigh. He leans his palms against the mantle and silence reigns between you.

You stare at his back wordlessly but Santino clearly has nothing left to say on the topic—nothing that he knows won’t upset you further, at least. Turning your head to hide your expression, your lips tremble before you nibble on the soft flesh to keep steady.

His silence hurts.    

But what did you expect?    

Santino has always resented John for leaving you for Helen—an outsider, someone unworthy in his eyes—and his reaction shouldn’t surprise you.

You were angry too after all. Angry that John would ask you to place yourself in such danger for his revenge.  

When all is said and done, it’s your life that’s now on the line. John is out. John is free. There will be no consequences for him. In the eyes of the High Table, John would have done nothing wrong. But you knew the risk when you took it. Tarasov was not an idiot. He never truly trusted you because the priest was right. Deep down he must have always known that you will try to betray him in the end. The moment you were free of the contract he likely would have killed you himself. Simply for knowing too much, simply so that no one else can employ you to gain power for themselves—namely Santino.

The risk was worth it.  

Anything to get rid of Tarasov once and for all.

Rising to your feet with a feeble swallow, you turn to go.

“(Name).”

You stagger to a stop at the sound of your name. You can’t identify the emotion in Santino’s voice but there is an edge to the way he calls for you that tells you he wants you to stay.

“I’m tired,” you mumble without turning around. “You should get rest too. Goodnight, Santino.”

There’s blood on your hands, in your eyes, in your mouth—

“Give her another round,” Kishi orders from somewhere in the distance, his voice twisting with a perverted kind of joy at your suffering. “Make her bleed like a pig. Make her cry,” he drags the last word out in a sing-song voice and cackles.

Tarasov’s face appears in front of you, his lips contorted into a malicious, brutal sort of sneer before he wraps his large hand over your face, smothering you.

You writhe desperately, trying to free your hands or legs, or anything but you are bound as always. Helpless and abandoned and you scream in terror, thrashing even more wildly.

But then—suddenly—over Tarasov’s shoulder, you catch a glimpse of an achingly familiar face.

He stands half-swallowed in the shadows as he observes what’s happening before him, and you jerk in your seat, trying to reach for him.

John only looks at you though, something close to pity in his eyes. Similar to the way one watches a suffering animal, as if wishing they could be put out of their misery already.

Your ribs crack.

You scream his name, muffled and incoherent, over Tarasov’s heavy fingers over your face. His weight keeps pushing down and you’re choking, choking—

Please, I love you.

John smiles slightly, a glimmer of a loving dream, and turns away from you—

You wake up howling.

Something—someone, is shaking you, and you snarl, throwing yourself at them blindly. With their hands still on you, they drag you down with them, and you grapple to wrap your hands around their neck the moment you hit the ground. Your legs lock around them so they won’t be able to throw you off and you breathe harshly, gasping for breath. Your fingers wrap around the curves of a warm neck, and you feel a steady, strong pulse beat beneath your fingertips.

Bright green greets you.

His lips are moving, his fingers gentle around your wrists even when your own tighten around his neck further, your nails sinking into his skin.

You—

You—

You know him.

The roaring in your ears subsides, stripping away the thick taste of copper on your tongue too.

“Santi?”

“Are you expecting—ah—another man in your room, c-cara mia?”

Your expression crumbles, your grip loosening and you feel disgust rip through you like a bolt of lightning. You’ve tried—

“Oh God,” you mumble, and try to force oxygen into your lungs but they only cramp up tighter, making it near impossible to breathe. “He was right—he’s right, there’s nothing left. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s right, I’m dead to the world—”

You pull away from him, crawling backwards, and feel sick to your stomach. Santino rises at once, his expression tense as he reaches for you. His hand pauses before he can touch you though, and he hovers it over your shoulder, hesitant.

“Let me,” he requests, urgent but soft, and you only shake your head, curling away from him. “Count with me, amore. Uno, due, tre…”

“Q-Quattro,” you choke out, and your chest tightens further, causing you to muffle a gasp of pain. Copper stings your tongue, and you realise too late that you’ve bitten your inner cheek, making you flinch again. “I can’t. D-Don’t touch—”

His fingertips graze your bare shoulder lightly and you suck in a sharp breath, shivering on the floor, and your eyes fly to his. For a second you’re suspended, hardly breathing before you hiccup, gasping for more oxygen. You feel cold all over and it makes you feel pathetically small. It makes you feel hollow and empty of anything but nightmares from your past that are happy to wrap their arms around you and choke the life right out of you.

It feels like that cramped flat in Moscow. Your parents dead, dead, dead.

It feels like Tarasov’s office. Your cheek and shoulder throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

It feels like that pit in the outskirts of Tokyo. Your soul and body being crushed, torn apart, and shredded.

There is nothing left.

For how much longer can you keep pretending that there is?

“Come with me.”

His hushed voice cuts through the suffocating silence and your pained pants and you look up at him. His fingers rest gingerly on your shoulder and it amazes you that he can still bear to touch you after you just attacked him as you did.

“I can’t.”

Santino’s expression cracks, darkening, and you think that he looks almost angry.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice and expression equally steely. “You can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to.”

His fingers release you, and for a moment you can’t help but think that he’s going to stand up and walk away. Leave you here alone on the floor.

He doesn’t.

Santino does stand—still dressed in the same clothes as before, even though his shirt is more creased now—but instead of walking away, he holds out his hand to you, stern and expectant.

He’s not going to pull you up and let himself be used as a crutch.

He expects you to stand up on your own.

Because he believes that you can.

Your throat bobs; once, twice.

It takes you four tries before—fingers sunk deep into the bed covers—you finally manage to stagger to your feet. Your knees shake like you’re a newborn fawn and breathing takes twice as much effort. The sensation of being suffocated won’t drop no matter how hard you try to remind yourself that you’re fine.

You sway unsteadily but Santino grabs your hand in his, moving closer, and you stand like this for a while. He’s calm even though his gaze is stormy, and you are shivering and panting like you’ve just ran a marathon. You can feel your loose t-shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat clinging to you, and shiver despite the fact that the room is warm. Your heartbeat thuds like a drum against your ribs and your fingers clench firmer around his.  

“There she is,” he notes mildly, his voice silk, and when your eyes flicker up to him you see his chin tilt upwards. It’s an arrogant, haughty tip in his demeanour you have seen a hundred times in the past, but his eyes gleam with quiet sort of pride. “My sea on a stormy night, hm? Come with me.”

He steps closer, carefully twisting his arm to loop around yours and you stay silent, clinging to his arm as he guides you out of the room. It’s a tedious process but he makes no comments about your slowness—the last thing anyone who knows you associates with you—as you cut through his apartment together.

If someone told you almost six years ago when you first met him in that church and pressed a knife to his throat that you will end up like this…

You would have laughed in their faces.

Santino D’Antonio.

Over the years he has proven to be exactly what you expected him to be, and yet completely different too.

A stinging, sharp pain grinds into your chest as you walk and you focus on putting one foot in front of another, still clinging to his arm. You’re so focused on the test of strength, you don’t notice Santino leading you up the staircase before he pulls the patio door open, pulling you out into the frigid morning air.

The terrace is a sprawling, massive space and in the distance, you can see the pool reflecting the light. The shadows from the pavilion are well known to you too—there’s been plenty of times in the past when you, Santino, and Ares have enjoyed drinks there while planning your next job.

Even though it’s still dark outside, New York City is never quiet and the symphony of traffic noise washes over you as does the brisk breeze that comes with being this high up.

A quiver rolls across your limbs and you gulp the freezing air regardless of the fact that it makes your throat and lungs ache harder.

“Look up.”

You do.

The vastness of the sky opens up above you. From this height, you feel like you can reach out and touch the horizon. The stars are not as bright here as they are in Naples but it’s still a comforting sight. New York is your city. Perhaps not by choice but by fate.

“You are not in that pit anymore,” Santino speaks from beside you but you simply stare up at the sky. “You are here and you are free, amore. That man, Tarasov, they both may have hurt you but where are they now, hm? Dead, cara mia. By your hand. You outlived and outsmarted them both.”

“I feel nothing, Santino,” you whisper weakly, choked. “Tarasov is dead and I feel so fucking numb—”

Your voice cracks, and you finally lower your head, the back of your neck aching from craning your head too far back.

“I don’t want my last hours to be spent back in that headspace,” you croak, your voice trembling. “I thought—I thought I overcame it. I’ve been—it’s hard but I’ve been better.”

For once, Santino doesn’t offer anything in reply. You feel his focus on you but he remains silent and you’re grateful because he understands your need to voice this. That you need to let this manic terror out somehow.

Tarasov cracked you, Kishi crushed you, but John shattered you completely.

The latter always hurt the most. Because he was the last person you ever expected to damage you the way he did. It hurt the most when you fell by his hand even if he never caused physical harm. It crippled something deep inside you, and no matter how carefully you’ve glued yourself together over the years—and you don’t know if you would have managed if it hadn’t been for the man beside you, Winston, Ares—it still haunts you.

You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Santino’s voice slices through the quiet and the whistling wind suddenly. The morning chill is merciless and you press closer to him as you listen. “It makes me want to steal you away.”

“Paris?”

He turns towards you then, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye too. “No, cara. Just home,” he murmurs lightly, and something about the simplicity of his words catches you completely off guard, somehow pains you even more. “Get Gia to cook us some Ribollita. We can sit on the terrace and enjoy some white wine after.”

You can almost taste it. Can almost smell the sunshine and the sea salt in the air. Feel the warm breeze instead of the chilly one. Can almost step back in time to last year and those three days where the world outside did not exist. No Tarasov, no debt, no ghosts or chains.

Just sunshine, just laughter.

To a time before now—the now that is so very complicated.

“How is she?” you ask instead, your voice still hoarse, knowing full well that you don’t have a reply to his earlier statement.

Santino hums under his breath, thoughtful, and his eyes sweep over the already lively streets below. From this angle, he looks like a god simply gazing down at his subjects. His edges unpolished, almost wild, but as deadly as always. It’s odd, but it’s here, at this moment, that you look at him and see a Camorra boss for the first time. Not during past jobs, not during negotiations or galas or family meetings—but here, now. It startles you so much that you fixate on him for a while longer, lost for words.

“Missing your company,” he divulges at last with a glimmer of a grin, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus on his words. “She enjoyed your stay.”

The wind blows again and you sigh, finally being able to feel the freshness filling your body. The previous frenzied terror has retreated for now and only the weak shell remains.

You search for words, for the memories of that visit, and try to glean happiness from them.  

“I got you drunk on cheap wine,” you state dryly, faltering, but a smile wants to twitch your facial muscles and the sensation brings you some comfort. “Hardly something to enjoy.”

Santino blinks, and again, and then gives you such affronted look you almost laugh.

“You…” he begins, and stops, and then peers at you before frowning with that petulant twitch of his lips. “Did not get me drunk.”

Your own lips twist; something awkward but genuine in its teasing. “You were hungover as a skunk the next day,” you remind him, a touch smug, and delight in the way he narrows his eyes like you’ve called one of his suits ugly. “That family meeting you had to attend the next morning was a misery, don’t lie.”

He looks so offended that you can’t help but laugh slightly, your tiny smile stretching wider.

You feel his eyes track the motion intently and his own lips twitch into a smug little smile.

“Ah, there it is,” he notes, satisfied. “Better?”

Your head lowers with a nod, and when you look up at him again you simply gaze at each other for a moment.

You want to believe him—want to let him in.

You want to. So badly sometimes.

But where would you even begin?

Everyone you’ve ever loved in your life you have lost.

You can’t—

“I would love to go back to Naples, too, but when the High Table comes—”

“Then I wish them luck, cara mia,” his voice cuts in, and it’s almost as chilly as the wind dancing around you both, and this time your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature outside. “They would never take you from my home. I’m Camorra.”

You exhale at his words, slow and sad. “But you’re not the head, Santino,” you state, your voice twisted with dismay. “And I’m not in your family. If they came for me, you would have to obey or your life is forfeited.”

The strong curve of his eyebrows knits together, framing his face with an expression you have never seen before. His eyes roam over your features and you shift silently, not sure what to make of it.  

“No,” he agrees faintly, his words and expression empty. “You are not.”

It’s impossible to stomach the look on his face. The subtle traces of disappointment and indignation that you seem so good at pulling out of him. You press the now near numb tip of your nose against his shoulder for a second, eyes closed—a silent, genuine apology before you untangle your linked arms and turn to go. You feel his heavy stare follow you as you wander inside on trembling legs, and distantly hear him follow after you.

Rubbing your hands together, you walk back towards the lounge. The clock on the wall reads 06:12am and you sigh, bone-weary and drained. Your panic may have passed but you feel like you weigh a ton emotionally, your limbs limp with exhaustion.

Santino comes to your side, reaching towards the bottle of what you think might be scotch, and your guilt intensifies when the light reveals the red marks on his neck.

“I’m sorry about earlier—”

“Never,” he stops you, lowering the crystal bottle and giving you a sharp look over his shoulder. “You will never have to apologise for that, bella.”

“I’ve seen you kill people for less,” you point out, your words fragile as you fold your arms over your chest. It comes off more defensive than you would have liked, and you realise your mistake when Santino straightens. One of his hands slips inside his trousers and he steps closer. Like a toss of a coin, you feel the tension between you shift, thicken, and can’t help but exhale when he places his hand against the curve of your chin, tilting your head so he can see your expression.

“Yes, and I imagine I will do so again in the future,” he admits unperturbed, and the heat of his palm sinks into your chilled skin pleasantly. “For even less,” he adds after a pause, unashamed.

He leans closer then, and for a split second, you think that he’s going to kiss you. But instead, his lips ghost over your ear. “They are not, however, you.”

With that, he pulls away, turns, and leaves you standing alone in the lounge.

Sun wakes you up.

Light burns beneath your eyelids and you release a muffled groan, trying to block it out as you shift beneath the covers. Your eyes crack open slowly and you blink up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The familiar walls of the penthouse guest-room greet you and a groan bubbles at the back of your throat. You feel even more tired now than when you first went to sleep, collapsing on the messy bed after being left alone in the lounge.

The room seems to glow with brightness when you shuffle from underneath the expensive cotton that kept you warm. No more nightmares visited you, but you can’t help but think it’s more due to sheer exhaustion than anything else.

You stop by the bathroom briefly, avoiding your own reflection, and change into new clothes after washing up. Your bruised hands appear even worse today and just before you leave, you risk a brief glance in the mirror.

Is today the day I die?

It might be. It’s a miracle you haven’t been sought out yet—that you know of—and it makes you both confused and shackled with dread.

You look exactly how you feel: terrible. Still, alive is better than nothing and you settle for that. There have been days in the past when even that had seemed like too much of a task. Yet here you are.

Still here.

Straightening your slumped shoulders, you tilt your chin in that arrogant manner Santino always does and inhale deeply, your spine a rigid line. Your fingertips dance over the silver chain around your neck, settling briefly on the weight at the bottom and you shake your head, tucking it under your clothes again. The cool tickle of the metal fades quickly and you feel ready to face the day.

Yesterday was a bad day, that much is evident. But today still remains to be seen.

With that thought, you leave the guest room—your room, Santino always insists—and cut through the apartment.

“—what I want to know is how this was even possible,” Santino’s distant and already irritated voice greets you. “I want answers.”

You poke your head in the lounge, your eyes cutting across the open space to the other side where the open plan kitchen-diner stretches with the New York skyline for a backdrop.

He stands with his back to you, clad in a fresh dark moss-green suit and not a crease out of place. He looks out towards the city while he talks, and you can read familiar ticks in his body language that tell you he’s not enjoying the conversation he’s having one bit.

Ares and Roberto are here as well. The former rises from the dining table when she spots you, and Roberto’s face stretches into a slight, relieved smile beneath his beard when you wink at him.

You are as bad as him when it comes to trouble, Ares signs as she approaches. She’s clad in her own dark navy suit today, and you suppress a grin at the pinch of her mouth.

Worried? you sign back with a grin, and she punches your shoulder before wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

No, but he has a habit of becoming unbearable when you are injured, she explains with a pout and you give her a brief, one-armed hug before flicking her nose lightly. She swats your hand, mock glaring, but there’s relief there too.

Still alive, you reassure her, and her eyebrow arches, disbelieving and cautious too as the scar near her eye crinkles.

Santino has clearly filled her in on the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh, and I suppose Perkins just strolled in and tried to kill her under your roof by a happy mistake, then,” Santino’s voice slices through the room like a whip and your head snaps in his direction. “Do not presume me to be a fool, Winston.”

Your eyes cut towards Ares, a clear question there, but she gives you a halfhearted shrug that seems to say you know how he is.

Your grip on her loosens and you cut through the room quickly, coming to stand beside him, expectant. Santino’s eyes find yours and they soften a touch, his eyes sweeping over your features, searching. Your head tilts and you hold out your hand.

A faint frown lingers across the planes of his face before he sighs unnecessarily loudly into the receiver. “She is awake and wishes to speak with you,” he informs briskly and doesn’t wait for a reply before he holds out his phone as an offering. You can only imagine Winston’s expression on the other end. Their dislike for one another would be comical if it wasn’t for the fact that you want them to get on for once. Life would be so much simpler if they did.

Biting back a disapproving grumble, you take the phone from him, pressing it to your ear.

“Winston.”

“Still alive, I see.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, a touch sardonic. “You too.”

You expect Santino to walk away but he lingers beside you and when you glance at him, he stands still, his green eyes simply taking you in. You can’t help but think that he knows. Understands.

Yesterday was a rare moment of weakness, softness, that you no longer show people. He can no doubt tell that the wall is back up again, and the vulnerability of yesterday is locked away once again.

The wall between you is there but his focus doesn’t drop, probing and fierce as always. Sometimes it scares you. Because he looks like he’s going to tear that wall down with his bare hands alone. You’re not sure what, if anything, is holding him back from doing exactly that. If Santino wants something, he takes it. For him, it’s that simple.

He stands with you for another few seconds, thoughtful, before turning away without another word and wandering away, his hands slipping into his pockets.

He looks tired, you realise as you watch him go, and it makes you wonder if he got any sleep last night. Even if you were to ask, you’re unsure if he would tell you the truth. He doesn’t like showing weakness to others, and after yesterday you’re not sure where you stand with him, either. If that openness he sometimes shows still extends towards you.

You’re constantly pushing and pulling at each other, never quite finding the balance.

You are under my protection.

Inhaling, you clear your mind. “Did you find Marcus?”

It’s quiet for a beat before Winston speaks again. “Yes, we did,” he says, and there is graveness to his voice that makes your eyes drop. “Tortured. But the cause of death was multiple shot wounds.”

Your eyes squeeze shut for a breath. “I want him to have a proper funeral,” you voice weakly, your vocalisation heavy with…failure. Marcus lost his life and— “No unnamed graves. I’ll pay for it.”

The distant sound of traffic filters through from the other side and you realise that Winston must be having breakfast on the rooftop terrace again. “The rules were broken,” he notes coolly. “The very least the company can do is handle the arrangements.”

A lump in your throat turns you momentarily speechless and you nod your head, knowing full well that he can’t see you. “Thank you, Winston,” you tell him, your voice thick with genuine appreciation. “Perkins?”

“Early retirement. Occupation hazard, I’m afraid.”

Oh, it would be a lie to say there isn’t a flash of ruthless, victorious sort of satisfaction that rushes through you at that. It won’t bring back Harry or Marcus, but at least those who killed them have now met a similar fate.

“Such a shame.”

“Indeed.”

You bite back a grin at his dry, deadpan tone.

“And Johnathan?” Winston wonders.

You swallow, recalling his worn, pained expression from last night. “Alive.”

His hesitance at hearing that surprises you.

“Good. Well, if Mr. D’Antonio can bear to be parted from you for longer than an hour we need to talk in private,” Winston informs you, and you can’t quite read his tone but it does make you feel oddly uneasy. “Should I expect you for lunch?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” you reply, though the hesitance in your voice is clear.

Winston bids you farewell before the line goes dead but you stand there for another minute, staring out into the city. The majestic landscape stretches out as far as the eye can see and you allow yourself to soak it in. If the whole “you see your life flash before your eyes” thing is real, you want something good to look back on when the time comes.

Lowering the phone, you turn towards the kitchen. Santino sits behind the dinner table, breakfast laid out in front of him as he reads over something in his hand. A half-drunk glass of white wine sits on one side of him with an empty espresso cup on the other. Sometimes, you can’t help but appreciate the routine, the ease, that comes with being in his space.

Ares stands beside him, frowning down at the card in his hand and you feel your momentary casualness fade. You approach them few steady steps at the time and tense when Santino suddenly slams the white paper on the table harshly. The sound rips through the open space with a loudness of a small explosion and you watch his expression splinter.  

“She has some nerve,” he hisses in Italian, and his eyes blaze.

“What’s going on?” you question worriedly, placing his phone on the table and grabbing the card instead. The material feels thick and expensive with a faint scent of perfume tickling your nose—sage, bergamot, grapefruit; and something oddly specific and new to you that you can’t decipher immediately—and you can’t help but think of the High Table. Have they found out it was you who shot Tarasov? Made some sort of demand? “What’s this?”

Your eyes hurriedly sweep over the golden letters.

Oh.

“My darling sister,” Santino begins, his words strangled with rage, thickening his accent. “Decided that it would be apt to invite me to her coronation. And for what? To laugh in my face? As if—”  

He breaks off, his mouth twisting into a sneer before he stands, tugging on his suit harshly as he drops the serviette back on the table, pushing past you. You turn, following his swift retreat, and look towards Ares who stands there with an equally startled expression.

She knows what this meant to him, she signs and there’s a sharpness to her movements that betray her own irritation.

Exhaling knowingly, you place the card back on the table and give both Ares and the awkwardly silent Roberto a look. “I’ll talk with him. Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone for looking at him funny today.”

Pocketing his phone, you depart the kitchen, already having a good idea where to find him. Climbing up the grand staircase, you emerge onto the terrace. The brisk breeze ruffles your clothes and hair but you immediately spot Santino in the far distance. His fingers drum against the railing as he stares down at the city below him. It’s a different sight to one from last night. Today he breathes that cold, unpredictable violence instead of calm.

“Dramatic much?” you call out but the way of opening up the conversation.

His grip on the railing tightens and his shoulders shake in a mockery of a laugh.

“Ah, right now may not be the best time, amore,” he replies with a deliberate exhale, his voice flat and biting. “I would prefer if we avoided you getting angry at me first thing in the morning.”

“It had to be done, grumpy,” you point out carefully as you come to stand beside him, giving him a deliberate nudge with your elbow. “You’re still a Camorra heir, even if a Spare. Inviting you is tradition. Gianna may not be the nicest person around but she is proud and won’t go for a cheap shot like this. You know that. Besides, you don’t have to go. I don’t think it would surprise many people if you didn’t show up.”

“Tradition,” he repeats with a scoff, scornful and dissonant. “I just—”

His voice is heavy with frustration, with the damage he tries to bury, and you glance up at him. “I know.”

He’s disappointed and jealous. You may know a thing or two about that.

You reach into your pocket and hold out his phone to him. Santino looks down at it and reaches out. But instead of taking the phone, he takes your hand, cradling it in his larger one.

“Santino.”

A plea and a warning.

“I know,” he echoes your earlier words, hollow, and his voice dips, lowering till it’s almost a whisper; his own plea. “But let me pretend. Even if only for a moment, hm? Would you do that for me, bella?”

Let me pretend that you love me.

Your heart aches.

In this dazzling morning sun, you feel helplessly exposed. In the shadows of the night, it’s so easy to pretend, to forget, to imagine that things are still simple between you. That this something between you doesn’t frighten you. That the way he’s looking at you right now isn’t ripping at that wall between you with enough force to make the foundation itself tremble.  

“Vancouver,” you choke out, grasping for something—anything—to say. “You never told me how it went.”

His scrutiny doesn’t drop and you feel his thumb ghost over your knuckles. You hold incredibly still to avoid showing any sign of discomfort or pain but judging by his pinched expression, you fail at your task.

“Small loss of 400k,” he divulges in Italian, absentminded, and continues peering at you. “But we got the shipment back. However, the lead on who ordered the hit went cold. Very…frustrating.”

Only Santino D’Antonio would think a loss of 400k is a small one. But you also know that the whole shipment came closer to being 5 million in value so, in hindsight, you do understand his flippant outlook on it.

“If it weren’t for the High Table looming over me, I would say let’s go on a hunt,” you comment mildly, forcing a smile. But it’s difficult to keep a straight face when he’s tracing the ridges between your knuckles with such measured tenderness. Hands with just as much blood, if not more, on them hold your own carefully and something about it... “I—”

You tug your hand away from his, your expression faltering.

Santino gazes down at his phone blankly for a moment before slipping it inside his suit pocket, his own expression removed. Distant with its coolness.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly and find that you can’t meet his stare. “I can’t.”

You hate the fact that you have to say no to him now of all the times. After what he did for you yesterday, after what you did to him. It’s so unfair and you hate yourself at that moment more than anything. That here, possibly at the end of it all, you still can’t—

You don’t want—

Hope is a dangerous thing. You can’t give him any now.

“Winston asked me to see him alone.”

“I know, cara mia.”

“That’s it?”

His eyes flash and his head tilts. “What is it that you wish me to say, hm?”

“If I never see you again—”

“Do not.”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such a vehement refusal to accept what you both know full well might be your reality.  

So instead you step closer to him. The breeze brushes against his curls but unlike last night the unruly strands stay in place. He looks cautious, almost wary, to have you this near but you only lean closer. Your hand comes to rest against his left cheek while you press your lips lightly against his right. The warmth of him is so familiar you linger for a second, warmed by the moment itself, while he stands taut in front of you, still and silent. Breathing softly, you pull back and find his eyes closed, expression serene, and trace your fingertips down his cheek before stepping back and letting them drop away.

Despite not being able to pretend in a way he wants you to, you can still give him this.

You see him swallow just before you turn back towards the patio door and walk away.

I wish we had more time.

“If you plan to kill me, you picked a hell of a spot.”

Winston doesn’t even raise his head, still focused on his notebook as he continues scribbling something down. His handwriting is too elegant and cramped for you to get a good look at what he’s working on, and honestly, you know better than to try and poke around his business.  

“Kill you?” he echoes, his voice bored. “People are enjoying their lunch, dear, don’t be ridiculous. And do sit down,” he adds when you don’t move from your spot in front of him.

You don’t want to sit down. It feels like an invisible blade has pressed against your neck, and you can feel it kissing your fragile skin with every second that crawls by. You know how these things go. Winston is in his kingdom and the walls that have always felt like safety—home—now feel like a threat.

Despite your open unease, you move towards the expensive leather sofa opposite to him and sit down stiffly. Your gaze, cautious and wary, sweeps over the dining guests intently. Anyone tries to take you on, and you will split them open. Yesterday’s acceptance of your looming death has seemingly up and vanished, and now there’s just an aloof sort of irritation left behind.

What did you do so wrong?

Killed a man who murdered your parents and then kept you chained to him like a dog for years?

That’s justice, not a crime.    

“So, what am I looking at?”

He still doesn’t look at you, and his silence makes you almost fidget with nerves. When has anything good ever come from Winston keeping silent like this? His anger has always come in a different form to what you’re used to. No—his anger is like a chilly winter’s day. When the air is crisp and full of promise that there’s a blizzard coming soon. Almost unassuming in its vicious bite.  

“They think it was Johnathan.”

You stare at him. “What?”

The man before you ‘tsk’s and scribbles something else in his notebook. “Trouble hearing at such a young age?”

Oh, he’s annoyed alright. But your heart is fluttering in your chest, and relief starts rushing through you before you can stop it. Does he really mean that? Has the High Table really concluded that it was John?

Did you really get away with killing Viggo Tarasov?

“Winston,” you bite out, forcefully calm. “What the hell do you mean they think it was John?”

Finally—finally—Winston’s eyes lift to you. He regards you coolly over his glasses, his lips pressed into a stiff line. He shifts in his seat, lowering his pen slightly and you hold his stare.

“Well the High Table was made aware of what was happening in New York,” he explains and you know full well that he was the one doing the reporting. As is standard procedure for every Continental owner. “And there is no one left alive to disapprove their theory.”

That gives you a pause. Because it’s true.

Everyone directly involved with Viggo—the man himself, his son, his elite guard—have all been butchered by either John or you. Even Marcus and Perkins are dead.

The only people left alive who know what really happened are you, John, Winston, and Santino. Ares may know most of it too but other than that…

“So they just…assumed?” you wonder in a whisper, almost choked with disbelief, with hope and joy. “Didn’t question it?”

Winston makes a small noise at the back of his throat and his lips twist into a wry, cynical thing. “Of course they did. They found the lack of your involvement suspicious,” he states and watches your reaction. “They asked for a report. I had to tell them the truth. That you were attacked on company grounds, and I told you to walk away which you did. I assume that Mr. D’Antonio had the pleasure of your company for the rest of the night.”

You blink, your eyes narrowing. For him to say that…

“Santino wasn’t back in New York till 1am,” you word as carefully as you can, and your eyes sweep over the diners again, cautious. Of course, if this conversation wasn’t safe for you to have out here in the lounge, then you won’t be having it. Still, it feels like too much of an invite for people to let their ears stray. “That’s almost a five-hour window in which Tarasov died and I’m unaccounted for.”

“Yes, but it seems like signor D’Antonio had enough sense to corroborate your alibi and lie on your behalf regardless,” he says and you feel your heart stutter in your chest, your lips parting slightly in shock. “He may be a Spare but he is still Camorra. His word, it seems, still carries a degree of power.”

Winston’s eyebrow cocks at your stunned expression and his smile is a little too patronising for your taste. “He didn’t tell you,” he assumes and sighs, glancing back at his notes, and you read the subtle irritation there. “That certainly explains why he’s outside my hotel right now and has it surrounded.”

For a moment, it’s silent. The lounge is still a buzz of cutlery and murmurs of chatter between diners but the silence between you is suffocating with implication. Winston watches you, amused, and you kick your brain back into action. Dismayed.  

“He’s what?”

You are under my protection.

The phantom of him leans over your shoulder, looming and protective, all sharp edges and that sly smirk, and you feel both cold and hot all at once. What the hell is he thinking? Does he really believe that if it came down to it he could save you from the High Table? What even is his plan? To break down Winston’s front door and paint the walls of Continental with blood?

The repercussions for such a breach of rules alone—

He could be stripped of his power, punished, he—

Insane.

He’s a goddamn insane idiot. He—

I will never abandon you.

“He promised me that he will keep me safe from the High Table.”

It comes out as a strangled whisper.

Winston hums, and you hear the hint of mockery there. “Promised? How quint,” he mutters, and takes his glasses off, placing them between the pages of his notebook. “I do wonder what value the word of Santino D’Antonio holds in today’s market.”

“The word of the old Camorra.”

That gets a reaction.

The man blinks, his face slacking with disbelief—maybe even shock—for a single second before his expression goes back to that familiar impersonal mask.  

“My, my. He certainly is full of surprises, isn’t he?” he questions, but you can tell he’s not expecting an answer from you. His eyebrows are still raised though. He knows full well what those words mean. What power they hold, and with them you see understanding overtake his features. If before Santino’s presence outside his door was an annoyance, now it’s certainly still an annoyance but at least with an explanation. “Not that it would have made a difference, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Still reeling from the conversation at hand, you can’t help but bite out an irritated, “What’s with the attitude? Do you want an apology, is that it? You knew I would go after Tarasov. You even told me where they were.”

Winston’s weathered features draw into a deep frown. The blue of his eyes is cutting as he observes you shrewdly for a long moment.

“Yes, I did,” he begins, and you feel your shoulders curl downwards at his tone; reproachful, displeased. “With the hope that you would be smarter about this and help Johnathan to finish it instead of doing what you did. He gets his revenge and you are free of your debt. You both walk away without consequences. But instead, you broke the rules, (Name). Had the High Table pulled on so much as a thread, I would have had no choice but to tell them everything. You missed losing your life by an inch. By nothing more than sheer dumb luck and chance. You, better than most, know that luck doesn’t get you far in our world. You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time. Luck always runs out, and when it does consequences follow.”

The void his words leave between you is unforgiving and heavy. The worst part is that you know he’s right. Luck and chance. Death missed you by a hair.

If it hadn’t been for Winston withholding information. If it hadn't been for Santino lying on your behalf…

You would be dead.

It still doesn’t stop the simmer of rage in your gut though. Of pain and helplessness. You’re silent for longer than you would have liked purely because you can’t speak over the swell of emotion inside you.

You want—need—him to understand.

Understand that despite his inherent belief in rules and order, sometimes they bind you from getting justice. That sometimes the righteous thing to do can be the wrong thing to do. That in a world of killers, liars, and thieves, the grey area is all that exists.

No one who lives in this world, who thrives in it, is good.

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.”

Giovanni D’Antonio had at least that right.

The blood on your hands may haunt you, but it has also made you powerful, feared, respected.

You can’t—will not—be ashamed of that.

“After everything he took from me…it had to be me, Winston,” you croak out, your voice a mangled mess. Something flickers across the manager’s expression and the nature of his regard changes. “It had to be by my hand. Consequences be damned.”

Because you would have regretted it for the rest of your life. Revenge is an ugly thing. But you had needed it. It’s true that you could have left Tarasov to die there. Let him meet a miserable, slow end. It would have been easy. But you would have spent the rest of your life feeling cheated out of the twisted justice you’ve craved and bettered yourself for, for years.  

“And?” Winston wonders, surprisingly quiet and curious. “Do you feel happy (Name)? Fulfilled now that it’s done?”

Your lips stretch back, baring your teeth to him in a mockery of a smile, off-tilter and twisted. “I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Your hand comes to cover your face and you rub your trembling fingers against your temple, your eyes burning.  

“(Name),” he speaks deliberately, and there’s something softer in his voice this time. A tiny shift you won’t have noticed if you hadn’t known him for as long as you have. “Are you well?”

You laugh. It sounds as wrecked, as ruined, as the rest of you.

“No,” you admit because you both know it’s true. Your head slants, your arm dropping from your face, but your sardonic smile remains. “But I have no choice but to go on. It’s not like the last time,” you add upon noticing the deep furrow of his brows.

He peers at you with a look that makes you feel oddly vulnerable, oddly naked under that knowing, wise stare. It’s an echo of a look from years ago. From before Chicago.  

“I presume you already know that I could get you safe passage out of the city by sundown if you need it,” he speaks slowly, his scrutiny not letting up, and you lace your trembling fingers together. Emotions bubble at the back of your throat as you stare at each other wordlessly.  

“And you think that I should?” you wonder at last, soft and frayed. “Just run away?”

Winston gazes at you for a long minute and you distantly wonder what exactly he sees before him. You’ve never gotten a sense that he pities you—not once, not even when you were at your absolute worst—and despite everything, an ember of affection warms your chest as you peer at him. But Winston is still Winston. He’s as ruthless as the worst of them—perhaps even more so.

“I think,” he begins after a lengthy pause between you. “That for the first time in your life, you get to choose for yourself.”

Your head dips and you nod a little, dragging your hands up and down your thighs till you can feel the tremble subside somewhat. In your head, as always, you count. It helps. The relief of knowing that—for now at least—you are safe is immense too, overpowering almost everything else.

“Thank you, Winston. For everything,” you say to him, serious and soft; an echo of your letter to him. “And especially for stopping me from killing Perkins. For covering for me.”

The man nods his head once, looking a little wary when you rise to your feet. There is instability in your step that you know he picks up on immediately but doesn’t comment upon.

“But I still have loose ends to deal with in New York,” you inform him and exhale, thinking about Santino outside. A shadow from your shared past still lingers and you don’t like the idea of hiding from it. “Besides running now might make the High Table even more suspicious. I rather they don’t poke around further. Like you said…chance and luck.”

The older man places his glasses back on his face and studies you for another charged moment. Winston is not the type to disregard what you want but perhaps for the first time since before Chicago, he’s considering it.

“Be that it may, the offer still stands,” he states and a weak smile blooms across your face.  

You’re about to open your mouth and reply when you hear someone walk up—heavy steps, off-balanced, most likely injured—to you. Your head turns and you feel something coil in your gut.

“John.”

He looks better than he did yesterday but obvious pain still lingers across his features. His suit is messier too—as if he didn’t have the energy to smooth out the creases the way he usually does. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you with clear relief and you swallow, trying to steel yourself under his scrutiny. He doesn’t need to know what the events of yesterday have managed to break and mangle inside you.

“Can I talk to you?”

It’s ridiculous how uneasy that question makes you feel. Both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ burn on the tip of your tongue but you can’t force yourself to say either.  

“Jonathan,” Winston speaks in a greeting and when your eyes find him, you note his pointed stare. He’s buying you time to make up your mind. “So good to see you back with us again. And so soon.”

“Winston,” John greets back but his stare doesn’t stray from you.

Sighing, you clear your throat and glance back at your old partner.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private.”

Wait for me. We need to talk.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

I’ll be outside—Santi

Pocketing your phone with a faint sigh, you turn back towards John who sits on the loveseat in clear discomfort. He tries to hide it but you can read his tells.

“You shouldn’t be up and about,” you state flatly, and it’s impossible to miss your accusatory tone. “You do realise how close you came to death less than 24 hours ago, right?”

John breathes deeply, laboured; an exercise to block out the pain you know well enough. The only painkiller you’ve been able to locate inside his house was aspirin. Hardly the best drug given the circumstances due to its blood-thinning qualities but it’s not like you had any alternatives. In fact, with the wound tightly stitched, aspirin at least gave you some relief that the chances of him developing a blood clot have been reduced.

But watching him struggle with every inhale makes you bite back another sigh and move towards your work desk. Everything is still in place though the general mess from last night has been cleaned up. Your eyes snag onto two letters still sitting peacefully on your desk and you pause. You’ve been so ready to say goodbye. The desperation you’ve felt yesterday had blinded you but you don’t regret it. If you could avoid involving them, you still would. Even at the expense of your own life.

You reach for the two envelopes and input a code on the small keypad as your storage box opens. Inside, most of the spare solutions you’ve made in recent months. The rest sit safe and secure in the vaults underneath the hotel. The Continental is one of the few places you trust to store them.

You place the letters inside, lingering, and grab one of the vials on the side. The pale green liquid inside glimmers and you shake it a few times. Closing the door, you hear the telltale beep of the locks securing and turn back towards John again.

You hesitate for a second before you approach him, extending your hand.

Judging by his body mass, the dosage should be enough.  

“For the pain and the swelling,” you inform him stiffly. “I’m still working on perfecting it so you’re better off going back to your room and sleeping this off. It will make you pretty dizzy and drowsy too. But besides Doc’s own work this is the best you can hope for around these parts. Should help with any possible infection too.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Your eyes shoot up to him, surprised. He holds your stare but reaches for the vial, his touch hesitant.

“Thought the High Table nabbed me?” you wonder with a humourless smile. “No. I left on my own accord.”

He digests your words, and you know that he understands what you’re trying to say. That you left because you didn’t want to stay. That even though he asked, you had the will to stand up and walk out of the door. That now, unlike before, it’s almost easy. Almost.

He gazes at you silently, and for split second you see the John from your dream. The John that always turns away. The John that always leaves. The John that’s always out of reach.

Just John.

“So what are you planning to do now?” you ask after the potent tension between you becomes near unbearable. “Your revenge is complete. I assume you know about Marcus too.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” John replies, and his quiet words are laced with pain. Marcus has been as much of a friend to John as he’s been a mentor. Back in their military days, all they had was each other. You know first hand how much protecting and fighting together binds people. How trust in them becomes an instinct, natural and effortless. “It’s my fault he died.”

“I talked him into it,” you say tightly, and your eyes leave him. It’s hard not to let guilt claw up your throat and steal your voice. “He—it was my fault. I underestimated Tarasov. His death is on me.”

Silence, and then, “I shouldn’t have involved either of you. I’m so sorry.”

Your attention goes back to him and you observe him coolly for several minutes.

The vial in his hand is empty and you smile again; even if it lacks warmth. “So how does it feel? Was it worth it? Your revenge?”

John doesn’t offer you an answer which is an answer in itself. His eyes lower and you notice him touch his wedding band, delicate and loving. A grieving husband. Perhaps it’s no wonder he rushed into this the way he did. When you’re hurting so much nothing else matters. You just want some form of release, an escape. Something to distract you from the misery of your own thoughts.

You know what that’s like.

“I owe you a debt,” he finally voices and you wonder if he realises how empty he sounds. How weary and reluctant. “The High Table—”

“Thinks that it was you.”

John’s eyes snap back to you, and you smile again, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the tremble in your fingers.

“Didn’t Winston tell you?” you question, a bite to your words that never used to be present when you talked. “I figured with the Russians possibly having something to say about Tarasov’s death he would have told you.”

John sighs and shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers ghosting over his wound. The sequence of little movements that just makes him look more miserable. “No, he didn’t,” he admits and you don’t quite understand his expression. “He isn’t too happy with me right now,” he adds wryly.

Your head tilts in confusion but before you can ask him anything else, he speaks, “Who will take over Tarasov’s mob?”

For a moment, you consider pursuing your previous line of inquiry but decide to drop it for now. Winston isn’t exactly happy with either of you at this moment.

Sighing, you consider his question. “Abram if I had to take a guess,” you divulge, and watch him dip his chin in consideration. “He’s the only blood relative of Viggo’s left. Igor may try to claim it but Abram has enough respect and pull to hold the position. Igor also doesn’t know New York the way Abram does. After such a heavy loss they need a strong leader who knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he have the power to call in your debt?”

“No,” you say without hesitation, and your eyes narrow on him. “Only an heir can inherit a debt unpaid. Viggo named his son his heir. He hoped that it would make Iosef step up to the plate. Man up. But, well, you know how well that worked out. Abram has no claim over my debt.”

For the first time since stepping inside your room, you see relief on John’s face. “So you’re free.”

You swallow thickly.

Those words make your skin itch.

Freedom.

A lack of leash does not amount to freedom.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper and it sounds faint. “I’m pretty sure the High Table has to officially release me first. That’s assuming they don’t uncover any damning evidence that places me at the docks.”

John peers at you but his gaze now lacks that sharp edge. Your solution is starting to take effect. His muscles have started to relax, and the strain of pain that previously lingered across his features has been wiped away.

“You should be resting,” you remind him and clear your throat, glancing towards the window to avoid his stare. Your folded fingers twitch and you tighten your grip, your nails biting into your flesh even though it strains the bruised skin. “Go back, John. All those years ago, I told you to be happy. Your revenge is done. Go back and be glad that this ended as happily as it did. This isn’t your life anymore. You don’t belong here.”

It’s a cruel thing to say.

But so was I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen.

So was walking out of that hotel room door knowing full well that the person you are leaving behind loves you more than anything.

You no longer know how to be kind and soft with him and it pains you.

John remains quiet for a long time after that. His expression creases with thought, troubling and deep, if the heavy curve of his shoulders is anything to go by. And when his stare does finally go back to you, as dark and as piercing as it has always been, you feel your heartbeat spike.

“I’m going to find my car first.”

And just like that, you know.    

This isn’t over.

. . .

an: so you know when you all said how you want protective!Santi??? WELL HOW WAS THIS, HUH??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Also sorry if 1) this chapter got a bit heavy but wherein most people would be hyped up and ready to take on the world I kinda felt like all this suddenly piling on top of her would negatively affect V, making her retreat and break down a bit 2) if this reads rougher than usual. this part has been a bit of a struggle to write due to some outside factors and me straight up not having a great time these last few weeks. 

As always, I adore you all. Thank you so, SO much for reading this series and being so incredibly passionate about it. To finish this fic is one of my 2020 resolutions and BOI do I have some stuff in the plans for you lot. Hope you all had wonderful holidays!!! See you all next decade~ ;)  

[haikyuu-scenarios-drabbles]

Professor Kuroo Part Two 

slides this across the table in a humble offering that it’s been 3 weeks since my poll pls forgive me 

part one

Love y’all,  J

~

You hate yourself for what you’ve done. But with the convention around the corner, your higher-ups are rightfully confused as to why you want out of Dr. Kuroo’s project so late in the game. You try to chalk it up to wanting to ‘broaden your horizons’, but even that doesn’t convince them fully. Instead, they tell you to continue working with Dr. Kuroo while also giving you some small task on Dr. Yu’s project that you’ll probably complete in two days.

So, Monday morning after that meeting crushing your hopes of just brushing what happened in the library Friday night under the rug, you trudge back to your desk trying your best to ignore the whispers following you as you go. Word spreads like wildfire around here. You’re not surprised, your request came out of the blue, particularly since up until now it seemed like you’ve been working fine with Dr. Kuroo.

Which…you have. Up until last week.

It isn’t that you don’t like him anymore, or that you don’t return his feelings—obviously not considering your reaction to his move on you. It’s more that you think it won’t be fair to either of you to go on pretending like nothing happened, because god knows you don’t even know if you can. Which is why it would be best if you stayed away from him, no reason to torture yourself like that. Or him.

Though, it looks like you’re just going to have to grin and bear it. No matter that you spent the entire weekend trying to stop thinking about what happened—and miserably failing. Any spare moment you had, without your permission, your brain would drift to the sensation of his hands clasped to your waist; his lips on yours, and from there you couldn’t stop imagining what would have happened had you let him continue.

That’s usually about the time you shoved your face into the nearest pillow to scream into or slapped your cheeks to bring you back to reality.

You think you can do it, act normal around him, give no inclination that anything is different. As much as you’re going to hate it, mainly because it’s going to hurt him, nobody—and you mean nobody can have any suspicions.

That is until he strides in the office door, looking more jaw-dropping than usual. You always had a hard time controlling yourself whenever he rolled up the sleeves of his button-up, but today he’s topping it off with the rare sight of his glasses and tousled hair looking notably unruly this morning. Judging from the glasses, hair, his bag practically bursting, and the numerous rolled up papers beneath his arm, it’s been a rough morning.

The dark circles under his eyes suggest it’s been a tough weekend as well.

You bite your lip, hoping it’s because of the conference and not you.

His eyes land on you almost immediately, expression giving away nothing. You are surprised that he makes his way over to you, drops his things on your desk in a huff, breathlessly explaining, “I have a meeting in like two minutes, I can’t make it back to my office in time, I’m sorry to ask you this but—,”

You go on autopilot mode, reassuring him, “I’ll handle it, just go!”

He gives you a grateful smile before jogging off to the conference room.

Truthfully, he’s glad he’s had a whirlwind of a morning, otherwise he doesn’t know how he would have approached you so normally. And he’s surprised at how receptive you were to him, he thought you’d be avoiding him, especially since you requested to switch off his project.

He frowns. He is not in the mood to think about that right now. It was bad enough being unable to focus this weekend, because if he lets himself, he’ll get consumed with thoughts of you. He’s thankfully able to think about something else during the meeting, distracted by data reports from other faculty and details about the conference. Upon the conclusion of the meeting, he’s surprised there’s no discussion about your request to transfer. As of now, all he knows is that the request has been made, there’s been no word on its verdict.

Before he can head out, he is by no means shocked when the head of the department asks him to follow him to his office. He does his best to remain as indifferent as possible as he follows him, making a point to ignore you as he passes your desk on the way to the back.

The door closes behind him, and Kuroo sets his expression straight, no need to give Dr. Takahashi any reason for suspicion.

“Are aware that your graduate student requested to be switched off your project, Dr. Kuroo?”

One of the reasons Kuroo respects his colleague so much is that he never dances around the subject, but right now he wishes he’d sound a little less accusatory with that statement.

No reason to lie here either, so Kuroo nods passively, replying with a noncommittal, “I did. Dr. Yu emailed me about it this weekend.”

He raises a brow. “Any idea why? There hasn’t seemed to be a problem all year, and with the conference coming up, it’s a bit unexpected.”

Kuroo takes a moment to consider what you might have said when probably asked a very similar question when you made the request. He’s certain you didn’t come clean about the situation, otherwise he’d be dealing with a much different person right now. “I’m sure they were looking for more to do,” Kuroo rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and judging by Takahashi’s expression he hit the nail on the head. “I can’t seem to give them enough, every time I turn around, they’re already finished and onto the task.”

Not entirely true, you do finish tasks quickly and diligently, but you’re pretty good about keeping yourself busy. He rarely has to explicitly tell you what to do next. He did when you first started, as expected, but by now you’ve gotten the flow of things and can work seamlessly with him like you’re reading his mind. Other professors are jealous and wish you were their graduate student, so he’s heard.

“Ah, well. Unfortunately, I denied the request. We’re winding down to the conference anyways, there’s not much to do anywhere. I’ll revisit it once things pick up again and see where they’re at.” He waves Kuroo out, and he almost sighs a breath of relief once the door closes until he realizes what comes next.

Facing you.

God, he’s gone over this situation over and over in his head all weekend, but now that it’s here his stomach is twisting into knots at the thought of confronting you. He wants to bring it up, thinking it would be best to talk it out, see where the other person is at, but not here. Not somewhere with the risk of someone overhearing.

He at least gives you the curtesy of approaching your desk from the front instead of behind like he usually does, as he found it amusing watching you jerk in surprise in your chair—no, even that’s too dangerous. You watch him carefully, wondering just what exactly he’s going to open with.

“Are you doing anything right now? Do you want to go over this week’s plan in my office?” He asks, unaware that the nerves coiling in your chest unravel slightly at his mundane request. It’s familiar, the two of you usually hash out the week on Monday to ensure an efficient plan, and you’re glad he started with that and not something ominous like, we need to talk.

Though there is an underlying suggestion in the seemingly simple question.

Go over the plan, in his office. A key detail that anyone else wouldn’t blink twice at.

You, on the other hand, fear an ambush. But part of you wouldn’t mind talking it out so there isn’t this air charged with anxiety that you can already feel simmering between the two of you.

“No, I was waiting for you to finish your meeting so we could go over the week.”

He smiles softly at you, and the expression that sends your heart thundering against your chest. The trek back to his office lets your nerves ramp up, making you paranoid about all of the possible things that aren’t the plan for the week he’s going to bring up once the door shuts. The closer you get, the more your mindset shifts from maybe being willing to discuss things to wanting to completely and utterly forget it, and go about your lives blissfully ignorant.

You’re glad he doesn’t take a seat behind his desk, which would have made you feel even more skittish that he’s planning on having a serious talk with you. Instead, he sinks into one of the two armchairs in the corner; a place the two of you have spent many hours in discussion over a cup of coffee in. You didn’t think it possible, but somehow that’s worse that him sitting behind his desk. This is far more…intimate.

He just looks at you, reading you so easily you hate it, saying, “I’m not going to bring it up. Not here.”

“Why not?” The words tumble from your mouth without much thought. You loathe how pathetic it makes you sound. His eyes softening only make it worse.

Choosing his next words carefully, he eyes the door behind you and lowers his voice, “Do you want to?”

He notices the flicker of your jaw. You’re contemplating something, so he just waits, despite his emotions rearing to bubble to the surface.

“I—uh…no. I’d rather not.”

You aren’t expecting the finality of those words to make your heart feel heavy in your chest. Like you’re closing a door that you’ve been wondering if it would ever open since meeting him and…it doesn’t sit right. None of this does. But you must continue on the way it is, there isn’t another choice, as much as you hate it.

You’re shocked to hear what he says next.

“Do you ever?”

Up until now, you were finding it difficult to look at him. But with those words, your attention snaps to his, getting pinned by his golden gaze. Without much thought you say softly, “I don’t know.” You wish he would wipe that stupid fucking expression off his face. It simultaneously makes you want to grab his head between your hands to kiss and slap him across the face. You have to resist the urge to do either, unfortunately.

“That’s fine,” he says, so nonchalantly you grit your teeth. He was the one to confess his feelings to you. It’s making you feel so childish how much you’re struggling with your emotions when he seems perfectly fine. Little do you know; he’s hiding his channeling his true feelings into gripping the armrests as hard as he can. At least you didn’t shut him out completely. “So,” he scratches his chin. “Your request to switch projects was declined.”

You visibly straighten. “Now that’s something I don’t want to discuss.”

He smirks, unable to resist his prevocational tendencies. “What are you afraid of?”

He watches as your fists ball, unsure if his tactic is going to work out in his favor or not. “You said we wouldn’t talk about it here!” You hiss, lowering your voice to barely a whisper.

Leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees he proposes, “You’re right. How about tonight, The Brew at eight?”

“I am not going on a date with you! That’s the complete opposite of what we should do!” You whisper as angrily as you can muster.

“Just a humble meeting between colleagues,” he says simply. “Nothing else.”

Your eyes narrow, and he hopes with all his might you’ll agree to his request.

His heart soars as you say, “Fine. Just talking.”

“Just talking,” he nods, sincerely meaning it. You’re both adults here, and he’d like to settle this before it blows up in your faces.

He’s glad that you relax and slump into the chair beside him. “Can we talk about the week now please?” You hate how much you love the grin that lights up his face.

And as nervous as you are for tonight, you also feel a strange sense of calm about it. Relieved to get some things straight after a rather tumultuous weekend.

~

and now forgive me that there’s going to be a part 3 😈 

part three part four