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stylesharrys · 2 months

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all that you are | part 2 [mafiarry]

authors note: part 2 is here! another long one darlings, so get comfy and some snacks! next part will be posted sometime next week or the week after as I’m currently half way through writing. I hope you're enjoying the series so far!!

word count: 26,163 (i’m not even sorry)

warnings: lots of swearing, violence, use of deadly weapons, torture, murder, descriptions of a de*d body, arranged marriages, mentions of blood and abuse, smut; oral (fem receiving), a little dirty talk, kissing, teasing.

summary: the time has come for harry’s initiation as capo dei capi, and y/n has mixed feelings about the steps he has to take.

Y/N sighs softly, brows pinched together and a sad glint in her eyes. Maria stares back at her through the small screen of Y/N’s phone.

She hasn’t spoken to anyone since she found out Stefano isn’t Harry’s biological father three days ago. She’s been preparing herself for the backlash she thought she was bound to face, but it’s yet to come.

“Bruno’s just a massive dick, still. Nothing’s changed. Oh, but me, Dad and Uncle Giovanni are coming to New York next month!”

Y/N’s ears perk up and she feels tears of happiness well in her eyes. It doesn’t matter that it’s been a week and a half since she’s been gone, it already feels like a lifetime.

“You are! When? What date!? Wait, why are you coming to New York with Father and Uncle Romero?”

Y/N can’t keep the questions at bay, doubt and worry bubbling within her. She may not know much about the business her family and others within the Famiglia conduct, but she knows it’s uncommon for women, especially daughters, to travel.

Maria shrugs, a hint of nervousness glimmering in her eyes.

“Some Nino dude in Harry’s family wants to marry me… I overheard Dad and Vanni talking about it,” her voice dies off in a hesitant whisper, tone full of fear and worry.

Y/N’s very rarely seen such a side of her cousin and she hates that she isn’t able to be by her side, to comfort her and beg Giovanni not to do this.

“What?! You can’t marry Nino, Maria. He’s dangerous!”

Her mind is in a frenzy, Harry’s words boiling in her head. Stay away from Nino. He’s merciless and evil. Her palms start to sweat, lungs tighten and it’s like someone’s sitting on her chest, restricting her lungs from fully expanding and it swells a panic deep in her gut.

Maria’s seemingly oblivious on the other end, or maybe she’s just trying to not let the gravity of the situation affect her.

“I mean, I met him at your wedding. He’s hot as fuck, dude,” she gawks in her typical, vibrant self but Y/N doesn’t let herself snort a laugh like she usually would.

Guilt is what’s bubbling in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. Maybe this is Harry’s doing. Maybe this is the punishment she has to face for snooping through his personal photos that he clearly hid away from prying eyes. Maybe all of this is Y/N’s fault.

She’s shaking her head instead, gripping the phone in a tight vice and swallowing back the raw pain her throat feels from willing herself not to scream.

“I’m going to fix this, okay? I’ll talk to Harry and I’ll fix this. I promise, Maria. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Y/N spends the rest of the afternoon gnawing her fingernails raw. She’s burnt holes in the ground from pacing back and forth and every time Mike has tried to converse with her, she’s unintentionally blanked him.

She hasn’t sat down since she ended the call with Maria, hasn’t had her hands out of her hair for longer than ten minutes before she’s tugging on it again.

She’s eager for Harry to come home, desperate to get on her knees and beg him not to do this. She doesn’t think he’s the kind of person to punish someone else to upset her but she doesn’t know him.

She doesn’t know what he’ll do to get a point across. She’s sure he doesn’t like the idea of hurting women, but when a man’s ego is bruised or they’re angry, they tend to go back on their word.

It’s another three hours of aimless pacing when Harry finally returns to the penthouse. The second he steps foot out of the elevator, she’s in the closest proximity they’ve been since their first dance; glossy eyes and a slightly pink nose. Her skin is a little blotchy and he knows for a fact she’s been crying.

Harry's first instinct is to throttle Mike, assuming he’s done or said something to upset her. Before his eyes can even find her guard, Y/N’s hands are gripping at his thick biceps and she’s forcing him to look at her, for once desperate for his attention.

“Don’t do this, please!” She starts out flat begging, no build up and Harry’s dark brows are pinched together, utter confusion plastered on his face but she continues her frantic spew.

“I’m sorry for snooping at those photos, I’m sorry! But don’t punish Maria for my mistakes, please. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t make her marry him.”

Her tone of plea has Harry’s throat feeling tight, like a thick bubble has formed in his throat and he can’t swallow it. The fear in her words sends shockwaves through his body and the raw panic that swims in her eyes makes him feel sick.

He vowed he wouldn’t let her feel fear in his presence, that he would protect her through their marriage and he’s breaking his promises a week in.

“Y/N, stop,” he coos in the gentlest tone he can.

His hands reach up to clasp around her wrists and softly, he pulls them from his arms and keeps them in a hold of one hand, lowering them between their bodies so she rests her palms flat against his hard chest.

Her breathing stills; perhaps from realisation of their close proximity, perhaps in fear. There are small, dull bags beneath Harry’s eyes and he looks paler than usual.

For a brief moment, she forgets about Maria’s situation and wonders if he’s okay, unsure whether he’s eaten or not today, but the gravity of the situation sits heavy on her shoulders again and she’s thrown back in that state of panic.

“You really think I’d do something like that to you?”

His doubtful words are spoken in a hushed tone that’s just above a whisper and her panic drops a little, heart fluttering. Would he? Do something like that to her? Harry sighs tiredly, keeping his hold on her wrists and he soothingly thumbs across the soft skin.

“I found out this afternoon, and I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to talk to you about it. I had nothing to do with this, believe me,” he reassures her and she believes him, she does, but knowing he didn’t have a say in this matter and it’s still happening doesn’t make her feel any better.

The panic is rising again and she shakes her head, trying to rip away from his grasp but he holds her a little tighter and she’s staring up at him, those innocent doe eyes wide and watering.

“Maria’s a handful and she doesn’t think or care about the consequences of her actions. Uncle Romero decked her with an ashtray because she dyed her hair. What did she do a week later? Dyed it a brighter colour! She doesn’t care and he’ll hurt her and I can’t let that happen, Harry. Please, I can’t let that happen.”

He watches her in her whole glory for a fleeting moment; allows himself to wallow in her pity and fear.

It’s the first time she’s ever said his name to him and the first occurrence she’s shown such raw emotion other than fear in the two weeks they’ve been together.

It’s love, the way she speaks and begs for her cousin. An emotion full of fire and passion and fondness. It startles something in Harry’s gut and it’s like he struggles to address her properly, like he doesn’t want to risk never seeing her so herself again.

Harry opts for squeezing her wrists gently and bowing his head a little closer to hers.

“I don’t have the power to change things -- to decline the deal. Stefano is still Capo so what he says goes,” his voice is a strained apology and anger bubbles in his veins at the sight of a stray tear slipping past his girl's eye.

He’s furious at Stefano. For making Y/N cry or for stirring unsettling feelings in Harry’s stomach, he’s not sure, but he feels it and he knows what burning rage is. He bites it back, and isn't about to explode his frustrations on the poor girl.

“Stefano will be flying in for the meeting and he will be the one to decide, though it’s highly likely he’ll accept the deal. Salvatore has no doubt been down his throat about it,” he explains, his words dying off in a deep mumble but Y/N’s lips are still quivering.

“This whole thing has nothing to do with you or Maria. This is Nino’s way of trying to beat me, to earn the title as Capo. The only way he could take my place would be if he killed myself and Stefano. And it’s not something I’d ever put past him,” he admits.

Y/N doesn’t know what it is that has her keening into his touch, but she feels her heartbeat calm when he strokes his thumbs across her wrists. Her fear is very much prominent in the way she looks at him but there’s also an overwhelming amount of trust in her eyes that suggests she believes him and the look alone scares him.

It worries him what will happen if he can’t see through the silent promise of doing whatever he can to stop the marriage from happening.

“Come on, it’s late… let’s go to bed.”

He knows neither of them have it in them to show another ounce of verbal vulnerability so it’s not much of a shock to him when she agrees.

It also isn’t a shock to either when Y/N follows her nighttime routine as Harry brushes his teeth in the bathroom mirror, side by side for the first time.

Neither register the state of comfort and ease they for some reason feel as they unwind for the evening, not quite with it to realise the drastic change.

At least, not until Y/N’s getting comfy under the silk sheets she’s grown to appreciate and Harry follows after switching out the light.

Suddenly, crawling into bed together is what makes the situation really dawn on her and she takes into account his patience from just half an hour ago.

Harry’s in just a pair of plaid pyjama pants beneath the sheet and she’s facing him; eyes tracing the faint lines of his shoulder blades in his back under the dark light of the room.

She wants to test the waters a little further; she’s dipped her toes in the warm pool and now she’s ready to let it swim at her ankles, to allow herself an easy escape before she submerges fully into him, before the night bleeds into another day.

“I want to come to work with you,” she mutters softly before she can really process her thoughts because now that the words have spewed from her mouth, she regrets them.

Y/N most certainly does not want to go to work with him and she’s almost dead sure she’ll never want to either.

Harry frowns in the darkness of the room as he shuffles onto his other side, bleary eyes blinking to clear his vision to make out the outline of her soft features in the night.

He waits a beat, expecting a string of apologies to follow; begging him to forget about it. They’re both confused when it doesn’t, when the silence is more welcoming than usual and he nods slowly to himself.

He always said he doesn’t want his wife to feel trapped, like she has no sense of freedom. But he also doesn’t particularly want to expose Y/N to that side of his life, that side of him.

He supposes one day, she will see him for the monster he really is, and as much as he wishes to delay the inevitable, he’d rather her see him on his terms than by accident.

“If you go to sleep now, you can come with me next Thursday for a meeting,” he proposes, voice light but there’s an underlying timidness to his tone that Y/N doesn’t miss.

Something troubles her stomach, a warm yet uneasy feeling at the prospect of being surrounded by men like her husband, men she has no trust in and will likely scare her.

Y/N doesn’t say anything in return, too worried that her voice will betray her. Instead, she rolls over and closes her eyes; mood at ease and knowing he’s allowing her to attend a meeting instils a little more trust in the wavering faith she’s growing to have in him.

Sleep begins to roll over in gentle waves when a light heaviness sits around her midsection. She stills under the weight of his arm that slings across her middle and she hears the rustling of sheets as he shuffles closer, until she feels the heat from his chest radiating to her back.

Her heart is pounding but she doesn’t push him away.

It’s a start, Harry thinks.

The last time she was this nervous while staring at her reflection in the mirror was her wedding day. Y/N’s palms are growing clammy by the second, uncomfortable with sweat as she debates whether or not she should have the third button of her blouse up or not. She looks formal, important; like she runs a company and is about to head out for her meeting.

The reality of the situation is that she’s freaking out. It’s Harry’s men and Harry’s meeting that she’s about to sit in on. She’s been growing uneasy since she asked to go to work with him a week ago. A whole seven days of uncertainty and wanting to back out on her idea. But she doesn’t want to seem weak.

For the first three days after he said yes, it didn’t really register with her. She’s still shocked that he even agreed for her to come to work, convinced he’d laugh at her and say something demeaning like her father would.

Harry noticed her hesitancy as the days passed and without realising, she’s craved his presence and approval a little more since then.

She lets him hold her in the evenings when they sleep, even went as far as mustering up the courage and turning in his hold to snuggle into his chest last night. He knows why she did it; because she’s been worrying about today.

Neither of them brought the topic up since he first agreed, but Harry knows he probably should’ve reassured her before waiting until the last minute.

Now he’s watching her from the doorway of the closet. From his position, shoulder against the wall and arms crossed over his thick chest, he watches the way Y/N twists and turns to gauge her reflection, how she tucks her blouse in tighter before tugging it out to loosen it a little more.

“You look beautiful,” his gentle voice intends to coax her out of her bubble but instead, it pops it abruptly and gives her a startle.

With a hand on her chest, she turns around and catches her breath, cheeks pink under her light makeup and a nervous smile on her lips.

“Harry… you scared me,” she admits through a shaky breath.

She’s called him by his name several times in the past week, but fuck, if his heart doesn’t still leap when he hears it tumble from her lips. He offers an apologetic smile and unfolds his arms, stuffing thick hands into the tight pockets of his dress pants.

“Sorry,” he apologises. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You do look beautiful, though. Are you ready?” he asks, tone as patient as he can muster so as to not shove more pressure on her aching shoulders. Y/N lets out a shaky breath and nerves and fears rattle her body to her core.

She’s scared; terrified, really. The thought of being in a large meeting room with several merciless killers and Made Men is not a soothing flicker in her mind.

She’s positively trembling the entire ride to one of Harry’s warehouses. She’s picking at her nails and knuckles and her gaze is fixed out of the window.

In the week leading up to this, she’s been out a couple more times with Mike; showing her around to cute lunch cafes and even one or two quirky bookstores that had caught her eye as he drove her around.

Harry is yet to take her out on the streets of New York but she knows he’s busy and the more she thinks about it, the more uneasy she feels about the idea of him taking her out in public.

She doesn’t know if she feels safe enough around him to know that he’ll protect her if something were to happen. She knows if an attack is to happen on her, it’ll likely be when she’s with Mike, but she also can’t help but feel she has a bigger target on her back if she’s seen roaming the streets or dining in restaurants with her husband.

Harry makes no effort to comfort her from his seat beside her in the back of the slick SUV. His thighs are slightly parted, hands clasped and folded over his middle and she’s registered the bouncing of his knee by the way the leather seats shift under the slight weight of the movement.

The thought of him being nervous doesn’t even take consideration in her mind, not when she’s too worried about her own nerves, when he’s done these kinds of meetings all his life.

But Harry is somewhat nervous. While he’s attended these meetings since he was initiated at age twelve after stabbing a man twice his age in the throat, he’s never ran a meeting with a woman by his side.

He knows he’ll be questioned about her presence; why a woman of the mafia is attending business meetings when she has no place, but Harry also knows it’s a perfect opportunity for him to assert his dominance, for Stefano’s men to get a taste of what life will be like when Harry eventually reigns as Capo.

He doesn’t let her know that, or anyone else, for that matter. Instead, he keeps quiet. He knows she’s too in her head to notice his nervous jitters and if he’s honest, he’s not too sure how to comfort her without coming off too forward or scaring her.

If his Mother or sister were in her situation, he’d press a kiss to their head and hold their hand. His wife is a little different in their current state of relationship.

By the time the car is pulling up to a large, industrial looking building, her fears and worries are only intensified. It’s chic and modern, no doubt about it… but it’s also relatively out of the way from the rest of the public and the seven other cars parked warrant a little more fear than before.

Demetri rounds the car and opens Harry’s door. He’s been Harry’s driver for three years and knows to keep his mouth shut unless spoken to. It’s not something he’s learnt from chauffeuring Harry around, but from his time working personally for Stefano and Salvatore in their younger years.

He’s been working for the Dellucci’s for three decades and while he knows Harry to be a much kinder man than most, he knows that feeling of having a bullet in his knee much better.

When Harry steps out of the car with a polite thanks, Demetri gently limps across the back and opens Y/N’s door. He doesn’t make eye contact with the young woman, another thing he learnt from the Dellucci’s.

She thanks him politely, hands soothing down her skirt and Harry stands beside her, a silent look between the two and she takes a deep breath, rolling her shoulders back and raising her chin.

She feigns confidence like a pro, and for a second, Harry’s almost fooled. Almost.

With a hand gently hovering over the small of her back, Harry guides her through the glass doors and into the lobby. A guard stands to the left; tall and lean and build like a fucking brick house.

He’s got on a slick suit and a little earpiece tucked away. He nods his head in greeting at Harry and takes a step out of the way, allowing the two through. He doesn’t spare a glance at Y/N.

She can hear her heart thumping in her ears as her little heels click against the marble floors. The lighting is dim through the halls, several locked doors on each side as she passes them until they reach the very end.

Harry stands before her, his hand on the doorknob and without thinking, Y/N latches onto his bicep; out of anxiety, needing to feel him close to her, to know he’ll protect her.

He stills momentarily, giving her a slither of a moment to know he understands, and he’s opening the door. There’s quiet chatter in the room, seats occupied aside from two. Did they know she was coming?

She recognises a fair few faces; two of Harry’s uncles and the dark red hair of Brian from the wedding. He appears happy to see her; grinning from ear to ear as he approaches the couple.

Harry greets his best friend with a firm, professional handshake. Like they haven’t fucked the same girl at the same time while sniffing coke of another stripper’s ass. His gaze is fixed on Y/N, though and she feels a little uncomfortable, not used to being under the gaze of men so close to her age.

“Y/N, lovely to see you again,” he says softly, nodding his head with a soft smile in a respectful greeting and she appreciates the lack of physical interaction he offers.

Harry’s hand finds its way on the small of her back again at the realisation of several eyes on his wife.

Brian still can’t hide his grin. By the shy look on her face and how she holds herself under Harry’s touch, he knows she has no clue how much Harry’s been swooning about her. About how peaceful she looks when she sleeps, that she’s infatuated with reading books and scribbling little annotations in the margins.

She doesn’t know that he’s been cooing over the way she gnaws on her inner cheek when she’s nervous and Brian feels about ready to start teasing his boss.

He keeps quiet, though, when Harry gives him a look. A look that suggests that while he may have that little dirt on him, if he does anything to ruin any progress with Y/N, he’ll surely cut off his balls and force feed them to him. Brian knows the kind of man Harry is, so it’s not something he’d put past him if he did something to truly upset or infuriate him.

The meeting begins as Y/N and Harry take their seats. None of the men address the female elephant in the room as Harry rolls through numbers and names, what they’re owed and how they’re going to get the Mexican Cartel in their books.

Y/N barely manages to register any of what he’s saying, too busy trying to slow her heart rate and stop her fucking hands from trembling. It isn’t until Harry takes note of the lack of responses in the room that he notices all eyes are glaring or perving on his wife and a wave of anger and protectiveness rolls over him in mini tsunami waves.

Harry casually leans back in his seat, hands slipping from the table and onto his lap as he brings forward the topic of Luca Buevello and how he owes almost twelve grand. It’s when he reminds the men of their terms and conditions when handling deals that he slowly inches his hand closer to Y/N’s lap, and knocking the edge of his hand with hers, their pinkies lock together.

Her heart is thumping over the gentle weight of his hand in her lap, over the way his strong, calloused finger is linked with hers. Spooning every night doesn’t feel nearly as intimate as this; secretly holding pinkies beneath a table in a room full of Made Men.

Nonetheless, the feeling offers a large sense of safety and relief to Y/N; the silent admission is enough to tell her that he’s there, he notices her state of discomfort, and he’ll protect her.

She’s easing down now and slowly allowing herself to listen to what Harry’s saying about the terms, when an older, somewhat tubbier man speaks up before Harry can finish.

“No disrespect, sir,” he begins, knowing to address Harry in the correct way while he’s temporarily on trial as Capo.

“But why is your gorgeous wife gracing us with her presence?” he continues, leaning forward on his desk and in his position, the light falls on the balding spot at the top of his head as he licks his lips.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be listening in on such violent business, sweetheart,” he jeers.

Harry’s stunned for a half second, like he can’t believe the size of balls this forty year old perv has. Harry’s seething through gritted teeth, a dark and dangerous chuckle falling from his lips.

“You’d do well to keep your mouth shut, Riccardo,” his lock on Y/N’s pinkie tightens just a little. “Who knows what we might catch.”

Y/N purses her lips and bows her head as she suppresses a smile at Harry’s insulting comment. She feels a little lighter through the rest of the meeting, shoulders relaxed and she doesn’t feel as small under the men's gazes anymore. She’s holding Harry’s pinkie as tight as he holds hers, a silent reassurance and thanks. One they both understand and reciprocate.

It’s something Brian notices as the meeting draws to a close; that Harry moves his hand from her lap slowly and their pinkies release their hold. It has a furrowed brow and squinted eye plastered on his face as Harry dismisses his men.

He leaves Y/N in her seat as he sees them through the door, Brian hovering until the end as he comes back in.

“I’ve called Mike, he’s going to take you back to the penthouse, I’ve got some business I need to finish, okay? I’ll call you if I run late,” he informs in a gentle tone, back to Brian as to offer at least some sort of privacy between the two.

Y/N nods with a small smile, doesn’t argue or push for details -- she doesn’t want to know and she’s too caught by the end of his sentence. I’ll call you if I run late.

“Okay,” she breathily replies.

“Harry,” Brian pipes up quietly from the other end of the conference table, arms folded over his chest and he nods his head to the door, gesturing for a private word.

He mumbles a ‘be right back’ to Y/N and follows his right hand man outside. Pushing the door, he raises his brows expectantly at the redhead.

“Bro, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to get laid and fuck all that pent up frustration out of your system,” he whispers through gritted teeth, smacking Harry on the side of his shoulder and the taller man can’t help but groan and roll his eyes.

Brian bounces on his toes. “Have you even slept with Y/N since the wedding night?” he pries.

Y/N knows it’s wrong, that she shouldn’t be listening to a private conversation. But when her name is spoken in a hushed tone between her husband and his best friend, she can’t help but feel at least a little intrigued.

The mention of their wedding night is enough to turn her mood sour and she can feel that familiar rumble of bile bubbling in her tummy again.

“Keep your voice down,” she hears him seethe through gritted teeth.

Harry shuffles uncomfortably in his spot and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing a hand down his tired face and shaking his head.

“We never fucked! I faked the sheets and she was too drunk to remember. I let her think we slept together,” he spits his secret through a whisper, face close to Brian as to stay as quiet as he can.

But Y/N hears -- she hears it all. She hears his admittance and she hears the white noise of everything else as it sinks in. He never slept with her. He never took her virginity. He never touched her. She feels light, like she’s floating and the impending, crushing weight of self hatred is no longer suffocating her.

She didn’t sleep with him.

She should hate him. Hate him for lying to her, for letting her believe she was drunk enough to allow him her body. Hate him for letting her hate herself. But she doesn’t, she can’t. All she can feel is free. She isn’t completely his, he didn’t take what is hers. That even in her most vulnerable state, he didn’t take advantage. That even when she was at her weakest point, he respected her.

It makes sense, now she knows the truth. How her thighs didn’t ache the next morning, that her core wasn’t pulsing and sore and she didn’t have bruises and marks littered across her hips and thighs. She feels stupid for not realising that the truth was always right in front of her.

“Are you serious? But you’ve been to the clubs since, right?” Brian pipes up again, arms across his chest like there’s no way in hell he’ll believe his friend hasn’t had sex for two weeks.

Harry shakes his head again with what Y/N deems as a pained sigh. “No, Bri. I’m a married man. Love between us or not, I won’t break or betray her trust,” he explains and while Y/N’s stomach flutters a little, Brian breaks into a laugh.

Harry frowns, can’t seem to understand what’s so funny.

“Sorry, bro… but you must be fucked if you think she trusts you,” Brian explains his amusement and it causes bolts of doubt to pile down Harry’s throat.

He knows it hasn’t been long, that he can’t ever expect her to trust him fully in such a short amount of time, but he hopes she knows he can trust his fidelity, at least.

His phone vibrates from his pocket and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s Mike telling him he’s outside. He glares at Brian, not uttering another word and upon hearing movement from the other side of the door, Y/N quickly returns to her seat, feigning nonchalance and picking at her nails.

“Mike’s here. He’s waiting for you outside,” his voice speaks gently and she nods, standing from her seat and soothing out her skirt again.

She notices the small hint of a rosy hue that sits on the apples of his cheeks and she feels like she’s looking at him in a completely different light.

She doesn’t see such an intimidating monster anymore. She sees a man that did what he had to do to protect them both, despite how shitty it felt. She knows what happens in the rare instance that a man doesn’t take his wife’s virginity on their wedding night. That she’s passed around between willing uncles and cousins until they are satisfied. She sees a man that respected her in her weakest and most vulnerable moments.

Maybe that’s what possesses her to reach on her tiptoes and press her soft lips to his stubbly cheek in a gentle kiss. Maybe that’s why she squeezes his bicep as she passes him and shyly makes her way down the hall.

Harry watches her walk away with a stammer in his chest and a light blush on his cheeks; ignoring the teasing snickers from Brian and he watches Y/N disappear with Mike, turning back to his friend.

“I don’t want to hear a fucking word.”

His knuckles are aching; sore and swollen with gashes of blood soaking the torn skin. There’s a mass amount of adrenaline that rushes through Harry when he goes on a debt collector run. There’s an excitement to hear their fucked excuses, maybe a bit of amusement for the sadistic part of him that loves to hear them beg for mercy.

Tonight is no different. Luca Buevello, a known affiliate and person of business with the New York Famiglia. He’s been a friend of the Dellucci’s for years but as of recent, too focused on gambling away his life to pay back what he owes.

Smacked out of his head when Harry and Brian arrived, they’ve got him roped and bound to a chair in the middle of his pristine kitchen; splatters of blood coating the white floors and counter doors.

They’ve been there for two hours. At first, it was a chat; Harry having at least a thread of trust in the man for knowing his step-father for so long, but he soon grew ballsy, commenting on his marriage and how he’d like to know how his Mother tastes. That’s what got him tied up with a black eye, broken nose and a kitchen steak knife lodged in his thigh.

Harry’s breathing slowly, chest heaving with deep breaths and his shirtsleeves have been rolled up to his elbows. The last time he was dressed like this was almost two weeks ago when he and Y/N were cooking pizzas together.

Maybe that’s what’s got him so impatient. He doesn’t want to be making appearances in debt collections. He wants to be at the penthouse with Y/N, finding out what’s going on with her, what that fucking kiss means.

“I’m losing my patience with you, Luca,” he starts, leaning the palms of his hands on the edge of a counter.

Brian’s got that sadistic smirk on his face, fingers gripping Luca’s fucked jaw to force him to look at him with blurred vision.

“I was willing to give you more time, but you just had to open your fucking mouth,” he tuts, pushing off the counter and walking toward him.

Luca’s face is unrecognisable, bruised and swollen and matted with sweat and blood. “Now, I’m going to untie you and you’re going to unlock your safe with your little fingerprint and give me my money,” he explains the simple steps, standing behind the man with a knife to the ropes.

“And if you try anything funny, you know we only need your finger to get that money. I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself here, Luca,” Harry tantalises, knowing the older man has never liked the younger one.

He’s just like Salvatore, doesn't think Harry should rule as Capo with his traitor blood. He’s team Nino, if you will.

Luca makes a muffled noise of acknowledgement and Harry cuts the rope. Brian pulls it off his body and takes a few steps back, watching with squinted eyes. Harry’s got a hand fisting the back of his shirt, just by his neck, and he guides him through the kitchen and into Luca’s personal office.

He mistakes Harry’s willingness for stupidity and in a haste of movements into the doorway of the office, Luca tugs the knife from his thigh with a muffled scream and rams it into Harry’s side in one swift motion. He doubles over in pain, grip on Luca faltering but Harry’s quicker, stronger than Luca anticipates.

Luca’s hand is still on the knife, trying to jab it deeper into his side but Harry grabs his wrist in a vice-like hold and tugs, twists it backward and breaks his thumb and wrist in a single snap. Luca falls to his knees, screaming and cursing profanities as Harry pulls the knife from his side and drags it across his throat in a quick slit.

Thick blood pools from the sharp incision as his body plummets to the floor, lifeless but still twitching. Harry’s breathing is heavy, groaning as he falls back against the door frame.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his shaking hand pulling up his torn and bloody shirt and blood is oozing frantically from the wound.

“Brian!” He calls out gruffly, hand applying pressure on the wound and the chirpy redhead bounds around the corner; coy smirk on his lips but it falters and his shoulders sag when he notices Harry’s state.

“I leave you for two minutes,” he mumbles through a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He’s about to slice off Luca’s finger, unlock the safe and get the money, but Harry shakes his head, trembling hand pulling away from the gash in his side and he’s not sure he’s bled so much from a knife wound before.

“What the fuck? A little steak knife did that?” Brian quips, kneeling slightly to get a better look at the gash but there’s too much blood for him to actually see anything.

Harry shakes his head and pushes his shirt back down, maintaining the pressure. “I think he cut into a healing scar and it split,” he seethes, head bashing back against the wall as he bites back the flurries of pain.

It’s a painfully slow drive back to the penthouse. Harry’s laid out across the backseat while Brian drives, eyes on the road but his mind is focused on reminding Harry of what will happen if he bleeds all over his custom leather seats. Harry’s too busy trying not to bleed out to think of a snarky reply.

His mind is a little too preoccupied. He promised Y/N he’d call if he was running late and now it’s nearly 02:00 AM and he’s bleeding out in the backseat of his best friend's Maserati.

His phone is too wedged in his pocket and he can’t muster up the proper energy to call her or Mike. Besides, he supposes she’s asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her.

He’s groaning in discomfort, feeling woozy and lightheaded when they pull into the underground garage. He’s been hurt worse in the past; shot, stabbed, tortured, burned, but he took the knife out and the position of the knife tore into soft scar tissue of an old wound.

Brian holds his entire weight into his side as he punches in the code to the penthouse, both their suits are splattered in Harry’s blood. When they get inside, Harry can’t keep himself up, even with Brian’s support. Maybe it’s because he’s lost so much blood, or maybe it’s because he knows he’s home -- that he doesn’t have to be so alert anymore.

He falls straight into the dining table, chairs knocking over and in his delirious state, he sees Mike come flying into the kitchen with a gun in the air, eyes wide when he notices Harry’s state.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Mike seethes under a whispered breath, shoving the barrel of his gun down the back of his pants and rushing to Harry’s side.

Between the two of them, they manage to get him to the couch, shirt torn from his body as Brian raids the kitchen for hard liquor and a first aid kit. The frantic rummaging and knocking of furniture is what disturbs Y/N from her slumber. She stirs awake, brows furrowed in a sleepy state of confusion until another thud is heard from the kitchen with several deep, laboured grunts following.

She freezes in the middle of the bed, straining her ears to hear past the white noise of the quiet home. She hears it again.

“Fuck!” her heart is stammering and the noises continue. What if someone got into the penthouse? What if someone’s hurt Mike? Where’s Harry? Y/N’s mind runs on overdrive and she’s in that fight or flight situation.

She doesn’t even think as she reaches for Harry’s side of the bed and lifts the mattress just enough to retrieve the handgun he keeps there in the nights. The weight of the weapon sits heavy in her quaking hands but she swallows down her fear and checks the magazine is full.

She tiptoes to the door, eyes stinging with tears but she blinks them back quickly. If there is an intruder and she’s in danger, she can’t let tears cause a clouded vision. She can’t be stupid.

Light on her feet, Y/N sneaks out of the bedroom and follows the sounds. It’s not until she’s creeping down the stairs that she realises the rookie mistakes she’s probably making.

She didn’t check her phone to see if Mike or Harry texted her to hide, she didn’t call Harry to tell him what’s happening. She doesn’t do anything that will protect her apart from gripping the gun tighter.

She’s never held one of these before, let alone shot one, and she wonders if even in her alert, sleepy state, she’d have the guts and will power to shoot if she needs to. Wonder if she’ll be able to stand behind the bite of the shot and if the noise isn’t too deafening.

Y/N reaches the bottom of the stairs, creeping closer but her heartbeat sounds louder in her ears than the grunts do. It’s when she creeps the corner that the gun she’s raised lowers and a choked sigh slips from her lips.

“Oh my God,” she whispers shakily, gun dropping to the floor in a clang and she doesn't realise the safety’s been on the entire time.

Harry’s on the couch, a pool of his own blood smeared across his lap and on the oak floors. His shirt is stained red, shredded and thrown to the floor. Brian’s disinfecting the gash in the side of his abdomen, dotting the area with cotton balls and Mike sits to his other side, sterilising a needle with thread.

Her gaze catches him and he stares with wide eyes. The look of horror and shock on her face has Harry feeling sick, can’t believe he was stupid enough to have Brian bring him back to the penthouse, to inevitably set her up to see him in such a state. Y/N’s slowly making her way over, limbs weak and trembling as her legs carry her satin pyjama clad frame closer.

Bile is rising in her throat at the sight of him and he offers a weak smile. She hates that even in this state, he’s trying to reassure her, pretending that he’s okay. Y/N doesn’t know if she’s thankful or resentful -- does he really view her as such a frail child? Like she can’t deal with a bit of blood and a stab wound?

“I’m fine, it’s just a little blood,” he tries to ease her but it’s more than a little blood.

She keeps watching as Mike brings the needle to the skin, piercing through with no warning and Harry throws his head back with greeted teeth; seething profanities and the sight has something shifting in Y/N.

She shouldn’t be staring at his ripped torso, the way his sweat is letting his tanned skin gleam under the soft light of the lamp across the room. She shouldn’t have a certain feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach at the sight of his thick Adam’s apple bobbing, or the way his jaw tenses when Mike pierces the skin again.

She shouldn’t feel that tingle and throb between her parted thighs.

Her toes are wiggling against the oak floors, fingers twitching and Harry rolls his head back down; his chin meeting his chest and he’s staring up at her through his dark lashes. He notices the flush in her cheeks from across the room; the way her nipples have pearled against the silky material of her cropped satin cami.

He notices the way her thighs clench subconsciously before she runs back upstairs, and he’s left getting stitched with a semi and the knowledge that she’s undeniably dripping under those baby pink satin shorts.

Harry enjoys a lot of things in life; the sunshine, fresh sheets, a cool beer at the end of a long day, and that overwhelmingly, indescribable feeling of sinking into a tight, soaked pussy at any given opportunity.

He’s been deprived of the latter for too long. Y/N’s been in New York for five weeks now, which means Harry hasn’t gotten his dick wet in seven.

He figured it’d be easier than this. That getting himself off in the shower or late nights in his office to a dirty porno would do the trick, but it hasn’t. He’s aching in his slick dress pants this morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite already being up for two hours and having showered.

Usually, he likes to think he’s perfectly gentlemanly when it comes to sexual wants and urges; that he can refrain from the need of sex there and then but he very clearly underestimated himself. He’s not entirely sure where this shift in his hormonal control has come from.

Lies.

He knows exactly what’s got him so pent up and frustratedly hung. Y/N, and the sight of her soaking through her baby pink satin shorts. Harry doesn’t want to admit that seeing her perky nipples pearl through her camisole was enough to give him a semi -- thinks he’s a little manlier than that, but tits are tits and he’s starting to grow needy.

Harry knows he needs a proper release soon, not one brought on by his hand or a dirty picture. He needs to bury himself deep in a tight little cunt and pound until his heart's content. But his head is stuck in another, equally frustrating rut.

It’s been three weeks since the stabbing and that damn kiss she planted on his cheek. She hasn’t spoken to him much since she caught him bloody on their couch with Mike stitching him up.

He doesn’t know if it’s because it scared her to see him hurt and it reminded her of what he’s capable of… or if seeing him like that made her doubt wanting to open up to him, push her away from growing closer.

He doesn’t know and it’s beginning to grate on him.

She’s said a total of seventeen words in the past three weeks (yes, he’s counted), and he’s a little worried. She hasn’t asked to attend anymore meetings, if she should still cook him dinner for when he gets home. She hasn’t asked anymore about Maria’s arrangement and he’s worried.

If only Harry allowed himself to look a little deeper at the situation. Because while seeing him bloody and beaten was a shock to the young woman, that’s not what drove her away, no.

What pushed her back from any more cheek kisses was the warm, melting sensation between her thighs at the sight of his sweaty chest -- the clouded thoughts and naughty shivers that ran up her skin at the sound of his grunts.

Y/N feels ashamed and embarrassed, but he doesn’t know that.

She’s tried to avoid him since that night -- no longer cuddling into him when they sleep or trying to wait up to see him for a few moments when he comes home. She’s been isolating away from him, trying to compartmentalise her thoughts about that night and the knowledge that he didn’t actually sleep with her, while also preparing herself for her family’s visit.

She thinks he hasn’t noticed her sudden withdrawal, but he has; figures she’ll talk in her own time. Harry’s not quite ready to push her away some more.

Her nerves for today have become her primary thought, though. She’s way too nervous about being in her father's presence for the first time in five weeks to push Harry away.

She knows they both need to be on their game today in case something happens, which means she needs to bite the bullet and address the situation, or at least, the effects of it.

Dressed in a mauve, midi wrap dress, her sandalled feet carry her from their room and into the kitchen. Harry watches her enter from his seat at the kitchen table; takes note of her loosely curled hair and how pretty and shy she looks.

She stops just in front of him, hands crossed at the front of her body and she rocks back and forth softly on the balls of her feet. She clears her throat as Harry sets down his coffee and turns to pay her his full attention.

“My family are visiting today,” she says in a casual tone, eyes focused on her pink painted toenails.

Harry dips his head with slightly squinted eyes, tries to see her face. “I know,” he plays, voice teasing and she looks up at him with a deep breath, hesitancy swimming in her eyes. Harry doesn’t move.

“And we both need to be with it today and not focussing on anything else,” she continues. She’s still toying with her fingers and Harry can’t help his deepening frown.

“Y/N,” he coos, “what’s going on?” He watches her take a deep breath and unclasp her hands, looking at him full on and Harry notices the pretty specs of lilac glitter on her eyelids.

“I’m sorry for being so distant the past few weeks,” she admits. “It’s just… after seeing you on the couch like that, it scared me a little and I didn’t know what to do, so I just distanced myself. I’m sorry.”

She leaves out the part where she got incredibly turned on by the sight of his glimmering chest and she hopes to God he buys her partly true admission. He does, or rather, lets on he does, and nods his head.

“It’s okay, I know that must’ve been scary for you,” he notes, leaving out the part where he knew she was dripping the entire time.

He waits a beat, like he’s trying to figure out where she’s wanting to take this conversation but he doesn’t have to think much before she’s speaking again.

“And um, well, about the kiss,” she chuckles nervously, cheeks heating in embarrassment and shyness.

Harry’s not sure if she’s about to tell him she regrets doing it, or apologise for overstepping boundaries. He doesn’t give her time to choose, too busy holding her clammy hands in his rough palms and tugging her a little closer to him. His knees are spread on the stool and she fits between them, unintentionally holding her breath at the closeness.

“Y/N, listen to me for a second,” he begins, massaging his thumb across her dainty knuckles and she nods, swallowing down her nerves.

“I know this marriage isn’t conventional, and I know neither of us got to marry for love. But it’s still a marriage and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me or in your own home. We’re together, until death does us part… I’d like for us to be comfortable around each other, to have some form of relationship,” he admits.

There’s something about the way he words it that stings a rattle in the pit of her stomach. We’re together, until death does us part. Y/N doesn’t think she truly realised the gravity of her living with him in New York.

This isn’t just some agreement where she can return home after a couple of months or years. This is her life now, her life until her dying breath.

Part of her wants to hate him for it, wants to scream and cry because she won’t have control over her future. The other part of her, the more logical part, takes it in its strides. In that part of her mind, she figures that if this is to be their lives now, they should make work what they can. They should be open with each other and allow a bond to form a connection.

Harry may choose to sleep with other women (not that she thinks he will after overhearing his conversation with Brian), and that will be okay. Y/N doesn’t have that option to meet other men and have affairs and she doesn’t want to be miserable in Harry’s presence.

She wants to feel comfort and lightness when they’re alone together, and wants to have a small smile on her face when his name is mentioned. She wants to know him at least a little bit. Someone she can trust and count on and talk to. She needs a friend, not just a husband.

But maybe she doesn’t want just a friend. Maybe she wants that kind of intimacy that she craves with him. Maybe she wants to be able to kiss his cheek when she likes. Maybe she wants him to kiss hers, too.

Harry’s in a similar boat. He knows he’s got it easier than her. That if he truly pleased, he could go to his whorehouses and fuck the night away. But that’s not the man his mother raised and he wants something with Y/N; something platonic or romantic, he’ll let her make those calls, but he wants something exclusive with her and her only.

He squeezes her hand, notices she’s deep in thought. “We need to communicate with each other, though. If you want to keep distance between us, that’s okay. And if you want the little touches and kisses, that’s okay, too. You were forced into this marriage, Y/N, but I won’t force anything else upon you.” Her hands are warm in his hold and she lets his words maul over in her mind. He’s right, she knows it. And for once, someone’s putting her first.

“Fear has no place in a marriage, Y/N. Not with me.”

Her nerves are eating at her insides, even after she threw up her breakfast once they arrived at one of Harry’s offices. It’s a different building to the one she accompanied him for the meeting a few weeks ago. It’s the same look, though; modern and chic and out of the way.

They’ve been waiting for almost two hours, spent the past 45 minutes of that time stuck in the same room as Stefano, Salvatore and Nino. Y/N’s been close to Harry’s side the whole time, doing her best to coil into herself under Nino’s discomforting gaze. He’s been staring the whole time; evil glint in his eye and filthy smirk on his lips.

Harry knows she wants nothing more than to punch him in the throat for proposing to marry Maria but she also knows she doesn’t have the guts and she has to be polite in the presence of other people. She’s tucked in Harry’s side; her arm looped around his and he takes it upon himself to intertwine their fingers and she squeezes it appreciatively.

There’s a constant silent understanding between them now, so it seems. A promise to have each other's backs and offer comfort and support when they know the other needs it. Y/N wonders if Harry will ever need hers.

Silence ticks away in the spacious room and it isn’t until Y/N hears commotion from down the hall that she moves in her seat. She peers to her side, looking through the window in the door and mousy brown hair catches with traces of pink catches her eye.

Y/N’s jumping from her seat before Harry can even make sense of what she’s doing. She doesn’t care that Stefano is likely glaring at her husband for not controlling his girl, or that Nino is likely getting a good look at her ass as she jumps up. All she cares about is Maria.

She sprints through the door and down the hall, eyes blazing with hope and their bodies crash into one another. Limbs are tangled in a frantic hold and Y/N can feel a warmth flow through her being, having the chance to be with her cousin again.

Maria is sobbing into the junction between her neck and shoulder; dampening the skin with salty tears but Y/N doesn’t mind. She’s close to tears herself and she doesn’t want to let go. She tells herself that Maria is safe in her arms but she knows her frail hold could barely save her from what she’s being condemned to.

Harry watches on solemnly. Though she’s sporting a sniffling nose and watering eyes, this is the happiest he’s ever seen her and when he watches her pull away, he’s engorged by her smile. Bright and heavenly, her brief happiness beams through the hall and Harry feels an odd sense of nauseating nostalgia -- a feeling he doesn’t come close to understanding.

For a moment, his heart flutters and he forgets about the situation at hand. He nearly forgets about his Familgia, about the mafia. All he can think is what he said this morning, of how bad he actually craves a relationship with his wife. He watches her smile falter when she sees her father and that gut instinct in him wants to pull her close and protect her from every man and woman that’s ever hurt her.

Harry makes no attempt to shake the feeling.

Instead, he entertains the idea of a real marriage with her in his head. He lets his mind wander to thoughts of loving her, getting to know her, of allowing her to love him. When her smile slips completely and she’s left with a frown, Harry makes a silent promise to himself that he will be the reason behind her next honest smile.

He’s always been open to love and the idea of it. Though he doesn’t much remember his father, he remembers the love he and his mother shared. He remembers having it instilled in him and Gemma even after Danny was gone. He remembers the words his mother used to promise him every night.

“Love is never a weakness, Harry. It’s the most painful thing you could ever endure, but it gives you a strength you never knew existed.”

He knows he doesn’t love Y/N -- knows better that she certainly doesn't love him and that’s okay. He thinks maybe one day, he could, but gaining her trust in the present is more important. Not for love, but for her.

Harry feels himself instinctively take a step closer when Bruno and Giovanni stand before his wife. He notices the way Y/N’s shoulders tense at the sight of them and her father pulls her into a timid and unwelcoming embrace.

She feels frozen in his hold, like she’s trapped again and her body is completely stiff. She can’t lift her arms to offer a warmer embrace and she honestly doesn’t want to. Y/N hopes Harry is watching, that he’s got an eye on her father and he’s ready to protect her if he needs to.

Harry does watch and his stomach bubbles. He hasn’t seen her this tense since their wedding night. He knows he shouldn’t, but he feels an odd sense of pride that he’s been able to encourage her to relax in his presence. But it doesn’t make the sight of her fear any less painful to witness, just because he’s not the cause of it.

He watches with squinted eyes as Y/N shifts in her dress uncomfortably. Giovanni’s lips are close to her ear but Harry can’t make out what he whispers -- he just knows it’s something cruel. Y/N pulls away from her father and her arms protectively wrap around herself.

Harry can see how she coils into her frame; making her look much smaller than she is as he bounds over. He’s sure he notices a flicker of something in Giovanni’s eyes as he meets the young Dellucci. Harry hasn’t got it in him for fake pleasantries. He stands in front of Y/N to shield her from her family's prying eyes.

Maria smiles shyly at Y/N as she hears them mumble their relief of being in the other's presence, when Giovanni reaches for Harry’s hand. He offers a firm greeting but his father-in-law takes it further and reaches forward, subtly leaning up on his own tiptoes as to reach Harry’s ears.

He feels his thick, musky breath on his neck and Harry tries not to grimace. “If she was still under my roof, she wouldn’t be seen dead wearing a dress so revealing to a family meeting.” Bruno is smirking from behind his father but Harry sees nothing entertaining about the situation.

His vision is dithering and he doesn’t know what he’s more offended and disgusted by: his demanding and controlling tone about his wife, or the sheer audacity he has to talk to him like that. Harry’s grip on Giovanni’s hand tightens like a vice and he knows the older man is struggling to stifle his groans under the crushing grip.

Harry snickers a hum, like he’s feigning agreement. “But she’s not under your roof, and Y/N can wear whatever the fuck she wants.” Giovanni tears his hand from Harry’s, eyes dark and swimming with absolute fury. He doesn’t expect for Harry to defend his daughter and the threatening tone he uses is taken as a challenge.

Giovanni straightens his jacket and stretches out his fingers -- popping his knuckles. Neither say a word to each other as the two Saccaro men saunter past Harry and into the meeting room. Y/N’s Uncle Romero follows close behind, keeping his head down and Harry thinks he’s the wisest out of the three.

Y/N is hovering behind him still, eyes glossy and fingers picking at her nails. A sense of safety washes over her when their eyes meet and she wants to reach out to hold his hand, to thank him, but she knows now is not the time. He’ll no doubt be the talk of California when her family returns home and she knows he needs to keep his hard facade up.

Instead, he offers a tight lipped smile and nods his head ever-so-subtly. She appreciates the acknowledgement and lets him guide her into the meeting room. She’s tucked beside him through it all, eyes focussed on her twiddling fingers or her fidgeting cousin.

She can’t really focus on anything that’s being said but whenever she hears Harry’s voice, she holds onto it. She doesn’t really take in what he’s saying but she lets his voice ground her, offering that piece of safety and reassurance.

Her fingers are busy tugging at the hem of her dress; trying to pull it further down her thighs when she feels Nino staring straight at her.

She doesn’t need to look up to know his eyes are zeroed in on her rounded chest and Harry catches on just as quickly. He allows for Stefano to take over, to discuss the terms in which this marriage would include. Harry reaches blindly for her hand and tugs it away from her dress.

She looks gorgeous and he isn’t about to let a comment from her father make her feel anything less than that. He intertwines their fingers and Y/N forces herself not to look, to keep her eyes on her cousin. Her heart spasms when she feels him lift their hands and his soft lips press a gentle kiss to the back of her palm.

She tries not to make it known that she’s choking on her breath and she knows Nino witnessed the display of affection and she wonders if that was Harry’s intention all along. To make him jealous? A silent warning to back off? She doesn’t know but her body is ignited in a welcoming sense of warmth.

She can’t focus on the legalities of the situation that Romero and Salvatore discuss. Nor can she focus on the comments Nino makes or how Giovanni and Bruno snicker like school children. All she can focus on is the turmoil in her head that he just kissed her hand in front of a room of other notorious mobsters.

It’s when Harry’s thumb starts to run smoothly over the divots of her knuckles that she feels herself swoon. She’s overwhelmed. He’s trying to make her feel safe and comfortable; something no one has ever done for her. She’s too caught up in her inner monologue of what this all means, that she doesn’t hear Harry’s voice raise as he tries to fight against another arranged marriage.

What she does hear, and what does snap her from her oblivious state, are a stack of papers that smack against the oak table and the faint scribble of Romero’s signature whizzing across the paper. Y/N’s frantic eyes dart between made men as her heart kicks up a fuss. That once comforting warmth is now a sweltering heat she can’t seem to bear.

Her eyes find Maria who looks all too calm and composed for her situation. Y/N swears she notices a hint of a smile flitter on her lips and she feels sick. She knows her hint of excitement is all for Nino’s looks, but Maria doesn’t know the type of person he is. She wants to scream at her to run, to never look back, but nothing comes out.

A hand squeezes hers and she looks to her side in search of Harry. His lips are pursed and there’s a hint of something she hasn’t seen before that swims in his eyes. Regret. Regret that he couldn’t stop the arrangement, that nothing he said or did was good enough to sway either party involved. Another part of him knows it’s not his fault. Stefano is Capo and therefore, his say goes.

Y/N looks away, can’t bear to look at her husband and see the same nauseating look in his eyes. She does, however, squeeze his hand back gratefully for his attempts. She knew not to get her hopes up, but she still feels like her spirit and soul have been shattered. Even being married to one of the most powerful Made Men of today’s society doesn’t protect your family.

“Then it’s agreed,” Nino smirks. “Maria Saccaro will be my wife.”

Y/N’s blood boils and she rises to her feet as hands are shaken across the table. She rests her hand on Harry’s shoulder as she stands, leaning to bring her lips to his ear.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” There’s anger and spits of venom laced in her raging voice and he can’t say he blames her.

He watches her leave the meeting room with squinted eyes before Bruno is leaning over to shake at his hand.

“Where’s she running off to?” he asks, but Harry knows better than to tell him anything. He scoffs at her brother and tightens his grip.

“Your sister hasn’t been a concern of yours for a long time. Don’t try that big brother bullshit with me now,” he warns.

He shoves Bruno with the force of his shoulder to greet Maria properly. Her eyes are a little wild, like she’s trying to process what’s just happened. She eyes him sceptically as he reaches for her hand in an open palm. When she sits her trembling fingers in his grasp, he closes his other hand above hers.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this,” he admits lowly as to not attract the attention of his family or hers. Maria doesn’t say anything and Harry doesn’t expect her to. Instead, he nods in a respectful way and is pulled out of the office with everybody else.

It’s Stefano that shakes his hand next, a gleaming smile and a sweat-dotted hairline. Harry frowns at the precipitation that sheens on his ageing skin.

“That’s how it’s done, boy,” he grins wickedly, like he hasn’t just condemned a young girl to a lifetime of misery with his psychotic nephew.

“Why are you sweating so much?” he asks with a grimace.

Harry chooses to ignore the comment he makes back and pulls his hand from Stefano’s clammy one. He wipes his now damp hand down his dress pants and eyes his step-father. He’s pulled away by Salvatore before he can answer and Brian is swooping in to his friends side, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“That went well,” he notes.

Harry rolls his eyes at his choice of words and clears his throat. “As well as an arrangement can go with the Saccaro’s, I suppose.” Brian scoffs, nudging his shoulder.

“You say that like you’re not married to one of them,” he snorts. Brian’s leaning on tiptoes, known for being one of the shortest, in search for the aforementioned woman.

“Where is she anyway? You know Mike’s not with her, right? Too busy ogling over her cousin.” Harry follows Brian's direction of a head nod and finds his wife's guard standing off to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets but his line of sight is strictly on Maria who looks all too lost and like she’s searching for the same woman Brian is.

Harry sighs. “She’s in the bathroom. Needed to cool herself down after that shitshow. Can you blame her?” he mumbles, shoulder brushing against Brian’s as they stand offish to the side. He hums, agreeing with his superior and rocks slightly on the balls of his feet.

Harry’s eyes are fixed on the corner that rounds to the bathroom and he’s beginning to get a bit impatient. She’s been in there for nearly ten minutes now. He’s been too caught in what Brians been saying and keeping tabs on Mike that he hasn’t noticed Giovanni sauntering off in search of his daughter.

Y/N comes shuffling out of the bathroom when she notices her father waiting outside for her. The second their eyes meet, he’s shoving her into the wall and a finger is being pointed in her face. Her face is stricken with fear and she’s shuddering beneath his tall figure.

She tries to push him away -- to slip out from his grasp, but he’s grabbing her wrist and forcing her back against the wall. “You listen here, you little bitch,” he’s seething through gritted teeth. She can’t comprehend what’s happening. She doesn’t understand.

Y/N hasn’t done anything to warrant a punishment. She doesn’t understand that he’s taking his frustrations from Harry out on her. Giovanni isn’t a silly man. He knows he won’t stand much of a chance in a quarry with Harry, but he has his daughter to take his anger out on. He blames her, anyway. Harry wouldn’t have spoken to him or tried to break his hand if his daughter wasn’t acting like an insolent whore.

In a fit of fury and bravery, she rips her hand from Giovanni’s hold. She thinks if she’s loud enough, Harry will hear her and save her. How pathetic, running from one man just to beg for help from another.

“I’m not your property anymore,” she spits, but her moment of resilience is backfired as Giovanni raises his fist in an attempt to beat the respect back into her.

She cowers to the side when his fist kisses her eye and a sharp yelp cries from her lips. Her mind is frozen but her body is in shock. In the month she’s been away from him, she’s forgotten the painful impact behind the bite of his blows. She hasn’t been hit in two months and if she’s honest, she thinks that’s her longest streak.

Y/N’s shaking, chest rattling and she’s on the verge of hyperventilating. She feels like she’s stuck in her bedroom in California; screaming and begging for someone to take her away as he punches and kicks. She thinks this is about to be the same way -- that her father will bruise her black and blue to teach her a lesson.

But Harry’s growing impatient waiting for her to return. He’s rounding the corner as Giovanni takes a step away from the entrance to the bathroom, and that’s when he sees her cowering against the wall with an angry red cheek and mascara-smudged eyes. Y/N’s sobbing, holding her cheek, and neither her nor Giovanni notice his presence.

He goes to raise his hand again but Harry’s tackling him into the closest wall with a hand around his throat and another on his gun. He’s seething, fucking spitting through gritted teeth at the balls on this dude. Giovanni’s got a sick grin on his lips and Harry really can’t believe his eyes.

“What?” Giovanni croaks. “A month with you and she forgets how to respect men?”

Harry’s forcing an iron fist into the side of his face at the comment, ignoring the sharp sting that throbs in his side. Blood splattering from Giovanni’s nose and mouth to the opposing wall and Harry’s almost certain he’s torn his stitches. Giovanni spits at the floor, head rolling back to grin filthily at the younger man.

Y/N’s still stuck to the wall, watching everything unfold. Her hand is still close to her face as she cradles her blooming bruise but she can’t take her eyes off Harry. The commotion of it all attracts the attention of everyone else and Maria is gasping at the sight of her cousin.

She tries to reach for her, to coddle her and attend to her bruised face but Y/N doesn’t look her way and a firm hold on Maria’s shoulder stops her. She doesn’t need to look to see it’s her father holding her back. Brian’s got a hand on his gun, just like Stefano and Bruno do.

Mike’s watching it all unfold, horror seeping in his eyes at the sight of Y/N hurt. He knows this is his fault -- that he should’ve just followed and waited outside the restroom for her. Knows he should’ve been doing his fucking job properly because now she’s hurt and Harry’s angry.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your fucking throat out,” he warns through gritted teeth, spit hitting at Giovanni’s face and he smashes the back of his head against the wall for extra measure. He shoves off him, biting back the dull pain that aches in his side and turns to Y/N.

His eyes manage to block out the glares of confusion and glints of light that reflect from drawn guns. His main priority is attending to Y/N and chewing Mike out. He knows it’s not the guards fault but he has to make it known that incidents like this can never happen again.

There are many things Harry won’t stand for, and violence among women is one of them.

“Meeting adjourned, go catch your fucking flights” he mumbles.

He doesn’t care for the lingering looks of judgement from their families as he wraps an arm around Y/N’s shoulder and lets her coddle into his side. He ignores the confused glances and whispers of disapproval from Stefano and Salvatore.

Y/N keeps her face hidden from sight, knows she’s got all eyes on them and she wants to scream, coil into herself. Her father hit her, her brother watched, and her husband defended her honour. What kind of family was she born into?

It’s been hours.

Stefano flew back to England after the incident, claiming he didn’t feel too hot and the Saccaro’s hopped on their jet back to California. Harry’s been left with the mess to clear away paperwork and a shaken-up wife.

She’s sitting on the kitchen counter, thighs parted in her flowy dress as she watches Harry rummage through the freezer. They haven’t uttered a word since they left the warehouse and Y/N did well at pretending she didn’t hear him tear into Mike over the phone when they took a couple detours so he could put things in place.

He’s wrapping a bag of frozen peas in a thin dishcloth as he makes his way back over to her and she struggles to breath in his presence again. Harry stands between her thighs, peas in one hand while the other reaches up to brush her hair from her face to get a better look at her eye.

It’s swollen just a little but there’s a dull, purple marking that’s starting to stain the skin.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he warns in a soft tone.

She lets him raise the clothed peas to her face and gently press the frozen fabric to her eye. She winces at the foreign feeling and he coos, keeping her softly in place.

Her eyes flutter open to look back up at him. His brows are knit in a gentle frown and she can feel his warm breath fanning across her face; mint and cinnamon. He brushes hair from her eyes again and Y/N decides that out of all the men she’s ever known, ever met, he’s by far the kindest.

No man has defended her like him. No man has threatened her father for her.

Maybe it’s because the situation has finally had a chance to sink in and she’s grateful, or maybe it’s because what happened opened her eyes to what she wants and what could be. She doesn’t know, but something wills her to drop the peas and lean forward until her soft lips smear against his.

Harry’s eyes are wide in slight shock. He gives her a couple of seconds to pull away, to take it back -- but she doesn’t. So he lets himself sink into her touch and kiss her back, just as soft and tenderly. It’s as innocent as their first and last kiss, on their wedding day, but so much more is said behind it.

She pulls off him bashfully, cheeks tinted pink as she clears her throat and blinks down at her hands.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

Harry’s eyes are glued to her partly-shielded face and his hands reach for her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Y/N’s eyes are wide, lips plump and glossy. He kisses her again, lips parted as he envelops hers. She hums against him, lips closed and he licks at her bottom one, coaxing them open. When her mouth parts the slightest, his tongue slides against hers.

Harry’s got his hands on her hips as he takes the lead of the kiss, allowing her hesitant tongue to explore his skilled one. Her own hands are trembling against his chest at the new form of intimacy between them but she can’t get enough. His taste and touch is intoxicating and she wants more.

Harry’s no better; his heads swimming and he’s trying to will himself not to fucking ruin her there and then on the kitchen counter. She’s sweet on his tongue and it’s fogging his senses. One hand leaves her hip to grip at her thigh and he manages to coax them around his waist, tugging him impossibly closer so he can smell her sweet perfume.

Y/N wants to tell him that she knows. Knows what he really did on their wedding night, that he faked the sheets. That while she remembers what he told her that night, she doesn’t fear him. That she knows he didn’t mean it. That she knows he will protect her.

She thinks she’s got the courage to tell him, to open up and learn who he truly is but there’s a harsh vibration coming from beside them as his phone rattles on the counter. He pulls away from her with a groan, lips swollen and pink and Y/N looks royally fucked and flushed.

He makes no effort to look at the caller ID and opts to answer it anyway, bringing it to his ear.

“It better be important,” he mumbles harshly.

His hand is kneading the fleshy skin of her hip above her dress and Y/N takes the moment to catch her breath.

“Harry,” he hears a breathy voice shudder across the other line. His brows furrow and he stands straighter. His eyes leave Y/N’s as he focuses on the wall behind her, blood running cold.

“Mum?” He treads carefully.

“It’s Stefano… he’s dead.”

Harry feels sick. He can’t focus on Anne’s insistent cries or Y/N’s pleading looks. He can’t let himself ravish in the sight of his wifes swollen lips and hooded eyes, or worry about his mother’s frantic state of urgency.

All he can hear is white noise and all he can feel is a biting numbness. He knows what this all means; that he is now Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia but he can’t focus on that right now, either.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think or feel. He can’t make sense of anything.

“Mum, stop,” he mumbles, hand pinching at the bridge of his nose and Y/N’s dipping her head to get a better look at him, to chase his gaze and find out what’s going on.

“Are you okay? Is Gemma okay? Are you safe? What happened!?” he asks frantically and while Anne confirms their safety, her sobs become a drilling in Harry’s ears and he can’t take it.

“Mum, just stop!” he raises his voice.

Harry tries to ignore the way Y/N flinches away from his sudden outburst. In his current state, though, he can hardly bring himself to actually care.

“Stay where you are and do not call anyone. I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up before she has the chance to argue and his phone is shoved back in his pocket.

His hands find purchase in his unruly locks as he twists on his heels and seethes through gritted teeth.

“Fuck!” He’s red in the face, punching a hole into the closest wall and Y/N’s watching with wide eyes and trembling lips.

She slips off the counter, bare feet cautiously padding closer to him and she bravely sits a hand on his shoulder.

Harry spins to face her, vision clouded with anger and confusion. He can’t wrap his head around what’s happened. He saw Stefano just a few hours ago and now Harry thinks about it, he was acting oddly -- sweating and panting.

But he got home to England and now he’s dead? Now Harry will have to reign as Capo, and as much as he’s wanted this and he’s ready… he never thought it would happen this way.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Y/N speaks up softly, voice trembling and he has to remember she’s scared and vulnerable.

He takes a shaky breath and cups her jaw in his palms, dipping down to kiss her lips. She welcomes it briefly before she’s pulling away in confusion and curiosity. If she’s honest, she’s never seen Harry act so wildly before and not knowing the reason behind it is scary.

It doesn’t matter that she trusts him more than before now. She still needs to know.

“Stefano’s dead. I have to fly out to England,” he explains through a strained voice. Her eyes are wide, jaw slack and she’s sure her heart just stopped.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she breathes as she takes a step away from him. Her fingers are tangled in her hair, breath shallow as she paces nervously.

If Y/N knows anything about random deaths of Made Men within the mafia, it’s that they’re never random and are always planned and thought out by another. Stefano isn’t just dead. He’s been murdered.

No matter how much her family tried to shelter her from the Mafia life, she knows things about these types of situations -- a situation her family dealt with when her grandfather mysteriously died five years ago.

She knows an investigation will be undergone by the newly reigning Capo and if it shows that Stefano died in Anne’s presence, he’ll be expected to execute his mother to prove his loyalty to his men and his title, to his step-father's honour. Harry knows it, too. Maybe that’s why he’s so torn.

“I’m coming with you,” she blurts out, hands falling to her sides and Harry watches her, sceptical as she takes a step closer to him.

He’s shocked by her sudden outburst and he’s about to fight her on it, to assure her that Mike will be here to keep her safe when he’s gone. But this isn’t just about her safety.

She wants to be there for Harry’s support, to offer guidance and reassurance of her own. She wants to be there to prove to Harry that he can trust her, that she wants to be there to console and support his mother and sister.

“I’m coming with you,” she repeats and Harry doesn’t argue.

Neither of them hang around long enough to pack bags or set a plan in motion. Instead Harry kisses her feverishly and takes her hand in his.

He’s guiding her to the rooftop when his private jet lands and he’s calling Connor and Mike to give them an update. He keeps his composure, save for swears of anger when he gets on the plane but Y/N thinks she knows better.

His knee is jittering and he’s gnawing at his inner cheek. She can see a thin sheen of sweat that coats across his tanned skin and he taps his fingers in a frantic rhythm against his knee cap.

He can’t get out of his head. He’s now officially Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia and he thought owning the title he’s worked so hard towards would feel better than this.

Harry can’t help but feel he’s cheated his way to the top, despite having nothing to do with Stefano’s death.

He knows Y/N feels like she’s treading on eggshells as she watches him from the seat opposite his. He knows she’s worried about him, about his family, about what will happen now.

But she doesn’t say anything and he’s thankful for that. He’s thankful and overwhelmed that despite her bruising eye and uncertain anxiety, she’s worrying for him and silently reminding him that she’s here and waiting when he’s ready.

Harry’s never experienced anything of the sort before and he tries to remind himself that he most certainly doesn’t deserve it. But he’s selfish when it comes to her and he doesn’t plan on changing anything about that.

Y/N doesn’t want to overstep boundaries by asking what’s going through his head, by offering physical, emotional support. But Harry still needs it, so without voicing his desperate desires, he reaches forward for her hand and encourages her to stand from her seat and take the empty one beside him.

He guides her to intertwine their fingers and rest her head on his shoulder as he kisses the top of her hair.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he assures her in a gentle whisper and she nods, offering his hand an understanding squeeze and he lets out a breath of wanton relief.

There’s a car waiting for them when they arrive at the deserted landing strip not far from his family's mansion. He helps Y/N into the highrise of the SUV and gets in the driver's seat. The night is dark as they drive the lonely roads to his mother.

Y/N’s got her gaze fixed on the trees that whizz past her window and Harry’s had no choice but to stop jittering his knees as he drives.

She doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to put him further in his head and she knows nothing said will put him at ease until he sees Anne and Gemma. It’s not until now that it dawns on Y/N that she’ll be seeing her in-laws again and the throbbing of her eye reminds her of her current state and what they’ll think when they see her.

Anxiety is eating at her insides but she doesn’t let it show, she can’t. The focus right now is on Harry and his family and she will not take that away from him. She knows he’s never liked his step-father but it doesn’t make losing him easier. Or maybe it does, but with the current circumstances, nothing is easy right now.

It’s another twenty minutes before Harry is pulling into a gated home after his finger unlocks the biometrics. The house is huge; three stories and castle-like. There’s a little pond on the left side of the front of the house and two big Range Rovers off to the right. She swallows back the nerves as Harry parks the car but neither of them get out for a moment.

Y/N thinks she should wait for Harry to make the calls but right now, he’s a bit too in his head. He hasn’t been to this house in over five years and he's not sure how he’s going to take the sight of his step-father's dead body or his mother’s broken soul. He’s not stupid -- he knows his mother has never loved Stefano, but she’s scared and lonely and he’ll protect her and his sister over anything.

After a couple minutes of gaining his bearings, Harry clambers out of the car and rounds the front to help Y/N out. His hands cup beneath her arms as she steps down onto the ground; her hands bracing herself on his shoulders and he closes the door behind her. She’s peering up at him as he frowns at her bruising eye, thumbing softly against the skin and she tries not to wince under his touch.

“Stay close, and if you have to: run,” he warns with a lingering kiss to her forehead. She watches him tug the gun from the back of his pants and lets him gently shove her behind him. They’re sneaky as they make their way through the unlocked door. Y/N’s too alert to properly admire Anne’s home -- the chandeliers and high ceilings and windows. She’s too scared to take in the chic furnishing of her surroundings.

It’s silent as Harry creeps closer inside, knees bent and gun cocked to the ground but ready to be aimed. She’s thankful she changed her heels for a pair of flat pumps before they left for England. A desperate whimper is what catches their ears and she half expects Harry to falter his movements, but he doesn’t. He raises the gun and races through the hall and into the kitchen, Y/N following close behind with an erratic heart.

She watches with wide eyes at her surroundings. Stefano is dead on the floor -- foam smothered across his mouth with trails of blood that have pooled beneath his head. Her eyes find the owner of the whimpers and Gemma is trembling to her left. She’s hunched over a cream couch that sits opposite a fancy fireplace.

“Oh my God…” Y/N can’t help the whimpering mutter that slips from her lips, and the sound of the familiar voice causes Gemma's head to perk up. Y/N doesn’t notice Anne sat emotionlessly at the kitchen table, but Harry does and he regards the older woman with caution. Gemma breaks into fits of uncontrollable tears upon seeing her brother and with all the energy she can muster, she jumps up and crashes into his arms.

Y/N doesn’t see him hold her close to his chest and coo at her. He refuses to look at the body, unlike Y/N who can’t fucking look away. She’s too fucking frozen looking at the dead body at her feet to hear the breathless and frantic mutters of “he’s gone, he’s finally gone,” that Gemma repeats against Harry’s chest. He’s trying to calm her erratic state, eyes on his mother and her wanton stare.

It’s when Gemma pulls away to take a breath that she also notices Y/N’s presence, and even through her bleary, blurry-eyed vision, she can make out the stricken horror and dark bruise painted across her face.

“Y/N!” she shrieks, shoulder knocking against Harry’s and she’s making for her sister-in-law.

The sound of her name breaks her from her trance and she opens her arms for the younger girl, welcoming her embrace and offering a sense of reassurance and comfort. Y/N coos as she smoothes down her matted brown hair and keeps her close. Harry’s heart quakes at the sight of his wife coddling his sister and he takes a deep breath, turning away and he’s reminded of how intimate they were just hours before this.

Anne still hasn’t said a word and Y/N thinks she gets the hint that she doesn’t want to talk about it around her daughter. She swallows her shaky nerves and pulls Gemma away at arm's length. “Come on. Let’s go get you cleaned up, yeah?” she speaks, guiding the older girl away before she can blubber out questions about her eye.

When Harry’s certain they're out of sight and ear-shot, he pulls the seat beside his mother and sits. “What happened?” he asks lowly.

Anne still makes no attempt to look away from the table, and it isn’t until now that Harry notices all the food that’s been placed on it. They were halfway through dinner and by the position of Stefano’s body, it looks like he dropped dead during the meal.

Anne swallows. “I drugged his scotch with rat poison.” His eyes land on the half empty scotch glass and he takes in a deep and shaky breath. He’s cursing in his mind for the massive clean up he’s going to have to deal with as his first priority as Capo. He shakes the thought and pulls her in for a hug, kissing the top of her head when she lets her cheek rest on his shoulder.

Harry knows she’s never been happy with him, that she never loved him, or even liked him, for that matter. He knows the pain and heartache both she and his sister have had to endure for all these years and he wishes to God it was him that had the balls to off him years ago. But he’s proud of her. Proud because it’s the bravest and most strongest thing she’s ever done.

“I’ll cover it up, okay? I’ll get in contact with Riccardo and he can forge the autopsy. Once everything’s sorted, you and Gem are coming back to New York with Y/N and I, okay?”

He walks her through his plan and how it’ll work and Anne can do nothing but nod and sniffle back the tears of relief. She knows why she waited so fucking long to do this -- she didn’t want Harry to have to deal with the mess and the fights.

But there’s only so much a helpless woman and her daughter can take before one of them snaps. She’d rather have murder on her conscious for the rest of her life than on Gemma's.

“How is she?” Anne asks when she finally pulls away.

She’s reaching for her glass of wine and takes a sip, twisting in her seat to look at her son a little better. It’s been a few weeks since she last saw him and being apart for so long is making a bigger effect on her than she first anticipated. He keeps changing and she can’t keep up.

Harry watches her drink her wine with slumped shoulders and visibly lighter eyes. He knows they don’t have time to chit-chat right now, but he entertains her anyway.

“I saw the bruise…” She continues, brow raised but Harry takes no offence -- she’s not implying anything, she knows he’d never lay a hand on his wife, or any other woman unless they posed as a threat.

He scoffs and shakes his head, reaching for the port of whiskey and eyeing his mother skeptically. She shakes her head and he reaches for her bottle of wine with a chuckle instead.

“Giovanni paid a visit. Not letting him near her alone again,” he grunts, taking a long swig. Anne nods in understanding and takes a deep breath as she eyes her son.

“Are you okay?” she finally asks.

He knows it’s more than just a motherly check-in. She’s not just asking if her son is okay -- she’s asking if her son is okay after being forced into an arranged marriage with a woman he didn’t know. For a moment, they both forget the dead body that lays lifelessly slumped on the floor and neither of them hear Y/N’s soft feet pad down the stairs and carry her toward the kitchen to get Gemma some water.

But the sound of Harry’s voice causes her to stop beside the staircase. “It’s hard, Mum. I know she’s never felt safe in her entire life and I can feel how much she’s relaxing around me. I know she doesn’t trust me -- not yet -- not after what I let her believe happened on our wedding night,” he takes a breath and rubs a hand over his face.

Anne’s got her eyes on him and she can see the turmoil and uncertainty painted across his face. She can see the gears working behind his eyes and the fear and anxiety is damn near transparent. Y/N’s heart is hammering in her chest as she cowers behind the wall. She feels sick with herself, listening in on his private conversation but she needs to hear this just as badly as Harry needs to admit it.

“I want her to trust me. I want her to know that I’ll always respect her and what she wants.” She feels tearful and light -- like she’s floating and can finally breathe clearly for the first time in her life. She’s always known Harry was a genuine person, but hearing him speak so soft and fondly of her without knowing of her presence, stirs something deep inside of her.

No one has respected her like he has. No one has shown her common, human decency like he has and she feels stupid for feeling so grateful and happy, but she is. Y/N takes a moment to compose herself before letting her feet heavily carry her into the kitchen slowly, clearing her throat to make her arrival known.

Harry watches her with soft eyes as she grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with some tap water. He notices the way her bruise seems angrier in the light of the kitchen and Anne places her wine down, standing to greet her daughter-in-law. She rounds the kitchen island and hugs the girl comfortingly, allowing her fingers to ghost over her eye and cheek.

Y/N visibly keens into her shoulders a little with a shy, nervous smile. “I’m okay,” she says. “Just a little accident getting out of the shower this morning.” She tries to pass it off and Harry suddenly feels a little sick with himself. He didn’t think that maybe she wants to keep what happened as a secret, that maybe she’s embarrassed by it.

Anne nods, makes no attempt to throw Harry under the bus and she hums. “Oh, I know all about those shower incidents.” She tries to make light of the situation but Y/N can’t help the sadness she’s overwhelmed with at her confession and she’s willing herself to ignore the body. Anne is quick to sense her discomfort and takes a step back.

“Is Gemma okay?” She changes the subject.

Y/N nods with a shaky breath, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips, thankful for the switch in topic.

“She’s calmed down a little, yeah. But um…” her eyes glance over to Harry and back to Anne. “Is there somewhere else you guys can stay for the night? I can’t imagine you’re going to want to stay here and it’ll look too suspicious if you come back to New York with us before his um… his… you know… is announced.”

Anne’s lips part at her consideration and she thinks Harry’s got himself a little angel. Harry’s starting to think the same and all he wants is to grab hold of her pretty face and kiss those plump lips and tell her over and over again thank you, thank you, thank you.

He waits a beat, decides if his idea is something he can truly share. But he looks at Y/N and he feels light and warm and he wants her to know about this, wants to share it with her, too.

“How about the old house?” Harry suggests with a raised brow and Y/N’s furrow slightly in confusion. Anne feels her heart thumping in her chest and she knows going back to that house is exactly what she needs right now.

Maybe it’s what they all need, to go back to the house they used to live in. The house that Harry learnt to walk, where Danny taught him to talk and where Anne felt loved and safe. When Danny died, the house was handed over to Harry and he kept it in his name for years, hiding it from Stefano and claiming it was one of the safe houses he had.

It was never a lie. It’s always been a safe house. “I’ll make a few calls and we’ll go.”

Harry’s pulling up to the house with a shaky breath. It’s small, compared to the home they were just standing in and as Y/N leans forward in the passenger's seat, she can feel her heart swelling. It’s beautiful. She can tell Harry’s kept a frequent gardener because flowers have been blooming and tended to, and she feels dizzy knowing she’s about to embark on a part of Harry’s childhood.

Harry leaves the car first and opens Gemma’s door who was sitting behind him. He beats his mother to open her door and then he helps Y/N out and down to the ground, closing the door and hauling Gemma’s bag over his shoulder. “What is this place?” she asks tiredly, arms around her arms in the brisk, British air.

Anne smiles softly, heart full and her eyes are welling with tears at the sight of the old house. “Home,” she tells her. She fiddles with the keys in her hand before she leads the others to the front door and unlocks it. It’s dark and cold and Harry reaches in to switch on the light and mess around with the thermostat while Gemma and Anne take in their surroundings.

It’s the same since she was last here, Anne. The old school furniture and late 90’s wallpaper. A sense of comfortable nostalgia washes over her when she sees old photo frames sitting on the fireplace and she bashfully sheds a tear at the photo of her late first husband. She feels safe, comfortable as she sits on the couch and pulls Gemma down to sit with her.

Harry’s been here enough times in the recent past to have come accustomed to being back in the house. He’s kept a close watch on it, making sure no one tried breaking in or vandalising the property like Danny's old places were after he died. He’s been here enough to keep things clean and working in the event they needed to run, and while he did up the two spare rooms, he didn’t have it in him to change his parents or his childhood one.

While Anne shows Gemma around the house, Y/N is frozen by the entrance. She’s yet to step foot in the house and she feels like she shouldn’t -- that she shouldn’t be here, intruding on something so private and family oriented. She might be Harry’s wife, but she isn’t their family… not really.

“Hey, what are you doing out there?” Harry finally asks when he realises the chill is coming from the open front door.

She’s gnawing on her inner cheek, hands on the doorframe and he frowns. “I just -- I don’t want to intrude,” she explains. Her tone is shaky and vulnerable and Harry won’t have any of it. He grabs her wrist and gently tugs her inside, closing the door and allowing her to warm up a little.

She feels like she shouldn’t look around, like she’s out of place in a far too personal home. She knows she’s wanted Harry to open up to her but this feels too much, like he hasn’t actually had a choice in the matter. “Hey, communication, remember?” he pipes up softly, thumb under her chin to get her to look up at him.

Her breathing catches in her throat for a moment and she blinks, wanting nothing more than to lift up on her tiptoes and kiss his lips again. She doesn’t know what any of this means between them; the kisses and the touches. She doesn’t know how he feels or what he wants and the uncertainty of the new situation is killing her.

“Just a little overwhelmed,” she admits and she thinks Harry believes her, but he knows her better than to believe that’s all that’s bothering her.

He nods, though, locks the door and intertwines their fingers to tug her through the house and up the stairs. She follows blindly and silently, too in her own head to notice the toothless baby pictures of Harry nailed to the walls.

He ushers her in a double bedroom, closing the door behind them both and sighing as he switches on the light. There’s not much character to the room and Y/N supposes it’s been used as a guest room since the past. The walls are bare and tan, a double bed standing against the left side wall with night stands either side. It’s cosy, and the bed looks a lot smaller than hers and Harry's back in New York.

She turns around to see him digging through a dresser, tugging out two t-shirts and a pair of sweats. He offers her the grey t-shirt and she takes it with a timid smile, rolling on the balls of her feet and he raises a brow.

“Do you have any shorts? Kinda don’t wanna sleep in my thong,” she admits bashfully. She notices the way Harry tries not to groan at the thought, or how he’s gnawing on his inner cheek and forcing his body to not grow a bulging erection.

She stifles a laugh at his reaction, a blush sitting on her cheeks but she doesn’t feel as nervous as she would’ve before today. Being as intimate as they were earlier has allowed her to relax more than usual in his presence and about the ideas of being sexual. But maybe the only thing stopping her is not knowing what will happen if she trusts him like that. Does he want to grow to love her? Will he let her grow to love him? Because she thinks she already is.

She cares for him, more than she’d admit to anyone else and maybe even him. The idea and realisation of it all scares her, but what has she really got to lose? She’s got him for the rest of her life.

Y/N dresses in the bathroom like she usually does every morning and night. When she comes back out after brushing her teeth with a new toothbrush she found in the cabinet, Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, changing the dressing that wraps around his middle. The wound has healed a lot, skin scarring over but he has to be careful as to not tear the stitches again.

He watches her throw her dress and panties on the dresser and he swallows thickly. The last time he saw her wearing his clothes was their wedding night when he dressed her drunk ass and waited until she was asleep before he got in bed with her. Now, five weeks later, she’s in his boxers and a t-shirt, willingly crawling into bed to cuddle up to his chest. His heart surges at the progress they’ve made and he’s suddenly overly eager to have her in his arms.

Harry throws on a shirt once he secures his bandaging and crawls into the bed. His arm is outstretched, ready to welcome her in after she switches off the light and clambers into his good side. Her head sits on the junction between his arm and chest and her arm wraps around his middle as she settles into his hold.

It’s quiet for a few moments, darkness swarming them both and they can hear the muffled sounds of the tv down the hall that Gemma is no doubt watching in her room. Y/N wants to ask him if he’s okay, see how he’s feeling about the situation. And she thinks she’s built up the courage, but he speaks before she can.

“This was my dad’s house. I grew up here,” he rasps into the darkness.

Y/N feels her tummy coil from the amount of trust she’s about to be given. “When Dad died, the house was put in my name and I hid it from Stefano. He found the papers once, almost clicked on that it was mine and Mum’s home but I told him it was a safe house and the fucker believed me.” Harry squeezes her tighter without realising but it only encourages Y/N to coddle into him a little closer.

She doesn’t say anything — too afraid that if she asks any questions, he might not be so open about this. Instead, she stays quiet but she thinks Harry notices her inner turmoil because he starts to scratch at her scalp and kiss at her hairline.

“I learnt how to walk and talk in this place. Mum and Dad used to cook together every night and I remember Dad sleeping on my bedroom floor whenever I had a nightmare or couldn’t sleep,” he reminisces. Harry’s rubbing smooth circles across Y/N’s arm and she hums, barely taking in his words.

When she raises her head to look up at him, she’s got a lovesick grin on her face and she’s reminded of the way he consoled his little sister and mother, and how he held her close while he kissed Y/N’s lips so passionately. She’s reminded of everything he’s done for her -- of how much he’s protected and cared for her and she thinks her heart has grown three times its size.

“Why are you so kind?” She blurts out in a strained voice.

Her neck is craning up to get a better look at him and Harry dips his head so his chin sits against his chest, a smile on his lips as a soft chuckle rumbles in his throat. He doesn’t think he’s a kind person, but rather a respectful one to women and those who deserve it.

Y/N seems to read his thoughts and she adjusts her position so she’s kneeling beside him on her side; hand on his chest and her finger trails absent patterns through his shirt. “Don’t laugh like that, you are,” she tells him with a little more vigour. Harry’s reached a hand behind her body to rub soothingly at her back and he settles his laughs to hear her out.

She blushes. “You’re the first person to ever show me a shred of kindness and respect,” she begins in a shaky tone. Her fingers begin to tremble and Harry reaches for it with his free hand -- intertwining their fingers and offering that encouraging squeeze she’s been growing accustomed to.

Harry thinks his black heart is breaking at her admission and suddenly, holding her hand isn’t as close as he wants to be. He releases his hold and reaches up to cup the side of her jaw. He eases up to graze his thumb across her bruised cheekbone and she flinches under his featherlight touch. Harry has to remind himself she does it because of the pain and not because he’s touching her.

He swallows back the need to apologise but makes no effort to remove his hand. “I will always be kind to you and show you respect. You’re my wife, Y/N. A marriage is a team, not a contract,” he promises. Y/N can’t help the roll of her eyes or the scoff that teeters off her lips in an ironic laugh.

He can’t help but grin at the sound. 1 - 0 to Harry. He got her to laugh.

“This whole thing is a contract,” she reminds him and he can’t stop staring.

The lightness of her eyes is pulling him in and he thinks he wants to see that smile on her face every day for the rest of his life. “It doesn’t have to be,” he finds himself mumbling and neither of them say anything -- they both know what he means and upon the promising possibility, she reaches up to connect their lips.

It’s better than their last kiss and Y/N wonders if it will always be better with every intimate moment they share. Their lips are enveloped by the others and her hand crawls up his chest to cup at his stubbly jaw, pulling him closer. She’s confident as he licks up and into her mouth, massaging his tongue against hers in a sinful dance.

It doesn’t take long before he’s rolling her onto her back and slipping between her parted thighs. Harry’s got both hands pinned on either side of her head to support his crushing weight above her. Y/N’s thighs knock and rub across his healing wound but he doesn't care -- he’ll take whatever she’s comfortable enough to offer.

Her fingers are tangled in his messy curls as she tugs and pulls at the hairs. He’s groaning inaudibly into her mouth as she gasps into his. Harry lets one hand wander down her shoulder and over her chest, groping a tit in his wide palm and massaging and kneading the fatty flesh over her (his) t-shirt.

He doesn’t miss the way Y/N’s chest presses to his when her back arches off the bed and he can feel her nipple pearling under his touch. She’s panting when he rolls the hardened nub between two fingers and lets his plump and warm lips smear down her neck in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Harry,” she lets out a wanton, breathy whine when his lips suckly soft bruises into the skin behind her ear.

He’s frustratingly hard in his boxers and he can almost smell Y/N’s wetness. He’s about to trail his hand down her stomach, to cup her through his boxers and let her get a taste of what he can give her, but she catches his wrist in a light grip and shakes her head.

Harry pulls out of her neck breathlessly. He expects to see her with wide eyes and a frantic stare, maybe even quivering lips. But he gets the opposite. He’s greeted with calm waves of excitement that wash over her eyes and her mouth is parted, eager for more but she’s refraining herself.

The sight causes Harry to frown in confusion.

“Not here, not yet,” she swallows. “I want to, but… not now,” Y/N tries to explain.

Harry doesn’t know what more to do than nod his head and move his hands to her waist, respectably, and kisses her swollen lips. He’s full of complete and utter adoration for his little angel and he knows she’s right, she’s always right. But that's not what he’s focussing on.

“When we’re home,” she decides for them both.

It’s those three words that send his heart on overdrive and mind in turmoil. When we’re home. When we’re home. When we’re home. The first time she’s ever called it home. Harry nods, pecking her lips as he bites back a smile.

“When we’re home.”

By the time she awakes, she’s alone and cold. The bed is empty on Harry’s side and she doesn’t realise that he replaced his body that she was cuddling with a pillow when he awoke an hour ago. Y/N’s stretching with a wide smile on her lips, and even though she’s chilly, she’s giddy with warmth from the memories of the night before.

She makes her way out of the room, pads of her toes soft on the carpet as she descends the stairs. It’s warmer as she enters the kitchen and she’s greeted with the wafting smells of pancakes and bacon. Gemma is sitting at the table digging into her food and Anne notices the girl's presence first from her position at the stove.

She raises a brow at her daughter-in-laws sleep attire, a knowing grin on her lips but Y/N doesn’t notice it. Her eyes are focussed on her husband. He’s off to the corner of the room, head down and hand stuffed into his suit pocket. He’s dressed and ready for the day and he’s holding the phone to his ear, muttering quietly.

Y/N fights back the blush of happiness that rises to her cheeks and she greets Anne, leaning against the counter while she flips another pancake. “Silly question, but how did you sleep?” she asks. Anne is visibly lighter in her mood as she makes breakfast and there’s a glimmer of hope in her eyes, something Y/N’s never seen in her before.

She flips the pancake again, smoothing down the old, tatty apron that Y/N doesn’t know Danny used to wear every morning. “Like a baby,” she tells her with a firm smile. The sight of her happiness warms Y/N’s heart and Harry joins them back in the kitchen frown set in his brow and his wife regards him cautiously.

Anne seems to sense his confusion without even looking at him. “What’s wrong?” she asks, dishing up a plate for Y/N and starting on Harry’s pancakes. She takes her plate from the woman but she’s too concerned about the look on Harry’s face to worry about food, despite what her stomach is telling her.

“That was Riccardo…” he starts, leaning forward on the counter. “He did the autopsy on Stefano at the house, was ready to fake the results to cover us,” he begins to explain.

Anne hums, refusing to make eye contact as she pours the batter into the frying pan. Harry’s eyes are flickering between her face and her movements. “And?” she asks, eyes still not meeting his.

He swallows. “Didn’t you say you laced his scotch with rat poison?” His words pique the curiosity of Gemma and she’s no longer got herself much of an appetite. Y/N’s got her eyes on Harry, like she’s trying to understand what he’s about to tell them but she’d never be able to prepare herself for the truth.

“Because he said he found large traces of Penicillin in Stefano’s blood from nearly six hours before his death…” Anne stills her movements, almost dropping the spatula in her hand as she stares at her son, eyes wide. “There’s no sign of rat poison,” he concludes, brows still furrowed tightly and Anne's shaking her head.

There’s confusion and unspoken fear in the air as the Anne struggles to take in what her son has said. “What? But he’s allergic to Penicillin… and he was in New York with you six hours before…” she’s trailing off at the end of her sentence, shoulders slumping and chest heaving.

It’s like the realisation of the untold truth weighs heavy on all of their shoulders at the same time. They’re all racking their brains back to six hours before his death -- when he was in New York, in the meeting, with the only person Harry can think of that wanted Stefano dead more than he, and it clicks.

“Nino.”

In her pretty yellow ditsy dress, Y/N is positively sweating from her seat at the dining table. Harry is sitting beside her, same solemn expression and dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. It’s 10 am and he hasn’t styled his hair -- in fact, he’s nervous as hell and in three short hours, he’ll be faced with the ceremony that will initiate him as Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia.

The laptop is set up in front of them, the reflection of their nervous faces staring back at them. It’s been a week since the night of Stefano’s death and four days since they’ve all been back in New York. Gemma and Anne are currently staying in the penthouse with Harry and Y/N, and neither of the latter two have slept soundly since.

Harry’s been on edge since Stefano’s death was announced. He’s been watching his back more than usual, like he’s waiting for Nino to strike down on him, too. He spoke with Salvatore to announce the news and Harry wonders if he suspects him or his son.

He’s heard nothing from his cousin or other members of the family. What he has received is a date and a location from Dante. The time and place of Harry’s coronation. The coronation where he will bleed and bind himself by duty and honour to the Famiglia and Dante himself. Where he will be marked and crowned as the youngest serving Capo known.

In the four days they’ve been back in New York, Harry has kept Y/N closer than before. Neither of them have left the penthouse since their arrival home but he’s gone as far as restricting her from using the balcony as precaution. He isn’t prepared to endanger or lose her.

She understands, of course. And while she doesn’t appreciate the lack of little freedom she had before, she’s thankful and she listens. He isn’t being paranoid, he’s being cautious. Harry isn’t the only one that thinks it’s Nino and Y/N will be damned if she lets her husband be played by him. She’s on his side, always.

“Hey!” A chipper voice is what breaks the pair from their distant monologues and they focus on the brown-haired beauty that is Maria Saccaro. The tips of her curls are barely pink anymore and she’s taken out the majority of her piercings. Y/N almost doesn’t recognise her in her cream sweater and light makeup. She looks younger, innocent.

She frowns. “Hey, Ria. How are you?” Y/N greets her cousin with a timid tone and she can feel Harry squeeze her thigh from under the table.

That’s another thing that’s had time to progress in the past week: their affections. Kisses and cuddles and holding hands at any opportunity -- even in front of the eyes of Anne and Gemma. The one thing they promised each other is the one thing they haven’t yet managed to do. But maybe that’s for the best. Now she’s thought about it, she’s not quite ready for that.

Maria shrugs with pursed lips and shimmies closer. Y/N can tell she’s sitting on her bed with her computer propped on her lap by the string of fairy lights wrapped around the metal rods of her bed frame. “I’m okay.” Y/N frowns harder. There’s something off about her cousin and it’s unsettling.

Harry clears his throat and leans a little closer into the frame. Maria hasn’t yet acknowledged his presence but Harry doesn’t take offence.

“Listen, we need to talk to you about this arrangement with Nino,” he says.

Y/N pries his hand off her thigh and intertwines their fingers in a show of support and reassurance.

The pair notice Maria’s shoulders visibly sag and the spark in her eye from when the papers were signed is completely gone. Y/N can sense her disgust and nausea on the topic and she squeezes Harry’s hand absentmindedly.

“Now that Harry’s Capo, we’re gonna try and find a loophole to get you out of this. We know you think Nino poisoned Stefano, too. We’re gonna stop this wedding, okay? Harry and I will find a way.”

There’s a flicker of silence that washes over them and both Harry and Y/N know Maria isn’t telling them something. She’s oddly quiet and reserved, like she’s swallowing back a lump of detrimental secrets.

“Maria?” Y/N asks, brows furrowed and head slightly tilted.

The young woman on the computer screen lets out a shaky breath and scratches at her eyebrows, lips pursed and Y/N can tell she’s gnawing on the skin. “I need to tell you something,” she admits in a worrisome tone. She’s never acted so oddly when sharing secrets with Y/N before and she’s starting to wonder if it’s because Harry is there, too.

He thinks the same but makes no attempt to excuse himself.

“I met someone.”

There’s another wave of silence that washes over the three and while Y/N is quivering in fear of the repercussions her cousin will have to face, Harry is squirming at another coverup he’ll have to forge after his initiation.

But Maria isn’t looking at Harry with pleading eyes that beg for forgiveness. She’s staring at Y/N instead, with a look on her face that cries for acceptance and understanding.

“Maria…” Y/N breathes, eyes closed and she’s gripping Harry’s hand much tighter than before. Her cousin is spluttering on the other end of the call and shuffling closer to the camera in an attempt to have her listen.

“I know, I know… but it’s not what you think!” She quickly tries to defend and Harry can’t believe his ears.

Y/N scoffs and neither of the other two have ever seen her act that way toward Maria.

“Oh, really? Then what is it, Maria? Huh? What is it? Tell me, because I can’t keep trying to cover and protect you, you’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Harry’s eyes are glued to his wife, slightly wide and glossy. He doesn’t know why he has the urge to let a tear shed at her dismay but he blinks it back and steadies his heart. His and Y/N’s knuckles are burning white from their tight grip on the other and they seem to need a better, grounding safe code that won’t break their hands.

Maria stays silent for a moment longer. Her head is bowed in self-disappointment and she knows Y/N’s right. But Maria’s serious this time. It’s not what it looks like.

“I met a girl…” she swallows, eyes fluttering nervously to the couple and they regard her with stone expressions but their eyes are drowning in confusion and curiosity.

Y/N can see how she’s trying to stop her bottom lip from trembling relentlessly and she’s wringing her hands out in her lap.

“Maria…” she whispers softly.

Her voice holds nothing but concern and sincerity and she wants to hold her cousin and never let go. Maria chuckles wetly and she sniffles back tears.

“I know, I know. Surprise, I’m gay,” she tries to joke but she blubbers into her hands instead.

Y/N’s crying with her, frustrated and angry at the world they live in and Harry feels sick to his stomach. He knows the kind of shit that happens to homosexuals within the tight confinements of the Mafia and it’s been something he’s disagreed with since he understood what gay meant. Since the beliefs that same-sex love is wrong were forced upon him at a young age.

“Who is she?” Harry speaks softly and both pairs of Saccaro eyes are on him. Y/N’s hand is trembling in his hold and he tugs her a little closer to him.

“A girl from church,” she admits and Maria can't help but laugh at her own predicament. Falling in love with a girl that she met in church. Could it happen to anyone but her?

Y/N and Harry snicker laughs under their breaths at the situation and it somehow seems to lighten the overall mood a bit. Harry nods and Y/N is coddling into his side, head on his shoulder. She’s hardly spoken to Maria and she doesn’t miss the side-eye glance that her cousin offers at her willing closeness to the made man.

“I’ll find a way to fix this, Maria,” Harry promises. “In the meantime, try not to deflower any more church girls.”

Upon the coronation of a Made Man to a Capo, there are many things that are required to take place to deem said party fit and honourable enough for such a title. There are limits that are pushed and tests that are made, edges that men are pushed to, pressure they’re hoped to crack under.

The chosen location is one of the many abandoned warehouses that the Famiglia have access to. It’s packed to the brim, every folding chair occupied and facing the platformed stage that Dante stands upon, beside a thick concrete looking podium.

He’s in another one of his slick black suits -- everyone in this place is -- and as Y/N looks around from her position beside Mike on the right of the stage, she’s the only woman on the premises.

She made it clear before they left an hour ago that she was unsure about this. Y/N doesn't know what to expect attending this kind of ceremony -- a coronation that women are typically sheltered from. But like Harry had said, things will change under his hand and let it start with his wife standing by his side from the second he reigns as Capo.

Harry’s still standing behind her, dressed in a crisp white suit -- a tradition that has followed through generations, a rule that must be followed. For blood is seen and tarnished on the white of a soul. Harry’s remembered that saying since he was a child.

The warehouse is silent as Dante raises a hand, chatters and mumblings falling still and Harry leans closer to Y/N, lips against her ear.

“Under no circumstances do you leave Mike’s side, unless it’s with me,” he reminds her, standing tall before she can utter anything back.

She doesn’t, but she lets her hand knock briskly against his to silently promise him that she understands and she’s here.

They’re both rattling with nerves. Harry doesn’t want to leave her side in fear someone will attack her. Y/N doesn’t want him to get on that stage in fear someone will take a shot. She’s gnawing on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling -- not that it’s doing much use, but she can’t show weakness for either of them.

Head high, shoulders low, Y/N. She can hear her mother's voice rattling in her head. It’s perhaps the only sound piece of advice she’s ever offered the young girl.

She tries to ignore the hard expressions of unfamiliar faces, tries to pretend she doesn’t know that every single one of them has at least two guns and a knife on their person. She tries to forget that half the population of the building despise Harry, that they believe he’s a traitor by blood. She tries to forget it all.

“We are here today to test the fitness and the loyalty of Harry Styles-Dellucci -- to determine the strength and honour to crown him Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia.” Dante’s overpowering voice booms and the coldness of it spikes shivers down Y/N’s torso and spine.

He extends an arm to Harry’s direction and her husband follows it. He climbs the tall step of the platform to stand beside his Boss and he meets Dante’s judging eyes. Between them both, they know Harry will own the position no matter how this goes, but for the sake of appearances, they put on facades and follow tradition.

When he stands beside his superior, he shows no emotion, ignoring the stares and snickers of disgust. He doesn’t have to look at the audience to know Nino is sitting front row with a filthy smirk on his thin lips.

“Remove your shirt. Show those of the Famiglia your scars of duty and honour,” Dante commands.

Harry shuts out all emotion, like he can’t feel anything. He shrugs off his blazer first, throwing it to the ground and off the platform. He stares blankly at the podium when removing his shirt and when it slips off his arms, he makes a point to let it drop at Nino’s feet.

Dante has to bite back a snicker. Y/N has to bite back a gasp.

No matter how many times she’s seen him shirtless, she never gets used to the sight of his scars. No matter how many times she traces her fingers across his chest and back, she never gets used to the feel of the raised or indented skin. He turns to the masses, shoulders squared and chin high, surging nothing but pride and power.

Dante circles him, a fixed blade glistening between his fingers as he twists it in his palm.

“Harry Styles-Dellucci is a valuable asset to the Mafia,” Dante begins, voice echoing through the ears and minds of his soldiers. “His allies ensure safety and power within our Famiglia. He has promised potential and respect since before his initiation at age 11, when he mercilessly stabbed a member of the Bratva through the bottom of his chin and through their skull,” his voice fades off in a low drawl and the admission sends shivers through Y/N’s body.

She’s struggling to hide her discomfort and in her weakened moment of unfamiliarity, she misses the way Nino eyes her with curiosity and knowingness. She misses the plan he plots right in his head. He’s got that sick smirk on his face and while Y/N doesn’t notice, Harry does, and it rattles something dangerous in the pit of him. Something monstrous and merciless.

Mike notices it all, but his gun stays strapped to his chest and his hands remain folded over his front -- awaiting the signal to take Y/N out of the situation, but it doesn’t come. Brian is close behind the two, eyes dark and there’s a chilling excitement that burns in his eyes; a hungry desire and need to kill.

“Today, we test Harry on his true self. We test his loyalty and we question his power. We initiate him with the three steps of the coronation,” he announces. “Bleed for the Famiglia, torture a traitor, take the oath.”

With gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, Y/N watches her husband spread his arms either side of him. She watches Dante raise the blade, watches it glisten under the beams of sun that peer through the cracks of the warehouse, and swallowing back uncertainty, she watches the blade swipe across the tanned skin of his chest in one succession and a red river is unleashed.

Harry shows no sign of pain, no flicker or glint of discomfort. His facade doesn’t falter and the blood spills down the divots of toned muscles until it stains the white pants of his suit. Everything is white noise to Y/N as he slices again across his left bicep before bringing the knife down a third time to his right.

She feels faint, dizzy. She’s ignoring the comments and snickers and Dante’s shrill voice as a piercing scream echoes through the warehouse. Another suit drags an unknown party to the platform; a brown, stitched bag wrapped around his head and he’s shoved down on his knees with a thud and a cry.

Y/N’s trying not to look, not to show the complete and utter stricken sickness and fear she’s hammered with. But the bag is torn from the stranger's head and she sees distant fear and desperation in his eyes. Then she hears it.

“Take his life. The same way you took your first.”

Y/N’s blood runs cold and she can’t hide the fear anymore. She doesn’t want to see this side of him, she doesn’t want to let it taint what she thinks and has grown to adore. She doesn’t want to fear and hate him, but she can’t look away. She doesn’t miss the way Harry’s head snaps up at Dante’s command and a bewildered look flashes across his face for a brief moment.

He doesn’t say anything, but Dante gives him a look. A look that tells him to shut up and do it. Harry wants to turn around, to look at her, to plead for her to forgive him, but he can’t.

He doesn’t ask the questions that rattle his mind: what did he do to deserve this fate? Who is he? Can he not redeem himself? No. Instead, Harry ignores the begs and pleads of the doomed man and with a flicker of regret and remorse in his eyes, he says a silent prayer and the knife is jabbed into the traitor's throat.

Y/N bites back the shrill that almost escapes her trembling lips and she loses her footing, crashing into Mike's side. There’s an onslaught of cheers and encouragement that burst from the soldiers and Famiglia and it drowns out Y/N’s empty sobs of disgust and worry. Mike is quick to wrap his arms around the girl, to hold her up and get her out of the situation.

But her eyes meet Harry’s as he turns to seek her comfort and she can’t move. She knows that look in his eyes, the look of uncertainty and an unwavering feeling of fear. She shakes her head and pushes her weight off Mike, swallowing back the bile for her husband's sake and she stands tall, head high and shoulders rolled back.

“No,” she protests. “I’m staying.”

Her voice is firmer than she hoped, steady and calm and in seeing the worry and unrelenting fear in Harry’s eyes, she’s calmed herself to a state of complete ease and serenity. She doesn’t squirm at the sight of the dead body on the floor -- she doesn’t gag at the sight of Harry’s blood dripping down his body.

She needs for the Famiglia to know Harry is their right choice. That he doesn’t have an insolent and untamed wife that will create a scene at the sight of a little blood. She needs them to think she’s an obedient little wife, that he’s whipped her into complete and utter submission.

So she watches on.

She watches Dante retrieve an old, leather-bound book from the podium and offer it palm-up to Harry. He knows what to do without prompting. Left hand to his heart, right hand on the book, he takes the oath.

“Born in blood, sworn in blood.” He places his palm upright and Dante takes another swipe across his golden skin.

Harry clenches a fist, lifts his hand just enough for blood to drip a few drops on the leather.

“Born by honour, sworn by honour,” he recites and his heart is racing. He can hear the beat stammering in his ears, can feel the sweat dot across his clammy skin and when Dante beckons the audience to rise, he turns to them.

There’s an overwhelming gleam that oozes from him as they stand and kneel before him. Not Stefano’s soldiers. His.

“As reigning Boss of the Italian Mafia, I, Dante Vitiello, crown you, Harry Styles-Dellucci as Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia from here, until your final breath. All rise and hail your new leader.��

“Born in blood, sworn in blood.”

Y/N repeats the curse with her husband's men. She’s weak in the knees, besotted with the sight he is; basking in all his powerful glory. But she’s had that small slither of what his cold persona is capable of, of how quickly he can forget such a devastatingly evil act. And she’s reminded that despite how kindly he treats her, he is just as bad as the others.

Soft cotton towel wrapped around her body, Y/N rings her hair out in the bathroom sink. She rolls her head, neck cracking as she does so and it relieves some of the tension that’s built up through the day. She feels a little hazy if she’s honest -- a little out of touch with reality like she can’t actually fathom what happened today.

After the ceremony, Mike escorted her back to the penthouse while Harry took care of business and it’s safe to say she’s felt a little off since. It’s nearing midnight now and even after her call with Maria when she got home, Y/N doesn’t feel much different.

It’s an odd sensation that leads her down a path she’s never seen before. A part of her mind is reeling because she’s seen him in the shadows of a dark night, without an ounce of light shining on him and maybe it’s scaring her to know exactly what he’s capable of again.

It’s like she forgot and witnessing it brought it all back. But her heart is telling her to breathe. It’s telling her that really, what choice did he have in the matter. She noticed his hesitancy when Dante struck the command and she can only hope that no one else did and will question his strength and power.

Harry is a noble and loyal man. Becoming Capo isn’t something he’s doing to pass the time or to exert dominance as a power show. Y/N has to remind herself that it’s for the benefit of themselves and her family. That Harry can be the one to save her cousin from a marriage of neglect and misery. That Harry can be the one to enforce new laws and whither aged ones.

She tries to ignore the grave she’s dug by ignoring his presence when he got home. She busied herself with an hour-long shower and while part of her hopes he’s not there when she leaves the bathroom, the bigger part of her hopes he is. Y/N takes a deep breath as she smears her moisturiser into her skin, rubbing firm circles and wiping her fingers down her towel.

She doesn’t want to look at herself in the mirror because she knows she won’t be able to stomach the sight of herself. Not when she knows exactly what she’ll give into if he’s still home. “Snap out of it, Y/N,” she chastises herself and takes another deep breath. Her hand twists the door handle as she pulls it open slowly. She hasn’t locked the door in weeks.

She’s rattling a little in herself, eyes too focussed on her pink painted toes to notice much of her surroundings. But she does notice a pair of clothed legs hanging from the end of the bed and she jumps back in a shriek of surprise, one hand pressed over her heart, the other clutching her towel in place.

“Shit,” she seethes at the sight of him. Her heart is thumping and rattling against her ribs. “You scared me,” she breathes half-heartedly but Harry takes it as more than just surprising her at the end of their bed. He takes it as a general newfound fear she has for him, stemming from nothing but the earlier events of the day.

Y/N’s trying to crack a smile but the sight of his solemn self-scowl doesn’t sit well in the pit of her stomach. Harry shakes his head. “I won’t apologise for who I am,” he tells her.

His tone is sharp and one of a pointed and accusing nature, like he’s defensive and he can’t believe she’d ever view him differently. Or maybe it’s that he can’t believe he’s been stupid enough to possibly fuck up any progress they’ve made.

She’s frowning at his sudden tone of reply and she’s trying to understand what’s going through his head.

“What are you--” He’s cutting her off before she can verbally express her confusion.

“I was born into violence and death, Y/N. I live and breathe for the Famiglia. It’s who I am and I won’t apologise for it.” Silence swarms them both for a moment and Harry allows for his words to sink into her pretty little head.

It’s a silent reminder that if they try this, a relationship of any kind, she will have to accept every part of him. Even his deepest and darkest parts. If they’re going into this platonically or romantically, he will not hide who he is.

Y/N understands, of course, she does. She doesn’t want him to change, she wants to learn to adapt and understand. She isn’t silly. She knows she’s been sheltered from the cruel and harsh realities of their lives and she wants to learn. She wants to know it all, no matter how dark and sick it is.

She takes a step between his parted thighs and his face is level with her stomach through the towel. She feels bold when she lets her fingers tangle in his dark curls, when her nails gently scratch and massage at his scalp. She does it to let him know she’s listening, that she understands. That she’s thankful he trusts her enough to show this vulnerable side of himself.

Or maybe she’s got it wrong and he doesn’t trust her at all. Maybe he tells her because he knows she’s no threat to him. That she’s not strong enough to be. Y/N doesn’t let herself dwell on the thought too long. Instead, her fingers tighten on his curls and she tugs just gently enough for him to get the hint.

He looks up at her through long lashes, chin raised and she thinks he looks like a fucking angel with brown curls for a halo.

“I was born into the same world as you, Harry. I know it was different because I’m a woman but if you can accept my scars, I can accept yours.”

His eyes are in flames as he lets his hands grip her hips over the towel, needing to feel her, to know he’s not dreaming.

She pretends the simple touch doesn’t ignite her entire body and soul. “I don’t want to be trapped in a contract with a man who doesn’t care for me. I’ve had that all my life with my father,” she swallows and Harry’s can’t look away.

She’s opening up and she’s trusting him and he thinks he might be falling for her. But he’s frustrated -- frustrated that she doubts his care for her.

“I want a relationship with you, as stupid and naive as it may sound. I want for us to trust each other and care -- even if it’s just as a friend. We both deserve that at least.”

He wants to tell her that she doesn't know what he deserves. That no matter how many good and selfless deeds he does, it’ll never even begin to make a dent in the horror and sin he’s caused upon the world. Wants to tell her that he certainly doesn’t deserve her. But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he feels up her hips until his palms are sprawled across the sides of her curved waist and he tugs her down. She bends her knees until she’s straddling his lap, the hem of the towel riding up just enough for her bare core to sit on the clothed crotch of his dress pants. Her arms are around his neck as he noses at her cheek tenderly -- drinking her in.

In the unfamiliar state, she finds comfort under his touch. Her mind is frantic and it’s telling her every reason to pull away but she can’t bring herself to. Not when her heart is telling her she’s safe and this is the right thing. Not when his lips are meeting hers again and she forgets what reality feels like for a moment.

He knows she’s soaked as she gently rubs herself against his crotch. His length is bloating in his pants as she suckles innocently on his bottom lip. He’s licking into her mouth, savouring the sweetness of her on his tongue but he thinks he needs more. “Please. Wanna feel you, please,” she pleads through an unsteady whisper full of eager desperation.

Harry nods against her lips, arms wrapping around her middle and he lifts her in his arms. He spins them and kneels on the bed, gently easing her in the centre of the mattress and her own hands untuck the towel and tug it open. In her exposed state, Y/N’s mind is rolling in fear and anxiety. What if she’s not enough for him? What if he isn’t attracted to her like she thought he was? What if he changes his mind?

“Holy shit,” he breathes and her nerves and worries are eased just as quickly as they were built.

She’s gorgeous, completely bare beneath his body and her nipples have pearled under the cool air of the night. Her breasts are still full as they flatten against her chest and her little kitty looks smooth and delicious and Harry is eager for a taste.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he praises, his hands on her spread thighs and he kisses her knees tenderly.

The affirmation alone has a blanket of safety and comfort settling over her and Y/N’s confidence is quick to begin to grow again -- despite having no experience in whatever is going to happen. There’s just something about seeing his gentle nature hours after being cruel and merciless that she can’t wrap her head around. She knows what he’s capable of but knows more than anything else that he’ll never direct that anger to her. The way he interacts with his mother and sister is enough to speak volumes.

“I want this, Harry,” she promises. “I want to feel this with you.”

The verbal confirmation and tugging on his fingers are enough for Harry and he nods, kissing his way up her thighs as he situates himself between her body. He knows what she’s asking for, to feel him completely but he knows better than her that she’s not as ready as she thinks she is.

His face is level with her pulsing core and she shudders at the sensation of his warm breath on her sweetest spot. Her eyes are fluttering with nerves and excitement and she doesn’t know what to expect. He kisses at the apex of her thighs softly and massages at her hips.

“Relax for me, we’ll do this slowly,” he reassures her but Harry wonders what he’s actually doing.

She’s confessed how she feels and he’s given her nothing back but silence and kisses. Her words replay in his head and he’s torn. Even if it’s just as a friend. He thinks he might be a bit of an idiot. What are they? What are they doing? Will touching her give false hope that they’re building for something more than an arrangement? For something romantic and promising? Who is it giving false hope to?

But her insistent, breathless begs of “Please, Harry. Please, want this so bad,” is enough to sway him in her current favour and he supposes the logistics of what they are is something they can discuss another time.

He’s not the only one. Y/N’s in the same boat, worried and doubting that this is a good idea. She pushes the nagging away by telling herself the same thing every time.

Platonic or romantic, she will take what she can get. They have each other until their final breath. They have time.

Harry licks a broad stripe from her hole to her clit, tongue soaking up her arousal and flicking across her throbbing little bud. Y/N’s fingers are tangled in his curls, tugging deliciously at the wanton tendrils that tickle at her thighs.

“Oh my God.” She’s breathless and her eyes are wide, the cool yet warm sensation of his skilled tongue swirling around her intimate little honeypot.

“Tastes so good,” he hums in praises of appreciation.

His words are muffled but Y/N hears them loud and clear. She feels like she’s finally in tune with her body and soul -- like every feeling before this has never compared. His tongue is everything she didn’t know she needed and with every stroke and build of her release, she feels heavier and heavier.

He’s been between her thighs for mere minutes but she can feel an unfamiliar weight that sits heavy on her lower abdomen that she’s never experienced before. Harry can’t get enough of her sweetness or the way her velvety smooth lips feel against his hot tongue. She’s pretty and warm and he’s slurping at every string of wetness she has to offer.

He doesn’t know what’s turning him on more. The sight and taste of her, or the knowledge that he’s the first one to make her feel this way and the last. No one else will ever get a taste of her sweet little cunt or have the privilege to watch it clench and throb when he pulls away. No one will be blessed with this sight but him and it makes his cock twitch and bloat until it’s painful in his pants.

He’s immersing himself in her entirety, lips and chin and cheeks soaked. “Pretty little cunt, baby.”

His lips have taken to her neglected little clit and he suckles teasingly, teeth grazing across her most sensitive nub and Y/N’s thrashing beneath him, pulling at his hair so harshly but he loves the burn. Harry keeps her as still as he can when he feels her squirm and he thinks he’ll try something.

One hand releases his hold on her and his middle finger tauntingly probes at her swollen hole. She thrashes again and tightens at the risk of intrusion but he coos her, slurping her up and she relaxes the best she can.

Y/N’s got his filthy words replaying in her mind and she feels like a dirty little girl. She’s thrown back to all those times her dainty little fingers weaved their way into her panties late at night at the blank thoughts of faceless lovers. Now she’s riding her cunt against her husband.

He eases his digit in her dripping hole and she clenches around it desperately. Harry groans at the sensation of her walls fluttering around his finger and it only makes him impossibly harder. She gets used to the intrusion quickly and the pinches of discomfort twist and ease into waves of undeniable pleasure.

Y/N’s thighs are trembling when he slowly starts to pump his digit in her cunt, curling it in a ‘come hither’ motion and she’s seeing stars. She can’t believe how deep his thick finger is reaching and the way he manages to hit every dazing spot she never even knew existed. Harry continues to suckle on her clit, eyeing the underswell of her breasts as she shudders and trembles.

Her head is thrown back, eyes pinched closed as the burning becomes too much and she can’t control the overwhelming senses that take over her body.

“Oh god, what’s -- what’s hap-- oh my God!” She’s coming on his tongue in a rush of arousal and panic; a feeling she’s never even come close to experiencing with just her nimble fingers.

Harry guides her through her high, sucking and fingering until she’s quivering with tears in her eyes. She wants to look down at him, to see what he looks like in between her thighs but she isn’t ready for such a sinful sight -- she doesn’t think she’ll be able to look without blushing in pure shyness and embarrassment.

He eases his movements when she begins to twitch in the aftershock and he kisses down her thighs, smearing her wetness across the plushy skin until he’s crawling up her body with a glistening face and mischievous eyes.

Y/N can hardly see through the white spots that distort her vision but she makes out his grin and can’t help the bashful smile that tugs on her parted lips.

“Happy first orgasm,” he congratulates her and an outrageous laugh bubbles deep from within her chest and Harry is fucking gleaming at the sound of it.

He grabs the towel she’s laying on and pulls it from beneath her body, bunching it up to wipe his face dry before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She watches him scurry to the bathroom, door pushed ajar but she can still see him taking off his clothes. She sees the thick length of his hard cock slap up against his midsection when he tugs down his boxers and she struggles for breath.

Her cheeks are hot and heavy and she wants nothing more than to feel the weight of his pink tip on her tongue. Y/N has to blink and clear her throat. She can’t believe she’s actually thinking these things. It’s minutes later when he’s crawling back on the bed with just a pair of boxers and the tent is still visible in his briefs, despite how hard he’s tried to hide it.

They talk for hours, whispering the night away with midnight giggles and reminiscent childhood memories that no one else knows. And for the first time, they fall asleep in each other’s arms with limbs tangled, light hearts, and a floating feeling that maybe this is the start of them.

what a fuckin ride lmaooo. please do leave some feedback and let me know what you think of the series. I'm so excited for you all to see what happens next!

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #imagine harry styles #harry styles x you #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagines

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puhmpken · 2 months

Text

Author’s Note: This one is a filler since I am still working on “Dairy of the Obsessed” ..this one was spontaneous lmfaoo! Also requests are open feel free to give me story ideas

This has BEEN edited 🥳🎉

Warning ⚠️-> If you’re under the age of 18+ DONT interact with this post, this is your only & final warning! I do not & will not take responsibility for anything further!

You have been warned

Title: A Shape-Shifter’s Dilemma

Alastor x Reader Oneshot

written + edited by @puhmpkins-blog 🎃

W/C: 5.1K 😀 oops maybe too much lol my imagination got the better of me but please enjoy!

You always questioned where Alastor your husband would go. Most of the time you would brush it off and not think of it—Overlord stuff.

But one night while Al and you slept in the same bed he tossed and turned in his sleep you could assume he was having a nightmare

“honey..?” You said in a low ruff voice as you gently placed a hand on Alastor who stops his moving before the word he mutters out was

“charlie..”

...Now that is odd. Why would a overlord like Alastor be saying the princess of hells name in the middle of his sleep?

It made you raise a eyebrow, and questioned him.

The day following did not seem to ease your nerves one bit, he again in rather ..a rush to leave the manor

Standing next to the front doors door you watched as he moved back and forth through the living room looking for whatever he was desiring

“What's rushing for darling? This is rather out of character” You said as your eyes watched him move throughout the room

“Oh nothing to concern yourself with dearie!~ Just overlord business”

You hummed back at his bland cryptic response not wanting to pick it apart–you just decided not to question it and save yourself the energy

“Right. Just don’t go get yourself in trouble” You said smiling at Alastor standing infront of you, slightly towering over you as you fixed and cleaned off any dirt or lent that got caught on his suit as he was in your words rushing around

Moving your hands away from him, your eyes locked with his as Alastor’s reddish brown eyes, a flicker of amusement dancing within them. His lips curved from a small smile into a sly smirk, revealing his pointy teeth.

“Trouble?,” he questioned, making his one of his eyebrows raise in a cocky way , “Why..thats my middle name, my dear.” He said clasping and holding both your hands as he stared at you, before shrugging “But perhaps maybe I’ll make an exception—for you.”

You rolled your eyes to your husband's playful antics, before giving Alastor his goodbye kiss and waving him bye as he sinks into his shadow disappearing leaving you alone in the manor.

A moment of silent filling the air before

“Now, let me figure out WHAT’S actually happening.”

And that’s how this whole shenanigan began with you.

You see, while Alastor might have been expected to marry some ordinary demon, you in your case, were far from ordinary. As a shape-shifting demon, you possessed the ability to transform your identity at will, becoming a whole new demon or a manifestation of whatever your imagination desired.

The only limitations were those of your own imagination or..if Alastor was able to sniff you out, thanks to his keen sense of smell. HOWEVER, avoiding detection was usually easy enough… for the most part.

Weeks to months you’ve been keeping up on this “routine” of cat and mouse but all was paying off.

You found out Al has been to much of your dismay harboring rather a couple of secrets hidden and tucked from you. Other than your known overlord stuff he was a suppose helper at a hotel called the “Hazbin Hotel” that princess charlie owns and works at with a couple of other people almost made you drop with laughter when you first seen Alastor helping out with the hotel, you had to tell Rosie about this later.

It was easy to stay undercover and even easier to get close to him without him realizing and knowing it was you.

You made up your mind weeks ago that his territory would be fine, if you step away here and there to follow Alastor to the hotel

And that’s how you end up to the present day you.

You weren’t satisfied with knowing Alastor helps at a hotel. Yes indeed it was a shocker but that’s all? You were still puzzled on why Al said Charile name to began with

Alastor hasn’t suspected a thing yet due to him kinda being busy at the hotel or up in his office.

On the rare times you would see him, he was up in the upper balcony with nifty laughing with her, you couldn’t hear what they were talking about but knowing the both of them.. it was rather something strange or gruesome

As another shifted ended, the day ended with you back at the manor seating in your comfortable loveseat, reading a book before mere minutes Al got back, making it seem as normal as possible to not raise suspicions

The next day as things moved along you wished Alastor a goodbye as you watched him shift into the shadows and disappear off.

Waiting a few minutes after he left you then began to get ready for your shift at the hotel, that first started with showering to rid yourself of your natural scents–you didn’t want to be tackled down by your husband as soon as you walk in through the door.

Finishing up with your shower you stepped out spraying some random cheap perfume you had bought to scramble Al scents.

As you began styling yourself from being a lady of the 1920s with elegant beauty and designer dresses to a ripped petite coat, old bleach stained black skirt with a hole at the bottom with a finish messy down hairstyle

You laughed at your reflection

Seeing what you looked like in your normal form made you laugh. Alastor would probably gasp and dropped to his knees at the things you wore.

You walked out the house being sure to not be seen

Successfully making it past the fenced gates and out of the woods you came to the main roads of hell shifting yourself into a hell creature you have been using for this whole little “spying game”

A lengthy white fur being that stood, 6ft having two red stripes covering both arms and legs. Your (h/c) just reached the middle of your back and on your head sat two cream colored pointy horns, you kept your sharp teeth to still be able to scare off unwanted demons if the occasion was to rise

Checking yourself out in the reflection of the glass windows, you made sure everything was correct: your look, your attire and your scent.

You started to walk to the hotel, the sidewalk you have taken at least more than ten times.

As you inched closer to the hotel you for safe measures stopped and sprayed yourself down one more time in cheap perfume emptying the bottle before tossing it off in the distances and kept walking

Getting inside the hotel was an easy task,

You said hello to everyone vaggie, angeldust, sir pentious and his eggo children, huskier and nifty.

‘Everyone is down here practically–well almost everyone’ looking around furrowing your eyebrows together

“Where Charlie? She's usually with you, Vag?” You said to Vaggie who was sitting on the couch next to Angel looking at the TV

“She should be in her office right now Lucy. I think she also wanted to talk to you” Vaggie said kinda nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders towards the end as she looked up from the tv to you as you nodded your head

Making a hum noise you turned on your heel and began walking to Charlie office

Knocking before you entered, Charlie sat at her desk looking at papers

“Helluva morning Charlie. Vaggie was telling me you were looking for me, I just wanted to speak to you about what you wanted” You said as you walked towards her desk and seating down in one of the chairs across from it

Charlie still having her go lucky smile on her face nodded putting down a couple of papers “Yes Vaggie was right! I was looking for you Lucy!” She said pausing as she slide over a little stack of paperwork, “It’s nothing serious promise! I just wanted you to run these up to Al~!”

You nodded silently thanking hell for the opportunity to be closer to Al

“Yeah of course I can do that” You said standing up taking the paperwork in your black gloved hands “Consider it done Charlie!” You said walking out of her office as she screamed a thank you from behind a closed office door

You hummed quietly to yourself as you walked up the flights of stairs to get to Alastor’s door

Minutes passed before you got to the door that read in bold letter

“Alastor, Radio Demon”

Knocking lightly on the door, ‘he should be in there?’

“…”

‘No response..hm that weird’ You thought as you looked over both your shoulders before you placed a gloved hand on your door handle twisting the knob before it opened slowly

!!!CREAAAK!!!

Your body mentally cringed at the noise as you pushed the door more open glancing around one more time you slipped in the crack of his door, gently shutting it closed once you entered

‘Wow’ Was the first word that escaped your mouth looking into his room now, it's his office yes, but what was beyond it that made it almost feel like you were..alive it was the bayou swamp/forest it was just how you remembered before you died all those years ago..breathtaking

Scanning the dimly lit area with the only light being a moonless night and the few fireflies that infested the air, you didn’t see Alastor anywhere in sight, just a table with a chair on it in the middle of the grassy forest.

You bite your lip gently as you looked between the paper work and the forest before groaning knowing your mind was made up, as soon as you laid your eyes on the bayou. Leaving the paperwork for Alastor sitting on his wooden desk before you walked passed it and too the bayou landscape filling as it was almost a dream

Walking slowly into the grassy area with a smile as you breathed in the smell of forest closing your eyes and taking in the sound

It was a wonderful moment of quiet before the light noise of static in the forest made you snap your eyes open,.. that’s Alastor getting closer into range of where you were standing.

Being lucky and hopeful you HOPE he didn’t see you in the clearing just standing their with your eyes closed

You ran and hide behind some bushes and trees that were away from the table and chair you were standing near–and just in the nick of time

You could hear and see him from where you were hiding the full static sound of a certain radio demon as he hummed a tune with a deer slumped dead over on his shoulder, carrying it with ease as he slammed it down on the table, you examined as he sat down making a fork appear out of thin air as he leaned his staff against his chair, before disappearing into air as he began to eat the deer raw pulling at its meat–made you want to gag in disgust

‘He could’ve cooked it’ you thought watching him munch down on his hunt you can assume. Licking his lips after a couple of bites he wiped his mouth with a napkin like a true unhinged gentleman

Before he cleared his throat his eyes shutting but his smile spreading wider, causing you to get goosebumps

“I know your there” He said making you do a double take ‘he knows i am here?’ you thought blinking as you didn’t buy his bluff

“I can sense your presence,” he drawled, his voice dripping with a sinister charm.

“You can’t hide from me.” He opened his crimson eyes as they began scanning the area. You kept your movement still as he scanned over the area you were hiding. You saw how he squinted his eyes almost immediately at the bush you were in

“Come out, come out wherever you are” He sang out in a haunting tone

“You do know as a predator.”He started in a cheery tone before his voice dropped to a dual and deep one “ I can smell you out.” His voice ringing of no radio filter

Your heart began to sped up

‘fffuck’ Is what you thought before you seen Alastor disappear into thin air—it wasn’t a surprise you were accustomed to that but you couldn’t help your heart starting to speed up as he vanished into the air

“Run,” a disembodied whisper breathed against your nape

Took you no time of convincing as you ran not looking behind you as you kept your eyes forward only hearing the sound of something chasing behind,

You hit left and right, hoping to get Alastor off of you

As you take another right you ran behind a tree, hiding behind its figure as you heard and felt Alastor run pass you

You have never done something like this, it was rather fun but dangering

Peaking your head from behind the tree after what felt like entirety you didn’t see Alastor for safe measures you transformed yourself to a small forest animal, just in case Alastor wants to sneak behind you..again

Following near your foot trail from the tree branches, you jumped from branch to branch with ease as you stopped once more hearing static noise come from nowhere, you smirked in your creature form as Alastor wouldn’t suspect a thing

Watching from above, his form essentially appeared from thin air as he had a wide smirk and a look of hunger in his eyes as he looked at the spot you were suppose to be standing

“Where are you~?” He said

“…”

After a moment of looking in all the places he would expect and assume for someone to hide, he stood in the middle of the forest arms crossed as his ears flickered now and then

“Now where did they go? I was rather hungrier for something other than deer” He said you can tell by his voice he was almost dumb struck how could he still be able to smell you but your nowhere near..weird?

You slowly shifted yourself backwards away from Alastor as you didn’t want to alarm him nor give away your hiding, you were almost clear before a vibration was felt throughout the branch and in one second the branch snapped as you land ontop of Alastor head

“...”

It was quiet not either one of you dared to move before you felt your body being picked up fully by his hand and now..the jig was up

“What do we have here..” He said looking at you “A small diversion from the person thats in here?”Alastor’s gaze bore into you, dissecting your very essence.

A wicked glint in his eyes began to take place, “Well I guess since I couldn't catch my actual food, I shall eat you little one” Pausing to smug smile before continuing “Bad luck for you?~” He said as he lifted you above his mouth

You squirmed in his hands, heart racing.

‘This can’t be how (y/n)'s story ends’, you thought desperately.

Just as he was about to drop you into his abyssal maw, you shifted—your disguise falling away

You landed on top of Alastor, who staggered back, utterly unprepared.

“Don’t eat me,” you blurted out, adrenaline surging. Alastor stood, bemusement etching his features.

“Lucy?!” Alastor’s voice crackled through the air, a radio filter distorting his words. The static hummed, raising the hairs on your arms.

“Why are you in here?” His step was deliberate, menacing. You retreated, heart pounding.

“How did you make yourself appear small? Then big?” His eyes narrowed, dissecting you. Each step he took, you mirrored, until your back pressed against a tree—literally.

Your mind raced for a lie, an escape. But then it happened—the slip up, the unraveling.

You shifted into your true form, the one Alastor would recognized.

“(Y/N)?!” His voice lost the radio filter, and you met his gaze. Confusion etched his features. You bit your bottom lip, a awkward laugh escaping.

“Erm, surprise…?” You said as you watched him back up a little from you a smile now spreading wider by the minute as the static was the buzz in the air

As it was overtook by the applause he started to emitted as he turned the other way starting to laugh

“A surprise indeed dearie who would’ve know my wife could pull such a thing off” He started.. you didn’t like how this was sounding as you moved away from the tree watching him as he created slight distances between him and yourself

You watched as a nagging feeling was telling you to start running but ignoring that you spoke up “Alastor I-” He cut you off with his words

As he appeared behind you—the Radio Demon, with crimson eyes and a dangerous smile. His arm encircled your waist, pulling you closer. “You had the entire hotel convinced of this Lucy woman,” he murmured, his voice devoid of filters. “Bravo, dearie. Truly bravo.”

You didn’t like how he was taking the situation as what he said to you in a flare voice on confirmed how much you actually DID piss off Alastor with this little disguise

“You should run now.”

Those four words holding a threat of the unknown and you wanting to at least talk for yourself turned to face Alastor his crimson eyes only reflecting the pure chaos he was about to inflict on this game of catch with you, as you shook your head

“Please let me explain” You urged, desperation coloring your voice.

“5” Alastor your dear husband replied, holding out his hand. The air crackled with tension

“Al please—…”

“4..” He sung out as he closed his eyes, standing tall. One hand rested behind his back, the other poised like a pendulum. The smile of him showing his sharp teeth made you swallow harshly

“3” He warned out to you knowing your still there as he opened one eye to look at you breathing out short “Hmm..a shame your going to let me catch you so easy” He said shutting his open eye closed

“2 dearie” He warned out now holding two fingers as he began to shift in his stances his neck elongated he was slowly shifting into his demon form, and that’s when you finally decide to run

You huffed and panted as you switched your form a couple of times to give you longer distances away from Alastor as you made it deeper into the Bayou the ground under you turning slightly squishy as you kept running not interested to turn around

You ran for what felt like hours before you stopped down near a swamp bank hunched on you knees as you gain your second wind, taking a few more breathes you stood up, the air was quiet you couldn’t hear the static of Al, so you have to be far from him? or he just turned off that noise so he could stalk and pounce on you

Whatever the case maybe you took a breathe in and out as you looked ahead of the lake, nothing but more forest—

You thought different ideas like turning into a winged creature and flying back towards the rooms door to get out of here, but you didn’t know how high you could fly and since Alastor can’t fly nor has wings, you doubt that celling is high enough to get high enough where he couldn’t hit you out of air

Best option was to keep running or go into the swamp water, it would give you better opportunity, reflecting your options about it you heard the ground beneath you move with vibrations ‘fuck he already found me’ you thought coming to the defeat you were going to let yourself be caught but that was until you seen that fucken demon form mere seconds before he seen you, you bailed out dipping yourself slowly in the cold water taking a big breathe before dunking yourself under

Seconds stretched into eternity as you held your breath, your lungs screaming for release. The vibrations in the ground intensified, and you knew he was near. What was Alastor going to do when he catched you? He wouldn’t actually hurt his wife? You thought of as your heart hammered against your ribs, and you wondered if you should be actually concerned

Alastor scanned the area, seeking his dear wife. You pressed deeper into the water, your head submerged further, only the top part of your head concealed by a stray lilypad.

Minutes passed—or perhaps it was mere seconds—before you surfaced. Gasping for air, you wiped water from your eyes. Alastor wasn’t in sight.

You continued walk towards the edge of the pond before crawling out of the pond, lying down on the edge of it your knees still submerged as you sighed out in relief, shutting your eyes for what felt like a second

Before you heard, the clearing of a throat—a sound that sent shivers down your spine. Opening your eyes standing above you was the oh-so-familiar radio demon. You smiled, but before you could vanish into the water, Alastor’s grip closed around your arms. His purr was a velvet blade against your skin.

“Come now, darling,” he drawled, his tone deceiving. “We don’t want you to get wet. Let me assist you in this rather…exchange.” His strength pulled you back, and you squirmed, defiance flaring. But Alastor was stronger, and you found yourself pressed against his chest, dripping and caught.

“Let go,” you demanded, but he only laughed—a predator savoring its prey

“Now, dear, this is part of the game.” His eyes bore into yours, crimson flames dancing. “I’ve caught you, and now you’ll be the prize I win.” His tongue flicked across his lips

As Alastor carried you through the forest he hummed a simple tone, making you more on edge

You both arrived at another clearing?

“This isn’t where we started Al” You said as he set you down, gently helping you get up, as your eyes shifted from the scenery to him

Alastor’s gaze was going up and down on you, as you caught little symbols manifesting themselves around him as he was now a step or two away from you

“Come here” He said in a commanding tone, a chain manifesting around your neck as your eyes widen to metal chain outline with the color of green. Your hands immediately shot to your neck trying to grip and claw at it. You felt a tug come towards Al before you leaned your body away from it trying to keep space, digging your feet lightly in the ground

One real yank got you to move forward unprepared, the earth meant your face very quick and you instantly felt blood in your mouth

“Ah, be good for me, Y/N, and just obey,” he murmured, his grip unyielding. You crawled on your knees and hands, inching closer to him. The chain around your neck tightened, lifting you off the ground. Alastor’s crimson eyes bore into yours.

“My dear sweet little wife, Y/N,” he drawled, his voice devoid of filters. Each word carried weight, punctuated by his southern accent. “You, dearie, violated our little agreement.” His fingers traced the chain. “We had an understanding, did we not?”

Your breaths came in ragged gasps. “I didn’t mean to Al” you whispered

His chuckle echoed through the clearing as he lowered you gently to the ground, ensuring the fall didn’t harm you.

“So, my doe,” he began, his voice a velvet blade, “please give me an explanation. Why has my wife been running around disguised as a Lucy person, working—” His fingers closed around your hands, the chain that had bound you vanishing into thin air. “Her dear, softly delicate hands at a hotel that deserves none of her attention?” His words hung in the air, a question wrapped in menace. “Rather than be in a manor that belongs to her and her husband? Have I done something wrong?”

You sighed out as you nodded taking your hands out of his, to his displeasure “All this started because i heard you mumble in your sleep rather a month or so ago..princess name Charlie” You said with embarrassment flaming your checks as you looked away from Alastor not wanting to know what expression he held

The air was quiet between the both of you, not a word was spoken—You felt like you were holding your breathe with the tension in the air before you felt the touch of your husband on your hands again

“Mon cher~” He purred out making you look at him, his face of course held a wide smile but the look in his eyes held anger with something else glimmering around it “Nothing could replace you”

“No hotel” He said his hand holding out your arm as he kissed at the palm before saying, “No demon” Alastor continued raising his head kissing you at the center of your arm, looking at you in the eyes before kissing more up your arm while saying “And certainly no Lucifer daughter could take my eye off of something as ravishing as you my doe~” Al kissing up you between each pause as he at your neck slowly peaking at it having you basically in his lap with your back towards him, as you moved your head to side to let him continue as he only chuckle at the gesture

Al with his free hand grabbing at your chin to make you look at him as he stared into your (e/c) “But my dear mon cher, you agree at my words as if you understand, but it seems as though you forgotten who I belong too” He said letting go of your chin as both of his hands traveled down to your hips resting there “You forget who's name causes thrill of different emotions within me, so let me remind you~”

Alastor leaned into you, as you meant him half way kissing him

A passionate kiss with some underline aggression made the kiss much more thrilling as Alastor fought for dominance with you trying to dominate over him

With a deep chuckle he pulled away from the kiss, “You being defiant won’t end well for you dear” You looked up too him as you bite your lower lip holding on too his bow tie slowly undoing it as his hands trailed up and down your legs

“No words so be it” He shrugged before pushing you down to the ground, your back laying on the grass as he spread your legs open wide, everything on full display for him to see

He leaned his head down as his ears pushed back towards his head as his eyes half lidded looking up to a red face you “Mm~Darling your so intoxicating with that look on your face” He said before plunging his head down open his mouth before eating your pussy

Your eyes shut closed as your hands went immediately to his hair gripping and pulling at it, as you mumbled out moans holding onto Alastor head down as he kept eating you out

“Al~!” You said in low moan as you felt yourself starting to come undone down there “Alastor..I..I am going to—”

Before you could muster and get out the words to warn your husband, the sensation of Alastor mouth moved away from you leaving you in almost blank state, so close to clarity but yet so far …

You whimpered as you looked down to Alastor who’s face was smirking as he shook his head licking his lips slightly “You think after the charade you pulled your going to get to cum that quick and easily?” He said and laughed “Dearie we are just starting.”

Alastor in a instances flipped you over making you rise to all fours with help of his shadows tendrils you were now ass up face down, with your arms being held down by the shadows tendrils, you whimpered trying to move against them as you felt a burning sensation on your bottom causing you to move it from side to side

Alastor watched in trans like state as you moved your ass after he smacked it only making his boner go harder, as he rub on it through his pants

“Al, let me out of this! I don’t want to be—Ahh~!”You said feeling a familiar feeling slide in you as your eyes rolled behind you, you clawed at the grass alastor pushed all himself in you

“Mmm~There you go Mon Cher~” Alastor said rolling his hips as his head tilted backwards, both of his hands gripping on your hips keeping them in place as he began slowly pumping in and out of you

You moaned as you moved with his thrusts, arching your back as Al grunts and low moans could be heard

Alastor started to pick up in speed as you could only speak out the simple word “Al~” Which was music to the radio demons ears

“Oh (Y/n)~” He said as he kept up fast with his thrusts moving one his hand to your hair, gripping at it pulling you backwards as your head flung back

“Open your eyes.” He said making you slowly open your eyes as meant with the eyes of crimson red ones as his smile was deceiving as his eyes showed pure lust that was feeling “Fuck.” He said as gripped tighter on your hair yanking almost at the root as you moaned with each thrust

“I am going to finish in you.” He said in not a question but as a command as you tighten around him bring him closer as he shut his eyes letting go of your hair before opening his mouth and bitting at the back of your neck as you moaned closing your eyes feeling yourself reaching edge as you reached climax sametime as Alastor

Couple months later drawed by quick before you knew it you were back at the manor, watching over Al’s territory sipping tea as you smiled mindlessly, yeah there was really nothing to worry about.

FIN!!!

Extra! Extra!

(Y/n) and Al strolling through the park. hand in hand as Al hums a tune

Al: “I do say mon cher, I think I never told you why I was saying Charlie's name”

Y/n: “Yeah you haven’t, do share”

Al: “You wouldn’t believe it! Charlie in my dream was trying to paint my Radio Studio, it was all going to be rainbows with fluffy pink unicorns if I didn’t say her name”

Y/n: deadpans

Al: Only telling you the truth dearie~!sings out

Y/n: Your truth is utter dogshit sometimes

Al: gasp Darling!

526 notes · View notes

shibaraki · 9 months

Text

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

synopsis: slow to heal and forced on sick leave, a lonely Todoroki Shouto decides to download the latest popular app, Enigmail, to cure his boredom. he finds you. the rest is… well. moderately disastrous.

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, pen pal au, hero personal assistant reader, prohero shouto, strangers to friends to lovers, injury recovery, online friendship + eventual romance, feelings development, misunderstandings, identity reveal, pining, sexting, masturbation (male chara), making out + heavy petting, getting together, *slaps roof of fic* you can fit so much fluff in this thing

wc: 17K

It started unexpectedly—with a tremor.

Rather, it started with Oda Shuichi, the prolific villain known as Tremor. At the time of the incident his quirk had been unregistered, but doctors quickly found that it severely affected an individual's motor neurons. According to them the length of time that he has a five point touch hold on someone influences how long they will lose motor function—and how poorly their muscles atrophy.

Shouto spent three uninterrupted minutes trapped in his clutches.

“I promise I’ll come by and visit whenever we can. You’ll still get updates and reports through your work email,” Midoriya tried to assure him with that signature smile, brows drawn together into an almost pleading expression. “It’s just for a little while!”

“For a month,” Shouto pointed out petulantly. Nori, his elderly adopted cat, stirred from her place on his stomach while restless fingers combed over her short pale fur.

“A month,” Midoriya parrots. He offers an apologetic grimace and leans over where he lies horizontal, slumped and agitated, to fluff up the couch cushions behind him. The newly crowned Symbol of Peace obviously felt needlessly responsible for the situation at hand. Shouto had only allowed Tremor to grab him so Deku and Suneater could get the hostages out, after all.

“Taking a break isn’t so bad, Shouto. And Hawks told me you’ve yet to actually use any of your vacation days,” he continued. “Even Kacchan takes time off. Do you know how many hours you have to work to outdo Kacchan?”

“I’m sure you could tell me exact numbers”.

“Don’t be mean,” Midoriya said, dithering as he peers around the room, slightly unfamiliar now that the furniture has been temporarily moved around to make navigating the space easier. Thanks to an on-call specialist Shouto would still be able to walk in short bursts, but he’d have to gradually build up strength and stamina over the weeks to come.

A pleased sound reverberated in Midoriya’s throat as he finally discovered the TV remote, setting it beside Shouto’s phone on the arm of the chair. “Okay. There,” he hooked an ankle around the coffee table and dragged it a little closer. “If you need us to get you anything from the store just text us”.

Shouto grumbled. Midoriya sighed, fondly exasperated at the childish display. Before leaving he moved the nearby pair of crutches within reach, listing off all the things he can think of, “Hey, maybe you can catch up on Quirky Hearts now! Or read that series Iida said you’d enjoy. There’s that new app I heard about, too. Enigmail? That might be fun”.

The anonymous pen pal app, Enigmail, exploded in popularity after its release in the spring. Shouto barely knew a thing about it, only that you needed to be over eighteen and chatting partners were assigned at random. Nothing about that sounded tempting.

Midoriya’s suggestion hung over his head for the rest of that afternoon. Quirky Hearts droned on in the background. Halfway through the first episode Shouto had yet to retain any information. Nori hardly left her spot. Jaws stretched wide around a yawn, lips pulled back to display what remained of her teeth. He liked to think she sensed his inner turmoil, though realistically, she was likely too lazy to move.

Curiosity prevailed in the end. The logo featured a pink post mounted mailbox, the slot unhinged to receive a folded paper plane. Shouto opened the app onto a pretty basic interface that followed an almost pastel theme. The profiles are barebones. He supposed that was purposeful. It asked for pronouns and a nickname, offering the option to pick an icon from their default library, but nothing more.

From what he could discern skimming over the rules he would be assigned to a random chat room with another person in a speed dating style interaction. A timer would count down from two minutes and upon completion prompt the user to either switch partners or remain talking.

A simple concept. But anything had sounded better than sulking horizontally and staring dead eyed at reality television for the remainder of his night. And when was the last time he met somebody new?

Almost every username he could think up had been taken. Even his hero name was unavailable. In a last ditch effort he settled on a miraculously accepted Sooba and scrolled through the icons. “Hey, it looks like you,” he murmured, pleased by the regal white cat icon. She hadn’t heard him, but sunk her dull claws into the meat of his forearm as he turned the image to her, those dramatic yellow eyes dilating at his coo, “Don’t worry. You’re the only Nori in my life”.

Shouto clicked start.

The first few users are odd, and without tact. Others communicated in languages he couldn’t understand. He stuck around regardless—luckily the developers had thought to include a translation tool, and Shouto managed to befriend one or two people with innocuous pictures he’d taken on previous patrols alone.

Then there’s…

XpLoveGuest ▻ Hey sexy

By that point early evening had already flooded through his balcony doors and drenched everything in a gauzy orange glow. His nose wrinkled. “You have no idea what I look like,” he thought aloud, switching to his right hand to roll the ache from his left wrist

▻ ASL?

Shouto frowned in faint confusion. He minimised the app to search up the term. Results flowed in, and after a brief look over everything he discovered they all repeated the same description. It’s an old acronym.

His thumbs tapped across the keyboard in quick succession.

Sooba ▻ Age: 27 ▻ Location: Tokyo ▻ Sex: No thank you

The chat immediately disappeared. A loading symbol blinks in the centre of the screen. He snorted, and suddenly a new chat opened with a different username blinking at the top corner. It’s a bit on the nose.

‘InsertNameHere’.

You shared the same default cat icon, which he took as an immediate plus.

But a minute elapsed and nobody spoke. There was an unusual trepidation on your part. Shouto chewed his bottom lip. He contemplated starting the conversation when suddenly three dots skipped across the screen, indicating the other user was typing something.

InsertNameHere ▻ You’re not going to send me a picture of your dick, are you? ▻ If you have one that is.

Shouto’s mouth parted in soft surprise, then pressing defensively thin, and he had glanced around his living room as though someone were there to witness this weirdness alongside him.

Sooba ▻ I have one.

InsertNameHere ▻ Ok. Well I don’t want to see it.

Sooba ▻ It sounds like you see a lot of dicks.

Not once taking his eyes away from the screen, Shouto felt for the TV remote and paused the show, brow arching at your next response.

InsertNameHere ▻ And it sounds like you’re new here.

Sooba ▻ I am. My friend recommended I try this to cure my boredom while I recover.

A few beats passed. He eyed the countdown looming over your shared interaction, conscious of how little time is left. You were the first interesting person he’s come across. Though he supposed that isn’t saying much.

InsertNameHere ▻ Recover? That sounds bad. Are you alright?

Sooba ▻ Injury at work. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.

Just as you were beginning to respond, the timer cut out. Shouto reflexively expelled his frustration and Nori lifted her head toward the abrupt movement of his chest, ears twitching. She blinked up at him in disapproval for shaking her. “Sorry sweet girl,” he murmured, wearing a small smile as he scratched under her chin. So temperamental.

A familiar pop up in the cartoonish shape of a postcard covered the chat. Your messages blurred into the background. It read: Do you wish to continue corresponding?

Shouto clicked ‘Yes’. And apparently you did too, because your contact pinned itself to his in-app mailbox.

A melodic chime pinged from his phone. Confetti burst across the off white background in pixelated blooms.

✎ CONGRATULATIONS! You have a new pen pal ✐

InsertNameHere ▻ Guess I can keep you company in the meantime. ▻ You’re the only sane person I’ve come across so far.

Shouto smiled, even as the muscles in his cheeks protested. It’s a stubborn reminder of his condition. He repositioned himself to lessen the strain on his wrists, chin tucked to his chest where his phone is propped, and said:

Sooba ▻ I’d like that. :)

The fortnight that followed is slow to pass. An endless cycle of wake, stretch, eat, lightly exercise as instructed by his physiotherapist, play with Nori, eat, watch Quirky Hearts, stretch. Midoriya stopped by, bringing Iida along with him. Jirou sent him playlists to listen to. Fuyumi called every evening and shared the phone with his mother, gentle in their fretting. He assures them all that he’s coping just fine from the Shouto-shaped depression in his couch cushions.

But there’s also you; the stream of consciousness keeping his seams together, lest he fall apart from the complete and utter boredom he’s been forced to endure. In the beginning he wasn’t sure of the rules. Talking online is not his forte and neither is making new friends. That entire first morning was spent ruminating whether or not texting you ‘good morning’ was strange, and estimating how many times was appropriate to message you before he violated some invisible social boundary.

Normal had been irrelevant until now. Normal, to Shouto, consisted of avoiding his father’s phone calls, sending the occasional concussive text message—indecipherable to even the greatest cryptanalysts—and giving Nori updates in the 1A Grad group chat.

Sometimes he’ll open the app to see you typing, pausing, typing. Imagining you, a faceless someone, equally uncertain about your footing pleases him a little. In the end he figured if you didn’t want to talk to him, you wouldn’t respond. Evidenced by how you often saved him the trouble by messaging first, sometimes as early as five o'clock in the morning. Apparently you worked irregular hours in a rather unpredictable industry. Shouto weighs the possibility that you might be a fellow hero—or something close—more than he cared to admit.

Any trepidation he felt would always dwindle as soon as a notification lit up on the screen. He reads your username and his insides turn over.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ve escaped to the break room. ▻ Do you ever think about how we don’t have muscles in our fingers? How fucked up is that?

Shouto smirks, pulled away from the conversation at hand. He unlocks the phone in his lap, beneath the kotatsu to remain hidden, an attempt at being inconspicuous as he replies.

Sooba ▻ I try not to think too much about anything.

You throw back a few laughing emoticons and satisfaction washes over him. “You’ve been texting a lot. Who’s got you smiling like that?” Natsuo asks slyly. He’s cross legged, tie tossed irreverently over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, having come straight from work. “A special someone?”

Shouto forces the muscles in his face to relax into feigned nonchalance. “Nobody. Nothing,” he says unconvincingly.

Rei enters the room with a modest tray of dango before Natsuo can open his big mouth. She’s wearing a bi-coloured hoodie. The sleeves slip as she sets the treats down on the table beside the green tea Fuyumi brewed earlier; another gift from Yaoyorozu’s family travels. Natsuo’s face twitches under Shouto’s unbroken stare, which is daring him to bring it up while their mother is here.

Then his phone vibrates and any possibility of peace is shattered.

His mother glances curiously at him, expression soft in the dewy afternoon light, and she smiles. “Are you speaking to one of your friends?” she asks. “Please tell Deku ‘thank you’ for sending me your new Shouto hoodie. It’s very warm”.

The words fill something cavernous inside him. Soothes the ache with gentle wonderment. She smiles down at his hero logo printed proudly across her chest, rubbing the hem between her finger and thumb. A younger Shouto could have only ever imagined it.

“I’m not so sure it’s a friend this time,” Natsuo teases, spoken with a playful, sing-song cadence. “Shouto wouldn’t text at the table and risk facing Fuyumi’s wrath just for a friend”.

Shouto does not pout. “I would risk anything for my friends,” he says, affronted; anything maybe except his older sister's well intentioned nagging. “…It’s a new friend, that’s all”.

Rei perks up, settling on her knees and laying the kotatsu blanket over her thighs. The quiet sound of plates and cups clinking together fade in from the kitchen. Natsuo hums, unconvinced, and hides a smile behind his mug. It's moments like this, when the people he loves are gathered in one place, and he can hear them in every corner of his home, that he’s glad for buying a smaller apartment.

“That’s wonderful, Shouto,” Rei murmurs as Fuyumi pads into the room, Nori not long behind her, threading through his elder sister's ankles. She too arrived right after work, donning a suit-skirt and blouse. “What’s their name?”

His thoughts stutter. Fuyumi’s nose wrinkles seeing the panic stark on his face. “Who are we talking about?”

“Beats me. Ask him,” Natsuo says, taking a stick of dango between his teeth as he tries not to grin when Shouto’s phone vibrates a second time. “I want to know who’s so eager to talk to my little brother”.

InsertNameHere ▻ Sooooobaaaaaaa ▻ I’m on my lunch keep me company

Shouto snatches up his phone to respond. He brings it closer to his face to allow Nori access to his lap. She monopolises the space instantly. “You’re not a teenager anymore, Shouto,” Fuyumi laments. “No phones during family time”.

“I know. I’m sorry, nee-san. I just need to…” his thumbs dance over the keyboard, head ducked in amalgamated shame and apology.

Sooba ▻ Question ▻ InsertNameHere ▻ What is your name?

InsertNameHere ▻ At the personal info stage already? You move fast. ▻ Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

That stirs a faint unease in his gut and he understands better then. Anonymity is what gives people a sense of security and he isn’t exempt from that. In truth, right now he doesn’t want to know what might change if you knew who was on the other end yet.

Sooba ▻ You can call me whatever you want.

“Shouto”.

InsertNameHere ▻ That’s not even a line is it. ▻ Man. You’re dangerous.

Sooba ▻ ???

Shouto stares at the flickering dots by your username. You type, then stop. Type, then stop. As if you were deleting and starting over again. A habit of yours he’s quite endeared to. “Shouto!” Fuyumi huffs, poking a manicured finger into his side. Though short, the nail still causes him to flinch, and he’s quick to stretch his phone out of reach as her hand swipes through the air. “I mean it!”

Nori is jolted. She voices her immediate displeasure and Rei titters into her sleeve. The sleeve with his name stitched into the fabric. He breath catches, like it always does when his mother laughs. “Shouto doesn’t have to tell us anything until he’s ready,” she assured, offering him a gentle look—a look so sincere he feels awful for being evasive.

And his feeble resolve fractures.

“I don’t know,” he confesses bluntly. Natsuo and Fuyumi frown, at one another and then back at him, in unsettling synchrony cultivated through siblinghood. Shouto shrugs and pulls at a stray thread in his jeans cut loose under Nori’s claws, “I can’t tell you a name because I don’t know it”.

Natsuo appears mildly surprised. Fuyumi sinks into disbelief, feet curled beneath her body, going lax at his side. She drops her arm. “You… don’t know it?” she repeats.

“The app is anonymous,” he supplies hastily, attention flickering to his mother, far more worried about discerning her reaction. She’s unreadable. “My name isn’t on there either. We just talk about stuff”.

“Stuff?” his siblings' voices overlap, told apart only by the difference in tone. Natsuo’s shock has melted into some strange mix of pride and innuendo. “Is it that penpal thing everyone has been talking about? Enigma?”

“Enigmail,” he mutters. Natsuo lights up. Fuyumi does not share the sentiment.

“You’re a hero, Shouto! What if it’s someone with bad intentions?” she frets, brows drawn down and together, mouth pressed thin. “They could be tricking you. The internet is rife with predators, and—!”

“Nee-san. I’m a grown man. I understand the importance of internet safety,” Shouto interjects.

Natsuo slumps onto the table with a mawkish sigh, the sound steeped in fondness. “Let him have fun. You know he’s right, ‘Yumi, he’s an adult. It’s a wonder where all that time went,” he says. A few beats later he’s abruptly straightening his spine, “Gods, Fuyumi. You’re almost thirty five!”

Fuyumi glares from behind her glasses. She reaches across the kotatsu and swats lightly at his bicep, “Do you have to say it like that? You’re thirty one!”

“Please. Stop arguing,” Shouto says. He pets the unperturbed cat curled up on his thighs, “You might startle Nori”.

“Shouto. She’s deaf”.

Rei cuts their bickering short as she breathes, “When did you all get so big…” a serene smile hung on her lips, not a hint of grief to be seen. The answers surrounding your identity—or lack thereof—are lost to the nostalgia cloying in his throat.

They return to enjoying tea and dango after that. Shouto sets his phone face down on the floor and turns off vibrate. For now, he wants to ward off further interrogation.

His mother intuits this and steers the conversation in another direction, “Natsuo, how have things been at your new job? Are they treating you well?”

Things are good. Fuyumi’s class would soon be graduating, an award for Best Teacher polished and positioned on her desk. Natsuo had landed the job he always wanted—a medical welfare officer working closely with trauma survivors—and was already making waves. His mother, Rei, finally finished cultivating her traditional garden, weaving tales of lush foliage and water spouts. Touya too has been improving in his rehabilitation programme, according to his psychiatrist’s reports.

A tremor quakes through the tendons in Shouto’s forearm as he lifts his tea to sip the remaining dregs. Yaoyorozu outdid herself this time. If he hadn’t already known the price he would have discerned it from the refreshing, uniquely sweet taste. Thoughts of you cross his mind in these instances without warning. Would you like it? What’s your favourite tea?

Shouto scrunches his eyes shut as if it might wash those thoughts away. How is it that the stranger in his pocket possesses the ability to awaken such yearning in him; he feels mildly ashamed to have realised his loneliness with an audience.

The hour rolls into another. Shouto scrapes the last dango along the skewer with his teeth, jutting his chin to evade Nori’s curious sniffing. “This was lovely, Shouto. Thank you for having us over,” Fuyumi expressed as she carefully ran her hand along the feline's back.

Sensing the finality, Shouto motions to stand and sets Nori on the couch. Everyone protests it. He huffs, sliding a crutch over from where they lay nearby and letting it take his weight. A good decision, he thinks, inwardly grimacing as the blood rushes to his feet, prickling like violent white noise under his skin, and his knee almost gives out.

“I’m okay. The doctor told me I should be trying to move around more anyway,” he tells them, deigning to mention that he expended most of his energy tidying up this morning before their visit. “You’re my guests. I want to walk you to the door”.

Shouto tries not to bristle under their wary scrutiny. A cool hand slips around his arm then. His mother’s natural chill seeps through the sleeve of his shirt and allays the irritation. “We appreciate it, sweetheart,” she says.

“We do,” Fuyumi gently insists. “We’re happy to see you recovering well. Right, Natsu—?”

“Kiss tax!” Natsuo exclaims, oblivious to his surroundings. He scoops Nori up from the arm of the couch. She is comically tiny pressed against his chest. A continuous indignant drone rumbles in her throat as his brother peppers firm kisses to the top of her head.

“Put my baby down,” Shouto deadpanned.

“She isn’t your baby,” Natsuo slides one hand under Nori, the other carefully tucked into her armpits. He holds her close to Shouto’s face. Dramatic round eyes stare back; a flat expression emphasised by prominent cheekbones. Barely a hair's breadth between them, Nori begins to swipe her rough tongue against his scarred cheek. “See? You’re her baby”.

“Mine, too,” Rei rises to her tiptoes and scratches behind Nori’s ear, turning a smile toward Shouto. That same hand moved to cup his cheek. Though far taller than his mother, Shouto tips his head and finds himself feeling incredibly small as she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Your hair is getting long again,” she adds as she pulls away.

“I can trim it if it’s bothering you,” Fuyumi nods, sidling up beside Rei to survey the growth together. She brushes back the wayward strands framing his face and Shouto blinks. “Though, I think I like this look on you. What’s it called? A wolfcut?”

“I’m not sure. This is how Mina cut it a few months ago,” he replies.

Natsuo interjects without Nori in his grasp, now notably covered in short cat hair. He claps Shouto on the back and pulls him into a firm side hug, “She did good. Our handsome little Shouto”.

Initiating physical affection with his family was still a weary affair after all this time, though patently one sided. Having them touch him so freely always left him a little stupefied.

After they depart, Shouto hobbles to find his phone with all the grace of a newborn fawn. It is face down under the kotatsu cover right where he left it. And as it blinks to life, he skips the notifications from the 1A group chat to find your screen name at the bottom.

InsertNameHere ▻ My boss has these awful little nicknames for everyone in the agency. Mine’s ‘Maestro’. Nerd and butterfingers, too, but mostly Maestro. ▻ To do with my quirk and role, I suppose. Good for morale etc. His creativity astounds me (๑ಕ̴ _̆ ಕ̴) ﾝ？ ▻ Not that I don’t appreciate it but. Well shit, what about my morale? Lol ▻ You there? ▻ Sorry if I scared you off by getting personal.

Shouto worries at his bottom lip. Maestro. Something new about you. A foreign feeling churned in his chest. Faint, barely there, but new enough for him to notice. He’s not sure how to pin it; whether your mention of working at an agency bothers him or the fact that others, people who are not Shouto, get to see you everyday, close enough to give you a personal nickname.

Sooba ▻ Sounds like you have a good relationship. I’ve got a close friend who sounds similar. People say it’s just his love language ha ▻ And you didn’t scare me off. I’m the one who asked. Some family came to check on me.

He barely thinks it over before adding:

▻ My mother said hi by the way.

Your reply isn’t immediate but it is quicker than he expects.

InsertNameHere ▻ You’re right. I do like my boss sometimes. Maybe. And I love this job but I think it has aged me ten years. My ulcers have ulcers! ▻ Also—telling your family about me now too? We really are moving fast.

A soft huff of laughter jumps in his throat. There’s a distant clamoring near the kitchen. The sound of Nori’s bowl being pushed around the tile. Her absence clicks in place when he looks at the clock. He should feed her soon.

Sooba ▻ Technically it was only my mother, older sister and brother. ▻ But I can relate about the work stuff.

InsertNameHere ▻ Yeah? You mentioned being on leave because of an injury. Do you like your work?

That’s a question he has never asked himself, nor has he ever felt the need to. Heroism was the path life handed to him. The path he ultimately followed of his own volition. Shouto loves his family, his friends. He’s good at his job—enough to have made it into the top ten. And isn’t that all that matters?

Sometimes he would take a long, weary look out the revolving agency doors, recognise the heaviness in his bones and give the entire thing a second thought. But that never made any difference. Because people needed him. And he needed them too.

There’s a fleeting urge in that instance; a temptation to come clean, if only to sate his own curiosity. To compare the idealised image of what you looked like or how you sounded. He’s spent many a shameful night thinking up romanticised scenarios in his mind about what it would be like to meet you in real life. Shouto always squashes it. He doubts you’d believe him.

Ever perceptive to his moods, Nori chooses that moment to pad in from the kitchen and sit herself directly in his line of sight. She wails, demanding attention and lacking any volume control.

Right now he is not a hero but a man alone on two unsteady legs with a small living thing reliant upon him. He’s just Todoroki Shouto. He’s just—

Sooba ▻ As of right now my occupation is ‘Nori’s dad’. I like it pretty well.

Your reply is immediate.

InsertYourName ▻ Oh you have a kid?

Nori’s frustration grows. Her tail swishes back and forth, agitated. “It isn’t time to eat yet,” Shouto tells her, pulling up his phone camera and zooming in. On her next yowl the shutter goes off. The picture is perfect. Mouth wide open, large ears flat and nose wrinkled in displeasure, lips curled up to display her pink gums.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_0243] ▻ Something like that.

It’s a risk and he knows it. Though infrequently his team has posted Nori to his social media in the past at the delight of his fans—she was younger in those pictures, but if you were well acquainted with him there was the possibility of you putting the puzzle pieces together.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh my god sooba. She’s so cute. Give her everything she asks for, you monster. ▻ Hey. Are those Ingenium themed crutch pads?

Anxiety rockets through him. He pulls up the photo and sure enough, his crutches are in the corner of the frame, laid within reach beside the couch. Secured around the handles are Ingenium themed pads to cushion his palms.

Sooba ▻ They are.

InsertNameHere ▻ Is he your favourite hero?

He turns his phone over in his hands before he types, overcome by an abrupt restlessness.

Sooba ▻ One of them. ▻ Do you have a favourite hero?

Nori wanders off in his periphery and not long after he hears the telltale sound of cardboard being torn apart. You stop typing, replies coming to a halt. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

It becomes clear you’re offline. Shouto spends the evening imagining your answer—ducking sheepishly at the idea that you might say him, then cringing at his reaction—and reading through his work emails.

Partnering with Hawks hasn’t been the worst thing in the world. Despite his carefree demeanour and general lack of personal space Hawks was professional and meticulous when it came to his work. As promised, Shouto was CC’d into every important thread and forwarded every significant incident report each day. Apparently there’s a big fundraiser tonight that he is unable to attend.

Hawks suggests matching Endeavor’s donation in spirit. Shouto doubles it.

The night air barely touches him. Leaning against the balcony railing he surveys the cityscape. A kaleidoscope canvas. He stares until the pinpricks of light stretch and bend, streaking his vision, regaining shape when he blinks. Nori is curled around his calf, playfully kicking her back legs at his ankle. She’s careful to never break skin.

It’s nearing midnight when you get back to him. A disconcertingly vague reply of:

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ve had enough of heroes.

Shouto waits for you to elaborate before presuming anything nefarious. He would hate for Fuyumi to be correct. She’d never let him forget it.

▻ Shit that made me sound bad, didn’t it? I promise I’m not a villain

He snorts, reclining himself into one of the chairs on his patio. Yaoyorozu insisted upon helping decorate the space. This piece in particular had been chosen by Uraraka, if only for its cocoon, egg-like shape. She always sat in it if she came over; Shouto can’t say he blames her, now curling up inside it himself, leaving one foot flat to the floor for Nori to cling to.

Sooba ▻ Only a little bit lol.

InsertNameHere ▻ I just mean for today! I’ve had enough for today! ▻ There’s… a whole lot of them at this work event I’m attending is all. ▻ See! ▻ [IMG_0589]

It’s the first picture you’ve ever sent to him that wasn’t a meme. Your legs are crossed, turned inward to show more of the showroom floor. There are people everywhere. You’ve overturned your lanyard in your lap, straps dotted with the charity logo, to display the back of your security pass. No identification. Just proof that you’re there—

Proof that you’re a real person, giving colour to the vague, shapeless figure in his head. The figure once outlined only by random tidbits, like your favourite food, the music you like, the movies you loved as a child. The figure now clad in tight fitting, seemingly pearlescent sheer material from the waist down.

—Shouto swallows dryly.

You have nice hands. He tries not to linger on that.

▻ That’s why I disappeared, btw. Sorry about that. ▻ I feel weirdly underdressed.

The logo on your lanyard has recognition prickling in the back of his mind. Hours earlier Midoriya had texted him two pictures from the ‘HEROKIND’ fundraiser Hawks mentioned. One being a selfie of him and an aggrieved Bakugo, each wearing their own fitted suit, and another of Uraraka in an evening gown stood behind the imposing silhouette that was his father, stealthily pointing her middle finger at his back.

He saved that one to his camera roll.

Sooba ▻ In that case I will close the HPSC anonymous tip line ▻ Sometimes people try too hard at those events and forget why they’re there. You look good from what I see.

InsertNameHere ▻ How very gracious (´・｀ ) ▻ Sounds like you have some experience with this kind of thing. My condolences lmao ▻ But thank you. I’m glad you think so.

Shouto entertains the idea of sending you something back. His eyes surreptitiously flicker around as though being watched. Nothing revealing who he is, but enough to maybe—

The camera captures a few of the modest flower beds and cat grass lining his balcony, Nori coiled around his bare ankle. He looks at his hand. Shuffles his hips further down to mirror your angle and flexes his fingers in his lap. Heat floods his body, guided by the shameless desire to inform the image you might have of him in your own head, too.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_288] ▻ At least you’re having more fun than I am.

You type for a long ten second interval. Then restart. A tedious minute elapses and just as regret creeps in, your messages come through.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’m not so sure about that. ▻ Actually it would probably be more bearable if you were here with me.

The sound of his heartbeat floods his ears. So warm it’s like he’s standing under the sun. Shouto belatedly realises it’s just his quirk, as the steam blows out through his nose. Nori butts his ankle in complaint. He bends to take her into his arms, feeling ridiculous and somewhat bad at being a person.

Sooba ▻ Think so? ▻ Just so you know I have been called socially inept on numerous occasions.

InsertNameHere ▻ Then we can hide together in the corner, get tipsy and sneak bits of the fancy spread.

This—doesn’t happen to Shouto. “Nori. I have feelings for a person I’ve never seen,” he pushes his face into Nori’s fur, and she purrs, feeling the vibrations of his voice. Admitting it aloud only highlights the absurdity. He feels out of his depth. And he decides he’s glad for the anonymity. Grateful, even. Lest he publicly humiliate himself and set off every fire alarm in the vicinity.

Sooba ▻ That sounds perfect.

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ll hold you to that. There’s another one of these coming up in two weeks. ▻ Prepare yourself (ꈍᴗꈍ)

“You’re really not helping,” he continues. Nori rubs insistently under his chin. “Fine, fine. I get it,” She croaks as he presses into the touch, mimicking her movement and cradling her as he gets up.

Before retiring to bed he pulls up Yaoyorozu’s contact. He settles into a comfortable position in the covers, propping his phone on his stomach, and he types:

Shouto : 00:14

I think I need help.

Consciousness eases into him slowly. It’s a sleepy pastel morning. Dust dances in the soft spotlight cast through his curtains. Shouto’s jaw unhinged to release a long yawn, limbs stretching every which way under the covers as his joints click.

Shouto props up on his elbow, twisting in place to reach and unplug his phone. He blinks away the blurriness hemming his vision and squints at the stack of messages from Enigmail right at the top of his notifications.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh shit. Hero Shouto donated double the amount of what Endeavor gave and he couldn’t even be here tonight. That’s hilarious. Can that guy get any hotter ▻ I didn’t intend for that to be a pun. ▻ These cocktails are becoming suspiciously easy to drink. ▻ You’re probably sleeping like a good boy but I miss you. Wake up! ▻ Have you ever had feelings for someone you’ve never met

The loose tongued messages stop there, at around one o’clock in the morning. Then there’s a seven hour jump to only ten minutes ago.

▻ Oh my god. Please ignore all of that. And then kill me.

Hardly awake, sleepsand still crusty at the corners of his eyes, Shouto’s mind reels as he considers pinching himself. He doesn’t know which part to focus on. Your apparent—and unknowing—attraction to him as a public figure or the implication that you had feelings for Sooba.

But you’re obviously embarrassed. So he bites back a smile and starts with something simple.

Sooba ▻ Good morning to you too ▻ Remember to drink water and take some bufarin.

Sitting upright with legs hung over the bed, Shouto clicks out to his text app by way of distraction. There’s another photo from Midoriya. This time it’s just him. Speckled light glitters along his cheeks, expression beaming as the hero holds a piece of sashimi in front of his pink face. Shouto heart reacts to the text.

InsertNameHere ▻ Send more Nori

He chuckles, sleepy. That makes known Nori’s absence. Strange, he muses. She is usually the one to wake him. Rather than search he scrolls through his albums to find a photo you hadn’t seen yet. It was taken a few months ago. He’d slipped his camera under her chin and pressed the shutter when she looked down, looming over the viewer with a dumbfounded look.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_142]

After a few minutes with no response, assuming that you had accepted his bribe and sought out some painkillers, Shouto braced against his bedside table and stood, phone in hand. Every muscle in his body felt like wet sand, held together by too tight skin. This morning, though, the incessant ache that beat alongside his heart was gone.

Walking still felt as though he was wading through molasses but strength was steadily returning to his physique.

The floor is cool under the soles of his feet as they shuffle down the hallway. There’s a noise in the kitchen that gives Shouto pause. A voice, hushed yet high pitched voice, cooing like someone might to an infant.

He drops into an ungainly defensive stance, pyjama bottoms and all. Worst case scenario they at least hang low on his hips, loose around his legs, leaving room for flexible movement. He rounds the corner without a sound.

And relief beats like a drum in his chest.

Yaoyorozu meets his gaze from the kitchen island where one hand is petting a very happy Nori, sipping from a glass of water with the other. Her face is bare, shadows soft under her eyes, hair pulled haphazardly into a low ponytail as if she had just rolled out of bed and rushed here. Creati in a bleach stained hoodie and leggings. The press would have a field day.

The sight brings a small smile to his face. Their schedules have been misaligned for months. It’s good to see her—if only her expression had not then darkened. “Todoroki Shouto,” she says with all the authority of an older sibling, “What on earth was that text last night? You had me worried sick”.

“Text?” he parrots dumbly, looking to check his phone.

InsertNameHere ▻ Painkillers acquired. Thank you Nori ▻ I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.

“I let myself in with the key you gave me. I hope that was alright,” she continues, quiet and apologetic now. He skims over your reply and switches to check his text app. Sure enough the last thing he sent to her was an ambiguous plea for help.

“Of course it’s alright,” he replies, regarding her with a meaningful look to cover for how sheepish he truly feels. “I gave you the key because you’re always welcome here”.

Yaoyorozu smiles on the end of an exhale, idle hands smoothing down Nori’s cheeks. “Of course,” she echoes, examining his form closely now her anxiety is assuaged. Over him comes the muted awareness that he’s being judged. “How about we go on a short walk for once, since I’m here? The weather is quite pleasant”.

Shouto steps forward with mouth downturned, “Momo, I assure you I’m fine. You don’t need to walk me like a dog,” he says, wincing thereafter at his bluntness. She only hums.

“When was the last time you went anywhere?”

Very uselessly he replies, “I go places”.

Yaoyorozu’s potential to lead and assert had never escaped him, not even in his teenage years, and it was something he staunchly admired her for. But never has he resented his own affinity for compliance more than he does the moment she ignores his pouting and tells him to finish his morning gait training and get changed.

Dressed casually and statuesque in the centre of his living room, left leg lifted to mimic a flamingo, Shouto’s limbs shake far less than previous days. He can hold his phone while he balances now, too. You haven’t sent any new messages. Probably waiting for him to assure you that he isn’t upset, but even so he’s a smidge disappointed.

Sooba ▻ I’m here. A friend appeared in my kitchen. ▻ You don’t need to apologise for anything, I wasn’t uncomfortable. I've received worse drunk texts I assure you.

He switches to his right leg and chews the inside of his cheek. Facing villainy was far less daunting than navigating his feelings.

▻ I thought it was cute.

That’s about as brave as he felt today.

Yaoyorozu resurfaces from the coat closet with a jacket in hand and a pep in her step. There’s something else coiled around her wrist. Nori’s cat leash, red and attached to a blue harness, matching Shouto’s hero colours.

“Can we bring her along?” she asks, bouncing in place. Upon recognising the leash Nori makes her opinion known, releasing a drawn out yowl. “Oh please, Shouto”.

Nori didn’t regularly enjoy walking but she had been trained to do so from a young age. She was peculiar and picky, and Shouto trusted her to let him know if ever she wanted anything—something she never failed to do.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, bending to tap her nose. It wrinkles, a stray tooth flashing between her lips. “If you get tired I won’t carry you”.

Nori blinks. A lie and they both know it.

Shouto sighs, defeated. “Okay. She hasn’t wanted to in a while so I can’t really deny her”.

“Wonderful,” Yaoyorozu breathes, handing him his jacket before undoing the harness and crouching to slip Nori’s paws through one by one. “We can grab a warm drink to go from the cafe downstairs and talk”.

Shucking the jacket on and flattening the collar, Shouto dithers in the genkan with his crutches nearby. He tucks the wayward strands of hair into a knitted hat and loops his mask around his ears. The scar couldn’t be helped but atleast this way a majority of people would not think to look twice.

They leave the apartment together, all three. In the short time it takes to step out of the building's lobby you still haven’t replied. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, fingers clasped around his phone in case it vibrates.

The establishment across from Shouto’s home has been open for longer than he’s been alive. An elderly couple named Pierre-Louis and Tsutomu run the place. The two men moved back to Japan decades ago to care for Tsutomu’s sick mother, and with Pierre-Louis’ incredibly unusual coffee quirk ‘Bean Boost’, opening a cafe seemed the right route to take.

Since moving here they’ve endeared themselves to Shouto. If they see him on his way to work Tsutomu will often rush to offer him a takeout cup. This morning is no different.

“Mon petit chou!”

Tsutomu slides open the walk up window and calls his name, beckoning them closer. The breeze tousles the short grey curls around his ears. Shouto’s heart near stops when the older man leans out to greet Nori as she stretches upward and almost loses balance. “Tsutomu-san, please be careful,” he says.

“I am still rather spry, young man. Don’t worry about me,” he returns happily, gaze moving to Yaoyorozu when he rights himself. “Lovely to see you again, Momo-chan. Have you come to rescue our prince from his cave?”

Indignant, Shouto grumbles, “I wish you would all stop acting as though I’m a hermit. I haven’t been stuck indoors that long”.

The two level him with a look of doubt. Tsutomu gently pinches his cheek and rubs a thumb over the swell above the mask. “Your pallor betrays you, Shouto. Let the sun kiss you more, no? We worry”.

“Tout va bien?” another voice interjects. Pierre-Louis squeezes up next to his husband, ignoring his disgruntled noise, and brightens when he sees Shouto on the other side. “Mon chou, you’ve emerged! And with two beautiful girls at your side”.

Yaoyorozu muffled a laugh while Nori busied herself chewing on the nearby grass, leash never pulling too far. “Pierre-Louis,” Shouto murmurs, unable to keep the fond lilt out of his voice. “It’s good to see you both”.

“And you,” he beams. The wrinkles by his eyes deepen. Shouto never met his grandparents but he thinks perhaps this is the closest he’ll get. “Are you going anywhere special?”

“We’re just taking a walk, Pierre-Louis. I thought it might be nice to get a warm drink for the journey,” Yaoyorozu spoke warmly and nudged his side. “Where better than here?”

“Bien sûr! Will that be one earl grey and one green tea?”

Shouto nods at her questioning glance, “Loose leaves today, please”, he adds.

Pierre-Louis disappears to make their drinks, shortly returning with two takeout cups, steam pluming softly from the mouth. Shouto swaps his crutch to his right side and accepts the green tea with his left hand, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve.

“How much will it be—?”

“Nonsense,” Tsutomu interrupts with a sudden switch to English. He shakes his finger, silencing any protest, and his husband gives a resolute nod in support. “Take it, mon chou. Call it a family discount”.

Shouto bids them a dazed goodbye, leaving the walk up window; a lump in his throat that he tries to wash down with hot heat, tongue impervious to the temperature. “They’re very sweet. I’m glad you have them,” Yaoyorozu muses. “What is it they call you? ‘Chou’?”

“Mon petit chou,” he repeats clumsily, accent slightly gawky. “I asked Aoyama a while ago and he told me it means ‘my little cabbage’”.

Yaoyorozu pauses and Nori continues ahead, leaping up onto a nearby half wall with her tail hooked high. She pounces on a crack between the bricks, blissfully unaware of the nearby traffic, trying to eat a ladybug.

“My little cabbage?”

Shouto hums, squinting up at the early sun, rising in a blanket of pale blue and mottled grey clouds. The air is refreshingly cool. “Apparently it’s something French parents call their children,” he shrugs, as though he were not then warmed from the inside out at the reminder that they truly did see him as one of their own.

“That’s lovely,” she says, slowing to match his pace. He’s not tired so much as he is enjoying the morning dew. They follow a familiar path. Turning down a hidden narrow walkway that leads to a neighbourhood park. Nori’s chitters fill the spaces left by comfortable silence.

Yaoyorozu suggests sitting at one of the picnic tables. Tall trees flanked the area on either side, columns rising to create a weave of foliage that shrouded them in gold. The old wood is cold under his thighs. Nori hops up onto the bench, ears flat to her head, and hisses at a dog across the way which hasn’t even noticed her presence.

“So,” Shouto glances over toward Yaoyorozu as she speaks. Her arms are settled on the tabletop, fingers curled around the disposable cup and swirling the liquid inside. “Are you going to tell me what you were panicking about last night?”

He picks at the cardboard sleeve, twisting it, and supposes this was inevitable. Slipping down his mask, Shouto brings the tea to his lips in distraction, grasping for a way to articulate his situation without simply saying: “I have feelings for my anonymous online friend”.

In the end he realises there really isn’t any other way.

Yaoyorozu listens intently, as he expected she would. Of all his well intentioned friends Shouto knew she’d be the most open to his reasoning. Her expression visibly softens while he wrings his hands and rambles about the palpable connection that he first attributed to his own loneliness—

Rambles about you; you, the one now carried with him everywhere, the presence weaving his days into tapestry; you, accepting of his random thoughts, giving of your own; you, unintentional charm and bad jokes and sharp wit; you, faceless and voiceless, the one to receive first and last thought.

He expels his fears. Concerns of who you really are. Of what you might think upon learning his identity—if you wouldn’t like him anymore, or if his own feelings might change after meeting you offline, and if that makes him a terrible, shallow person.

Then he mentions the photo from the Herokind event and her head cocks in interest. “May I see?” she asks. Shouto murmurs his agreement and pulls his phone out from his pocket.

You’ve messaged him.

InsertNameHere ▻ Appeared? Like, teleported?? ▻ I’m glad we’re ok. I would miss you otherwise. ▻ But you can’t know I’m cute. You’ve never seen me lol

Shouto is typing back with unfounded confidence before he realises it.

Sooba ▻ I don’t need to see you to know that.

Then his eyes flicker to Nori, staring up at him clad in her Shouto themed harness, lip caught on her scraggle tooth. He takes a quick picture. Examining it before sending, he notices Yaoyorozu’s slender hands in the background, and wonders if you might be jealous.

He scoffs inwardly at his own childishness and sends the photo.

▻ Not teleported hah, just came in with a spare key. We are out walking now.

“Sorry—I just wanted to reply first,” Shouto clears his throat and presses his phone into her now proffered hand. Given without question.

Something flickers in her expression at your photo; it’s a brief shift that flies over her gaze like a shadow. Her thumbs pinch and part on the screen as she zooms in. “I was there for a few hours last night,” she says. “I recognise this outfit. Would it not be easier to check the list of attendants?”

“…That doesn’t feel fair,” he admits soberly. “I know that’s silly”.

“It’s not silly,” she affirms with a small smile, fingers now moving as she types. “You are aware of your position. You have the resources to find them and presumably they do not. Of course it seems unfair”.

It’s testament to their friendship that he feels no need to check what she’s doing. Her brows furrow slightly, then arch into her hairline, eyes brightening. Pleased, Yaoyorozu locks the device and hands it back.

“What did you do?”

“Don’t worry. I didn't do anything untoward,” she replies. “But I do know who you’re talking to now”.

Shouto’s fingers flex around his phone. “You do?” he breathes, incredulous. Just like that?

Yaoyorozu nods, lending her attention to Nori. “I don’t have a name. But if you want to find them I think you’ll want to speak to Bakugo-kun”.

“Bakugo…?” Shouto echoes.

“I believe your friend may work for him,” she clarifies. Ah. The clamouring in his head comes to a halt. In hindsight it’s clear. Your nicknames make sense now.

“I’ll think about it,” he swallows, bringing his tea to his face for another sip. He finds it tepid and warms it again with his quirk. Yaoyorozu doesn’t push.

They spend the hour catching up on the things Shouto has missed in the weeks he’s been absent, and the weeks prior. Midoriya’s claims of him being a workaholic become a reality he can’t outrun. Tea finished, Shouto takes both cups and disposes of them in the recycling bin. Yaoyorozu stands from the picnic table with Nori cradled to her breast—Nori stares back at him, smug—and they make their way back to his apartment.

“Shouto,” she coaxed, now standing outside the tall glass doors leading to the lobby. Nori’s claws sink into the collar of his jacket as she’s passed to him. He takes her leash from Yaoyorozu, bunching it up; and she covers his enclosed fist with her hand.

“Go for it,” she tells him, giving a firm squeeze. “I’m rooting for you. Just be safe”.

Stepping back into his apartment, his cheeks are warm and his limbs are trembling. You’ve buzzed inside his pocket three times.

InsertNameHere ▻ Oh my god. How can such a perfect creature exist? And her harness! Shouto colours? ▻ I hope you’re having fun. <3 ▻ You know, you never answered my question from last night

“You don’t think I’m hopeless, do you Nori?” Shouto asks the thin air—Nori has already scrambled toward the nearby shoebox, bunny kicking at the corner as she chews. He sighs.

Yaoyorozu’s encouragement rings loud in his ears while he replies.

Sooba ▻ Yes. I think I’ve had feelings for a person I’ve never met.

And it feels like a confession.

Shouto sees the week come to an end before he finds enough strength, physically and mentally, to visit Bakugo’s agency.

Your conversations have evolved. They carry a flirty undertone now, the verbal toeing of the line that makes his heart pitter patter. You send pictures throughout the day. Always angled away from your face. Swathes of skin. A pen between your fingers. Stacked paperwork and an empty coffee cup. The burgeoning skies on your walk home. Comfortable at home, your legs crossed over the other, a fluffy slipper hanging at the end of your foot.

He never knew so much thought had to go into making a photo appear candid, effortless. At one point he purposefully shuffled his workout shorts lower on his hips and spent the remainder of the afternoon mortified with his head deep between the couch cushions.

Liking another person is humiliating. He feels exposed, like a flesh wound that you won’t stop prodding.

InsertNameHere ▻ [IMG_412] ▻ I hope you have a good day!

You’re sitting at your desk, presumably. A slide knot bracelet hangs loose around your wrist. Hand held out over the mouse and keyboard, you’ve pinched your thumb and finger—smudged with black in—together to make a heart shape. It’s cute. You’re cute. He files the pose away for any later run-ins with paparazzi. His PR has been getting on about trying harder when they photograph him for months.

Shouto’s body rocks with the train car as it careens down the tracks and readjusts his grip on his crutch. He smiles behind his mask, sinking into the confines of his hood which he has pulled over his cap. There are eyes on him today. It can’t be helped in such close quarters. But they’re uncertain—too afraid to bother him and be wrong about his identity.

Sooba ▻ You too :) ▻ Remember to take breaks. I read that you should spend five minutes away from your screen every hour.

InsertNameHere ▻ You have to stop making me smile at work. My coworkers think I have a secret husband or something.

Sooba ▻ I promise to send you off with a homemade bento tomorrow morning.

InsertNameHere ▻ And a kiss.

Shouto grabs the nearby pole as he is almost knocked on his feet. Passengers board, others depart, and his heart hammers in his throat like a fist.

Sooba ▻ A kiss?

You’re still typing a reply when Shouto hears the hesitant evocation of his name. It’s timid and hushed, belonging to a person trying to restrain their excitement. She covers her mouth with a gasp when he meets her eyes.

“It is you,” she bubbles. A metallic taste pervades the static air around her, short hair wiggling on end as if it were responding directly to her excitement; behaviour unbefitting of a typical reporter, he notes.

Your text box jumps onto the screen in his peripheral vision, bumping up the chat. He jolts and angles the phone away from her just to be safe.

InsertNameHere ▻ Yeah! A bento box and a kiss to get me through the day, obviously. As my husband.

There are three others a few feet away, huddled together beside a pillar and abuzz with energy. Mild dread churns in his stomach. Definitely not a reporter, then. “If you have a moment…” the young woman spares a glance over her shoulder and her friends excitedly encourage her forward. “Um. Would you maybe be interested in—”

“No,” Shouto replies. The young woman winces at his tone. Ah. She’s embarrassed now. He really should make a habit of lying in consideration for other people's feelings. Fuyumi did mention that, though not in as many words. Before her face can crumple further he continues, “I’m very sorry, that was rude of me. I’m in a bit of a hurry”.

Her relief is palpable, near contagious. Expression softened with understanding she folds her hands against her stomach and ducks into a slight bow. “Of course, I understand,” she says. Somehow it makes him feel worse. “And—I’m glad you’re well, Shouto-san. We’re all wishing you a complete recovery”.

Gratitude bubbles inside him. He smiles, pressing a finger over his mask, and her complexion turns a bright shade of pink. She nods in understanding, scurrying to her friends.

Shouto departs the train without disruption. The conductor takes stock of his gait and the crutch at his side, offering to lay out the ramp, but he politely refuses, stepping onto the platform with ease. He feels good; closer to his other self, the one before his muscles were run through a metaphorical centrifuge.

Sooba ▻ Obviously. ▻ I suppose I can add ‘house husband’ alongside ‘Nori’s dad’ on my list of occupations now.

Blast Zone isn’t far, a fact for which he’s grateful. Bakugo insisted on rooting himself in the centre of the city, right in the spot where all transport routes seemed to meet; there stood the symbol of victory’s headquarters, imposing in the skyline.

According to journalists at PowrStruct magazine The Blast Zone agency is an ode to modern architecture. A steel frame structure surrounded by reinforced concrete, an outer coating embossed with a texture that gives the award winning building the fragile appearance of having been meticulously glued back together while simultaneously being both blast proof and earthquake proof. Shouto cares not for design in general. He does, however, steal a mini Dynamite themed pen from the front desk while he’s waiting to be signed in.

There’s a thin chain attached to the cap with a Chibi Bakugo hung on the end. Sue him.

“He’ll see you now, Shouto-san,” the receptionist states, pupil-less eyes blinking back at him. Shouto tucks the pen into his sleeve, feeling foolish and somewhat nervous. “Head on up to the office on the twelfth floor. He knows you’re on your way”.

Shouto clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, weakness in his knees that has nothing to do with his nerves. The Ingenium handle pads cushion his palm as he braces onto his crutches, supporting him toward the nearby lift. There are eyes on his back as he goes. They’re heavy, lingering like physical touch. Something in him spoils at the unnecessary pity.

The lift remains mercifully empty. He presses the twelfth floor button and it glows green. The ride up is smooth, and quick. Double doors slide open onto a sprawling office space flooded with natural light. No one bothered to glance in Shouto’s direction as he gawked. If he remembered correctly this area was specifically for employees that worked closest to Bakugo. They’re all so nonplussed and focused. No nonsense. He likes that.

“Loser,” Bakugo grunts. He appeared from thin air, standing aside with arms crossed over his chest, eyeing Shouto’s stiff form with suspicion. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re still on leave”.

Shouto makes a noncommittal noise, inwardly miffed. He straightens his posture and takes more of his own weight. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. Maybe I missed you,” he says. Bakugo’s expression suddenly soured, as though he swallowed a lemon, mouth thin against his teeth.

Amusing as it is, acknowledging the disconnect aloud makes him truly accept the distance he had put between himself and his friends; how he’d worked too hard, untied himself from the tangle of their lives and ended up isolated.

“Nori told me to say ‘hi’ by the way”.

Bakugo sweetens. “She like that cardboard house I sent you?”

“She already destroyed it,” Shouto admits. And Bakugo laughs, irritation split by a crooked grin.

“Atta girl,” he nods in approval, turning on his heel and starting toward a pair of towering doors. “Oi. You comin’? Or are you going to stand there all damn day?

Dynamite’s office is anything but corporate. Professional, yes, but it’s also so plainly personal in a way that screams Bakugo. A setup reconfigurable for days that he can’t sit still, a folding treadmill under his large mahogany desk to keep him moving. Bakugo works better on his feet, something Shouto knows well.

Built in shelves line the accent wall, filled with framed pictures of friends and family, newspaper clippings and awards. There are even fan creations—mostly from his debut era, when being favoured felt far more significant, but Shouto finds it sweet all the same.

Walking ahead of him, Shouto approaches the desk. Bakugo lingers for a beat to holler something out the door before returning to his desk.

Two consult chairs face the head office chair opposite. Lowering into one of them, Shouto props his crutch up and takes his phone out of his pocket. Ever hopeful, he unlocks it, opens Enigmail and refreshes the chat list. There are new messages from a few other people he added in the beginning, but nothing from you. He tries not to sigh too obviously.

“What’s got you all fuckin’ mopey?" Bakugo leaned over to look down at the phone. Shouto hastily locked it and the explosive hero narrowed his eyes at the impassive veil Shouto pulled over his face.

“Nothing. How did the first Herokind event go?” he asks, fiddling with his newly acquired Dynamite pen. “Midoriya always sugar coats things for me”.

“Went fine. You didn’t miss anything,” Bakugo waves off. The leather office chair creaks as he leans back. “Boring as all hell since it was just the kickstarter. Food mild enough for a toddler to eat and too much alcohol. The auction will be more interesting. That birdbrain partner of yours was hilarious, though”.

“Hawks?” Shouto’s mouth twitches, failing to conceal his mirth. “What did he do this time?”

“Spent the night antagonising your shitty old man,” Bakugo pauses for a brief moment and rescinds his words. “Or aggressively flirting. Can't tell the difference with him”.

Shouto keeps his thoughts to himself on that one.

“Ended with Endeavor triggering all the sprinklers at the after party though,” Bakugo ends, eyes crinkled under the weight of his wicked grin. Shouto pursed his lips tight. Amusement huffed through his nose. He imagines his father standing in the middle of the room, pathetically soaked through, wisps of smoke rising from his put-out embers, and he laughs.

Bakugo looks rather pleased by the reaction. But then his gaze flickers over Shouto’s shoulder and his brow arches expectantly. “Did’ya need something? I shouted for the Egghead because I thought you were on your break”.

Shouto’s laughter dwindles as he follows Bakugo’s line of sight. His breath catches. An employee stands in the doorway peeking around a tall box of paperwork. Wide eyed as they examine him.

Wrapped around their wrist is a familiar sliding knot bracelet.

“I just—uh…”

His head spins. There’s a smudge on your finger where your pen's ink leaked, just like in the photo. Could this be you? You are—

“What the hell has gotten into everybody today,” Bakugo tuts, pushing up from his desk and striding over to receive the box himself. Your shoulders slump when you are relieved of the weight. Bringing your hands to your chest and massaging the joints.

—still looking right at him. Cute. He cannot help but think how cute you are, tripping over your words, losing your footing.

“Oi, maestro,” Bakugo clicks his fingers in your face and startles you out of your stupor. “Get it together. I need you with a clear head when that sleepy bastard from the HPSC gets here”.

You glare at Bakugo, “Mera-san is the least of your problems, Dynamite. Worry about yourself and the six unanswered emails I forwarded to you from the claims manager”.

You’re beautiful. And your voice, it’s so—his lips part, and he tries to speak, to interrupt Bakugo��s incessant teasing, but words fail him.

“Whatever. Those insurance claims are bullshit and you know it,” Bakugo mutters. He turns and moves to shove the box of paperwork beside the desk. His mouth downturns into a smirk when he stands and notices your attention drawn to Shouto once again.

“Is that everything? I’d appreciate it if you stopped gawking,” Bakugo drawls, a dry rasp to his taunting that seems to embarrass you further. Shouto isn’t sure he’s breathing. You’re right there. You’re within reach and he’s rooted to his chair.

“You’re such a—! Y’know what, no, I’m leaving now,” replying harshly you start toward the open door where you come to an abrupt halt. Shouto feels the distance like the pull of a leash. You incline your head into a short bow, losing strength in your voice as you acknowledge him, “Have a good afternoon, Shouto-san”.

Then you’re gone. He stares after you dumbly. In all the years he has worked in the hero industry Shouto has never been more thankful for choosing to make his given name his brand than he is now.

Bakugou falls heavily in his chair and sighs.

Shouto swallows, “Who was—”

“Don’t,” Bakugo stresses the command, as though telling a dog to heel. Shouto can feel the heat behind his pointed glare. Undeterred, his eyes linger after you, stuck on the spot where you once stood, heart beating like a hummingbird’s wing.

“I mean it, Halfie. Run off the only competent PA I’ve ever had with your pisspoor flirting and I will kill you,” Bakugo barrels on. There’s no true malice but it comes through gritted teeth, like he has resigned himself to the impending stupidity. Because Shouto is already looking back at him with that small, impish curl to his lips.

“I’m not that terrible at flirting,” he says.

“Making eye contact for three uninterrupted minutes is not flirting,” Bakugo scoffs.

Shouto hums. “And what is? Pulling their pigtails for ten years?”

“Watch it,” Bakugo grouses, bottom lip jutting. He kicks the leg of Shouto’s chair and he laughs; he’s missed this.

Hoping to get back on track then, Shouto asks, “Will you be attending the charity auction, then?”

The other man grunts an affirmative. “I’ve put some memorabilia and shit up to be sold. Sparky somehow convinced Eijirou to auction himself off for a date,” Bakugo snorts and gives an amused shake of his head. “I’m willing to bet he’ll rake in at least ten million yen. Minimum”.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Shouto agrees. Kirishima had grown a lot since graduation all those years ago. Pair a stocky build with a big hearted guy like him and everyone is tripping over themselves to get a piece. “Is he nervous that he won’t make much?”

Bakugo clicks his teeth, interlocking his hands across his midsection and getting comfortable. “He really hasn’t got a fucking clue. The HPSC schmuck I’ve got to talk to today has already suggested extra security in case certain high profile guests get resentful,” he says. Crimson peeks through narrowed eyes, considering, calculating. “Are you gonna go? You’re looking steady enough”.

The last Bakugo had seen of him was directly after the incident—crumpled into the fetal postion and involuntarily spasming with six second intervals. Unable to speak, to walk, to turn his head. Worst case scenario presented on scene was that he could lose the ability to function at all, and Shouto had been thrown into a pit of depression so oppressive that he withdrew from himself all together.

There’s an underlying relief in Bakugo’s question that comforts him in ways he wasn't aware he’d been seeking. Pleased, Shouto drags his crutch between his thighs and twists at the padding around the handle. “I’ll be in attendance. I plan on bidding on a few things. David Shield’s original design sketches maybe,” he admits. “…Will ‘maestro’ be there?”

Bakugo seems to parse the response carefully, as if it cracked open a hole into Shouto’s psyche. “Izuku is shooting for those, you know. I’m the one that’s gotta deal with him cryin’ if he loses”.

“I know,” Shouto’s mouth splits in a wry, intentional smile. “If I’m not outbid then I’m happy to give him whatever I win”.

“Shill bidding? Ha. Izuku never believes me when I tell him you’re secretly a dick,” Bakugo smirks. A thought visibly crosses his mind. He props his elbow on the arm of his chair, chin resting in his palm and considering Shouto closely. “…My PA will be there for the auction. Working. So if you show me up—”

“I won’t,” Shouto interjects.

“—I will see you to the pearly gates myself,” Bakugo continues, unperturbed. There’s no true malice to his tone, moreso fond resignation, and Shouto’s chest bubbles with affection for his hard headed friend.

“That’s nice of you,” he says sincerely.

“Get fucked. You want an update on the cases we opened this week or did you seriously come here just to annoy me?”

“To annoy you, mostly,” Shouto ducks away from the hand that swiped at him. “Hawks forwarded me the arrest report. Tremor ended up going for a plea deal?”

“Yeah. Sold out the extras that helped him gather the hostages,” a forceful click of the keyboard; Bakugo slaps the spacebar to wake his monitor and makes clear his disapproval. “They went too fuckin’ easy on him,” he sneers. “Deserved a longer sentence”.

“As long as they’re off the streets,” Shouto muses. He isn’t one to hold a grudge against villains who’ve harmed him, but he can understand his friends' frustration. Had it been Bakugo or Midoriya, Shouto too wouldn’t be so quick to accept this outcome.

The gentle light flooding through the office windows recedes a fraction as a dense cloud covers the sun. His visit to the Blast Zone is but a blip of time, cut short by the foreboding ring from Bakugo’s emergency pager. He’s up and moving immediately, routine woven into him like muscle memory, and Shouto can’t help feeling jealous.

Under the door to his office, Bakugo clears his throat. He cocks his head toward the impending rain, “You need me to have someone drive you home?” And appears to regret it right away as Shouto smiles up at him, touched by the suggestion.

“No, thanks but I’ll be fine,” he waves off. Bakugo departs with a grunt, demanding he take an umbrella from the receptionist, because who doesn’t check the weather before they leave the house. The thud of his work boots reverberate off the walls as he disappears around a sharp corner, and Shouto shifts in the residual silence.

He takes out his phone as he pushes upright on his crutch; a habit rather than necessity. You haven’t messaged him since before your paths crossed—though you wouldn’t know that. He sighs. A niggling guilt has burrowed into his chest but it remains largely outweighed by his impatience.

Employees greet him on his short journey to the lift he arrived in. Bowing their heads, evoking his name with appreciation and awe while he’s scanning the space for signs of you. It’s a fruitless affair. Coming up short he steps inside, frown etched into his brow, and presses the ground floor button.

The speaker alerts him that the doors are about to close. He turns on his heel, leaning a hand on the support bar. Looking up from his shoes his eyes fall on your figure. You’ve stepped out from one of the closed off rooms, thumb tapping away at the phone in your hand. Shouto swallows, watching his own with trepidation.

Sensing a heavy gaze your eyes flicker to meet him at the last second, contact through the crack right as it shuts. He can hardly think. If this were a scene in Quirky Hearts he thinks he might just cast aside his dignity and sprint up the fire escape to confront you. The mere idea has heat simmering under his skin; it makes him want to fold himself into singularity. Shouto, a top five hero, a sword without ire.

Waiting dutifully, the receptionist hands him an umbrella from behind the staff desk. He squints at her name tag, muttering “Thank you, Akiyama-san” while he tucks the umbrella under his arm, deigning to mention the murky blueish blush that floods her skin, those pupil-less eyes shimmering. Shouto pulls his mask up over his nose, breath warming his cheeks, and takes a moment to observe the street.

Throngs of people scurry along the pavements to get away from the unforgiving chill. Raindrops can become a thousand paper cuts when the wind wills it. Afternoon starters amble into the lobby with wet shoulders. In his departure nobody so much as looks his way.

Sooba ▻ Hope you didn’t forget an umbrella today. Stay warm.

His thumb stopped mid-air, right above the “send” button. Sparing a lasting glance to the upper floors, Shouto quickly presses it, pockets his phone and opens up the umbrella. Stepping into the storm white noise fills his ears, tapping harshly on the PVC canopy over him.

Shouto tugs his jacket closer to his chest. The pavements are soaked, water fed into the uprooted cracks. He threads through the moving bodies back toward the station. With the streets overcast he feels better concealed.

A train is already waiting at the platform, decorated in yellow. The colour identifies it as a slow running train, taking the local stops route rather than the rapid one. He hides in his collar and stands in the corner of the carriage, umbrella collapsed and hooked over his wrist.

Six stops later—rather than three—and Shouto is closer to home. In the time it took to reach his street the rain had thinned out, now a sparse sun shower as the clouds pushed eastward.

Nori yells accusingly the very second his key slots into the door. He turns the lock and pushes it open, holding out his foot to keep her from rushing past. “I know, I know. I’m sorry sweet girl,” he scratched her head while bent to line up his shoes. “I missed you too. Bakugo said ‘hi’”.

She mewls and circles in place on her delicate paws, flicking her tail at him. Shouto takes it as forgiveness. “I think I met someone special today,” he recites to her, “The one I told you about…”

Stopping in the middle of his warm apartment, Shouto becomes unbearably aware of how damp his clothes are. He fishes his phone and wallet out from his pockets and sets them on the kitchen island before padding toward the bathroom.

A thorough rinse and long soak later, Shouto sprawls himself across his couch, phone laid on his chest and arm hung loosely over the edge while Nori plays with his fingers. She clings to his forearm as he cups her full belly, lazily dragging her back and forth across the floor.

He’s sipping on the mouth of his water bottle, mindlessly watching as Aki-or-something begs for Saeko-or-other to take him back after going on a date with another contestant, when your messages come through on Enigmail.

InsertNameHere ▻ Guess what happened today ▻ Saw Pro Hero Shouto at work. ▻ I think he might hate me? lol

Shouto inhales sharply, choking on his mouthful of water. Tears prickle behind his eyes as his diaphragm spasms, and he tries to catch his breath, fist thudding at his chest. Oscillating between mortification and delight—it really had been you.

Sooba ▻ Why would you think he hates you?

InsertNameHere ▻ I left an awful impression. And he looked at me like this (⊙＿⊙’) the whole time.

Heat burns at his nape; embarrassment spilling over into every crevice of his body. The air around him distorts and he exhales, steam curling from his lips. Nori watches on from the floor in fascination, sparing no sympathy. Maybe Bakugo had a point.

Sooba ▻ Maybe that’s just his face.

InsertNameHere ▻ Maybe… ▻ It is a pretty face though. Prettier in person.

Shouto feels all the air deflate from his body. He sinks into the couch, head lolling against his shoulder as he turns to press a grin into the cushions, gripped by a sudden rush of endorphins. It had been you. You’re real. More importantly, you are attainable.

Now did he want to do anything about it?

Sooba ▻ You think so??

The typing dots bounce along the chat room border as you reply.

InsertNameHere ▻ I know so. I was there. Beautiful even when he is staring right through me (￣ロ￣lll)

The memory of you speaking his name echoes like a broken record. He has yet to tire of it. Though he’s lightheaded and hazy, your features are still clear in his mind. The sure fire in your eyes, your sharp tongue and your pouty lips. A slow, warm tension trickles into his gut, swooping in anticipation and breathless longing as he imagines the face you might make if he touched you.

Sooba ▻ That’s presumptuous. He was staring at you. Why wouldn’t he be

InsertNameHere ▻ I. ▻ You’re so unfair you know that ▻ If you were here I would

His breathing picks up ever so slightly.

Sooba ▻ What would you do with me

InsertNameHere ▻ Are we veering into sexting territory right now

Sooba ▻ Unintentionally.

Shouto shifts his hips. The movement pulls his sweatpants tighter around his hips and a familiar tingling rushes below his waist. When was the last time he touched himself? He brings the phone to his forehead for a moment of clarity, peering up at the screen through his eyelashes.

InsertNameHere ▻ Is this the part where we come full circle and you actually send me a dick pic

He tucks his chin, a lazy smile playing on his lips. The gentle throb in his briefs pulses throughout his body and he answers, reaching to squeeze himself through the fabric, just for relief.

Nori sneezes. He falters, reminded of her presence and overcome by the urge to cover up. Proverbial tail between his legs, Shouto retreats to the privacy of his bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click. Evening filters in through the windows, mauve and rosy. He kneels on the bed and it yields under his weight, frame silent while he crawls to the headboard and reclines back, phone in hand.

▻ Shit, sorry. I was joking you don’t have to do that if you don’t want to

The message goes over his head. He opens the front camera and stares back at his flushed, disheveled face before tilting the device, angling it toward his body.

Frosted fingertips trail up his stomach and it jumps, laying the hem of his shirt across his chest. Down again to the fine dark hair below his belly button, goosebumps rising across skin, blood rushing to the surface. Hooks his thumb suggestively into his waistband, hand splayed across his hip, and takes the photo.

Sooba ▻ [IMG_628] ▻ I want to

Shouto. Shouto. Shouto. Abuzz with salacious apprehension he wonders what would it sound like above him? Under him? Breath knocked from your lungs, whining through the motions. He traces the outline of his clock. Covers his eyes with the crook of his arm and releases a shuddered breath, hips rising into the heel of his hand. A hand too big to be yours. Sweatpants pushed halfway down his thighs he pictured it anyway—you laid on your side, at his side, loose fist stroking him root to weeping tip.

Shouto thumbs at the head, smearing precum over his sensitive frenulum. Panting heavier, he squeezes his cock and wonders, would you tease him? Lick into his mouth and tell him not to be quiet?

The phone in his hand buzzes. Anticipation grips his heart. He almost drops it on his face when he squints up to read the screen.

InsertNameHere ▻ Fuck. You’re so gorgeous ▻ I can’t concentrate

Sooba ▻ You like it?

InsertNameHere ▻ I’ll show you how much ▻ [IMG_447]

Heat races through him. You’re in a loose tank top, touching yourself over pale boyshorts. The dark straps have fallen around your shoulders in an almost demure manner, collar slipping forward to reveal the soft cleavage of your chest. You’ve mirrored his position, albeit a little higher, enough for your mouth to be in frame. Wet and rouge, if he thinks hard enough he can imagine he left them kiss bitten.

Sooba ▻ I want to touch you

He’s desperate to know what you like. The way you want to be touched, how you might yield under his wandering hands. Patterns dance behind his eyelids as he reaches to knead his pecs, pinching the pert nipple with a breathy moan. He smooths over his abdomen, corded muscle tensing beneath the added sensation, arousal coiling hot in his belly.

InsertNameHere ▻ Touch yourself for me instead, yeah? ▻ Gonna think about you too

“Fuck,” he chokes. Shouto loses his phone amongst the sheets. Feet planted flat to the mattress, his knees spread until the waistband protests. “Please. Please. I’m so close,” he whispers to the image in his mind. His pace stutters, feverish as he fucks his fist. Your lips brush soft along the column of his throat to feel him swallow. He turns into the pillow, mouth parted for heaving breath.

“That’s it Shouto. So beautiful for me,” you’ll murmur, so at home in the crook of his body. Amidst the desperation you’ll straddle his thigh, rhythm synchronized, chests rising. Your hand—his hand—slips further, fingers curled to press up behind his balls. He’s on fire. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see you cum”.

Shouto’s head tips back into the plush of his pillow, every muscle clenched. Pleasure rockets through him. His cock twitches in his grasp. He cums with a strung out moan, breaking into short, wet pants as he catches his breath.

Riding the gentle aftershocks, his arm falls heavily to the side and hits his bedsheets with a quiet thud. The smell of old petrichor blows into his room with the draft draws his attention to the darkened window. Streaks of gold sunlight peak between the buildings across the street where it settles under the horizon.

The stickiness between his fingers is difficult to ignore. Drying steadily on his chest. Reality returns to him slowly as he stares at his soiled hand. After cleaning himself up with the wipes in his bedside table, Shouto tugs up his sweatpants and rubs at the pink splotches leading up his throat. With clarity comes a vague haze of shame and he is loudly alone; something vibrates and he is anything but lonely. He lifts his head, rummaging through the sheets to find his phone.

InsertNameHere ▻ Want you to feel good ▻ You there baby? ▻ Sooba? ▻ Hm. That’s not the sexiest of names

Shouto laughed through his nose. Endeared by your awkward jump from flirting to nervously making up for a perceived misstep.

Sooba ▻ sorry can’t multitask ▻ shouldnt make fun of your house husbands name

Exiting his bedroom is uncomfortably close to a wall of shame. He drags his feet; gait unsteady for far nicer reasons than a near career ending injury. Nori has acquired his spot on the couch, retaining warmth in his absence. She observes him, all knowing.

InsertNameHere ▻ No capitalised letters? Punctuation? What have you done with my Sooba lol ▻ How are you feeling?

Sooba ▻ really good. sleepy

He wanders to the kitchen and dithers over his next message, leaning his forearms on the cool countertop. This fleeting, unintended conversation could change everything and that fact is starting to nag at him.

▻ what about you

InsertNameHere ▻ I feel really good. And sleepy <3

The implication is not lost on him. He chews his bottom lip, flustered at just how pleased that makes him.

The next burst of chat bubbles appear in an instant, one after another. Typed hastily as though to outrun your own apprehension.

▻ Can I ask you something? ▻ Did you mean it when you said you’d come to the event with me? ▻ I have a plus one. I want to see you. But you don’t have to

Shouto swallows. Tugged between elation and fear. You’ve become all he yearns for and you could be just that, his, yet he panics all the same. Heroism had consistently been his lacquered shield. An excuse for his self isolation that people had to begrudgingly accept. Working himself to the bone afforded the luxury of never having to dwell on it.

Exhaustion aside he was content with the humdrum life he hid behind. Before you, Shouto rarely wanted for anything. He had his family, and good friends, and a job that felt rewarding; it didn’t seem worth it to lay himself bare and be dissected on the off chance that someone new might love him.

Because hectic work and risks aside, he’s profoundly aware of the ghosts he has yet to conquer. That somewhere, there is something fundamentally different inside him that you might find disappointing.

Unthinkingly, Shouto grapples with the courage in him existing on the fringes and replies in much the same way you had.

Sooba ▻ I meant it. I want to see you too. ▻ I’d like to go with you ▻ Don’t worry about a plus one. I’ll meet you there

InsertNameHere ▻ Wow, okay. That was easier than I thought. I’m so excited ▻ And super nervous

As it turns out the impending date motivates Shouto like nothing before. Days pass without fault or interruption. The man-shaped dent in his couch rises without the constant weight. He sticks closely to the routine his physiotherapist drew up for him. Walks longer distances and soaks up the sun daily, to Tsutomu’s great delight.

Too wrapped up in his own coalesced anxiety and elation, he realises he hadn’t found it remotely odd that you hadn’t questioned his ability to get into the auction.

His train of thought is interrupted by a firm hand coming down on his shoulder. “Man of the hour!” A familiar sharp toothed grin blocks his vision. Shouto clenches under the sudden weight to keep himself upright as Kirishima gives him a shake, “We missed you around here. You’re looking good!”

The charity event is in full swing. An anticipatory lull permeates the atmosphere as the chosen guests, heroes and civilians alike, wait for the auction to finally begin. Shouto arrived fashionably late, as Mina called it, after spending nearly three hours on a group call with her, Yaoyorozu, and his sister.

The applause upon his entry had not been expected. His palms are still clammy.

Compared to Shouto's charcoal three piece suit, tailored to precision, Kirishima dons a charmingly loud burgundy blazer over a dark turtleneck, pulled together by a simple chain. The material is tight across his broad shoulders. “Thank you, Kirishima,” Shouto smiles. He looks him over, “You look good too”.

That signature grin grows weary. “You really think so?” Kirishima lowers his voice into a hush, tugging at the loose hair framing his face. “I wasn’t so sure about tying my hair back. What if nobody bids for me? I’m dying inside just thinking about it”.

Shouto turns away from the sea of vibrant clothing and chatter to pat his friend on the arm and level him with a serious look. “A lot of people are going to spend money on you tonight, Kirishima. But in the impossible event that they don’t I’ll bid on you myself,” he tells him. “We can go to Mythoscape and try that new rollercoaster”.

“Bro…” Kirishima’s eyes are wide and glassy. While Shouto expects the firm hug, he is mildly surprised by the long, dramatic kiss to his cheek. His breath smells faintly of white wine. “You’re the best,” he continues as he sets Shouto back on his feet. “But is it really okay for you to do that?”

A flash goes off. Shouto frowns. He scans the crowd and rubs away the wet mark left behind. Yaoyorozu catches his attention with a delicate wave from her place beside Kendo and Uraraka. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks, smiling back, yet distracted. You’re still nowhere to be found.

“Well,” Kirishima draws breath through his teeth. “Bakugo kinda told me about your crush on his PA,” whatever he sees pass over Shouto’s expression has him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck and scrambling to explain. “Nothing bad, man! You know he actually seemed pretty approving of it, in his own way”.

The evermoving mass of bodies sharpens around a few other familiar faces. Midoriya is excitedly gesticulating as he rambles to a visibly overwhelmed HSPC shareholder. Bakugo watches the interaction with no intention of concealing his amusement.

“I’m not sure about that,” Shouto rasps, narrowing his eyes at the man in question, like the pressure behind it might be enough to elicit his attention. Bakugo of all the people here would know where you are. The phone snug in his inside blazer pocket remains silent. A pout works its way onto his lips before he can stop it. “He said I’m bad at flirting”.

Kirishima stifles a laugh and clears his throat when Shouto directs the petulant glare to him. “You are a little bad at it. But only when you’re actually trying! And even then that’s part of what makes it charming, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know”.

“You’re the type to flirt without realising you’re doing it—or atleast people think you are, because you’re handsome and attentive and whatnot. But when you try it’s kinda obvious and bro, please stop looking at me like that,” Kirishima explains clumsily, tone pitching higher the longer he talks.

Shouto’s lips thin as he tries to suppress a smirk. He rights himself as Kirishima nudges his side, catching a smile of his own, “What I meant is you have a chance. And Bakubro thinks so too. He wants you to be happy”.

The sentiment warms him from the inside out. But it also makes apparent something trepid and cold in his gut. Regardless of his friends unfettered support there remains the real possibility that he will be rejected. That you will be disappointed or scared away by his status. That you could do as you please with the intimate parts of his life ‘Sooba’ gave you.

Scarier is the hope that you won’t.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Shouto announces, noticing Endeavor prowling around in his peripheral vision. Kirishima’s brow furrows, mouth parted in confusion, no doubt seeking to reassure him. “I’m okay, Kirishima. I just need something to do with my hands”.

“Alright,” the taller man murmurs. Shouto finds himself at the end of a gentle smile once more. “Make sure to say ‘hi’ to Denks if you see him. He misses you too”.

“I will,” Shouto nods, ducking away from the inexpressible tenderness that has clung to him since stepping into the hall. People part to allow him through. His left leg has already begun to feel weak, not enough to worry but enough to notice, and he hopes he can later blame his gait on the alcohol.

He reaches the bar and wrinkles his nose at the thick amalgamation of perfume, body odour and over-applied cologne. The bartender slides up to him. “Umeshu, please,” he says. “On the rocks”.

Another body settles beside him. He shifts to accommodate them but doesn’t look; too distracted as he inhales deeply through his nose and exhales long out his mouth to allay his beating heart. Pulling his phone out from his inside pocket, the screen lights up and he finds it void of messages.

After the… sexting, things had been fine. Better in a lot of ways. You both felt emboldened to truly act on your feelings. Sharing more pictures, secrets—though never your names—and laughter. It is disconcerting that you would now go silent.

The bartender sets his drink down and Shouto quietly gives his thanks, bringing it to his face, briefly caught in the soft glimmer, cubed ice submerged in liquid gold, tasting the sweet aroma at the back of his throat. He tips it back and drinks.

As the glass hits the surface once more, the person next to him softly asks, “Are you waiting on anyone?”

And his mouth goes dry.

You’re bracing on crossed arms, watching him closely. Speckled in the warm low light reflected on the bar, you are more beautiful than he remembers, and just as nervous. There’s an air of uncertainty about you that shifts as your eyes meet, faint but palpable, encouraged by what he can imagine is the wonder on his own face.

Shouto wets his lips. The plum taste lingers on his tongue. “…I might be,” he murmurs. You brighten at his reciprocation, a more charged kind of nervous—the kind that swoops low in your belly right before you take a leap.

“If I’m wrong don’t laugh and don’t tell Dynamite,” you turn to face him and smooth your hands over your hips. This allows him a better look at your attire. Silken fabrics that form gentle lines around the waist, loose but elegantly so, not in a way that the clothes wear you.

Your eyes dipped low, averted to avoid his stare. He cannot seem to direct it anywhere else. The auction has fallen away in its entirety. As far as Shouto is concerned there’s only you.

“It’s me. And you’re…Sooba?”

The tremble in your voice shrikes through him and it occurs to Shouto that you have always been the brave one.

He leans into your space, enjoying the way you quickly draw breath at his proximity, forced to meet his gaze. Rather than something remotely suave or cool, he dumbly asks, “You knew?”

Part of him wants to tuck his shoulders to his ears as you begin to laugh. They’re warm, undoubtedly red. Amusement is not at all what he prepared for. He thought this might all end up in his scrapbook memory, to be taken out and pined over now and then.

“Shouto-san with all due respect, you came to my workplace with your very recognisable crutches and stared at me like a deer in headlights”.

“Shouto,” he says.

Your laughter simmers, “Hm?”

“Just call me Shouto,” he tells you, equal parts relieved and embarrassed.

“Shouto,” you smile at him with a fondness that derails his thoughts. He has the vague urge to whine when it wanes. “I’m—I really am sorry I didn’t tell you. I swear I didn’t know until after you visited the agency. It all made sense after I looked up your socials and saw some old pictures of Nori”.

“It’s alright. I knew and didn’t say anything either,” Shouto inclines his head, abashed. Then with a sudden sharp sort of clarity, he continues, “So then you knew, when you asked for a dick—?”

Words evade him under the warm press of your hand as you quickly cover his mouth. You glance around the room, closer than before, and you don’t seem to realise. Cautious, he touches your waist; he puckers his lips to kiss your palm; he feels your stomach jump under the silky fabrics.

Your eyes darken, swallowed by pupil. “You’re a menace,” you simper, and reluctantly pull away. “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere with less…cameras”.

Umeshu abandoned, Shouto wraps an arm around your lower back and allows you to direct him through the crowd. You weave through the moving bodies like thread through a needle, at one point reaching behind to take his wrist, becoming his tether.

Bakugo meets his gaze from across the room. His eyes flit to you, widening in surprise. Shouto flashes a boyish grin before disappearing through the side door.

The door you choose next opens to a private bathroom. Shouto surges forward, taking you by the hips and crowding you against the bathroom counter, overcome by the need to feel everything that you are pressing into everything that is him.

He kicks the door behind him and settles in the clutch of your thighs as you scramble to balance on the marble edge. Your hands slide over his shoulders, splaying over each cheek. You’re both breathing heavily despite having done nothing at all.

“I said talk,” you remind him with a tremulous smile. Shouto knows you’re being playful. He apologises anyway; rests his head in the crook of your neck, letting the moment simmer, and you comb through his hair with your fingers. A shiver rolls down his spine.

“Did you know it was me? Before you came to the agency, I mean”.

He reclines from his crook to look at you. Eye level, silhouetted by the cheap bathroom luminescence. “When I saw you in there—and put it together I was so scared,” you continued.

“Scared?” he echoed with a frown, knuckles brushing your cheek.

“Not like that. I was scared of what you might think,” you turn into his caress and his pinched expression falls away. He can’t stop touching you and he can’t bring himself to be sorry about it. “I mean, I looked terrible that day, and you appeared out of nowhere and I wasn’t mad it was you. I was just…”

You swallow thickly, emotion swelling in your eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners. “You’re so big and bright. I didn’t want you to be disappointed”.

You were unaware of it—the profound cord you struck within him. How even in anonymity, your incorporeal fingers always seemed to find it. Even now, as you echo his own fears.

“Momo first mentioned you might work for Bakugo. I didn’t know before I saw you that day. I still wasn’t certain until tonight”. You peer at him through your lashes then, listening intently. He brings your foreheads together and tells you, “There is no way you could’ve disappointed me”.

“Oh? I could’ve been a villain”.

“My oldest brother was a villain,” he monotoned, wandering hands squeezing intermittently at your waist as though to make sure you’re still there. “My capacity for love and forgiveness knows no bounds”.

You snort. The sound is abrupt and the force knocks your skulls together. “Oh—ow,” he grins, insides melting. Together you dissolve into a warm fit of laughter.

“Hey, Shouto?”

He hums in acknowledgment, eyes fluttering as your thumb swipes over the red mark below his hairline. “I like you,” you murmur. “I like you so much it’s stupid”.

Plunged into an ice cold realisation, Shouto freezes to process your words. “You—like me?”

“Yeah?” you said it like he was dense, like it was clear all along. “I can’t help it when you’re so…yourself”

And isn’t that all he’s ever wanted? To be loved without pretense, without a winner. To be special to someone for no special reason.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Me too. I like you. I want—” his fingers flex at your hips, grounding. He blinks. “I don’t know your name yet”.

Affection colours your features. Shouto likes you best like this—sure of yourself, of his feelings for you. You recite your name. He repeats it endlessly in his mind and rolls it around his teeth. He calls to you even when you’re right in front of him.

“Can I kiss you now?”

“You were waiting?” you laugh, tucking his hair behind his ear. It’s such a novel thing but it makes something monumental swell in his chest. “Kiss me. I want you to”.

Given permission, Shouto traces the curve of your jaw with a bold shyness, from the sensitive skin below your ear to your chin. His finger hooks beneath. You’re lovely. He thinks he could spend an hour describing your demure half smile, how your lips yield under the light pressure of his thumb; your tongue darting out reflexively.

He shakes at the desire that fills him. He’s not used to it—this wanting. It feels like a thousand insatiable butterflies in his chest. Dipping into your magnetism, his heart beat faster and faster with the simple brush of your lips. He kissed you, innocent and honest, and then he kissed you again, licking the seam of your mouth, arms coiling around your middle as you cling to him.

You tip forward. Your thighs clench at his waist and drag him impossibly close. It brings you chest to chest. He tries to hold you steadfast as your hand wraps around his nape, softly scratching his scalp; he feels you smile against his lips when he shudders.

You break for air. Arousal shoots through him at your half moan, the sound tapering into a happy hum the instant his lips trail down your neck, tasting your pulse before making his way down to your exposed collar. He peppers kiss after kiss on every swathe of skin he can reach, sinking teeth into every little reaction you give him.

Big hands at your lower back arch your body into his. You yield, tension sapped from your limbs, grappling his shoulders to keep yourself from falling while you grind down on his lap. Shouto groans, grip slipping lower to cup your ass.

“We’re getting carried away,” you gasp between kisses. That alone was obvious. His cock strains uselessly in his suit pants. But the light glints tantalisingly along your mouth, swollen and wet with saliva. Shouto kisses you again so you won’t have to tell him to attend to his responsibilities.

A warm breath scores his cheek as you huff through your nose, nipping firmly at his lower lip. “I mean it. I am technically still at work,” you try again, voice lacking strength. “Dynamite will knock on every door in this building—don’t wrinkle your nose, you know I’m right”.

“Alright. I know,” he rasps, barely an exhale. It takes all his willpower to pull away. He steadies you on your feet, smoothing out the creases in your formal attire while you are quite pleased to simply watch on as he adjusts himself in his pants. “I’m glad my suffering is funny to you”.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you murmur, pecking the corner of his mouth. “I'll hide with you in the corner like I promised I would. We can make up for lost time after the auction. You know. The one for charity”.

Shouto hums and reaches for the door, knowing you’ve won. “Oh. I told Kirishima I’d bid for his date night,” he recalls as he turns the handle. “Would that bother you?”

“Of course not baby,” you reply and take one last look at your reflection, less disheveled than before. The endearment ‘baby’ almost has him walking into the doorframe.

You straighten up. Shouto thinks he must look incredibly dumbstruck, if your concerned expression is any indication. “You okay?” you ask, proffering your hand. “You didn’t bring your crutches tonight, did you?”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” he intertwines your fingers, dizzy as you squeeze around him.

“It’s just a tremor”.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader

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bbyboybucket · 2 months

Text

Okay besties, today I’m giving you the run down of Buckys finances and networth. Because as I’ve said multiple times, he’s obscenely wealthy despite the fact you’d never know by looking at him.

Now first off, MatPat (my fav YouTuber who I’m so sad is retiring, literally adore him) did a mini theory a few years ago, calculating Bucky’s compound interest in previously earned money from WWII in his frozen bank account while he was presumed dead. It totaled out to $51,143. This is just the money that he earned in the 30s/40s and has grown interest on. This is assuming the money wasn’t given to his family and for the purpose of this post, we’ll go with that it wasn’t. However, MatPat didn’t account back pay, for disability pay, and other military pay/benefits.

So as a starter point, we’ll use $51,143. Next, I’m going to calculate his back pay from being MIA/POW because he would have been considered active duty. A MIA/POW is given back pay of 50% of the average per diem rate, for each day held in captivity. The 2023 rate is $157 per day, and I assume that would be similar for him because TFATWS takes place in early 2024. So that means Bucky would get $78.50 per day. There is no time limit on how far back pay can date to, so the entire span of Bucky’s capture is accounted for. As per the Smithsonian memorial in CA:TWS, Bucky was captured in 1944, making it exactly 70 years of capture. So, the back pay for those 70 years, is $2,005,675.

Next, we’ll look at the different forms of disability pay he would receive. I’m only going to look at canonical, confirmed disabilities for this. Bucky would be classified under SMC-N 1/2, where one arm was amputated above the elbow and/or was amputated so close to the shoulder that a prosthetic cannot be worn. Now obviously, Bucky does have a prosthetic but it is implanted into his body, as a majority of his left shoulder seems to have been amputated. Since he is single and has no dependents, aka has no children and is not taking care of any family, and he is still able to work, he would be receiving $6,182 a month.

He also has PTSD, which he would most likely get a 70% percent disability rating for, as 100% is very rare to receive for mental and is considered to be extreme impairment in daily functioning. (He could recieve 80 or 90% but I’m being generous here and trying to give the most realistic assessment). All this means, his mental illness pay for PTSD would be $1716 a month.

It’s also canonical that he has brain damage via The Wakanda Files book. We know in that book, he’s described to have pretty severe TBI. However, we don’t know anything of his symptoms and the book only describes of the brain scan looks bad and that the serum is keeping him from being more impaired. The VA uses 10 areas of impairment as criteria to rate the severity of TBI disability. The only canonically confirmed area that we know Bucky deals with is memory. Since we know no other symptoms and we know he’s not extremely impaired, I’m going to estimate he’d be rated at 50%. Which would give him a compensation of $1075 a month.

Now, we can assume Bucky is retired from the military. From being a retired sergeant, we can assume his monthly pension is around $5,482.

Reminder, all VA pay is untaxed. All of these together, his monthly salary is $14,455. However, this is not including disability back pay. The VA sometimes will pay a lump sum from back from when the diagnosis was made. Assuming the Wakandans were involved in Bucky’s trial and pardon, I’d assume some of his medical records were brought in as well. Back dating to when he was being treated in Wakanda, that’s 7 years, however we don’t know if the blip would count so for that reason, I’ll say 2 years. So, his lump sum would be around $215,352.

Now, endgame was in October, six months before TFATWS, meaning it took place around March/April. Within, the span of October to March, Bucky woulda have accumulated $86,730. Because even if his pardon wasn’t official yet in October, he would still receive payment for that month.

Finally, in grand total, all of this is $2,358,900. His networth would be in a similar, slightly lower range. Meaning: yes, Bucky Barnes is a millionaire and nobody would ever guess.

#I really felt like MatPat when doing all this #bucky barnes #meta #bucky Barnes meta #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #TFATWS #CA:TWS

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petitemistletoe · 3 months

Text

Mamma Mia

Pairing: James Potter x Reader, Sirius Black x Reader, Remus Lupin x Reader

Warnings: smut!

Word Count: 4.2K+

A/N: Basically Marauders Mamma Mia

Massachusetts

“I’m going to find myself,” you said, examining the items in your trunk before nodding and slamming it shut.

“That’s not a proper response to the question ‘where are you going?’” Your cousin, Lily, was lying on her stomach on your bed, thumbing through the latest edition of a British newspaper.

“Yeah,” Mary said with a shrug of her shoulders, popping another piece of your maple candy in her mouth.

“Don’t eat all the sweets!” Marlene said with an indignant huff, handing you her remember-ball.

“Thanks Marls,” you said, popping open your trunk again and wrapping the ball in one of your sweaters.

“What kind of sweet is this again?” Lily asked, leaning over and grabbing a piece of maple candy from the box in Mary’s arms.

“It’s maple candy. They make it up in Vermont.” You said with a shrug. Your trio of British friends always appreciated your American candies. Lily had introduced you all during a summer excursion and the girls had decided to move to America to attend a post-graduate certification program at your alma mater, Ilvermorny alongside you. You had finished a year ahead of the other girls since you were able to combine your NEWTs with introductory courses to the program. You had been living in an apartment, you insisted to the girls that it was an apartment not a flat, with the girls for over a year. You thought about entering the workforce after graduating, but you decided that you wanted to take a three month long trip to ‘find yourself’.

“Are we close to Vermont?” Mary asked.

“Yeah, it’s right above us.” You nodded, drumming your fingers on your chin.

“What are you thinking about?” Marlene looked up at you.

“Do you think I’ll be able to find a place in the train station to exchange my dragots for gallons?” You hummed.

“Galleons, love, and no. You’ll have to go to Diagon Alley. It’s in London, not too far from the station. I’ll draw you a map.” Lily said, summoning a piece of parchment.

“No Lily,” you held your hand up, “that defeats the whole purpose of what I’m doing. I’m going to travel across a few countries in Europe and find my way myself.” You shut your trunk again and nodded.

“Is it time?” Mary asked, setting down the candies.

“Okay,” you said with a sad smile, “no tears! It’s only three months! I’ll be back at the end of the summer.” The girls are wrapped their arms around you, hugging you tightly and placing kisses on the top of your head.

“Good luck, darling.” Lily smiled.

“Be safe!” Marlene called.

“Have lots of hot sex!” Mary laughed. You laughed and gave a small wave before taking a deep breath and apparating to the center of London.

London

It was the middle of June in London. You had packed dresses, and skirts, and shorts, and tank tops, and tops that barely covered your midriff. But it was the middle of June in London, so it was pouring rain and it was very chilly. Within a few minutes of you being outside, you were soaking wet. You were wiping the rain from your eyes and scanning for somewhere to duck into when you saw a sign that said: The Leaky Cauldron. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of your mind, you could vaguely remember Mary mentioning something about having a pasty and a pint at the Leaky Cauldron. You never could remember what the hell a pasty was, but you figured any magical place with beer was a good place to start.

You ran into the bar and seemed to attract the attention of everyone inside. You sent everyone a small smile before taking a few wet, sopping footsteps to the bar and pulling yourself onto a barstool, your trunk at your feet.

“What can I get ya, love?” The bartender asked, quirking an eyebrow at your appearance.

“I know I must look kinda crazy,” you said, raking a hand through your wet hair, “this is my first time in London. I wasn’t prepared for rain.”

“Happens to the best of us,” the bartender shrugged, “fancy a pint to warm up?”

“Sounds good. I’ve heard Guinness is popular here.”

“It is. A pint of that then?”

“Yes thank you! Oh, I heard that you might be able to change my American money.” You said, digging around in your wallet.

“Sure. You have one of those green dollar bills?” The bartender asked. You placed a dragot on the table.

“Can you change that for a galleon?” You asked. The bartender released a huff of respect.

“An American witch? Welcome to Diagon Alley.” He winked and you suddenly became far more aware of the other witches, wizards, and magical folk in the bar. “We have rooms upstairs. Fancy to stay a night or two? We can send your bags up and you can warm up by the fire with a nice glass of firewhiskey.”

“Thanks. I’ll meet you over by the hearth then.” You said with a wink, taking a moment to wave your wand and dry yourself before snuggling into a chair with a thick blanket. The bartender floated over your drink and you held it up to him in thanks before taking a large sip. You thumbed through a volume of Quidditch through the Ages that had been lying on an empty table. Quidditch had always fascinated you. It wasn’t very common in the states, Quadpot being the more popular sport.

“You are reading my absolute favorite book in the world.” A man said, sitting on the plush seat in front of you.

“Oh is it?” You asked, setting your book down and taking in the sight of the man in front of you. Although Mary had been a little crass, you had every intention of riding around Europe…and you weren’t only talking about the trains. Your first candidate was an incredibly promising one to boot, he was tall, with messy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a pair of round glasses.

“You really have no idea who I am, do you?” The boy gestured to the bartender for another firewhiskey.

“Am I supposed to?” You asked with an easy chuckle. The boy leaned in close and flashed you a smile.

“I’m kind of a big deal.”

“What makes you such a big deal?”

“I’m the chaser for the Ballycastle Bats.” The boy looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to swoon. But you didn’t.

“Oh!” It hit you, “Oh! That’s a quidditch position! Right?” You thumbed through your book until you found the page that described all the positions.

“You really don’t know anything about quidditch?” The boy quirked an eyebrow.

“I’m American,” you shrugged, “I’m more of a quadpot girl.”

“Well, Miss America,” the boy leaned in closer so his nose was practically touching yours, “I’m James, consider me your guide to Diagon Alley for the foreseeable future.”

“James, I have a question for you.” You said, tucking one of James’s unruly dark locks behind his ear.

“Anything love,” James’s voice sounded breathy.

“Do quidditch players fuck better than quadpot players?” You said with a grin. James nodded and matched your smile.

“Why don’t we find out.”

You realized at some point later that James had never paid for his drink but you really didn’t care because James had taken you up to your hotel room and was deep inside you while rubbing your clit. You were on your back, his face close to yours as your right hand rested on his sharp jawline and your left hand was gripping his bicep. You didn’t cast a silencing spell and you were sure the other patrons of the Leaky Cauldron were cursing your name because you were screaming so loud. The firewhiskey was a warm blanket across your skin and your cheeks were hot as James pounded into mercilessly.

“Godric, you’re so fucking hot.” James said, his glasses foggy and his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Keep rubbing my clit,” you moaned as you jacked your leg higher and James was able to hit a deeper angle inside you. James connected his lips with yours and you moaned loudly into his mouth as you came. You squeezed tightly around him and James came a little after, burying his head in the crook of your neck and whimpering as he came, hot white ribbons inside you.

The two of you talked for hours after, he tried to explain the rules of Quidditch to you and you would just laugh. James made good on his promise, too, he gave you a tour of Diagon Alley and wizard London before you apparated up to Scotland.

The Scottish Highlands

The girls told you all about the quaint village next to their school in the highlands. You spent your days traveling the highlands, sitting in sweet cafes with a scone and a mug of milky tea, reading on a boat on Loch Ness, and visiting all the historic and gorgeous castles. You were going to spend your final day in Hogsmeade before making your way to your next destination. You spent the day wandering Hogsmeade, dipping in and out of sweet shops, joke shops, and little book stores. You settled yourself in a pub called the Three Broomsticks and sipped on a hot butterbeer while reading a book that you had found at Tomes and Scrolls: The New Edition of the Patronus Spellbook.

“That’s a great book you’re reading,” a voice said, disrupting you from your thoughts. You rolled your eyes. Did all British wizards use the same pick up lines?

“Oh really?” You were sort of tired after all the days of apparating around Scotland and wanted a quiet night in the corner of the pub.

“Yes. It’s one of my favorites.” The stranger said, sitting next to you. You looked up at him finally and took him in. He was tall, skinny, with thin light scars on his face and hands. He was wearing a knitted sweater and a very worn in pair of trousers.

“Why’s that?” You asked, still uninterested.

“I wrote the forward.” He said with an easy shrug, “Remus Lupin. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh wow,” you were interested now, “it’s a pleasure.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb your reading, I was just a bit excited. The new edition came out yesterday, I was just nipping to the shops to purchase a copy for myself and have a drink to celebrate.”

“So Remus, do you do other things besides writing forewords?” You asked, asking for another drink from the barkeep for Remus.

“Ah thank you,” Remus accepted the pint and took a long sip, “I am a professor at Hogwarts, I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Oh, so you’re Professor Lupin then, aren’t you?” You said, leaning in. Remus looked down at you and gave you a wolffish grin.

“That I am.”

You had many, many more drinks with Remus as he told you all about his first few years of working as a professor and the various difficulties that came with it. He talked all about his new patronus research until patronus didn’t sound like a real word anymore.

“I have a confession for you, Professor.” You said, a goofy smile on your face.

“Anything love.” Remus rested his hand on your thigh.

“I have a fantasy,” you said, leaning in so your nose was practically touching his, “about fucking a professor in his office.”

You and Remus stumbled back on the path that lead from the village to the school. It was a gorgeous, gargantuan castle that was unlike anything you had ever seen before. You made a mental note to tease your cousin about her downplaying her school. He had a gorgeous office, with high ceilings, books and bars of chocolate strewn about various tables. There was a large wardrobe and about three cups of discarded tea resting on a nearby trunk.

“This is a gorgeous office,” you said, sitting on the corner of one of the large trunks. Your fingers ran over a long skeleton candle that rested on his desk.

“Thank you,” Remus said, setting his book down and standing so his body was between your legs, “can I get you a cup of tea?”

“You could get me something else,” you pulled Remus down by the collar of his sweater until his face was level with yours and you kissed him hard. He kissed you back, pulling at the hem of your shirt until it was up and over your head. You stood and had to extend your neck all the way to account for the distance between you and him. His large hands went down to cup your breasts, gently. You realized that his hands were shaking. You pulled back and gave Remus a small smile.

“We don’t have to,” you said, softly, “if you don’t want to.”

“No,” Remus said with a light shake of his head, “I do want to. I’m just a bit nervous. You’re so beautiful.”

“Oh Professor Lupin,” you said, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, “you are quite a charmer.”

Remus lifted your head with his finger and kissed you again. You helped him out of his sweater this time and saw the long, thin pale scars that traced around his chest like the ones on his face. You kissed along Remus’s jawline and down his neck to his chest. Remus threw his head back and exhaled a soft moan.

You kissed down Remus’s chest until your nose bumped against his belt buckle. He looked down and you and gave you a small nod. You unbuckled his belt and kissed up and down his length. Remus released a strangled moan and you placed a bit of pressure on his balls.

“You can be loud for me,” you said before taking a deep breath and taking as much of him as you could into your mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Remus gasped, gripping the edge of his desk. You continued blowing him until Remus’s breathing picked up and you pulled off. Remus whimpered softly and looked at you as you stood and slipped out of your own pants. You moved Remus so he was standing over you while you had your back to the desk and you hoisted yourself on, spreading your legs wide and dropping your panties to the floor.

“Come on Professor Lupin,” you said with a smile, “dive right in.”

Remus grabbed you by the waist and spun you around, pushing your front into the desk harshly. You felt him rubbing the head of his cock against your folds before pushing in deeply. You moaned and grasped for purchase on the desk. Remus’s fingers dug into your hips as he snapped his hips against you, again and again and again.

His lips attached themselves to your neck and one of his large hands left your hip to grasp harshly at your tit.

“Rub your clit,” he rasped. You started rubbing your clit rapidly, your moans jumping off the cavernous walls. Remus came and you came after moaning and sweating. Remus stayed inside you, resting his head against your shoulder.

Remus left for a moment to nip to the toilets and you tried to apparate out of his office and back to your room in Hogsmeade but couldn’t. You didn’t feel that drunk, why couldn’t you apparate?

“You can’t apparate inside Hogwarts, so stop trying. You look like you’re going to pop a blood vessel.” Remus said, walking back in and holding a bar of chocolate out to you.

“Thanks,” you took a bite from the chocolate and smiled at Remus. He walked you back to Hogsmeade and left you standing in front of your tavern with a lingering kiss and a bar of chocolate.

Paris

Everyone had always talked about dirty Paris was and you had honestly considered cutting it from your program altogether. Sitting on Rue Victor Hugo at a cafe with a croissant and the deepest, creamiest hot chocolate you had ever tasted as you took in the sights and sounds of the French capital, you were very happy that you decided to keep Paris on your list. You were even happier to watch the various European men make their way to and from work and pass by the cafe in their tailored suits, finely pressed trousers, smart sweaters, and loafers. You looked around you for a moment before snapping your fingers to light your joint. You waved your hand a second time to disguise your joint as a cigarette-a trick you had learned from one of your friends at Ilvermorny. Lily would have had a cow had she known that you were smoking weed in public, but she what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

“Une autre chocolat chaud s’il vous plait,” another hot chocolate please you gestured at the waitress. She came around with a fresh cup and you set your sights on a very attractive man who looked a bit out of place. He had rode up on a motorcycle and took his helmet off, securing it to the bike. His ran a slender, ring covered hand through his long dark and shook his head as he got off the bike. He was wearing an expensive looking leather jacket with a thin dark t-shirt underneath, a pair of distressed looking jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens. He took his jacket off to reveal thin, winding tattoos on his arms and chest. You hoped he would cross the street and take one of the seats at the cafe. He was digging around in his jean pockets for a cigarette when another boy turned the corner onto the street of the cafe. The other boy looked quite a bit like the motorcycle boy but…cleaner. He was wearing a tailored pair of trousers, a crisp white button down, and a smart jacket. His dark curls were nicely styled and his thin, long fingers gestured down quickly so the cigarette between the motorcycle boy’s fingers fell to the ground. One of the second boy’s crisp loafers stamped on the cigarette and he pursed his lips.

“Sirius, what are you doing?” The second boy shook his head.

“Shove off Reg,” motorcycle boy, Sirius, said, raking a hand through his hair.

“Don’t call me that. My name is Regulus, you know that. You can’t keep running, Sirius. It isn’t sustainable.” Regulus looked at Sirius with an expression of pity.

“I just…I don’t care about it, Reg. I don’t care about any of it. You’re better at this anyway. You can deal with all that family stuff better than I can. Just let me grab a coffee and a cigarette and I’ll see you later.” Sirius did not wait for Regulus to respond. He marched across the street to the cafe you were at and you had to force yourself to pretend you were very interested in your menu. Regulus sighed and threw his hands in the air before coming back the way he came.

“Madame, un cafe. Merci.” Ma’am, a coffee. Thanks. Sirius barked at the waitress.

“Oui Monsieur.” Yes sir. The waitress responded, rolling her eyes.

“Do you always eavesdrop?” Sirius asked, taking a seat at the table next to yours.

“Sorry,” you shrugged, “you and that other guy put on quite a show.”

“Oh my brother Regulus? Yes we’re quite the pair.” Sirius rolled his eyes as the waitress set down his coffee. He took a sip and then paused.

“Something wrong with your coffee?” You asked.

“You’re smoking weed.” He said, sniffing in your direction.

“How do you know that?” You asked.

“You’re a witch, aren’t you.” Sirius grinned at you.

“So you must be a wizard then.” You laughed.

“You have to teach me that trick,” Sirius moved his chair so it was close to yours. You ran your tongue the bottoms of your front teeth.

“I bet I could teach you a lot.”

Turns out that Sirius got off on pissing off his family so in hindsight it wasn’t all that surprising that he took you back to his family’s chateau in the middle of the afternoon. They were gone, out, at some event but Sirius pulled you to the middle of the drawing room in front of a roaring fireplace. You sat down on the rug and took in the warmth and glow of the fire.

“So you’re a rich boy, then?” You said teasingly as Sirius pulled off his shirt and laid down in front of the fireplace with you.

“Filthy rich,” Sirius responded, pulling you close to him and connecting his lips with yours. You did not break apart as he laid you down in front of the fire, pulling off your clothes with an animalistic intensity. Sirius was devouring you, his teeth and tongue all over your face, neck, and tits. He barely prepared you at all, just pushing in without warning. Your nails pressed into his shoulder blades as you looked at him, ready to snap about his hasty action when his thumb began rubbing hard on your clit. You had your legs wrapped around him as you were biting his collarbone to keep from moaning.

Sirius pulled out of you and flipped you over so you were on top and he turned you so you were facing away from him.

“Get loud baby. Use me,” he said, his hands planted firmly on your hips as you sunk down on him. You were moaning intensely as you moved up and down, the new position providing a new angle for you. You came hard, your fingers searching for purchase on the rug as Sirius fucked you through your orgasm.

“Are you close?” You turned back to look at Sirius. He looked gorgeous, his sweaty curls plastered in his forehead and his hands heavy on your waist, a look of concentration in his eyes.

“Uh, not yet.” He barked out, a vein popping in his forehead.

“Spread your legs a little further,” You said, pushing at Sirius’s ankles. He did what you said and you sucked on your finger for a moment before pushing it between his cheeks and into his asshole. Sirius was moaning loudly now. It sounded like a name or something, he was moaning “Moony” over and over again. He was so loud that you didn’t hear the door open and notice people entering the house until Sirius was cumming intensely inside you as Regulus and a woman who could have only been Sirius’s mother were glaring down at you. You gathered your clothes quickly and apparated out before Sirius had finished lighting his cigarette.

Massachusetts

You were exhausted and thoroughly ready to sleep in your own bed by the time you arrived back home. You threw your trunk by the front door and called out,

“I’m back witches!”

Lily, Marlene, and Mary swarmed you, peppering you with hugs and kisses and beginning to hear all about your travels and see the souvenirs you brought back for them. You filled them in and by the time you were talking about your escapades with the athlete, the professor, and the heir, you were even more ready for bed.

“Well have a good night darling. Also I’m so sorry but I used the last tampon a few hours ago, I’m going to nip to the shops in the morning,” Mary said.

“Leave it to Mary to use the last period product in this house knowing full well that we’ve all been synced for the past few years.” Marlene playfully tossed a pillow at Mary.

“Wait,” something dropped in your stomach, “you’re all on your period? Right now?”

“Yeah, started two days ago. Why? You haven’t started yours?” Lily asked.

“No. No I haven’t.” You started chewing your lip, “Anyone have a pregnancy test?”

“In the last drawer of the bathroom,” Mary pointed out as you shot up out of your seat to take the test. Your leg bounced anxiously as you waited to see the results of the test.

“Okay love, I’m sure your period is just all messy from traveling and-oh my…” Lily’s jaw dropped as she looked at your positive test,

“Who’s the father?” Marlene asked.

“I…uh…I have no idea.” You said as you thought back to the athlete, the professor, and the heir.

#james potter #marauders #remus lupin #atyd marauders #marauders x reader #all the young dudes #marauders smut #atyd #James potter x reader smut #remus lupin x readers smut #sirius black #sirius black x reader smut #lily evans #Marlene mckinnon #Mary macdonald

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emotionoitme · 10 months

Text

human, for a minute

part three of about a girl

read part two here

carmy berzatto x reader

warnings: angst, mentions of a stalker, mutual pining feels, crying, carmen in denial, a hint of steaminess

wc: 4.7k

a/n: angst chapter!!!!! i hope i make u all cry >:) please leave me a comment to let me know what you think! <3 i’ll be posting a spotify playlist link on my page for the series soon. if you’re enjoying the story stay tuned for one more part!

shame - human, for a minute

the phone rings again, for what seems to be the fiftieth time, blaring through the restaurant in a piercing shrill. clamor of utensils and dishware, the occasional shout of instruction breaking the static noise. the man feels a headache creeping on, trying to force himself to not check the clock again. it hadn’t been long since he last checked it, and he knew he would regret it the moment he did. his eyes dart upwards. it’s 1:35.

she wasn't supposed to come in until 3, scheduled to close that night, he reminds himself. in that moment he craved the sense of peace she brought to the environment, the noticeable ease in dinner services within the past five months of her employment reasserting her essentiality. orders were smoother, customers were happier, shifts seemed shorter. he also found it thoroughly grounding to be able to look up from his work, through the expo window and watch her for just a moment, not that he would admit to it. he had dropped her off at home on his way to the restaurant that morning, watching her walk up her complex stairs clad in a white shirt and a pair of hanes, both borrowed, and noticeably oversized.

he cuts back to his task at hand, setting a plate down, drizzling a sauce over the surface, not checking the clock.

he thinks back to when he had gently woken her hours earlier. slipping out of bed at the sound of his alarm, hand groggily coming to rub his face, making his way to the bathroom. he practically forgot she was there in his tired haze, the memories of the night flooding back to him when he returned to the bedroom, staring at her sleeping form. his heart inexplicably ached at the sight as he gently opened his dresser drawers, beginning to get ready for work. he dresses, mentally rattling off things that need to be done at the restaurant, running his hands through his unruly bed head. he brushes his teeth, locates his keys and wallet, and puts on his socks all before making his way back over to the sleeping girl.

he wanted to leave her there, come back home and find her waiting there just for him. the man checked the time on his phone, nearing 7 o’clock. he leans over the bed, placing a hand on her side and lightly rubbing. she shifts, blinking awake, meeting his eyes.

“hey,” he greets softly, brushing her hair behind her ear, resting his hand on her for a moment. she sleepily smiles, eyes bleary.

“morning,” she responds quietly, looking him over, “you gotta go?”

he nods, internalizing his disappointment, removing his hand from her hair.

“okay,” she responds, rubbing her eyes, “i’ll get up.” she slowly sits up, holding the blanket to her bare chest, trying to blink away the sleepiness. carmy notices the slight sway in her seated form, eyes heavy, watching a small shiver pass over her.

“you can stay,” he tells her, “go back to sleep if you want.”

she looks up to his standing form, tempted to accept his offer, wanting nothing more than to stay cozied up in a bed that smells like him. she rationalizes the situation, though, tying her hair up out of her face. she wasn’t going to overstay her welcome, telling herself, he’s just trying to be nice.

“you’re not scared of me snooping through your stuff?” she asks, eyebrow raising a bit. he lets out a laugh, slightly taken aback by her question.

“would you?” he asks.

she thinks for a moment, head tilting.

“probably not…but you would never know if i did,” she answers, grinning. he smiles in amusement, quickly raking his eyes over her face, trailing down to her collarbones, shoulders, exposed back.

“do you think you could take me home?” she asks, “on your way to work?”

“yeah,” he answers, “yeah, of course.” to which she smiles in response.

she goes to get out of bed when she remembers her nudity concealed by the sheet, pausing, embarrassment evident on her face. he smiles at her hesitation, the girl acting as if he hadn’t seen her stark naked the night before. she turns to him, “can i also borrow something to wear home?” she asks, “please? i wanna get back in bed.”

in that moment he couldn’t fathom saying no to her, immediately grabbing her a few things she could choose from, her selecting a plain white shirt and a pair of his checkered boxers. she gets out of bed, skin raised in goosebumps from the chill morning, slipping his shirt over her head, then walking past carmen to the living room, searching for her discarded panties. the man watched her, entranced, surprised at how viscerally affected he was at the sight. he loved the way she looked in his clothes, debating telling her to keep them forever.

he tries to ignore the implications of their time together, as he stands over the finished plate, phone on the wall still ringing.

“hands!” he calls, moving away from the dish, wiping his hands on the rag draped over his shoulder.

fuck, he thinks, what am i doing?

everything had been moving so fast— having told himself prior he wouldn’t pursue her at all, let alone invite her to stay the night wrapped in his arms, mind completely clouded with the thought of her. he thinks to his initial intention, a quick hookup, something to help him let off some steam, alleviate the pressure that built within him the second he laid eyes on her. it didn’t alleviate anything, though, finding himself stuck on the thought of her more now than ever.

“fuck, can i get some hands, please?” carmen yells out, already busied by the next task, eyebrows furrowed and jaw tight.

it was like he was trying to quit a drug by injecting it directly into his veins, incessantly tortured by his inner dilemma surrounding her. it was apparent to many that the restaurant required her help, especially amidst a rush much like the one happening now. he knew this. knew that she couldn’t continue to work here if the two of them were to grow closer than they already had, their current relationship being a major conflict of interest, to say the least.

gotta put an end to it, he tells himself, chest tightening at the thought. he shakes this away, takes a deep breath and refocuses himself on his work. he glances up at the clock again. an hour left. he rips his eyes away, mentally chastising himself.

i have to tell her today, the thought creating a sinking in his stomach.

—

she flings open the heavy metal door, quickly finding safety inside, heart rapidly beating from her rushed pace. she lets out a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. she walks further inside, opening a locker and setting her bag down, zoning out for a second, deeply perturbed by what she had experienced on her commute.

“hey, welcome in,” she hears a chipper voice, turning to see sydney.

“hey. thanks chef,” she responds softly, taking a moment to process the simple greeting, tying her hair back out of her face. the girl, heavy in thought, slowly makes her way to the front of store, passing by carmen’s office, his door ajar.

“hey, chef,” she hears him call out to her. she pauses, turning to the seated man.

“hi,” she gently greets, attempting to silence the waver in her tone. she pauses, looking at him, debating to tell him what happened.

“you okay?” he asks, concern on his face. she decides to shake it off, wanting to get through this shift without any tears, go home, crawl under her covers and never come out again.

“yeah,” she nods, “i’m okay.”

carmen keeps the same expression, tilting his head slightly, not fully believing her. she looks away from him, feeling as if by locking eyes she would bare her soul. he narrows his gaze, studying the girl, and she feels herself cracking.

“i’ll tell you later,” she compromises, crossing her arms.

“okay,” he accepts, nodding, eyeing her form before she turns to walk to the front of house.

the man feels a slight churn in his stomach, wondering if she would beat him to the conversation he wanted to initiate. except she had looked pale, almost like she had seen a ghost. he rubs his hand over his face, leaning back in his chair, letting out a heavy sigh.

the dinner shift that night was hectic beyond belief. broken dishes, incorrect tickets, increased waiting times— the kitchen was tense, carmen rounding off orders, sydney bustling back and forth between stations to assist. the usual rhythm the dinner crew seemed to fall into proved to be virtually nonexistent. the young woman at the front blamed herself for his, her head completely out of it tonight. she had punched in orders wrong, mixed up drink requests, misplaced seating sections. she brought her hand up to rub her forehead, trying to fix an error she had entered into their system, brain pulsing with a headache. she refused to check the clock, knowing she must be only four or five hours in at this point. her brain felt foggy, clouded by the jarring things that had been said to her on her walk to work.

i’ll get some cold water and go take a breath in the back, she thinks, trying to mentally encourage herself through the shift. she quickly walks to the back, trying to be as fast as she can, squeezing through the kitchen and darting for the back room. her body feels hot, panicked, as she nears the last turn.

“corner!” she hears all too late, slamming face first into a firm chest, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs for a moment.

“shit!” he curses, tightly grabbing her hips on instinct to steady her. she lets out a labored breath, bringing her head up to her forehead, pounding even harder. she looks up to meet carmy’s gaze, embarrassment on her face.

“corner, chef?” he asks, brow creased, letting his hands linger for a moment before letting go of her.

“i’m sorry, chef,” she breathes out, tears brimming at her eyes, a waver in her tone. the frustration on his face is replaced by a look of concern, bringing his hand to touch her arm.

“hey,” he says softly, “you alright?”

she takes a deep breath, knot heavy at the back of her throat.

“i’m alright,” she answers gently, “i just need a second.”

he softly says her name, deeply searching her eyes as if they would present to him all her troubles.

“i just don’t wanna think about it right now,” she whispers, lip beginning to tremble.

“okay, sweetheart, that’s fine,” he reassures her, the name slipping off his tongue unintentionally. she wants to cry, dive into his arms hearing his soft tone, quickly wiping a tear before it can slip down her face.

“why don’t you go sit in the office, huh? take a breather,” he suggests.

she nods, looking down to her shoes. he gives her arm a soft pat before removing it altogether, walking past her to the kitchen. the sight of her anguish was admittedly difficult for carmen to see, his mind rattling with possibilities of what could be upsetting her so badly. he waited in anticipation for closing time, trying to keep a close eye on the girl throughout the night, who seemed to be falling back into rhythm after her short break. the last three hours of business wrapped up quickly, staff numbers dwindling more and more as the night progressed. carmy spent the last thirty minutes of the night in his confined office, sorting through licenses and finalizing next week’s schedule into the system. he turns the computer off, closing his eyes for a moment to alleviate the strain he felt, reveling in the quiet. rising from the chair and stretching, he walks through the small office door, turning the corner to come into the kitchen. his eyes land on her, wiping the pristine flat top with a dry rag. she looks up at the movement, hard gaze softening at the sight of him.

“hey,” she greets softly, “i’m all done. just finishing the counters.”

“looks great, thank you,” he returns, nodding. she gives a small smile at the praise but he can still notice a heaviness upon her demeanor, eyes more dull than they usually are.

“i’m, uh, just gonna smoke,” he continues, “then i’ll take you home, alright?”

she nods. “thank you,” meeting his gaze, drifting her eyes over his incredibly handsome face. she doesn’t make any small talk, drying the last wet spot and walking to the back to toss the dirty towel in a hamper. carmen walks back into his office, removing his apron and pulling his wallet, keys, cigarettes from the drawer. he then switches off the small desk lamp, coating the room in thick darkness. he emerges towards the glow of the kitchen fluorescents, the girl washing her hands, drying them, and walking to retrieve her belongings out of a locker. they silently make their way outside, carmy turning off the lights behind them and shutting the back door. they both revel in the fresh air of the cool night, a sense of serenity in the silence that engulfed the alleyway. he hears her take a deep breath, fishing a cigarette from his carton and placing it in between his lips. he shoves his hand into his pocket, finding only his wallet and keys. he checks his other one, then the back pockets.

“fuck,” he swears, head falling back against the metal door, nerves pricking with inclination. he turns to the non-smoker in a glimpse of yielding hope, “you got a light?” he asks. she stares forward, fixated on the same point, leaning against the same door. it takes her a second for her to meet his eyes in a glance, her response delayed

“lighter? uh, yeah i think,” she answers, beginning to dig through her bag. she pulls out a bright blue bic, and he chuckles in relief. she hands it to the man, his fingers sliding over hers as he takes it from her. carmy ignites the flame, bringing it to the tip of the cigarette and deeply inhaling, a noticeable tension subsiding within him. he goes to hand the lighter back to her.

“keep it,” she tells him, bumping her shoulder against his lightly. he smiles, pocketing the blue object.

“thank you,” he responds, genuinely, taking another long drag. the two share a beat of silence, the girl unmoving from her position, shoulder flush against his. a breeze sweeps through the street, calm after the storm.

he clears his throat.

“so you, uh, gonna tell me what happened?” his tone soft, keeping his eyes trained forward. he feels her deeply inhale, mentally preparing himself for the worst. she thinks for a moment, piecing together her explanation. a cloud of smoke seeps through the alleyway from carmen.

“you know how i used to work at ricky’s?” she starts. he glances at her, nodding. “well, um,” she continues, “there was this regular that we had, some older guy. he was always there during my shifts,” she hesitates, “and, uh, he turned out to be kind of a creep.”

carmen turns to her, watching her closely now.

“like, he would wait for outside for me until i was off and try to talk to me,” she explains, voice beginning to strain, “and, uh, he got my phone number somehow? and started sending me these terrible messages.” the man holds her in an unwavering gaze, his jaw tightening. he takes a drag of his cigarette, watching her.

“so, i got a new number,” she clarifies, “and uh, a new job,” glancing at him, “and everything stopped.” her eyes start to brim with tears.

“okay,” he encourages, eyebrows deeply furrowed, but tone soft and sweet. he stubs his cigarette out, tossing it. she takes a shaky breath.

“and then this morning i was walking here,” quickly bringing her hand up to wipe a stray tear, “and this truck pulled up next to me,” her throat grows tight and hot, “and it was him, carmy,” she lets out in a sob. he instinctively pulls her into his arms, wrapping around her tightly, resting his head on hers. his gaze was fixated behind the girl on the ground, a hot wave of anger burning beneath his skin.

“what happened?” he asks, an urgency in his words.

she buries her face into his chest, slightly shaking, tears soaking his white shirt.

“he said all these…horrible things to me,” she sobs out, grabbing onto him as if he were her lifeline. he puts his hand on her hip, pulling back slightly to look at her, worry spread over his features, tears pouring down her cheeks, face flushed.

“hey,” he says in a concerned tone, her puffy eyes coming to meet his. carmen tightens the arm around her back, whispering her name, “what did he say to you, baby?” he really never means to call her that, it just slips out.

she bites back a sob, wishing she could melt into the man— escape from everything, remain engulfed in the soothing warmth of his safety forever.

“i can’t, carmy,” she cries, shaking her head. he feels a pit in his stomach, anxiety prickling through his body.

“okay,” he concedes, nodding, “that’s okay, you don’t have to right now.” he scans her face, bringing a hand to her cheek and gently wiping the tears from her eyes.

“you don’t have anything to worry about now,” he tells her, voice low, “i’m gonna take care of you, okay? that fucko isn’t gonna come anywhere near you,” he asserts, gripping her tightly.

“okay,” she whispers, the weightless feeling of the tremendous fear alleviating in her chest.

“let’s get you home, yeah?” he asks her, watching the girl shut her eyes, nodding, a few stray tears rolling down her cheek and sliding off her jaw, bringing her sleeves up to dry them. carmy keeps his hand wrapped around her hip, turning to slowly walk her to the car. he felt an overwhelming possessiveness clouding his rationality— an unyielding urge to do whatever he can to protect her, the thought of another man even looking at her wrong electrifying him with anger. they arrive at the passenger’s side, carmy opening the door for her and helping her into the car as she mutters a soft thanks. he closes her door, letting out a deep sigh, plagued by indecision, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the dark car window. the answer would be incredibly simple had he chosen to go with his heart, but carmen was reluctant in trusting something that had previously brought him only distraction and turmoil. he’s gonna be logical about this, he decides, reassuring himself no good boss should be fucking around with his young employees. he wanted to be a good man to her, too, feeling undeserving of her attention, her loving gaze. he makes his way to the driver’s door, getting into the car. he starts the ignition, pulling out of the alleyway into the street, turning in the direction of her apartment. the short ride was quiet, the exception of a few spare sniffles sounding from the girl. a soft melody played on the radio, drowning out the hum of the road. he glances to her, the girl’s gaze fixed on the passing surroundings outside her window. he turns down the music, slightly.

“you did good today,” he praises, impressed by her resilience. she lets out a scoff.

“i cried in your office for like ten minutes straight,” she responds, watching the light of the moving street lamps bleed together.

“i know,” his voice gentle, low, “i’m still proud of ‘ya,” he tells the sulking girl. she finds herself start to smile very softly at this, the man’s words warming the chill she had felt since being approached by the strange man. he slowly pulls up to her complex, shifting the gear into park, the girl undoing her seatbelt.

“carm,” she calls, directing the man’s attention to her, eyes expectantly meeting hers. she feels at a bit lost for words, unsure of how to express the tremendous gratitude she felt for him, how to express to him how much she feels she needs him. so instead she just leans forward, throwing her arms around the man, burying her head into his neck. he lets out a breath at the unexpected touch, wrapping his arms around her, bringing a hand up to grasp the back of her neck.

“thank you,” she whispers into him, “for everything.”

his heart clenches, a deep ache growing in his chest.

“you shouldn’t thank me,” he softly responds, holding her close to him, feeling entirely unworthy of the gratitude, knowing soon enough he would have to hurt her— end things completely.

she pulls back, bringing her forehead to his, closing her eyes.

“come inside?” she asks him, breath gracing his lips, “please,” she pleads.

carmen’s eyes flutter shut, sliding his hand from the back of her neck to the side, grabbing, savoring her sweet scent. he feels something ignite within him touching her like this, nose brushing against hers. he wants so badly to lean forward, engulf her lips in his, taste her. he lets out a groan, forcing himself to pull away from her, dropping his hand from her neck. he sighs, hesitating for a moment, fighting against every urge within him.

“i, uh… i can’t,” he tells her, drawing his gaze away from her, towards the illumination of his headlamps on the asphalt. she presses her hands onto the center console, turning and leaning over it to the man. she brings a hand to his face, pulling him in slightly, dipping her head into his neck to gently pepper kisses along his skin. her hand slides to his firm chest, pressing into him. his head falls back, clenching his jaw, rationality crumbling rapidly beneath her lips.

“please, carmy,” she prays into his skin, “come make me feel better,” biting to leave a small mark. he feels hot from the inside out, blood rushes through him, a growing pulse beneath his pants. he takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself, focus on anything but the feeling of her against him. he says her name, sternly, the girl pulling away at his tone, meeting his gaze. he shuts his eyes tightly, running a hand over his face.

i guess it’s now or never.

“we, uh… we can’t,” he sighs, pausing, piecing his words together. “we can’t do this anymore.”

her expression remains flat, brows slightly furrowed.

“do what?” she asks carefully, sitting back in her seat, away from him. he just looks at her, implication in his silence. her brows set further, biting her lip to stop it from trembling. the look in her eyes is almost disbelief, a gnawing forms deep within carmen’s stomach. she shakes her head, slightly.

“where is this coming from?” she asks, voice quiet. he can’t bring himself to meet her eyes in the moment.

“i don’t want this to go… too far,” he hesitates, throwing her a quick glance, “I don't-,” pushing his hair back, taking a breath. she brings her hand to rest on his, moving closer.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” he admits, locking eyes with her, finding serenity in the depths of her irises, his shoulders noticeably untensing, leaning further in towards her when he doesn’t mean to. she scoots closer, her hands cold on his, falling deeply into his cerulean gaze. he selfishly pulls her into him, once more, strong arm coming to wrap around her, holding her against him, her arms coming to clutch his shirt. he smells her sweet perfume, deeply inhaling, feeling almost human for a moment. she pulls back just slightly, her cheek brushing against his, coming to rest her forehead against his once more, almost as if it would ease the pain. she shuts her eyes, inching impossibly closer, eager to feel him pressed against her.

“i don’t want you to either,” she whispers, tears burning behind her tightly shut eyes. his hand comes up to the base of her neck, carding his fingers up through her hair, softly grabbing. she sighs against his lips, yearning.

so close.

hearts pounding, skin hot, faces flush.

fuck it.

she leans forward, finally pressing her lips against his— warm, plump, so incredibly soft— the two moaning in tandem at the sensation. it’s almost overwhelming for carmen, his breath hitching at the contact, selfishly letting himself melt into her, the best thing he’s ever had on his lips. he knows this will blur lines between them even more, complicate, hurt, but he didn’t care, their kisses soft and slow, electrifying nerves. he grabs her hair, tighter, pulling her closer to him, gently sliding his tongue along her bottom lip. she accepts it, kissing him deeply, letting out a whimper, grabbing whatever she can of him, desperate to fully feel him against her. her hands fall onto the muscle of his bicep, squeezing, the pressure of his lips hot against hers, marveling at the intensity of the kiss. teeth clash, tongues embrace, pulling, grabbing, each exchanging a small piece of their soul through the heat of their lips. his free hand grabs her waist, slow, hot kisses increasing in ferocity, his mind feeling completely numb to any previous objection. she sucks his lip, lightly, the man groaning deeply, the sensation of her mouth greater than anything he’d ever experienced. he deepens the kiss. her core aches, wanting to hoist herself up, slide in between him and the steering wheel, have him take her right in his car. but she pulled away with a final few kisses, the two breathing heavily, car windows fogging with condensation. he frowns at the loss of contact, opening his eyes, meeting her face, lips swollen, eyes low.

“you’re right,” she admits, quietly. he looks at her in confusion, needing to feel her again. she bites her lip, a few tears growing in her eyes. “we need to stop,” a whisper.

his lungs tighten, pit in his stomach. he shouldn’t have kissed her back, he thinks, head spinning.

she wipes an escaped tear, leaning forward to hug him once more, savoring the feeling of him, safe and solid. he doesn’t know what to say, so he just holds her tightly, for what he knows to be the last time. she sniffles, coming back to kiss his cheek, then pulling away completely, grabbing her bag off the floor of his car.

“thanks for the ride,” she tells him quietly, opening the door, locking eyes with him, the two with a mutual look of pain behind their gaze. he just nods, not trusting his voice. she steps out into the summer night, taking a deep breath, turning back to him.

“goodnight, carm,” shutting the car door and walking to the stairs of her complex. once her back is to him, she lets the salty tears stream down her face, knot in her throat, face hot with embarrassment, heart clenching inexplicably. she knew this would happen, so why did it hurt so bad?

it was never supposed to go this far, but it did.

small fragments of heart scattering behind her like crumbled porcelain, leading back to the idling car where he sat, numb.

fuck, he curses himself as soon as the door shuts. he tries taking deep breaths to calm himself, to no avail, the space of the car now feeling confined as if it were closing in on him.

“fuck!” he yells, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. it was supposed to be the right decision— things were never supposed to go so far. so why did it feel like his heart was shattering beneath the weight of his ribs?

he watches her trudge up the stairs, her shoulders visibly shaking.

—

i really hope you liked it! final part coming soon, and will be a long one! <3

thank you for your continued support on this series!! :)

part 4 - under the moon

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy x reader #carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto imagine #the bear imagine

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zebulontheplanet · 20 days

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Hi everyone, as you know, I’ve been on a hiatus. Lots has happened. Some of this was written over weeks, so things might be split up or written differently.

For the new followers that followed me within that time, hello! I’m Zeb. This is going to be a long post, and I’m sorry but I need to say a lot.

On March 22nd, I went into a verbal shutdown for no apparent reason and haven’t been able to speak since. It’s been awhile, and I haven’t been able to really utter more than two or three words.

Do I know if my speech will come back? I don’t know. Do I know if it’ll stay this way? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

I’m mute. I cannot speak. No, I did not come to this lightly, no I’m not making this up for clout. I have no reason to make something like this up. I am grieving for losing my speech. Being newly mute is hard. My life has drastically changed. From how my family treats me, to how society treats me. I’ve had to learn new things on how to navigate the world. I’ve had to learn how to talk to doctors using my AAC, I’ve had to learn how to make phone calls using my AAC, I’ve had to learn how to navigate life in a new way. That’s hard.

I am thankful that my family is incredibly supportive. At first, we thought it was burnout or stress. We thought I’d come out of it. I thought I’d come out of it. I haven’t though and that’s hard too.

People around me say not to worry. “Verbal shutdowns can last months, years, they’re still verbal shutdowns”. I’m not personally showing any improvements. I’m not showing any signs that I’m going to speak anytime soon.

I’ve had to adjust my whole life to my now lack of speech. I’ve had to adapt. See the world in new ways and do new things. My life has changed, and my life has turned into that of someone who is mute, because I am mute. I can’t talk. I can’t even sing. The best way I can describe it is that there is a wall between me and my words that I can no longer get past. I’m mute.

I grieve for my voice, and I took my hiatus to grieve for it and seek medical help. I grieve for the life I could have had, for the life I did have. I grieve for what my life will look like, what my new challenges will be. I grieve for that.

I have autism regression and catatonia. I knew for awhile that my speech was deteriorating and I could do nothing about it. I thought maybe I’d just be on the lower verbal side of Semiverbal. Not in a million years did I think it’d come to me being fully mute. I didn’t expect that. I don’t want to be mute. I wish I could talk more then anything. I wish I could talk to my partner, to my parents, to my sisters, to everyone! I wish I could sing. I wish I could do all these things but I can’t. That hurts.

Went to a neurologist and was marked as having “psychogenic mutism”. Don’t know if I believe this. Don’t know if it’s psychogenic or catatonia. I don’t know, and I don’t know if I’ll ever know.

I have been exploring other terms for my lack of verbality, and I will continue exploring them and learning from those around me.

My life has changed so much, and I hope I can bring you along for this whole journey, and tell you what you have missed.

#zebrambles #autism #actually autism #actually autistic #mutism #actually mute #mute

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candypalace · 6 days

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Translation: the GazettE/Decade Book (Reita&Uruha Interview Snippet)

Hello friends, long time no see. A while ago I translated a part of the Decade Book interview section where Reita and Uruha talk about their indie days for my friends and promised I'd do the whole thing one day.

Posting this piece ahead of the full interview to appreciate the bond the guys had with each other, and, in a way, thank them for not giving up.

scan credit: @rad-is-more

REITA : … I don't really think about the roles within the band, but each of us has a natural role, and I think that's why we've been able to exist for more than 10 years. Um, well, I kinda don't want to talk about this embarrassing stuff…

URUHA: You're embarrassed?! I really don't think it's embarrassing?

REITA: No-no, it’s not like that! I don't think I'm ashamed of what I'm saying, it’s more like when I say it out loud, it makes me feel a little awkward.

URUHA: Aah, so that's what you meant (laughs).

REITA : I think for all five of us the GazettE is very important. Even though me and Uruha first started a band as “a continuation of child's play”, we thought: “I want to take things seriously”, but still those bands didn't last long and always broke up after a few months.

URUHA: I guess that's true. Before we became the GazettE, we played with a band called Kar+te=zyAnose, where Ruki was also the vocalist. The drummer did not even show up for our breakup show, and when we announced “We’re disbanding today”, we heard a faint laugh from the audience. It was a real shock, wasn’t it? It was also the moment when my groundless confidence that made me think “We’re absolutely badass!” collapsed with a loud crash.

REITA: Indeed. It was TOUGH at the time. I guess it is precisely because of that experience that I am so happy to be able to celebrate 10 years with the current members of the band. It is also precisely why I cherish the relationship between the five of us now.

URUHA: That's so true. Before the GazettE settled down, me, Reita and Ruki also played together in bands called Ma’die Kusse and L’ie:Chris before Kar+te=zyAnose. It took us a long time to reach the GazettE.

— You never gave up, did you?

REITA: No, I gave up once! I thought there was nothing next for me. But honestly, I'm glad I didn't quit! (laughs)

URUHA: It’s because me and Ruki desperately tried to stop you, m?

REITA: Really, thank god you did. But back then, I couldn't see the future at all. Even my parents said “Giving up someday is also brave”. There were many times when I wondered “Is now the time?”. When I saw all my friends around me getting jobs and having families and stable lives, I thought maybe this was also a way to happiness. Still, I decided for myself “I’ll try to do my best for one more year”, and it was during that year that the GazettE was formed. I really think it was fate.

URUHA: But it was difficult, right? We didn't have many shows, and we couldn't tell if we saw the future.

REITA: Yeah. If the GazettE had not continued with the current members, I really would have quit.

#the gazette #reita #uruha #interview

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theother-victoria · 1 year

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WHAT ONCE WAS

SYNOPSIS: Accountability is a bitter pill to swallow, but what hurts more is being forgotten by the one he loves the most. As he rebuilds your relationship once more, Scaramouche has a difficult decision to make: have you live in blissful ignorance or admit the truth and risk everything falling apart again.

TAGS: angst w fluff, happy ending bc I’m not that cruel, major spoilers for the “Inversion of Genesis” interlude archon quest, scaramouche is referred to as “Ena” bc that’s the name I gave him, gn reader, 11.7k word count

NOTES: so this is where I’ve been for the past *checks calendar* three months

Here’s the in-depth explanation and analysis behind this fic if you want to read it afterward!

Watch me post this and then inevitably disappear for a few more 🫡

Scaramouche has been acting strange lately.

He’s been unusually silent like he’s pondering something and staring off into space most of the time. When you ask him about it, he shrugs your questions off and says it’s nothing.

“What’s on your mind, Scara?”

“Nothing. Just… thinking.”

And the conversations always end there. He makes no effort to elaborate and eventually, you stop digging for answers. Other than that, he still acts normally. He still has his sharp tongue and attitude. You still get into your daily fights and scuffles with him over nothing. You’d return home from work and he’d return home from whatever he was doing in the city (something along the lines of community service was what you managed to gather from the bits and pieces of information he told you). In a sense, everything was still the same. His sudden radio silence at times was startling, but nothing ever changed in your relationship as a result of it.

… But really, it’s kind of scary how intensely he zones out sometimes.

Then, everything changes one night.

You’re getting ready for bed with him while he stares out the window as usual. If you follow his line of sight, it leads to the Sanctuary of Surasthana. He’s been oddly fixated on that place lately and you haven’t been able to get an answer as to why.

You take a seat on the bed next to him. There’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s plotting something- that there’s an idea brewing in his mind.

“Thinking again? What nefarious scheme are you plotting-”

You don’t even get the chance to tease him further before he pulls you into a tight hug. Normally, he’s nowhere near this affectionate, preferring to keep his distance even in your close relationship, but now he’s holding you close as if he’s afraid he’ll lose you otherwise.

“...Scara? Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to give you a hug.”

His soft violet hair tickles your neck and you feel his hands absentmindedly tracing circles around your waist.

“Is there a reason as to why?”

“No. Just felt like it.”

You eye him suspiciously. As soon as it started, he pulls away from the hug and flicks your forehead.

“Go to sleep now. I’ll join you in a bit. Just… let me think for a bit longer.

“I love you.”

He says the last part like it’s nothing. It nearly gives you whiplash and you look at him strangely. He’s really lost his mind this time, hasn’t he? He almost never does that.

“What’re you gaping at me like that for? Go to sleep already.”

He lightly hits you over the head with a pillow before you can say anything else. You roll your eyes and with a huff, roll onto your side until you’re fast asleep within a few minutes.

Scaramouche doesn’t join you as he promised. Instead, he continues to stare out the window at the moon, his gaze occasionally flickering back to your sleeping figure. A rare expression of uncertainty crosses his face as he sinks deep into thought.

Is this really the right decision?

Time stretches out over an eternity. Hours pass and the moon rises higher into the sky. Scaramouche debates with himself, unsure of what to do.

This is a decision I can’t go back from.

Throughout his long life, he’s never been faced with a choice as difficult as this. Neither decision ends well for either of you. Deep down, he knew what the correct answer was, yet he refused to consider it for more than a few seconds.

What would he do if he lost everything all over again?

Time was running out. Scaramouche gets up to leave with his mind made up. Lying to himself wouldn’t do anything and Nahida was waiting for him. He plants a soft kiss on your cheek and stares at you longingly one last time before putting his hat on and heading out the door. It closes behind him with a silent click.

Whatever happens next, happens. He’ll witness the results of his actions tomorrow.

The next morning, you wake up feeling refreshed and your mind clearer than it’s ever been. It feels like you’ve been asleep for a very, very long time and you’ve just woken up.

And instantly, you notice something is off.

There are traces of another person everywhere. From the Inazuman-style clothes hanging in the closet that most definitely aren’t yours to the ink-wash paintings hanging on the wall, it’s evident that someone has influenced your life tremendously.

But who? Your mind is drawing up blanks as to who it could be.

When you get downstairs, it’s even more prominent. A pair of slippers that are too big for you by the stairwell. Books sitting on the bookshelf that after examining their titles and summaries, aren’t to your liking but are still there anyway. Traditional Inazuman sandals and shoes are lined up next to yours by the front door. None of it matches the vibe of your house and yet, they look as if they’ve been there forever, weathered and worn with time.

There’s a photo sitting on a side table in the living room that catches your attention. Upon closer inspection, it’s of you and a young man sitting side by side and posing for the camera. His attire is… unique. You can’t say you’ve seen anything quite like it before.

The first thing that catches your attention is the wide-brimmed hat he’s wearing. It’s ornate, with gold decorations and a veil in the back. His clothes seem like they cost a fortune and appear to be from Inazuma, similar to the ones hanging in your bedroom closet. A smirk plays across his face, yet there’s a gentle look in his eyes as he gazes at you smiling at the camera. An arm is slung around your shoulder, pulling you close.

Clearly, you have- or had?- some sort of special relationship with him according to this photo. But you don’t recognize his face. You can’t remember anything about this man. You don’t even know his name.

Who is he?

Someone knocks at the door. Three solid thumps against the wood and then silence. The sound echoes in your ears and you can feel yourself get up to answer the door. Why does it feel like you have no control over your body right now? Why does time feel like it’s moving so slowly?

Why are you so afraid of what awaits you on the other side of the door?

You open the door to reveal a young man waiting patiently. With a shock, you realize he’s the same man in the photo. He has the same fair skin, the same eyes, and the same blunt haircut.

(He’s even prettier up close and in person.)

He’s changed quite a bit too. His attire is different now. He wears an open-chested kimono with a black bodysuit underneath and pleated shorts. The furisode kimono is dyed in shades of blue and white that resemble the sky and small birds are depicted on the long sleeves as if they are taking to the skies. His hat has lost the veil, but it’s more ornate and now resembles a lotus, the metal gleaming in the late afternoon sun. More surprisingly is the Anemo vision pinned proudly to his robes. By the looks of it, it seems as if he built his entire outfit around it.

But what surprises you the most is his face. He seems… unburdened now. Like a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders for the first time.

There’s a look of trepidation on his face and a small spark of hope in his eyes as he meets your gaze.

“... Can I help you?”

The spark of hope quickly dies at your response. His face is crestfallen, yet all he does is let out a resigned sigh.

“I’m a lost traveler that’s in need of a place to stay. Do you mind if I stay at your house for a little while?”

You glance back at the photo, then back at him. Under any other circumstances, you would have said no, but this time…

“Of course. But I don’t know your name yet.”

He pauses for a moment. His gaze darts around like he was searching for an answer- or several answers. You’re beginning to wonder if you said the wrong thing before he chuckles and smiles, finally relaxing.

“What you call me doesn’t matter. Call me anything you want.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

He huffs a sigh. Persistent as always, he thinks.

“Others call me Wanderer. Call me that if you’re strapped for ideas.”

“Wanderer…”

It’s an interesting name for sure. In your opinion, it really can’t be considered a name. It’s more suited for a description.

“That’s quite the interesting name you’ve got there, but it’s awkward to say and isn’t really suited for a name.”

“If you don’t like it, call me something else then,” he retorts. You ignore the remark and mentally go through the limited collection of Inazuman names you know of. None of them are suitable until a long-forgotten one hits you out of the blue.

“Hmm… how about the name Ena?”

“Ena,” he repeats to himself, trying the name on for size. To your surprise, you watch as his scowl melts into a grin and his eyes soften. His eyes shine with delight and he lets out a little chuckle.

“Meaning ‘gift from god’. I like it.”

I wouldn’t consider myself that, he thinks. Far from it, actually. But if that’s what you think I am, then I’ll believe it wholeheartedly.

“And by the way, Ena is a girl’s name.”

Your eyes go wide with shock.

“I-really? Wait, I’m sorry for-!”

You’re interrupted by his unabashed laughter at your dumbfounded expression. The smug look on his face tells you that he got the desired reaction out of you.

“You should’ve seen your face! It’s so easy to get you worked up over nothing, you know?”

“Stop pulling my leg like that!”

For some reason, this kind of argument with him over nothing feels… familiar. You push the thought to the side and storm away, huffing and puffing in irritation.

“Whatever. Come inside and make yourself at home. Just don’t make a mess of anything.”

Ena goes quiet and his wistful gaze lingers on the spot you were just a few moments ago. He lets out a drawn-out sigh and an unwelcome, though familiar, feeling tugs at the heart he now knows he has. Was it regret? Sorrow? Longing for something so close yet so far, barely out of touch?

Whatever it was, the full weight of his actions had finally hit him. Karma had finally come back to make him pay. He lifts his Anemo vision up and eyes it. It glows in response and he scoffs.

… He can’t say he misses the feeling of it.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow- accountability and the uncertainty of the future. He glances inside your house and sighs before shaking his head and heading inside.

You’re just as lovely as the day I lost you.

The next day, he has an interesting idea. You were eating breakfast around the table with him not-so-subtly criticizing your cooking skills and you telling him to “make his own if it’s so bad then.” He had scoffed and said he’ll take you up on that offer.

(This scene feels strangely domestic and familiar…)

Ena pushes his (empty) bowl to the side. There’s that look in his eyes that tells you he’s up to no good. How you managed to recognize it after less than a day with him, you have no idea.

“How would you like to travel the world with me?”

You pause and stare at him blankly.

“What?”

“You heard me. How would you like to travel the world? I’m sure you’ve always wanted to do that, right?”

“With you in the way? No thanks.”

He scowls at that and flicks your forehead. You yelp in pain and bat his hands away before turning and staring out the window for a bit.

“But all jokes aside, you’re right. I’ve always wanted to travel the world ever since I was little.”

You pause and bite your lip before giving him a suspicious look.

“First off, why are you offering this?”

He rolls his eyes and laughs.

“I just thought it’d be pretty pathetic if you died without ever seeing the world. Plus, I wanted to-”

He stops himself from saying anything else just in time. You stare at him strangely and he brushes you off. It’s your turn to roll your eyes now as you gather the dishes and begin washing them.

I wanted to show you the places I once took you to that you’ve now forgotten, was what he wanted to say. How will you react now that we’ve started over? Will you react with wonder at the dazzling lights of Liyue Harbor? Laugh and dance happily amongst the wide expanse of grassy plains in Mondstadt? Go silent with awe at the solemn rule of the Shogun in Inazuma?

He silently laughs at himself. He’s become weaker ever since he met you all those years ago. Not like he minded.

You’ve finished the dishes and you’re staring at him with an idea brewing in your head.

“So what I’m hearing is an offer for a free vacation with no strings attached.”

Your tone is mischievous and there’s that shit-eating grin on your face he knows all too well. Ena groans and rolls his eyes in faux annoyance.

“If that’s how you want to think of it, then yes.”

You snicker victoriously and it’s all he can do to not go over and (lovingly) flick your forehead as hard as he can.

“But what about money? A trip around the world is going to cost a fortune, right? Plus, there’s my small business I have to worry about. It’s my only means of income…”

Ena waves a hand at you. “Don’t worry about the money. I’ll handle it. Focus on making sure everything’s in order for the house and your business.”

I’ve got more Mora than I know what to do with, thanks to my time in the Fatui.

He looks over his shoulder at you.

“I recommend you pack your bags as soon as possible. We leave when everything is done and ready.”

The first nation he takes you to is Mondstadt, the land of freedom. A warm breeze brushes your skin as you step foot into the city, carrying with it the scent of dandelion wine and the familiar feeling of well-wishes.

The city is so lively. Children and teenagers chase each other down the cobblestone streets. A crowd of people gathers around a small child selling flowers, the sweet fragrance of them making its way over to you. The colorful banners strung overhead between buildings flutter in the wind. A group of adventurers pass by you and give you bright grins.

“A pair of travelers, eh? Welcome to Mondstadt!”

A bard clad in green sings and plays his lyre to a captive audience by the fountain in the city square. The smell of freshly-cooked food from Good Hunter on your left tempts you and through the door, you can hear the clink of bottles being toasted and the cheers of rowdy but good-natured patrons.

You feel Ena tug on your sleeve. He’s grinning at you mischievously.

“Come on, slowpoke, we’re not stopping here. There’s more to see than just the city.”

The next few weeks pass by in a blur.

Soon after your arrival in Mondstadt, he takes you to the Thousand Winds Temple on the eastern coast of Mondstadt as the first stop. Stone arches tower above your head and you have to crane your neck upwards to see the end of the pillars that seem to stretch upward forever. The sheer size of the temple makes you feel almost insignificant, but ivy and fauna have slowly reclaimed it with overgrowth rampant everywhere. It’s nothing more than crumbling ruins at this point, but it must’ve been beautiful centuries ago.

… Still, you’re a little confused as to why he would bring you all the way out here just to see a dilapidated temple.

“Is there a specific reason why you brought us here?”

“Nothing really, other than that it has quite a long history.”

“I didn’t take you for the scholarly type, Ena.”

“Shut up.”

You begin to curiously explore the temple. Parts of it are locked behind gates and no matter what you do, you can’t get them to budge. You manage to climb over some walls onto what appears to be the stairs and take a seat there. From here, you have a better view of the temple and you try to piece together what it used to look like. Eventually, you come to the realization that it must’ve resembled an amphitheater.

Meanwhile, Ena strides across the arena and comes to a stop, facing the sea. His coming here was purely for selfish reasons.

This was where I first met you. I was on a mission in Mondstadt to investigate some strange occurrences that had been happening. Back then, you were still a student in the Akademiya researching these ruins. We had run into each other accidentally and immediately started arguing over some petty matter and were practically at each other’s throats.

He looks over his shoulder to see you attempting to scale a pillar to reach the elemental monument above and quietly laughs at the sight. He’s glad that you can’t see the fond smile stretching across his face.

You’re still the same fool now as you were back then. Some things in life never change, do they?

On another day, he brings you to Starsnatch Cliff late at night. You grumble and curse at him for disturbing your sleep the entire time, to which he tells you to shut up after being chased by monsters several times.

(You keep your mouth shut after that.)

Ena uses his Anemo vision to quickly fly to the edge of the cliff and avoid the grueling upwards hike. You, on the other hand, are forced to make the trek and arrive several minutes later, panting in exhaustion.

“You’re too slow.”

“Not my fault that I don’t have a handy vision to help me out,” you snap back as you take a seat next to him. The cool evening breeze tickles your skin and you lie on your back to see the stars and the moon. There’s not a single cloud in the sky and you can see the arm of the galaxy that stretches across the night sky in a twinkling display of stars and stardust.

“Now I see why you dragged me out this late. The view is beautiful.”

“I told you.”

You glare at him in response and begin picking the Cecilia flowers that grow on the cliff to make a flower crown with them. Ena only rolls his eyes at the action and lies down to look at the sky.

The second time I met you was here, not long after our first encounter. You were doing the same thing- making flower crowns. When I asked you what you were doing, you gave it to me. Quite the bold move, considering I could’ve ended your life at any moment. Although…

He looks back at you lying sprawled out like a starfish in the grass and holding the finished flower crown in your hands. Your eyes meet his gaze and you wordlessly place it on his head. You giggle at the sight and the blush that creeps across his face as he glares at it.

“It suits you! You look even prettier with it.”

Your eyes shine with a mix of amusement and adoration. To Ena, your smile rivals the brilliance of the moon above and he swears he can feel his heart skip a beat all over again.

Although, how could I have even considered that thought? Especially when you looked at me back then the same way you do now?

Midway through your stay in Mondstadt, he brings you to the famed Angel’s Share for some drinks while subsequently making fun of your inability to hold your alcohol.

“What, can’t even handle wine?”

“Shut up,” you cough out- or rather, slur out with the alcohol getting to you. A blue-haired man sitting at the other end of the table pretends to not hear you, but you can see his shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle his laughs.

With the sweet taste of the tavern’s renowned Dandelion Wine, you didn’t expect it to pack that much of a punch. Your face is already flushed and you can feel just how unbearably warm you are. With a groan, you rest your head against the cool surface of the table and sigh in relief. Ena rolls his eyes and finishes the rest of your drink in one go.

“Seriously, how are you still fine after all of those drinks you had? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have an inhuman alcohol tolerance,” you grumble.

A thin glass of apple cider is placed in front of you by the bartender. You instantly recognize it as a drink for sobering up and Ena cackles at the realization scrawled all over your face.

“Come on. Finish that and we’ll go back to our place.”

He ends up having to carry you on his back. You passed out while you were still in the bar and now you’re sleeping peacefully, occasionally mumbling nonsensical things as you dream. Ena grumbles and curses you out all the while, but it lacks any real scorn.

Many months later, I came back to Mondstadt and found you in a drunken stupor here. You had just dropped out of the Akademiya and were worried about what you’d do now and dreaded having to return to Sumeru. You had drunk so much that you passed out and I ended up having to carry you back to your place.

He looks back at your sleeping figure and sighs.

“The past likes to repeat itself, huh? And your alcohol tolerance hasn’t improved one bit since then.”

Really, it made for a comical sight. The Sixth Fatui Harbinger, capable of striking fear into the hearts of the masses, carrying an Akademiya dropout who’d cried and drank themselves to sleep back to their house like some sort of gentleman? Most people would laugh at that.

His hand grasps yours as he looks back on the past that only he remembers now.

Lost in thought, he misses how you gently squeeze his hand in return.

On the very last day of your stay in Mondstadt, Ena waits until sunset to drag you to the Church of Favonius. He carefully led you around the vigilant eyes of the Knights and passersby until you were at the back of the church. You weren’t expecting this to be your final stop and you stare at him, confused.

“Just trust me, ok?”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he scoops you up into his arms and soars into the air with the help of his vision.

“Wha-hey!” you shout as you nervously flail around. “What’re you doing?”

“Be quiet!” he hisses. “Do you want people to hear us?”

Ena quickly sets you down on a ledge atop a spire and you go silent. From here, you have a perfect view over all of Mondstadt, from the sprawling city before you all the way out to the great oak tree in Windrise and the Statue of the Seven shining beneath it, and everything in between. The skies are clear and Mondstadt is bathed in a rosy pink glow.

“Don’t fall off now,” he teases as you lean forward.

“How did you find this spot?” you ask. He looks off to the side as if embarrassed to admit the truth.

“I saw the Traveler and a girl in red up here one day. They seemed to be enjoying the view so I stowed the idea away for later.”

That was half the truth. Not like you’d remember the other half of it anyway.

You were awfully persistent back then, he thinks as he watches you sneeze when a cluster of dandelion seeds blow past, carried along by the winds. Hanging around with a Fatui Harbinger like it was nothing and having the gall to talk to me like we were equals. I seriously thought you had no sense of danger back then. Or maybe you just had a death wish.

One day, you had offhandedly told me that a view over all of Mondstadt could be seen atop the spires of the Church of Favonius. The look in your eyes implied that you wanted to see it for yourself. You thought it was a great idea. I thought you were insane.

But I managed to make it work after happening to see someone else do it. Late at night, we snuck up here together to go stargazing. We had a beautiful view that night. The sky was clear and all the stars were visible. But it wasn’t the sky or the stars that caught my attention- it was the look in your eyes.

For a moment, I saw everything I ever wanted reflected in them.

You swing your legs in contentment as a flock of birds flies past you. Ena eyes you nervously as you sit precariously close to the edge and reaches out to gently grasp your wrist.

“... Is something the matter?”

“You’re sitting too close to the ledge. Move back a bit.”

“Didn’t know you were such a mother hen.” But you do as he says.

You gaze upon him fondly and there it is again- the look that stole his heart. You looked at him as if he was your entire world. He would do anything to have you look at him like that for just a little while longer.

“(Name)?”

“Yes?”

“Can we stay like this just a little longer?”

“Of course.”

The sky begins to darken and the temperature starts to drop. The people of Mondstadt gradually head home one by one until the streets are deserted, but above it all, you and Ena are lost in your own world- one that only he now remembers.

The seasons have changed. Summer has faded and it’s colder now. The days are shorter, much to your displeasure. Almost all vegetation has died out- the tree branches are stripped bare of leaves and a light dusting of snow from earlier covers the ground. There’s a light crunching sound as you walk, leaving footprints behind.

You shiver as a cold breeze passes by and without missing a beat, Ena gives you his scarf. He wraps it around you and tightens it securely before tugging at your coat zipper to make sure it’s zipped up all the way. He nods in satisfaction.

“Keep it. You need it more.”

You pass by a Statue of the Seven and head down some ice-coated stone steps. The horizon is bright and as you look up from the ground, you see why. Liyue Harbor is aglow with warm orange lights and countless paper lanterns float in the air, scattered throughout the sky.

Ena looks over your shoulder at the glowing port.

“We’re in luck. We made it just in time for the Lantern Rite.”

You hear a smidge of smugness in his voice.

“In luck, you say? Something tells me you planned this,” you tease. Already, you can feel a rush of excitement bubbling up as you grab him by the wrist and pull him along with you toward the city.

“Who knows? Maybe I did.”

The entire harbor is decorated for Liyue’s biggest festival of the year. Red paper lanterns and bundles of firecrackers hang at the corners of businesses and houses alike. Spring couplets and squares of red paper with the character for “fortune” are pasted onto doors everywhere you look. A group of children runs past you waving sparklers to celebrate and the mother of one opens the door to call her child in for dinner.

A storyteller tells the tale of how the Lantern Rite came to be as you run through the stone streets. Aided by the folding screen behind him that depicts a panorama of Liyue in the past, his rich voice and reenactments of scenes captivate his starry-eyed audience that hangs onto every word. An amber-eyed man listens intently, a peaceful expression washing over his handsome face as if he is recalling pleasant memories of days gone by. The sweet scents of steamed rice, caramelized sugars and smoke, and various fragrant spices hit your nose as you pass by a restaurant across the street with a long line of people waiting to order outside. A girl with short blue hair runs out of the kitchen, carrying several plates of food to the establishment with the storyteller.

“Excuse me! Coming through!”

A small stall wedged in the space between the restaurant and another building harks its goods to passersby.

“Cheap and tasty chop suey! Special Lantern Rite deal- half off of everything!”

The path curves down from there, leading to the shipping and loading docks of the port. You go past that toward where everyone is gathered. You gasp and momentarily, you go speechless. It’s simply gorgeous. You have no other way to describe it.

Lotus-shaped lights illuminate the pathway and golden lanterns are strung about, bathing you and Ena in an orange glow. Parasols of every shape and color hang from the scaffolding above, casting shades of color across your faces. An old man off to the side adds some last-minute touches to the giant puppet head that will be used for tonight’s dragon dance. You catch a glimpse of it as you pass by and it is a true labor of love, painstakingly crafted down to the tiniest detail. The performers for said dance rehearse the complicated choreography to your left, running in circles and weaving in and out of each other to the point where your eyes hurt from watching. Stalls and vendors sell a variety of goods- street food, paper lanterns to release into the sky, firecrackers, decorations, toys for children, and flowers with auspicious meanings among many other things.

The heavy crowds and sounds of cheer and festivities make you almost forget about the chilling mid-winter cold. Ena disappears for a second and reappears with a bundle of flowers that he swiftly tucks behind your ear.

“Hmm? What flower is this?”

“They’re peach blossoms.”

You shoot a glance at the pale pink blossoms and smile as a thank-you before returning back to the celebration. He stifles a laugh upon your reaction. Clearly, you were unaware of the symbolism behind the flowers.

Peach blossoms symbolize romance. It’s often gifted by young people, as they believe it will bring romantic luck.

(He mentally thanks Nahida for forcing him to go to school. Some of the stuff he learned there was actually helping him.)

To your right, two girls perform on an illuminated stage, one singing while the other plays the guitar to the thunderous applause of the audience. You sneak past the crowd to admire the Mingxiao lantern the size of a parade float that towers above everyone behind the stage. It depicts a gold and red goose (an Adeptus?) taking to the skies, with the jagged peaks of Liyue in blue behind it. A yellow whole moon partially hides behind the tallest one and wisps of fog obscure the ground and lazily wind around the mountaintops.

The energy of the crowd has been palpable ever since you got here, but it increases now as you look toward where everyone else’s gaze is directed at- the sky.

“Hurry, it’s about to start!”

“Over here, over here! I saved this spot before anyone else could get it!”

Mere moments later, a loud boom goes off and an orange firework explodes in the sky. Then another one. And another one. The fireworks show has started and while they are beautiful, you’re having a difficult time enjoying it while everyone else is jostling for a view. Unfortunately, that means you can’t see much of anything either…

You feel a sharp tug at your wrist and look back to see Ena trying to squeeze his way through the crowd without losing his hat and being crushed alive.

“I know of a spot. Follow me!”

With much difficulty and after almost getting your ribs crushed, you break free of the crowd. Ena hoists you onto his shoulders and speeds through the now-empty streets with the help of his vision, carefully avoiding the Millileth stationed.

“You seem to be enjoying this position,” you offhandedly comment as he squeezes your thighs.

“It’s one of the only ways I can get your lazy ass places,” he says, like the liar he is.

(He secretly just likes the feeling of your thighs around his neck.)

He comes to a stop atop a building on the outskirts of the city and from here, you have a perfect view of the fireworks. Some whirl into a spiral while others slowly shoot straight up as they explode in a glittering multicolored shower. Some fireworks tumble like a waterfall and others pepper the sky in rapid flashes of light that have you seeing stars afterward.

“Isn’t what we’re doing right now technically illegal?” you ask while still keeping your eyes on the firework display. He laughs and you can practically imagine him rolling his eyes.

“Would you rather be here or before where we were practically suffocating to death?”

You laugh as well with a smile on your face. Ena squeezes your hand in his (when did that get there?) while he pulls something out. You look away from the show to see him place a red and gold metal canister between you two. It’s rather similar to the fireworks launchers you saw in the city…

“Ena, don’t tell me you-”

“What, it’s not like they’re going to notice one gone! They’ve got a bunch to spare anyway.”

He motions for you to move away from the canister and pulls out a bamboo tube with a conical cap mounted to a stick. He strikes a match and after lighting the fuse, sticks it into the mortar and moves away. You both cover your ears and after a few seconds, it shoots out with a high-pitched whistling sound before exploding in a golden display that resembles the branches of a weeping willow tree.

“Did you steal the fireworks too?” you ask with a wide grin on your face. He scowls at the question and begins to prepare another one for launch.

“No. I bought them,” he grumbles. The next firework exits the mortar and explodes in the sky. It resembles a white chrysanthemum.

You’ve all but forgotten about the official show as you take turns launching fireworks and creating your own (illegal) display. The official show may be more flashy, but yours has a magic of its own that can’t be recreated.

“Aw, how cute! This firework is shaped like a heart!” you exclaim as you watch it scatter in a shower of pink sparkles. The amount of fireworks being launched from the harbor suddenly increases and you realize it must be the grand finale already.

Ena pulls something out again. Two Mingxiao lanterns. He passes one to you along with a brush and some ink.

“The people of Liyue have a tradition of writing riddles on lanterns during the Lantern Rite,” he explains upon seeing your confusion. “Write whatever you’d like- it doesn’t have to be a riddle- and once the fireworks are over, we’ll release them into the sky, ok?”

He watches you frown and mull over what you want to write, face scrunching up into various expressions of contemplation and hesitation. He internally laughs at the sight before returning to his lantern, brush gliding over the paper with confidence.

I wish for (Name) to accept me for who I am.

And as the last of the fireworks explode in the sky, you and Ena release your lanterns in unison, soaring into the sky and joining the lanterns of everyone else. You lean against his shoulder (when did the distance between you two get so close?) and gaze at your lanterns drifting away.

“What did you wish for?” you ask.

“It’s a secret. I’m not telling you.”

“Fine. I’m not telling you mine either.”

You silently laugh to yourself. You had gotten a glimpse of what he was writing and while it may have been written in the old Inazuman script (most likely to confuse your prying eyes), you were still a former Akademiya student and you still had a decent knowledge of languages. The Inazuman language was one you were proficient in before you dropped out and you could get the general idea of his wish written onto the lantern.

How cute.

And as for what you wrote?

Ena couldn’t help but peek when you were writing. With the light of the fireworks, he had seen what you were written and a long-forgotten emotion erupted in his newly-acquired heart.

I wish for Ena to receive the love he deserves.

The last nation he takes you to is Inazuma.

You had spent a few months in Liyue until the weather warmed up, discovering everything the nation had to offer. You had ventured into the Adepti’s abode in Jueyun Karst, visited the famed turquoise waters of Luhua Pool, and explored the countless ancient ruins scattered throughout the land. At one point, with a letter from the Traveler and special clearance from the Millelith, he takes you to the Chasm. There, you had carefully crossed the creaky wooden walkways with high winds whipping you around and had scaled the high peaks covered with ochre grass and trees with crimson-colored leaves. The gaping maw in the center leading to the Underground Mines had tempted you and there you had stayed for a while, staring down into it.

(He contemplated bringing you there because it had a beauty of its own, but ultimately decided against it due to how dangerous it was.)

Now docked at Ritou Harbor after a long passage across the sea, Ena watches as the sleep disappears from your eyes, only to be replaced by wonder as you take in the silent harbor that is beginning to stir. Ships are anchored along the pier and unloaded. The fishermen are coming back as the sun rises above the horizon and are laying out their catch to sell. Purple banners planted along the boardwalk that are emblazoned with the Electro mitsudomoe proudly signify the reign of the Shogun. Maple trees dot the landscape and Mt. Yougou towers above in the distance with a faint green light emanating from it.

Ena’s eyes narrow and he bites his lip at the familiar sights. Returning to his homeland left him feeling conflicted and while nobody would remember him- namely, the Shogun- unpleasant memories still resurfaced. His abandonment, the place he once called home, and especially now, the regret and rage that fills him as he recalls those he considered family and Dottore who twisted the truth into a lie, ruining his life.

But he casts his thoughts aside. His past no longer defined who he was, especially at this moment. Besides, this was your first time in Inazuma. What kind of tour guide would he be if he couldn’t cast his own prejudices aside?

Long ago, when he was still in the Fatui, you had asked him about his origins.

“Scara, you’re from Inazuma, right?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the nation. Can you take me there someday?”

“Once the situation there clears up, sure.”

He was never able to fulfill that promise with his previous self. Now, he could finally be true to his word, even if you could no longer remember.

Narukami Island dazzles you with its splendor and tradition everywhere you look. Sakura blooms drift along the warm spring breezes in Inazuma City as you pass by stores selling elaborate kimonos and blacksmiths continuing the art of forging that had been passed down for centuries. Ena proves himself to be quite the knowledgeable tour guide, pointing out cultural relics and small facts that you wouldn’t have known otherwise.

Early on in your stay, Ena pays a visit to the Statue of the Omnipresent God near Tenshukaku. He just… stands there. And gazes up at it. In the short time there, a lifetime of emotions crossed his face. Betrayal, wrath, denial, emptiness, regret, and even acceptance.

(You notice that the statue doesn’t look like the Electro Archon at all. What could it possibly be here for then?)

“Let’s go.”

With a light tug at your wrist and a final glance back at Tenshukaku, he leads you ahead without another look back.

The main attraction aside from the city is the Grand Narukami Shrine. From what you’ve heard, the trek there is long and arduous but worth it for its beauty and view over Inazuma. Ena leads you there through Chinju Forest which takes you onto the shortest route. The forest is tranquil and you hear the sound of running water from the large stream cutting through the forest. Blue flowers glow underneath the moonlight in large clumps and tanuki statues are found everywhere. Red torii gates are scattered throughout and mark pathways.

While the forest is beautiful, it’s also a little eerie. The lack of light and silence creeps you out and Ena has the brilliant idea to tell you ghost stories here, of all places.

“There’s a legend of a yokai that lurks in the forest around here,” he begins. “Care to hear the tale?”

You swat at his arm to silence him. He dodges your hand quickly and smiles impishly at you.

“What? Scared already?”

“Shut up.”

You leave the forest, refusing to speak to Ena and ignoring all of his purposeful attempts to rile you up. A blue-haired girl and her brother stand at the entrance to the lavish estate to your right. She pulls out her folding fan, covering the smile on her face at your petty arguments.

The path leading to the shrine is an arduous trek and not to mention slippery, as it had rained the day before. He has to help you up in some parts where there are no stairs, lest you slip and fall. The steps are steep and the path winding around the mountain seems never-ending. After much grumbling and pleading on your part, Ena finally agrees to carry you on his back.

“Thank you…”

“Stop being lazy,” he retorts. You rest your cheek against his shoulder and he immediately goes silent. Your hand brushes against his and in an uncharacteristically bold move, Ena grasps it and squeezes lightly. A light giggle escapes you. His hand is delicate and soft against yours, much like a doll’s.

At that moment, he’s glad you can’t see the blush dusting his cheeks.

But the rumors were right- the view is indeed gorgeous from here. Ena stops at one point and you peer over his shoulder to see the landscape of Inazuma. Jagged boulders float in midair with sakura trees planted for decoration and lanterns to aid shrine-goers in the dead of night. The vast blue sea that seals off Inazuma from the rest of the world stretches as far as the eye can see with several smaller islands and shipwrecks dotting the landscape. Chōchin lanterns hang from the branches of trees, swaying lightly in the wind and scattering sakura petals. Some red foxes are resting at the bottom of the stairs and come up to cautiously sniff at Ena. He leans down to pet them for a bit, allowing you to do the same, before continuing.

As you ascend the stairs winding around the mountain, you pass through countless torii gates with red tōrō lanterns and shoji lamps decorated with the symbol of the shrine flanking your sides and realize the shrine must be just up ahead. And indeed, that hypothesis proves to be true as Ena finishes climbing the last set of stairs and stops in front of the shrine. He takes his hat off and you hop off his back.

The shrine is awe-inspiring. It’s larger than you thought it’d be and built from red lacquered wood with chōchin lanterns hanging from the eaves of the roof. Two thick shimenawa ropes with shide papers attached to them stretch across the entrance and the small body of water the shrine is built upon reflects the early morning sky above. Sessha shrines line the outskirts with various offerings and resemble miniature versions of the Grand Narukami Shrine.

As you take in the sights of the shrine and the view of Inazuma from above, Ena looks around cautiously, hoping that a certain meddling pink kitsune wouldn’t show up.

What a nuisance that’d be, he thinks as he squints against the sun’s rays. He quickly picks up on your confusion as you look around, unsure of what to do.

“Relax,” he says, taking your hand in his. “I’ll guide you through the whole process.”

Ena leads you through everything, from purification to burning incense. At that stage, he had asked you if you had any injuries. You had looked at him strangely and he explained that some people fan the smoke toward themselves for healing purposes.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” you said. “But I’m fine, so there’s no need to.”

You miss how he fans the smoke toward his heart when you turn away. He stares at his Anemo vision for a split second before returning to your side.

You’re staring at the large bell attached to a bundle of multicolored cords hanging from the ceiling. He steps forward and shakes it, making the bell chime loudly. You watch closely as he drops some Mora into the offertory box before bowing twice, clapping twice, and then standing straight with his hands joined in a prayer position. You then do the same, albeit with less confidence.

“Hey,” you whisper. He peeks an eye open. “What do I pray for?”

“Anything,” he whispers back. “Good health, fortune, success at school-”

You roll your eyes.

“- or even luck in romantic relationships.”

You look off to the side at that one, hoping he doesn’t see how the tips of your ears are flushed.

Ena closes his eyes again and thinks for a bit about what else to pray for. He had already wished for acceptance from you during the Lantern Rite. Just now, he had prayed for your health and the safety of Sumeru, along with wishes of well-being for Lesser Lord Kusanali. What else was there?

(He had contemplated praying for Dottore’s downfall but ultimately decided that wouldn’t be appropriate within a shrine setting.)

Pray for (Name) to fall in love with you again, says the voice in his head. You did tell them that praying for romantic luck was common among shrine-goers, so why not do that yourself?

Ah.

Ena feels his face heat up and his heart starts pounding rapidly. With a light shake of his head, he clears his mind.

I wish for (Name) to fall in love with me again. I have already lost Niwa, Katsuragi, the rest of my family in Tatarasuna, and the fledgling child who was just like me long ago. After wandering across the world for several centuries, I long for a place to call home now.

Archons above, I am a changed man now. Please, allow me to have the simple joys of love and solace.

Your trip is nearing its end. The days are much longer now and the weather considerably, almost unbearably at times, warmer.

Now in the last leg of your journey, Ena gazes out at the sea aboard the boat carrying him to your last destination, Kannazuka Island. The last time he went back to Inazuma was during the Vision Hunt Decree to retrieve the Electro Gnosis and that was on orders from the Tsaritsa, plus that was restricted to Narukami Island only. Ever since the disaster that had befallen Tatarasuna, he hadn’t gone back out of fear and shame.

And that is who he really is. A man who was ashamed of his past and afraid of witnessing the consequences of his actions. Ignorance is bliss, yet that belief was unable to prevent the shield of scorn and egotism he had built up for himself from crumbling down in an instant in Sumeru, the cracks that had been forming for a long time now exposed and the truth finally revealed.

How pathetic, mocks the voice in his head that never seems to go away- perhaps the only remnant of his former self. Look at who you’ve become. How weak. What a disappointment. Such activities are beneath you, yet why do you indulge them with your divine presence?

Shut it, he thinks. Enough of you. My roots may be divine, but they have no influence on who I am today. I am a different person now, whether you like it or not.

Ena looks around him and sighs. He had sworn to never return to this nation that he harbored only bitterness and bad memories toward. He had cursed the Archon’s name and denounced her reign, laughed at her frivolous pursuit of eternity, yet here he was once again.

The prodigal son had finally made a return home.

Love really makes people weak, doesn’t it?

The boat gently comes to a stop against the shoreline of Nazuchi Beach. Rotting shipwrecks and driftwood litter the white sands and warm shallow waters. Faded and frayed war banners lie half-buried in the sand with arrowheads embedded everywhere you look- the only remains of the several bloody wars that were waged here.

You hop off the boat, eager to explore what lies ahead, while Ena lingers for a bit to gather his thoughts. Already, he can see the familiar silhouette of the furnace and its purple glow in the distance. An unfamiliar feeling of dread settles in his stomach, twisting and turning anxiously. But dallying and wasting time will not change the outcome of anything.

And so with bated breath, he leads the way. Passing through the entrance that leads to Tatarasuna, the full scale of the site becomes apparent. In the middle, a floating rock formation hovers above the water and is linked to the rest of the island via walkways that are now rotting and falling apart. A strange purple glow radiates from the center. The houses built have long since been abandoned, their windows dark and empty. Hovering above it all is the Mikage Furnace. Although it was shut down a long time ago, small sparks of Electro are still intermittently emitted from it.

The ancient machinery quietly creaks in the wind. The air feels electric with the heavy concentration of Electro energy present, making his hair stand on end. Carts filled with iron ore lie off to the side, looking as if they were haphazardly abandoned. He can’t help but feel a little remorseful at the sorry state the place is in now.

There is one last task for him to finish here- one that he should have completed long ago.

Better late than never, he thinks as he rummages around for a sword of some sort that may have been miraculously left behind. Most of what was here has been pillaged by the Fatui; he recognizes their handiwork- sloppy and inconsiderate, but by a stroke of luck, he finds one.

Meanwhile, you investigate what’s nearby. Soon into your investigation, you find some yellowed notes scattered about. The age of the notes has made the words rather difficult to decipher and the elements have worn away much of the original content.

… We at last made a single nagamaki. We call it the Daitatara Nagamasa. The Inspector was in high spirits, and he and the Vice Armory Officer… Nozomu was so taken by the beauty of the Daitatara Nagamasa that he drew a picture of it.

The Inspector flew into a rage and slashed Katsuragi. The great blade cut deep into the flesh… cast his own nagamaki into the furnace’s flame… Nozomu could not abide by that order, and drew the completely melted weapon out of the furnace… He was horribly burned.

… Nozomu died that night. I daresay that while Sir Katsuragi may have committed malfeasance, it was out of the goodness of his heart.

“(Name), can you go pick some flowers for me?”

His question comes suddenly and unexpectedly. You look up from the notes you are reading. He holds a rusted sword in his hand and gives it a few experimental swings. You soundlessly nod and disappear.

There are some old polishing stones lying beneath a table and he gets to work. It’s the first time he’s touched a blade in 500 years, yet in his mind, he’s transported back to the moment he learned how to forge and polish swords under the watch of Niwa and the others. Their gentle guidance from ages ago resurfaces, guiding him through the sacred process. Bit by bit, the rust is scrubbed away and its original sheen is restored. It is difficult work, but it’s cathartic. It feels like he’s making amends for his past actions.

After wiping away the last few drops of water, the sword is now finished. It shines brilliantly without a speck of rust showing. The handguard and hilt have been cleaned thoroughly and it looks as good as new.

Ena walks over to a grassy spot near the water and digs a small hole, where he places a few items before covering it up again. Some small candies, cigarettes, six coins for safe passage to the afterlife, a white kimono, and a pair of sandals.

He drives the sword into the soft earth. He tugs it a few times to ensure it won’t budge before pulling out some sticks of incense and lighting them. The woody smell with hints of spice and resin is carried through the air.

On your way back now, you smell something spicy and familiar drifting from the direction of the furnace.

Incense?

“I’m back now,” you call out. “What did you need these-”

The lit incense sticks, the sword stuck in the ground, his head bowed. The realization hits you instantly.

So this is why he asked me to gather flowers. It’s a memorial- a grave.

Dendrobiums, stalks of Naku Weed, Sea Ganodermas you had harvested in the shallow beach waters, and deposits of Crystal Marrow are arranged around the symbolic tomb in the best flower arrangement your limited skills could make.

��Thank you,” he whispers as you kneel next to him.

“Who is it for?”

“Everyone,” he says, gesturing around him. “It’s for everyone who was here.”

Ena looks up from the ground and for a second, he thinks he’s gone back in time. The sun shines, bathing the abandoned mine in golden light. The fires in the furnace are stoked and plumes of smoke drift out of the tall chimney. Katsuragi smelts the red-hot steel in the tatara while Niwa hammers and folds the cooling metal. The residents of Tatarasuna, people from all walks of life, children and elders alike, live their lives with joy and pride.

Ah, it’s been so long since he’s last seen them, yet he can still remember their faces clearly as if he never left.

One of them- a child- sees him out of the corner of his eye. He says something- no words can be heard but Ena reads his lips.

Look, Kabukimono is back!

One by one, the rest of the residents take notice of him. They each bear varied expressions on their faces weathered by hard work- some cover their mouths with their eyes blown wide in surprise, others heave a deep sigh of relief with smiles stretching across their faces, while others have tears of joy prickling at the corners of their eyes.

Archons, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen him.

Tell us what you’ve been up to lately! I’m sure you have many stories to share.

My, look at how handsome he is now!

The ward we took in has now finally grown up.

It makes me so proud to see him like this.

There’s a tight feeling in his chest as he stumbles forward toward the sea of familiar faces, beckoning him with warm smiles and welcoming arms. He lurches forward again, and three pairs of warm hands as fleeting as a feather lightly brush over his shoulder, steadying him. Looking up, he sees the familiar faces of Niwa, Katsuragi, and Nagamasa. They beam at him, not a hint of betrayal or anger present in their smiles.

Ena’s heart seizes up in his chest. What does he say in a situation like this?

Did you find your heart at last?

“... Yes,” he finally answers.

“It was here all along.”

We’ve missed you.

Crying is for the weak. It is a useless display of emotions. That is what he has told himself repeatedly throughout his life.

And yet, he can’t help the tears that threaten to spill over.

He rushes forward, longing for one last chance to make amends. They surround him in a warm embrace, murmuring words of reassurance as the tears finally spill over.

“I’m sorry!” he chokes out. “I should have been there! I shouldn’t have run away!”

A strong gust of wind blows through the clearing and the ghosts of Tatarasuna waver, their images beginning to fade and dissipate in specks of golden light.

His blood runs cold in terror.

No, not yet! There’s still so much I want to say- so much I want to apologize for!

The sound of gentle laughter is carried along with the wind and as the last of their shimmering visages fade away, he hears their final words.

What do you mean, Kabukimono?

We forgave you long ago.

It was never your fault to begin with.

You are our pride and joy.

This is goodbye now. But we, the residents of Tatarasuna you considered family, will always be with you.

We can now move on safely to the afterlife.

We can now rest after seeing our little Kabukimono at peace with himself.

Thank you for returning home one last time.

The last of their afterimages vanish, leaving nothing behind. The sun retreats behind the clouds once more, the clearing now cloudy as it was before. But at last, Ena feels at peace- as if a great burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders. The unfinished task from centuries ago had finally been completed.

“Let’s go home now, (Name).”

Ena has been acting strange lately.

On the way back, he kept pacing back and forth. He had kept toying with his Anemo vision and staring at the sky. When he thought you were asleep, he would hold you tightly in his arms as if he was afraid to lose you. You would catch him with his hands clasped together and praying when he thought you weren’t looking.

But praying to who exactly?

At last, you are at home in Sumeru again. It is late at night now, and the streets are silent. Most of the residents are asleep except for a few late-night stragglers coming home from work or the tavern. That night, you fell into a deep sleep and for the first time ever since you were a child, you dreamt.

But much to your surprise, you see Ena and Lesser Lord Kusanali in your dream soon after falling asleep. This feels vaguely familiar and something tells you this was done on purpose.

“Welcome back,” she says. “How was your trip?”

“Fine. I enjoyed it,” he responds.

She giggles. “That’s good to hear. I take it that your goal is complete and that you got to tie up some loose ends?”

“You could say that.”

The little Archon turns her attention to you now. Her eyes peer at you curiously and you get the vague feeling that she can read your mind.

“You must be (Name). You’re a smart cookie- smarter than people give you credit for. I’m sure you’ve wondered what you and Ena are to each other at least once by now.”

“There’s been a few hints dropped here and there throughout our journey that made me question the nature of our relationship or who we once were,” you admit.

“But I can’t help but wonder what happened to… ”

You gesture at the space between you and Ena.

“... Us?”

A translucent green box materializes between her hands. It glows and floats, emitting specks of Dendro energy intermittently.

“Please suspend disbelief for a moment, as what I’m about to say may sound unrealistic. This box you see here is a copy of his memories from his creation up until recently. It contains the true, unaltered version of history.”

Creation? Copy of his memories? The unaltered version of history?

A thousand questions swirl inside your mind, waiting to be asked, yet they all dissipate at her next question.

“Do you wish to remember the past?”

You hesitantly look at Ena. He turns away as if he is ashamed of meeting your gaze.

“This decision is all up to you,” she adds. “Rest assured that whatever you choose will not affect your relationship with Ena. He has told me that himself.

“But please bear in mind that in his past life, Ena was what many would consider as ‘evil’. He had committed countless crimes and many people had died because of him. With this preface, do you still wish to remember the past?”

You glance at Ena again, who is still avoiding your gaze. The delicate balance of your relationship hangs on the line. Was it even worth knowing the truth? You were perfectly content with the way things were as of now.

… But the voice in the back of your head urges you to dig deeper and uncover the truth.

“I still do. Please, show me everything.”

Ena winces slightly, bracing himself for the worst.

“Very well then.”

The green box slowly drifts toward you before suddenly slamming into your chest. You let out a choked gasp, your vision slowly going dark as all his memories begin to flood your mind. The last thing you hear is Ena’s concerned question.

“Will they be alright?”

“It’s the same as when you regained your memories,” replies Lesser Lord Kusanali. “They’ll be in for a shock but will ultimately emerge with a newfound understanding of who you are.”

“Set him free?”

“A puppet? What’s he doing here…”

“You’re a human as far as I’m concerned.”

“What a fine blade! Nagamasa will be thrilled.”

“He took it straight from the chest of one of his innocent servants.”

“What a joke… it’s just ashes… nothing left but ashes.”

“Are you deaf or just stupid?”

“Hey!”

That’s the sound of your own voice. In the midst of his memory space, you freeze. The version of yourself you see is one from several years ago, back when you were still in the Akademiya. The sight of the green uniform and beret sends a wave of nostalgia through your heart. Ena resembles the version of himself you saw in the photo at your house- dressed in shades of dark purple and black with accents of red and gold.

“What did you want to tell me? You dragged me out here late at night so it better be worth-”

“I hate you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hate you,” he repeated. “Everything about you annoys me greatly. You can’t handle your alcohol, yet you still insist on having drinks every week. I can’t tell if you’re idiotic or-”

“It’s Mondstadt, what else am I supposed to do here? And why is it that you carry me home on your back each time without fail?”

“Because you’d look pretty pathetic otherwise. I’d get secondhand embarrassment if I didn’t do something about it.”

You rolled your eyes at his remarks.

“Your taste in music sucks and you always have the strangest ideas. Seriously, where do you even come up with-”

“If you think they’re so strange, then why did you agree to dance with me in the town square yesterday? Entertain my silly idea of participating in the festival that was happening last week even though, in your opinion, you thought it was ‘stupid and a waste of time?’ Although, it looked like you were having fun as well…”

“...That’s beside the point. You also talk too much. It hurts my ears just listening to you sometimes.”

“Is that why you were glaring at the guy I was chatting with the other day?”

“No- I mean, yes.”

The look on your face tells him you don’t believe his blatant lie one bit.

“I can’t think properly when you’re around me,” he snapped in an attempt to change the subject. “You make me feel strange and I hate it. Whenever your eyes linger on me, I feel strangely exposed. When you touch me, my skin burns and I can’t breathe for some strange reason. You wear your heart on your sleeve but you’re also difficult to understand. I can’t figure you out for the life of me. You cry and laugh when you’re mad, but when you’re actually upset, you hide your tears and go silent. You’re a walking contradiction, which makes me even more confused as to why I feel this- hey, why are you laughing?”

He glared at your figure shaking with laughter and a clear expression of understanding written all over your face.

“Nothing, it’s just… I think we both know why you’re feeling this way, Scara,” you whispered as you leaned in to cup his cheek. He shied away from your touch but still accepted it.

“Don’t make me say it,” he grumbled quietly. “It’s embarrassing.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into your hand cradling his cheek.

“But it’s the truth, is it not? In that case, what is there to be embarrassed about?”

“But…”

You’re so close to him that he could feel the soft exhale of your breath tickle his cheek. He looked away, avoiding eye contact with you, but he could still feel your burning gaze of adoration on his skin.

“Say it,” you breathed. “I want to hear you say those three words, Scara.”

“... You are the one I hold dearest to my heart,” he finally whispered. “You are my first and only love.”

The gap between you closes. He saw the moonlight reflected in your irises clearly and your eyes glimmering with hope, heard the way your breath hitched in anticipation. As his lips brushed against yours, he finally whispered those three words you’d been longing to hear.

“I love you.”

With a start, you are brought back to reality. Lesser Lord Kusanali and Ena watch you with concern in their eyes.

“Welcome back,” begins the former. “How do you feel with this newfound information?”

“A little overwhelmed,” you admit. “But everything makes much more sense now.”

You turn your attention toward Ena, who eyes you warily much like a stray cat would.

“Well then? What is your verdict?” he snaps harshly. “Going to abandon me the same way my mothe- my creator did?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

You mull over your words momentarily, wondering where even to begin.

“What do you do with a broken doll?” you finally ask. Ena looks at you strangely, like he wasn’t expecting you to open with that starter of all possible options.

“Do you fill in the cracks with gold to embrace its flaws? Paint over it to hide the defects underneath? Give it a newer and stronger shell? Or perhaps discard it entirely in favor of a new one? From what I saw, you’ve cycled through all those options haven’t you, Ena?”

He looks away.

“Like the Inazuman art of kintsugi, you tried to embrace your defects when you were still known as Kabukimono. Despite being considered flawed, you still attempted to show how beautiful and strong you could be. During your time in the Fatui when you were known as the Balladeer, you hid that part of yourself underneath a veil of arrogance, hating how weak you were despite said weakness being something your first self saw as a sign of strength more than anything. As the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom or Shouki no Kami, the Prodigal, you quite literally gave yourself a stronger shell in your attempt to ascend to godhood. But despite the grandness of it all, it was nothing more than a cheap veneer on the same self-loathing that brought everything crashing down when you were so close to everything you had ever hoped for.”

You reach your hands out and intertwine them with his.

“In such cases where all other options have failed, starting over is the best decision. The neglect and decay that have accumulated over several hundred years will be purged and a new healthy base made from only the purest of white wood will be used.”

You squeeze his hands lightly.

“Sometimes, you have to let those parts of yourself go. Otherwise, you will never obtain happiness. By discarding who you once were, you’ve healed and learned how to atone for your actions.

“You’ve changed for the better, Ena. The metaphorical blood on your hands has been washed clean. So then why should I abandon you? For abandoning you who I once loved, still love, and will continue to love means invalidating all your past struggles and how much you’ve changed. What kind of lover would I be if I did that?”

Lesser Lord Kusanali claps and smiles.

“That was a good use of metaphors, (Name). I liked it!”

Ena lets out a long sigh of relief and tips his head back. He hadn’t cried ever since his creation 500 years ago but now, he was filled with the overwhelming urge to cry. There’s a burning sensation at the back of his eyes and he fights the urge to release everything he had been holding back.

Is this what people called tears of joy?

“Thank you, (Name).”

What once was has now been rediscovered, no longer consigned to a thing of the past. That which he had longed for was now finally in his arms. Ena closes his eyes and pulls you into a hug. It’s a wonderful feeling- forgiveness and love.

Maybe, just maybe, he can now finally be at peace with himself.

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