Pairing: Bucky x Italian!MobBoss!Reader
Word Count: 4,867
Warnings: canon level violence, possible inaccurate italian slang lol
A/N: ive been watching a lot of the sopranos lately and i feel like ive never seen a bucky x mob boss reader au (ive only rlly seen em where buckys the mob boss. if there are ones where reader is the mob boss PLS SEND EM TO ME I BEG) a lot of the slang and mob stuff here is from sopranos bc... im not in the fucking mafia so forgive me anyway enjoy :)<3
Bucky’s never seen a woman quite like yourself.
Dressed in expensive satin and jewelry that hangs between your breasts, an angry look on your face at the fact you’re sitting before him and Sam in an interrogation room in the tower. Freshly done nails, clean and crisp lipstick, spicy perfume, and an expression of annoyance.
As put together as you look, you don’t look like someone to be fucked with. Which, he supposes is good for a mobster; the Boss of Newark.
Looking at you, though, he’d never thought you to be such a figure of intimidation. While the mafia is still alive, despite how the media tries to deny this, he always pictured an old Italian man that chain smokes cigars. He doesn’t think he’s too far off, to his credit; he can smell the remnants of smoke on you.
“Mind if we make this fast? My cousin’s comin’ for dinner and I was gonna make ziti.” You huff, crossing your legs under the table.
“Sounds delicious. Sorry for dragging you all the way out here.” Sam says, a calm look on his face even though he’s well aware of what you’re capable of.
When hunting down the last traces of the super soldier serum, he never thought Nick Fury himself would suggest getting in touch with you. He didn’t think it was worth the time to question how the two of you knew each other.
Theft. Drugs. Murder. Bribery. The list goes on, and there’s not a single thing that ties you to any of it.
A shrug of your shoulders, “So, what exactly is this about?” You ask.
“What is it that you do for a living?” Sam asks.
“I work in waste management.” You respond, a rehearsed answer.
Not exactly a lie, the environmental facility you manage is one of hundreds of covers used by your crew for your crimes. Environmental facilities, deli shops, strip clubs, auto shops. There isn’t a business in Jersey you aren’t tied to.
“Waste management? Like, garbage disposal?” Bucky asks, knowing exactly what it is you do for work.
You smirk, “Yeah, we dispose of garbage sometimes. What’s that got to do with me being here?”
“It’s to my understanding that you’re in the business of… buying and selling things. You and… the people you hang around got a real knack for it.” Sam tells you.
Bucky holds back a roll of his eyes. More like stealing and selling. Expensive Italian suits, antique watches, cars, electronics, illegal cigars. Who knows what else.
“I don’t know where you heard that… but I’m a popular gal, maybe I know a guy who might know a guy. What are you lookin’ for?” You ask.
You know this game, after being in the mob for so long. After being a part of your own crew for years, your patience and hard work paid off, working your way up to a captain and finally a boss. It didn’t take you long to learn in this business that government officials are jokes. Always wanting to bust my balls and then come crying to my corner for help, it’s a bunch of ugatz.
“Serums.” Bucky finally speaks.
A laugh escapes you, “What, like vitamin C?” You teasingly smirk at him.
His chair makes a loud sound in the small room as he pushes it back harshly and stands, resting his hands on the table in between the two of you. You don’t flinch.
“Enough with the bullshit. Super serums. To create super soldiers. We need to get them before they end up in the wrong hands and make a big ass mess.” He snaps at you, but you don’t seem phased in the slightest. In fact, you seem rather amused.
“You must have a lot of agita with all that anger, Sergeant Barnes.”
He doesn’t hold back this time and rolls his eyes before you speak up again, “Your first name is James, isn’t it? Ain’t that Italian?”
“No, it’s English. Or Scottish. Or Jewish - I don’t know, who cares? Are you gonna help us or not?” Bucky takes his seat again, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest.
“What’s in it for me?” You ask, leaning back in your chair.
“Not being arrested for all the shit we know you’re caught up in.” Sam offers.
You roll your own eyes this time, “I’ll take my chances. Thanks for wasting my time, boys, don’t let it happen again.” You stand, prepared to make your way back to the train station to go back to Jersey.
“Wait,” Sam stops you, “What is it that you want?”
You smile innocently and take your seat again, taking a minute to think before answering, “My little sister’s a big fan of yours. I’m sure she and all her friends would think it’s cool if you showed up to her prom as her date.” You wink at Sam.
Silence fills the room as the men think about your request.
“You’re gonna do it, right?” Bucky looks over at him and sees Sam rubbing the crease in between his eyes. He was expecting you to ask for immunity, protection, money, guns. But after hearing your request, he supposes you have enough of all that stuff anyway.
“Man -” Sam begins to refuse.
“Sam, it’s a fucking school dance in exchange for some of the most powerful and sought after serums on the planet - go to the fucking prom.” He tells him, eyebrows scrunching in confusion as to how he would hesitate on something so simple.
“She’s eighteen, so you won’t have any problems with the media or none of that.” You add, the information not really making Sam feel any better.
“Alright, alright, fine. I’ll go to the dance with your sister if you help us get these serums.”
You smile, happy to have done business with the two men, “What information do ya got for me?”
Bucky and Sam wait outside a back room in the facility you own. They passed the garbage trucks parked neatly outside, but could hear your screaming and the smell of Cuban cigars as soon as they entered the building.
She’s with a customer, they were told, by someone in your crew, them meeting Bucky’s expectations for mobsters more than you did. None of them ask any questions, but Bucky and Sam aren’t stupid, they’re sure your crew is aware of what’s going on and know the exact reason they’re there.
“You’re a fuckin’ asshole, you know that? The Bible says, Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit -”
“You listen to me, you take your Bible and your quotations book and shove it up your fat fucking ass! Now get the fuck out of my face!”
Bucky can’t help but scoff listening to you scream at whoever’s inside. Sam elbows him, silently telling him that now isn’t the time to find your work funny, especially not in front of the rest of your crew.
Bucky knows he’s old-fashioned, and while things that were taboo such as body modifications or certain fashion styles don’t phase him anymore, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to hearing a woman talk like that. He doesn’t think he’s ever even heard anybody talk like you do.
Suddenly a man bursts out of the room, huffing and puffing, and you walk slowly behind him, as if to make sure he makes it outside okay.
“Grab his plate for me, will you?” You say not to anyone in particular, voice smooth and calm as if you hadn’t been yelling and threatening that man’s life for the past twenty minutes.
One of the men from your crew follows outside, seemingly to collect the license plate of the man who just left.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to that guy, right?” Sam asks as he and Bucky enter the room, taking a seat in front of the desk you have in there. He knows there’s no point in asking, that you’ll do whatever you want regardless because it’s obvious you’re passionate about receiving respect, but it was worth a shot.
“Is that what you came all the way to Jersey to ask me? Christ, I’m fuckin’ starving, you boys want anything to eat?” You ask, accent heavy as you reach into the side drawer of your desk and pull out what seems to be some kind of meat wrapped in paper.
“Gabagool?” You offer to them, picking out a slice for yourself and placing it in your mouth.
“Gesundheit.” Sam responds.
“It’s pork, you asshole.”
Bucky silently reaches over and picks off a slice of the cured cold cut, putting the meat in his mouth and savoring the flavor. While he can’t stand the way you make a living or the sailor’s mouth you have, he loves Italian food, and actually chose a neighborhood in New York that has plenty of traditional cold cut markets and restaurants to live in in order to fulfill his cravings.
“There’s a big party staged downtown this weekend, we think that’s when the drop is going to happen.” Sam tells you, bringing the focus to their reason for coming here in the first place.
“I’ll send one of my boys.” You reply in between your chews.
“That wasn’t the deal. The deal was you get the serums.” Bucky speaks up.
“Buck, you know how many people want her dead?” Sam tries to reason.
“What the fuck do I have a crew for then? - No, if pretty boy wants me to do it myself, then I will. The same people that want my head are the same fucks who are terrified to be within twenty feet of me in fear they’ll make eye contact. I’m not scared of nothin’.” You say, narrowing your eyes at Bucky.
“What did you guys come here to talk about?” You ask.
Sam looks confused at your expression, “...To go over the plan? Hash out details? So you know how everything’s gonna go?”
“I’ll be fine; I’ve seen The Godfather once or twice,” You tell him, wrapping up the cappo, after Bucky picks off one last slice, and replacing it in the drawer, “Don’t worry Captain, this ain’t my first rodeo. I’ll get the serums for you.” You open a different drawer and pull out a cigar and a lighter.
Bucky watches as you place the large cigar in between your red-painted lips, bringing the flame of your lighter to the end and hollowing your cheeks until smoke exits from the corner of your mouth. Bucky feels blood travel south as his eyes glaze over your hand grab the cigar out of your mouth and blow out a long string of smoke.
“I guess we’ll be in touch then,” Sam stands and Bucky follows after.
“My sister’s wearing blue, so find yourself a nice tie.” You call out, lifting your feet up to cross them on the desk, dress rising and showing your legs.
Bucky blushes, and then laughs as he exits when he hears you, in a deep and more exaggerated accent than your own, “Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in!”
The morning of the party, Sam and Bucky pick you up from your house, planning to take you into New York to discuss final details before tonight.
You get in the passenger seat, Sam offering it to you and climbing in the backseat. As Bucky begins to drive off, your phone rings.
“I told you to leave that.” Bucky says, telling you explicitly to leave electronics here to prevent anyone finding out where you are, and also to avoid any distractions.
“Wanted to see what you’d about it, Sarge,” You wink at him, pulling out a flip phone and answering the call.
“Yeah… Uh huh… He what? Are you fucking kidding me?... Alright… Tell him not to move a fucking muscle.” You hang up, slamming the phone closed.
“Stop at the facility for a sec, I gotta take care of something.” Bucky sighs and turns away from the route to head to your facility.
“Bucky’s going to be going with you tonight, by the way, he’ll be in disguise. Just in case anything goes wrong.” Sam tells you, not really caring anymore about having to make a stop for you to take care of whatever business you need to take care of.
Your only response is a hum as Bucky can feel the anger radiating off your now tense body.
You slam the car door shut as Bucky parks behind a garbage truck outside, not even waiting for him to fully put the car in park before you exit.
Him and Sam follow quickly behind you to see what’s going on. You enter through a side door that leads to a large room, a garage for the trucks, Bucky assumes.
There’s a large truck inside, and racks of suits wrapped in plastic scattered around. A younger man stands near the truck as your crew peruses around the racks, he couldn’t be older than twenty-five years old. Your heels click on the ground as you approach, slowing down as you glance between the suits and the young man. Bucky and Sam hang around a few feet behind your trail.
You stop, fuming, staring at the man before you speak, “You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?”
“I -” He begins, but you cut him off, raising an open hand at him.
“Actually, I don’t even want to hear your fucking voice right now. Because if what I heard you did is true; if what you did to Vinny’s guy is true, you’re gonna be a fuck load of trouble.”
“Can I -”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I said shut the fuck up, Christopher! What part of that don’t you understand?” You yell, and even Bucky feels intimidated.
You turn to your crew, “What the fuck happened.” You demand, more than ask.
“Kid says he tried to take the truck, Vinny’s guy had a gun that fell outta the seat, went off, shot him.” One of the men summarizes, not looking up from the rack of suits.
You raise a manicured hand to pinch between your eyes, “You keep me skinny, Christopher, with all the fucking stress you cause me.”
“Would you let me explain?” He tries.
“If you don’t do as I told you and shut your fucking mouth, you’re gonna be buried with two assholes,” You threaten before continuing.
“They were fuckin’ suits! All you had to do was take the truck! How did you fuck that up -” You stop yourself and sigh, attempting to calm yourself down.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take all this shit, you’re gonna take it back to Vinny, and you’re gonna tell him what happened yourself.” You finish.
“Marone!” He exclaims, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Enough with the theatrics! You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet in your ass! Now, I don’t see you grabbing that rack and that rack and that rack and putting it back in the truck!” You wave your arms around the room.
The kid sighs and begins grabbing the racks one by one and rolling them back in the truck.
“Would it be such a shame if they all went back?” An older man from your crew asks, already wearing one of the expensive suits. You scoff and laugh.
“Bucky, pick yourself somethin’ nice for tonight,'' You turn to face him, and he jumps at the sound of your now calmer voice being directed at him, as opposed to the harsh one used on Christopher, “On me.” You wink.
Sam and Bucky sit on the bed and watch as you get ready. A small apartment near the party that’s already been swept for bugs. A favor, you called it, from someone you know.
They don’t question it.
“You and Bucky will go in together and I’ll be waiting at a secondary location watching and listening to everything.”
Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from your dress. A mermaid dress, he thinks it is, black and tight and hugging you in all the right places, curving around your ass and sleeveless at the top, allowing you to show off a nice necklace and your cleavage. It’s an understatement to say that he’ll enjoy accompanying you tonight, even if it’s in a costume.
His mother probably would’ve loved it if he would’ve gotten with someone like you. Someone who loves their family, a spitfire that wouldn’t take any of his shit, and whose god damn gorgeous. She might’ve had to wash your mouth out with soap, though.
“So, why is Bucky goin’ again?”
“Safety.” Bucky answers.
“Is he going for my safety or am I going for his?” You tease, finishing the last few curls of your hair, smoke coming from the iron after each time you pull your hair away from it.
“Once you find our guy, get talking with him and see if you can get him to make you an offer,” He begins.
“One I can’t refuse?”
“Then, you’ll try and get him alone, see if he’ll show you the serums, and once you do, we’ll be taking care of the rest.” Sam finishes explaining.
Bucky plucks a box from his pocket and opens it to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. One, a camera, and the other, a microphone. You’re also given a comm to hide in your ear so both him and Sam can hear everything and you can hear them.
“Easy - peasy.” You respond.
The ballroom is lively, loud music and people everywhere, and Bucky attunes all the action overwhelming him to a sweat and not that fact that you’re pressed up against him, his arm wrapped around your waist.
About a hundred different people come up to greet you, asking about your family, offering you drinks and food. Bucky can see right through all of them though; they’re all putting on the act out of fear. Everyone’s attention is on you, and Bucky’s sure if he wasn’t in disguise right now, no one would even notice.
You bring him to the middle of the crowd and he can’t be surprised when you start to dance with him, pulling at his arms to get him to loosen up. He complies, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close as the two of you move together.
“I’ll let you know when I spot him.” He tells you, voice causing goosebumps to rise on your neck; goosebumps that he notices but doesn’t point out.
It only takes a song or two before he spots who he’s looking for and sends you over, making sure your com is on, and choosing to stick by the bar, giving him a good view of you and allowing himself a break of having your body pressed against his.
He’s impressed listening to you talk to this guy, voice smooth and sultry, yet still commanding.
He knows there was a lot of talk when you took position as boss; not a lot of people in the mob took you seriously and didn’t think you or a woman in general would be good in that kind of position in power. So, you use that to your advantage to get shit done, and Bucky applauds you for that.
It’s not long before the guy offers to go somewhere more private to discuss business and Bucky follows far behind, Sam praising you through the coms from where he waits in the car outside, watching through the camera in your earring.
Bucky waits outside of a closed office door upstairs, listening to the conversation through the coms but hearing your exclamation through the door when the guys give you his asking price.
“5 mil each?! What do you take me for, some kinda stunad?”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Take it or leave it, yeah, I can put a bullet between your eyes and take it, alright.”
“Stop messing around and take the offer, it’s not real anyway!” Sam tells you, not wanting to lose their chance on the serums.
You ignore him prioritizing your need for respect over the stupid mission, “How do I know these aren’t Kool-Aid pouches poured in glass bottles?”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to test ‘em out for you.” The guy scoffs.
“Stronzo. You’re outta your fucking mind offering me that.”
“I’ll lower the price for you if you give me a little dance, how ‘bout that?”
“Vaffanculo.” You curse at him.
“Up yours, lady!” He yells back, and Sam sees through the camera, he grabs at you.
“Buck, get in there.” Sam tells him, and it only takes Bucky a second to kick open the door.
He’s a bit taken aback when he not only sees the case of serums out on the table, but you holding the man bent over the small table in the middle of the room next to the serums, gun held to the back of his head.
He very quickly decides that you’re fine and moves to grab the serums, closing the case and holding it securely in his left hand.
“Don’t kill the guy.”
You stay silent and Bucky looks at you again. He can almost see the steam coming out of your ears and he notices a small cut on your cheek bone. He looks down to the man’s cowering figure and notices a large ring on his hand.
You mumble something in Italian to the man, a threat of some kind that Bucky can guess given how the man shuts his eyes and shakes a bit under your hold. Sam finally enters the room, military grade handcuffs in hand.
“Feds are on their way, get her out of here.” He tells Bucky.
You slowly lift the gun off the man’s head and stand up straighter, walking over to brush past Bucky in the direction of the back door.
He makes eye contact with Sam and gives him a nod before following after you, watching as you scrunch up the bottom of your dress to replace the gun in an ankle holster. Once outside, he stops you under a street light near the car and raises his hand to look at your cheek.
“We gotta get going,” You swat at his hand.
“You’re still bleeding.” He says, using his thumb to brush away the line of blood, smearing a red tinge on your skin.
He looks into your eyes and for a second he sees the tough exterior drop. The face of someone who got smacked across the cheek all for mouthing off at some asshole.
Your vulnerability doesn’t last long, though, as you sniff and walk towards the car, opening the passenger door and sitting inside before Bucky can make it over there to open the door for you.
The drive back to the apartment is silent, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do or say to fill the silence. Stepping into the apartment, you immediately go to change and collect your things. Bucky moves to the bathroom to look for a first aid kit of some kind.
He meets you in the room and you’re now in cotton pants and a large t-shirt, sandals on your feet showing the bright red color of your toenails and the lines indented in your skin from how tight your heels were. You’re hanging up the dress and zipping it back in the cover when Bucky drops the first aid kit on the bed.
“Christ, it’s only a small cut.” You mumble.
“Just - Let me, would you?”
He takes out the liquid of disinfectant and soaks a cotton pad, cleaning off your cheek bone with it before covering it with healing ointment and a bandaid.
You don’t thank him when he finishes and he huffs as he closes the kit, “When do you drop the act, huh?”
“Really?” Bucky asks in annoyed disbelief.
“No. People tend to try and have me whacked when I drop the act.”
He sighs, “So, what, nobody ever takes care of you? Treats you? You don’t have any days off? Time to be yourself?”
“This lifestyle doesn’t really allow me to have days off, Sergeant Barnes.” You snap, gathering the dress in your hands and turning to face him completely.
“Take me home, I’m tired and my feet hurt.”
You leave him in the room and he waits an extra few seconds before dropping the conversation and following you out.
Bucky opens the back door to the environmental facility with his right hand and sees the door to your office open, you and your crew sitting together surrounded by cigar smoke and he can hear a TV on.
“Sir, please step into the vehicle.”
“Like the cop would be callin’ this asshole Sir if the fuckin’ cameras weren’t around!” You wave a hand at the TV, not yet seeing Bucky standing there.
He finds it funny that the gnarliest criminals - the literal Mafia - spend their time watching shitty, scripted cop shows.
It’s been about two weeks since the mission with you where you retrieved the serums. Sam went to prom with your sister five days ago, which was hilarious for him, especially when he got photo prints of different sizes in the mail at his apartment. He didn’t bother thinking about how you found his address.
One of the men sitting next to you glances his way and sees him standing there, smirking at the vision of him; hair combed slightly back and to the side, and a large bouquet of flowers in his right hand and a small paper box in his left.
“You got company, Boss.” He says.
You look over to the doorway and your jaw drops in an open-mouthed smile.
“Look at googootz! Now this is a man that knows how to treat a lady, are you boys paying attention?” You tease, scurrying over to him and pinching one of his cheeks, resting your free hand on his large bicep to guide him into the room, the rest of your crew ushering out to give the two of you privacy.
“What’s in the box?”
You throw your head back with an exaggerated moan, “You know the way to an Italian woman’s heart, Sergeant Barnes. What’s with all the gifts?”
“Thought I’d treat you.” Is all his response is.
You narrow your eyes at him and stand up a little straighter, crossing your arms over your chest.
The last conversation before he dropped you off that night hasn’t escaped his mind. He understands the difficulties of life - how it’s hard to find time for yourself among the busy schedule that is existing. He catches himself sometimes, too, forcing his body to run with no sleep, burning through all of his energy until he’s completely drained and blaming it on life.
But life’s not always like that. Life allows for days off. For treats. For a bit of kindness. And Bucky’s come to show you just that.
“What, a beautiful woman like you never received flowers and pastries before?” He says, taking a half-step forward to be close enough to look you closer in the eyes.
“Are you flirting with me?” You whisper in amusement.
His eyes glance away from yours to look down at your red-painted lips. He gives you a shy smirk, really turning up the charm. For a big, bad, boss, you’re pretty easy to break down.
“Let me take you out tonight.”
“Maybe I’ve got plans.”
“What makes you think you’re worth canceling plans for?”
“Why don’t you trust me and find out?”
“You should know by now, Sergeant Barnes, that I don’t trust.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment, setting the box of cannoli on your desk before reaching his now free hand up to your face, using his finger to brush away a stray hair and push it behind your ear.
He then takes a hold of one of your hands, turning it over to place a kiss on the top of it, before wrapping your fingers around the flowers in his other hand, forcing you to take them.
“No restaurant you’ve been to a hundred times over, no drama, no business. Just a man trying to treat a lady.” You look down at the flowers before meeting his eyes again.
“I get to pick the place.”
“The kind of food.”
“No. Let me take care of everything.” Bucky insists, determined to get you to give up control for the first time in what he can only imagine has been a very long time.
Bucky knows better than anyone how terrifying it is to give up control. It was terrifying when he was forced to give up control, his free will taken away from him in the war for decades upon decades, but it’s terrifying even now when he has to do it as a free man. It makes a person vulnerable. When was the last time you were allowed to be vulnerable for somebody?
“I’m gonna pick you up here at six. Wear something nice and leave the executive attitude at home.” He finishes, leaving you with the flowers and cannoli before returning back outside, ignoring the stares he receives from you crew who wait patiently outside your office.
He feels your eyes follow him at the door, and he can’t wait to sweep you off your feet tonight.
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Sobriety | Shoko Ieiri/F!Reader
Hello pen, the sylvia plath prompt list is cute 🤕 What about ”I may never be happy - but tonight I am content”?
Can be anyone. Hope you are well and that motivation finds you 💞
a/n: hello, ev!! thank you so much for requesting and for giving me freedom with this piece! i hope you don’t mind i chose jjk! anyway, i hope you’re doing well too 😘💞
posted: 05.03.21 | prompt: i may never be happy - but tonight i am content.
prompt ficlets: [Invisible Man] [Masterlist]
word count: 997
content tags: prompt ficlet. enemies with benefits. non-explicit sexual content. spicy angst. mutual pining.
tw: slightly nsfw. smoking. references to alcoholism.
pov: you’re a curse user and she’s a sorcerer. there’s little room for things to be better.
"I'm not a good woman, Shoko."
Shoko only gives you that wisp of a smile.
There's no tepid neutrality in this one. Its meaning is simple and sincere that it riles you how much you want to kiss it away.
You sigh. You hate it, sometimes. The way she makes you feel like this.
"I know," Shoko dares to take a step forward, and from the closeness, she smells like cherry smoke, bourbon, and that sharp note of antiseptic. It's dizzying and sensual, like the manner she looks up at you beneath her lashes. "I don't really care."
"But I do. Quite a lot, actually."
You often catch yourself mulling over how things have escalated between you two. Quick, sultry, blurred to the point of intoxication, and you have to wonder when has this begun to turn sober.
Perhaps, waking up to her bedside does that for a time. It wasn’t always like that.
Money is your motivation, though there’s the alcohol, the distraction, and those bedroom eyes. Somewhere along the way you’ll dream about them, about her, want her all for yourself, until it finds its place on the sheets.
Even so, the sentiment always rises up in the morning; slow, groggy, and then staggering all at once. Of how Shoko Ieiri is a sorcerer that’s worth millions for her Reversed Cursed Technique.
Best there is, you’ve heard. She’s a one of a kind, just for the rarity and high demand of her abilities in the black market. The bounty speaks for itself after all.
Still, it isn’t like you to glance over chances and shrug them off as if they’re empty promises.
But for all what it’s worth, her kisses aren’t as empty as you think they are. Somehow, the greed wins over you in another way. The meetings frequent, the conversations longer, the excuses not quite sounding like they are anymore. Until—
"I like you," you muse aloud, reaching out to idly pull a lock of her hair to you. "That's a problem."
"Catching feelings?" Shoko tilts her head at you, and her hair follows in a careless sway that drapes around her shoulders. They’re a little slack today, mellowed down. You’ll like to believe she’s just tipsy, despite her strong tolerance. “That’s not such a bad thing, you know.”
Her hand holds yours, sliding between the crooks of your fingers as if they belong there.
Shoko offers a good bargain, but with feelings involved, it’s too costly. You find yourself a beggar every time.
"You deserve a little better, don't you think?"
"Then be better," says Shoko.
"Curse users aren't."
"Sorcerers aren't either."
A thin, condescending smile settles on your lips. "You saying we're not so different?"
"I'm saying I don't give a damn about that." It’s Shoko’s turn to sigh, reaching out to you in what makes you feel saved. “What you did, what you are,” she goes on, making your chest clench.
You feel out of place because of her, though you can’t help but forgive her so easily for it. Something about it makes you delusional but grateful, bemoaning why you remain entrenched in her debt, but fondly returning back to this investment all the same.
(Because you’re always bleeding, fighting for the wrong reasons. Branded for the scoundrel that you are, making a quick buck out of it. This is the world you’ve only known, and here you’re a thief of the most despicable kind, stealing lives, cursing them.
Lines are drawn hostile and jagged, like the old scars untouched by her healing hands, yet aloof and withdrawn as Shoko is, she’ll still cross yours. Though for mending more than mutilating the injury. Either way, both come with pain, but the former endures with its sutures from your shoulder to your sternum. A consequence from a bad hit.
Sometimes, you forget Shoko is a doctor first, and then a sorcerer to you. She works hard, drenched in blood. More determined than she’s willing to admit, sagging from the shadows under her eyes from sleepless hours.
Two coffee mugs on the table lie cold, bruised with red fingerprints.
“Going to tell me what happened?” Shoko asks.
You’re smoking more than usual, is what you want to tell her, as her bad habit puckers on her fourth cigarette; numbing and melancholic that you can almost taste it, an addiction so intimate to you. You stare at her, scoffing. “So you care for me now?”)
"I do for you, though."
A light squeeze, and then a thumb running over your taut knuckles, like a balm to soothe the ache.
"That'll change," you don’t mean to say this with more tenderness than bite in your words.
It leaves the both of you wounded, regardless.
“Find someone better.”
Because this is all what it’ll be.
Shoko drowns with you from a glass and another, thick with the emotion she hardly ever shows, and from the open rawness of it, you almost can’t bring yourself to swallow everything down. Can’t make it worse by denying the hand that falls on your lap. Can’t let go of her.
The both of you hopelessly clutch, claw, and curl within the curvature of each other.
Clothes are shed. Lips smudge on the supple edges, yours and hers. They scatter entrails of affection, streaked with something so close to apology and heady desperation, wine-colored, on the throat, the navel, and then the sensitive skin of the thigh. Through her fingers, your hair comes undone like ribbons; strewn against sweat and the urgency of her hips.
I may never be happy, so you dream and dream some more, where the two of you can only seem to intermingle in the shaky, drunken throes of it; all soft whimpers and tangled limbs and listless lovers too lazy to ever part, just before the dawn splits and separates your worlds again. But tonight I am content.
a/n: the fact that there’s little to no reader-insert fics written for shoko depresses me. let's change that. *proceeds to plot out a future series, alongside geto's*
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