#this is kind of aimless but oh well

[drunk-poets-society]

Are you mentally stable or is your copy of Catcher in the Rye heavily annotated

#I’ve come to realise that all my catcher in the rye pals are somewhat not sane #very depressed and kind of aimless including me oh well #text #catcher in the rye

[h-ypno]

Now that iv escaped my abusers, its like... What now?

#I know thats kind of a silly question because like #Do I need to call out for help? #Im not in my abusers but idk how to be an adult #I was never taught about this #just waving a hand and saying “Oh well... Ill learn in time and thats what im doing rn” dont feel right #I feel aimless and helpless. Obviously those tendencies would transfer over. Its not like I was the one who got me out of my moms #It was my FRIEND #shes the one who got me out of there #im not confident nor have a backbone but the fear of my mom is so fucking fresh that I feel like I have to roll over to everyone #if I lose my job or housing or the one friend I have here... Im fucked. its right back to my moms I wont have a choice #The fear of her still controls EVERYTHING. I dont have it perfect or even very good but compared to my moms this gross apartment #is super valuable #Bleh. #actuallybpd #actually bpd #bpd #actually borderline #actuallyborderline

[loveinhawkins]

Every so often, Eddie will get the bus to Starcourt Mall (because what else is there to do?) and watch the world go by.

It’s not like he’s above a cliché or two—maybe he wants to indulge in being a lone figure within the crowd. Maybe he just feels like wallowing in the aimlessness of it all, damn it.

This is where Wayne would point out that Eddie is exactly the opposite of aimless, what with how he’d stormed into the trailer last month, failed test results in hand and snarled, “Next year. I’ll fuckin’ show ‘em.”

But there’s a long time between now and the new school year starting, the summer stretching out before him like taffy. He’d tried to start his reading list early again, but that’s never done him much good; this time he’d gotten through one chapter of Moby-fucking-Dick before despairing.

So. People-watching at the mall it is.

It’s surprisingly not all that terrible an activity, apart from discovering which teachers are suddenly very passionate about jazzercise—a sight Eddie could’ve blissfully lived the rest of his life without seeing.

There’s also the confirmation that the Starcourt commercial he saw was not a vivid hallucination—that Scoops Ahoy is, in fact, real.

And so are the ridiculous sailor outfits.

Well, I’ll be damned, Eddie thinks.

Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington are an incredibly unlikely duo. It’s like the universe abandoned all sense, spun a wheel and paired them up just for the fun of it.

When he joins the line for ice-cream, Eddie initially thinks he’ll find the whole thing laughable: seeing people forced to work together when usually the laws of the universe (and Hawkins High) would keep them as far apart as possible.

But then he discovers that the ice-cream parlor is packed, one hell of a bottleneck forming right up at the counter, where folks are waiting for a seemingly never-ending amount of floats to be poured.

It takes a while for Eddie to near the front of the line; enough time passes that he honestly feels kind of bad for even taking up a spot, for adding to the workload that has Robin shouting herself hoarse with every, “Next please!”

He strongly considers just leaving, but he hesitates for a moment too long, and unintentionally meets eyes with…

“Hi,” Steve says, pleasantly enough, if a little distracted as he prods at the soda machine. He smiles apologetically. “Be with you in a sec.”

Eddie almost wants to tell him you know it’s me, right? He doesn’t.

It’s not that he expects Steve to be mean, exactly; it’s just that he’s getting more than familiar with the whole post graduation routine. It’s like there’s a secret page in folks’ yearbooks, instructing them to look at anyone still attached to high school with either indifference or embarrassment—or both.

Steve must not have got the memo.

“Next!”

Robin beckons Eddie forward with a sweeping arm gesture, looks somewhere behind him and sighs in relief, puffing out her cheeks.

“Oh, thank God. You stopped the tide.”

Eddie glances over his shoulder; sure enough, he’s the last person left to order.

“Don’t think I’ve got that power, Buckley.”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Debatable.”

Eddie almost laughs. There was a rumour in his first attempt at senior year that he could curse people: it only came about because he ominously whispered some Pig Latin he’d once overheard Robin herself use during History, and Molly Pritchard crossed herself in horror.

“I’ll have a vanilla cup.”

“Ooh,” Robin says dryly, “adventurous.”

“Nothing wrong with a classic,” Eddie says.

Robin smirks as she rings him up. They don’t know each other that well, but there’s admittedly something nice in the distant familiarity they share; at the very least, she’s not gonna add to any potential awfulness when school starts again.

While Robin hands over his change, Steve is filling up a cup—Eddie would say he’s uncharacteristically quiet, except for the fact that he doesn’t actually know what truly is characteristic of Steve Harrington.

Plus he’s stuck on the fact that he only paid for one scoop, but the amount of ice-cream Steve manages to cram in is almost double that.

And he does this ridiculous little twirly thing with the scooper before he even reaches for the tray of vanilla.

Eddie tells himself he notices just because the move is so stupid; it’s definitely not because he’s noticing Steve’s hands in general. It’s just… eyes get drawn to movement. That’s all.

“Syrup?” Steve asks, nodding his head at the dispensers.

“Sure,” Eddie says. “Strawberry.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Oh, don’t do that, man. Get it with butterscotch.”

Robin’s eyes rise to the heavens, as if some longstanding argument has begun once again.

“And why should I do that, Harrington?” Eddie says.

“Because,” Steve says, like he’s patiently explaining that two plus two equals four, “butterscotch is better. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Robin parrots mockingly. She closes the register drawer and says, “I’m taking my break, Popeye. Try not to judge the customers too hard.”

Eddie’s pretty sure he hears Steve mutter under his breath as she leaves, “Seriously? You’re worse than me.”

His cup of ice-cream is under hostage, apparently. Steve still hasn’t pressed down on the damn syrup pump.

“This your usual sales technique?” Eddie says. “Browbeating the customers?”

“Only the lucky ones,” Steve returns mildly.

Eddie scoffs. “Fine. Gimme the damn butterscotch then.”

“Knew you’d come to your senses,” Steve says.

He hands the cup over without any more quips; just as he’s done with the syrup, a large family swoops in with multiple sundae orders.

Eddie eats the ice-cream while waiting for the bus back home. He grudgingly has to admit that the butterscotch isn’t bad.

But that’s not really what’s bugging him.

He has to know if it’s a fluke—if maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington only deigned to talk to him because he was, like… delirious or something. Maybe the flood of demanding customers scrambled his brain.

Of course, when Eddie goes back to the mall, it’s purely to test his theory. Strictly observational—educational, even. Like… summer school. (Take that, O’Donnell.)

The bus drops them off a little bit before the mall actually opens, but they’re allowed inside anyway. Eddie inwardly cringes at the sight of grown adults tapping persistently on the windows of still closed stores. Jesus Christ, they’re worse than zombies.

Scoops Ahoy isn’t open yet either; Eddie’s soon witness to a very stressed looking Steve striding over to unlock the place.

He flits in and out of view for a while, taking mops round to the back, filling up the jars of toppings.

Eddie actually considers heading over to Waldenbooks to check if it’s open (it’s not like he’s coming here for one store in particular, obviously), but then he hears metal clacking against the tiles.

When he looks back at Scoops Ahoy, he spots a set of keys on the ground right at the entrance, Steve nowhere in sight.

Goddamn it. He’s gonna have to be a Good Samaritan. Ugh.

Eddie briefly looks up to the ceiling as if he can condemn the ways of the universe from here. Then he sighs, picks up the keys and steps into the store.

“Harrington, you dropped these—”

“Shit,” comes Steve’s voice from the back, followed by an almighty clatter.

Eddie hesitates before his curiosity inevitably wins out.

He goes behind the register, through the door and finds the aftermath of complete disaster: Steve standing in front of an entire vat of ice-cream that’s been dropped onto the floor. It’s splattered all up his legs, cookies and cream clinging to the hairs.

Holy shit, stop thinking about his leg hair, Eddie thinks.

Up until this point in time, he’d believed it was physically impossible to look anything other than comical in that stupid sailor outfit.

(Well. Almost.)

But right now Steve looks absolutely tragic. Like he’s a crew member on the Titanic levels of tragic, and he’s about to deliver the news that there’s simply no more lifeboats.

Steve meets Eddie’s gaze.

“That was limited edition,” he says pitifully.

They both look down at the floor.

“Well,” Eddie says. “It definitely is now. Still, uh, what’s the phrase? No use crying over spilled… ice-cream.”

“Oh, I’m not gonna cry over it,” Steve says. “I’m gonna scream.” For a moment he looks murderous. “Robin’s not coming in.”

“Is she sick?”

Steve snorts. “Sick my ass. No, she’s keeping The Hawk in business—gonna see a movie about an ice-cream parlor, something like that.”

“An ice-cream parlor,” Eddie echoes. “Um. Are you sure she didn’t just make it up?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s one of those foreign—never mind.”

He cuts himself off, lifts up one foot, as if he’s become aware of his predicament all over again.

“I was fine with her ditching, she can do whatever; it’s not like we have managers checking up on us. But I forgot a huge delivery was coming, and it’s Saturday so it’s gonna be crazy, so I’m not gonna have time to put all of it in the freezer or check the stock chart, so it’s all just gonna become fucking soup, Jesus, maybe I should just throw everything on the floor and—”

“I could help,” Eddie interrupts, because apparently a little alien has burrowed into his brain and now he just says things.

Steve stares at him. “Why would you do that?”

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” Eddie says. He wishes his brain-invading alien an immediate death. “Bad idea, just—”

“No, I mean why would you do that? Dude, it’s not like I can pay you or—”

“I don’t really have plans,” Eddie says—oh great, the alien hasn’t died! “Uh, you can pay me with, like, a name tag?” What? Stop talking. “Like a souvenir?” Stop! “Oh sorry,” Steve says, as if on automatic pilot. He pulls at his shirt. “We don’t have—our names are stitched on.”

I was kidding about the name tag. Actually, maybe you should just murder me instead.

By some miracle, Eddie’s expression must somehow still look fairly normal because Steve continues, deadly serious, “Munson. Are you sure?”

This is the time to back out—

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Look, man, it’s no big deal. I can clean this up and—”

A bell starts ringing from the front, being struck over and over again in the most obnoxious way possible.

Something in Steve’s eyes flickers, a shift from panic into planning mode, and Eddie has the sudden bizarre feeling that this is what the basketball team saw whenever a crisis timeout was called.

“You sure you’re okay if I leave you back here?” Steve asks, and the gravity with which he says it threatens to send Eddie into hysterics—Christ, you’d think they were in the goddamn trenches.

“Think I’ll survive,” Eddie says. “I’m basically cleaning up, and putting everything into the freezer?”

Steve nods. “And, um, a stock check too, if that’s okay? There’s a chart pinned up, you just gotta count the flavours and put, like, tally marks next to—”

“Oh my God, not tally marks,” Eddie drawls. “The horror.”

Steve huffs. “I was just—”

The bell rings even more insistently.

“Uh, think you’re needed on the front line,” Eddie says.

He nearly chokes on his own spit when Steve turns to just march right on out there.

“Harrington, wait! Your—your legs,” he says weakly.

Steve has the audacity to look puzzled. “What about them?”

They’re very long.

Eddie gestures silently to the ice-cream on the floor, then attempts a vague hovering motion in the direction of Steve’s legs.

Steve’s eyes go wide in realisation. His cheeks turn slightly red. “Oh! Yeah, um, thanks. Um. I’ll just…”

He disappears into the world’s tiniest restroom, comes back free of cookies and cream before heading out to the front.

Well, Eddie thinks to the mop he finds, this is definitely a situation.

It’s not the worst way he’s spent a few hours, apart from having to listen to a Sailor’s Hornpipe on loop through the speakers (he briefly wonders how Robin and Steve stay sane). He cleans up, gets the rest of the delivery into the freezer, even jots down some tally marks, wonder of wonders.

Steve will occasionally slide back the shutters and pop his head in, passing over a soda.

“Employee perks,” he says, then has to hurriedly retreat to keep serving.

Eddie keeps waiting for the stiltedness to set in, but it seems Steve’s far too busy for there to be any awkwardness.

At midday the shutter slides back again and Steve says, “Hey, can you do me one last thing, and I’ll never ask you for anything ever again, I swear.”

“Harrington, you’ve technically never asked me for anything. Gimme the mission.”

Turns out the mission is just to use some employee only coupons at Burger King so Steve can take his lunch.

Eddie returns to Scoops Ahoy with two burgers to find that Steve’s strategically placed a pile of chairs and wet floor signs at the threshold to deter people from entering.

There’s also a hand-drawn sign on top of one of the chairs: Out for Lunch. Underneath, there’s a horrendously bad drawing of a ship on choppy waves.

Eddie tries very hard to not find it endearing.

He gives Steve a burger, hops onto the table in the back and starts eating his own.

A quarter of the way through, he realises that he could leave now—he’s done everything Steve’s asked, and Steve’s already said he can manage the remaining shift on his own now that the delivery’s been put away.

Huh. Well, he’s already gone to all the effort of sitting here…

Steve’s quiet for most of his lunch. Eddie doesn’t mind; he enjoys his free food, comes up with a half-baked campaign idea before discarding it, counts every tile in the room…

Looks over.

Steve’s sat with one leg hunched up to his chest, a book resting on his knee—the cover’s folded over the back as he reads, the spine broken. Eddie doesn’t know why on earth it’s attractive, but it is; he feels like some mooning middle schooler, entranced by the way their stupid crush eats spaghetti or some bullshit like that.

But then again, there’s always been an easy grace to Steve Harrington.

A beeping noise; Steve checks his wristwatch with a sigh.

“Ugh.”

He leaves the book on the table, at just the right angle for Eddie to read the title: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

“Is it good?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, I’m only a couple chapters in, so…” Steve shrugs. “Honestly, it’s the most I’ve read since starting high school.”

And Eddie gets that: the senior years he’s suffered through have left him each time with a brain like a wrung out sponge, not even having the energy for Tolkien.

God. At this rate he’s never gonna read for fun ever again.

His face must do something because Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times before saying, a little hesitant, “Hey, I’m sorry you never, uh… made it through, y’know? You—you were so close, man.” Eddie doesn’t bother wasting time on being pissed that Steve knows some of the details: ‘test results’ and ‘confidentiality’ don’t exactly go together in Hawkins High.

“Yeah, uh. Thanks. Here’s hoping third time’s the charm.”

Steve claps his shoulder. “You’ll do it, it was just tough this year. Like, I scraped through, trust me.”

Eddie snorts—he would literally kill to have a handful of Steve’s grades.

“Think my definition of ‘scraped through’ is different to yours.”

He helps Steve disassemble the mountain of chairs, and now it really is obvious that he could just leave; he only has to take a few steps, and then he’s out of there.

But he pauses.

The store is still empty.

Eddie shuffles back from the doorway. “Ice-cream for the road?”

Steve laughs. “Sure. Least I can do.”

He doesn’t ask Eddie what he wants, just serves a vanilla cup with butterscotch syrup.

Eddie suddenly feels himself fighting a smile. “Think you’ve got an agenda, man.”

“Nope. Just giving you the superior choice, Munson.”

Then Steve picks up an empty cup and pours more butterscotch into it, nothing else. He knocks it back like a shot. “Gross,” Eddie says.

Steve flashes him a syrup-streaked grin.

It’s so… juvenile.

If it wasn’t for the fact that they’re in a mall, Eddie would almost think that he’d gone back a few years, made an unexpected temporary friend that goofed off with him in the back of the class.

He finishes his ice-cream as more people flock to the counter; in what seems like no time at all, Steve’s ushering Eddie out, pulling down the security grille.

It feels a bit like a soap bubble has burst. Like the bell’s unexpectedly rung at the end of last period, in a class he was actually enjoying, against all odds.

Steve does say, quite sincerely, “Thanks, Munson. You didn’t have to… you really saved my ass.��

Eddie’s about to clumsily work his way through some reply about how it was nothing, but then they really do have to go, because some stern-faced security guard’s staring like he might vaporise them.

It’s just one day, Eddie thinks. A… what’s-it-called. An anomaly.

But he goes back to the mall the next afternoon. He doesn’t bother to make up an excuse even in his own head.

Scoops Ahoy is somehow even more packed this time—Steve’s serving up samples while Robin’s back at the register, and when she sees Eddie coming, she points at the vanilla, mouths, “The classic?”

He chuckles, nods. “How was your movie, Buckley?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” she says serenely. “I was very sick.” She coughs delicately.

“Praying for your miraculous recovery.”

He gets vanilla with butterscotch syrup (just because Robin’s the closest to that particular dispenser, that’s all).

It’s so busy that once Robin’s finished at the register, she starts filling orders alongside Steve. When Eddie picks up his cup, they barely look at him, surrounded by other cups and plastic bowls laid out for ice-cream.

Figures. Eddie knows it’s not personal. Just. Soap bubble’s burst, and all that.

He’s almost out the store when he hears a whistle.

“Hey, Munson! Go long!”

“Fuck off, no,” Eddie says automatically, a response drilled into him from many a compulsory Phys Ed class.

But he turns, just in time to see Steve throw something at him. He catches it—it’s plastic, round—somehow manages to keep a hold of his ice-cream, too.

Steve gives a brief thumbs up, before he’s back to scooping. He still finds time to do that stupid twirl move again.

Once outside, Eddie opens up his hand. Snorts.

It’s a shitty white badge, chipped in several places. His name’s scrawled on it in red marker, a cartoony anchor in the upper right corner.

On the bus home, Eddie mulls over the thought of flicking through a couple chapters of The Hobbit, something like that. No pressure, no notes—no imagining the year ahead, a teacher looming over his shoulder. Just for fun.

There’s plenty of time.

He puts his souvenir in his pocket, takes another spoonful of ice-cream.

And he has to admit that butterscotch is pretty damn good.

#my second scoops fic! such a fun setting #pre steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

[stylesharrys]

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

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

The Host | Yandere Zoldyck Family

“I’m so happy, we were able to locate the portal so quickly! Now you all can return to your world without breaking the space-time continuum!” You mused, happily sipping on the piping hot tea in front of you.

Whether you liked it or not, you wouldn’t have refused this cup. After all, it was specially crafted for and given to you by the reclusive Zoldycks. It was an honor—more like a miracle that you were being served an un-poisoned cup of tea. 

You were used to prickly (read as: murderous) anomalies that were ejected into the aimless void of time. As per your occupation you housed and befriended said anomalies until it was time that they returned to their dimensions.

When you were selected at the end of your life for this position, the galactic overlords in charge assured you that this was a duty perfect for you. That no matter what, your tenants would find themselves comforted by you during their time there. 

You begged to disagree even though none of your tenants had successfully ended your life yet. You prepared yourself for the day they one day would. 

“Yes, it will be a shame to lose contact with a host as pleasant as you.” 

Zeno smiled, closing his eyes as brought his own cup to his mouth. Letting a hand fall over your heart you silently thanked him. Another hand reached for you tearing your attention away from the former head.

“It is a shame your work keeps you so busy!” Kikyo cried, holding your hand. Gingerly running the pads of her fingers over your knuckles. 

“Ah, but I feel as though I haven’t worked a day.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you like this job of yours?” The old man raised his brow.

“Of course! When I’m not hosting I’m free to do what I please and the guests that come by always make things interesting.”

Memories of the various visitors came to mind as you smiled; Kikyo puckered her lip in a pout. Her clutch on your hand had gotten slightly tighter, nothing alarming but noticeable.

“But don’t you feel overworked? Tired? Lonely?”

“There’s always the other people in the town.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have expected them to have any intelligible conversation.”

You dismissed the slight towards your community, it’d be impossible for her to realize their worth within the year. Granted they weren’t particularly strong or inquisitive; it wasn’t like they were built to be outstanding anyway. Nonetheless, they were kind to you and always understanding when it came to the guests. Not once have you needed to send a complaint to upper management. Everyone played their prescribed roles without fail.

“They can be really pleasant, once you get to know them.”

Zeno sighed, “So you say but I can’t imagine you not caring for them. You're always so forgiving.”

“Well…they have their flaws.”

“Ah! You’re too humble (Y/n)! The least they can do is honor your contribution to their pathetic lives!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Zoldyck but a cake every once in a while is good enough for me.”

“Ah! So simple (Y/n), it screams you no nothing of luxury!”

“Really I feel as though I’ve almost been overwhelmed with it with the Zoldycks here.”

“Please! If you could see the Zoldyck Estate in our world, you’d truly know luxury!” 

You let her continue, chatting with her and Zeno, who occasionally chimed in. It was time to enjoy their company for they’d be gone before you knew it. 

____________________________________

“Ne (Y/n)! Alluka wants to hold onto your jacket for a bit is that alright?”

“Oh? I barely noticed I left it behind but sure.” 

You continued to walk side by side with Killua making your way to your destination. The wind was cold. Wisping at your cheeks and nose as you mesmerized yourself with the smoky puff your breath made. Catching cat-like blue eyes watching you with amusement you stopped, replacing it with an embarrassed smile. 

He snickered. “What? Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh Killua you're the only kid that makes me feel like a silly child again.”

“Eh?! You make it sound like I’m the reason you’re just childish anyway.”

You playfully hummed. “Hm. Maybe I am.”

You shared a laugh before letting your eyes begin to wander. Looking past the trees of the park to admire the clouded sky blending into the freezing lake. Despite having walked this path millions of times before, it never failed to take your breath away. Making you sigh in awe, you minded the frozen droplets hanging off the naked branches; looking as though they were a part of some artist’s canvas.

Even the rosiness that danced at your cheeks brought by your body’s attempt to warm you in the frigid season, felt magical in its own right. It was easy to lose sight of your path as your feet remember the way; allowing you to drift. 

But before you could go too far the warmth of another hand-a smaller hand in your pocket brought you back. Looking down in surprise at the blushing owner looking away from you. You chuckled intertwining his smaller, rougher hand with yours as you walked with a pep in your step. 

“I-I’m just keeping my hand warm. Where I’m from it never gets this cold.”

You smirked. “Sure!” 

You didn’t believe him and he knew that. But that wasn’t the point anyway. 

“You two seem to be getting along well.” 

The monotone voice stopped the both of you in your tracks. Standing in a slim-fitted insulating jacket was the eldest of the Zoldyck children. Standing precisely on the crack in the sidewalk he demanded you meet at. You didn’t miss the annoyed click of Killua’s teeth. Or the blank foreboding stare directed at a specific pocket of yours.

“Yup, Killua offered to walk me to our meetup spot. If you’re alright with it, I wouldn’t mind if he came with us.”

Illumi robotically tilted his head, his eyes still trained on the same spot it had been focused on since he started watching you. 

“I doubt Kil would find any enjoyment in where we’re going.”

Killua's eye twitched. “Oh? Where are you going?”

“Somewhere for adults, I’m sure you’d find it boring.”

“Really try me,”

The two intensely held each other’s gaze, vaguely conveying that this may need your intervention. With a well-timed sneeze, you might have saved yourself and the whole park from their ‘playful’ exchange of blows. Illumi seemed to back down first stepping closer to your unoccupied side where he waited for his brother to leave. 

Said brother didn’t look all too convinced. Squeezing his hand in yours brought his attention to you, already smiling in silent reassurance.

“Hey, take care of my sweater for me ‘kay.”

The silent message was heard as Killua, who begrudgingly released your hand from his hold. With a final glare towards his brother, he’d begun to leave, watching as you turned and waved to him as he went. He also watched as his brother slipped his hand into your opposite pocket. With a final click of his tongue, he moved at speeds practically impossible for the human eye back to the apartment you’d organized for him and Alluka. 

Making your way wordlessly out of the park, finally stopping within the toasty insides of a ceramics shop. With the unmolded clay in front of you and the guide having finished their instruction, you finally giggled at Illumi. 

“I’d hardly call ceramics an adults-only event.”

Illumi didn’t laugh, he didn’t even look up from the shape he was focused on molding. 

“I would. He isn’t a part of this so it isn’t bizarre for it to be considered an adult event.”

You decided to keep quiet about the toddler two tables down. Instead, you poked your head over the assassin’s shoulder to see what he was making. Glad you hadn’t started working on your own creation, you pulled back the raven locks that were spilling dangerously close to his work in progress. 

Missing the slight stutter of his fingertips as he registered the soft, gentle hold of your fingertips he continued. Opting to focus solely on his creation with more intensely.

“I’m so glad I brought a hair tie for this exact moment.”

“...if you don’t hurry up your clay will dry and your money will go to waste.”

“Ah. So money conscious.”

Finished with a nice low ponytail, you scooched back into your seat; prepared to begin your own creation. Sparing a glance at Illumi, you expected he’d be laser-focused on his work but instead he was staring at you unapologetically. While you found this wasn’t uncommon for him it didn’t change the fact that it was still odd. 

“So uh what are you making?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just asking, are you worried I’ll make fun?”

“My finished product will be more than enough to answer you, right?

“I guess so.”

You had an inkling of worry that he’d create something graphic and horrific. But you had to remind yourself: he wasn’t Milluki. Who unapologetically, on multiple accounts, scarred surprised you with animal entrails, graphic posters, and concerning digital art that bore striking resemblance to you.

Speaking of striking resemblance…you had a glorious idea. 

____________________________________________________

“So…what is it?” 

You hated to ask but you had to. The ceramic resembled the bare requirements of a face colored by a paint color akin to your skin tone. Somehow when you turned your head to the left side you saw a screaming face but when you turned your head to the right it looked as though it was smiling. 

“....” 

He just stared at you blankly (as he usually did) but you could tell there was something unfamiliar. He turned his head away from you as he reached for his creation back. 

“If you can’t tell than it shouldn’t matter.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, I’m sorry!” 

You held the…thing in your hands with care as you bore witness to the rare sight of an embarrassed Illumi. 

“Even if I don’t know what it is I think it’s beautiful in its own right.”

“Don’t lie its unbecoming of you.” 

“I’m not lying!”

You let him snatch it from your hand and tuck it in his pocket. Smiling to yourself, you found comfort in that he didn’t immediately toss it into the trashcan by the doorway. Catching up with his quick pace you held you’re wrapped creation to your chest. 

“I would like to continue on now.”

“Don’t just sweep it under the rug! It’s all about growth.”

_____________________________________________

“Here you are Kalluto!”

He was doing what you had suggested: finding his own style. Alas, he still found himself taking the most buried articles of clothing from your closet and posing in the mirror. If you had noticed you didn’t say much, when you let yourself into the room he’d been given. 

“I made it just for you.”

The vase had a pink hue, with speckles of purple. He liked it but he was curious why he was gifted this. 

“I based it off the color of your eyes. I saw the shade being offered and I thought it’d be a perfect souvenir for you.”

His cheeks were overtaken by a hot crimson as he gingerly accepted the small vase. He loved it! Holding it close to his chest he almost missed the presence of his eldest brother outside his room. Judging by the slim-fitted jacket, his hat, and his pointed stare at the gift itself told Kalluto everything he needed to know. So that was his decision, for his day out with you? The ceramics shop?  

The image of you crafting something while smiling along with him. Hands touching one another while you both crafted something beautiful. Your attention solely focused on him. 

He’s so jealous. 

“Thank you. It looks beautiful.”

“ I’m so happy you like it! I was worried I wouldn’t get the color right but looking at you now I see I’m right on the mark.”

Kalluto’s cheeks never changed from heir red color, causing him to tuck his head into the collar of the shirt he stole from you borrowed. Sending a cautious look at the figure in the doorway he took a gamble. He put the vase down, quickly moving to nestle his head into your stomach almost immediately having your arms wrap around him. He didn’t bother locking eyes with the observer, instead pretending to be fully enveloped by your attention. 

If he did have a problem, Kalluto could argue that his time with you was limited. Therefore nothing was off the table. Not when their access to you would be gone forever. He’d rather it not be that way.

__________________________________________________

“Silva.” 

The call of his wife had the current head of the Zoldyck family, wordlessly asking what she needed. Nonetheless, he responded in kind. 

“Kikyo.”

The two of them were seated a ways apart from one another each sipping on their respective drinks as the candles slowly burned. 

“We need to talk about (Y/n).”

“What is there to talk about?”

He knew what she wanted to talk about. Those of any authority within the Zoldyck family already had a gray consensus about their host. All that was needed was definite words, so that they could be a united front on the subject. 

“On the topic of (Y/n) coming with us.”

Silva crossed his arms. 

“We cannot.”

“Why not? All of us like them! They show promise in maintaining the family, they’ve even convinced Kil to come home more often!” 

He wanted to grit his teeth but he didn’t. Only brought his cup to his mouth for a pensive sip.

“No, they’d never survive training. Let alone our world in general.”

He maintained his composure as he parroted Zeno’s consultation. Even as his wife slammed her own cup on the tray and opened her mouth to protest. He knew she’d ask because he had asked. 

“Mr. Silva. Is it okay if I call you that or would you rather it be Mr. Zoldyck?”

It amazed him that such a meek, small, weak host would have made him even consider bringing you along with them when they returned. Their host couldn’t be farther from them brimming with compassion and mindfulness that brought out a side the family had long since fought against. 

It shouldn’t have enamored them as it had. But it did. Leaving everyone in the family vying for their attention. With them the family’s prowess in killing meant nothing and it didn’t do any favors in garnering positive response. 

But it was for that exact reason Zeno mused that they’d never fit in the Zoldyck family. Even if they chose the route of marrying you into the family it would diminish your time with the everyone. Favoring the one they’d marry over all others. It’d be so unfair

“Husband, this opportunity to attain a sliver of another world would benefit the Zoldyck family! Even more so as a tenant or as a servant under all our care! It wouldn’t impede the family’s strength and their rules to serve would make them an asset to explore.” 

“And have them reach a butler’s strength alone. At their level?”

Kikyo hung her head covering her visor with her hands as she resisted the urge to weep. Silva refused to look at her, focusing intensely on the still liquid in his cup. The pain in this revelation was mutual. 

“Mr. Silva, did you go to aquariums when you were younger?”

“For missions.”

“What about on your own?”

“What would be the purpose of that?”

“I don’t know, to see the animals. To learn about them.”

“What use would learning about these animals do? If there is no time that I’ll be within their biome it would do nothing for me to retain this information.”

“Isn’t it nice to just be in awe though? To just fathom loosely about the world we barely have begun to discover?”

The image of their excited face illuminated by the tank was the moment Silva’s first felt that emotion. It reminded him of meeting Kikyo, of having his heir, of establishing a budding lineage. He learned that feeling was better not left ignored for it could very well determine the safety of the ones he felt it for. 

He’s seen it in his children, in all his children, so he could only see what he could control spiraling for the others. He could only think about the repercussions for when they returned home. There’d be no way to cull it easily; with you being literal dimensions apart.

Kikyo’s sulking stopped abruptly her hands folding to sit on her lap.

“Perhaps there is a way to bring them without breaking the rules.”

Blue eyes look at her expectantly.

“The Zoldyck’s have not encountered anyone worthy enough to consider adoption.”

“Adoption?”

“Yes, the process hasn’t been used within the family before…if it were to be implemented–” There was something hopeful within her voice and a twitch of a smile on Silva’s lip. 

“Then the rules that qualify the one adopted would be entirely up to the head of the family.” 

Silva attempted to resist the smile that spread across his face, as he leaned back onto his hand. How apparent would it be that their host had such an impact on them since they left the mansion? But even so, this was proof that they should have their host after all. 

“I’ll have to check with Zeno…but perhaps it might be a veritable solution.”

____________________________________________

You were glad you spent the night before sobbing your heart out. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to smile through the Zoldyck’s goodbyes. Granted none of them, except for Kalluto and Alluka, were even close to shedding a single tear. Nonetheless, you hugged them all trying to calm yourself. 

The otherworldly energy spewing from the portal never made you nervous before and yet your hair was standing on end. Your tolerance for fearful situations had decreased significantly as you got to know the Zoldyck family but it never completely went away. You weren’t an idiot. 

They were a family of assassins. 

It’s foolish not to expect threats on your life at every other turn. But this had an effect on you on a deeper level than that. This was more unsettling. 

Was it the amount of place-holding spirits killed during their stay? Or the physical planet of this dimension lurching as it coughed up one of the most murderous families to stay here? Or was there something wrong with the integrity of the dimension itself?

You were tethered to the realm and it was tethered to you. For the most part, it only means you have a loose idea of what’s to come with the weather or an effect on a guest’s actions. But in times of dire situations, you’ve had the world reach out to you. At this point, you were already looking for a sign. 

But that wasn’t your main focus not when the younger ones were keeping you occupied. Hanging on your arms were Alluka and Killua; the latter was playfully mirroring the former. 

“Aw (Y/n)! We’ll miss you so much!”

“Yeah! We’ll miss you soooo much!”

“Ah Killua at least you could pretend to be serious about this.”

Spying Kalluto a ways off clutching the vase you had made him you gave him a small smile. 

“This relocation didn’t turn out to be a complete waste.” 

Milluki spoke up, unabashed as he pulled along a cart of all his anime and gaming memorabilia. You could see the invisible sneers of disgust from majority of the family, Killua didn’t even bother hiding his. 

“For once I’d agree,” Illumi chimed sending a bottomless look in your direction. “There were plenty of…unexpected trades to learn in a world devoid of hunters.”

“Thank you?” You shrugged.

Zeno let out a chuckle putting a thoughtful hand on your back. 

“I think all of us in the Zoldyck family have learned quite a bit.” You had to fight the tears now.

“For that we thank you.”

The entirety of the Zoldyck family bowed to you, leaving you to fight tears at the demonstration of respect and love they had for an average-dimensional host. Fanning at the water building up in your eyes you bowed and thanked them yourselves.

“You guys! Get over here and give me hugs!” 

You made sure to hug every member of the family even if they made unsettling comments as you did Milluki. 

Getting the timing perfectly right the portal opened to its full size, the electric blue illuminating everyone’s faces. You could smell the atmosphere of the Kukuroo mountain and the forest upon it. All that was left to do was for them to enter. 

“Alright now as stated before time has only been an hour in your world. Now you will be coming down from the sky but I’m sure you all will manage.”

“Thank you for everything (Y/n).”

You bowed your head to the patriarch missing the devious glint in his eyes.

“Of course.” 

Starting with Silva they each dove into the portal, leaving you to stand by yourself in the field of sunflowers selected as a gateway. Turning away from the flashing portal you could finally address the world’s message for you. The surrounding grass began to lay down unnaturally, spelling out a word. 

“They–”

You bent to down watching as the green blades folded into more words, filling your heart with trepidation as it spelled slowly.

“--will not–”

The blades continued to fold slowly as the sunflower stems frantically sprouted from the ground. Not bothering to wriggle free from the stems wrapping around your wrists, you tried to hurry the world’s spelling. Why did you feel like you needed to rush?

“-let you go–? Wait what the he-” 

Before you could finish a translucent, glowing, and golden dragon, like one from Japanese folklore came out of the portal. Wrapping around your entire body it skillfully carried you into the shrinking portal. Only stopping for a short time to wriggle free of the sunflowers that were simultaneously pulling at your limbs.

Now on the other side of the portal, you were being pulled backward. Your front looking at the endless sky watching the portal shrink and close, slicing the desperately reaching sunflowers and their stems. 

Something within you seemed to break but before you could dwell on that you finally tried to register what was going on.

“AHHHHH!”

Diving with you in it’s coil the dragon was rocketing in the direction of a mansion. All you could do was hold tight as the dragon slowed to a stop. Gently letting you lie on the floor, taking a moment to ground yourself you barely registered the booming voice.

“Congratulations (Y/n), you’ve been inducted into the Zoldyck Family.”

“W-what?”

“As the adopted of the Zoldyck, you’re duty to the family is to be protected and to participate in the family to the best of your limited abilities.”

“Wait—”

“Per your lack of Zoldyck blood, your title as the adopted is willing to change for the family’s convenience.”

“HOLD ON!” You stood up fully holding your shaking hands out as you began to process what this would mean. Before you can get a word in Kikyo runs up to you, shoving your head into her chest as she rocks your unsteady form. 

“Rejoice my (Y/n)! Now for all the care you’ve given us, we get to take care of you!”

“Mother, you’ll smother them.”

“Ah big brother, don’t need to get jealous I’m sure you’ll get your turn.”

“I know that.” 

Unable to speak or look too far away, you felt Alluka and Kalluto grab at your pant legs. No doubt they glared at one another as they vied for your attention.

“(Y/n)!” ”(Y/n)!”

Being no help at all Killua wasn’t too far behind, ”Oi don’t hog them all.”

Whether it was the exhaustion of dimensional travel or losing air within your mother Kikyo’s breast. Beginning to lose consciousness you could barely make out the ghost of a smile on Silva’s face. Zeno withheld no courtesy, smiling happily as he turned away.

After all, you were home with them. Where you belonged. 

Surely the Zoldyck family could handle the dimensional repercussions of claiming their host.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere platonic #platonic yandere x reader #platonic yandere #yandere zoldyck family #yandere zoldyck family x reader #yandere silva zoldyck #yandere silva #yandere kikyo #yandere kikyo zoldyck #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere host au #yandere kikyo zoldyck x reader #yandere illumi #yandere hxh #yanderes x reader #yandere illumi zoldyck #yandere illumi x reader #yandere killua #yandere killua zoldyck #yandere alluka #yandere alluka x reader #yandere killua x reader #yandere milluki

[baby-beelzeburger]

Headcanon: The brothers finding you asleep in their bed [Part One]

➳ Summary: The brothers come home late to find MC sleeping in their bed. When asked, MC admits that they missed them while they were gone.

➳ Content info: MC is gender neutral and uses they/them. Emotionally constipated demons but lots of fluff and sweetness. 

➳ Characters: Lucifer and Mammon

➳ Word Count:  Lucifer- 1,626 // Mammon- 2,425

Part Two

Lucifer had been out all night on buisness. After the student council meeting had concluded that afternoon, he had stayed behind with Diavolo to continue discussion on the topics they went over, then made use of the time by filling out some important paperwork. Afterwards, Diavolo had managed to talk him into returning to the Demon Lord’s Castle for dinner, and had kept him there for quite some time with aimless chatter.

Though it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his time (even if he’d never admit that he did,) he was exhausted by the time he returned home. It was late enough that the entire House of Lamentation was still. Not a sound could be heard. Even when that fact made Lucifer feel uneasy, he figured it was just late enough that everyone was keeping to themselves. He stood at the entrance as he briefly considered visiting your room to see if you were in bed already, and to say goodnight if you weren't. Yet, he soon decided against it and turned through the halls to reach his own room instead.

When he arrived at his room, he felt a feeling in his gut telling him that something was off. He interpreted this feeling to mean something was wrong, and so he was immediately on guard, expecting another one of Satan and Belphegor’s lame tricks. He gripped the doorknob carefully, turning it slowly as he peered into the dark room.

His eyes immediately found you, lit by nothing but the candle on his bedside table. His first instinct was to be confused, although his guard was instantly lowered. What were you doing in his room? Was there something wrong with your own that made it uninhabitable? Perhaps Beel went on another one of his hunger-rampages, yet again destroying the kitchen and, consequently, your room as well. But why would you choose his room over anyone else’s to rest in?

Confusion turned into concern as he stood in the doorway, just staring, unsure. He stood there for a moment, not sure if he should disturb you. But eventually his feelings of concern and curiosity won over, and he walked over to kneel at your bedside.

His gloved hand reached out to shake your shoulder, even though he didn’t want to. He couldn’t help but think about how precious you looked, fast asleep, nestled in his bed. Of course, it wasn’t strange to see you relaxed, as time spent between the two of you was often spent in silence. But there was a special kind of feeling in his heart to see you so tranquil, without any sign of the stressors you faced.

Your eyes fluttering open brought him back from his thoughts, although he was distracted again only seconds later by the thought of how cute you were when you were sleepy.

Your half-lidded eyes ridden with fatigue focused on him after a few moments of rubbing them with your fist. Your gaze morphed to match his confusion, before it changed to realization, then embarassment.

“Oh, you're back already?” You asked, eyes darting around the room, “What time is it?"

“Quite late,” He responded, “Why are you sleeping here? Is there something wrong with your room?”

”No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just...” Your voice got quiet as you lowered your head, "’M sorry, Luci, I just missed you.”

In that moment, all Lucifer could do was thank himself for the years of training himself to be more reserved, more stoic. Otherwise it would’ve been utterly embarrasing to show just how flustered that made him feel.

"I was only gone for a few hours.” He responded, voice staying leveled despite the way his heartbeat began picking up, “You just saw me this morning.”

Your only response was to shrug, looking sheepish. He sighed, shaking his head at your strangeness. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever understand you. And yet, with every odd little thing you did, he couldn’t help but become even more endeared to you. Couldn’t help but to fall even deeper in love.

Did you know that you were doing this? Did you know your effect on him? Did you know that you had him so tightly wrapped around your finger? It felt strange, he felt strange. How could he have let his guard down so much to let a human worm their way into his heart? How did you make this happen?

He cleared his throat to dismiss the thoughts from his mind. You looked nervous, like his silence meant that he was going to scold you. Instead, he was so lost in swirling thoughts of affection that, in that moment, he could never dream of doing so. Scolding you meant that you would never pull somehting like this again. And deep, deep down, he knew that he wanted you to. Even every night, if you so wished.

“Very well,” He said, and he heard his own voice waver. He hoped you hadn’t noticed as he got back onto his feet. The movement drew your eyes up to him, and your face changed from nerves to confusion again. “I’ll go sleep in the study. Goodnight, MC.”

He made it one single step away from his bed before your hand reached out to grab at his wrist. His entire body tensed, put off by the sudden contact. He did his best to will his muscles to relax, not wanting to exhibit any weakness. It wasn’t anything against you, just a reflex rooted deep within him. He wanted to be vulnerable with you, but he found it so hard to allow himself that pleasure.

“Wait,” Your voice came from behind him. Lucifer still hadn’t turned around, but he could tell by the sound of your voice that you were pleading with him.

Please don’t, he begged to you within his own thoughts, please don’t make it more difficult then it needs to be.

“Will you stay?”

Your voice sounded so soft. So innocent.

His knees felt weak.

Please don’t tempt me, MC.

He tried to resist the urge to turn around, but very soon he lost that battle. It was an impossible one to win. Your voice was like a siren’s song. Your touch, even through his sleeve, felt irresitable to shun away.

He turned to gaze at you over his shoulder. The moment your eyes met, he knew the war was over. You had won.

“Fine,” Lucifer murmured, his voice filled with surrender, “ I will stay, only until you fall alseep.”

You nodded, a smile spreading across your lips. Pride swelled within him when he realized that he caused that smile. It was one of his favorite things to do, to see you smile, and he wished to see it in his every waking moment. And he always wanted to be the cause of it.

When did that become such a top priority for him?

You scooted over towards the other side of his massive bed, forcing him to sit as you pulled him along with you. Resigning to the force of you dragging him along, Lucifer kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs out in front of him. He rested his back against the headboard of his bed and settled in, though he didn’t plan to be there for long. Just until you fell asleep, then he would slip away to sleep in his study as orginally planned.

Except, he didn’t stop you as you came in closer. Didn’t stop you as you rested your head on his chest. Didn’t stop you from draping your arm over his waist. How could he? If you truly missed him that much, how could he stop you from indulging in this moment?

What’s worse, however, was that Lucifer didn’t stop himself from wrapping an arm around you; from pulling you impossibly closer. Didn’t stop himself from basking in your warmth, or in your weight on top of him. He thought he was strong, one of the strongest demons there was. He took pride in his ability to never crack under pressure. Took pride in how he had no weakness to speak of, or at least that he never showed such a thing. And yet, here you were, and he simply couldn’t resist your gentle urging. Couldn’t resist basking in your affection the moment he had it.

What were you really? Because Lucifer was no longer sure he would take “human” as an answer. You had to be something else. Something more.

He was lost in these thoughts, staring accusatory at the top of your head, when he felt a weight settle on his hand. His eyes darted towards the feeling, and found your hand placed gently atop his. His heart surged again.

“G’night, Luci,” You mumbled, voice muffled and words slurred. Before he could respond, he already knew you had fallen asleep. You’d used your last bit of energy for the day to wish him a pleasant night. And no doubt, it was a good night indeed.

“Goodnight, MC.” He said in response, even despite your unconciousness. Perhaps you could still hear him, deep in the dreamworld you were being sucked into.

Then, and only then, did he let his fingers wrap around your own. Once he was sure you were lost to the waking world. Only then could he bear to respond to such affections. And he didn’t let go, even though you were sleeping. Even though he promised himself he would leave.

Even as his eyes slid closed. And even as he recognized, as he too was drifting to sleep, that his neck would ache come morning due to his position. He didn’t care, though. Not if it meant he would be able to rest there and keep your hand safe in his.

It wasn’t until early, early morning that Mammon had returned to the House of Lamentation. He had been out all night at the casino, and had even won quite a big sum of grimm. This unusual luck even seemed to carry on, as he had managed to slip back into the house without drawing the attention of Lucifer. That was definitely an uncommon occurance.

Now that he thought of it, Mammon remembered his older brother mention something about being out late, but surely he’d be back by now? Maybe he was so tired from whatever boring buisness he had attented to that he was passed out and wouldn’t wake ‘til dawn, not even thinking to check on Mammon and his other brothers’ wareabouts. That was rather uncharacteristic of Lucifer, but Mammon didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. He just won big, and he didn’t want to put a damper on that by seeking out trouble.

Still, Mammon didn’t want to be too loud, so he carefully tip-toed up the old stairs of the main hall and up to his room. He was exhausted after such an exciting night, and was looking forward to crashing. Maybe he’d even skip out on school the next day so he could catch up on his z’s.

As slow as possble, Mammon turned the doorknob to his room and pushed the door open. He held his breath the entire time, keenly aware that the room just beside his was Lucifer’s.

But eventually, he made it inside, and breathed out in relief. He flicked on the lights and welcomed the familiarity of the sight before him. The warming sight of his sanctuary. The place where he could escape from everything, even Lucifer. It was even better when you were there with him.

Speaking of, you looked so cute over there, snuggling your face against his pillows.

With a warm smile, Mammon headed towards his closet to get undressed for the night. He made it halfway across the room before he realized that you in his bed, snuggling his pillows was not a usual familiarity.

His entire body went stiff mid-step, like he was hit with a spell to freeze him in his tracks. His head slowly turned back towards his bed, expecting what he saw to be just a trick of the brain. Except it wasn’t. You were still there, his blanket draped over your hips. Your chest rose and fell slowly, and your face was burried in his pillow, your arms holding it tight to your chest.

Heart beating rapidly within the confines of his chest, he tip-toed once again, over to the bedside. He stared at you with widened eyes, wondering what kind of freaky trick this was. Maybe Lucifer really did find out that he was out and decided to cast some spell on his bed to play a cruel prank on him.

No, no, no, that didn’t make sense. Lucifer doesn’t pull cheap pranks like that. That sounds more like something Belphie and Satan would do. And even though he was often the target of ridicule from those two, he wasn’t often the victim of their tricks. All their best ones were reserved for Lucifer himself.

So then what was this? Surely, if he went downstairs to your room, the real you would be sleeping in your own bed? Maybe one of those cursed witches snuck in and cast a spell to try and trap him?

No, no, no, that doesn’t make sense either.... Lucifer would never let that happen. Mammon was safe here. You and his brothers were safe here too. Lucifer would never let an intruder in. So what was it?

Finally giving in, Mammon reached across the bed to touch your face. He barely let even his fingertips graze your cheek, but you felt so real. So warm. Was this really you after all?

Gently, either in fear that he would wake you, or in fear that whatever trap this was would be triggered, he settled down next to you. He kicked off his shoes and rested his back against the headboard, but he didn’t dare get underneath the covers. It made his heart race even faster, just the thought of sharing covers with you.

Then, he just sat there, unsure what to do. Should he try waking you? Just try and go to sleep? Why is his heart beating so damn fast?

His eyes flickered over to you. He tried to keep his gaze anywhere but you, but it was too hard. Too tempting to look at you resting beside him. In his bed.

He felt like a creep, but he couldn’t help how his eyes eventually became glued to you. Examining every detail of your face. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d seen you look so... relaxed? Days were always so chaotic around here. Usually you were running around with him and his brothers, excited. Laughing that stupid laugh that made his heart soar, even when it was directed at him. Or you were stressed, worried about a dumb situation that someone got themselves into, or anxious about school.

Now you were just.... Calm. Your expression was quiet, unbothered. It was just precious how the corners of your lips were upturned in the gentlest of smiles. It was addicting to look at. Even more addicting then gambling, more addicting then making money. Somehow a stronger pull then the ever-present urge of greed deeply seeded in his heart.

Mammon swore in that moment that if the only thing he could ever do for the rest of his long life was lay there in bed with you and gaze at how sweet and serene you looked while you rested, he would gladly do it.

Mammon wasn’t really sure how long he sat there, yearning for you. He didn’t have the heart to wake you, and certainly didn’t have the desire to kick you out. So, he just sat there, so lost in it that he didn’t even notice your eyes flutter open. Didn’t notice how, as your blurry vision cleared, a look of confusion started to disturb the peace.

He thought maybe he was just hearing things, when your sleepy voice called out his name. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he figured it was too good to be true. But then he heard it again, and he snapped out of his little daydream to glance up and meet your gaze. Frightened by the realization that your eyes were open, Mammon jumped back and tumbled over the edge of his bed, landing with a thud on the floor.

He heard you gasp, but he was too occupied with the sudden pain in the back of his head, which he definitely hit in the fall. He rubbed his head, groaning in pain, a sense of embarassment washing over him. He could barely muster the courage to open his eyes and face you, but it was an instinctual response to do so the moment he could feel a presence looming over him.

You were leaning over the side of the bed to look at him, worry etched across your face. He scolded himself for ruining your calmness.

Still, he wanted to save face. He had to act cool in front of you. He couldn’t believe he had really just done that, scrambling over the edge of his bed like a moron. Of course, it wasn’t the first time he had made a fool of himself in front of you, and it defintely wouldn’t be the last. But he still couldn’t bare the thought. Maybe he could recover.

“What’re ya doin’ in my room?” Was all he could think to ask, forcing a look of annoyance onto his face. As if it were an inconveinence to have you here, and not the greatest relief.

The grin that replaced your concern made him worry. He didn’t like that face, that mischievious little smile. Lips which unspoken words rested on. “So we’re playing this game?” they seemed to quietly speak. Because even under his facade, you could read him so well.

“What were you doing staring at me?” You countered, only to watch his flustered state worsen. Mammon still tried to get a grip, though he knew he was only grasping at straws. You’d won this back and forth before it even began. You always do.

“Don’t turn this on me. This is my room yer in, ya know. Or did ya get lost?”

You chuckled, letting your shoulders rise and fall in a casual shrug.

“I didn’t get lost. I just missed you, is all.”

With those words, it felt like Cupid’s stupid arrow had just peirced his heart. As if Cupid’s stupid arrow hadn’t found him the moment he laid eyes on you. But at this point, Mammon felt as though an arrow shot him every chance it could, making him fall deeper and deeper with every hit. Every time you smiled, or every time you said something sweet to him. And so casually too. How could you say that so easily?

His eyes avoided yours. He couldn’t stand looking at you while his face warmed and his body trembled.

“Tch, I bet ya did. Probably missin’ me every second yer not with me,” He mocked, even when he knew for sure that it was the other way around.

You shrugged again. He wasn’t prepared for what that simple shrug heralded.

“Yeah, I am missing you all the time,” You confirmed, a sweet smile settling on your face. And even worse, you reached away from the bed to take his hand into yours, “so stop sneaking out without me so much.”

Once more, another arrow. Mammon swore this one almost did him in for real. Was he still breathing?

You laughed at his rigid posture, even as his hand tightened impossibly tight around yours.

“So are you just going to sleep down there, or are you going to come to bed already?”

He tsked again, but he still found it irresistable to say no. Finally he got off the floor, ashamed and avoiding your gaze, but never letting go of your grip.

He flicked off the switch beside his bed, and the room went dark once again. He felt a bit of courage now, not being able to see you as well. And so, he shucked off his jacked and slid back into bed, this time with his legs under the covers.

He cursed all that was sweet and holy when you rested your head on his chest and snuggled in close. Now there was no hiding just how fast you had his heart beating. Even if you knew, and he knew that you knew, he still wanted to hide it from you.

He was pretty sure you fell asleep almost immediately after, having still been half asleep when you coaxed him to join you. But he wasn’t so lucky, cursed to stay awake to feel you next to him. Cursed to listen to your soft breaths, cursed to feel the way you nuzzled against him insead of his pillow this time. Cursed to sit there and wonder just why it seemed so natural to have you in his bed. Cursed to stay up trying to convince himself that this was a curse and not a blessing.

He did eventually manage to sleep, and it was probably the most comforting rest he’d ever gotten, though he tried to deny it. Tried even to deny how happy he felt when he realized your weight was still against him as he woke. And even tried to deny the joy when he opened his eyes again, only to find you to be the one to stare at him this time.

“What’re ya doin’ starin’ at me?” He asked, parroting your words from the hours before. And though he tried to make himself sound upset, he didn’t have the heart to truly pull it off in his sleep addled state. Instead, he only sounded nervous, and his face let slip just how happy he was under your attention.

“Just enjoying the view,” You said, acompanied by yet another cursed shrug.

“Yer gonna be the death of me,” He swore, turning his head to hide his face in the pillows, “Yer gonna kill me one’a these days. Ya know that?”

Your giggle was music to his ears. He was never a morning person, but if that was what he got to wake up to in the mornings, he’d gladly learn to be.

“At least you’d die happy.”

And he would. It would be the sweetest death he could imagine.

You pulled away from Mammon, sitting up and stretching your arms over your head. His eyes dragged back over to follow your movements. He already missed the feeling of you against him. How is it that even now, with you still beside him, he missed your touch? Missed your pressence, missed the feeling of you?

Before you could even push the blanket from your legs he called out to you. Your eyes met, and he tried to keep a brave face as he sat up too.

He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, or if he even was. If you asked his brothers then they would say that Mammon never had a thought. At least not a decent one. And this moment was what convinced him that maybe they were right.

“Hey, uh, MC... How about ya come back tonight? Y’know, so we can do this again.”

The way your eyes widened made panic surge throughout his body, and it jolted him completely awake. What the hell was he doing, why would he ask that!?

Well, it wasn’t like he didn’t want that. But he couldn’t let you know he wanted that! What was wrong with him!?

Desperate to fix it, he backtracked.

“It’s not ‘cause’a what ya think! It’s not like I wanna keep sleepin’ with ya or anythin’! It’s just- it’s to keep ya safe, ya know! So I can make sure nothin’ happens to ya at night.”

Yeah, that’s it. He’s sure that he’s got you fooled, even after the terrible display of stuttered words and averted eye contact. Even after your unconvinced expression, he convinces himself that it worked. Still, he had to add the cherry on top, just to make sure

“I mean it! As your first demon, it’s my job to protect ya. Thats it, so don't go getting any ideas!”

But you knew better. And so did he.

#obey me #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #om #om mammon #om lucifer #om lucifer x reader #om mammon x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me! #omswd #obey me shall we date

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

Ghost x Civilian!Reader

You notice something on Ghost's mask while walking. Or rather you wanted an excuse to be near him.

SFW, Extreme Fluff, Comfort, Drabble, One-shot, Intimacy, Romance, Sappy as hell, Maybe melodramatic, they're in love, Soft!Reader and Soft!Ghost, Scarcely Proofread, a bit random and aimless, domestic Ghost, Reminiscing

WC: 1.1k~

꒰ · ◡ · ꒱ masterlist

"Hold up!"

You extend your arm before Ghost, stopping him on his trail with your puny figure. Or rather puny against the giant brick house that had been Simon Riley himself. Whether he had been two inches taller than you or two feet, you never let that keep you from his side, and he couldn't be more grateful for it.

Still, the man damn near stumbles into your arm when you've stopped him. How you managed to hold your ground with him having nearly toppled you over would continue to impress him.

You needn't bother with such dramatically silly gestures to halt him where he stands; one long look your way proved enough to barely leave him with a breath to spare, with all the air around him always so wrapped tightly in your meaningful gaze.

"Wha' is it?" he asks you curiously. "Did you forget something?"

"No, it's just-"

You look upon him inquisitively, brows furrowing with a playful pout on your lips. Your eyes bounce up and down over his masked face, a normal occurrence, though it's only when you do it that Ghost ever feels shy behind it. As though no amount of fabrics or masks he obscured himself in could hide from you, which may as well be true.

Every day he spends with you, he finds himself more at peace with the monotony of his life. With you so near and ready to accept him for who he'd grown to be, even something as mundane as walking to the coffee shop for tea early in the morning felt more heavenly than any promised afterlife.

As Ghost slips his hands back into his coat pockets, with his broad shoulders slouched ever so slightly to meet your eyes, he can't help but smile, curious as to what idle thoughts ran through you.

"Don't think too hard now," he teases. "Y'might hurt yourself, love."

"Oh, be quiet you."

You gently laugh, your shoulders bouncing as animatedly as your eyes. "There's just something-"

You reach over and let your hands gently pull at the edges of his mask against his chin, inviting yourself into his space and leaning forward. Had you been anyone else, had he not flinched at the sudden movement, then he certainly would have disallowed such an action and stepped back.

Too many abuses of his boundaries have made that road a gated and lonely route to traverse. One you've walked merrily on with little guidance beyond your own admirable patience and kindness.

Who knows what you may have seen on his mask if anything at all. Ghost would never cast aside a moment to be so near so gently. Your thumb rub softly at the corners of the fabric, wiping whatever smudge had been there.

It's these smallest of actions you make that put him most at ease. How sweetly you hold him to you, hands gently caressing over his cheeks to groom him as though he were your own kin.

His mother would do the same when he was younger. He couldn't step ten feet out the door without her stopping him to retuck his shirt back in or help him rub the sleep from his eyes. Anything for her eldest to be the best he could be.

She only ever wanted the best for him, and through each touch and shared glance he has with you, he knows that you share that sentiment. The amount of time it's been since someone else has truly filled that void felt cruel beyond measure with you in his life now, so readily and with ease.

In many ways, you reminded him of her, with all her best qualities shining through the smallest comforts and care you shared for him.

Ghost remains still. In front of you on the sidewalk, a silent huff leaves him, and the cold autumn air begins to settle with the evening sun taking with it its warmth. It makes the hues of browns in his eyes shine like bark and moss, the blonds of his eyelashes twinkling against the light at certain angles like small sparkles.

It makes you pause every so often, always taking careful note of each detail of him, in which the most delicate parts of himself had been gifted to you.

He only does the same, catching the faint twinge of your lip, or how your ears move at every small expression you make. If you'd let him -- which you have on your deepest of nights -- Simon could gaze upon you until you'd imprinted yourself into his mind like a waking dream. Anything to take with him what he could not hold with you away.

Days such as this have been all he's needed on his worst assignments to soldier on. Your presence had brought him that much peace of mind.

Your hands wipe, pull, and adjust his mask with light intention, Ghost never once fearing that your hands would overstep and attempt to unmask him outside. You knew as well as he -- the softness he felt beneath his mask was a sight he wanted for your eyes only.

After some more seconds pass, you stop adjusting his mask, though your hands remain cradling his cheeks in your palms. Your eyes haven't left him for just as long, your lips only a short reach forward.

Knowing he'd be unable to kiss you, Ghost instead lets himself lean in, until his forehead adorably presses against yours, resting there with a soft exhale of the nose.

You sigh happily, letting your hands rest against your neck and your heart flutter joyously.

"I love you," you say.

You said so a lot, and at times you feared you might cheapen its value, even as you meant it each time. But Ghost could never tire of your words. If you said it a thousand more times, he'd only say so to you a thousand more back. For all the times in his life he's never had someone beside him to say it to, when he wished to most of all.

"I love you too," he says.

Somehow his voice always sounded a bit more brittle when the words leave him. Like if he said them any louder, he might just lose himself completely. But just as somehow the same, he bounces back. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

You nod. "I did." And then you lean forward and plant a gentle kiss on his nose. The softest thing imaginable; it could turn even the coldest of men into the most fragile of creatures.

What it was you saw, both on and in him, he needn't know or understand. He wouldn't ask, and he wouldn't worry. Simon would just... be.

But forever the playful tease you aimlessly had been, you twirl away back down the sidewalk, continuing your morning journey.

"Now for some tea!" You cheer.

Ghost chuckles lightly, and then slowly follows along. Some tea would be nice right about now.

´･ᴗ･`

I think I might do more artwork with my stories from now on. Little drabbles to go with them. I kind of like it. I've got a few Gaz ones coming next!

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley fanart #simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #modern warfare ii #call of duty modern warfare ii #mwii #mw2022 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost call of duty #mw2 ghost #ghost cod #ghost fanart #sketch #Spotify

[yokowan]

It was early in the autumn last year, just as the leaves were beginning to turn, that I found myself in the company of the most peculiar maid. Or, so I call it, for want of a better word. You see, by my very nature I am extremely disorganised. My clothes cycle between the floor and my person, maybe finding themselves in the wash from time to time if I feel so daring. Papers and writing implements are strewn about every level surface of my residence. Soiled dishes pile high and are not cleaned until I entirely run out or the smell becomes intolerable. My absent and aimless mind has led me to live in a kind of squalor that the most rancid maggots might turn up their noses at.

One weary late night, I readied myself to sleep. As I always do, I picked up the pile of clothes off of my bed and tossed them approximately in the direction of a chair. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked over and saw the clothes had somehow perfectly folded themselves as they flew through the air and landed in a neatly squared stack. If not for the dreadful hour of night I probably would have stepped in to investigate, perhaps attempting the same a few more times. Instead I laughed at the bizarre coincidence, and collapsed in my bed.

That following mid-afternoon, after I had awoken and persuaded myself out of bed, I lumbered into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee. As I approached the counter I stopped and rubbed my eyes. There was already a cup of coffee there, piping hot. Perhaps I sleepwalked? I've always known myself to be a restless sleeper, tossing and muttering through the night, but never have I seen evidence of myself walking about, let alone brewing an entire cup of coffee. Well, I've never been one to refuse a spontaneous gift, even one from an unconscious version of myself, so I picked up the beverage and took a sip.

It's sweet.

Perfectly brewed, just as I like it, but I always take my coffee black. In my waking state I don't even know where my sugar dish is!

I brushed the miscellaneous on papers on my couch to one side and sat down to ponder the event as I drank. Had I, in some trance, managed to go through my entire morning routine and then return to bed with absolutely no recollection of these events, I surely would have at least made my coffee by muscle memory. Somehow not only had I made the drink, but I'd also found the sugar which I most certainly purchased at one point but has never been used since. And all this done without disturbing a single thing in my kitchen! It's so unlike me!

Perhaps it wasn't me. Perhaps some strange and bizarrely covert infiltrator entered my house and helped themselves to my kitchen before being turned away by guilt. Or, perhaps I could have been under the spell of some benevolent coffee-making warlock, or possessed by a spirit, or somehow otherwise under the influence of some magicks beyond my comprehension. Or perhaps, and oh how I laughed when the thought crossed my mind, the coffee just did that on its own! Remembering the spontaneously folded pile of clothes from the preceding night, I considered that maybe the clockwork of the universe aligned just so that the moisture in the air would come to rest in my cup and powdered coffee would fall from my shelf in just the right measure and sugar would appear from God-knows-where and…

What a preposterous idea.

I arose to investigate around the kitchen some more. The dishes on the counter and items in the cabinets were all in precisely the same order, or rather disorder, which they were in the night before. Odd. Absentmindedly, my fingers find themselves brushing against the kettle. It's stone cold. Even more odd. The coffee was hot as if just brewed when I found it, surely the kettle wouldn't have had time to cool down by now. I checked the stove, too, for good measure. Cold as well.

I sighed and stared vacantly as I took the last sips of my coffee. What a perplexing mystery indeed. I set my cup down on the counter. I nearly failed to notice before walking away, but it had just barely caught my attention that the bottom of the cup was entirely clean. I picked it back up and scrutinized it further. Not only was it clean but it was completely dry. As if there had never been any coffee in it at all! Perhaps I had hallucinated the whole ordeal, maybe the beverage in its entirety was illusory? But I could still taste the coffee on my breath! I ran to the closest mirror to look my teeth and indeed the residue of coffee still stained them slightly. No, the coffee could not have been an illusion.

I sat down on the couch with a frustrated "harumph!" What sort of silly games is the universe playing on me. Perhaps this is all a dream? Maybe, but it feels much too real. And besides, it would be a completely useless wager to make; if I'm wrong I'll wake up anyways.

My eyes wandered to the other end of the couch, where I noticed the pile of papers that I'd shoved off to the side. They were organized. Neatly in a stack. The unpaid bills that I'd intentionally shoved to the bottom of the pile some days ago had all found themselves on top, as well.

What sort of treacherous divine mockery is being made of me! Is some bored ancient deity teasing me for my carelessness? Or has the machinery of creation at last taken pity on this dreadful sloven? "What is happening to me!" I cried out in desperation.

As if in response, a stiff draft blew through an open window, lifting an empty bread bag into the air, from where it drifted ever so gently into my wastebasket. I slumped back in my seat. It seems lady luck has made herself a maid.

#marissa goaded me into making a maid character #i will write more of this #dont you worry

[forever-rogue]

Hello, are you taking request?if you're not you can just ignore this, but can I request Tasm Peter Parker x gn reader, maybe a oneshot where Reader has a thing where they run their hands over Peter's skin, not necessarily in a sexual way, but more as in like reassurance, just to be reminded he's there.

Reader does this little pinches on his thighs and arms as well?

AN | It’s just a whole lot of softness, but I hope you enjoy 🥰❤️

Pairing | tasm!Peter Parker x gn!Reader

Warnings | Language

Word Count | 1.5k

Masterlist | Main | Peter

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Peter Parker was a comforting person. 

Everything about him, from his sweet smile to his warm laugh, genuine kindness and soft touches was comforting. He had a golden aura around him and that was something you’d noticed from the first day you’d met when he came into the coffeeshop you were working at. 

One thing had led to another and then another, and before you knew it you were an inseparable couple. And you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was a cool evening when you let yourself into Peter’s apartment. He wasn’t home yet, but had promised it wouldn’t be too late before he was home. You’d decided that you were going to make some dinner before he got back so he’d actually have a meal today. You loved everything about him, but sometimes he was so scatterbrained that it made you laugh.  Even if it wasn’t much, you’d do anything for him. 

“Oh Peter,” you smiled to yourself when you saw his half consumed cup of coffee on the counter, along with a cold piece of toast. It didn’t take long to clean everything up and put away the groceries you had brought over.

You made quick work of whipping up some soup and a salad, finishing it all up by the time Peter got home. You’d say he walked in through the door, but that would be a lie. Instead, he opened the living room window and hopped inside, landing a little less than gracefully. He pulled off the mask, his entire face lighting up with happiness when he saw you. 

“Hey sweetheart,” he made it over to you in a few strides, pulling you into a warm hug, “you smell good and so does whatever you’re making.”

“And you smell like sweat,” you teased with a kiss to his cheek, “go on and take a shower and then you can have all minestrone your stomach can handle.”

“You’re the best,” he lifted the lid off the pot and took a good whiff of it and groaned lightly. You nudged him out of the way with your hip, tutting at him softly. He took the hint, grinning as he stole a few more kisses before heading towards the shower, “I love you, I love you, I love you!”

“You’re a fool, Peter Parker,” but you were grinning to yourself like mad, warmth flooding your face at the affection he so easily displayed. 

“A fool for you!” was the last thing that you heard before he slipped into the bathroom and turned the shower on. You sighed softly, biting your lip as you shook your head.

You decided to set the table, setting a vase with fresh flowers in the center of it. Peter hadn’t noticed them yet, but they were a beautiful assortment of daisies and lilies and tulips - your favorites. He always liked to surprise you with such small gestures, you figured it was time to return the favor. 

Your instinct had been right - his happy reaction was enough to make you feel like you were standing in the brightest, golden beam of sunshine.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were cuddled up with Peter on the couch, watching some new show you’d both been interested in on Netflix. You were leaning into Peter’s side, an arm slung around your shoulders and yours draped across his torso. Your head was resting on his chest, and you found yourself being slowly lulled to sleep by the steady beating of his heart. 

What you hadn’t realized was that you were doing what you always did, even when you were conscious of it. You were tracing over his soft, exposed skin, drawing aimless and endless shapes onto him. It had become a habit, almost a bit of a self-soothing technique. 

It wasn’t even anything sexual; you just liked the feeling of being close to him, the intimacy that flowed between the two of you. In a way, it also served as a reminder that he was there, and you weren’t alone. It gave Peter a surge of affection too, knowing you were so comfortable around him. Sometimes it even turned into playful pinches or pokes, but they were all laced with nothing but affectionate fondness. 

Peter wondered if you even knew what you were doing or if it just sort of happened without you thinking about it. Not that he minded of course, he was elated by your touch. 

“You’re doing it again,” he whispered softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You mumbled something incoherent before shifting off him so you could look into those big, brown eyes you loved so much. 

“What am I doin’?” you mumbled, fighting off a yawn as you smiled sheepishly at him. 

“Touching me,” he smiled softly and you quickly realized your little gaff, “you do it a lot. Just kinda touch me.”

“Oh,” you pulled back so you were no longer so you were sitting across from him, a nervous expression on your face, “sorry Peter. I didn’t realize what I was doing. It just kinda happens.”

“Honey,” you tried hiding your face beyond your hands, but he gently moved them away and smiled softly at you, “it’s nothing bad at all. I like it! Really, I do. It’s just something I’ve noticed.”

“Well,” you swallowed thickly, “apparently I like it too. I…oops?”

“Don’t apologize and don’t get all shy on me,” he gently took your face in his hands and pressed soft, gentle kisses to your forehead, cheeks, nose and finally your lips, “I love it - I love you.”

“I love you too, Pete,” you couldn’t melt but relax and almost melt into him, “so much.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Despite his reassurances that your little habit didn’t bother him, you found yourself more aware of your actions all the time. And more than that, you found that you ended up stopping yourself. Peter hadn’t noticed that anything was different or off at first, but eventually even he caught on. And, even if he didn’t want to admit it, he missed the feeling of you on him. Just as much as you enjoyed touching him, he enjoyed all your touches too. Craved them even.

And one evening, he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know what was wrong.

“Sweetheart?” you were both getting ready for bed at his place, with you padding around his bedroom and pulling on your pajamas. Peter was already climbing into bed, a somewhat nervous expression on his face.

“Yes, my love?” you turned and gave him a small smile. Your expression dropped however when you saw the serious expression on his face, “Peter? What’s wrong?”

“I…this is going to sound silly - I know it will,” he let out a nervous breath as you padded your way over to him. You sat down on your side of the bed and  silently encouraged him to go on, “I…um, why don’t you touch me anymore?”

“What do you mean?” you looked at him with wide eyes, but you knew that you’d been caught. A nervous huff of laughter escaped your lips as you lightly shrugged.

“Ever since I pointed out that you like to touch me or whatever, you haven’t done it anymore,” he felt like a kid crying over spilt milk more than a grown man but he couldn’t help it. He just wanted your touch, “I guess I just wanna know if I did something wrong. ‘cause I kinda miss it.”

“Peter,” you let out a nervous breath as you climbed into bed next to him, “I-I…I’m sorry. I just, I really thought it was too much - like I was overwhelming or something. I didn’t want to be too much.”

“You are never too much,” he replied sweetly, making easy work of pulling you into his lap, his warm hands finding purchase on your waist, “I love everything about you. Every last look and touch and feel  -all of it. You could never be too much for me. And I guess I realized that as much as you liked doing, I liked receiving it.”

“Yeah?” you asked softly and he nodded happily, “and you’re sure it doesn’t bug you?”

“One hundred percent positive,” he took your hand in his and laced your fingers together, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, “I love you, yeah?”

“I know,” you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, “I love you too, Peter Parker. So much.”

“Does that mean you’ll touch me again?” his voice was barely above a whisper but you nodded in response with a gentle smile.

“I’ll touch you whenever you want,” you were both giggling now, “and however you want, my love.”

“Good,” he sighed wistfully before pulling you back to his lips, “good.”

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker x you #tasm!peter #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter x reader #andrew garfield #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield x you #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x you #tasm!peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker one shot

[llondonfog]

i hope you're doing well, my dear lettie <3 for the six sentence prompt ask game, might i request silver getting sick at school and lilia dutifully cuts class to take care of him? 🥹

"Oh— oh, watch yourself, love—"

The hand on his arm is sure and steady, and it is the only thing that keeps Silver's knees from buckling away beneath him as if he were wobbling around with transfigured sea legs, jellified and weak.

It's a familiar touch, one that he would know even in the deepest of slumbers. He doesn't need to lift his heavy eyes to know who has seemingly materialized out of thin air to support him, and because Silver is, still among all things, a child, it takes no effort at all to slump his head to the side and rest his forehead against the waiting curve of his father's shoulder.

" . . . now, what am I to do with you?"

Silver was sick.

And not the average, runny-nose and scratchy cough kind, but the roiling shower steam nausea, feverish kind— the kind that felt as if little craft fairies with lead hammers had taken up residence in the hollows of his bones and the aching sinus pockets behind his eyes, and were banging incessantly on his raw nerves with vicious, unmitigated glee.

Morning classes had been an absolute misery of sensory havoc, his mind distracted and his glazed eyes slipping shut with even more forceful vengeance than usual. His pen had scrawled aimless lines across the blank notebook pages, and even Trein had spared him a pitying glance, not that Silver had realized it, for his flushed cheeks and obvious disorientation.

(Neither had he noticed Kalim's repeated concerned glances, nor the way that his friend kept tapping on his cell phone with a worried twist to his perpetually upturned lips.)

It was little wonder then that as the students streamed in eager droves out of their lecture halls for lunch, Silver chose instead to attempt a shuffling escape towards the Mirror Hall, towards Diasomnia and the promise of a timed catnap in the gloomy embrace of its dark, cool corridors before the rigor of his afternoon classes could begin.

He'd been rather foolish to believe he'd make it there unaided with how the stone floor beneath him started to wink closer, the sinking realization tugging at his stomach that he was beginning to plummet down to meet it without resistance, until a presence unannounced had swooped in by his side.

So focused now on attempting to wrangle his breakfast into submission before it inevitably made a second, less pleasant appearance upon his father's uniform, he hardly notices until too late that the ground has disappeared under his very feet with a swiftness that spares him the nauseous threat. Bleary eyes blink past the invisible weight pressing insistent fingers against them, and Silver manages to find a glimmer of incredulity among all of his slippery, pounding thoughts as he stares up at the fae cradling him in his arms as if he were all of five again— and smiling as pleased as punch, in the middle of the grand hallway no less.

". . . Father— !" he doesn't even think to correct himself as he croaks out the beloved title, utterly at a loss as to what the fae could possibly be thinking. "Father, please, put me down! Someone might see—"

"And see what?" His father's eyes sparkle down at him with mischievous delight, but it is not enough to mask the darker currents of worry that linger there, stealing the rest of the sputtering arguments from Silver's mind. "That I'm caring for my adorable junior classmate as a good vice housewarden should?"

His mouth opens and closes more uselessly than a fish as he stares without a rebuttal at the self-satisfied fae, unable to come up with a worthwhile protest in the sluggish cogs of his mind.

The rambunctious cacophony of their fellow classmates echoes from further down the hall, and Lilia's smile creases into something tender and private, an expression reserved for Silver and Silver alone as those clawed fingertips drift soothingly through his sweaty bangs. There's no magic that glitters from his touch, and yet Silver's eyes find themselves drooping instantly just the same, his head tucking forward to rest against his father's chest where that heartbeat reverberates like a lullaby in his ears.

"Come on, dear— let's get you back to bed."

#lettie's asks #lettie writes #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #THIS GOT CARRIED AWAY FROM ME #BUT ALL OF OUR HURT/COMFORT SICK FLUFF CHATS SEIZED ME AND WOULDN'T LET ME GO UNTIL I WROTE IT #JUST SOMETHING A LITTLE SILLY #please enjoy resident bat!dad doting on his baby boy <3 #burying him under blankets in lilia's bed and forcefeeding him [redacted] soup

[eldritch-spouse]

What happened with original Icons? You know, Asmodues, Mammoth, Satan, etc. Where are they? Are they dead? Are they ancestors of modern Icons?

(Your aimless questions attract the attention of a humble historian, who, maybe out of pity, or perhaps out of loneliness, sits beside you. His posture is mildly concerning.)

" I can tell from the names alone you're the Christian type, right? You must be. "

(He nods to himself.)

" Do me a huge favor. It grates on my nerves having to listen to these fables getting perpetuated for endless centuries -Even my old man wouldn't shut the fuck up about it, may Dorem be kind to him- Forget everything you heard about the sins and the originals. "

" It's all wrong. All of it. You wouldn't believe me if I told you how bastardized the history of this planet and its annexes has been. By your kind specifically. You erased history! It's miserable! You've been living your little lies for a shameful eternity... I guess I understand why. "

(There's a huff.)

" You couldn't even get their names right... "

" Of course they're dead! Do you even know the rulers of today's Perdition? Dead and burned to a crisp, their ashes bathe the grounds of the Rings modern demons walk upon -Oh, the Fragmentation Wars were something truly spectacular- I wish I had been there myself sometimes. "

" Listen kid. Even we have difficulty putting it all back together, thanks to all this damage being constantly spread. I know demons who are more disconnected with their past than you- At least you know there's Icons out there! I've met some fucking skid marks that think 'Satan' is still bumbling around... "

" I'll tell you right now, three of 'em got nothing to do with the originals. Vorticia, Livius and Kalymir. "

(He tuns to face you better.)

" You know how Wrath is, right? Any nut can just have a go at the King, and if they win, they rule. Kalymir doesn't have a single royal bone to him. And that fucker's got a lot of bones... "

" Vorticia is an impeccable Queen, if you ask me. She's better than whatever the fresh fuck Gluttony could have got stuck with, but we're mostly positive she comes from adjacent families. Close to the court, y'know? "

" And Livius... It's a bit hard to tell with all the massacres in Envy's royal lineage, though you can probably safely bet that he was a cousin of the last prince. An ambitious cousin, eh? They say 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer'- I don't think it worked out that well for him. Keep Livius ten feet away from you at all times, those hands reach far. "

" Don't worry about any of that though. If you ask me, us history enthusiasts are going to have some bright days ahead, now that there's two whole highers settled on the surface. "

(A tail can be heard swatting beneath long, weathered robes.)

" Two of them, you hear me? You and I? We're going to bare witness to a new age! Aren't you excited?! "

" We're talking about THE Goddess Miara and the Plaguemaster -You don't even know who those are, you poor idiot, it's not your fault- And I just know they're in contact. I know it! "

(The demonoid coughs, scratchy voice cracking.)

" Anyway. We should talk more sometime. "

(You get the feeling he wants company really bad.)

#general tce #pinnie's art #demon oc #demon original character #Long live the LORE #I'm not going to do this format too often. Just trying new things #Hudd oc

[anguishedlurker]

What a burden you are

((Hey kids wanna see Danny have Enough(tm) of Valerie['s bullshit from Valerie's POV and the fallout thereof?))

Ao3 Link

Valerie found herself reflecting on her time under Masters more than she already wanted, most nights.

Tonight was worse than most. A pathetic echo in her mind trying to take root as she chased a different kind of pathetic echo.

For each and every fault he had- she could spend years counting in that miserable creep of a man- he knew his ghosts and his weapons. Very little of his advice had proven inaccurate on even the most minuscule of levels.

“An afraid ghost is never to be underestimated, yet if careful they can undo themselves with hardly an effort by you.”

But no, Phantom wasn’t afraid in front of her. Insolent brat, darting from cover to cover. To boot, it had the audacity to stick it’s tongue out at her.

The humor didn’t reach its eyes though. Not tonight. Though, it always seemed a little rougher around the edges when she managed to jump it after some ghost had tried doing her work for her.

Yet it was always almost well humored to her.

Tonight really shouldn’t be different.

“Fear will destroy them- even in the living it’s hard to control a fear response. Aimless lashing out makes openings.

Rage, on the other hand…”

And yet, Phantom seemed annoyed by her hunt tonight, of all things. How inconvenient of her, really! Maybe she’d upgrade to threat one day, if she was realllll patient…

Phantoms head finally phased out of a tree, grinning at her in a way that didn’t meet it’s eyes.

“Well, this barking match has gone on long enough to prove bite-less, so I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take my leaf!”

Pew pew, cunt.

(As always, the faint sense that her dad would be reaching for the soap brushed past her mind)

She missed, of course. It’d been a long time since she’d hit Phantom.

“Chickening out already, Phantom? Thought you were better than that.”

Keep her voice low, even. Steady. Bait doesn’t work without patience. And everything seemed to hit less and less, now.

“No you don’t. And even if you did, don’t you have work? Or school? Promotions or tests to pass, even?”

Its voice echoed from nowhere in particular, giving no indication to location.

Its staunch refusal to indicate whether or not it knew anything about her was ever present.

“Oh, you’re interested in my life? How flattering. Stay the fuck away from my apartment.”

Same song new night. Lancers test was tomorrow though, but this was more important. Shitty junior year and it’s- focus. If she can’t get to it then she simply has to improve her attempts. It will crack eventually.

“Yeah yeah, kill on sight. Seriously though, Red, how do you keep standing with the way you live? You can’t possibly be getting more than two hours of sleep a night.”

Sound to the left- Pew pew. It almost sounded concerned about her.

How pathetic.

“Who’s to say I don’t sleep during the day?”

“You don’t.”

“And you know this because?”

A question with no good implications underneath, and no good answers.

Accusations to its integrity always seemed to work best. Closest thing to falling over itself it’d get, all to prove it was a ‘good person’.

Phantom finally formed away from cover, relaxed and cozy in an imaginary reclining chair. It seemed to cycle through ways to mock her, always implying that it was completely unbothered.

Kept up its little act even when it was hit! Really, to brush off the shots like it couldn’t feel them….

Been a while since she’d made it flinch, actually. No matter what she managed to do to it.

No, no. Focus.

She could see it. The lack of real humor in its eyes- whether or not it’d admit such a thing, she was getting to it. She had to drive a knife into its cracks somehow.

“People have bills. Doesn’t take crazy stalking to figure out you either have a sponsor or are stupid rich- and you kinda stopped talking to your sponsor. Was a whole thing in the ghost community? Anyways, you need to have some sort of job or some sort of parental support at this point.”

A dead smile, a tilt of the head. Teeth much too sharp in a mouth that almost could’ve passed for a real person’s.

She’ll need to hunt down- No, it’s already out. And if she gets pissed, she’s dead.

“Rage is lethal. They’re focused, and they want you dead.

And, I mean the best when I say it dear, you don’t know rage. Not in ghosts.”

She’d argue she knew plenty about rage, period, though the point was long gone.

Pew pew.

It disappeared and reappeared two feet to the right, still smiling.

Fucker.

“What can I say, I value my independence. Strong and capable, everything a hunter needs to be.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s that philosopher that said no man is an island, again?”

It pretended to tap its foot against the dead air, taking its eyes off her as it acted out exaggerated thinking. Bait to shoot.

“John Donne. Know any philosophers that ever chatted about not dragging people down?”

“Right, this has been a delight but- hey wait, I think that’s actually right. I dunno, it’s the kind of thing I’d actually have to look up-”

“Dragging. Down. Get it? Ha. Ha.”

Finger curled around the trigger, giving one attention grabbing pew.

Vanish, and re-appear.

“Only so many times I can try to say that first and foremost, not my dog. Not at that point. Just a concerned samaritan trying to figure out why a dog was loose. You don’t care, though.”

Its tone was… more clipped than usual. And it’d been a while since it’s last pun.

Good.

“Honestly, it goes beyond the dog at this point.”

“Really, Red? Nobody’s got you at gunpoint out here.”

She’d been stewing on this one a while actually. Never a better time than the present to try a new tactic, right?

“No, no. The town Phantom. The ghosts as a whole.”

“Go harass one of the Doctor Fentons’ about the tear in the fabric of reality in their basement then.”

Oh it was seething with that one.

Good.

Yet, this was an infuriating corner.

“The Fentons have made it clear that by now, they can’t do anything.”

“I’m missing the part where you turn it into my fault. And even if your point was clear, they are liars. Bad ones.”

The accusation against the Fentons integrity had to be bait. As such, asking was caving in to its plans.

“Simple. They’re after you. It’s a game that you’re encouraging.”

Its eyes narrowed, most of its pantomimes of life and movement ceasing.

Finally.

“You have no idea how much I wish they’d stop. Not that you’re willing to learn.”

“So you admit it?”

“Nothing of the sort. If they all stopped I would stop appearing.”

“Typical.”

“Mhmm.”

“Still, guess you’re just too used to dragging people down with you, right? Enough to never notice.”

“Listen, I get to hear my friends jack off to pseudo psychology enough as it is. You got your stinger loaded yet, or should I just, like, go?”

“Well since you’re asking… let me ask; were you even a blessing in life?”

The silence was palpable.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Phantom paused, eyes narrowing further as it processed her accusation.

“What teenager is, really?” It eventually ground out, not even deigning to smile.

“I’ll have you know I was a delight.”

Wry, guiltless. Keep steady.

“Hmmm… I dunno that I believe that one, Red.”

A pretend hum, something that if written out would sound like a quip.

Its tone was completely flat.

Valerie smirked underneath her helm.

“But something like you, I can just see it. Everything falling over itself to baby your pathetic ass… How much did they give you? How much did you take from them?”

For one single second, Phantoms eyes reflected red.

“Like your dad and your hospital bills?”

Silence.

And then, rage.

“So help me, Phantom-”

“No, no Red- Let’s- I’m done, okay? You- I blaze through and you blame me, fine.”

Her shots missed, of course

“But, Valerie, how much do you cost your dad in medical bills at this point? Delight my left asscheck.”

Even in her rage, she had to pause. She’d never heard it swear.

Her shots missed again.

“You sign up to the most insane asshole you can find just to hunt down what- even with your little revenge fantasy- is some fucking teenager-”

Lots and lots of swearing.

Phantom was properly pissed this time.

Good, it was getting old not getting to it.

And nothing it could say can-

“Hell, I looked it up once- You know your little punctured lung you got off of Skulker? That your dad had to drag you out of the wreckage for and strip your suit off just to keep your little job secret? Boom, median of six grand. Right there.”

… how much?

“What does every bill combined add to Valerie? You wanna- how much of a burden- Jesus Christ. How much of a burden are you? Good god.”

How much…?

...

No, no it had to be bait. Hospitals are expensive but- well… very expensive- but!- … how much?

She was in combat.

“Deny a girl her hobbies, eh? But finally, so you do-”

“No shit I know who you are. Some chick shows up with a revenge fetish against me? I‘m investigating.”

Fucking- fetish??

“And here I though there could be some proof not all highschoolers are assholes.” She snarked, not paying attention to what she was saying. Scripts were running in her brain with no checks to see if it was sensible or not.

“I didn’t make it to highschool, Valerie. You want to kill a middleschooler, and you can’t even tell me what you’ve costed your dad to get here.”

Her gun, for the first time in... a very long time, dropped from its lock on Phantom.

“You can’t tell me what you cost but you’re just soooo cozy with telling me I must’ve been a- Fuck you. Genuinely. Did you even know the dog was one your fathers company killed? Bet you didn’t. Allll their guard dogs in training were put down for that pretty security system. A middleschooler and a dead puppy.”

“You are not a middleschooler.”

Her breathing hitched too much, she was losing herself. Phantoms youthful (manipulative, fake, anything else please) looked at her with no warmth.

No humor.

“Not anymore, no. The dead don’t have school.”

Its tone was openly cold and resentful.

In front of her was a ghost, whom she hated. It was a violent, mean, and dishonest thing with no regard for other people.

And the same eyes it’d always had stared back at her right now. Phantoms features had never budged the slightest nanometer, the last two years.

Youthful as ever.

Pew, pew.

It did not move, and it did not flinch.

“It’s been a long time since you could hurt me Valerie.”

Borderline glacial towards her, like she was a particularly stupid child.

But maybe she deserved that one, because of all things, she should’ve seen that it wasn’t acting unbothered by her shots.

“Ask your dad how much you cost him before lecturing me on- Just. God. There’s something genuinely wrong with you. And I’m not protecting you anymore, not if that’s seriously how you’re gonna treat- just… fuck you.”

It had disappeared before she could re-aim her gun at it for the audacity. Protecting her? Bullshit.

But, all alone now, board humming underneath her, left her stewing over the entire conversation.

And, well…

At least she’d obviously touched a nerve.

~~~

More than she’d ever be worth in her life, ever again, was her answer. Not the one he said, but she knew what evasion looked like. She knew what it meant.

And how much did he pay per month?

More than what they had to spare, was not said. He’d never say it.

A new fight breaking out near her was a relief, one she didn’t dwell on.

She’d just have to be careful to not get hurt. It was so simple.

And then the battle between Skulker and lunch lady halted at her appearance, Skulker turning smug while Lunch Lady looked away abruptly.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re gonna do, looking so happy over there?” She asked, strafing left as she aimed her gun.

Skulker didn’t move as the metal helm grinned wider. Lunch Lady vanished.

“Did you know Phantom declared open season on you?” Was the last thing she heard before her world was crushed.

~~~

Her dad would never blame her. Never say it.

Never tell her she was a burden.

But now- god, how much did this cost? Doctors were saying to just hope she wasn’t permanently paralyzed. Hope that she could eventually write again with her left hand, or learn to use her right.

She’d be out of school for a long time now.

At least she missed Lancers dumb test.

The heart monitor was her only company through the pain meds (that she refused most of) and incessant nurses.

Until…

“Danny?”

Silent as mist, as always. She hadn’t heard the door. But there he was, looking like he always did.

Except…

“Listen, I’m not really here to talk. I was voted to bring you your homework and flagged down to pass a note.”

His face tight, his tone blank.

“I’m sure you have things to do.”

He was probably itching to go back to trying to help his sister around the house, sweeping after the absolute tornadoes that were his parents.

A real shame Jasmine never left. An even greater shame she never admitted why she settled for the local college.

She could’ve gone places.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” He gruffed, setting a binder of work on the first table he could find.

“Here’s your card.”

Huffed out, the card tossed with laser accuracy to her non injured hand. She’s lucky she caught it, the pain meds she couldn’t deny like weights on her one good hand.

This was- what did she do?

“Danny, what-”

“I don’t really want to hear it. ‘Cause it’s about time you knew that I know damn well what you do in your off time, and did this to yourself really.”

N

No…

No.

“And when exactly did you find out that-”

“The entire goddamn time, Val! Remember the stupid flour baby? The job I was threatening you with was ghost hunting, not being the Nasty Burger mascot! Which! I still hold to that if you weren’t ghost hunting, it wouldn’t have been that hard to do your half!”

He- no, not that long. Impossible. Nobody else had even looked at it as a serious-

He’s always been a little smarter than what he lets everyone know.

The last lick of sense echoed through what had to be the meds. Danny, always there, seeming to know more than what anyone had ever told him. Easy to work with, happy to obey. He made it so very easy to forget he was so bright.

Focus.

“Fine, fine! But I didn’t- Skulker-”

“God- just… God. Don’t. Nobody asked you to fight them. You tossed out everything and everyone that didn’t fit to do it, too.’

“I didn’t do-”

“We are not friends, Valerie. You don’t have any friends, and we’re barely ex’s at this point. And for what?”

“Barely even- What are you on about??”

“Val, we dated for like, two weeks two years ago! And you dumped me to go chase after Phantom, ‘cause fuck having a real life with friends or a boyfriend!”

It was like a fun house mirror held up to those memories, how he stood there now.

Never did get taller, never did lose most of the baby fat. Now standing there seething with hate instead of adoration.

He still looked as frail as ever.

“But Phantom-”

“Shut up, take your homework, and read your shitty card.” He growled, already heading for the door.

No- No! It’s just- This isn’t like Danny! Danny… Danny just never swore- it was like, hardcoded into him!

“And what the fuck did I do to earn this? God, if it turns out you got possessed-”

Danny paused, looking back at her for a split second. So short she could’ve hallucinated it the heartstopping look before he went straight back to having his hands on the door, ready to bolt.

“Would you say that shit to me?”

“I… What?”

“What? You don’t think I ever managed to talk to some of the ghosts? I know what you said to him. Would you say it to me?”

“Of course not!”

“No, no, of course you wouldn’t. Never would even think about it, right? Fentons too cute and innocent, and small to- ugh. I know why you never tried making friends with me and Tuck- Sam hated you- but- fuck. Don’t talk to me.”

She had nothing left. Danny was-

Too cute, innocent, and small to spew this kind of hatred at her?

Ugh… Who knew such an adorable little face could be so mean...

He looked ready to slam the door. He looked like it was taking great restraint to not, every muscle so obviously tense underneath all his layers.

It’s a wonder how he never overheated.

And at the last second, he hesitated.

“I never wanted you hurt, I… I promise, even if I’m mad. Enraged, even. But I just don’t know what you thought was going to happen, anymore.”

And then it was slammed shut, leaving her with the sinking feeling he was gone forever from her life.

… fuck.

Alone, again now, with a heart monitor and a card from- Well, Danny hadn’t mentioned.

God that stung. Couldn’t even stay to say who still had a heart for her.

She needed to move on, already, because burnt bridges weren’t going to get fixed any time soon. And that left the card as her only option forward right now, right?

It was just folded printer paper, with no decoration on the outside.

And on the inside-

One logo, seared into her brain well over two years ago. Looking at her.

“I don’t know why I thought you were worth defending.

They won’t be nice about it ever again.

-DP”

She hid the card under her hip, eventually. Made a nurse toss it out the next time one came around.

Pretended like she hadn’t seen it.

#danny phantom #dp #fic #valerie gray #long #angst #come get yall juice

[weebsinstash]

I was wondering, would Mayday tell the difference between us the the YouTwo?? Cuz from the movie she looks very perceptive and smart enough, so I can’t help but wonder if she could tell when it’s us or YouTwo?

For example; we probably blow on her stomach to make her laugh whenever we greeted her. But YouTwo? She just holds her at arms length and looks at her like she’s a disease

And probably Peter B Parker would know it’s us or not??

I like the idea that certain people and especially the more animal-based Spiders can always kind of inherently tell who's who just by smell alone, but also, something I think I haven't utilized in many of my ideas yet is the Spidey Sense. You can lowkey just spidey vibe check someone and kind of tell or sense stuff about them? And like I dunno if I'm misinterpreting the scene but didn't Miles also have certain visions with some of his Spidey Sense episodes like in the first movie, he has visions of the spider being an alchemax spider just before he meets Blonde Peter, or, idk, he saw visuals with his Spidey Sense

Like sidebar but the whole, kind of vision thing, imagine you're extremely stressed and have you know maybe been doing some self harming stuff and Peter B sees you're going through it one day and, you're actually about to open up to him when you experience the Spidey vision/premonition of, you tell him and he immediately goes and tells Miguel, and you realize oh he's kind of a snitching bastard ain't he (but it's for your own good he promises he's just worried about you kiss kiss uncle Pete loves ya)

But no, I was maybe thinking, YouTwo pops up and Reader is going through their 'beginning a depressive episode' shit and you can tell YouTwo is new and freaked out and, well, it's real easy to see yourself in, well, yourself, and you're like "hey I know what it feels like to feel alone, maybe you could, hang out with this friend of mine, just this once" and you give some tips on how to act around them and, maybe the more you get depressed and feel useless, you actually let them take over more and more and it's when they have some decent "power" that they start actively replacing you and messing with you and trying to kick you out and get rid of you for real

Reader, who is also feeling aimless and depressed: hey other me, why don't you go hang out with this buddy Pavitr of mine, he has this healing energy--

YouTwo: *gets along well with Pavitr and he winds up inviting other friends of yours and YouTwo makes their own independent plans with all of them, basically assimilating deep into your entire friend group and giving themselves more opportunities to steal your friends and more people, and also these hangouts become later 'proof' aka "well im the real one and i can prove it, hey Pavitr remember when we--"*

Reader: hmmmm definitely don't like that!

But no just. Picture Peter B one day finds a little bruise on Mayday, maybe a few of them, and he noticed her temperament is a little different. He can just TELL something is wrong and so can her mother Mary Jane, and Peter thinks, well, there's really not many times she's even out of his sight, ALTHOUGH he DID let 'you' babysit a few times. And at first he wants to play it off, "oh you're just inexperienced with babies and Mayday can be a total handful, you probably just made a mistake" and 'you' even lie and say, maybe it was another kid or Spider animal who got to her when 'you' had barely turned your back

But Peter B gets a little tiny baby monitor/listening device gadget, like a little hard plastic keychain that looks innocent and is ultra durable, and he attaches it to Mayday anyways, just to find out definitively what's happening, and he's with Miguel one day making idle chit chat and they can just hear 'you' over the baby monitor, "why does he keep leaving you with me. I don't even like you, you nasty little monster" and Peter B is just sort of like. ":) haha I'm sure they're. They're joking. They're totally joking" and there's just a series of *yelp* "did you just fucking bite me? Little BITCH!" *Mayday cries out and starts bawling* "yeah you're lucky that's all you get, my parents used to do way worse to me--"

Cue Peter B and Miguel bursting into the room because both fathers are understandably ENRAGED because 1. Dude have 'you' been hurting Parker's literal actual baby and 2. This is not the person they thought it was. Oh SHIT is this not the right person they thought it was

Peter B eventually meets up with you, the real you again, because sometimes i imagine Reader just quietly moves to a normal part of Nueva York and you hand your Spidey life over to YouTwo, and youre understandably a little hateful and dont want to talk to him, but he kinda just, deposits his baby into your arms. Hes gonna baby test ya and see if youre the real one. Mayday just is totally relaxed in your arms, which are noticeably much more careful holding her than your double was because Peter B actually showed you how to hold a baby, and she also has a bandaid on her hand from scratching it against something and you're just like "oh no, you got a little boo boo 🥺 why does your DUMB DADDY keep bringing you around places you can get hurt" and Peter B is like "well ok I think that's a little uncalled for but this one is definitely the real one"

Peter B is then at the front of the Anti YouTwo lynchmob because "that fake HURT MY BABY, Miguel!" which of course wins over a bunch of other formerly skeptical Spiders. You think Jess would ever give YouTwo a second chance? Fuck that, she's not gonna trust some temperamental monster around her baby whenever it's born! Meanwhile Spider Cat who can't talk is over here like "yeah well why do you think I kept biting them, they're a fake 🙄 you see this bullshit, Spider Miette" "jail for faker, jail for faker for one thousand years--"

The Spider Society finally 'gets you back' all "and arent you so happy things can just go back to normal again :)" and you're like "uhhh no fuck you guys, I'll live here but only because you don't give me any other option, the only ones of you I still trust anymore are the animal Spiders, the little kids, Hobie the realest bitch in here who never doubted me, and the toys, isn't that right special edition neon funko pop Miles Morales"

One day after YouTwo has replaced you they get too comfortable thinking everyone is always never once going to question or doubt them anymore and some absolutely heinous shit comes out of their mouth and like they get the social equivalent of one of those Telltale or Fallout video game HUDS pop up, "EVERYONE disliked that" "Miguel will remember that" "social karma lost"

YouTwo, not realizing you did one last thing to fuck them over on the way out: oh hey it's that Hobie guy that's been gone for ages, the real me told me the special password to let him know I'm the real one was "blue lives matter"?

the second that shit comes out of YouTwo's mouth he instantly knows as well as literally anyone around who knows Hobie now knows that's the fake you. YouTwo gets some real life ass [YOU CANNOT FAST TRAVEL WHEN THERE ARE HOSTILES IN YOUR AREA] as Hobie and everyone else for that matter instantly goes into full "I can't kill you but I can beat your ass" mode

#yandere spiderverse #yandere stuff #sinprompts #yandere x reader

[rocketyship]

What don't you like about the '' i have no mouth but i must scream'' game versions of the characters? ( except ellen's story because that's understandable …)

OH HONEY LET ME TELL YOU!!!! As you said like most people I don’t like Ellen’s and it is understandable. But besides her I strongly dislike what they did with Gorrister, Benny, and especially Nimdok.

Gorrister: In the original text before AM took him he was a peace activist, a rights marcher, he was a man with intense morals that AM broke. That concept alone is just so fascinating to me. Our morals are what shapes as a human being, they affect every aspect of our daily life and AM took them and broke them and he ruined this man with a great sense of justice and turned him into just another shoulder-shrugger. Whilst what the game did to him was not that outrageous, I just don’t like him being a truck driver red-neck type. Personally I imaged Gorrister as someone very educated, well-spoken, and likely someone who may have played a role in the war which would add so many more layers to the story if that was the case.

Benny: This man was the biggest missed opportunity, and what they decided to do to him in the game just breaks my heart. In the og story and the radio adaptation there was the idea of Benny being a brilliant scientist, well respected, world renowned, he was handsome, and he was gay. AND AM TOOK ALL OF THAT FROM HIM. AM literally broke and blended this man so much that when you put his life during the war and the one after it, it’s like to different people. And then there is this opportunity, this idea that game missed out on. In the book Ted called him luckily because he’s had everything taken from him and doesn’t even know it, but like what if he does? What if he is still conscious and trapped in his head and literally unable to do anything about it. And when AM decides to turn his eyes to jello, then Damn!!! He is just stuck in this dark void where he feels this pain, hears it, but can do nothing about it. AM turned what seemed like a cool dude into a horrific animal and that’s so fascinating to me. The problem with game Benny being “a monster” before AM took them, also kind of defeats the horror of the whole twisting him into one. Like I don’t care that this terrible war person has been forced to devolve, he kind of deserves it, like what is he gonna learn about himself? What is he gonna confront? “Oh I’m such a bad person!” I’m pretty damn sure he knew that already and just didn’t care. Where’s the tragedy? What reason do I have to be entertained, horrified and sympathetic to this dude? No reason. He just sucks

Nimdok: Why the actual f*ck is he a n@zi?!?! Like I like the idea of all the survivors being from all over the world and not just American, but why in every damn piece of media are German characters always n@zis?!?! In fact, since he is one I don’t care what happens to him, I don’t care about his regrets, or the “nice” things he decides to do in the HOLOGRAPHIC WORLD. HE DESERVES TO SUFFER AND THAT IS THAT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. AM’s hate and torturing of humanity is meant to pointless. He picked these humans cause they were either everything he desired to have and be, or by possible chance. Normal people, perhaps even good people, he twisted into this way. In the og story it was so vague what was up with Nimdok, the only clue to him being German was Ellison’s dramatic reading of the story where he puts on a accent for him. The horror is that this older man has been given a speed run on Alzheimers, which in itself is Damn scary in real life, he has this fake childlike bravery, this way to aimless believe whatever AM tells him. He doesn’t know his name! His identity is gone! No one is there to help him figure it out, cause the other survivors can’t, there is nothing he can and that’s just that. (I’m actually getting very frustrated right now, so I’ll just stop here).

So yeah. There. That’s my hot takes. Maybe someone will disagree with me, but never in my life have I seen anyone like Nimdok or really his story in the game.

#i have no mouth and i must scream #ihnmaims #am ihnmaims #ted ihnmaims #ihnmaimsloveau #alternate reality #ellen ihnmaims #harlan ellison #ihnmaims game #rant post #allied mastercomputer

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Stampede Wolfwood got Metaphorically Isekai'd (No This is Not a Shitpost)

Oh my god if this winds up being part of my legacy I'll probably cry.

So. Everyone who's watched the new show knows that Wolfwood is introduced by getting hit by Meryl's van in the middle of the desert where he is literally the only thing to get hit for miles around. What an entrance. Welcome to the team buddy.

[ID: A screenshot from Trigun Stampede Episode 4. At an above view, the van has spun, unfortunately sending the trailer back part crashing directly into Wolfwood. He is starfished face-first into it, rather comically. End ID.]

It's funny as heck, but, since I am deranged, I'm gonna try and convince you that this is not only an isekai joke, but that the basic premise of an isekai actually applies fairly well to Stampede Wolfwood in the first season... but then a lot of the standard tropes are made into notable and tragic subversions. Also please note I have never actually watched an isekai anime so maybe take all this with a grain of salt. Or several. (Also isekai is a really broad genre. I'm talking specifically about the tropiest things to come out of it - please don't take what I'm about to discuss as representative of the entire genre!)

In the manga, and I believe in the 98 anime as well, Wolfwood is spotted by Vash while him and the insurance girls are travelling on a bus. He is out in the middle of the desert, and so thirsty and exhausted he's initially mistaken for dead. Vash and the girls manage to cause enough of a ruckus that he is literally saved (which echoes the influence they, but especially Vash, will have on him later on), and they all end up on the bus as him and Vash become acquainted - the start of their companionship, and the start of their journey together (being quite literally on a moving vehicle). In the 23 anime, it all seems set up to give us the same intro: there is a vehicle, Wolfwood is clearly exhausted from trekking through the desert, Meryl and Vash are there... and then, suddenly -

[ID: Two screenshots from Trigun Stampede Episode 4. In the first, Wolfwood is walking with Punisher across the sand with a bright blue sky background. He does not see the van coming into sharp focus on a direct path towards him. In the second, Meryl, in the driver's seat, looks out with a shocked expression. Roberto's hand has reached over to grab the wheel. End ID.]

Pfft. Sorry I had to rewatch this to get the screenshots and I swear it does not get any less funny. Anyways, Wolfwood gets hit instead of getting rescued, but the end result is the same - he ends up in the vehicle and his journey with them begins.

So. Why the difference?

Well, I can only really speculate, and honestly it was probably just for the humour of it, but I do have another (deranged) suggestion.

See, Wolfwood in the manga is a little different from Stampede's Wolfwood - he's a lot friendlier for one (though no less trying to scam people), and he's got a little bit more self-made purpose (protecting and providing for the orphanage), even if he still lacks true agency. Stampede Wolfwood, by contrast, is a lot more aimless. He's on constant survival mode, which makes him a lot more openly abrasive right from the get-go, more cavalier about his own life (smokes way more than in the manga, takes bullets when there's actually no reason to), and a lot less in control of his outward persona (there have been many observations I've seen on how he's not the best at holding back his emotions - imo I don't think manga Wolfwood is especially good at that either, but in Stampede, it's really obvious).

Stampede Wolfwood also plays up his "monstrousness" a lot more in front of people, which is probably the most significant difference to me. Manga Wolfwood... doesn't exactly try to hide it, but he tends to take a "well, somebody had to do what needed to get done" attitude, like a kind of tired "I know there's no going back and I know I've turned into a monster. This is all I know how to be now. Somebody has to make the hard calls." But he feels shame about it all the same - look at how he puts his sunglasses on whenever he's about to do something he finds reprehensible (well, except the Ninelives fight... but no one was around to witness him there). It's made pretty explicit later that the glasses are a way for him to say "don't look at me. don't see what I've become".

Meanwhile, Stampede Wolfwood never takes the glasses off. He's much more upfront about the threat he poses - calling out Vash for not watching his back, outright saying he could've shot him - not a smart move when trying to earn someone's trust. His teasing, when he does it, isn't quite as playful, and has a bit of a bite to it. It's almost like he wants to be hated; like he's torn between justifying the necessity of his actions and convincing others that he is just as much of a monster as he feels.

I really think the key differences have a lot to do with their respective situations. Wolfwood in the manga... he got out, for a bit. He couldn't go back to the orphanage, but for at least a little bit, he wasn't under the Eye of Michael's thumb, he did get to meet people outside of missions and travel a bit, and was acting on his own intent... until he ended up pulled back into it because of Knives. Stampede Wolfwood has been under their control since he was taken from the orphanage. Everyone he loves is a hostage. He's taken on the name of his weapon and has known nothing else except this world of darkness - there's very little to imply he's travelled or spoken to anyone without it being for some mission. He's under consistent surveillance.

This "babysitting" mission, then, is something very different from his usual. It's not an assassination. Even more so, it's putting him in close contact with people who are not part of the world that he inhabits, the only one he's known since he was taken, which kickstarts significant changes in his life. You could even say he's been... transported to a different world than the one he'd lived in up to this point...

Enter Truck-kun. Or, rather, Van-kun.

Alright, so what is an isekai? Essentially, it's a wide-ranging genre where the protagonist gets transported or reincarnated to another world (usually regular world -> fantasy/sci-fi world), and typically involves an ordinary person becoming important/powerful in this new world - the genre is, a lot of the time, a mix of power fantasy and wish fulfillment.

Obviously, there is no literal transporting to another world here; it is still very much the same world (I'll bring up why this is important later.) But it's notable that Wolfwood remains very much the outlier in their group - he does not blend in, and his methods and approach are very different to that of the rest, who do not come from the same "world" as him. It's the start of a pretty drastic change in situation for him. It's why I really wish there were more episodes showing his dynamic with the group before it all went to hell - I bet he was so awkward.

The next thing I want to mention is that if you thought I was going to be arguing that there is a standard isekai parallel here... well I lied to you. A lot of the common tropes actually get subverted in kinda heartbreaking ways.

Usually the protagonist of an isekai (not always, but often) is some kind of chosen one. They are able to excel in situations that others cannot, and it's usually because they bring some kind of skill or knowledge from their old life that the people in the new world, obviously, don't. They tend to become ultra powerful, well able to take on any of their challenges in this new world, with advantages others don't have.

This doesn't sound like anything to do with Wolfwood after being hit by Meryl's van. But it sure sounds an awful lot like him after being taken by the Eye of Michael.

He is transferred from his comparatively normal life to one straight out of a sci-fi horror. He's a chosen "Child of Blessing", ranked "S+". He was able to survive grievous harm and experimentation, "excelling" where most other hapless kids did not. What did he bring with him from his old life that none of the people in his new life seem to have that allowed him to survive in the way he did? Well... he had something to protect didn't he? That's how he continues to struggle on. This is far from the sentiment shared by people like Conrad and Legato.

And so Wolfwood becomes ultra powerful - his body is fast, strong and resilient; he's efficient and good at what he's been trained to do. But this is far from anything he wanted. The power fantasy is subverted. Wolfwood is powerful enough to handle pretty much any threat that's thrown at him... but all it does is isolate and alienate him, and make him feel like a monster. Another aspect of isekai is that freedom one gets from being able to start over and become someone closer to their ideal self in a new setting - that's the wish fulfillment part. Well, Wolfwood has never been further from free, or less like the person he wishes to be. He hates everything he has become, but can't get out. Unable to change his situation, and increasingly jaded and disillusioned, Wolfwood takes on the moniker of "Punisher" and gives up on his old self. "Wolfwood" has effectively died.

Other than "transfer" isekai, there is also another kind - the "reincarnation" isekai. I'm not going to even touch bringing up the premise of reincarnation with a guy who carries around a giant cross on his back as I am far from qualified (knowing very little about Christianity at all), but I think it's worth noting that Wolfwood's arc (in all iterations) has much to do with his ever-present conflict with Vash over morality, but also just as much about his struggle to reconcile the person he was with the person he was forced to become, and if there is such a thing as forgiveness or redemption for him.

If "Wolfwood" has died before the story started, then he is "reincarnated" over the course of the story as he slowly starts to find himself again, with the kickstarting impetus being him getting hit by Meryl's van.

The changes don't start instantly. He wakes and things seem relatively normal - the plan is working, there's someone obviously suspicious of him - all stuff he's probably very used to. And then Vash goes and completely blindsides him.

[ID: A screenshot from Trigun Stampede Episode 4. A close up of Vash's face in the dim lighting, with eyes softened and a smile. End ID.]

"I can see it in his eyes."

Okay, so we all kinda giggle a little bit here because who the hell says that to some sketchy guy wearing dark sunglasses in a dark cave-like area when you've only just met, but I really want to stress that this is probably the first truly positive interaction Wolfwood has had in years... and I think Vash is well aware of that.

Wolfwood starts the transition from darkness to light... quite literally.

Almost all of Wolfwood's defining scenes are in the darkness of night, in contrast to the brightly lit desert in the day - think of when he moves away from the fire to speak to Zazie at the end of his intro episode, and assassinates the EoM traitor at the beginning of episode 6. In episode 5, we also get this:

[ID: Two screenshots from Trigun Stampede Episode 5. In the first, Rollo has Vash pinned to a metal wall by his neck. The sun can be seen between the two of them. In the second, Rollo lies dead on the ground. It is now night, and Vash stands over him, head low. Wolfwood stands a distance away. End ID.]

As Vash tries to speak to Rollo, to talk him down, the sun, though setting, is bright and illuminates both their faces. This all comes crashing down, literally, as Wolfwood takes the shot. Rollo falls, the sun stops shining on him, and by the time they all reach his body, night has fallen and the world is in darkness. The light goes out for Rollo... and in Wolfwood's eyes, for him too. He shot out of mercy, after all. He's living a nightmare he sees no escape from nor feels deserving of escaping from - worse, he feels as though he's a part of that darker setting, dragging it into their journey along with him.

However, we've established the lens of the "reincarnation" isekai for the purposes of this analysis, and along with that usually comes a way to compensate or reconcile for missed opportunities or mistakes made in the past by becoming something closer to one's own original ideal - sometimes this can even be a literal starting over, by being reborn into one's own younger self. And that's the importance of what Vash says to Wolfwood in episode 4 - he sees the potential in Wolfwood; the old self he thought had "died" a long time ago. Vash knows he's not the person he's been made to become and encourages him - not to do as Vash does, but to do as Wolfwood actually wants to do but thought for the longest time as hopeless. After all, what is a blank ticket if not a second chance or a new lease on life?

On the sand steamer in episode 6, the scene starts off in daylight once again, but after Wolfwood realizes the new assailant is Livio and we see their backstory, the snap back to the present scene is at night, and the scene darkens as the situation becomes more dire... and as Wolfwood comes to the conclusion that he will have to kill his brother.

But as Zazie's bug, or "eye", gets shot by Vash deflecting what would have been a fatal blow to Livio... suddenly, Wolfwood is free to act without the EoM's ever present surveillance. This is a serious step to severing the binds to that old life, and, as Wolfwood ultimately does not want any harm to come to Livio, he finds another way. And the sky starts to lighten again.

[ID: A screenshot from Trigun Stampede Episode 7. A close up of Livio's face with a distant, pensive expression. A wisp of smoke trails underneath as the pinkish hue of the sunrise is seen in the background. End ID.]

Of course, while this does succeed in waking him, it doesn't actually save him. But it is enough that Wolfwood decides to try letting a little bit of hope back in - to acclimate, even if just a little, to Vash's ideals, or his "world". Wolfwood's wish, to protect the orphanage, is (temporarily) fulfilled - in broad daylight, and without the death he'd been so accustomed to in his old "world". While he outwardly denies it, angrily telling Vash that he is no longer "Wolfwood" and instead merely "the Punisher", that "I'm not like you", the episode's title card, which appears directly after this exchange, does not agree.

[ID: A screenshot from Trigun Stampede Episode 7. A black background with white text; the title card for the episode that reads "#07 Wolfwood". End ID.]

He's more himself than he's been in a long time.

In that sense, going back to my insane original premise, we can say that he was isekai'd once by transfer, turning him into someone else... then isekai'd again by reincarnation after he thought his old self dead, helping him to start on the path to finding that younger self and that hope he thought he'd lost. It's a double subversion, in a way, as the first is far from wish fulfillment, and the latter is actually a restoration - a realization that as he slowly starts to transition to the light, he actually never left this world at all when he was changed against his will. He's not a monster of the dark. He still has a place in this lighter world.

Heartwarming, in a way, but also kind of heartbreaking, as if he hasn't truly left this world then there are still consequences.

Wolfwood, after this, still has to complete his contract. He didn't actually get out.

And Vash, for all that he appears to be someone "not like" Wolfwood, is actually far more similar than he'd initially suspected - Vash, too, came from darkness. The Big Fall happened at night. And even as Wolfwood's world grows lighter, Vash's grows ever darker as what he has tried to stave off bleeds into the light, culminating in the events of July, which take place entirely at night, and are truly Vash's darkest hours. Rather than Vash being some naïve creature of a lighter world that Wolfwood cannot reach, he is instead another person from darkness who is struggling for the light all his own.

Because of course, there is no "lighter world" or "darker world". No true "travel" between the two. Just one world that is both at once. And what one finds in it is dependent on what one chooses to read into their circumstances. A kinder, brighter world isn't something they can simply get isekai'd to. It's something these characters have to struggle to make a reality - it's what Vash does, it's what Meryl takes a stand for, it's what Wolfwood, deep down, wants to believe is possible. Hope is something you build yourself, etc.

Anyways, I can't believe I just wrote all that. I think I'm losing my mind. If you came out of this going, "Story, what the hell are you talking about?" then... well. Me too. Thanks for reading anyways!

#storyrambles #this is safe for tristamp only peeps btw i do mention the manga but there's no real spoilers #somebody should probably rescind my analysis certifications #hdfuvhbsd #anyways. wolfwood gets isekai'd is a sentence i never thought i'd read let alone write. multiple times #call me ace detective the way i am ace. and also a detective. #trigun #tristamp #trigun analysis #<-god. sure #nicholas d. wolfwood #I SPENT HOURS ON THIS STUPID POST OH MY GOD

[bokubear]

A CHILD WALKS UP TO YOU W/ HQ BOYS

featuring ; ( timeskip! )atsumu & osamu miya, sakusa kiyoomi, suna rintarou

warnings ; baby fever on a high rise

notes ; such a sucker for this soft content

ATSUMU walked around the park with you, fingers intertwined with comfortably. today was his day off and he was not going to waste it. by absolutely no means necessary—“WAHHH ! !“ the ear rapturing cries rang from a small child, now clinging to your leg like a vice. “hey there little one, what’s wrong ?” you ushered softly, stroking his head gently. this immensely stalled his internal annoyance, just how kind you were. especially with this frightened child. his heart melting into a puddle of love. “m-m-my mommyy..” the boy sniffled, rubbing furiously at his nose. “you lost your mommy ? okay okay, let’s not cry, she’ll be here somewhere.” you eased, holding the child’s hand as you beckoned atsumu forward to follow. soon enough, you discovered the mother appearing just as distressed, once returning the child to his mother, the setter scooped you in his arms. squeezing your figure warmly. “i’m so in loveee….” he swooned, burying his face in your neck with muffled kisses littering on every expanse of skin. “tsumie what’re you doing ?” you giggled, squirming in his hold. “let’s have some kids in the future okay ? i don’t think i can wait much longer anyways.” he hummed, earning a small gasp by you, laughter not far behind.

OSAMU leaned on the countertop, conversing easily with you and his flirty comments flying in each direction ( as per usual ). this was his favorite time of day, where he could just immerse himself in chatter with you. aimless at that. easy conversation that didn’t require much effort, finalizing with you pulled in his embrace with his lips on yours. there was nothing more he wanted than that. well, maybe there was. maybe when a peculiar little one raced through the doors, a bewildered woman trailing after hopelessly. “see mommy ! it’s osamu mira ! the volleyball player !” the child shrieked with glee, bursting into the air then to climb beside the miya happily. “oh my gods i’m so sorry to interrupt your time, my daughter is just a huge fan.” the butchered name the girl gave him causing him to chuckle heartily. scooping the curious magnet in his arms, she marveled at him with stars sparkling in her eyes. you couldn’t help but grin, your husband is so charming. always has been, always will be. “my fan huh ? i might just have to write you an autograph.” he winked foolishly. the little one kicking her feet with eagerness, pulling a small plushie of himself from her purse. “please sign him.” she asked politely, holding the plushie out. osamu was having the time of his life. “of course, so nice of you to come in to see me.” as he handed back the signed plushie, the mother collected her daughter and apologizing profusely. “don’t worry about it ! come back again sweetheart.”

SAKUSA never hated kids, he just didn’t feel the urge to be around them. ever. well, possibly a little bit. but a midget amount. until a weepy little girl with pink bows in her hand ran up to him, crying her absolute eyes out. “i can’t find my mommmmyyy..” she whined, plopping down on her butt sadly. i mean he couldn’t just abandon her here, it’s dangerous by herself. yet the idea of holding her germ filled hands sent shivers down his hand. however, in that moment he sucked it up. thinking of what you’d do. if he wanted to see you round with child at some point, he’d have to adjust. squatting fown with furrowed brows, he spoke. “alright, can you remember where you were last ? what did you see ?” he tried to make it easy but the crying seemed endless. this was big. thee sakusa kiyoomi holding a baby ? crazy. he didn’t even expect himself to. but still he lightly patted the mini’s back. “you don’t need to cry.” he carefully edged the child to make eye contact with him. eyes filled with trust. “we’ll find her, i promise.” he lifted his pinkie childishly, the little girl linking hers while echoing ‘promise.’ it was quite a sight for you to encounter, heart swelling with adoration for the reserved consideration of your husband. he did find the girls parents, who seemed just as flustered. he excused himself to you seconds after sending farewell, relaxing around you. “you’re so sweet kiyoomi.” — “well i’ll have to get used to it when we have little ones around the house.” you blushed involuntarily at his words, covering your face. “omi..”

SUNA appeared too sly to deal with children. far too mischievous even for you( occasionally ). today you had both volunteered at the child center, something you’ve been wanting to do for a bit. rintarou being dragged along with you. and trust me, the toddlers were madly in love with suna, enamored by his quiet yet snide personality. even if he were to earnestly degrade them, they’d only laugh hysterically as if he had said the most hilarious thing ever. he found this very entertaining, especially with you pretty eyes trained on him. trying to gear you to understand the signs he was expressing. at some point he was aghast at how oblivious you were, simply taking his actions with a grain of salt. he was practically spelling out how badly he wanted this with you. to have a baby, together. despite his lack of passion outside of it. but right now he was putting his all into telling you. somehow. finally he’d had enough, arriving home to snuggle against you with a loud huff of frustration. “why can’t you see ?” he pondered aloud, voice rumbling beside your ears, goosebumps littering your skin. “what is it rinnie ?” you leaned against his chest, eyes shifting closed comfortably—he was warm. “can we have this ?” you immediately understood, his hands coming to massage your tummy and hips needily. he couldn’t be more ready. butterfly kisses peppering along your collarbones. “you want ?” you whispered. “i want.”

-maak

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