Playlist Prompt: Come and Get Your Love - Redbone / āWhat's the matter with youā
Warnings: Jail time for Dex, kind reader, Benjamin Poindexter and his POV (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 18 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ā¤ļø Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Dex never expected to get letters in prison.Ā
The first few werenāt kind.Ā
Go to hell.Ā
You deserve to rot.Ā
Whatās the matter with you? Seriously. You have issues.Ā
They didnāt know or understand him. He was a good guy. He was trying to help.Ā
What right did they have to judge him?
And then your letter came.Ā
Dear Dex,
I hope itās okay that Iām writing to you. I also hope itās okay that Iām calling you Dex. I was told you prefer that over Benjamin, and I wanted to be respectful of that.Ā
But Iām getting ahead of myself.Ā
Iām part of a volunteer letter writing program. Believe it or not, this is my first letter! Iām sure itās obvious. I even wrote this introduction three times. I guess Iām a little nervous.Ā
Not because of you though.Ā
I just didnāt want this to sound insincere or weird.Ā
I know weāre strangers, but I imagine some days arenāt very kind to you. Is that presumptuous of me? Iām sorry if it is. Regardless, I hope this letter brings a little brightness to your day. Even if itās only for a few minutes.
Is it silly to want that for someone Iāve never met?
You donāt have to write back if you donāt want to. Thereās no pressure to do so. But if youād like, Iād love to hear from you.
Until then, I hope youāre doing well.Ā
He read your name at the bottom of the letter out loud.Ā
Something settled deep in his chest.Ā
He traced your signature with his finger. Nobody wanted to hear from him. No one cared about how his days were or showed him kindness.Ā
But you did.Ā
Heād write you back.Ā
And heād count the days until he got your next letter.Ā
Eagerly waiting. Love and thanks for reading. ā¤ļø
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Hello, can I request a scenario of Diavolo and reader with pen pal AU?? I just think it would be interesting remembering how secretive he is, but I think thereās like a chance that heād be willing to open up more to a pen pal yknow. Thank you šāØ
Hello there! Oh god, after so much time... Iām so sorry about it Ƨ.Ƨ But in any case, I sincerely hope youāll like this little fic!Ā
Pen pal AU: Diavolo and reader
(Under the cut for lenght!)
Diavolo still couldnāt believe it. When Doppio, more than two months before, had suggested him to try to open up a little -he, Diavolo? Open up a little?!-, Diavolo was so near to strangle him. And, well, this would have been terribly inconvenient, as he would have ended up strangling himself. Instead, he closed himself in stubborn silence, ignoring even when Doppio was trying to call him. He was too pissed: he, a man who was so obsessed by privacy, had to open up?! Sometimes he wondered how could Doppio be so silly and, at the same time, be a part of himself.
However, after having pondered about it for a few days, he found himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, Doppio wasnāt so out of his mind. It was true that sometimes he feltā¦ alone, even if he loved dearly his loneliness. When he brought up the topic again, Doppio showed enthusiasm: the Boss was making the right decision! And, knowing his trust issues, he had found the right solution: a pen pal. The Boss could make a bond with them without actually seeing them, and without risking his safety: it was the most convenient deal.
Doppio managed to find a good pen pal for his Boss: their name was Y/N, and they lived in a city far away, so there was no risk to meet them. They too were quite a private person, he found out, and it was their first time as pen pal for them too. It was perfect.
Their first letters were awkward. Diavolo was too used to order around, and he felt weird to use a casual tone. Plus, he still didnāt know if he could trust them: they were a stranger, all in all. He was always scared to unmask himself, that they were just trying to lure him to reveal himself, to show his weakness, and then trying to attack him and bring him downā¦ he was really careful and cautious, when he wrote. He never gave any hint on the place he was, or the weather, or his surroundingsā¦ anything that could suggest his position. Not even the most skilled detective would have found his house.
As days and weeks passed, however, he was more and more surprised to see that they never asked him for a more precise description of his place, or why he was using a post office box and not his personal mailbox. It seemed like theyā¦ werenāt interested in it. It seemed like they were more interested in his hobbies, what kind of music he liked, which booksā¦ their questions always baffled him.
He never thought for real about such frivolous things. He had ambitions, worries and fears, when he was young; then, he had a whole criminal organization to manage. He justā¦ never had the time to stop and enjoy a little such casual hobbies. Killing his opponents wasnāt a respectable hobby, or at least not one he could externalize. He admitted, in his letters, that he didnāt listen to music very often, and that he hadnāt so much to read, and then he asked them for suggestions, curious, all in all, to see what they liked so much to the point to suggest it to someone else.
He listened to the songs they suggested to him, and read some of the books they loved. It was weirdā¦ it was like coming to know them deeper, in a more intimate way. He was used to decipher his opponents and, even more important, his allies from small details, in order to find a way to destroy or bend them, but this timeā¦ it was different. He wanted to know them not to possess them, but simply because he liked to know them.
Was thisā¦ friendship?
He felt a little jolt of excitement every time he saw that there was a letter in the post office box, and he always hurried Doppio to come home as soon as possible. He took control of his body the moment they stepped inside, and immediately opened the letter, reading it almost with greed. It was like a breath of fresh air: for a little while, he could smile and even laugh, reading their news. It was the most awaited moment of the whole week, a few hours when he wasnāt the feared and powerful Boss of Passione, but simply D., as he always signed himself. The man who liked Genesis and Sting and thriller books, who hated cold weather and loud people. Sometimes, he even found himself wishing it was all true, that he could have been just D. foreverā¦ but then, something brought him back to reality. A new alliance, someone who was trying to steal from him, a new criminal gang that was trying to compete with themā¦ his world abruptly crashed his wishes, every time. He was who he was, and he couldnāt be no one else, no matter how much, sometimes, he desired it.
After a while, he even shared some really private information about himself: he told her about his Sardinian origins, and that he didnāt know who his father was. He never told it aloud, butā¦ it was heavy, for him, not to know who his father was. He had even questioned his mother, during the time he had kept her imprisoned under the floor, but nothing. She had always murmured that she didnāt know who his father was. She had met him one night, and that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Doppio never worried about these things, mostly because Diavolo made him not to worry about it; he and Doppio were, all in all, twins in one body, and he cared about his twin, in his ways. It had always been Diavoloās duty to keep Doppio out of troubles and to elaborate painful and complicated decisions and information; feeling the burden of not knowing who their father was was his duty.
For the first time in his life, he was able to finally let these feelings go: he wrote that he felt like he was missing a part of himself, got lost with his fatherās identity, and how, sometimes, this heavied on his heart. He wrote that he missed his homeland, sometimes, even if the memories tied to the island werenāt properly positive; still, it was home. The sea, the hard and direct language, the wind that always blew in the evening, the small and half dry bushes of tenacious mediterranean plantsā¦ it was carved in his memory. Yes, his life hadnāt been easy, but there were people, even if he could count them on the fingers of only one hand, that didnāt despise him: one was surely the priest who took care of him. The other two were three other old people: the guardian of the lighthouse, the undertaker, who mostly made sure to water all the flowers in front of the graves, and then an accabadora. Maybe his acquaintances were also one of the reasons he wasnāt so accepted between his townās peopleā¦ (A/N: an accabadoraĀ was a woman, usually an old woman, who was in charge to bring death to people who were so severely sick that their family required this kind ofĀ āserviceā, to spare their loved one of more pain. Some say that the accabadoraĀ didnāt literally bring death, but that was in charge to comfort the person who was dyingĀ ātill their last breath, following ancient rituals)
He was tense the whole time he was waiting for their response. Maybe he had oversharedā¦ he was worried they could find out who he was for real -he knew it was a paranoid thought, but he couldnāt help to think about it-, but, at the same time, he was worried that he might have scared them away. He found himselfā¦ pained by that thought. They were the only person he had ever considered a real friend, and he justā¦ didnāt want to lose them. He had never felt like that for any other person, excluding Doppio; every Capo, every subordinate, could be replaced in no time. But Y/Nā¦ they were unique. They couldnāt be replaced, and losing themā¦ it was unbearable. His heart started to sink when, that Saturday, the day he usually received their response, his post office box was empty. Maybe it was too much for them, and they just decided to stop writing to himā¦
He couldnāt stop to think about it, especially now that he was back in his homeland. He had to come back in a hurry, in order to stop a group of kids who were so tenaciously trying to find out his identityā¦ and, last but not least, they had his daughter with them. He needed to stop them before it was too lateā¦ Doppio, of course, didnāt know about the real reason behind his Bossā orders; he just knew that he had to take care about a couple of ādifficult subordinatesā, but, at the right moment, Diavolo would have taken Doppioās place, doing the dirty work.
Diavolo was dozing off a little, inside Doppioās mind, when a buzz from his phone startled him. From Doppioās eyes, he read the message from the post office: there was a letter from him in his box. Diavolo couldnāt help but to feel a sense of relief washing over him: Y/N had answered! So, they were still friendsā¦
That news helped him to approach his job with a new strength. It shouldnāt have taken much time to finish those kidsā¦ he was Diavolo, after all, the most stand user of the whole world. Nothing could surpass his King Crimson.
He was sure to be home at most the next day. And then, he could have read their letter and breathed again for a little moment, as it always happenedā¦
