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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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sidekick-hero · 2 months

Text

"He probably thinks I don't love him, Robin. Which is... ridiculous. I do! I really, really do. I just can't say it." Steve is pacing around the blissfully empty Family Video Store, his hands making a mess of his hair as they run through it in frustration.

"This is so stupid. I* am* so stupid, it's just four stupid letters, even a preschooler can say it," he rambles, his eyes wild as they look at Robin. "Why am I like this, Robbie?" His voice breaks, along with his heart, at the thought of Eddie doubting Steve's feelings for him for even a second.

Robin walks over to him and grips his shoulders tightly, her blue eyes boring into his as she says in her firmest you-listen-to-me-now voice. "You're not stupid. This is my best friend you're talking about, so watch it." That earns her at least a half-smile, which counts as a victory considering Steve was already pinching his nose to hold back tears.

"I know you love him, Steve. Everyone knows it. One look at you when he's in the room, or even when you're just talking about him, is enough to know you love him. And I'm sure Eddie knows it too. He has to."

Robin's words soothe some of the fear in Steve's heart, knowing that she would tell him if she really thought he had messed up. But even though it's okay now, Eddie won't wait forever for Steve to say those three little words. No one would. Steve knows that his heart couldn't take being with Eddie, loving Eddie and telling him that, only to never hear it back from him.

"I don't know. Even if you're right, I feel like I'm losing him. That something in me is broken, and one day he'll realize that too, and then he'll leave." With an even smaller voice Steve adds: "I can't lose him, Robbie".

They don't hug very often. Robin shows her affection in many ways, but most of them aren't overly physical. That's Eddie's job, clinging to Steve like a koala most days, always touching Steve in some way, even if it's just his shoulder nudging Steve's. Robin pulling him into a tight hug now means a lot to him, but it's also a testament to the gravity of the situation.

With their arms around each other between the horror and action movie sections, Steve takes a moment to just soak in the comfort she offers. What happened at Starcourt messed them both up, caused them both more trauma than any teenager should have to deal with, but on a very selfish level, Steve can't help but be grateful that it happened. A life without Robin Buckley sounds like the greater horror to him.

After a few minutes, Robin gently pulls away from Steve to look at him. He's reluctant to let her go, even though he knows this is an even longer hug than the one she gave him when Nancy told him they weren't getting back together after defeating Vecna. She wanted to go to Boston, make a career, see the world. And Steve? Steve wanted a home, a place to belong, and someone to share that home with. They wanted different things, he realizes now.

That doesn't mean it didn't open old wounds, memories of how it felt to be rejected by her, his love for her thrown in his face like it was worthless. Bullshit.

As attuned to him and his thoughts as ever, a true testament to the fact that they share a brain cell, Robin says, "I think it's understandable that you can't say it. The last time you told someone you loved them, you were hurt, badly. Your heart is probably just trying to protect itself. Like a kid who touched a hot stove and got burned wouldn't touch another stove, you know?"

Steve nods, because in a way it makes sense. It just doesn't help him to know.

"But what am I supposed to do, Robin? It's not Eddie's fault that I'm broken."

"You, Steve Harrington, are not broken. Just a little bruised. There is nothing wrong with you just because you got hurt and have the scars to show for it. Like Max, because of the injuries to her leg, she cannot walk like she used to before Vecna, so she uses her crutch. She's not broken. Is she?"

"No, of course not. If anything, she's even stronger now, I saw her hit Lucas with the crutch and tell him to hurry up on the way to the movies," Steve says, smiling at the memory.

"See!" Robin waves her hand at him in excitement, almost bouncing with it. "All you need is a crutch!"

They look at each other wide-eyed before matching smiles break out on their faces, Robin's giddy at having found a solution, Steve's reflecting the tentative hope blossoming in his chest.

His talk with Robin certainly helped, but as Valentine's Day approaches, the fears and insecurities start to creep back in. It's not even like Eddie is giving him any indication that he's not happy with Steve or their relationship. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Eddie tells him he loves him almost every time they see each other, at the most random moments. Some days he whispers it in Steve's ear to wake him up, other days it's his way of saying good night to him with his arm around Steve's waist and his hand over Steve's heart in a protective grip. He says it casually when Steve brings him breakfast in bed or lunch to the record store where he now works. Just yesterday he said it while Steve was buried deep inside him, their hands intertwined beside Eddie's head and brown eyes looking softly up at Steve.

It's not meant to make him feel bad about himself, he knows that.

He still does.

So when he opens his front door to the sight of Eddie standing on his doorstep in his nicest jeans and a forest green button-down Steve has never seen before, clearly having put some real effort into his appearance, Steve almost crumbles.

He's a shitty boyfriend, isn't he? There's this amazing guy who goes out of his way to look nice for Steve, even though he doesn't even like Valentine's Day, just because he knows it's important to Steve. And he can't even tell him he loves him.

Some of what he's feeling must be showing on his face, because Eddie's cheerful smile falls and he hurries into the house to pull Steve into his arms, slamming the door shut with his foot.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry, I told Dustin green wasn't my color, but he insisted. I look hideous, don't I?"

That makes Steve snort wetly into Eddie's neck before muttering a fond "Idiot" into it.

Eddie just hums, obviously pleased with himself for making Steve laugh. "You can tell me. You know I don't mind getting naked for you."

"You're getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

Eddie grinned wolfishly at him. "I don't know, the tear in my Hellfire shirt from when you ripped it off me begs to differ."

Steve blushes at the memory, even as he laughs at Eddie's words. Instead of saying anything else, Steve pulls him back into his arms and Eddie goes willingly.

"Hi, baby," he says, his nose brushing behind Steve's ear.

"Hi." Steve breathes him in, the smell of cigarette smoke and his shampoo strong where his nose is buried in Eddie's hair.

They don't let go for a long time.

It's Eddie who pulls back first, and Steve does his best not to read into it. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

The Steve from before the Upside Down would have just shaken his head and told Eddie that everything was fine before pulling him into the bedroom to reassure them both that it was. Not talking about his feelings, fears, and needs might have worked for hookups, but he learned the hard way that it doesn't work when you want to be in a relationship.

So Steve takes Eddie's hand and leads him over to the couch where they both sit facing each other. They don't let go of each other's hands.

"I know you're probably wondering why I haven't told you... why I haven't said it yet."

Eddie's eyebrows disappear behind his fringe. "It?"

Sighing, Steve watches his fingers run over Eddie's knuckles. "You know. That I love you."

"Oh."

It's hard to place Eddie's tone, and even harder to place the silence that follows, but it makes his knee jiggle with nerves and his stomach churn. Usually it's Eddie who tends to fill the silence between them when it feels too big, too heavy, but today it's Steve.

"It's not because I don't want to, I swear. It's just," another frustrated sigh, the hand currently not held by Eddie's rubbing over his face, "I just can't say it. And I am so, so sorry, because you deserve to hear it. Every day. But I can't... I can't. So I understand if you don't want to do this anymore. You deserve better, Eddie. You really, really do."

Eddie lets Steve's words settle between them, aching and raw, but he never lets go of Steve's hand.

"You're right," he finally says, and the sound of Steve's heart breaking is deafening to his own ears. Pinching his nose, he tries to take his hand back from Eddie, but his boyfriend (if he can still call him that) won't budge. "You're right about me wondering, Steve. But that was before."

Looking up, a frown forming between his eyebrows, Steve asks, "Before?"

"Before I realized that you do tell me that you love me, every day. You say it when you tiptoe around the trailer in the morning to make breakfast without waking me. You tell me every time you pack an extra blanket or sweater when we go to the quarry because you know I always get cold. I hear it loud and clear every time you bring me lunch, even though it means you waste most of your own lunch break driving around town. It's in the way you try so hard to make Wayne like you because you know how much that means to me, and in the way you hold me after another nightmare, and in the way you kiss me sometimes like there's nothing in the world you'd rather be doing, without it having to lead anywhere, just because you like kissing me."

Eddie scooted forward and bridged the gap between them by taking Steve's face in his hands.

"Steve, you've been telling me you love me for months with everything except words. I don't really need them. It's just a four-letter word."

And, fuck, now Steve is crying. Eddie wipes away his tears with his thumbs, and when that's not enough, he kisses them away with his lips.

Steve is so in love with him that he has no idea how the feeling even fits in his body.

"Damn," he chuckles wetly, "that means I didn't even have to find a crutch?"

Now it's Eddie's turn to look at Steve in confusion, clearly worried that his boyfriend might have lost his mind. "What crutch? Is this a sex thing?"

Laughing and shaking his head fondly, Steve raises his free hand to his head, palm facing Eddie. Then he brings his thumb, index finger, and little finger up, keeping his ring and middle fingers down, before moving his hand back and forth slightly.

"Robin came up with this. She said if I couldn't say the words with my mouth, maybe I could say them in a different way. I thought of trying sign language," Steve adds sheepishly.

Before he knows what's happening, Eddie is on top of him, pressing him into the couch with his body weight and showering his face with kisses.

"You're so smart," kiss, "and beautiful," kiss, "and wonderful," kiss, "and I love you so much." The last part is accompanied by a lingering kiss on his lips and Steve melts under it.

Even though he obviously didn't have to tell Eddie this way, Steve is glad that he did.

He also thinks it won't be long before he can say those words, too. If anyone can help him walk without a crutch, it's Eddie.

#steddie #steddie fanfiction #steddie fluff #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 27 #love is just a 4 letter word #my writing

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dxckgrxsonx · 2 years

Note

Hello can I very kindly ask Jason Todd smut where reader asks Jason to put a baby in them and Jason very consensually yet disrespectfully did just that? It would be a dream thank you

Pairing - Jason Todd X (F)Reader Words - 2.6K Warnings - SMUT 18+ - Graphic Sexual Content - Breeding!Kink - Size!Kink (he’s a big boy and I am here for it) - Praise!Kink - Hair Pulling - Jason is a bit of a meanie - Wall Sex - Swearing - No plot, just porn - Unprotected sex - So much Dirty Talk - Fluff. Notes - Babbbyyyy, yes of course!! Jason Todd is a disrespectful little shit but good fucking god I would let this man ruin me. Just fuck me up okay?? Fuck me uuupppppp. Hope you enjoy!! If you’ve got any other requests for either Jason or Dick, send em my way!!

He wrecks you from the inside out–twists your chest half open to shove himself between the tiny space of your ribs. He’s got a smart fucking mouth–tugs you straight into blinding tailspin with nothing more than a quick quirk of his lips and a bright flash of perfect teeth. Rough and mean but so incredibly kind and protective–a paradox wrapped in kevlar and littered with bruises.

Jason Todd can be something wicked when he wants to be–something calculating and devastating. He uses all that intellect and training and knowledge to take you apart piece by piece–he’s clever and quick witted and gets you wet with nothing more than a look.

He’s perfect and you love him but sometimes–good fucking god–

Sometimes you hate him.

“C’mon sweetheart, open up for me.” Jason grunts, there’s a feral gleam in his eyes, pupils blown wide and highlighting the thin ring of blue left behind. His teeth clash together with a snarl as he clenches his jaw and when he looks down at you–all pressed up against him like a goddamn gift–the sound that rips up his throat makes you tremble. “Baby–c’mon...please. Open up for me huh? Be a good girl.”

A heaving gasp shudders out from between your kiss swollen lips, head thunking backwards against the wall. The fat leaking head of his cock presses against your weeping hole, thick and blunt and too fucking big. A choked off gasp reverberates around the room when he dips his head and mouths at your jaw, teeth nipping over your pulse point.

“Y’wanted this darlin’,” He reminds you, words vibrating against your throat. “Y’asked me didn’t you? Asked so nicely for me to fuck a baby into you.” Jason holds you up with nothing more than the strength of his hips pinning you to the wall, fingers clamping around your knees–shoving your shaking thighs apart so he can press his heavy cock into you–but it just won’t fit. “Why won’t you let me in, sweetheart? I thought this was what you wanted–don’t you want me to cum in you? Don’t you wanna be full?”

Your body lights up like a solar flare, bright and burning and alive. You’ve always had a smart mouth–or maybe just no verbal filter–always thrown your opinion towards someone who’s stupid enough to listen. It’s gotten you into more trouble than it’s worth–rubs certain people the wrong way and you don’t exactly blame them…you’re a lot to handle.

Except Jason Todd took one look at you and decided that you’re it–smart mouth and all. Caught your eye and swept you straight up into his gravity without a second thought. Sometimes you think he might regret it a little–especially when you manage to piss off the wrong people–but he never fails to surprise you.

And when you jokingly asked him to put a baby in you, he surprised you yet again–made you eat your own words. Out of all his qualities, you think you like this one the best–love the fact he challenges you–puts you straight back in your place.

“Jay…” You plead, fingers scrambling for purchase over his broad shoulders. “Jay–please! M’tryin, I swear I am. You–you’re too fuckin–hng–” Tears bubble up along your lower lashes, eyes wide and pleading. Your thighs flex against Jason’s firm grip and you feel him smirk over the hollow of your throat. “You’re too big…oh–please!”

“I just don’t think you’re trying hard enough baby. I mean, look how wet you are–your pussy is dripping for me, and you mean to tell me I won’t fit?” The horrible mocking tone of his voice makes you whine–makes your cunt clench up tight like a fist. Jason keeps you spread open, thighs split wide around his hips so he can rub the length of his cock through your slit–he drags the fat head from your clenching hole to your clit–the sensation sparking like electricity through your veins. “M’gonna make it fit sweetheart, gonna stretch your little pussy open and fill you up.”

Catching his leaking tip at the weeping entrance of your cunt he groans something feral in your ear and shoves forwards–hips flexing and thick muscular thighs straining. He sinks halfway into your tight little hole before stopping, breath catching hard in his lungs when you clamp down around his length and stop him in his tracks.

Jason glances down your body, sharp eyes fixating on the sight of your puffy cunt swallowing his cock inch by inch. Pulling back he surges forwards and rocks into you, dragging a low moan from your mouth as he grinds against the swollen mess of your clit.

“Jay–” You keen, eyes rolling backwards into your skull. “Oh…please, please put a baby in me–please!”

He chuckles, throat thick with lust, “Y’have to let me in first baby–gotta let me into your sweet cunt. C’mon, it’s not that hard. Why won’t you open up, huh?”

“S’too big!” You wail, blinking back tears. “Y’too big, Jay. It won’t fit.”

Jason snarls, tugging you forwards and slamming you back against the wall, eyes wild. Sweat dots along his hairline, teeth gritted into a mean little growl. The tension in his arms makes the muscles bulge, thick veins puffing up along his biceps–you feel almost drunk on him, on his scent, on the dangerous look in his eyes.

“It’s not too big, you’ve taken it before baby–haven’t you? Fucked yourself on my cock until you’ve cried and creamed all over it like a little slut. It’s not too big–” He thrusts forwards, finally getting your walls to open up–to yield to him. “There you go–see, it wasn’t that hard.” He purrs.

You both moan as he sinks into you with a satisfying stretch, voices catching together and reverberating off the walls. Pressing your forehead to Jason's, you sob at the wet sound of your pussy squelching around him–slick leaking around the sides of his cock and smearing over his navel.

It’s almost too much, “Please Jay–shit, fuuck–please. I-I can’t, oh god–I can’t.”

Drawing back then surging forwards he fucks into you hard enough to make your whole body jolt, “I don’t care. You can take it–you will. I’m gonna make you take it. Y’asked me for this sweetheart, begged me to put a baby in you and that’s exactly what i’m gonna do.”

You hate him–hate how he stuffs your own words back down your throat, makes you choke on each stupid vowel. But good fucking god if it doesn’t make you wet–makes you want to clamp down around him and come and come and come.

Rocking your hips up against his harsh grip you try to get him deeper–try to get the fat head of his cock pressed as far inside your soaking cunt as possible. Jason groans low and thick in your ear, his breath fanning down your neck and dragging a shudder up your spine. His fingers flex around your knees and he hoists you higher up the wall–spreads your thighs even wider.

“Touch yourself for me sweetheart, wanna feel your pretty pussy squeezin’ me.”

Clamping one hand on his shoulder you use the other to snake between your bodies. Brushing down your stomach you press the pad of your finger to your clit–it twitches hard at the contact and you moan, pleasure sparking white hot all over. Dipping down to where Jason stuffs his cock into your weeping hole you gather your wetness and smear it over your cunt.

Circling your clit you rub over it with tight circles, pressure firm and unwavering. Opening your mouth on a heaving gasp you moan when Jason presses his mouth to your own, teeth sinking into your bottom lip and firing that perfect hint of pain through your veins. Licking into your mouth he slides his tongue against your own and you drool at the taste of him–find yourself chasing his mouth when he pulls back with a cocky grin.

“C’mon baby, don’t you want to come for me?” He teases, fucking into you at a steady pace, cock hitting all the most perfect parts inside you. He mouths along your jawline, nipping at your pounding pulse before sucking a mark there–just because he can, because he wants you to look at it and think of him. “M’not filling you up until you come sweetheart ‘nd I’m real fuckin’ close so you better hurry up.”

“Ah–shit. Okay, okay…just–please don’t–” Clamping around his length hard, your pussy convulses—almost like you’re trying to push him out—clit swelling against your fingers. Throwing your head back you moan, voice high and breathy. Your head feels fuzzy, eyes unfocused.

“Don’t what?” Jason urges, lips quirking up at the edges at the pretty fucked out look on your face. “Don’t what baby?”

Teetering on the edge of oblivion you feel tears burn at the backs of your eyes. The pleasure feels alive inside you–feels like it’s going to make you burst at the seams.

“Oh god, Jason! Don’t stop–please don’t stop!” Your body shakes in his grasp, muscles trembling as you reach out and touch the edge of orgasm. You trail off into a heaving babble, words sticking against the inside of your mouth. “Please–please! M’so close.”

“M’not gonna stop baby. Not for anythin’” He assures you, doubling his efforts and slamming his cock into you at a pace that borders pain–strong hips knocking against your own and sending you directly into the goddamn stratosphere. “Come on, y’want to be a good girl for me don’t you? Come for me sweet girl, wanna feel you.”

You’ve never been one to deny him–Jason Todd deserves everything good in the world, the least you can give him is this.

You clamp down like a vice, pussy pulsing around his thick girth. Every twitch of your puffy clit makes you cry out, voice hoarse and pleading. Your cunt gushes, slick seeping around his cock and smearing over his navel and upper thighs. The sensation makes heat scathe up your neck, embarrassment skittering over your skin—you’re making such a mess.

“That’s it pretty girl–so good for me.” Jason coos, soft mouth slanting over your own and swallowing the desperate noises ripping up your throat. His pace refuses to falter and the overstimulation makes you want to flinch away, but you’re trapped between his unyielding body and the wall. Wetness coats the length of his cock enabling him to rock into your cunt without resistance–the slick slide of him rubbing over that sensitive spot inside you.

Your orgasm starts to fade, but Jason doesn’t stop, just keeps going, pounding into your pussy without restraint. Copper coats your tongue when your teeth sink into his lower lip, skin splitting under the strain and smearing over your mouth. He pulls back and stares you down, mouth twitching into a feral grin–blood coats his teeth, you think he gets off on the taste of it–you do too.

“Jay,” You gasp, “I-I can’t–fuck.”

“Shut up.” He grunts, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “I’ll make you take it.” Your vision whites out at the edges and Jason’s furious rhythm begins to falter, thrusts turning sloppy and uncoordinated. Tangling your fingers into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck you pull–hard. “Shit! Fuck–do that again, baby, please d’that again!”

Tightening your fist you wrench his head back–expose his throat–and he moans, all low and pretty, eyes rolling back into his skull. His cock twitches in your cunt–getting impossibly harder. You know he’s close–can feel him tremble against you.

“You’re so pretty, Jay.” You grin, dragging your teeth over his throat and sucking a dark mark there. He preens under your words, chest heaving. “C’mon pretty boy, can you come for me? Want you to fill me up, Jay. Want you to put a baby in me.”

His voice cracks when he calls your name in warning, jamming his cock as far into your cunt as it’ll go, thighs shaking–full balls pulling up tight. Rocking your hips up against him you press soft little kisses over his neck, fingers still fisted in his hair as he comes.

He absolutely floods your pussy, come spilling out around the edges of his cock–you feel it dripping warm and sticky down the inside of your thighs. Clamping your squishy walls around his length Jason whines, grinding his pulsing cock into you as he pumps rope after rope of come into you.

“You’re so good for me, Jason. Such a good boy.”

Carding your fingers through his hair he sags under your touch as he comes down, harsh breaths evening out. Wrapping your legs over his hips, Jason hooks his hands under your thighs to hold you against him, cock still trapped in your pussy–preventing his release from spilling out of you.

“You’re such a little shit. Y’know that?” Jason grumbles, pressing his forehead to your own.

“Me?” You croak, mildly outraged. “I haven’t done a single thing wrong in my life.” Pulling back and pinning you with a deadpan stare Jason raises an eyebrow. “Alright, fine! I may have done a few stupid things–but no more than like…five.”

“Seriously? Five.”

“Shh.” You say, smothering a yawn. “Unless the next word out of your mouth is pizza, m’not listening.”

He’s silent for a beat, eyes softening as he drinks you in–flushed and sweaty and beautiful. There’s a quick skip of your heart, a surge of warmth flowing through your veins. Sometimes, when you look at him, you can’t believe he chose you–looked at you and decided that out of everyone, you deserve his time and attention. If you think about it too much, you know that you’ll cry–his love doesn’t come easy and you know that for the rest of your life, you’ll prove to him that it’s worth it.

“I love you.” Jason smiles, all crooked and perfect and yours.

“What was that? I wasn’t listening.”

Biting back a smile he leans in and kisses you–all slow and tender. The gentle push and pull of his mouth makes your eyes flutter shut, hand cupping the nape of his neck to hold him there. Licking into his mouth you sigh at the taste of him, tongues sliding together. Your lungs start to burn and you lean back, breaking the kiss to suck in a full breath.

Jason looks at you–sharp eyes flickering over your face. Having his full, undivided attention sometimes makes you uneasy. He’s a calculating son-of-a-bitch when he wants to be, and he’s managed to catch you off guard more than once. You wonder for a brief moment what’s going through his head.

Sweeping your fingers over the back of his neck you feel him shudder.

“I love you.”

No matter how many times you tell him, Jason still gets a whisper soft look of awe on his face–almost like he can’t believe that you’re real, like he can’t comprehend the fact that you love him. It breaks your heart each time, the fact that someone as precious as him doubts that any ounce of love towards him could be real.

Cupping his flushed cheeks you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones and tip his head down. Pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead you linger for a beat before releasing him from your hold and allowing him to raise his head to look at you.

Waiting for his eyes to meet your own you smile, mouth lifting up at the edges.

“I love you.” You repeat, firmer, more insistent.

His watery smile breaks over you like the dawn and you know that Jason Todd holds your heart in the palm of his hands.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd smut drabble #dc fanfiction #dc fanfic #ella writes #drabbles #asks

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aplaceforyourhearttorest · 5 months

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Missus Eat Pavement ⭒ James Hetfield (18+)

Part One

Part Two

Your heartbeat ricochets through your chest and against your ribcage as you take in the unfamiliar setting around you, anxiety caging you in as the barricade surrounding the stage digs into your navel and the shoves against your back almost pull you over it.

Behind you, you can almost hear your friend's call out to you as they're pushed farther back into the crowd and near the pit, but you couldn't be too sure. The bright lights that were once filling the first half of the outside arena, dim to a low and almost translucent yellow as music abruptly begins and quickly ascends into a fast and rhythmic beat. Cheers ring out and reverberate harshly against your eardrums, causing you to wince and almost cover them in shock from the sudden onslaught of sound.

Your hands shake as your eyes are forced to readjust to the low glare coming from the propelling lights that shuffle across the stage, your palms damp from the iron-clad grip you have against the unsteady metal in front of you.

Through your peripheral vision, as you look around in panic as the pressure and weight against your back begins to lift your feet from the ground, you see a head of curly, dirty blonde hair settle into place on stage, not even twenty feet away from you.

Bright blue eyes sweep over the first few rows of screaming fans and an excited smirk begins to adorn his lips, before his eyes widen as you come into view, your face pale with dread as your knee buckles over the barricade and gravity remorselessly plummets you forward.

A yell from the stage bleeds over the loud thrum of music, as your palms fly forward to try to stop the uncomfortable landing on the concrete beneath you, but to no avail. Uneven gravel makes harsh contact with your bare skin, causing red to bubble up and cascade down your fingertips and shins.

Crying out from the sting and the harsh impact, you shut your eyes in pain, and you gasp in a deep breath, oblivious to the sudden halt of music and the silence now weighing down around you.

Your stomach churns as you shakily lift your upper half and lean back to sit on the heels of your shoed feet, wincing as small pieces of gravel dig into your injuries from the movement. Tears spring to your eyes as you look down in shock at the now raw and scuffed skin on your hands and wrists, and you jolt up at the frantic sound of multiple sets of feet hastily making their way over to you, your anxiety accelerating as voices from the crowd behind you begin to pick up once again.

"You're no use now, man. Just like you weren't when she fell. Might as well go back anyway." A mellow voice condescendingly drawls out, causing you to look over and make eye contact with a young man in a no-sleeve, skull printed t-shirt. The annoyed expression on his face ceases as he takes in your tear-stained cheeks. Wincing and letting out a low whistle as he looks down at the matting mess on your legs and lower parts of your arms, he hesitantly offers you a palm and sends you a gentle smile when you slowly accept, his hand wrapping around one of your elbows.

"Do you know who I am?" He asks out over the background noise, letting out a hum of amusement as you shake your head no. "Well, that's alright, babe. My name's Kirk, and I'm gonna take you backstage so someone on our team can help you get all nice and cleaned up. We'll come and check up on you after."

Shaking your head and wincing at the rush that comes along with it, you lean on his shoulder as he guides you into a standing position, uncharacteristically at ease with him beside you. "I don't want to be a bother. I'm sure it just looks worse than it actually is." You murmur, trying to keep your own worry out of your tone. Refusing to look back down at the blood in fear of feeling dizzy once again, you instead glance up at the other members on stage. Your eyes widen, surprise flooding through you as you realize that the show was stopped for your well-being.

A man with a pair of drumsticks squats down in front of his set, his face impassive as he wields his bangs back into a worn-out headband, his eyes hardening as he stares behind you at the security. Another man with wild, curly dark hair that's slightly shaved on both sides, sits on the edge of the stage, his bass resting against his thigh as he tries to quiet down the crowd with his raised hands. He sends you an apologetic grin as the crowd seems to get louder instead. Kirks speaks up before you can assess the rest of the members, catching your attention once again.

"I'd say we've bothered you instead, seeing as to how well you're doing at one of our own concerts." Kirk muses, his sharp teeth shaping into an easy going and charming grin. Wrapping an arm around your waist and mindfully placing one of your own around his shoulders, he lets out a playful huff as he straightens you both up and begins to walk carefully.

Smiling despite the amount of pain you feel, your anxiety begins to slowly ease as you're guided away from the unrelenting crowd, and toward a long hallway with a multitude of doors. Momentarily pausing mid-limp, a chill runs through you as you feel a set of heavy eyes staring at your retreating figure. Looking over your shoulder, you freeze as your eyes make contact with the blonde-haired frontman, his eyes beading into you and watching your every step. The honeyed light that propels itself around the stage, makes its way to him and basks him in the tinged luminescence. His once bright blue eyes, now stare back at you with a darkened look, causing the light reflecting itself in his eyes to look like a star in the night sky. You blink repetitively, as if you were in a daze, before hastily looking away as his face sets into a grimace and he places his attention back on to the crowd.

"Is he mad at me for ruining the show, or something?" You ask wearily, your stomach ridden with nerves as you watch the man tighten his grip on the microphone and open his mouth to begin to yell.

Raising an eyebrow, Kirk looks over to his band member, before smiling cheekily to himself.

"No, that isn't anger, sweetheart. He's worried about you, just doesn't know how to show it," Kirk reassures you. "That's James, by the way. And if you think that reaction is bad, wait until we're done, and I'll tell you all about the time this girl actually ate shit at one of our shows."

⭒

You smile gratefully as the last bandage is wrapped around your upper thigh, the medic on standby lightly tapping your kneecap before standing up.

"Now that's one way of getting some rockstar's attention, huh?" She teases, the crow's feet on the sides of her hazel eyes becoming more apparent as she grins down at you. Blushing in mortification at what happened earlier, you go to place your head down in embarrassment, before pausing as your neck begins to protest.

"Please don't remind me," You groan out, your gauzed palms wrapping around your sides as your stomach begins to flutter. "I don't think I can ever show my face around here again. And I don't even know most of their names. I barely even knew which band I was coming to see before this morning." Eyes glancing at the large sticker on the wall that says METALLICA in a grunge and outstanding font, you try your best to push back the feeling of dread. Of course, you'd embarrass yourself and bust ass in front of one of the biggest bands in the world.

Letting out a placating sound, the elder goes to place a warm hand on your sore shoulder, before turning her head towards the now opening door. Pursing her lips to hide her fondness as the members barge their way in, she silently waves at you before making her way out.

You let out a sigh of relief as Kirk is the first one to make his way through the door's entrance, uncaring as the door slams loudly against the wall and the doorknob wobbles despairingly in its wake.

"She's alive." He croaks out, his terrible impersonation of Frankenstein causing you grin widely and forget about your prior accident. Kirk pushes his sweat-laden hair back from his face and plops down next to you, before grabbing ahold of the nearest half drunken bottle of beer and guzzling it down in one shot. You watch in nonhidden interest as he goes to grab another, your own throat starting to feel heavy as you watch him go at it like a madman.

"Put down the Old E before you need to get your stomach pumped, you crazy bastard." Another member yells out, his accent making him sound slightly drunk himself as he stumbles in, his headband now wrapped around his wrist and his expression more youthful. Your smile turns into a grimace as he faces you and begins to laugh.

"The girl of the hour, Missus Eat Pavement!" He chortles out, his face going playfully serious as Kirk throws an empty beer can in his direction. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm glad you're alright, and James really chewed security a new one. The asshole's were beaming red for the rest of the hour."

Ears perking up from the sound of his name, you peer at the door before slumping back down in your seat. The man and his other band member were still nowhere to be found.

"Lars Ulrich," The heavily accented man announces as he crouches down to haphazardly reach for a beer in the mini fridge. "And the one you seem to have a hard on for and Jason will be back in a little while." Kirk sputters around his bottle as he struggles to swallow his current mouthful, while you shrink into the cushioned sofa and try to make yourself as small as possible without irritating your injuries.

"He just seemed angry is all." You mutter, taking interest in the ceiling as Lars sends you an amused look that blatantly says bullshit. "And you're into that?" He asks you, his tone turning judgmental, before his eyes fill with mirth as footsteps begin to echo in the hallway next to where you're sat.

The pit in your stomach comes back full force as the man who you now knew was James makes his way into the dressing room, his eyes immediately meeting yours as soon as his feet step over the wooden floor's entrance.

"Feelin' better?" He asks you, the cadence in his tone making your gut clench involuntarily. Mentally shaking your head at yourself in disbelief at how you were reacting to just his presence and sound, you physically nod and send him a small smile. "I am, thank you."

Eyes still on you as he makes his way over to one of the chairs across the room, James nods as he catches a beer that's thrown at him. "Why have security if they aren't even going to do their fucking job?" He grits out, his calloused thumb snapping open the can with an audible click. You swallow thickly as you catch the animosity in his tone, while Kirk and Lars send each other a knowing glance.

"Be glad your girls in one piece, at least. Remember the last one that was shoved over? Had to get her first four teeth redone." Lars shivered out, unknowing that his words would make the both of yours cheeks color, though yours were only apparent. James roughly runs a hand down his bearded chin and clears his throat, finally moving his gaze to the condensation running down his alcoholic beverage.

Kirk clicks his tongue and nods reverently, his hand tossed in the air as he closes his eyes in exhaustion. "That's the one," He exclaims, hand blindingly reaching over to lightly smack you on the shoulder. "Better to chafe ass than eat it, am I right?"

"Depends on who's ass it is." Lars cackles, causing the room to erupt in howling laughter. An easy grin makes its way onto your face as Jason tiredly walks his way in.

"Hey! Glad to see you're doing alright." He beams, his heart shaped smile causing your grin to soften. You thank him politely as he passes you a cold beer and sprawls himself out on the carpeted floor. Comfortable silence fills the room, before Jason's head pops up.

"Hey, did you come here with anybody? It's getting late." Eyes widening as your friends come back to mind, you quickly go to stand up, before wincing in place.

James' eyes follow you as you begin to panic, disappointment filling him as he automatically assumes you must have come with a date.

"Can I borrow a phone?" You ask, kicking yourself for forgetting about your friends so easily. Lars nods and walks toward you, his available hand outstretched for you to use as leverage. Carefully grasping onto his with your own gauzed one, you send him a grateful look as he nods toward the hallway.

Kirk slowly opens his eyes and shifts to fully face James as you make your way out of the room. "She didn't say anything about a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and we've all seen the way you've been acting since your eyes landed on her," Kirk rushes out, speaking at a volume he's sure you wouldn't be able to hear coherently. "I suggest you make your move and grow some balls before we leave this pissbucket of a town and you never hear from this girl or see her again."

Jason hums out an agreeance as Lars nods with Kirk's words. "I agree, she's cool. Can't find her balance to save her ass, but at least that'll make her fall for you even quicker."

James shakes his head in disbelief, before laughing wholeheartedly at his longtime best friend's twist of words. "Shut the fuck up," He huffs out amid laughter, before placing his beer down and wiping his hands off on his jeans. Taking a deep breath and brushing his fingertips against his palms in an anxious tick, James hesitantly makes his way over to you.

His heart swells as he watches you laugh without restraint, joyous at the fact that you were still able to find humor after such a traumatizing event.

"I'll be alright, I promise. I've been taken very good care of, everyone has been great," you say into the phone's receiver, your cheeks beginning to redden as James leans against the wall nearest to you and sends you a reassuring smile. "I should go, I'll try to be home soon. Don't worry about me, guys. Buses are going straight through until two, so I've got plenty of time to catch one before it's too late."

James bites back a triumphant grin as he finds his in, and patiently waits as you say your goodbyes. Reaching over to place the phone back into place, you raise an eyebrow at the content look on the handsome man's face. "What?" You ask, your tone inquisitive.

"I can give you a ride home instead. It's no big deal, producer gave it to us to borrow for joyrides in the small towns we tour in. I'm sure you aren't more than twenty minutes away, and it'll be a lot safer." Watching as you bite your lip in worry, James licks his own in response.

"But you were on stage for over an hour, and I'm sure the other guys don't want to be dragged along." You respond unsurely, guilt already weighing you down from keeping the guys up and taking up enough of their time.

"I was actually hoping it would just be the two of us, this time at least. Since we're here for another few more nights." Butterflies create a frenzy in your gut as you watch his expression turn hopeful, his eyes glancing down at yours with an intimate intensity.

"If you're sure." You trail off, before biting your bottom lip in excitement as James' lips spread with a wolfish grin.

"Just follow me."

⭒

"What the hell is this?" You ask in between laughter, causing the singer and guitarist next to you to chuckle as well.

"This, is Bessy. And she's here to give you the ride of your life." He bellows out loudly, causing your cheeks to hurt from the way they spread widely with amusement.

"So, Bessy is also known as The Beast, huh?" You ask, your ribs aching as you're guided towards a black truck with horns attached to the front of the hood. James hums out an answer as he opens up the passenger side door, and hesitantly grazes his large palms against your waist.

"Is it alright if I lift you up a little?" He asks huskily, the scruff of his beard grazing against the sensitive skin underneath your ear. Biting back a gasp and holding off a shiver, you nod in agreement. Your eyes close in temporary bliss as he lifts you up easily and deposits you onto the elevated seat, the callouses etched into his skin dancing across your goosebump-ridden flesh as he lets you go.

James watches, enrapt, as your eyes close momentarily, before opening up a shade darker. He has to take a deep breath and force himself to gently close the door before slowly make his way over to the driver's side.

You carefully run the tips of your fingers over the leather interior of the truck as he situates himself and inserts the key into the ignition. James lets out a sputter of unfiltered laughter as you gasp out in shock from the loud rumble the truck lets out as it turns on.

"Not used to big trucks around here?" He asks you playfully, causing you to look over at him. "Never had a reason to get inside of one until now, I guess." James' breath catches in his chest as his eyes rake over your delicate features, your tone coming out at-ease and tranquil.

"You're doing something to me, doll. Something I'm not entirely used to."

The honesty and bluntness in his voice causes your heart to flutter, and you grip the uninjured skin of your thigh to hold yourself back. "James," You murmur out, your voice coming out strained. "Please, take me home and kiss me goodnight."

Clutching the steering wheel tight with one hand and the other securing itself around the gear shift, he makes you an offer. "Only if I can do it again tomorrow night."

⭒

Strong hands entangle themselves into the tendrils of your hair, holding you in place as you gasp out against flushed skin. Your bitten-red and swollen lips gape open as the gruff of James' beard teasingly makes its way down your neck, and his hot and heavy tongue trails its way down to your collarbones.

Desire thrums through you and your hips raise with the sensation, the material of your skirt stretching as your thighs spread open, your clit beginning to pulsate.

"James." You moan out, before wrapping your hand around his throat delicately, holding him upright as his eyes close in ecstasy and his breath stutters. Carefully sliding off of his lap and being careful not to rub against any of your bandaged cuts and scrapes, you grin enticingly as your eyes take in the love marks you left on his readily available skin.

Pressing your thumb into the red and blotchy hickey that adorns the skin right where his beard ends on his neck, you clench your thighs together tightly at the sound that emanates from the man beside you.

"Thought you only wanted a kiss." You breathe out heavily, your hair a mess and disarrayed on your shoulders.

Opening his eyes blearily and letting out a soft sound of disbelief and desire, James rebuts, his entire expression screaming out disheveled. "Thought you only wanted a ride home." Gentle laughter bubbles up in your throat, and James smiles and reaches over to grasp at your hand. Raising it to his lips and placing a delicate kiss over the gauze wrapped around it, he asks you, "Tomorrow?"

Carefully rearranging your fingertips to graze your pinky against his, you quietly promise and reassure him.

"Tomorrow."

#metallica #james hetfield #james hetfield smut #james hetfield fluff #metallica x reader #james hetfield x reader #metallica imagines #metallica smut

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youreallyshouldtalkmore · 1 month

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Kiss from a Rose_Part 1

A.N: A three part series featuring Neuvillette x Reader!

Genshin Impact MasterList

------

Explain, exactly how, HOW the devil did the Iudex of Fontaine and your husband go missing overnight?

You had gone to bed after returning home from a dinner with Monsieur Neuvillette. He was well and dandy when you parted from him. There were times when he returned to his office instead of heading home.

This was such a night.

Next you knew, you had a bunch of Melusines banging on your door, half of them in tears, headed by Sedene. It took you a moment as you rarely saw her outside, manning the desk at Palais Mermonia.

But then you quickly realized the gravity of the situation once you were able to piece together what exactly happened. That morning, Neuvillette had decided to visit Merusea Village for some business or another.

Nothing out of the ordinary there.

But then they barely turned away, and it was like he suddenly disappeared!

This sent Merusea Village into a state of panic, as several came to alert their friends that worked above ground. And even after lunch was well and over, Monsieur Neuvillette was nowhere to be found.

Which lead to Sedene, personally, coming to find you with an entourage of Melusines that she had picked up along the way. Their usual calm was nowhere to be seen.

You had managed to calm them down and told them to take you to the last place that they had seen him.

You refused to start panicking and right now; you needed to keep a cool head.

That was two days ago.

You were beginning to panic a little by now.

In the interim, all of Fontaine had quickly found out that the ludex had gone missing. Amidst the hand ringing and drama of it, you had met up with Traveler. The two of you were close to the Melusines and more importantly were trusted to be within the village. The Traveler had looked over the village but found nothing amidst either.

You both expanded your search, starting with the surroundings of the Beryl region and working out. Traveler and you both decided to enlist some help of closest friends to discreetly look around in other areas. Lyney, Lynette, Freminet and Navia were helping out. Wriothesley had also gotten wind and was keeping his ear and eyes out in his part of the world. Even Furina had volunteered her services in keeping the people calm amidst the panic (and drama of it). She mostly had the task of giving Charlotte the run-around.

You had taken to the depths of the ocean, in hopes of finding your dear husband. It was such a time when an otter suddenly appeared and began swimming around with you. You didn’t mind, as the animals were quite docile if you left them alone.

At one point, it even clung onto your back, making you smile a little. At any other time you would have thought it was cute, but right now you just wanted to see Neuvillette. How could he have vanished, seemingly without a trace?

Was he taken by someone outside of Fontaine?

You blew a frustrated breath as you swam to the surface. You were dimly aware of the otter letting go of you as you climb onto a rock and sat. Dropping your head into your hands, you tried in vain not to start crying.

But the tears slid down your cheek anyway.

“Where could he be?” you whispered.

You felt something cold touch your leg, and you jerked in surprise, looking down to see the otter. It patted you on the leg, as if to reassure you.

You smiled, “Thank you. How very sweet of you.” Your smile trembled, “I hope I can find him soon.”

The otter patted you on the leg once more.

“I don’t know what I would do if something happened to him. We combed the area! And what exactly would be a menace to him? And even if I thought of people that would want to harm him, or kidnap him and take him away, how did they do it? He should be the safest person in this entire country! Like, I keep going over it in my mind and…” You sniffed before you could help but to start sobbing, “What am I going to do? What will the Melusines do? We need him! I need him! I want my husband back!”

This was the first time you had a breakdown since this entire mess started. You had held it in, this entire time, making sure above all not to worry the Melusines. But now that it was just you and an otter, you were having a mental breakdown.

You were unaware of the fact that the sun was slowly being blocked by rain clouds until it started raining.

“Really? It needs to rain on top of this too!!” You wailed as the first drop fell on you.

You felt something hugging your leg tighter and looked down at the otter, whose big eyes were looking up at you.

Wait, why did it look like its eyes were glassy too?

You sniffed, “Too bad the rain can’t lead me to where he….is…..”

You stared down at the otter, really looking at it. White and blue, long blue tendrils like the blue in Neuvillette’s hair. It was sunny ago and it just started raining.

“I might be losing my mind…. But….” you looked away before side eyeing down at the otter, “Neuvillette?”

The otter seemed to brighten before tapping your leg once, twice and hugging it.

“Wait, are you really? You got turned into an otter?”

The otter nodded.

“Oh my…what, how…nevermind…just….get up here!” You scooped up the otter and held it tight. “Wait, we need to…hold on, let me calm down and think.”

You tried to calm your racing heart and think about this as you tried not to squeeze the life out of the otter. As such, you held the otter close, and it nuzzled you once. You were aware that part of this might be desperation, but right now you would take it. It wasn’t lost that the rain was slowly disappearing as quickly as it came.

If that wasn’t a sign….

The otter reached up and patted your cheek, almost as if it was trying to wipe away your tears.

You smiled down at him, pulling back to look at the otter as you rubbed his head, “First, are you okay? Tired, hurt? Are you hungry? ” You were aware you were firing off too many questions.

Wait, he was an animal now! Could he even understand…. ?

The otter cocked his head before nodding. Then it shook its head. You took it to mean, he was okay and wasn’t hurt.

Never mind then….

“Hungry?” you inquired again.

The otter nodded.

“Then we need to kill a fish!” You cried vehemently, “Hold on! You’re an otter now. Why haven’t you eaten yet?”

You looked down at it curiously. The otter just stared at you.

“Hmmm, just a guess, but getting turned into an otter came a shock, and you hadn’t quite got used to your body yet.”

The otter clapped its hand once.

“Thank you! I try.” You said, standing up, “No worries! I shall get some fish for you.”

Part 2

----

A.N: Remember when we had to kill an ocean to farm for Neuvillette? I felt bad for them! Some of them I refused to kill because they were so cute, but now that I’m done, the ocean is safe! Hooray!!

(They did us dirty, making the ocean creatures so cute and non-violent. Some will straight up back away from you. How am I supposed to feel then?)

#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact fanfic #neuvillette x reader #neuvillete x reader #neuvillette

101 notes · View notes

ginnsbaker · 10 months

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (12/22)

Chapter summary: Wanda and her therapist discuss the topic of forgiveness; During a 6-miler running event, Kate accuses you of forcing Yelena to stay away from her; after which you find Wanda and her new friend in the same event

Chapter word count: 6k | Warnings: None | Ship: Wanda x Reader, Yelena x Reader

Author's note: Enjoy :)

AO3 | Masterlist

Next Chapter: Thirteen

Twelve

The heavy raindrops dance in an intricate rhythm upon the streets of New York City, as Wanda’s gaze returns to Dr. Calliope Williams. She is seated opposite her, wearing the kind expression that always soothes Wanda in an unexplainable way. Mid-sentence, while sharing an anecdote about her time with you in college, she realizes you’ve been the topic (yet, again) for a while now.

"I've been going on about her too much, haven't I?" Wanda looks down at her hands, her fingers woven together.

“We can discuss whatever is on your mind, Wanda. I’m just here to listen and help you navigate those thoughts.” Calliope assures her with a warm smile.

As Wanda observes the gentle patter of rain on everything it touches, a question lingers in her mind. “Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” she wonders aloud.

“What makes you think she hasn’t?” Calliope asks.

"She’s moved on," Wanda argues, cracking her knuckles and twisting each of her fingers almost painfully. The bitter memories of your anger, the hurt she endured during those stormy weeks, remain vivid, imprinted on her soul. She can't erase the cruel image of you leaving her half-naked in her own bedroom as she pleads with you to stay.

None of your actions back then gave any indication that you wanted to forgive her.

“She's found someone new, someone who can give her the love and stability and trust I failed to provide. How can forgiveness exist in the face of that?" Wanda asks.

“It isn't bound by the presence or absence of a romantic relationship, Wanda. It transcends those circumstances. It’s about ultimately granting yourself and others the freedom to heal and move forward,” Calliope explains softly. “But, going back to your question, I’m afraid Y/N’s the only person who can answer that for you.”

“I know that. But I can’t really talk to her about it, can I? If I wanted to upset her, I definitely could.” Wanda sort of chuckles towards the end, her shoulders slumping slightly. All the amicable conversations she’s had with you over the past months were expertly navigated to avoid dredging up your shared, painful past.

"When the time is right and when both of you are ready to discuss it respectfully, you can approach her," Calliope tells her.

"And what if she never forgives me?" Wanda's voice trembles, recognizing how plausible that could be. "What if I've irreparably damaged what we had, what we could have been?"

Calliope leans in, underlining the gravity of her following words. "Wanda, it's important to recognize that you cannot control Y/N’s response or dictate the path of forgiveness for her. What you can do is show genuine regret, reflect on your actions, and strive for personal growth."

Uncertainty looms, casting a dark shadow. Being in control is one of life’s biggest illusions, and Wanda has fallen into its trap more times than she could count.

Pausing thoughtfully, Calliope tilts her head and says, "Wanda, I'd like to ask you something."

Wanda glances up, surprised to find her fingers clenched tightly into a fist. "What is it?" she asks.

"Do you believe you deserve forgiveness?"

The question hangs in the air, pregnant with implication. The rain outside seems to intensify, echoing the tumultuous emotions swirling within Wanda.

"I... I'm not sure," Wanda confesses after a beat. "I don't think I would forgive myself if I were her." A lone tear escapes her eye, streaking down her cheek, paralleling a raindrop sliding down the windowpane.

Calliope makes a noncommittal sound and then gracefully adjusts the glasses perched on her nose.

"Have you ever thought about forgiving your mother?" It carries a gentle curiosity–a clear footnote that there’s no right or wrong answer–delicately drawing parallels between Wanda's own experiences of betrayal and the concept of forgiveness itself.

“What does she have to do with this?” Wanda asks, her demeanor shifting instantly to a guarded stance.

“From what you told me before, your mother cheated on your father several times before she left you and the rest of your family. And your father, heartbroken, turned to substance abuse,” Calliope breaks off for a moment, knowing how being reminded of her tragic childhood continues to weigh heavily on Wanda.

“And that ultimately led to his death. Have you ever thought about forgiving your mother?” Calliope repeats the question.

Wanda's hollow grin etches the lines of bitter irony on her face.

“You can’t exactly forgive someone who isn’t asking for it, can you?” she retorts.

"You're right, Wanda," Calliope acknowledges, something akin to sadness in her tone. "It… It is a multifaceted process, and it becomes even more compounded when the person who has hurt us doesn't seek forgiveness or acknowledge their actions. It leaves us grappling with unresolved emotions and longing for clarity."

Calliope leans back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Wanda's face, contemplating the layers of complexity woven into their conversation. Wanda, on the other hand, looks suddenly withdrawn. Calliope can sense that her attention is divided, as is often the case when the conversation delves into her complicated relationship with her mother.

“Have you decided to answer her letters like I’ve suggested?” she asks Wanda, trying her best to seek out her avoidant gaze and rope her back to the present.

Wanda mumbles a no, face straight and devoid of any emotion.

“At least think about it,” she urges mildly. “It doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow, or even next week. However, the longer you ignore the unresolved feelings you harbor towards your mother, the more profound your resentment may grow.”

Confusion flashes across Wanda's face, her brows knitting together in frustration. “I don’t understand why she needs to seek a relationship with me. She’s managed to deceive at least one of us. Pietro talks to her all the time.” Wanda states, her voice strained with a venom she can barely hold back.

Calliope's gaze softens as she considers Wanda’s statement. "Wanda, we have to keep in mind that everyone's choices and behaviors are influenced by their own unique circumstances and motivations. Although I can't speak directly to your mother's specific reasons, it's possible that her wish to reconnect with both you and Pietro comes from a place of seeking forgiveness and reconciliation."

Wanda’s face burns at the thought that her mother is capable of repentance. "But why both of us? Why not just focus on rebuilding a relationship with one child? It feels like she wants to have it all, to mend what she broke without fully understanding the consequences of abandoning her children."

Calliope observes the tension in Wanda's body, sensing that her resentment somehow also spills over to her brother who has chosen to keep a steady connection with their mother despite both of them experiencing the pain of her leaving. She can sense that Wanda feels a little betrayed by his decision, and somewhat insecure that in this situation, he’s come out to be the bigger person between them.

"I wish I could understand," Wanda murmurs, eyes falling shut. "She abandoned us when we were so young, leaving scars that still ache. How can I reconcile the desire for closure with the fear of being hurt all over again?"

Calliope gives her a meaningful glance, as if Wanda has unknowingly stumbled upon a puzzle piece.

Following a few silent moments, Wanda connects the dots with a look of remorse.

“Is… Is this how Y/N feels about me?”

Calliope nods slowly. “It’s possible,” she says. “Just as you struggle to reconcile your desire for closure with the fear of being hurt again, Y/N might be going through similar emotions. The pain caused by betrayal runs deep, and it can be difficult to trust again, even when the desire is there.”

Wanda's eyes shimmer with regret. "I never wanted to hurt her," she whispers. “I thought if–if I simply put a stop to it and she never finds out, I–”

“I know. But it’s human nature. We are disillusioned when it comes to control. We convince ourselves that as long as we're in control, we can evade the fallout of our actions," Calliope explains.

“Other people will never make the same stupid mistake in their lifetime.” Wanda points out, feeling a sudden envy towards those who have easily exemplified unwavering loyalty.

"None of us are immune to mistakes, Wanda," Calliope reminds her. "While it may feel as though others have effortlessly avoided the same missteps, every individual has their own struggles and battles. The path is unique for each of us.”

Wanda nods, feeling a little comforted by what she’s hearing.

Calliope slowly rises from her chair, her movements purposeful as she makes her way towards the desk adorned with a pen and a notebook. She’s eager to jot down her notes while the session is still fresh.

“And as much as I want to continue this, our time is up. Shall we reconvene next week?" Calliope proposes.

Wanda, caught between a sigh and a fleeting smile, agrees to the schedule. "Sure, Next week."

She hadn’t once thought that understanding her own feelings could lead to insights on yours. It makes her more than eager to keep working on herself.

***

It’s still dark out as you stand amidst a sea of runners at the starting line of a 6-miler event being held in Central Park.

You’ve been looking forward to this the entire week, and have been rigorous in your preparation, getting up at four in the morning just so you can squeeze in your training plan despite a busy schedule at work. Aiming for nothing short of a personal record for this run, you start doing some drills on the side, getting your heart up to speed and your muscles warm. It’s a relatively cold morning, a long-sleeved shirt provides just the right amount of warmth, and the leggings you wear are rather thick, but still offer flexibility with every stride.

As you’re nearing the end of your warm-up, a familiar silhouette approaches you, their features barely discernible in the dim lighting.

“What did you tell her? Did you tell her to stay away from me?” The voice demands, causing you to straighten up. Kate maintains a jog in place, looking rather uncomfortable in her windrunner, but it’s obvious that the scowl she’s wearing has nothing to do with the freezing temperatures.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, your breath forming a visible fog as you speak.

“Yelena initiated a transfer to another team,” she mutters impatiently. “And she requested a different mentor as well.”

The blaring sound of the alarm kicks off the countdown before they release the runners. Runners around you start to position themselves, their focus shifting to the commencement of the race.

"Yelena did what? I... I had no idea..." you say absentmindedly, your voice tapering off as you feel a sudden jostle from someone pushing past you in the queue. Honestly, you don’t understand what’s so concerning about Yelena making changes in her career.

“She’s putting her career in jeopardy. First of all, everyone on her new team is going to treat her as a competition because despite being a junior, she has already won an industry award. They'll be gunning for her, ready to undermine her success. And to make matters worse, her new mentor lacks the journalistic expertise she deserves. He's essentially the epitome of political maneuvering within the company.” Kate bombards you with her reasoning, just as the starting gun pierces the air, signaling that the 6-miler has started.

“Y/N! Are you even listening–”

On instinct, your feet hit the pavement in quick, measured steps, leaving Kate just a few meters behind as you stare blankly ahead. You had anticipated the weather and conditions of this race; what you didn’t see coming was finding out that in an effort to safeguard your relationship, Yelena had taken drastic measures, making a move that you had neither requested or approved of. Not that she needs your approval on such things, but you didn’t want to be the reason if it happens that the recent developments derails her career. And seeing how Kate has been nothing but respectful of Yelena’s decision to be with you and stay friends with her, it’s quite unthinkable for Yelena to do such a thing.

Though what’s troubling you the most is the realization that she's willing to make such sacrifices very early on, believing you to be deserving of them. Deep down, you find it hard to accept such unwavering dedication from her—or from anyone, for that matter.

As you push your body forward, immersed in the run, you fail to check your watch and follow your pace. Lost in your own thoughts, the race passes by in a blur, and before you know it, Kate is emerging from out of nowhere, sprinting all of a sudden to finish ahead of you. You both cross the finish line a mere five seconds apart.

As the organizing team places the coveted finisher's medal around your neck, you duck your head in humble acceptance before making a beeline for the hydration stations. The cool liquid cascades down your throat, replenishing your parched body after the arduous race. Kate trails closely behind, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"Y/N," Kate calls out through the post-race commotion. She regrets a little that she attempted to outpace you, pushing herself beyond her intended limits in a bid to reach the finish line ahead. Glancing at your watch, a smile unconsciously graces your lips as its record of your run confirms that you have indeed beaten your personal best. With the task of reaching your goal out of the way, you turn to Kate and finally acknowledge her.

“I’m sorry, I was aiming for a specific finish time,” you murmur as your smile turns strained. “I didn’t mean to literally run away from the conversation earlier.”

"It's all good," Kate gasps, a hint of discomfort evident in her voice as she tries to catch her breath. "But seriously, how on earth are you able to carry on a conversation like nothing happened? You just ran that entire distance at an incredible pace!"

You offer a lighthearted chuckle. “What do you mean? You beat me at the finish line!”

"Yeah, and look where it got me," Kate mumbles, her words punctuated by labored breathing. "I think I’m gonna pass out…"

“Whoa, there,” you stammer, concern flickering across your face as you reach out, gently grasping her elbow to guide her away from the bustling crowd. Kate allows herself to be led to a quieter spot where she can find some relief. Then, to alleviate the tightness in her breathing, she unzips her jacket, allowing fresh air to circulate and provide some respite.

"So, about Yelena..." you say, finding a bench and settling down in a cross-legged position. The weight of the news still lingers, leaving you unsure of where to begin.

"I assume you two have talked about me and..." Kate gestures wildly with her hands.

"We did," you affirm. "And if my memory serves me right, I simply suggested for her to give you some space.”

"Dude, why would I need space? What more space could I ask for since she moved out of our place?" Kate retorts, sounding slightly exasperated.

The word "our" catches your attention. It’s exactly why you think Kate needs space. Now that you’re aware of the depth of her feelings for your girlfriend, it’s not hard to spot the subtle clues she unknowingly reveals by the way she talks about Yelena. Your concern for her trumps the slight jealousy you feel knowing someone else is blatantly in love with your partner.

"Have you spoken to her?" you inquire, choosing to overlook her rants.

"Not exactly," Kate sighs. "I think she's upset with me for carelessly letting slip that we were friends with benefits."

"I'll have a word with her," you assure, offering Kate an extra sports drink you picked up from the station.

"I'd appreciate that," Kate replies, casually uncapping the drink and taking a prolonged sip. "Her career means the world to her. If she's not willing to reconsider, then I'll submit my resignation first thing tomorrow."

"No, Kate, you don't need to do that.”

Kate dismisses your worry with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "I'm wealthy," she states as if it's a mere fact. "I don't really need a job. I just need something to keep me busy."

Wanda finishes the same 6-miler event in record time. She notes that only a small number of female participants managed to run faster than her. In her mind, she's certain she could've overtaken them if she had kept up a steady training regimen. The reality is, Wanda only rekindled her interest in running when she started therapy. Calliope suggested that exercise releases natural endorphins that boost physical energy and mental focus throughout the day.

And besides, it felt oddly comforting to partake in a hobby that her ex-wife used to thoroughly enjoy, even if it's no longer an activity you both share. Running is one of those bridges to you that she wishes to maintain, an unbroken connection that she can enjoy privately, without the worry of hurting anyone in the process. A somewhat delicate balance between holding on and letting you go. Wanda used to think that her love for you had nowhere to go, but in learning to love herself, she had discovered that she can unearth traces of you–even in the tiniest moments that paint life with vibrant hues. Love doesn’t go away–it simply transforms.

After quietly dedicating her medal to you, Wanda’s about to start her post-run stretch, when she is interrupted by a soft touch on her shoulder.

"Excuse me?"

With a quick turn, Wanda shifts her attention to the person behind her. It’s the customer from a few days ago, the one with the captivating deep brown eyes. She instantly recalls how this woman had oddly requested a 'surprise me' drink, prompting a warm smile to spread across Wanda's face.

"It's you!" Wanda exclaims, recognizing the woman as she rearranges her ponytail into a messy bun.

“Yup, it’s me,” The woman mutters with a grin, delighted to run into Wanda at this event. “I couldn’t help but notice, you're fast enough to clock a mile in under seven minutes.”

"You think so?" Wanda replies, her cheeks warming up at the unexpected compliment.

She nods at Wanda with an infectious enthusiasm. “I’m actually a co-founder of a running club. We're mostly from Queens and Brooklyn. How about joining us?”

Wanda couldn't recall the last time she had been involved in a group or community outside of work. The thought of meeting new people–individuals that share a common interest and goal–fills her with childlike excitement.

“Oh, I would love to!” Wanda exclaims. “How often do you guys meet?”

Wanda listens attentively as the woman gives her a rundown of their weekly group runs and the list of running events they had decided to join as a group.

The woman then extends her hand towards Wanda. "By the way, I'm Valkyrie, but just call me Val."

Grasping Val's hand, Wanda feels the warmth from her palm seeping into hers. “I’m–”

"Wanda. I know," Valkyrie interrupts, winking at her slyly before releasing her hand. Just as Wanda is about to respond, the sound of your voice captures her attention, taking her by surprise.

“Wanda?”

Wanda's smile trembles slightly, the vulnerability in her eyes betraying her surprise as she hears her name uttered by you. All week long, Wanda had put up walls, deciding not to contact you in an attempt to make it easier to bear the ache of missing you. But the opposite proved true. The act of holding back only amplified the very thing she’s been trying to avoid.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly turns to face you, trying her best to appear casual, “Y/N!”

Your face lights up at the confirmation that it’s indeed Wanda that you’ve spotted in the crowd.

Leaving Kate momentarily, you dart towards Wanda.

“Hey! Did you run too?” you inquire as you reach her, slightly breathless. “I didn’t spot you on the course at all.”

Wanda feels a sudden surge of self-consciousness, awkwardly sweeping a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, not from the exertion of the run, but from the self-awareness that she's soaked in sweat. She fights the urge to take a quick sniff of herself in front of you. “I, uh, started near the front, so you might have missed me,” she says, clasping her hands together, trying to hide the lingering dampness that clings to her skin.

"Damn, I completely forgot how insanely athletic you are," you say in genuine awe. "You must have crossed that finish line way ahead of me."

Barging in your conversation, Kate clears her throat pointedly from behind you.

"Oh, this is Kate," you quickly introduce, gesturing to your friend standing nearby.

"Kate Bishop," Kate reaches out her hand, giving a short, somewhat awkward wave.

Wanda reciprocates the gesture, mimicking Kate's awkward wave.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Wanda," Wanda says with a friendly smile, and then remembers as well that she has company herself. "Oh, and guys, this is..."

“Valkyrie. But everyone just calls me 'Val',” Valkyrie chimes in, finishing the introduction herself. Your eyebrows raise slightly as you take in the newcomer, realizing that you don't recognize her from anywhere. Wanda's circle of friends has always been small, and your mind is quickly consumed with thoughts of how they met.

“You and Wanda…?” you find yourself asking, unable to stop the question before it tumbles out.

“We, uh–”

“We’re–”

Wanda and Valkyrie both start to speak at the same time, before sharing a laugh, while you manage to maintain a tight smile on your face.

Breaking the brief silence, Valkyrie takes charge of the conversation. "I met her at the cafe earlier this week. I didn't know she'd be here too, so I asked her to join my running club."

Kate jumps in with a teasing tone, "Meet cute," causing you to whip your head towards her, a grave expression on your face.

“Y/N, you should come along too,” Wanda suggests enthusiastically, before quickly realizing that it wasn't her place to invite. She turns apologetically towards Valkyrie, “I mean if you're looking for more people. Y/N is pretty fast–”

“Not as fast as you,” you say to Wanda.

“–and really committed to running. Her consistency and work ethic is nothing short of impressive.” Wanda finishes coyly.

Valkyrie eyes you up and down skeptically, her gaze sweeping over your toned body, particularly over your calves and thighs as she makes her assessment based solely on your physical looks.

“If Wanda’s vouching, then I trust her,” Valkyrie says, shifting closer to Wanda, her hand lightly touching Wanda's arm.

A surge of discomfort stirs within you as you witness their interaction. You decide right away that you don’t like this Valkyrie person. Something about her just rubs you the wrong way.

“Wanda, can I have a word with you?” you ask, not managing to keep the sharpness out of your voice.

At your words, Kate looks at you expectedly, but you're too preoccupied watching your former spouse to notice it.

"Sure," Wanda agrees, slightly taken aback by your sudden request. As you both excuse yourselves, the pair of you weave through the bustling crowd, Wanda falling into step beside you.

You can't help but steal glances at Wanda as you both walk side by side, her striking profile softened by the warm sunlight bathing the park. You can feel the curious eyes of both Valkyrie and Kate following you from a distance, their watchful gazes prompting you to maintain a respectable distance between you and Wanda.

Once you've found a less crowded area, you pivot to face her, trying to marshal your thoughts into coherent words. Yet before you can speak, Wanda preempts you.

“I’m sorry I never replied to your last text,” Wanda blurts out as soon as you both come to a stop. “I was on my way to the cafe when you... and then I just forgot about it, and I only realized I left you on read the next day–"

"Wanda, it's fine," you interrupt gently, smiling softly as you observe her anxious rambling. "There's no need to apologize. Life gets hectic, and we all have those moments. How is Sparky by the way?"

“He's in better condition and has adapted to his new diet. I no longer have to force him to eat, which is definitely an improvement.” Wanda says.

“That’s a relief,” you say faintly. “I'd be more than happy to help out and take him in from time to time.”

“Yes, he'd really appreciate that,” Wanda affirms with a nod. “And I-I would, too.”

A ripple of nervous laughter passes between you before Wanda redirects the conversation back to your intended topic. "So, what was it you wanted to discuss? Is there something on your mind?" she inquires.

You swallow hard, the growing anxiety clouding your ability to articulate your thoughts. Then, a sudden spark of inspiration kindles your mind. "T-The club," you stutter, snapping your fingers as though you've just recollected a vital detail. "What's the story there? Can anyone join?"

“Val didn’t mention anything specific. But it seems like a private group. Perhaps it's by invitation?” Wanda suggests.

“And you think it's okay for me to be part of it?" you ask, uncertain.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

You shrug, your thoughts circling back to Valkyrie's smug expression and her tendency to invade Wanda's personal space. You couldn't help but sense that Valkyrie's interest in Wanda extended beyond recruiting a fast runner to the group.

And isn't it quite the coincidence that she bumped into Wanda at this particular event?

It just…doesn’t sit well for you.

(Or perhaps your trust issues are a lot worse than you think.)

"I don't think she's thrilled about me joining," you say. Wanda gives you a baffled look that you’ve always found so endearing.

“You can’t be serious,” Wanda dismisses. “We've just met her today, so I think it’s a little weird if she doesn’t like you.”

You consider challenging her perspective, but instead you offer a polite smile, keeping your reservations to yourself.

"I'll tell you what," Wanda proposes, "If you don’t join the club, I won’t either."

"Wanda–"

"I'm serious, I'd feel out of place if I didn't know anyone there–"

"I'm not sure," you retort, nonchalantly shrugging. "You seem to have hit it off with Valerie."

"Valkyrie," Wanda corrects softly, a suspicion in her gaze, as if she's attempting to decipher a riddle she can't quite solve. "Not really. I just met her the other day. She doesn't even frequent the cafe.”

“Not yet," you mumble quietly, your words barely audible. “Alright. Inform me about the training schedule and location and I'll make an effort to attend.”

“I'll do that,” she agrees, and the two of you lapse into comfortable silence.

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?” Wanda questions after a while.

"Sort of. I mean, it was getting crowded over there, and I wanted to say congratulations," you explain, a bashful smile gracing your face.

“Same to you, Y/N,” Wanda finds herself whispering the words–as if caught up in a romantic comedy movie scene, with a montage of breezy moments where the best parts of life simply pass by. It’s a feeling that’s becoming hard to escape whenever you’re around, even under ordinary circumstances; just you–with no makeup on, smelling of sweat and grass and soil–seems to just captivate her so.

“Come on,” she says and unwittingly takes your hand, biting her lip the second she realizes the contact she initiated. But she couldn't simply drop your hand as if she had been scorched.

As you near the spot where you'd left Kate and Valkyrie, you pull your hand free from Wanda's grip. Taking a deep breath, Wanda briefly manages to suppress the sting of rejection that grips her.

"So, sorted everything out?" Kate teases, her tone slightly acerbic as she addresses you privately. You can tell that she likely knows who Wanda is and can perceive the undercurrent of tension. Taking a casual walk with Wanda, especially with Kate around, might not have been the best decision, but you rationalize that you're not doing anything wrong.

You shoot Kate a dirty look in return, then bid goodbye to Wanda and Valkyrie.

"Catch you later, Y/N," Valkyrie throws in, her smirk conspicuous as she speaks just before you can head in the opposite direction.

***

You make it home just in time for breakfast. Yelena has ordered bagels and coffee, but her culinary abilities are also on display, illustrated by her recent success in frying bacon to the perfect crisp, steering clear of the usual outcome of a charred mess.

"Hey, baby, how was your run?" Yelena asks while setting up the breakfast spread on the dining table.

"I broke my personal best," you report to her, your face lighting up with pride. Swiftly, you begin to strip off your sweaty running clothes, heading towards the bedroom for a much-needed shower.

In just a few minutes, you step out of the bedroom with a towel slung over your neck, dressed in a threadbare shirt and nothing but your underwear. Your stomach rumbles loudly in anticipation of food. Yelena chuckles at your evident hunger and begins spreading cream cheese on your bagel while you add milk and sugar to your cup of coffee and hers.

"By the way," you begin tentatively, aware that it might be premature to broach what Kate had revealed to you. Nonetheless, you recognize the necessity of addressing the issue sooner rather than later. "Kate was there too, for the 6-miler. She... shared something with me that I think you should have discussed with me first. Something about a team transfer at work?"

Yelena's body stiffens noticeably, and she remains frozen for a brief moment. Her eyes betray a sense of uncertainty as she absorbs your words. But, after a few quick blinks, she collects herself and passes you your bagel on a plate.

“There's some truffle and honey in the fridge if you want to add them to yours,” Yelena offers.

An obvious deflection.

"Did you hear what I said? I said Kate–”

"Kate really ought to stop broadcasting every detail of my life whenever she has an opportunity,” Yelena mutters coldly.

“Don’t be mad at her. She was doing what she thought was right–”

“She had no right to meddle!” Yelena yells, her voice escalating, startling you with the sudden outburst. Her emotional fervor is more intense than you've ever seen, leaving you taken aback.

“She’s just worried about you,” you respond, striving to keep your voice calm to temper the situation. "But why didn't you tell me? We had an understanding that you didn't need to push her out of your life for me."

“Because it's my career–my choice,” Yelena insists, her tone unyielding. She is steadfast in her independence.

But her independence isn't the issue here. You’ve always been proud of how she can handle herself.

"Telling me about it isn’t an invitation for me to control you in any way, Yelena," you assure her. "I just wish you had enough faith in me to share the things that matter deeply to you. I care about you, and it stings a bit to be left out of these aspects of your life."

Yelena grows quiet at that, her fingers closing around her mug tightly as she processes your words and what it means for your relationship.

Trust.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust you enough–

“I feel guilty,” Yelena admits in a soft murmur, so faint that you strain to catch her words. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about how I've treated Kate, starting from when she confessed her feelings to me, right up until we started dating. Despite us being together, Kate and I remained close at work. We'd take lunch and breaks together, and we'd even take turns buying each other coffee, depending on who got to the office first…”

"It's like... I've been leading her on, you know? I've never given her the chance to get over me. I've come to realize that the feelings she had for me back then... they're still there, maybe even stronger than before. I can't keep messing with her emotions like that," Yelena confesses, sipping her coffee as if seeking solace in the soothing warmth of the drink.

You nod, the pieces finally starting to fall into place. “Did you talk to Kate about this? Or did you just cut her off?”

The guilty look that flashes across Yelena's face tells you everything you need to know.

“She thinks you're angry with her because she told me about... about what happened between you two,” you say, still a little uncomfortable bringing up the past.

Yelena lets out a sigh, her shoulders sagging. “I've been handling this Kate situation all wrong, haven't I?”

“Just talk to her,” you advise gently. Getting up from your chair, you walk over to Yelena and start massaging her tense shoulders. “She said that she would rather quit her job than let you transfer to another team and mentor."

“Really?” Yelena sounds surprised. “Did she mean it?”

"I'm not sure," you reply, shrugging your shoulders. "She simply mentioned that she's rich.”

“She’s grossly rich,” Yelena confirms, letting out a content sigh as you find a particularly tight knot in her muscle. "But she loves journalism. I won’t let her quit something she's passionate about.”

You recognize the irony in Yelena's last sentence but decide to remain silent on the matter.

“By the way, Wanda was there too,” you say carefully, watching Yelena's reaction closely. “She crossed the finish line way before me, I think. She was with a friend.”

Yelena's response is evasive, offering no real insight. "That's nice for her," she remarks, keeping her emotions well in check.

You quickly change the topic, feeling somewhat foolish for bringing up something she apparently doesn't care about, even though you were simply trying to be open and honest. You decide to avoid mentioning your ex-wife for the time being.

“Anyhow,” you segue, hoping to direct the conversation in a new direction, “Would you like to join me for my next fun run?”

“Me? Up and running at four in the morning? That's about as likely as snow in the Sahara,” Yelena replies, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “I'll just use a line from my favorite show,” she quips, her laugh filling the room. “‘Jogging is the worst, Y/N! I mean, I know it keeps you healthy. But God, at what cost?’”

Your mouth forms a small 'o' as you consider your response, feeling slightly let down that she isn't even slightly tempted to join you. “To be fair, jogging and running are not the same thing. Running recruits a different muscle group–”

“God, you’re such a nerd,” Yelena cuts in, a mischievous glint in her eyes as her hand delicately finds the back of your neck. She draws you nearer until your lips are tantalizingly close. “Keep doing what you love, baby,” she murmurs, her breath brushing over your partially opened lips. “And I'll continue pursuing mine.” Then she claims your lips in a deep kiss.

Your body instinctively melts into her touch, your hand gently tracing the curve of Yelena's waist, sending a shiver racing down her spine.

"I've got a better idea for a workout that doesn't involve clothes but might be more fun," Yelena suggests with a breathless laugh, stepping back slightly.

A playful smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth as you pull your shirt over your head.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction

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walkgojo · 3 months

Text

" JUST A BIT OF RUST. "

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✗ tags! toji fushiguro x any!reader, angst, toji fushiguro disappearance, discussion of grief.

✗ notes! this is my first fic, please don't get the pitchforks and i would highly suggest listening to someone from a warm climate by hozier on REPEAT while reading.

✗ word count: 1.8k

edit: i adjusted a few typos/missing words! sorry for any mistakes 🫧 part 2 will be coming soon.

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six seasons had passed since you saw him last. for three of those, you ignored the white motorbike that was parked poorly outside your apartment. you felt the gentle crush of salt beneath your boots the first winter, you cursed the sight of it, even as your gloved hand swept the snow from its cracked leather seat.

when the kind relief of springtime came, you noticed the edges of the rear breaks had began to rust, some damage to the frame. you stood, staring with cautious eyes. if you thought about it long enough, you could remember the warmth of his back pressed to your cheek as you arms circled his waist. you shake your head. he left you, need you be reminded. you had considered calling some sort of recycling service for the vehicle, but you felt a sort of kinship with the bike. you'd both been abandoned by toji.

you knew his job was dangerous when you had met him; he would disappear for days. you didn't know what about you had made him so fond, but you always noticed when he'd lean ever so slightly into your touch. a soft palm that cupped a bloodied cheek so kindly as the other hand wiped away the dirt from his skin.

"what is it?" you whispered, cheeks growing flushed from his steady stare.

"nothing." he breathed, hands gripping your hips as he sat patiently on the dining room seat.

a fool you'd been, you thought. to think that a haphazard relationship with a man, whose work could not even be disclosed to you, could find itself successful. a fool you'd been, imagining a life where you could come home to him every night. a fool you'd been, savoring the salted taste of his lips, as if they'd ever fully belong to you.

when you finally came to terms with the idea of total loss, you felt paralyzed. knees pulled to your chest as you curled into the couch, cheeks flushed as your eyes stung with tears. while you had reluctantly allowed rage to cradle you for a year and a half, grief felt much more suffocating.

because, what if abandonment wasn't the truth? what if the reality was that your lover had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time? facedown in a gutter, purpled and stiff flesh that was once soft and warm. what if toji no longer existed, who would know to tell you?

you bite down on the inside of your cheek, not minding the taste of copper against your tongue as you try to save yourself from the cold plunge into full distress.

if he was dead, would you have felt it? would something in your body alert you? like this sudden emptiness — not absence, but the weight of nothing pressing down into your chest. the gravity of love torn forever. the violent severance of hope, the ties it had made around your heart now cut and shredded? would you have felt that?

you felt rage, you felt grief, but hope was stored somewhere below your collarbones and above your ribcage. it had cozied itself there, it had burrowed and made a home. a place for toji.

if toji was gone, if your body had not felt the cosmic loss, he would live right there. on the same spot he laid his cheek when he came home late at night. the space between your collarbones, above your ribcage, to hear your breathing and heartbeat all at once. a reminder that the love was not a fantasy, that he had it in physical form. someone who could wipe the same tears he shed as a child, someone who smiled at him, someone who asked for more of him but asked nothing of him. that had never happened before.

—

"what was your childhood like?" you whispered, curling into his side. your voice was soft and hesitant, like speaking to a wild animal that you were afraid to spook.

there's a silence that hangs in the air, you can only hear the cars outside driving over wet pavement. it's like that for a few minutes before you hear him release a breath. "why?" you feel his arm tighten around your waist slightly, almost as if he feared that any real answer might drive you away.

“because,” a pause, “i want to know you.” your fingers slowly trace over his jaw, traversing over skin before meeting his lips. he pressed a kiss to the tips of your fingers, your breath catching in your throat. it had always surprised you when he met you with such tenderness, but you didn’t want it to surprise you anymore. you wanted to expect intimacy, tenderness, soft touches and gentle stares. so, you had to ask. “so, what was it like for you?”

“no,” he responds simply. “no?” “no, it’s only going to make you upset. it’s going to ruin whatever mood this is right now.” you roll your eyes, those gentle fingers of your now pressed to his chin, forcing him to look at you. “it’s not ruining this, it’s making it something new. different.” your fingers slowly release him. there’s a flash of understanding in his eyes and he wants to take your invitation. “it wasn’t like yours. it wasn’t what people make childhood sound like.” his fingers grabbing your wrist before guiding your hand to his face once more, placing his cheek against your palm. it was dark in the room, the only light was the street lights that filtered in through the curtains. you could barely make each other out, but you could feel him relax again. “i’m sorry.” apologies were foreign to toji — well, apologies uttered when nothing wrong had been done. he was used to the sounds of apologies as final words right before the firm snap of a neck, the crush of a skull. but, this phrase from you was different; it came like honey and was free of fear. it felt like a balm — relieving the burns of what someone else had done.

he never understood how you could do that. how you could ease some of the rage in him, enough to take the edge off, to urge him into unassuming existence as he let himself feel small for the first time. small enough to cradle, small enough to be cared for. he presses a kiss to your forehead, exhaling against your skin. the same way you felt nervous on the back of his bike before relaxing into his grip was the same way he felt now. pillow talk, whispers in the night that dared to open him wide — he needed to press of your skin to feel secure, he needed to grip your waist to know he wouldn’t fall to the wayside. you’d never let him. — the soft slam of the kitchen cabinet, you look up from the kotatsu. its drawing a soft hum from you as you sipped on a cup of barley tea. “toji,” you coo, lips curled kindly, “come sit with me.” he turned to look at you, something sharp in his gaze. it struck a chord of fear in you, something unsettling stirring in the pit of your stomach. anger, disgust, something you couldn’t describe. your gaze followed the line of his arm, a bookbag in his grip with his clothing stuffed inside.

you quickly pull yourself from the warmth; it felt like ice was beginning to cut through your skin as you stood to your feet. he was leaving. he was leaving. he was leaving in a way that felt permanent. “are you, um, headed out for a job?” you whisper, fearful that your voice would strain if you spoke any louder. he turns back to the cabinet, grabbing some snacks you had purchased and shoving them in his bag before zipping it shut. “i’ll make sure i get some more of those for you,” you try to convince yourself that the silence isn’t some sort of permanent farewell, but the white-hot pit would assure you otherwise. “i’m leaving,” toji starts and finishes all in one breath.

what is this fear in your fingertips? why do you feel as if you’re trembling?

“i-i see that. how long will you be gone? three days?” the most he’d ever been gone was twelve days, with short messages every four days. he shrugs, walking toward the door as you follow, feeling like a pathetic puppy. so much so, you almost whimper as his fingers grip the door knob but don’t dare reach for his keys. “four?” he doesn’t meet your gaze. he simply turns, hand releasing the door before pulling you hard into him once more. a kiss to the top of your head, a squeeze to your arm before he made out the door a final time.

—

you stand in front of the bike, gripping the keys between your fingers and palm, taking a deep breath. you placed your hands against the seat, unsure of what you wanted to do. to mount, to leave, to ride, to walk. you just knew you needed to leave the apartment soon but the longer you thought, the more you felt pins and needles pressed into the small of your back. beads of sweat starting to pool, eyes shutting for a moment. the summer heat had been pressing down on your chest, gripping your shoulders unkindly, your hair stuck to the back of your neck. you remembered the relief of cool wind that last summer when he’d pick you up from work, the air cooling you down as you let him take you home. you couldn’t tell what you were craving now but maybe you’d get it the moment you got on the bike.

“what do you think you’re doing?"

the voice is cool and low as you were just about to lift your foot from the ground. your breath catches, a biting chill striking you. you're frozen in place, eyes widening as your stare bores into the convenience store across the street. the sound came from behind you. you do nothing, you say nothing. you wait, thinking that maybe this was just an old memory that was echoing, a near hallucination of something that was. until it comes again. "i said, what do you think you're doing?"

a hand on your shoulder, it's firm as it turns you around. your body is reluctant, fearful to know who is behind you. it's as if all sensation leaves your flesh, as if you've been thrown into a dream. body nearly numb, ice cold in this hot summer. it takes time, but you turn, eyes meeting the expanse of his chest. you can't look up, but you know. there it is, that white hot pit now searing through your stomach and crawling up your throat. "i was going for a ride." your voice is something you cannot recognize, it's so fragile it could shatter. fingers trembling once more, like the last time. muscle memory. "you're not going anywhere, sweetheart."

#jjk x reader #jjk toji #toji x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu toji

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nyxlaufeyson · 3 months

Text

No Rhyme or Reason

Loki Oneshot Masterlist - Main Masterlist

POV: Second

Ship: Loki x Reader

Type: Hurt/Comfort; Fluff

Wordcount: 903

Synopsis: You’re feeling down for no particular reason, and when you blow up at Sam, Loki comforts you.

A/N: Was feeling sad and mad for no reason yesterday, so this is what I wrote :) hope it helps someone out there.

From the moment you woke up, you had been acting strange. Everyone had bad days, and this had turned out to be one of yours.

When you smiled at him half-heartedly and skipped breakfast, Loki could tell that something was up. He didn’t want to prod, so instead he was attentive, checking in on you and making sure that you were alright.

As you went through the motions of your day, you tried to appear as normal as possible. But, to no avail, your teammates could tell when your usually-warm laugh was fake.

They tried to be extra careful, while still trying to figure out what was bothering you. Unfortunately, Sam didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation until it was too late.

He laughed at the attitude that shone through the curtains you draped up to hide it. “Man, it must be that time of the month.”

You and him had a friendly relationship, always poking fun at each other. Which is why you wouldn’t have normally been put off by his careless comment. But with your current emotional state, you took the comment to heart.

“Thank you for being so interested in my cycle, Wilson, but it’s really none of your fucking business. So do us all a favor, and shut the fuck up for once.” You lashed out, and everyone stared at you, shocked, as you got up and left the room.

You weren’t one to typically say something like that to one of your friends, even when they said stupid shit. So everyone knew that there was most definitely something wrong.

They weren’t sure what to do, but Loki sent a glare to Sam and left the room after you. They all knew that Loki would be the best person to go after you, since you were more open with him.

As Loki left, Sam looked down, embarrassed. He felt bad, making a mental note to apologize to you later with some ice cream.

Loki found you curled up on your bed, under the blankets. The light was off, with the only traces of sunlight coming from behind the closed blinds. He knocked on the open door softly, and you mumbled an incoherent response.

He slowly crawled into the bed beside you, pulling you delicately in his arms. You instinctively settled into him, basking in the warmth that was ironic for a frost giant to provide.

After a few moments of silence, he broke it with a soft whisper. “What’s wrong, my love?” His voice was so sweet, so tender, and the words tugged on your heart.

“Nothing.” You replied, muffled since your face was still hidden by the layers of sheets and blankets. Loki pulled them away from your face so he could see you, tucking a loose strand of hair back in its spot.

He smiled at you. “Now, I know that there’s something wrong, darling. And not just to do with Wilson’s illogical remark. You’ve been distant all day. You can confide in me, you know? Tell me what troubles you. I promise to do my best to make them go away.”

A tear fell down your cheek as you looked up at him. “That’s the thing, Loki, there’s nothing wrong. There is no rhyme or reason to my feelings, but yet they persist on keeping me in this dreadful state.”

Loki wiped your tears and held your chin. “Sometimes that’s what feelings do. They decide one day for us to be happy, and one day to be sad. It happens to all of us.”

His words comforted you, but of course they didn’t make all the sadness and doubts go away. “But I shouldn’t feel this way. Normal people don’t. I shouldn’t want to punch everyone and then myself for absolutely no reason.” You let out a stale laugh near the end of your sentence, and Loki pulled you closer.

“Shhhh. Silence those self-deprecating thoughts of yours, I will not listen to their lies. You are allowed to feel this way. As I said, everyone does, even normal people. They just don’t display it for everyone to see, but they certainly do feel it.” He stroked your hair to calm you. “Of course, you are anything but normal, my love, as you are one of the most unique and exquisite creatures of the universe.”

You let yourself smile, genuinely this time. “You think so?” You asked, looking into his beautiful eyes.

He laughed. “Darling, I know so.”

The two of you layed there, comfortable with each other under the comfort of many fuzzy blankets. It was amazing that just his presence could make you feel better, and you felt your spirits begin to recharge. You might not be completely back to normal yet, but with the help of those you loved, you knew that you would be back there soon.

Suddenly, the memory of yelling at Sam came rushing back to you, and you groaned. “I need to apologize to Sam.”

Loki chuckled. “Why should you, he deserved it.” He kissed your forehead. “Plus, he’ll probably look to apologize to you first. You should have seen the look on his face when you stormed out. He looked like he was regretting all his life decisions.”

“Oh, god.” You said, burying your face into his chest. Apologies could wait. Right now, you were going to remain in your lover’s arms, where you felt safe and enough.

TAGS: (Comment or inbox me to be added/removed; along with what to be tagged for): @michief-dream @iceeericeee

#loki #loki fanfic #marvel fanfic #loki fluff #loki friggason #loki oneshot #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki/reader #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki/you #loki x yn

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doumadono · 6 months

Note

K with Kacchan and make it super angsty, you know I like it when it's bad and hurting 😏

Warnings: blood, death, f!Reader, rather off-canon (I guess?)

A/N: I had a feeling you'd choose something like this! Honestly, writing these scenes hit me hard. Kacchan's death was heartbreaking for me, and I'm sure for many others too. I hope you enjoy this little ficlet! The inspiration for this ficlet came from the following post

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

The battlefield was a chaotic swirl of dust and debris, a maelstrom of destruction that mirrored the turmoil within your heart. The acrid stench of smoke and burning rubble hung heavy in the air as you fought alongside Bakugo and others, your fellow hero students from Class 1A. The battle against All For One and Shigaraki had reached a fever pitch, and the ground beneath you trembled with the force of the clashes.

In the midst of the chaos, Bakugo fought with the ferocity that defined him, explosions erupting from his palms as he unleashed his volatile Quirk upon the villains. The deafening sounds of combat echoed in your ears, but in that cacophony, you heard Bakugo's voice, sharp and determined.

"Stay focused, dammit!" he barked, his crimson eyes ablaze with intensity.

You nodded, determination coursing through your veins. Together, you were a force to be reckoned with. However, in the blink of an eye, the tide of battle shifted. Shigaraki, fueled by hatred and power, lunged at you with a speed that defied belief. In the desperate attempt to protect you both, Bakugo stepped in front of you, taking the full force of Shigaraki's attack.

Time slowed as you witnessed the horrifying sight. Shigaraki's hand pierced through Bakugo's chest, leaving a gaping wound. The explosion hero staggered, his eyes widening in shock and pain. You screamed his name, a guttural cry that blended with the chaos of the battlefield.

"Bakugo!!!"

He turned to you, his expression a mix of agony and determination. Blood seeped through his fingers as he clutched the wound, but he managed a strained smile. "Don't… don't lose it, idiot," he grunted, his voice strained.

Bakugo's strength waned, and his once-fierce posture faltered. His knees buckled beneath the weight of his injuries, and with a heart-wrenching groan, he sank to the ground.

"No! Bakugo!" Your scream tore through the chaos, a desperate plea for aid. The sound echoed in the air, carrying the weight of your fear and anguish. As Bakugo crumpled to the ground, you rushed to his side, the world around you a blur of smoke and devastation.

Kneeling beside him, you felt a surge of helplessness. His breathing was ragged, each labored inhale a painful reminder of the life slipping away. Blood stained his uniform, pooling beneath him. Panic welled within you, but you pushed it down, focusing on the urgent need for assistance. "Someone! Anyone! Help!" Your cries echoed, reaching the ears of those still engaged in the battle.

Edgeshot rushed towards you, his expressions shifting from determination to concern as he took in the scene. The gravity of the situation hung heavy in the air, a tangible force that demanded action.

Bakugo lay motionless on the ground, his eyes half-lidded, the spark of life still stubborn and flickering.

You clung to his hand, unwilling to let go. Your fingers intertwined with his, the contact a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty. Your eyes never leaving Bakugo's face.

Tears blurred your vision as you fought to comprehend the gravity of the situation. You knelt beside him, your hands trembling as you tried to apply pressure to the wound. Bakugo's breaths were labored and shallow, and the world around you felt like it was collapsing.

"I'm not leaving you," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. "Stay calm, please, don't say anything."

Bakugo's hand reached slowly for yours, his grip surprisingly weak. Despite the agony etched across his face, there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes. "Damn right… you're not," he replied, a defiant edge to his words. "Y/N, I..."

The battlefield continued to rage around you, but your focus narrowed to the man before you, the one you couldn't bear to lose. You whispered words of reassurance, encouragement, and love, hoping against hope that he could hold on.

"I need you," you confessed, your voice barely audible over the chaos, tears streaming down your dusted cheeks. "I love you so much, Kacchan," you cried.

Bakugo's gaze locked with yours, a silent understanding passing between you. As Bakugo's consciousness teetered on the edge, his grip on your hand tightened despite his hand shaking. "Kick… their… asses… for me…" he rasped, a faint smile playing on his lips. "... my beautiful... P-princess..."

You nodded, your heart shattering as his eyes fluttered, the light within dimming. "Bakugo, stay with me," you pleaded, your voice cracking with a mixture of fear and sorrow. "Stay with me, baby, please!"

His gaze met yours, but the fierce determination that once defined him now mingled with a profound weariness. A ragged cough wracked his body, and you could see the struggle etched across his face. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, fluttered as he fought to maintain consciousness as he life was gradually escaping his body. "I… tried," he managed to gasp, the words escaping in strained intervals.

Tears welled in your eyes as you listened to his fading voice, a symphony of pain and regret.

You cradled Bakugo's head in your hands, your touch a feeble attempt to anchor him to the present. The sounds of distant explosions and the clash of Quirks became distant echoes as the world narrowed to the two of you. In those final moments, every shared smile, every heated argument, and every whispered promise flashed before your eyes.

"Bakugo, please, don't give up," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle, and your tears dripping to his forhead.

His grip on your hand weakened, fingers slipping through yours like grains of sand. In that agonizing stillness, Bakugo succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness. His body, once a vessel of explosive power and indomitable spirit, slumped against the unforgiving ground.

You knelt beside him, a silent witness to the cruel dance of life and death. The weight of grief settled on your shoulders, and as you clung to the fragile hope that he might awaken, the reality of the situation pressed down on you, heavy and unrelenting.

"Y/N… He's gone," Edgeshot whispered, looking up at you with sadness. "He's gone."

Tears streamed down your face, unchecked and unrestrained. The sobs wracked your body, a raw outpouring of grief that threatened to suffocate you. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, but it was a distant concern compared to the pain in your heart.

Amidst the anguish, a voice cut through the haze. It was Edgeshot. "I might have an idea, a way to help," he offered, his voice a thread of hope in the darkness.

You lifted your tear-streaked face, eyes locking with his. "It's not possible," you choked out, your voice a raw plea born of despair. The ground beneath you bore the scars of battle, soaked in the lifeblood of a hero. "He's fucking dead!!!"

Edgeshot knelt beside you, his gaze unwavering. "I'll do everything in my power to save him. Trust me," he vowed, his words cutting through the veil of hopelessness.

"No, you don't understand!" you screamed, desperation lacing your voice. "There's nothing anyone can do!"

Edgeshot placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his tone firm yet compassionate. "I won't let him go without a fight. I'll find a way, but I can't lose time anymore. You need to calm down and return to the battlefield, you're needed there, Y/N. I won't give up on saving him. Whatever it takes," the hero vowed, his determination cutting through the despair.

You looked into his eyes, searching for sincerity, and as you locked gazes, a flicker of reluctant hope ignited within you. The world may have been stained with blood and tears, but in that moment, you clung to the promise that Edgeshot held — a promise to fight against the inevitable, to defy the cruel hand of fate, and to bring back the hero who lay on the precipice of oblivion.

As the battle reached its crescendo, you rose from Bakugo's side, a storm of conflicting emotions raging within you. The echoes of his words fueled your resolve. You would honor his sacrifice, fight for justice, and carry the weight of his love into the fray. With tears streaming down your face, you re-entered the chaos, your heart heavy but your spirit unbroken. The battle continued, but Bakugo's presence lingered, a poignant reminder of the cost heroes paid in their pursuit of a safer world.

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milky-mink · 2 years

Text

Tadaima

Chapter One

Yandere Bonten Mikey with a Time Leaper Darling, Ft. Platonic Yandere Bonten

Disclaimer: Based on the Time Leaping Series @cheesus-doodles and Time Leaper anon's scenario. I have received permission from both of them to use the concept. Please note that this would be very different compared to Going Home since this would tackle much more darker aspects of Yandere Bonten Mikey.

TW: Yandere, Guilt Tripping, Age Gap, Dub-Con, Non-Con Touching

“Ah! I’m sorry!” You mumbled an apology as you bumped into yet another stranger, who just ignored you and went on his merry way. You sighed as you tried to look around the city that you were familiar with, or at least you were half an hour ago after you suddenly blacked out for a moment and woke up from your ‌short mental stupor, the kind that would daze you right till someone snaps you out of it or you snap yourself out of it. You did the latter, but instead of snapping back to your everyday reality, you snapped out into a familiar yet foreign place to you. You knew that this was Tokyo, there are the buildings that you are familiar with, roads that lead to the same places that you know very well and even people, although they aged for more than a decade are still in the exact place where they used to be, like the Obasan, who still sold Taiyaki and other Japanese sweets in her stall, still in the same familiar location that you know very well.

But it was also very different, like the new shops around the Taiyaki stall, which are very unfamiliar to you. Where were the other shops around the stall that you were used to seeing? It was impossible for the shops to change for a second after you blacked out. And also the Taiyaki stall itself, it looked so different; it looked like they had renovated it to look like the other stores around it. There were new things around the place, around both you and your surroundings. There were so many new things around you, not only the shops but also how people dressed, and people that you usually see every day while you were passing through this street were either gone or looked older than they should be. It honestly made you stunned on how everything looked familiar but at the same time very alien to you.

“Calm down, everything will be fine, you just need to walk to your home.” You thought to yourself as you walked to the familiar road that you used to walk to with your friends after school. It's fine, everything is fine, there is nothing to worry about as long as you don't panic, just keep saying those phrases like a mantra in your mind and you would not spiral into a panic attack right there on the street, you just have to keep going, to go home, while avoiding the people around you as you kept trudging forward towards your destination.

Bile started to rise up from your throat as you finally arrived at the building where your apartment is located. It was not the building that you expected to arrive at, it looked modern and very futuristic, just like those fancy European apartments that you’ve seen in those interior designing magazines.

“No, no, no, no…” You mindlessly mumbled to yourself as your eyes widened in disbelief, you felt your feet getting weak and wobbly as you let out a whine before finally collapsing on the ground and puking the bile that you had earlier, tears streaming down to your face as you let out the confusion and frustration that you had been persistently holding down for half an hour. As you cried your heart out, unsavory thoughts and the gravity of the situation started to sink into your mind. What should you do now? You’ve been transported to the future for some reason, this situation should’ve been impossible. Why were you in the future and who sent you here? Those kinds of thoughts swirled in your mind as you looked down on the puddle of puke that you had let out a while ago, you could see the lunch that you ate earlier with Mitsuya and Hakkai, it was less than an hour ago and right now, that lunch was probably more than a decade ago from now.

You got up from the pavement as you tried to comprehend what had happened to you right now. You were in the future, you were currently homeless, maybe already marked dead by the government, and right now you were standing outside on the streets of Tokyo during the middle of the night, as a middle schooler. You sighed in frustration as you wiped your mouth with your handkerchief - you needed to find a shelter soon; you don’t know any homeless shelter in Tokyo, If there’s any but you know a place where you could stay, at least for a while.

Determined to survive the night, you dusted off your clothes and walked to the place you knew where you would be safe, a special place that you had always been comfortable to stay in.

Musashi Shrine

Although the place was a semi abandoned shrine, it was still well kept and tidied up, most likely by the older people who volunteered to sweep it clean or the local groups that managed the neighborhoods. You sighed in relief for that as you walked towards the shrine and opened its door, and lo and behold, it's interior looked the same as you’ve remembered it to be, although there were some things that had been either misplaced or missing, it still had the same interior and the same furnitures that you and your friends had left in the abandoned shrine. Even though the place was very dusty and full of cobwebs, it was still a better place than the streets or a shelter that would most likely be full of people.

You smiled in contentment, although it was abandoned, it still had the memories that you cherished from the bottom of your heart, small trinkets that you hadn’t thought about for a while that were very sentimental to you. You looked over towards the abandoned electric lamp that you once frequently used with the boys to either stay up at night watching the stars, or have a sleepover in this very shrine telling late night stories. You turned it on, hoping for it to work and thankfully, it did. You put the lamp on the floor and then closed the door and locked it, looking around the cabinet to where the futons were usually stored in case of a sleepover or an afternoon nap.

“Oh my goodness.” You thought as you pulled them out - although they weren’t as fluffy as before, they were surprisingly clean and well kept, unlike the times where you washed it every week due to how frequently the others, especially Mikey, used them. Although those memories were very fond, the same memories just made your situation much more bitter than before.

“Okay (Y/N), tomorrow would be a new day for you, you need to get yourself together,” You said to yourself as you dusted off the floor and threw the debris out the window, putting the futons down on the now-clean floor, before placing your bag on the table and finally laying down on the futon. Tomorrow will be a new day and you need to be well rested before forming a plan to either find some way to go back to your time and go back home, or find your former friends who most likely have forgotten anything about you. That thought made your heart ache, but you shook it off. Tomorrow is a new day and would be vastly different compared to today, you would just hope for the best - either for you to be back in your own timeline or for your friends (former friends?) to believe your ridiculous situation that you somehow got yourself into.

You turned off the lamp beside you and let the darkness take over your vision as you closed your eyes and blacked out into nothingness. You prayed that tomorrow, there would be answers or clues on why you were suddenly in the future.

A screeching scream echoed throughout the abandoned warehouse as incoherent stutters and loud sobs filled the air. There were five men tied to separate poles, with most of them looking wary and defeated, as if pleading to get this thing over with. “I’m going to say this again shithead, who were the fuckheads that were in that part of the port when the pigs busted one of our Shibuya buildings?” A man with salmon pink hair asked the fourth man tied to the poles, but as usual, the man didn't know who he was talking about. This promptly made him back off and quickly slashed his left cheeks, an action that made the man scream in pain while the rest were either trying to get out of their restraints or chanting pleas that they are innocent.

“Fufu, we haven’t even gotten started, so don’t scream too loud.” A man with streaked lilac hair said to the tied up fellow on the pole as he was cleaning off the tools that would help the salmon haired man to do his job. While humming a tune and getting the tools ready, the pink haired man instead walked away from the tied up group and headed towards the man sitting on the side lines, and although he wore a simple black shirt and sweatpants, he held himself in a rather distinguished manner that would make anyone feel like a lesser person. He had unnaturally pale skin and heavy eye bags under his eyes, as if he’d been lacking sleep or energy for so many years now.

“My king, we have captured the suspected people that leaked the location to the police,” The pink haired man said as he slightly bowed while addressing him. The man who was referred to as king gave him a side glance and then promptly looked back on where his focus was earlier. It was a picture of a young girl wearing a sundress and holding a picnic basket, and although the picture’s quality had gotten terrible throughout the years of usage, it still held on after being folded and placed in various wallets or pockets.

“Sanzu.”

The now-identified pink haired man looked up as the pale skinned man jumped down from the crates that he had been seating on earlier. “I’m getting tired of this charade, let Ran and Rindou handle the job, I wanna go back to the penthouse.”

Sanzu nodded before looking back at the person who was putting the tools down on the table. “Oi Ran! We’ll leave this to you and Rindou, Boss wants to head back.” He shouted to the tall lilac haired man, who just replied with a nod and called for his brother from the sidelines to do their job. The two then headed out of the warehouse as the screams of the victims started to flow again throughout the building. As they left, the pale haired man then looked at Sanzu, although the man is unnerved by his dead gazed, he is also ecstatic that his king looked him in the eyes, it's rather rare for him to be this direct at anyone.

“Before we head back to the base, let’s stop by that place.” The pale skinned man then looked away as he walked towards the parked car near the abandoned warehouse. Sanzu bit his lips - he knew what he was talking about but he was rather confused by his king's request, he wouldn't disobey his orders but he knew that his king had been avoiding that place for a long time, so why now? Sanzu shook his head, his king gave him orders and he knew better than to question him or his motives for going to that place. He quickly followed his king to the car, after all, he had an order to follow.

Sano Manjiro never thought in his whole life that he would end up this way. He thought that when he grew up, he would still have his friends and family by his side. Mikey knew that he wouldn’t be the best at studying or doing school work in general so early on in life, the prospect of college and any other professional careers had been thrown away. In the future, he would either be the one that continued the Sano Dojo or go along with Draken and join the motorshop business.

He would imagine that after work, he and his friends would go out for drinks as they talked about the past, reminisced on their gang days together before going back to their homes, him going back along with Draken to their home where they would either be scolded by their grandpa or Emma, who would most likely be married to Draken and have a child on the way.

While they were being scolded by Emma or his grandpa, you would suddenly announce that the food was ready, and they would get off scot free quickly because it was dinner time. You were there with him, living together with his family, him confessing to you during highschool and you accepting his proposal and would stay together as lovers ever since. That was the future that he envisioned when he was younger, and although it was pretty average and mundane, not the future that any of his peers in the gang community would have expected him to have, but to him, that was the future that he dreamt of. That dream had been shattered a long time ago, with him having nothing to show but this twisted and sick future that he himself had created.

Everything had gone through the drain ever since you suddenly disappeared - he thought that some of the gangs that had bad blood with him had kidnapped you, so he mobilized every member of the gang to look out for your location, beating up every rival gang members that he had even an inkling of suspicion that may know your whereabouts. But in the end, all he received was nothing: no clues, no leads and not a single trace of where you were. It made him spiral more into a deeper abyss of darkness and impulses that led him from one bad decision to a worse one that led him to be in this situation.

Was it a position that many would want to be in?

Debatable.

But was it filled with luxury?

Oh, certainly.

Was this the one that he wanted to have?

Absolutely not in the slightest.

He would often think of how you would react if you found out what he landed himself in. Would you be distraught? Concerned for his well being? Disgusted at how he became like this? Those thoughts always swirled in his mind when he thought of you or the days that you’re with him, before your sudden disappearance. There’s that meager longing in his mind that one day you would come back and either him proding you for information, angry on why you had left him, or just hugging you, being grateful that you finally came back to him. But he knew those fanciful pipe dreams would just hinder him on his way and would just crush him furthermore into the abyss, so he did the same thing that he always did to other wishful ideas that he has, crushing it immediately.

He often wondered why he could not just end it right here, right now. After all nobody could stop him: his close friends had not contacted him due to his actions, his underlings would certainly not dare to try and stop him doing whatever he wanted, and you weren’t even there to try to stop him. So what's blocking him from doing the deed and just ending it all? Maybe it was the fact that he was scared of death, or he still had that pitiful hope that you would come back to him and he was scared that he would not be there when that happens.

While Mikey was trapped in his own mind, Sanzu looked at the rear view mirror, looking at his king. He wanted to tell him that they’re near that place but he didn’t want to interrupt his king’s train of thoughts - most likely, thoughts that are involved with you. Sanzu then looked back at the road. He decided that he would just keep quiet until they arrived at their destination.

Musashi Shrine

It still looked the same, just as Mikey remembered it, the long stone stairways that lead into the torii entrance of the shrine. The same thing could apply on the shrine and its surroundings, it was still the same, although there was new vegetation on the surrounding forest and the shrine hadn't gotten any sort of maintenance other than its cleanliness, thus making the shrine look a little bit more decrepit than he remembered. But it still didn’t stop him from approaching the shrine just to sit on its wooden floors like the old days, where he would either look over his gang or he would spend time with his friends and do the things other normal teenagers do in that age, goofing off and bonding with each other. This place held a lot of fond memories that made him smile as he looked around the area. The place really didn’t change at all, from the exterior to the foliage - it was just like he was back to the time when he was actually happy, when he was with you.

He walked closer to the wooden shrine, wanting to sit on its floors, but while walking, he noticed that there was something off about it. He walked closer as he analyzed the building; although it looked the same, there was a nagging feeling in his gut, but he didn't know what it was. But as he drew closer towards the shrine, he finally noticed it. The door was left slightly opened; one of the caretakers might have carelessly left it opened. Mikey let out an annoyed grunt as he walked towards the door of the shrine, but just as he was about to close it, he noticed someone was inside the shrine. Out of curiosity, Mikey opened the door, revealing the interior of the shrine where they used to have a sleepover or just a place to stay for the night.

Mikey’s eyes widened as he saw who was the person that was inside the shrine.

It couldn't be.

It can’t be.

Mikey carefully walks down and crouches to the person who is sleeping on the old futons that he used to sleep in. hands trembling as he can’t believe what he was seeing, he rubbed his eyes, trying to see if this is just one of his hallucinations again due to fatigue but instead of the person going away, they’re still in there.

As he crouches down to observe your sleeping form, his eyes attentively look into your stature, you are still wearing the same outfit that he last saw you wearing and you still have that hair clip that he gifted to you on your birthday. Which you have been wearing everyday ever since. Tears started to form in his eyes as he looked down on you.

“Its you,” Mikey murmured as he brushed your cheeks, tears flowing down on his bony cheeks

“I’ve finally found you,” He murmured as he cupped your cheeks and kissed your forehead, while you peacefully slept on the futon, blissfully unaware of the situation that you were in right now.

You let out a groan as you felt yourself waking from a deep slumber, and as your consciousness started to come back, your eyes widened as you felt someone hugging you from behind, while laying on one of the softest beds that you have ever laid on. Sweat started to form on your palms as you looked around your surroundings, assessing your current situation. The room was very luxurious, with high ceilings and glass windows that overlooked the whole of Tokyo City, and with a massive flat screen tv, the room looked like it belonged to some billionaire. You could only wonder how expensive the room was, with its opulent decoration.

You then look back to the man who was hugging you from behind, even though he was bony in structure, his grip on you was very strong, feeling his hold on your waist slowly crushing your stomach. You let out a silent gasp of surprise when you felt him move one of his hands, crawling into your upper stomach just under your breast. It made you blush in embarrassment when you felt his thin long fingers pressing down on your belly.

“Where am I?” You thought to yourself as you laid there in bed, keeping as steady as possible as not to wake up the stranger that was hugging your back. Had you been kidnapped? Had you been trafficked by someone? Those thoughts swirled in your mind as you observed the room that you were being held in - whoever it was was obviously very powerful and important. You knew that not many rich people could afford prime real estate in Tokyo, let alone a penthouse that overlooked the whole city. As your brain went into overdrive and you, getting increasingly panicked at your situation, your captor, much to your surprise, let out a low gumble from behind you.

“Don’t move too much, (Y/N)-chin. It's still 4 am in the morning, go back to sleep.”

Your eyes widened when you heard your captor’s voice. Although it sounded much more mature and huskier, you could always identify that voice. After all, who wouldn’t recognize the voice of the person you had been friends with since your childhood?

“M-Mikey?” You stuttered, looking back at the skinny man you greatly feared earlier. Your eyes widened as you took in his condition. He looked like a walking skeleton, with unnaturally pale skin, hollowed cheekbones and dark puffy eye bags that could only be seen in insomniacs. Your lips quivered as you got up, wanting to know the extent of his well being. What happened in the future that made him like this? The Mikey you knew was energetic and full of life, and it greatly stupefied you as to how he became like this. He looked so grim and despondent, as if he had been suffering for a very long time.

You placed your hands on one of his palms, gently holding it as you looked him in the eyes, concern and worry reflecting in your orbs.

“Mikey, what happened?” You whispered as he looked down, his dark blank eyes refusing to meet your gaze. In response, you gripped his palm tighter, wanting him to answer your question. As he felt your grip, he suddenly faced you again, but this time, with a sad weary smile, an expression that you never seen him make in his entire life.

“You suddenly disappeared, (Y/N). My gang and I searched for you everywhere and even involved the police in searching for you and you were still gone. Things started to happen and…” he trailed off as he broke his gaze again.

Your mouth quivered at his expression - it greatly hurt you inside as he slowly reached out to you and pulled you into a hug. You reciprocated his action as you felt him slowly burying his face into the crook of your neck as he hugged you tightly, as if you were going to disappear any time. You let out a soothing hum as you gently comforted him, wanting him to know that you weren’t going anywhere. As the two of you hugged each other on the bed, you suddenly felt tears leaking from his eyes. You let out a sad smile and hugged him tighter. “It’s alright Mikey, let it out.”

You felt him freeze for a moment before he let out a whine and started to cry uncontrollably, letting all the pent up feelings that he had been keeping within himself for so long, hitching sobs as the two of you comforted each other. As he was sobbing, small droplets of tears also started to form on your tear ducts, the future- the future had been terrible for him hadn’t it? It defeated one of the strongest men you knew in just a decade, and it made you fear that if the future did this to Mikey, what of your other friends? Did they meet similar fates as well? Or had they moved on and found greener pastures in life? You hoped to yourself that they chose the latter. As much as you wanted them to miss you, you also loved them as much and wanted them to have a better life even without you in the picture. You don’t want them to be burdened with guilt that wasn’t their fault.

As time passed by, the two of you started to sink back into the soft bed underneath, though neither wanted to release the other from the hug. As you laid there in bed, you smiled at Mikey, who’s eyelids were now starting to flutter, comfortable enough that sleep started to once again take over his consciousness.

“Cute,” you thought to yourself as you observed him trying to fight it with no avail, as if the stubborn Mikey that you knew very well started to come back. You let out a giggle before placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, making his sleepy eyes widened in surprise. “It's okay Mikey, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured as you patted his now-silky hair, just like you used to when he was the leader of Toman. You felt his grip on you getting tighter as he buried his head into your chest, you smiled as his antics and closed your eyes as you started to fall asleep. You reminded yourself that you would cook breakfast for Mikey this morning - he looked so skinny, and you knew that he hadn't eaten properly in years. Time passed by as your thoughts started to dwindle, and you felt your eyes getting heavier before once again, sleep had overtaken your consciousness.

Your eyes fluttered open as you felt the morning sun shine on your face, waking you up. “Uhg,” you groaned as you looked away from the blinding sunlight invading half of the spacious room. As you started to wake from your deep slumber, memories from the previous hour started to return to you, your eyes widening in realization as you looked down on the sleeping form of Mikey, who was now relaxed and in a deep state of slumber. You smiled at his relaxed expression as you carefully freed yourself from his grip. It made you feel guilty that you would leave him in such a state but you needed to cook something before he woke up.

“Mikey, I’m going to cook breakfast okay?” You said to him even though he was asleep, and you gave him a quick peck on his forehead before getting up and walking to the door that opened to the rest of the penthouse. Silently closing the door behind you and heading out to find the kitchen, your eyes looked around as you walked, widening at just how luxurious the penthouse was - the place made you feel small just by walking down its marbled hallways.

As you were able to finally spot the staircase that most likely led down into the kitchen, you hurried your footsteps, eager to start to cook breakfast as quickly as possible. You stop walking as you touched the staircase railings, which overlook the rest of the penthouse and had a better view of Tokyo down below. “What kind of job does Mikey have?” You thought to yourself as you walked down the stairs and was able to spot the ginormous kitchen that this penthouse has. You quickly walked down to that kitchen, wanting to start the cooking process as fast as possible. You opened the ginormous pantry, filled to brim with ingredients that you needed to make a simple Japanese breakfast, and as you scoop the rice from the rice bag, you smiled to yourself - hopefully Mikey would be able to eat properly this time around. After all, he once ate all of the food that you have made for him and the rest of your friends.

Mikey’s eyes slowly opened as he woke up from what felt like a blissful dream, one that he hasn't had for almost a decade. In that dream, you came back to him, him finding you inside Musashi Shrine as if the entities that he desperately prayed to during his teenage years finally giving him what he wanted: to be with you. Placing you inside the shrine, as if a gift for him to find. And after that, you wake up in his arms and comfort him, finally freeing him of the years of pain and loneliness, silencing the dark impulses that swirled in his mind. He bitterly smiled at the thought and looked at his hand.

“Those drugs were stronger than before,” he thought to himself, reluctantly getting up on his bed to go back downstairs, either to look at the paperwork that Kokonoi had for him, or grab a quick snack from the fridge - probably the frozen Taiyaki that he usually consumed in the morning. But as he walked down the marbled hallway, he stopped at the smell of something cooking, and as he sniffed the smell wafting most likely from the kitchen below, he recognized that smell - even if it had been more than a decade, he knew very well the dish being cooked. His eyes widened in recognition and he quickly sprinted down the hallway and the staircase. Looking down, he noticed someone cooking, and he certainly knew who it was. He swiftly walked down the stairs and ran to the kitchen, where you were cooking breakfast.

You hummed the same tune that you always sang every time you were cooking - it was a tune that your mother had sung when you were still learning how to cook from her, you remembered, looking down at the miso soup in the pot. “Looks like it's done,” You thought as you turned off the stove and looked back at the rice cooker - that took a long time for you to figure out since it has so many new unknown functions. Opening the lid to find a soft and fluffy cooked rice, you smiled at the result before quickly looking around in the cabinets to find the plates and utensils. As you were placing the food onto the plate, you heard sudden frantic steps coming from the staircase, but you only smiled as you gripped the plates and walked to the dining table. “Mikey, you’re just in time for breakfast!” You said as you looked back at the frantic man, who still couldn't believe what he was seeing right now. Although his expression was amusing, it made you crestfallen because you knew the reason why he was like that.

“You looked so scrawny Mikey, I made you some breakfast, I hope you’ll like it,” You said to him as you placed the plates on the table: pan seared salmon and rice, with miso and a vegetable side dish, the same breakfast items that you always cooked for him every morning, that he use to take for granted before your disappearance. He nodded obediently as he silently sat down on the dining chair, which made you glad - this was one of the first steps on his recovery, and you would try your best to make sure that things were going to be better for him day by day. While he sat on the dining chair, you quickly head back into the kitchen to fetch some glasses and a pitcher of water, before joining Mikey at the dining table to eat. And to your expectation, he hadn’t yet touched the steaming hot breakfast, as if waiting for you to eat with him.

Although it made you much more sympathetic to his condition, it also made you determined that no matter what the cost, you were going to help him recover. As you started to eat your breakfast, you looked at Mikey, who just stared at the food right in front of him, making you curious. Tilting your head, you wondered what could possibly be bothering him. “Is there something wrong?” You asked the white-haired man in front of you, who nodded his head.

“What is it then?” You smiled, wanting to know what was bothering him during breakfast.

He shyly looked up. “Can you please spoon-feed me (Y/N)?”

You froze for a second before recovering - you should have expected this happening to begin with. During your younger years, even when Toman was just an infant Tokyo gang, Mikey had always demanded you sit in his lap and spoon-feed him any food, whether it was the food that you cooked or those from the stores. You playfully smiled, adding, “Would you also like me to sit on your lap?”

Though this made Mikey promptly freeze before frantically nodding like a child, taking you back to how he used to act.

You got up and walked to his side of the table and slowly sat on Mikey’s lap, to your surprise, his lap is much softer compared to his body. You then gently pick up both the spoon and the plate and scoop out the rice and salmon together, you blow air a little bit on it to cool it down and then carefully place the spoon full of food near Mikey’s mouth.

“Say ah~”

Mikey obediently opened his mouth as you spoon fed him the breakfast that you had made. “Well, is it delicious?” You asked as Mikey gulped down the food, smiling and nodding to your question which made you giggle. You’ve repeated the process throughout the duration of the whole feeding, albeit a bit uncomfortable due to the slight bump on Mikey’s lap - it was soft, which meant that it wasn’t likely to be a belt buckle, but you shrugged off the feeling. Probably a crumple from your skirt or the cloth of his pants. As he finally polished off the vegetable side dish, you gave him a wide smile, happy that Mikey was taking his first step towards recovery.

“Mikey, don’t forget your water,” You said as you placed the cold glass in his hand, which he then drank and placed back on the table. Seeing that he was done eating, you made to get up from his lap, looking to eat your own cold breakfast, yet before you could stand, Mikey instead pulled you back into his lap, placing you on the exact location where his bulge could brush to your panties, making you blush for reasons beyond you.

“Mi-Mikey, why did you do that?” you exclaimed to your friend, surprise by his action

“Mikey!” You called him out again, lightly slapping his shoulder.

“Imma feed you myself,” You heard him grumble in response as he hugged your waist. Sighing in defeat, you had almost forgotten his stubbornness when it came to certain things. Just because he was so sensitive earlier this morning didn’t mean his other behaviors were suddenly gone just like that. You gave him the look that you usually used when you gave in to his childish demands, before relaxing back on his chest. Clearing out the used dishes on the side and placing the ones that still had food in it, Mikey then mirrored your earlier actions. Sometimes, there were just some things that you had to do for the people you care about.

After breakfast, he still refused to let go of you, not as you washed the dishes in the sink, and not even right now as you two were watching movies in the movie room - you didn’t even know there was a room specifically for watching movies. While watching, you couldn’t help but feel flustered as you felt Mikey stroking and pressing up against your thigh; his actions made you strangely flustered and even a little bit embarrassed. Although you were used to his physical affections, his actions now felt weird to you, his actions made you feel odd for some reason. But you ignored it and instead tried your best to focus on the movie, which involved a group of superheroes in New York saving the day.

As the movie showed the group encountering the villain in some public place, you felt Mikey’s hand slowly reach to the upper part of your thigh. You gasp, feeling his hand slowly crawling inside of your skirt, but before he went any further, his phone suddenly rang, stopping his actions. You let out a huge sigh of relief as he got up from the bed that the two of you had been lying on to talk to the person on the phone, albeit in an annoyed and reluctant manner. As he was talking to the unknown caller, you refocused on the movie, which now had your full attention instead of having to split it with Mikey’s wandering hands. The movie passes with a blur while Mikey talked on his phone, and after a while had passed, you heard him end the call and crawl back into the bed, though this time instead of hugging you in the back like before, he seemed to have changed his mind and instead hugged you from the front, his face burying into your chest as he hugged you tightly. Although it was an improvement from before, you still couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as he pressed his face into your breast, making you flustered like a tomato. You still chose to ignore his actions, and returned to watching the movie.

#yandere tokyo revengers #yandere tokrev #yandere mikey #yandere bonten #yandere #tw yandere #yandere scenarios #bonten mikey #tokyo revengers headcanons #mikey imagines #mikey headcanon #mikey hcs #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you

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izvmimi · 1 year

Text

cw: angst. third person pov reader.

“You’re awful, you know that, right?”

Izuku usually smiles when she says this to him, as she has so many times before, because it’s usually in jest, accompanied by a cheeky smile, perhaps also by her elbowing him in the ribs. He’d shift and bump her back, making sure to reach an arm out to catch her if she stumbled. It was always excessive, but he’d never let her fall.

At least not in his sight.

Today is different. Today, instead, Izuku says nothing, and her whispered accusation goes unanswered. Her voice is soft, but the gravity of her words feels like an insurmountable weight on her shoulders, perhaps enough to shatter her bones.

She swallows but with a throat so dry it feels like sandpaper. It occurs to her for a moment that she doesn’t remember her last meal or the last time she drank anything, and yet this unloading of her feelings is far more important than filling her stomach.

“You could have left me alone,” she finally chokes out.

He could have, and he should have. Yes, there was a time that she wanted him more than anything else on this earth, and perhaps that is true even now, but what did that bring her? A pain that she would wish on no one, something that she wouldn’t have imagined was within the realm of human experience, something intangible but so unbearably real.

He should have left her alone.

Izuku still doesn’t answer, but she can imagine him, in a world where he had made a better decision for them and not just for him and his dreams and the world, saying something to the effect of -

Wouldn’t you have been lonely?

He would have been right then, and yet she is still lonely now despite this best efforts, and this version of loneliness is amplified a hundredfold.

Is it more tragic to have known warmth before being thrust into the cold anew?

“... Or just loved someone else.”

Someone different, someone strong enough to understand him the way he is.

She can practically hear his voice, even though he’s not speaking.

There’s no one else I want, sweetheart.

She clenches her teeth.

“You selfish bastard.”

But he’s not. He’s far from selfish. The 1% of him that knew selfishness was just the one that was willing to wound her. Everything else that comprised him - the selflessness, the kindness, the determination that practically dripped from his skin was so real, real enough to have led to this very moment.

“I hate you so much.”

She shouldn’t lie to the dead.

But she’d spent enough time pretending to be strong from ceremony to ceremony, controlling her tears and her breathing the entire time. How mournful is she allowed to be? He died a Hero, and that’s all he had wanted.

To be immortalized as the greatest one who ever lived.

She’s not allowed to hold that against him, is she? There’s a gentle titration of anger, of sadness, of bereavement, of righteousness required to be a perfect widow.

A Hero’s widow. A Hero herself.

“You should have been all the way selfless. You half-assed it.”

Her voice is harsher now and bile rises in her throat. There’s nothing close to vomit in, only his burial urn, set on the shelf, taunting her in its cruel beauty. It doesn’t even have all of him. Even in death, she never had all of him.

Her hands shake at her sides.

“How dare you love me?”

Dead bodies can’t defend themselves and regardless, there will never be an answer good enough for her.

Tears cloud her vision and she sinks, bringing the ashes with her, cradling the urn in her lap as she weeps. He was always the one to hold her when she cried, and now it’s the other way around. How ironic it is, for such a large presence to be reduced to a small vase, no larger than a baby.

“I wasn’t finished loving you back.”

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #izuku angst #cw: angst #daydreams: bnha #thoughts: izuku #mimi's notes

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nelapanela94 · 1 year

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"Take care, Levi." You mutter against his lips and kiss him one more time, tears amassing on your lash lines. Your hands are flat on his chest, and his heartbeat is a reassuring lullaby. His palms are warm and rough on your cheeks, contrasting the cold prick of his silver band. "Promise me you'll be back safe."

Levi's dewy lips curve into a half smile, and a little snort flees from him as he erases the wrinkly lines of apprehension creasing your forehead. Then, he lifts your hand to his lips and presses kisses on the knobs of your knuckles, his beautiful gray eyes eternally anchored to yours. "I'll come back to you," he says and stretches your arm to kiss the cradle of your elbow. "I promise."

He always makes the same promise, and he never breaks it. Yet, that harrowing feeling simmers in your insides, churning your guts. What if...

You toss away the thoughts and pounce on him, confining him in a hug. Bergamot and husky citrus spew from the starched collar of his shirt. Always pristine to kill titans.

He pats your back and allays your shudders. "I love you, y/n."

"I love you, Levi."

He brushes away your tears and mollifies your fears. The green cloak flutters behind him. The sky is a monotonous, dense blue, like an upside-down lake.

The day rolls by, the bells ring adding one chime every hour, the sun dips behind the wall to the west. He said they'd be back before sunset.

Your hands quiver as you hook the water pot at the hearth, black dots sprinkled the gray floor. Flames rise and dance, sputtering flakes of fire on your living room. Minutes tick and tick, and soon the moon and stars pierce the velvety sky. Dinner is left untouched. You huddle on the couch near the window and wait for the gate bells to toll, for the chains to shriek and hooves stomp on the stone. You hold onto that promise, his husky voice reverberating in the back of your head, clinging to it like a gravity spot.

The voices in your head ebb and eventually you fall asleep. But the next morning you wake up to the vivid nightmare. Levi's horse is not tethered to the maple tree. And you think of old Gretta who's been waiting thirty years for her love to come back home, wearing the same dress she wore that day, so that he wouldn't make a mistake.

Adrenaline and fear rush through you, twisting your sanity, squeezing your heart. And then, someone raps, and you scramble to the door.

"Levi!" Tears flow freely on your cheeks; sobs scrape your throat. He's covered in blood, not his nor titans'. You know theirs hiss and wane.

"Hey," Levi says softly as he builds a shelter with his arms around you. "I'm sorry." He smells of iron, grime and sweat. "I didn't mean to worry you." He presses his lips on your ragged-doll hair. You wield your arms around him to never let go again. His heart beats, tuning in with yours.

Levi never breaks his promises.

Never.

#levi ackerman #Levi ackerman x you #Levi ackerman x y/n #Levi ackerman x reader #levi x you #Levi ackerman snk #aot #snk #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

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c-e-d-dreamer · 6 months

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Barbarian Bat: Part Three

A/N: Let's all just pretend that I'm not super behind on writing and updating.... aha? But I hope everyone enjoys this next part! We're getting angsty up in here.

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part

Nesta’s heart pounds between her ribs, the thrumming beat in time with every hurried step through the snow. She’s half aware of the cold biting across the skin of her cheeks, of the numbness beginning to creep into her fingers, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than forcing air into her lungs, forcing it around the lump pressing painfully in her throat. Her whole chest feels hollowed out, feels bruised and empty, and she can feel the familiar prickle of tears burning just behind her eyes.

The snow and the trees pass by in a watery blur, but Nesta keeps pushing forward. She refuses to give in to the dread that weighs heavy in her gut, refuses to give in to the darkness swirling in tighter and tighter and threatening to pull her under. Perhaps, if she keeps walking far enough, she’ll finally wake up back in her bed in her tiny apartment back on earth.

“Nes!”

Nesta takes a moment to close her eyes, a near hysterical laugh bubbling up and out of her. Of course. Of course, he followed her. Of course, she’s never truly allowed a second of peace.

“Nesta!”

“You are quite literally the last person I want to see right now,” Nesta calls over her shoulder, rolling her eyes.

“Nes, please. Stop.”

“I’m serious. Leave me alone.”

Nesta hears Cassian let out an annoyed huff, hears him jog through the snow to catch up to her. “If you are going to storm off, at least do it in a different direction.”

“Just because we’ve resonated that doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do, you insufferable alien,” Nesta seethes, trying to pick up her pace.

“And your stubbornness is walking you straight into Metlak territory.”

Nesta whirls back around to face him, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “Didn’t you know? I’m the stubborn one. The scary one. So why don’t you take a hint from the rest of the tribe and finally just steer clear?”

Cassian frowns, and even across the distance still between them, Nesta can see the pained look that mars his expression as he presses a hand to his chest. “You are my mate. The one my khui has chosen as mine.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to be.”

“Yes, you have made that perfectly clear. I am sorry. I am sorry that your khui did not choose someone better for you. I am sorry that it is me you are stuck with.”

The words hit Nesta hard enough that her breath stutters for a moment, cracks ricocheting through her chest. The defensive quip dies on her tongue, any other words tangling into a tight knot.

How could he not know? How could he not know that she had been drawn into his gravity from the moment she laid eyes on him? How could he not know that every teasing remark, every smile, every laugh he directed her way left something warm and dangerous blooming within her that Nesta refuses to name? How could he not know that he is all that is good and brave and kind, and it is her that does not deserve him?

“Cassian…”

But Nesta trails off as Cassian’s eyes widen, his attention drifting firmly over her shoulder. He looks nothing short of alarmed, and it has every hair on the back of Nesta’s neck rising, anxiety beginning to spark in her veins. Tentatively, she turns back around and comes face to face with a pair of large, round eyes. The white fur of the creature is dirty and splotted with brown spots, and when Nesta takes in a gasping breath, she’s hit with what smells a lot like a wet dog. The creature tilts its head, peering up at her almost curiously, before opening its beak-like mouth and giving Nesta a perfect view of its fangs.

Nesta tries to slowly back away, but her feet have sunk too deeply, her snowshoes catching and dragging in the snow until she’s toppling backwards and landing with a quiet cry of surprise. The metlak lets out some sort of call, a sound that reminds Nesta of an owl hooting, and then two more creatures are stepping out from the tree line and approaching her.

“Nesta!”

Nesta's heart stutters and pounds in her chest, and she tries to scramble back away from the creatures, away from their large unblinking eyes that are pinned on her, away from their mouths full of fangs. Another hooting sound and that first metlak dares to take a step closer to her, Nesta's whole body locking up with a full body flinch in anticipation of an attack.

A roar sounds from behind her, and Nesta can do nothing but gape as Cassian goes rushing forward and barrels into the group of metlaks. The creatures are quick to fight back, arms swinging and dragging their claws against his skin. Cassian reaches to pull his knife free from his belt, but one of the metlaks sinks its fangs into his arm, and he lets out a pained shout of surprise as his knife falls into the snow.

With a growl, Cassian throws his arm out and shakes the metlak free, sending the creature sailing through the air until it goes crumbling into the snow. The other metlaks are briefly distracted by their fallen comrade, so Cassian whirls around, his hands sifting through the snow to find his missing knife. But the distraction is short lived, and soon, the two remaining metlaks have their attention solely back on Cassian, letting out more of those ominous hooting sounds.

“Cassian!” Nesta screams out in warning. “Cassian!”

Cassian looks up in alarm just as one of the metlaks pounces, claws and fangs burying into his back. He turns around before the remaining metlak can join the attack, kicking out his leg and sending it back toward the tree line. His hands reach back to try and grasp at the metlak still attached to him, but the creature rears its head back and takes another bite out of Cassian’s shoulder.

Cassian stumbles, dropping down to one knee and clearly in pain. Nesta can’t take anymore, can’t just sit by and watch. She pushes back to her feet and rushes forward. She spies Cassian’s abandoned knife, scooping it up out of the snow as she goes. She curls her fingers tight around the hilt, drawing her hand back and swinging forward until the carved bone is embedded deep in the metlak's fur. The metlak lets out an anguished sound, squirming until warm red spills across Nesta’s hands and between her fingers, but it releases its hold on Cassian and collapses at their feet.

Nesta’s chest is heaving, and the knife slips from her grip as she staggers back a step. She swallows hard around the bile threatening to rise up in her throat, blinking down at the metlak blood staining her skin. A finger beneath her chin has her gaze raising and meeting a pair of eyes glowing with concern.

“Are you well, Nes?”

A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up out of her at the question. “You’re the one who was just attacked, and you’re asking me if I’m well?”

Nesta reaches her hand up in the space between them, trying to put pressure on the wound left behind from the metlak’s claws on Cassian’s chest. Between the way her fingers have started to tremble and the slickness of the blood, her hand slips against his skin, but Cassian’s own fingers curl gently around her wrist, halting her movements. With everything that’s happened, the touch shouldn’t be as warm and grounding as it is, but there’s no denying the calming feeling that washes over her.

“Do not worry about me,” Cassian tells her as he reaches down and grabs his knife, standing up with a grimace. “We must get you somewhere safe, away from metlak territory.” Cassian looks up and around them, taking in their surroundings. “I know this area. There is a hunter cave not far.”

Somehow, numbly, Nesta nods her head. She stumbles back to where their packs are laying in the snow, shouldering the weight of both of them. Cassian tries to take them from her, but she holds firm, especially as blood continues to slide along his skin in streaks of red. He seems less than impressed, but he leads the way through the snow, keeping his knife raised and ready in case of another attack.

Thankfully, they really don’t need to walk too far before reaching the hunter cave, but Nesta still lets out an exhausted sigh as she drops their packs to the floor. She goes to move the privacy screen into place at the cave entrance, but a pained grunt draws her attention back to Cassian. He’s dropped to his knees, whatever adrenaline that was keeping him going now gone.

He winces as he pulls his vest off and tosses it aside, and Nesta gets her first look at just how bad the wounds to his back are. The gashes are deep and still bleeding, the one at his shoulder where that metlak bit him especially gruesome. When Cassian falls forward, just barely catching himself with his hand, Nesta rushes to his side. She drops to her own knees beside him, stretching an arm across his waist to try and hold him up.

“You need to see Madja,” Nesta tells him, eyes raking over the concerningly high number of scratches and gashes. “We need to get you back to the main cave.”

Cassian shifts enough that he can slide his palm along Nesta’s cheek, thumb skating across her skin. The way his eyes droop and are unfocused has fear spearing icy cold through Nesta’s chest, twisting tighter and tighter until it hurts to squeeze air into her lungs. She curls her fingers around his wrist, squeezing hard and holding him there. Holding him here with her.

“Cassian…”

“My mate,” Cassian whispers, his words slightly slurred. “Safe.”

Cassian’s eyes flutter closed, and then he’s slumping forward, Nesta just barely able to brace him and the dead weight before his face makes contact with the stone floor of the cave.

“Shit,” Nesta whispers to herself, giving Cassian’s shoulder a shake but he doesn’t move or make a sound. “Shit shit shit… Okay… Okay.”

Nesta closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying herself and willing her thundering heart to calm. She can do this. She has to do this. With a determined nod, Nesta pushes back up to her feet. She goes over to where she dropped their packs, rooting around in Cassian’s until she finds his flint. She finds fuel in one of the baskets tucked along the far wall of the cave, stacking them in the makeshift fire pit the way she’s seen the other members of the tribe do before.

It takes a few strikes of the flint, but finally, Nesta is able to get sparks. She holds her breath until the sparks grow into proper flames, the orangey glow quickly filling the cave. She grabs their waterskins next, stepping just outside of the cave and filling them both with snow before setting them above the now crackling fire to melt. It takes some tugging on Nesta’s part, but she’s able to drag the heavy privacy screen in place over the cave entrance, trapping the warmth from the fire in with them.

Nesta uses the first waterskin to pour the now melted water over her hands and clean them, and then she turns back to Cassian and his wounds. She frowns and tilts her head, trying to determine the best next steps. She doesn’t exactly have a first aid kit handy on this planet. She decides to reach for her furs, untying them from her pack.

She takes Cassian’s knife and slices the furs into strips, cutting the final strip into squares. She crushes some soap berries into the waterskin and dips the first square of fur into the sudsy water. She keeps her touch careful and gentle as she cleans each of Cassian’s wounds. Amazingly, some of the more shallow scratches have already begun to heal, his khui clearly working hard and quickly.

She covers the worst of his wounds with the strips of fur, finding some twine in Cassian’s pack to tie the ones on his shoulder in place, then sits back on her haunches with a soft sigh. She only allows herself a moment before pushing back to her feet. She discards the now pile of bloody furs and dumps the dirty water. It takes some awkward maneuvering with Cassian’s large body, but Nesta is able to roll out his furs and get him into them.

He hasn’t moved or made a sound since he lost consciousness, but his chest continues to move up and down with each breath, and when Nesta presses the palm of her hand there, she can feel the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. With nothing to keep her hands or her mind busy anymore, it’s hard to stop the dark thoughts that swirl and roll in like storm clouds. A lump presses in against her throat, her stomach churning as she grips at the leathers of her clothing until her knuckles turn white. She has no idea if she’s done enough, no idea if Cassian will be able to heal, if he’ll even wake up. And she has no idea where they are. No idea how to contact anyone from the main cave to get help.

“Please don’t die on me,” Nesta whispers, brushing the dark strands of Cassian’s hair out of his face. “You can’t die on me, you stupid alien, you hear me?”

Nesta holds vigil until exhaustion sinks into her limbs and threatens to tug her under. Until her eyelids start to droop and she has to shake herself to keep them open. She curls up beside Cassian, keeping her hand firmly on his chest, on his still beating heart. She allows the assurance that, for now, he’s okay to wash over her, allows the steady thrum under her hand to finally lull her to sleep.

It’s the cold beneath her hands that she feels first. Cold and hard, and when she curls her fingers, it’s the distinct feel of metal beneath her touch. In a second, her eyes snap open, taking in the white, clinical walls, the various metal panels, the flashing lights. Fear grips her tight enough that Nesta swears she’s being burned from the inside out by its icy grip. She opens her mouth, tries to scream, but all there is is a lump pressing into her throat.

Nesta tries to sit up, tries to clamber off the table, but she can’t seem to get her limbs to work. It’s like she’s pinned down, like she’s paralyzed, and that fear turns into a full blown panic, clawing at her chest and leaving it heaving. She thrashes her head, trying to escape, but as she turns to the right, she realizes she’s not alone in this room.

Cassian is sprawled across the floor, and it takes Nesta a moment too long to realize that his eyes are staring unblinking up at the ceiling, that his chest isn’t moving. In fact, the longer she stares, the more gashes that seem to appear across his skin, blood gurgling and pooling beneath him. Nesta thrashes harder against her invisible restraints, tries desperately to reach for him as the familiar sting at the back of his eyes blurs her vision.

Nesta wakes with a jolt, Cassian’s name weighing heavy on the tip of her tongue. Her heart pounds between her ribs, squeezing and twisting in a way that leaves a steady ache. Her stomach roils, and she’s confident that if she had anything in her gut, she’d have lost it. Her breath still heaves out of her as she turns her attention to Cassian, but he hasn’t moved, his condition still the same as before she fell asleep.

She lets out a quiet breath and lays back down beside him, tries to lull herself back under, but sleep does not come easily, and it’s fitful for the rest of the night. By the time pale morning light starts to creep into the cave around the privacy screen, she feels more exhausted than any sort of rested. Her chest still aches like a festering wound, her limbs heavy as she shifts and stretches.

But Nesta still pulls herself up. She slides the back of her hand along Cassian’s temple and cheek, and she frowns at the way his skin feels warm, like he’s practically radiating heat. Does that mean he has a fever? That his wounds are infected? How is she supposed to know what the normal temperature of an alien is? She peels back each of the strips of fur to check, but almost all of his wounds have closed up, even the worst of them scabbed over.

“Cassian,” Nesta tries, gently shaking his shoulder.

Cassian lets out a quiet groan, a soft murmur that Nesta can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but she decides any sound is a good sign. She quickly adds more fuel and stokes the fire back to life, tugging the privacy screen back enough that she can reach a hand out and pack more snow into a waterskin, melting it down. She adds soap berries and takes the time to reclean all of Cassian’s wounds, carefully laying the strips of fur back in place and tucking him back in.

By the time Nesta has finished, her stomach seems set on being louder than even her khui, and she knows she’ll need to venture out of the safety of the cave. She grabs Cassian’s knife and keeps it poised in her hand as she slowly pulls back the privacy screen the rest of the way and peeks her head outside. When she’s sure the coast is clear, she steps out properly into the snow and the two suns already sitting high in the sky.

Nesta knows that the hunters have caches near each of the caves. She knows that she just needs to find the tree that has the markings in the bark to indicate where this cave’s cache is. She heads for the tree line, making sure she keeps the cave in her line of sight at all times as she wanders through the snow. Her eyes scan the different trunks until she finally spots the one with knife markings on it. She drops to her knees and digs through the snow until she finds a quillbeast buried there, tugging it free and piling the snow back on top of the cache.

It’s messy and imperfect, skinning the quillbeast when she makes it back to the hunter cave, and it takes much longer than Nesta thought it would but she makes it work. She cooks the meat over the fire and nibbles on the pieces, occasionally glancing toward Cassian to check on him. She’s going to need a proper plan soon. A long term plan soon.

But for right now, all Nesta can think about is how gross she feels. The trek to the Elder cave and everything that’s happened since then hasn’t exactly lent itself to the opportunity to bathe and she’s certainly feeling it. Her braid is practically crusted over with grease, and there’s a layer of grime and sweat clinging to her skin that has her nose scrunching in distaste.

She clambers up to her feet, grabbing one of the waterskins and making for the cave entrance. Darkness has started to creep in outside, and Nesta swears she can feel eyes staring at her from behind the tree line. It has her shuttering, memories of the metlaks still fresh in her mind. She makes quick work of packing the waterskin with snow and securing the privacy screen firmly back in place, some of the tension finally loosening from her shoulders when she’s sat safely back at the fire.

She sets the waterskin above the fire to melt the snow and gets started on her hair while she waits, tugging the leather strap free and carefully unwinding the strands. She digs a bone comb out of her pack and uses it to work through the tangles. By the time she finishes, the snow has melted and the water has warmed, so she crushes up some soap berries, lathering up her hair and carefully rinsing the strands.

Just that one thing already has her feeling infinitely better, but she peels off her shirt and sets it aside. She uses the spare squares of fur to scrub and rinse down her arms, along her shoulders, across her collarbones. Her khui begins to sing loudly in her chest, sending vibrations skittering through her veins, heat creeping up her spine, and her hands pause their movements. A shudder takes over her body, her breath catching in her throat, as if it knows what’s happening before her mind catches up.

She didn’t even hear him get up. Didn’t hear him move across the cave and closer to her. But now she can hear the way his own khui answers the song of her own, can feel the warmth radiating off him as much as the fire in front of her.

Despite his overly large hands, Cassian’s touch is surprisingly gentle. The tips of his fingers whisper across her exposed shoulder, tracing shapes and patterns along the skin. Nesta can feel her heart starting to trip over itself between her ribs, can hear her damn khui practically screaming away, but she can’t find it within herself to move away from him, can scarcely breathe. Goosebumps bloom down her arm at his touch, and she hates it.

She hates his tenderness and his kindness and the fact she doesn’t deserve it. She hates the way their khuis sing and twine together, filling the space of the cave around them. She hates the way she wants to lean back into him, to give in until she’s consumed. But, instead, she stares resolutely at the shadows cast across the cave walls from the fires, focusing on anything other than this big, blue alien and his intense stares and his easy smiles and his charming words and his boisterous laughter and his stupid gentle touches to her shoulder.

She tries to focus on being back on that spaceship with her sisters, back to what she left behind on earth. Tries to focus on every barely sutured wound, every chink in her armor weighing her down and promising to pull her under. Tries to focus on the sorry bruised and battered state of her heart, not even close to worthy of being offered over.

Cassian switches his attention to her other shoulder, fingers still tracing those soft, aimless patterns. The shuddering breath that tumbles past Nesta’s lips sounds too loud even to her own ears, but his touches don’t falter, and she swallows hard, forcing herself to find her voice again.

“Freckles,” she breathes, turning her head enough that she can meet his gaze. It’s a mistake, their faces now close together, but she pushes on anyway. “They’re places where the skin goes darker. Often from the sun.”

“Free-kels,” Cassian repeats, his brows dipping as he focuses on speaking the word.

Nesta snorts amusedly at the pronunciation attempt. “Close enough.”

Cassian drops his gaze back to her shoulder, his fingers resuming their movements. “Your sisters have them too.”

“Yes. Feyre on her nose, and Elain on her cheeks. I have mine on my shoulders.”

“I like them.”

He says the words so genuinely, almost reverently, and Nesta’s heart gives a traitorous squeeze in her chest. That tightness only seems to grow when Cassian shifts his head, his mouth brushing along the same path his fingers had traced moments before. Nesta closes her eyes, letting the feeling wash over her, but her eyes snap back open again when Cassian’s hand skates across her cheek. She blinks in surprise at the tear he caught, not even realizing it had slipped free.

“I’m sorry,” Cassian murmurs, shifting away from her.

The loss of his presence and his warmth is jarring, the cold seeping in around her and sinking its claws into her. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, her bottom lip finding home between her teeth.

“I had this boyfriend back on earth,” Nesta begins, her voice quiet. She’s not sure where the need to tell him comes from, but once she starts, the words continue to flow out of her. “Sort of like a pleasure mate, I guess. But he was… cruel. He was awful. He made me feel weak. And when I finally left him, I swore to myself that I would never feel weak again. But I did. On that spaceship. Waking up there and seeing Elain and Feyre and knowing there was nothing I could do to save them. That I couldn’t save them. I felt just as powerless again. I want to stop feeling weak and powerless.”

Cassian reaches across the space between them, settling his hand overs and stopping her from twisting her fingers into knots. “I could train you, if you want. Teach you how to use our hunting weapons, so you can always protect yourself. So you will always feel strong.”

For a moment, Nesta can do nothing but stare at him, her heart lodged firmly in her throat and tangling with the words there. This is a ledge, one that she can’t come back from if she steps off it, and the ground is shaky beneath her feet. If Cassian picks up on her trepidation, he doesn’t let on. He merely watches her quietly, patiently, his thumb sliding almost soothingly along the back of her hand.

“And what if I decide to use those skills to fight you?” Nesta teases lightly, hoping to steer the conversation back to familiarity, to steady footing.

“Then I would know that I trained you well,” Cassian tells her sincerely. “I would be proud of you.”

Nesta pulls her hands free from Cassian’s touch, turning her attention fully back to the fire. “You should be resting. You shouldn’t be up. You’re still healing.”

Cassian lets out a soft sigh, but Nesta can’t bear to turn and look at him, to see the expression she’s sure is on his face. She hears him move away, the shuffles as he moves back toward the furs. She bites her lip to keep it from trembling, grabbing her shirt and yanking it back on.

“What is your plan then?” Cassian asks from behind her. “We will have to go back to the main cave.”

“I know,” Nesta murmurs, curling her knees up against her chest.

“Rhys is a good leader. He will not force… it will be your choice, but we will not be able to keep it a secret any longer. Everyone will know that we have resonated.”

“Maybe just you should go back to the cave then. Then, no one will know your mate is the scary one.”

“You think that is what I wish?”

Nesta lets out a dry, mocking laugh, whirling around to face him. “It’s what you should want. There’s something wrong with me.”

Cassian frowns, tilting his head curiously. “Are you well, Nes? We will have Madja speak with your khui. We will fix it.”

“You don’t get it,” Nesta huffs frustrated, barely stopping her eye roll. “You can’t fix it. They can’t even fix it back on earth. It’s… it’s inside my head. In my mind.”

Cassian’s expression is pained as he watches her, like his own heart is breaking at the admission. He hesitates for a second before closing the distance between them again, his hands reaching up to frame her face. He presses his forehead against hers, each touch so gentle, so caring, and Nesta’s vision starts to blur.

“Then tell me how I can help. Tell me how to ease this pain in your head.”

Nesta shakes her head, swallowing down a choked sob before it can escape. “I’m telling you. You can’t. I’m broken.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Cassian tells her fiercely, his thumbs catching every tear that slips free and slides down her cheeks. “Because there is nothing broken to fix.”

“You just don’t understand,” Nesta scoffs.

“And you do not see what I see. I know that you are hurting. That these males in your past have hurt you. But I see how you still walk with your head held high. You are still so strong. I see how fiercely you care for your sisters, that you would do anything for them. I see everything that you do at the cave and everything that you are doing now, and I am honored that my khui has chosen you as my mate.”

Nesta pulls her face free from Cassian’s grip, scrubbing the back of her hand against her cheeks. “I thought I told you to rest.”

“You need to rest too.”

“I will.”

Cassian scrutinizes her for a moment, but when he finally seems satisfied with what he sees, he nods his head. He moves back over to the furs, but rather than slip beneath them, he begins to rearrange them, fluffing them up, preparing them.

“What are you doing?” Nesta demands even though she already knows the answer. “Cassian.”

“I will not have my mate be cold,” Cassian explains, as if it’s that simple, shifting the furs closer to the fire.

“I’m not the one who’s injured. You’re still healing.”

“I do not care.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at that, crossing her arms across her chest. “Gods, you can be so stubborn, did you know that?”

“Then we are evenly matched,” Cassian tells her, meeting her gaze head on.

Nesta sighs, already knowing she’s going to regret this. “Fine. We can share. Then everyone wins. Just… just don’t make it weird.”

Cassian’s expression betrays nothing, but he gestures toward the furs for her to go first. With another roll of her eyes, Nesta moves and slips beneath the furs. She shifts as far to the edge as she can, keeping her back to Cassian as he clambers beneath the furs beside her. She relaxes once he’s settled, but it’s short lived when his arms reach out and curl around her, tugging her back into his chest.

“Cassian,” Nesta warns between clenched teeth.

“I am not making it weird. I am merely helping to keep you warm.”

It's a lie and they both know it. Especially with the way his hand flexes against her waist, his arms tightening. As though he's afraid she'll disappear on him, as though he's desperate to keep her here in his embrace just a little bit longer. And maybe Nesta should call him out on it, maybe it makes her selfish, but she allows herself to sink back into him, allows her eyes to flutter closed, allows his warmth and the security of his arms around her and the steady beat of his heart at her back lull her into blissful sleep.

—

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