Summary: He still yearns for Sumeru, even after everything. Even after exile, after rejection, after four centuries of distance so vast that even his own language no longer comes to him the way it used to. In the privacy of your shared bed, you guide Zandik back to Sumerian one word at a time, offering him a piece of the homeland that abandoned you both and reminding him that some things can still be reclaimed.
The lab was not a place for this.
Too bright. Too precise. Too full of watching eyes that all belonged to him.
So you didn’t stay there.
It was late when you brought it up. The kind of late where even Snezhnaya seemed to quiet, the palace settling into something almost peaceful. No segments. No footsteps outside the door. No crows tapping at the windows.
Just you.
And him.
You were sitting on top of him, knees resting on either side of his hips, your weight light but present. He lay back against the headboard, one arm behind his head, the other resting at your waist like it had always belonged there.
He was watching you.
He always was.
“You forgot it,” you said softly.
His eyes flicked up immediately, sharp even in the dim light. “Not entirely.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Then say something.”
A pause.
Not hesitation.
Search.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
You didn’t react. Not with surprise. Not with pity. You had expected this. Four centuries was enough to erode anything, even something as foundational as language.
“That’s okay,” you said instead.
The word okay settled between you like something fragile.
You reached for the small ink pot and brush on the bedside table. He noticed immediately, of course he did. His gaze tracked every movement, every shift of your fingers.
“What are you doing.”
“Be quiet.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“Do you want one.”
A pause.
“No.”
Of course not.
You took his arm, turning it slightly in your hand, exposing the pale inner skin of his forearm. He went still at once. Not tense. Just attentive in that exacting, clinical way he had, like he was cataloging every sensation as it happened.
The brush touched his skin.
The first stroke was slow. Deliberate.
You felt the subtle shift in him before you even finished the line.
Recognition.
Not conscious at first, but deeper. Older.
You didn’t rush.
Each curve, each line, each precise motion of your hand was careful, intentional. You weren’t showing off. You weren’t correcting him. You were giving something back.
His name.
Not The Doctor.
Not Dottore.
Not the title he wore like armor.
His name.
Written in Sumerian script, the way it was meant to be.
When you finished, your hand stilled against his arm.
He looked down.
Really looked.
The silence stretched, heavy with something neither of you named. His gaze lingered on the ink like it might disappear if he blinked.
“…I remember this,” he said quietly.
Not everything.
Not the language in full.
But this.
You watched him instead of the writing, catching the moment it settled in his chest, the quiet ache of recognition, of something long buried being pulled back into the light.
“It still belongs to you,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
There was something in them now, something unguarded for just a second too long.
“You write it as though it’s sacred.”
You tilted your head. “Isn’t it.”
That almost broke him.
Not visibly. Not in any way someone else would understand. But you felt it in the way his hand shifted, the way his fingers hovered near your wrist like he didn’t quite trust himself to touch you yet.
“Again,” he said.
“Where.”
He didn’t answer with words.
He took your hand and guided it.
To his chest.
Right over his heart.
You stilled for a moment, then dipped the brush back into the ink.
This time, when you wrote, he felt it.
Not just the brush, not just the cool drag of ink across skin, but the proximity. Your breath against him. Your hand braced against his ribs. The quiet intimacy of something so simple becoming something else entirely.
You finished, then leaned back slightly to look at it.
His name.
On him.
Where no one else had any right to see it.
He didn’t speak.
You didn’t either.
Instead, you took his hand and turned it over, placing the brush into his fingers.
“Now you.”
A pause.
“…what.”
You guided his hand to your chest, just below your collarbone, where your skin was warm beneath his touch.
“Write it back.”
He went completely still.
Because he understood.
Of course he did.
Not mimicry.
Not a game.
Something else.
Something that made the air feel heavier, closer.
“Write it,” you said again, softer.
He could have refused.
He didn’t.
He lowered the brush to your skin.
The first line was careful. Not uncertain. Just precise, the way he approached everything that mattered more than he would ever admit.
You inhaled softly at the contact, your eyes never leaving his face.
He wrote slowly.
The language came back to him in fragments, in muscle memory, in instinct buried deeper than conscious thought. A curve. A stroke. The familiar shape of his name taking form again, this time on you.
When his hand faltered, you didn’t correct him.
You just placed your hand lightly over his wrist and guided the movement.
“There,” you murmured. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
When he finished, the room fell quiet again.
You glanced down briefly, then back up at him with a small, soft smile.
“There.”
His hand hovered for a moment, the brush still between his fingers like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.
You took it gently and set it aside.
Then you placed one hand over the writing on his chest, and the other over your own.
Matching.
His name.
On both of you.
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the sight and destroy it at the same time, because it was too much and not enough and dangerously close to something he had convinced himself he no longer needed.
“You remember more than you think,” you said.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, his fingers came up to your skin, tracing just beside the ink, careful not to smudge it.
Then you leaned forward slightly, your forehead brushing his.
“Say it with me.”
A pause.
Then, together, you spoke.
His voice was rougher. Less certain.
Yours steady.
Warm.
The word came out shared.
Not perfect.
But whole.
Something shifted.
Not in the room.
In him.
You felt it in the way his hand tightened slightly at your waist, in the way his breathing changed, in the way he didn’t pull away.
“…again,” he said.
This time, he said it first.
You followed.
And again.
And again.
Until it stopped feeling foreign.
Until it started to feel like something his again.
You smiled faintly, leaning closer.
“You’re getting it.”
“…barely.”
“You are.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
You rested your forehead fully against his this time.
“You’re remembering.”
That word lingered.
Not learning.
Not starting over.
Remembering.
He looked at you.
Really looked.
“…you stayed.”
You didn’t hesitate.
“I chose you.”
Simple.
Certain.
Not Sumeru.
Not any place that cast either of you out.
Just him.
His hand tightened at your waist.
“…say it again.”
So you did.
His name.
Softly.
In your language.
The one that exiled you both.
The one that somehow still belonged to you anyway.
Hello! May I ask for Vito Scaletta dating hc? He’s such a cool character, and we def need more Vito crumbs hehe
Thank you and have a great day!
Vito Scaletta Dating Headcanons
He courts quiet and steady. Small dinners, late walks, a coat over your shoulders when wind picks up. He is not flashy. He shows up on time and remembers what you like in your coffee.
He watches the door and the windows without thinking. You learn to take the seat with your back to the wall only when he is not there. Otherwise he takes it.
He will not talk business on a date. If you push, he changes the subject or takes you home early. Respecting that boundary keeps you safe and earns trust.
He is soft spoken until someone disrespects you. Then he turns into a wall. He does not make a scene unless a scene is needed.
He mostly uses your name. When soft he slips to doll, sweetheart, bella, tesoro, cara. In public he keeps it simple. In private he’ll murmur piccola if you’re smaller or capo if you’re running point and he’s proud.
He notices hands. If a stranger’s hand lingers, he is done being polite. If your hand is cold, his jacket is off before you ask.
He keeps gifts simple and practical. Leather gloves, a good scarf, a music record he saw you look at once. He does not waste money to impress.
You help him keep his shirts pressed and his shoes brushed. He hates frayed cuffs. He will fix your loose heel with the same focus.
He eats what you cook and compliments it, but he lights up when you try Sicilian dishes. Pasta e ceci on a headache day. Brodo with lemon when he has a cough.
He pretends he is fine with anything you wear. He actually loves clean lines, good fabric, and the scent you leave on his lapel.
He drives like a man who knows what happens when you do not. You keep a map in the glove box, coins for the pay phone, and a spare handkerchief in the door.
Fireworks and backfires can drag him back to Sicily. You learn the early tells. Shoulders go tight. Eyes go far. You speak low, touch his wrist, and count his breathing with him. In for four, out for six. Curtains closed, radio turned down.
Nightmares come in hard runs. You do not wake him by shaking his shoulder. You call his name, touch his forearm, let him find you. Water on the nightstand. Window cracked for air. He will say sorry. You say you are here.
He keeps a neat bed. Fresh sheets help him sleep. You change them together on bad weeks so he feels the room reset.
He smokes out of habit and to calm his head. You keep matches, not lectures. When he tries to cut back, you put peppermints in the coat pocket he uses most.
He cannot stand wasted money. You learn his envelope system for rent and food. If you want something big, you plan with him. He respects goals.
He hates lies more than bad news. If you cannot make it, say it. If you are scared, say it. He will not punish honesty.
He apologizes in actions. Repairs the shelf he broke when you argued. Shows up at your door with dinner after saying something he regrets.
He does not like yelling contests. He goes quiet and measured. If you are hot blooded, he will wait you out and ask you to sit. Eye contact, hands open, no crowd.
You learn his family lanes. He loves his ma. He is protective of his sister. You never talk down on them. You help him call home more often than he would on his own.
Joe is part of the package. You will laugh, you will roll your eyes, you will set boundaries. Vito appreciates when you can handle Joe without turning it into a power struggle.
He has a long memory for kindness. You patch a cut in the kitchen once and he will bring you flowers wrapped in newspaper a week later because he remembered.
He respects competence. If you know cars, great. If not, he will teach you how to change a tire and check a belt. You teach him your skills too.
He likes dancing in the living room more than crowded floors. One hand at your waist, one at your shoulder blade, radio low, his chin tipped to your hair.
He will not push your buttons in public. Teasing is light. Real affection shows in how he guides you through a door and how he listens when you talk.
He hates when people talk over you. He will tilt his head and make space for your voice. You back him up in rooms that try to small him.
He keeps a small first aid kit. You learn where it is. You clean each other’s scrapes without dramatics.
He keeps your photo in his wallet or a small token on his key ring. He will never brag about it. You might catch him looking at it before he leaves.
You help him sleep by setting the room. Two pillows. Fan or window. No loud radio. You lie on his chest and let the rhythm slow him.
He learns your tells as well. If you go quiet in meetings, he notes it. If you say you are fine and light a cigarette, he takes it and asks what happened.
He will not let you walk home alone after dark. If you insist, he ghosts the corner to make sure you get in the door. Do not be mad. It is how he loves.
He is careful with jealousy. He trusts you. He does not trust men who think they can test him. A look from him usually ends it. If it does not, he ends it.
He does not celebrate recklessness. If you do something dangerous, he will stand there with his hands on his hips until you explain the plan and the backup plan.
His love language is reliability. He shows up, fixes things, remembers appointments, brings the umbrella, and learns how you take your tea when you are sick.
He tells you the truth about his fear of dying stupid. You do not romanticize it. You make lists together for the boring things that keep people alive.
He keeps compliments simple. You look good tonight. I like your hair like that. I missed you. He means every single one.
He is Catholic by reflex. You do not have to be. He will cross himself before a hard day and kiss you after. Both feel like a ritual.
He can carry a grudge, but he does not weaponize it at home. If the day was ugly, he leaves the mud at the door and washes his hands before he touches you.
When he cannot fix something, he asks you how to stand with you in it. He learns that showing up is sometimes the whole job.
He will never make you choose between him and your work or your pride. He will ask for safety, for heads up calls by pay phone, for a plan if things go sideways.
He keeps your secrets like they are his. He expects you to keep his the same. Loose talk ruins people.
He thinks long term in quiet ways. He sets aside cash for a better place, a better stove, a weekend at the shore in the off season. He tells you when it is time to dream bigger.
He says I love you with his chest before he ever risks the words. A hand at your back. A car warmed up. The last clean towel left for you. When he does say it, it is plain and final.
You help him build a life that is not only work and worry. Sunday sauce. A record spinning. Clean sheets and a window open to the night. He helps you feel safe in a city that is never quiet.
Hello! May I ask for Vito Scaletta dating hc? He’s such a cool character, and we def need more Vito crumbs hehe
Thank you and have a great day!
Vito Scaletta Dating Headcanons
He courts quiet and steady. Small dinners, late walks, a coat over your shoulders when wind picks up. He is not flashy. He shows up on time and remembers what you like in your coffee.
He watches the door and the windows without thinking. You learn to take the seat with your back to the wall only when he is not there. Otherwise he takes it.
He will not talk business on a date. If you push, he changes the subject or takes you home early. Respecting that boundary keeps you safe and earns trust.
He is soft spoken until someone disrespects you. Then he turns into a wall. He does not make a scene unless a scene is needed.
He mostly uses your name. When soft he slips to doll, sweetheart, bella, tesoro, cara. In public he keeps it simple. In private he’ll murmur piccola if you’re smaller or capo if you’re running point and he’s proud.
He notices hands. If a stranger’s hand lingers, he is done being polite. If your hand is cold, his jacket is off before you ask.
He keeps gifts simple and practical. Leather gloves, a good scarf, a music record he saw you look at once. He does not waste money to impress.
You help him keep his shirts pressed and his shoes brushed. He hates frayed cuffs. He will fix your loose heel with the same focus.
He eats what you cook and compliments it, but he lights up when you try Sicilian dishes. Pasta e ceci on a headache day. Brodo with lemon when he has a cough.
He pretends he is fine with anything you wear. He actually loves clean lines, good fabric, and the scent you leave on his lapel.
He drives like a man who knows what happens when you do not. You keep a map in the glove box, coins for the pay phone, and a spare handkerchief in the door.
Fireworks and backfires can drag him back to Sicily. You learn the early tells. Shoulders go tight. Eyes go far. You speak low, touch his wrist, and count his breathing with him. In for four, out for six. Curtains closed, radio turned down.
Nightmares come in hard runs. You do not wake him by shaking his shoulder. You call his name, touch his forearm, let him find you. Water on the nightstand. Window cracked for air. He will say sorry. You say you are here.
He keeps a neat bed. Fresh sheets help him sleep. You change them together on bad weeks so he feels the room reset.
He smokes out of habit and to calm his head. You keep matches, not lectures. When he tries to cut back, you put peppermints in the coat pocket he uses most.
He cannot stand wasted money. You learn his envelope system for rent and food. If you want something big, you plan with him. He respects goals.
He hates lies more than bad news. If you cannot make it, say it. If you are scared, say it. He will not punish honesty.
He apologizes in actions. Repairs the shelf he broke when you argued. Shows up at your door with dinner after saying something he regrets.
He does not like yelling contests. He goes quiet and measured. If you are hot blooded, he will wait you out and ask you to sit. Eye contact, hands open, no crowd.
You learn his family lanes. He loves his ma. He is protective of his sister. You never talk down on them. You help him call home more often than he would on his own.
Joe is part of the package. You will laugh, you will roll your eyes, you will set boundaries. Vito appreciates when you can handle Joe without turning it into a power struggle.
He has a long memory for kindness. You patch a cut in the kitchen once and he will bring you flowers wrapped in newspaper a week later because he remembered.
He respects competence. If you know cars, great. If not, he will teach you how to change a tire and check a belt. You teach him your skills too.
He likes dancing in the living room more than crowded floors. One hand at your waist, one at your shoulder blade, radio low, his chin tipped to your hair.
He will not push your buttons in public. Teasing is light. Real affection shows in how he guides you through a door and how he listens when you talk.
He hates when people talk over you. He will tilt his head and make space for your voice. You back him up in rooms that try to small him.
He keeps a small first aid kit. You learn where it is. You clean each other’s scrapes without dramatics.
He keeps your photo in his wallet or a small token on his key ring. He will never brag about it. You might catch him looking at it before he leaves.
You help him sleep by setting the room. Two pillows. Fan or window. No loud radio. You lie on his chest and let the rhythm slow him.
He learns your tells as well. If you go quiet in meetings, he notes it. If you say you are fine and light a cigarette, he takes it and asks what happened.
He will not let you walk home alone after dark. If you insist, he ghosts the corner to make sure you get in the door. Do not be mad. It is how he loves.
He is careful with jealousy. He trusts you. He does not trust men who think they can test him. A look from him usually ends it. If it does not, he ends it.
He does not celebrate recklessness. If you do something dangerous, he will stand there with his hands on his hips until you explain the plan and the backup plan.
His love language is reliability. He shows up, fixes things, remembers appointments, brings the umbrella, and learns how you take your tea when you are sick.
He tells you the truth about his fear of dying stupid. You do not romanticize it. You make lists together for the boring things that keep people alive.
He keeps compliments simple. You look good tonight. I like your hair like that. I missed you. He means every single one.
He is Catholic by reflex. You do not have to be. He will cross himself before a hard day and kiss you after. Both feel like a ritual.
He can carry a grudge, but he does not weaponize it at home. If the day was ugly, he leaves the mud at the door and washes his hands before he touches you.
When he cannot fix something, he asks you how to stand with you in it. He learns that showing up is sometimes the whole job.
He will never make you choose between him and your work or your pride. He will ask for safety, for heads up calls by pay phone, for a plan if things go sideways.
He keeps your secrets like they are his. He expects you to keep his the same. Loose talk ruins people.
He thinks long term in quiet ways. He sets aside cash for a better place, a better stove, a weekend at the shore in the off season. He tells you when it is time to dream bigger.
He says I love you with his chest before he ever risks the words. A hand at your back. A car warmed up. The last clean towel left for you. When he does say it, it is plain and final.
You help him build a life that is not only work and worry. Sunday sauce. A record spinning. Clean sheets and a window open to the night. He helps you feel safe in a city that is never quiet.
Summary: After a deal in Nod-Krai goes wrong, you find yourself targeted by a broker’s men. Nefer intervenes, saving you with her quiet precision. What follows is not mercy, but a lesson in fear, trust, and the strange comfort she offers when her mask finally slips.
A/N: omg why are there only smut fics of her I'm done
The rain in Nod-Krai does not fall. It whispers. It slicks the cobbles into mirror shards and hangs from the lantern roofs like strings of glass. You keep your head down and your hands in your pockets, because that is what people do when they do not want to be seen. It is what people do when they already have been.
The broker’s men are not subtle. Boots. Bronze rivets. Cold metal at your back the moment you pass beneath the green silk awning of the spice arcade.
“Package,” one of them says. “You lifted from the wrong stall, little moth.”
You do not correct him. You do not tell him you did not lift anything at all, that you traded a name for a receipt and a receipt for an address, and then the address for air. You do not tell him that you were careful. Because careful here is a bet against a stacked deck, and the house does not care how you count.
You count anyway. One to your left. One behind. One in front. The fourth has not moved since you stepped into the arcade. He is the one watching the rooflines. You raise your hands slow.
“Package is gone,” you say. “Which means either you are wasting your boss’s time or the stall owner is smarter than he looks.”
“Or,” the one behind you murmurs, and the muzzle nudges the seam of your coat, “you are soft where you should be stiff.”
He is not wrong. Your bravado is a scaffolding you built out of empty pockets and the feeling that you ran too far to start being afraid now. It shivers when he pushes you forward.
The silk shifts. Lantern light skates over a shadow that should not be there.
“Let him go,” someone says, and the words move like cool oil over stone. Not loud. Not soft. The kind of voice that takes silence by the wrist and makes it stand still.
The men swear in three different dialects at once. You do not. Your mouth has gone dry.
Nefer steps into the lantern spill the way a blade steps out of a sheath. The rain becomes a veil. The Eye painted beneath her right eye gleams like wet enamel. Her hair is darker than the cloth above you, cut to fall just so, and her gaze is a thin green line you could fail against if you are not careful. You have never seen her this close and not from a balcony, not from a rumor. People say she can predict the shape of a conversation three turns before your tongue learns it. People say she keeps rules in a lacquer box and takes them out one at a time and breaks them only when breaking them maintains the pattern. People say many things when they are afraid. Most of them are true.
“Curatorium business,” the one behind you snaps, as if that amulet will ward off a storm. “Our mark.”
Nefer tilts her head, not to him. To you. “Correction. My piece on the board.”
The fourth man moves first. Rooflines are hungry things. He drops through the rain with a hook knife, silent enough to make your skin heat. You do not see Nefer move, only the stutter of shadow as something like a second her splits off and crosses the air in a clean diagonal. The knife kisses stone instead of throat. A second shade slides past your shoulder, and the muzzle that nudged you is suddenly pointing at the floor. The man curses. The gun clatters.
Dendro, you think stupidly, as if naming the element helps. It does not. It only gives the motion a scent, green and sharp and clean. Serpent grace. Coil. Strike. The shades do not leave footprints on wet stone.
“Nefer,” the leader says, like he has known her name only in stories and has just discovered mouths can make it. He tries to stand straighter. He fails. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“True,” Nefer says. “You misunderstood what I allow in my market.”
Her hand uncurls. You do not see a catalyst. You see the rain itself pause and listen. A bloom of green hums under your boots. The fourth man checks his wrist and finds the hook knife trapped in a tangle of living vine that did not exist a breath ago. The leader looks at the muzzle on the floor and decides to look at you instead, as if you have betrayed him personally by being here.
“Take the long way out,” Nefer says without looking at him. “If I see you in the glass quarter before midnight, I will count it as a deliberate insult.”
They go. Not because they want to, but because they have met the kind of person who makes time a wall and writes rules on it in tidy script. You stand where they leave you, like the air might crack if you move.
You are still standing there when Nefer turns to you. The rain does not touch her shoulders. It behaves. Everything around her does.
“Walk with me,” she says.
Your legs say yes before your mouth can.
She does not take you far. The arcade spills you into a quiet lane that smells of saffron and iron. A balcony above you throws netted light. Nefer slows. When she looks at you, she does not look at your face. She looks at the set of your shoulders. The place where your hands have learned to curl.
“You thought a name would pay like coin,” she says. “Did you test it before you traded it?”
You could lie. You could say you did and blame the stall owner anyway, and maybe she would believe you if belief served her arrangement of the board. You do not. Your voice does not want to be dishonest under that gaze.
“No.”
Nefer nods. Not like approval. Like she has placed a small carved piece in a small carved box and labeled it correctly. “Then two debts exist. One to me. One to yourself.”
“Let me guess,” you manage. “You will calculate the interest.”
“Interest is for merchants,” she says, and the corner of her mouth threatens to soften. “I prefer lessons. They settle cleaner. They also last.”
She steps beneath the lip of a gutter where the rain threads down in a clear rope. She reaches into it with precise fingers and draws out something that glimmers too evenly to be water. A coil thin as a bracelet settles against her palm. It looks alive. It looks like a promise.
“Hold out your hand.”
You do. The coil winds your wrist, cool and almost weightless. It hums at the skin, as if listening to your pulse and tuning to it.
“It will loosen if you panic,” Nefer says. “That is what fear does. It makes grip useless. Breathe slowly. Count in fours. If you cannot, the coil will tighten until all you can think about is breath. You will learn. Then you will return it.”
You stare. “Is this a punishment or a gift?”
“Yes,” she says. “And a map.” She raises her chin toward the glass quarter. “He will try to purchase you again. People like that do not accept a closed door when they can find a window. I have closed all his windows. If he comes through your roof, breathe. Let the coil remind you that your body will obey if your mind asks properly. Run if you must. Fight if you must. Call if you must. But do not sell names you have not tasted.”
The quiet between you sharpens. Rain hisses. Somewhere a bell tics, which in Nod-Krai means nothing useful. You hear yourself ask the question you did not know you brought.
“Why help me?”
The corner of her mouth stops threatening and attempts a smile. It looks like a novice trying a new blade form. Imperfect. Beautiful anyway.
“Because you are mine,” Nefer says, and then, perhaps because your face does something that makes her eyes soften by a shade, she adds, “Because this place eats the brave who do not yet know they are brave. And because I mislike waste.”
You almost laugh. It comes out like a cough. The coil at your wrist hums once, encouraging. You breathe.
“Do you know how this ends?” you ask, and the question is not about the broker. It is about the way your chest feels now that there is a pattern to step into. It is about the way Nefer’s presence makes the air feel distilled.
“I know many endings,” she says. “I choose among them.”
“Choose one where I am not a cautionary tale.”
“I already did.”
You walk. The lane bends toward a strip of river no one calls a river. Nefer matches your pace without seeming to try. Every so often, her gaze lifts to measure a balcony, a shadow, a silence with all the attention someone else would give a lover. You think about being looked at like that and flush so abruptly the coil thrums again.
Nefer notices. Nefer notices everything. She says nothing.
When she speaks, it is at the river’s lip. The water is a dark green that wants to be black and cannot because it has to reflect the lanterns. “Fear is not your enemy,” she says. “It is a poor navigator. You let it steer and you will always hug the wrong shoreline.”
“You sound like someone who never gets lost.”
“I am lost constantly,” Nefer says, and now her mouth does smile, small and real. “I simply mark my path as I go.”
The admission is a soft cut. You did not expect it. Fear loosens a notch under your ribs.
“I messed up,” you say. It is so small against the rain.
“Yes,” she says, and does not make you look at it alone. “You did. I chose not to let the market eat you for it.”
You look at her. “You could have.”
“I could have,” she says. “I did not. Do you require a calculus?”
You shake your head. The coil approves.
Silence holds. Rain makes embroidery of the river. You tell yourself you will not ask for more. You ask anyway.
“If I had not been yours,” you say, “would you have let me fall?”
Nefer’s gaze tilts. The green in it warms, like sunlight finding a gap in leaves. “I do not believe in counterfactuals as comfort,” she says. “But I will tell you this. I keep what I claim. It is a rule. It keeps me as well.”
The words do not land like a collar. They land like a coat someone has folded and set over your shoulders because they have seen the shiver you pretend you do not have. You feel ridiculous. You feel seen. The two feelings argue in your throat until something tight breaks and you hear yourself breathe wrong.
It is not a sob. It is a traitor sound that lives between your teeth and the base of your tongue. It makes your eyes slick. The coil hums in sympathy and tightens a fraction, reminding. Four counts in. Four out. You do it. Again. Again.
A shadow touches your sleeve. Not vine. Not shade. A hand. Nefer’s. She sets it very lightly on your arm, like one would touch a frightened animal who has not yet decided if it can be led.
“Stay,” she says, and you do, because the word is a steady place to put your feet.
You do not know how long you stand there. Long enough for your breath to learn a new road. Long enough for the river to forget you. The coil eases. When you finally look at her, Nefer is watching the water instead of your face, which is a kindness you had not realized you craved.
“I used to sleep with my knife in my hand,” you say, absurdly. “It made me feel like I could cut the dark into smaller pieces.”
“It works,” Nefer says. “Until it doesn’t. When it stops working, find me.”
“You will be here?”
“I am everywhere I need to be,” she says, and for once it does not sound like arrogance. It sounds like a weary truth.
You nod. Your shoulders remember how to be less high. The rain decides it has whispered enough and thins to a hush. Nefer lets go of your arm. The loss is ridiculous and immediate. You do not reach for her again. You do not have to.
“Return the coil when you can count to eight without thinking,” she says. “If you lie, it will know.”
“I will not.”
“Good.” She steps back. The world does a small adjustment to accommodate the space she used to occupy. “And stop selling untested names,” she adds, a thread of dry humor winding through the cool. “You are not a merchant.”
“What am I?”
“Mine,” she says again, quiet as a needle through silk. “And, with practice, very difficult to purchase.”
The shadows receive her the way a throat accepts water. You watch the place she was until the river lights shake themselves into new patterns. The coil on your wrist lies warm. You breathe and count and realize that somewhere in the middle of fear you learned something that feels dangerous and safe at once.
You learned that surviving alone was not the only proof you had.
That night the broker does try your roof. Vines greet him before you can. You do not panic. You do not sell any names. In the morning, you find a slip of waxed paper hooked over your window latch. On it, in tidy script, is a list of rules. Some are obvious. One is not. You read it three times.
Rule 7: Keep what you claim. Keep yourself first.
You fold the paper and tuck it beneath the coil. When you sleep, it is without the knife in your hand. When you wake, the fear is still there. It has learned a leash.
You think of Nefer’s hand on your sleeve. Of the way her voice made the market quiet. You think of how she said mine and meant it like a boundary and not a lock.
You think you might learn to count to eight very quickly.
Summary: After a deal in Nod-Krai goes wrong, you find yourself targeted by a broker’s men. Nefer intervenes, saving you with her quiet precision. What follows is not mercy, but a lesson in fear, trust, and the strange comfort she offers when her mask finally slips.
A/N: omg why are there only smut fics of her I'm done
The rain in Nod-Krai does not fall. It whispers. It slicks the cobbles into mirror shards and hangs from the lantern roofs like strings of glass. You keep your head down and your hands in your pockets, because that is what people do when they do not want to be seen. It is what people do when they already have been.
The broker’s men are not subtle. Boots. Bronze rivets. Cold metal at your back the moment you pass beneath the green silk awning of the spice arcade.
“Package,” one of them says. “You lifted from the wrong stall, little moth.”
You do not correct him. You do not tell him you did not lift anything at all, that you traded a name for a receipt and a receipt for an address, and then the address for air. You do not tell him that you were careful. Because careful here is a bet against a stacked deck, and the house does not care how you count.
You count anyway. One to your left. One behind. One in front. The fourth has not moved since you stepped into the arcade. He is the one watching the rooflines. You raise your hands slow.
“Package is gone,” you say. “Which means either you are wasting your boss’s time or the stall owner is smarter than he looks.”
“Or,” the one behind you murmurs, and the muzzle nudges the seam of your coat, “you are soft where you should be stiff.”
He is not wrong. Your bravado is a scaffolding you built out of empty pockets and the feeling that you ran too far to start being afraid now. It shivers when he pushes you forward.
The silk shifts. Lantern light skates over a shadow that should not be there.
“Let her go,” someone says, and the words move like cool oil over stone. Not loud. Not soft. The kind of voice that takes silence by the wrist and makes it stand still.
The men swear in three different dialects at once. You do not. Your mouth has gone dry.
Nefer steps into the lantern spill the way a blade steps out of a sheath. The rain becomes a veil. The Eye painted beneath her right eye gleams like wet enamel. Her hair is darker than the cloth above you, cut to fall just so, and her gaze is a thin green line you could fail against if you are not careful. You have never seen her this close and not from a balcony, not from a rumor. People say she can predict the shape of a conversation three turns before your tongue learns it. People say she keeps rules in a lacquer box and takes them out one at a time and breaks them only when breaking them maintains the pattern. People say many things when they are afraid. Most of them are true.
“Curatorium business,” the one behind you snaps, as if that amulet will ward off a storm. “Our mark.”
Nefer tilts her head, not to him. To you. “Correction. My piece on the board.”
The fourth man moves first. Rooflines are hungry things. He drops through the rain with a hook knife, silent enough to make your skin heat. You do not see Nefer move, only the stutter of shadow as something like a second her splits off and crosses the air in a clean diagonal. The knife kisses stone instead of throat. A second shade slides past your shoulder, and the muzzle that nudged you is suddenly pointing at the floor. The man curses. The gun clatters.
Dendro, you think stupidly, as if naming the element helps. It does not. It only gives the motion a scent, green and sharp and clean. Serpent grace. Coil. Strike. The shades do not leave footprints on wet stone.
“Nefer,” the leader says, like he has known her name only in stories and has just discovered mouths can make it. He tries to stand straighter. He fails. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“True,” Nefer says. “You misunderstood what I allow in my market.”
Her hand uncurls. You do not see a catalyst. You see the rain itself pause and listen. A bloom of green hums under your boots. The fourth man checks his wrist and finds the hook knife trapped in a tangle of living vine that did not exist a breath ago. The leader looks at the muzzle on the floor and decides to look at you instead, as if you have betrayed him personally by being here.
“Take the long way out,” Nefer says without looking at him. “If I see you in the glass quarter before midnight, I will count it as a deliberate insult.”
They go. Not because they want to, but because they have met the kind of person who makes time a wall and writes rules on it in tidy script. You stand where they leave you, like the air might crack if you move.
You are still standing there when Nefer turns to you. The rain does not touch her shoulders. It behaves. Everything around her does.
“Walk with me,” she says.
Your legs say yes before your mouth can.
She does not take you far. The arcade spills you into a quiet lane that smells of saffron and iron. A balcony above you throws netted light. Nefer slows. When she looks at you, she does not look at your face. She looks at the set of your shoulders. The place where your hands have learned to curl.
“You thought a name would pay like coin,” she says. “Did you test it before you traded it?”
You could lie. You could say you did and blame the stall owner anyway, and maybe she would believe you if belief served her arrangement of the board. You do not. Your voice does not want to be dishonest under that gaze.
“No.”
Nefer nods. Not like approval. Like she has placed a small carved piece in a small carved box and labeled it correctly. “Then two debts exist. One to me. One to yourself.”
“Let me guess,” you manage. “You will calculate the interest.”
“Interest is for merchants,” she says, and the corner of her mouth threatens to soften. “I prefer lessons. They settle cleaner. They also last.”
She steps beneath the lip of a gutter where the rain threads down in a clear rope. She reaches into it with precise fingers and draws out something that glimmers too evenly to be water. A coil thin as a bracelet settles against her palm. It looks alive. It looks like a promise.
“Hold out your hand.”
You do. The coil winds your wrist, cool and almost weightless. It hums at the skin, as if listening to your pulse and tuning to it.
“It will loosen if you panic,” Nefer says. “That is what fear does. It makes grip useless. Breathe slowly. Count in fours. If you cannot, the coil will tighten until all you can think about is breath. You will learn. Then you will return it.”
You stare. “Is this a punishment or a gift?”
“Yes,” she says. “And a map.” She raises her chin toward the glass quarter. “He will try to purchase you again. People like that do not accept a closed door when they can find a window. I have closed all his windows. If he comes through your roof, breathe. Let the coil remind you that your body will obey if your mind asks properly. Run if you must. Fight if you must. Call if you must. But do not sell names you have not tasted.”
The quiet between you sharpens. Rain hisses. Somewhere a bell tics, which in Nod-Krai means nothing useful. You hear yourself ask the question you did not know you brought.
“Why help me?”
The corner of her mouth stops threatening and attempts a smile. It looks like a novice trying a new blade form. Imperfect. Beautiful anyway.
“Because you are mine,” Nefer says, and then, perhaps because your face does something that makes her eyes soften by a shade, she adds, “Because this place eats the brave who do not yet know they are brave. And because I mislike waste.”
You almost laugh. It comes out like a cough. The coil at your wrist hums once, encouraging. You breathe.
“Do you know how this ends?” you ask, and the question is not about the broker. It is about the way your chest feels now that there is a pattern to step into. It is about the way Nefer’s presence makes the air feel distilled.
“I know many endings,” she says. “I choose among them.”
“Choose one where I am not a cautionary tale.”
“I already did.”
You walk. The lane bends toward a strip of river no one calls a river. Nefer matches your pace without seeming to try. Every so often, her gaze lifts to measure a balcony, a shadow, a silence with all the attention someone else would give a lover. You think about being looked at like that and flush so abruptly the coil thrums again.
Nefer notices. Nefer notices everything. She says nothing.
When she speaks, it is at the river’s lip. The water is a dark green that wants to be black and cannot because it has to reflect the lanterns. “Fear is not your enemy,” she says. “It is a poor navigator. You let it steer and you will always hug the wrong shoreline.”
“You sound like someone who never gets lost.”
“I am lost constantly,” Nefer says, and now her mouth does smile, small and real. “I simply mark my path as I go.”
The admission is a soft cut. You did not expect it. Fear loosens a notch under your ribs.
“I messed up,” you say. It is so small against the rain.
“Yes,” she says, and does not make you look at it alone. “You did. I chose not to let the market eat you for it.”
You look at her. “You could have.”
“I could have,” she says. “I did not. Do you require a calculus?”
You shake your head. The coil approves.
Silence holds. Rain makes embroidery of the river. You tell yourself you will not ask for more. You ask anyway.
“If I had not been yours,” you say, “would you have let me fall?”
Nefer’s gaze tilts. The green in it warms, like sunlight finding a gap in leaves. “I do not believe in counterfactuals as comfort,” she says. “But I will tell you this. I keep what I claim. It is a rule. It keeps me as well.”
The words do not land like a collar. They land like a coat someone has folded and set over your shoulders because they have seen the shiver you pretend you do not have. You feel ridiculous. You feel seen. The two feelings argue in your throat until something tight breaks and you hear yourself breathe wrong.
It is not a sob. It is a traitor sound that lives between your teeth and the base of your tongue. It makes your eyes slick. The coil hums in sympathy and tightens a fraction, reminding. Four counts in. Four out. You do it. Again. Again.
A shadow touches your sleeve. Not vine. Not shade. A hand. Nefer’s. She sets it very lightly on your arm, like one would touch a frightened animal who has not yet decided if it can be led.
“Stay,” she says, and you do, because the word is a steady place to put your feet.
You do not know how long you stand there. Long enough for your breath to learn a new road. Long enough for the river to forget you. The coil eases. When you finally look at her, Nefer is watching the water instead of your face, which is a kindness you had not realized you craved.
“I used to sleep with my knife in my hand,” you say, absurdly. “It made me feel like I could cut the dark into smaller pieces.”
“It works,” Nefer says. “Until it doesn’t. When it stops working, find me.”
“You will be here?”
“I am everywhere I need to be,” she says, and for once it does not sound like arrogance. It sounds like a weary truth.
You nod. Your shoulders remember how to be less high. The rain decides it has whispered enough and thins to a hush. Nefer lets go of your arm. The loss is ridiculous and immediate. You do not reach for her again. You do not have to.
“Return the coil when you can count to eight without thinking,” she says. “If you lie, it will know.”
“I will not.”
“Good.” She steps back. The world does a small adjustment to accommodate the space she used to occupy. “And stop selling untested names,” she adds, a thread of dry humor winding through the cool. “You are not a merchant.”
“What am I?”
“Mine,” she says again, quiet as a needle through silk. “And, with practice, very difficult to purchase.”
The shadows receive her the way a throat accepts water. You watch the place she was until the river lights shake themselves into new patterns. The coil on your wrist lies warm. You breathe and count and realize that somewhere in the middle of fear you learned something that feels dangerous and safe at once.
You learned that surviving alone was not the only proof you had.
That night the broker does try your roof. Vines greet him before you can. You do not panic. You do not sell any names. In the morning, you find a slip of waxed paper hooked over your window latch. On it, in tidy script, is a list of rules. Some are obvious. One is not. You read it three times.
Rule 7: Keep what you claim. Keep yourself first.
You fold the paper and tuck it beneath the coil. When you sleep, it is without the knife in your hand. When you wake, the fear is still there. It has learned a leash.
You think of Nefer’s hand on your sleeve. Of the way her voice made the market quiet. You think of how she said mine and meant it like a boundary and not a lock.
You think you might learn to count to eight very quickly.
Summary: You come back bloodied but alive, refusing to tell Henry the full truth. Fear, anger, and tension simmer as protection and care blur the line between them.
A/N: God he deserves everything and more. His death breaks me like no other.
The first thing Henry noticed when he opened his apartment door was the smell. Metallic, sharp, wrong. He dropped his keys instantly, hand on his pistol, scanning the room.
Then he saw you.
You were on the floor by the table, your back slumped against a chair, shirt soaked through, dark stains spreading across the carpet. Blood. Too much blood.
“Jesus Christ—” Henry was at your side in seconds, gun abandoned, hands reaching for you without knowing where to start. Your pulse, he checked your neck, there, but weak. Too shallow, too fast. He ripped off his jacket, pressing it against the gunshot wounds in your legs, muttering under his breath like if he didn’t stop talking you’d slip away.
“What the fuck happened? [Name]—look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide, sweat dampening your hairline. But instead of fear, instead of panic, there was a wild glint in them. Adrenaline lit you up like a fire you couldn’t put out.
“I got them,” you rasped, voice broken, but laced with something close to triumph. Then, against all sense, you laughed. The sound was rough, unhinged, echoing in the small room. “Tried to come for you. I got them first.”
Henry’s stomach twisted. He tightened the pressure on your leg, his face set like stone. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? You’re half-dead on my floor.”
Still, you laughed again, teeth red at the edges. “Doesn’t matter. They didn’t touch you.”
Henry shut his eyes, jaw locking tight. He wanted to shake you, to scream, but he couldn’t afford to let his hands leave your wounds. He couldn’t afford to let you see how close his voice was to breaking.
“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind,” he muttered instead, steady and low, like he was talking himself down as much as you. “And you’re not dyin’ here. Not like this.”
Your head tilted toward him, vision swimming, but you caught the edge of his expression, the hard focus in his eyes, the restrained panic in the tight line of his mouth. You smiled faintly, blood on your teeth. “I told you. I got them.”
And then your body sagged, laughter fading into shallow breaths.
Henry stayed like that for hours, long after he’d dragged you out of danger, patched what he could, burned his jacket to hide the evidence. He never told you how close you’d been. He didn’t have to. The stain on the carpet would remind him every day.
Two nights later, the stain was still there.
Henry had scrubbed it until his hands were raw, but it wouldn’t come out. Every time he walked past it, he saw you slumped against that chair, half-smiling through blood and adrenaline. And every time, his chest tightened like a vice.
You were alive now, but barely acting like it. Always posted at the window, cigarette in hand, eyes darting at every sound, every shadow. Watching. Not for yourself, but for him.
“You’re doin’ it again,” Henry said finally, voice low, cutting into the silence.
“Doing what?”
“That.” His hand flicked in your direction. “Scannin’ every corner like it’s out to kill us. You won’t even sit down without checkin’ the exits.”
You didn’t turn. “I’m watching for you.”
That answer stopped him cold. He didn’t know whether to curse or drag you away from the glass. You’d already bled for him, nearly died, and now you were burning yourself hollow keeping watch like a soldier waiting for a second ambush.
Henry pushed up from the couch, frustration hardening his voice. “You think this makes me feel safe? You think I don’t notice? You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You won’t even let me outta your sight. And I still don’t know who the hell’s gunnin’ for me, because you won’t tell me a damn thing.”
“I can’t tell you, Henry.” Your voice was steady, but your hands trembled around the cigarette. “Because if you know, you’re marked. They wanted you. I made sure they didn’t get that far. But if you go digging…” Your eyes finally met his, haunted and sharp. “Then it’s over.”
Henry stared, his anger folding into something heavier. He stepped closer, resting his hands on your shoulders. The tension in you buzzed under his touch, a live wire stretched to breaking.
“You think keepin’ me blind makes me safer?” he said softly, almost like a warning. “All it’s doin’ is killin’ you in slow motion.”
Your throat bobbed. “Better me than you.”
That undid him. His hand cupped your jaw, turning your face to his. His eyes were sharp, burning with something you weren’t used to seeing from him.
“Don’t say that,” Henry said, low and fierce. “Don’t ever fuckin’ say that. You think I can watch you bleed out again? You think I can stand there while you laugh your way to the grave just ‘cause you saved my ass?” His voice cracked, a rasp he couldn’t hide. “I can’t, [Name]. I won’t.”
The room went still, your breath shuddering between you. And then, finally, you let yourself fold into him. Henry caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you, holding you so tight it was almost desperate.
For the first time in nights, you let the cigarette burn out on its own. For the first time, your body stopped buzzing like a live wire and simply sagged against him.
Henry pressed his lips to your hairline, murmuring against you. “If they’re comin’, we face it together. No more secrets. No more playin’ martyr. You’re not disposable. Not to me.” His voice softened, heavy with something you almost couldn’t believe. “Never to me.”
And for the first time since the night you painted his carpet red, you let yourself believe him.
looks aroumd..... can one request a raiden mei x fem!reader dating hcs.. just read ur elysia x fem reader dating hcs n I started sobbing tears of joy I love ur work
Dating Raiden Mei would include...
Contents: Fluff with light angst, herrscher of thunder Mei being protective and steady, subtle in public but clingy in private, small acts of care and devotion, quiet vulnerability during storms, precise compliments and pet names, established relationship, strictly fem!reader
There was never a dramatic confession. Mei simply started appearing at your side more and more often, walking you home, checking on you after training, and calling you “my dear.” By the time you realized what was happening, she was already yours and you were already hers.
She carries herself with the calm authority of the Herrscher, but with you she softens. She’ll brush her fingers over your cheek after a mission, checking for injuries, murmuring “my girl is safe” in a voice full of relief.
In public she keeps things subtle. A guiding hand at your back, the brush of her fingers over your knuckles, a smile no one else is allowed to see. In private she is clingy, pulling you against her chest and holding you like the storm outside could never touch you as long as she doesn’t let go.
When she calls you pet names, they are simple and steady. My love. My dear. My girl. Each one sounds like a vow.
Mei is protective in quiet ways. She always positions herself between you and danger. After every battle she checks you over carefully, not relaxing until she is certain you are unharmed.
Her care shows through consistency. She keeps your favorite tea stocked, makes sure you eat, keeps an umbrella ready for you whenever the skies darken. She will never mention it out loud, but she notices every little detail about what makes your life easier.
You once told her about your favorite food from home, and the next week she spent hours recreating it for you. It wasn’t perfect, but the way she watched you take the first bite made it clear she would keep trying until it was.
She notices every shift in your mood. When your shoulders tighten she places a hand between them, grounding you. When your voice wavers, she brushes her thumb over your hand until you steady again.
Compliments from Mei are direct and precise. “You were strong today.” “I admire your patience.” “The way you stood your ground made me proud.” When she calls you beautiful it is never casual. It feels like a statement of fact.
Sleep is when her clinginess is most obvious. She wraps herself around you with one arm at your waist, her breath steady at your neck. If you roll away, she unconsciously follows, holding you tighter until you stay.
Storms don’t frighten Mei, but they make her quiet. Watching the lightning split the sky reminds her of her own strength, of how dangerous she could be. In those moments, she grows distant, her thoughts storming louder than the thunder outside. When you take her hand and tell her you trust her, the tension eases. She presses a kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Thank you, my love.”
She fears her power could hurt you. She holds herself back, even in simple things like a touch. When you reassure her, telling her you are not afraid, she kisses your forehead and murmurs “thank you” with eyes brighter than lightning.
When you argue, Mei doesn’t raise her voice. She listens, takes the blame onto herself, and quietly asks, “What can I do to make this right, my love?” The thought of losing you outweighs any pride she might have.
She rarely teases, but when she does it’s deliberate. She tilts her head and says, “You’re blushing,” in a calm voice that only makes your cheeks burn hotter. The rare curve of her lips afterward is her small victory.
You once stole her jacket and she never asked for it back. Instead she tugged you close by the collar, kissed you softly, and whispered, “Keep it. It belongs to you now.”
Mei keeps folded notes for you in your books and bags. “You are my peace.” “Come back to me.” “You are my beloved.” She changes them often but never tells you when, so finding them always feels like a secret message.
She remembers everything. The first time you fell asleep against her, the first time you braided her hair, the first time you called her “mine.” She brings them up casually, always watching your face light up when you realize she has not forgotten.
Her love is not loud. It is steady, proven in the way she always chooses you again and again. When you doubt yourself, she takes your hands, looks into your eyes, and says without hesitation, “You are the best part of my life. I will always keep choosing you.”
When you are injured, her composure cracks. She kneels beside you with trembling hands, whispering, “Stay with me, my girl,” as if her voice alone could hold you together.
In battle, the sight of you in danger makes her power surge. She doesn’t hesitate to unleash everything she has if it means protecting you. Afterward she holds you close, murmuring, “I almost lost you,” into your hair.
Mei rarely cries, but the first time she did in front of you was when you told her she was more than her power. She broke down in your arms, her shoulders shaking as she whispered, “No one has ever said that to me before.”
You braid her hair sometimes and she sits perfectly still, eyes closed, savoring the touch. When you finish, she opens her eyes and kisses your hand, thanking you softly as though you had just given her a gift.
She loves when you wear her clothes. The sight of you in her shirt or jacket makes her cheeks warm and her eyes linger. She pulls you into her arms and murmurs, “You look too good in this. I may never get it back.”
Mei always senses when you are hiding something. She will make tea, sit beside you, and say, “Tell me what troubles you.” She doesn’t push, but she doesn’t look away either, waiting patiently until you finally open up.
Her affection often comes in the form of small rituals. She ties your hair before missions, presses a kiss to your temple before sleep, and writes you notes before long departures. These acts keep her grounded, reminding her she belongs to you as much as you belong to her.
When you are both tired, she hums quietly, a low melody that soothes you. More often than not she falls asleep first, her breath steady against your neck, electricity fading into silence as she dreams.
Mei doesn’t make grand speeches. She shows her love in every choice, every touch, every steady gaze. But on rare nights, she will hold you close and whisper, “You are mine, my girl. And I will never let you go.”
summary - vito comes home beat up, and his wife kisses it better 𐙚
warnings - talk of blood, referring to death, obviously very cliche plot but it's a classic so...
the clock ticked, it was one in the morning. your sprawled over the couch, book resting on your chest as you've fallen asleep waiting for your husband.
minutes later, vito stumbles into the front door, staggering as he walked in. he removes his coat, his gaze following your sleeping figure on the couch and sighs at the sight that you fell asleep waiting for him.
he kneels down, looking at you fondly. he presses his lips on your forehead, a gentle kiss. you stir awake from the movement, your eyes opening slowly seeing his own blue ones. "vito..?"
"hey, dollface." he spoke gently, his eyes looking into yours. after taking a moment to regain vision, you looked at him properly.
your eyes widened, gasping. his tie was all stained with blood, traveling to his neck. he had smears of it on his cheek, a tear in his shirt with a large gash, and his knuckles were all bloody.
"vito, you're hurt!" you hurriedly stood up, he stood up along me, albeit with more struggle. vito grunts, holding his hand to his guts.
"it's nothing i can't handle, doll." he says smugly, as though he was trying to not make you worry. you rolled your eyes, rummaging through cabinets for a med kit.
"sit down." you said, gently pushing him to the chair with the kit in hand. he grunts softly, obeying and sat back down.
"you bossier than falcone himself." he said, his voice low. he leans back and rests against the back of the chair, exhaustion creeping up to him.
"what happened to you?" you wiped the blood on his cheeks as you spoke, trailing down to his neck. loosening his blood stained tie, you carefully took his white dress-shirt off.
vito's voice was gruff, his eyes slightly closing at the feel of the rag against his face. "things just didn't go... as planned." he spoke vaguely.
you looked at him pointedly before sighing, his vagueness is what keeps you safe from his business, but it doesn't help having to see him like this.
"is this blood all yours?" you spoke, throat heavy. vito shook his head no, readjusting his position on the couch. your eyes scanned over the gash on his bicep, hands slightly grazing it.
vito winced slightly, making you retract your hand. "this is going to hurt, sweetheart..." you spoke timidly, the cloth with antiseptic in it hovering over his gash. he flinched once it made contact, hissing in pain.
"gah, i kill people for a living and i get taken down by some fuckin' antiseptic." vito says lightly, a tone of humor as he looked at you gently. you can't help but smile as you looked up at him, a small chuckle leaving your lips.
you looked into his dark blue eyes as you continued mending his wound. "you still find the guts to joke around right now, hm?"
he chuckles, his arm hard from bracing for the disinfectant. only minutes later, the gash was patched up.
you took his pajama shirt out, ushering him to raise his hands and helped him get dressed again. he catches you, hooking his arm around your waist to pull you into his lap. vito kisses you on the temple, making you blush into his touch.
"always taking care of me, doll..." he spoke, his voice low and husky.
"who would, if i didn't?" you retort back, looking at him with a knowing look in your eyes. he chuckles at that, his head lowering.
vito's lips pressed onto your forehead, a sloppy but sweet kiss. "that you're right about... i'm lucky to have you, doll." his words made you smile, eyes looking into his with admiration.
"i love you, vito... you need to be more careful next time! stop testing your luck." you spoke, whining as you slightly smacked his shoulder. he chuckles again, taking it lightly.
he takes his hand into yours, kissing the knuckles of your hand. "i love you, doll. i promise i'll try to be safer." you nodded, listening to his words.
"now, how about we just go to bed eh? wanna sleep with my darling." he said, his arm on your shoulder as he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, tickling you. you chuckled, a soft endearing look on your face and nodded.
Summary: On a quiet balcony, a cigarette shared between you and Vito becomes more than silence. Beneath the smoke and the moonlight, you ask him the question he’s never been brave enough to face: could you both ever run away from the mafia life, and find a happy ending in a world that only ever seems to end in death?
Warnings: Smoking, alcohol mentions, suicidal thoughts mention, mafia themes, slight intimacy, bra mention (reader’s gender otherwise not specified)
Note: Reader’s gender is not described except for one moment mentioning a bra. Everything else is left neutral.
The city below was a hum of distant sirens and muffled voices, lights flickering like fireflies in the dark. You leaned against the balcony railing, your black suit trousers sharp against the pale moonlight, the curve of your black bra just visible beneath the soft leather of Vito’s jacket draped over your shoulders. You smelled like him—rich leather, faint smoke, a hint of cologne—and it made your chest tighten in a way only he could.
Vito stood close behind you, lighting a cigarette between you both. You tilted your chin slightly, letting him spark it to life, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features. The smoke curled between you, a haze that felt safer than the streets, safer than the life you both inhabited.
You didn’t speak at first. Silence didn’t feel empty; it felt necessary. The city, the world, the mafia—it all faded to the edges of your vision. Just the two of you, the smoke, the night.
Finally, you exhaled slowly, letting the cigarette hover between your fingers. “Vittorio…” Your voice was soft, almost fragile, and the sound of his full name seemed to make the air vibrate. Nobody called him that anymore. Nobody dared. “Do you ever… think about leaving it all behind?”
Vito’s hand hesitated at your shoulder, the flame of his own cigarette lighting his eyes. “Leaving?” he asked, cautious.
“Yeah.” You turned slightly to face him, green eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Just… running away. Getting married somewhere nobody knows us. Anywhere we can have a normal life. Free from this… inevitability.”
Vito inhaled sharply, and you could see the conflict written in the tight line of his jaw. “You know that’s not simple.”
You laughed softly, almost bitter. “Nothing about us is simple, Vito. Nothing about this life is simple. Death… it’s always there, waiting for us. Some days I think about how fast it could come—drugs, alcohol, smoking… or just letting it happen. But some nights…” Your fingers brushed against his leather, almost unconsciously. “…I daydream. About us. About a life where we’re alive and… happy. Even if I’m not meant for it.”
He finally stepped closer, hands brushing yours, warm against your cold fingers. “You don’t have to be ‘meant for it.’ We can make our own rules.”
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to… love. The only person I want to die with… if it comes to that. And if the world allows it, to maybe have a happy ending. Just once.”
The silence returned, heavier this time, filled with longing and unspoken promises. You rested your head briefly against his chest, inhaling the scent of his jacket, feeling the faint tremor in his arms as he held you closer.
“Vittorio,” you whispered again, as though saying his full name made this more real. “I’m not asking for forever. I just… I want a chance. With you.”
He didn’t answer right away. He only pressed a kiss to your temple, letting the smoke curl between you like a fragile shield. And for a moment, just that moment, the world outside didn’t exist.
The city could wait. The mafia could wait. Death could wait. For tonight, you had each other.
The cigarette between your fingers had burned nearly to the filter, but you didn’t notice until the ash fell onto the balcony floor. Vito plucked it gently from your hand, his touch deliberate, as if every small movement carried weight. He dropped it into the ashtray, his own cigarette following.
“You know what you’re asking me?” His voice was low, almost strained. “You’re asking me to walk away from everything. Everything I’ve bled for.”
You lifted your chin, eyes sharp but soft at the edges. “No, Vittorio. I’m asking you to walk toward something. Toward me. Toward us.”
The way you said his full name again. It broke something in him. No one else could. No one else dared.
His hands cupped your face, rough thumbs brushing against your jaw. The moonlight turned your eyes to glass, glimmering and fragile, as though they might shatter if he looked too long. “I don’t even know if I’d survive that kind of life. You know me. I’m built for this world. For fighting, for doing what needs to be done. I don’t know if I can just… stop.”
Your lips curved into the faintest smile, tinged with melancholy. “Then don’t stop. Just… change direction. We could disappear, Vito. New names. A small apartment in a city where nobody knows us. You could fix cars, maybe. I could… I don’t know.” You let out a short laugh, smoke still clinging to your voice. “I’d probably drink myself stupid out of boredom. But at least it would be boredom with you.”
He chuckled, quiet but genuine, resting his forehead against yours. “You’d go crazy. You’re not meant to be tamed. You know that as much as I do.”
“I know.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “But some nights, I let myself imagine it anyway. Cooking in some tiny kitchen. Sharing a bed without guns under the pillow. Growing old—even if I don’t believe I’ll ever get that far. It’s foolish, but… you’re the only person I can tell this to. The only person I want to tell this to.”
Your words sank into him like bullets, but instead of bleeding, he felt something dangerous: hope.
His hands slid down your arms, fingers intertwining with yours. “If I said yes… if I said we could really do it—run away, leave this life behind, would you mean it?”
You didn’t hesitate. “I’d mean every word. Vito, if you said ‘let’s go’ tonight, I wouldn’t even pack a bag. I’d walk into the night with you. Just you.”
The city hummed beneath you, a reminder of the empire he was tied to, of the blood that chained you both. But on that balcony, wearing his jacket, with the moon painting you in silver and shadow, he believed you. And, for the first time, he almost believed himself.
He kissed you then. Not like the hungry, desperate kisses of your usual nights, but something slower. A promise pressed into your lips. An oath he wasn’t ready to say aloud.
When you broke apart, your breathing was shallow, but your smile was real. “So… Vittorio Scaletta. Will you run away with me?”
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against yours again, torn between the man he was and the man you wanted him to be.
And though he didn’t answer, the silence between you no longer felt inevitable—it felt like possibility.
Summary: You come back bloodied but alive, refusing to tell Henry the full truth. Fear, anger, and tension simmer as protection and care blur the line between them.
A/N: God he deserves everything and more. His death breaks me like no other.
The first thing Henry noticed when he opened his apartment door was the smell. Metallic, sharp, wrong. He dropped his keys instantly, hand on his pistol, scanning the room.
Then he saw you.
You were on the floor by the table, your back slumped against a chair, shirt soaked through, dark stains spreading across the carpet. Blood. Too much blood.
“Jesus Christ—” Henry was at your side in seconds, gun abandoned, hands reaching for you without knowing where to start. Your pulse, he checked your neck, there, but weak. Too shallow, too fast. He ripped off his jacket, pressing it against the gunshot wounds in your legs, muttering under his breath like if he didn’t stop talking you’d slip away.
“What the fuck happened? [Name]—look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide, sweat dampening your hairline. But instead of fear, instead of panic, there was a wild glint in them. Adrenaline lit you up like a fire you couldn’t put out.
“I got them,” you rasped, voice broken, but laced with something close to triumph. Then, against all sense, you laughed. The sound was rough, unhinged, echoing in the small room. “Tried to come for you. I got them first.”
Henry’s stomach twisted. He tightened the pressure on your leg, his face set like stone. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? You’re half-dead on my floor.”
Still, you laughed again, teeth red at the edges. “Doesn’t matter. They didn’t touch you.”
Henry shut his eyes, jaw locking tight. He wanted to shake you, to scream, but he couldn’t afford to let his hands leave your wounds. He couldn’t afford to let you see how close his voice was to breaking.
“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind,” he muttered instead, steady and low, like he was talking himself down as much as you. “And you’re not dyin’ here. Not like this.”
Your head tilted toward him, vision swimming, but you caught the edge of his expression, the hard focus in his eyes, the restrained panic in the tight line of his mouth. You smiled faintly, blood on your teeth. “I told you. I got them.”
And then your body sagged, laughter fading into shallow breaths.
Henry stayed like that for hours, long after he’d dragged you out of danger, patched what he could, burned his jacket to hide the evidence. He never told you how close you’d been. He didn’t have to. The stain on the carpet would remind him every day.
Two nights later, the stain was still there.
Henry had scrubbed it until his hands were raw, but it wouldn’t come out. Every time he walked past it, he saw you slumped against that chair, half-smiling through blood and adrenaline. And every time, his chest tightened like a vice.
You were alive now, but barely acting like it. Always posted at the window, cigarette in hand, eyes darting at every sound, every shadow. Watching. Not for yourself, but for him.
“You’re doin’ it again,” Henry said finally, voice low, cutting into the silence.
“Doing what?”
“That.” His hand flicked in your direction. “Scannin’ every corner like it’s out to kill us. You won’t even sit down without checkin’ the exits.”
You didn’t turn. “I’m watching for you.”
That answer stopped him cold. He didn’t know whether to curse or drag you away from the glass. You’d already bled for him, nearly died, and now you were burning yourself hollow keeping watch like a soldier waiting for a second ambush.
Henry pushed up from the couch, frustration hardening his voice. “You think this makes me feel safe? You think I don’t notice? You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You won’t even let me outta your sight. And I still don’t know who the hell’s gunnin’ for me, because you won’t tell me a damn thing.”
“I can’t tell you, Henry.” Your voice was steady, but your hands trembled around the cigarette. “Because if you know, you’re marked. They wanted you. I made sure they didn’t get that far. But if you go digging…” Your eyes finally met his, haunted and sharp. “Then it’s over.”
Henry stared, his anger folding into something heavier. He stepped closer, resting his hands on your shoulders. The tension in you buzzed under his touch, a live wire stretched to breaking.
“You think keepin’ me blind makes me safer?” he said softly, almost like a warning. “All it’s doin’ is killin’ you in slow motion.”
Your throat bobbed. “Better me than you.”
That undid him. His hand cupped your jaw, turning your face to his. His eyes were sharp, burning with something you weren’t used to seeing from him.
“Don’t say that,” Henry said, low and fierce. “Don’t ever fuckin’ say that. You think I can watch you bleed out again? You think I can stand there while you laugh your way to the grave just ‘cause you saved my ass?” His voice cracked, a rasp he couldn’t hide. “I can’t, [Name]. I won’t.”
The room went still, your breath shuddering between you. And then, finally, you let yourself fold into him. Henry caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you, holding you so tight it was almost desperate.
For the first time in nights, you let the cigarette burn out on its own. For the first time, your body stopped buzzing like a live wire and simply sagged against him.
Henry pressed his lips to your hairline, murmuring against you. “If they’re comin’, we face it together. No more secrets. No more playin’ martyr. You’re not disposable. Not to me.” His voice softened, heavy with something you almost couldn’t believe. “Never to me.”
And for the first time since the night you painted his carpet red, you let yourself believe him.
I hope it is okay to request elysia x female!Reader dating headcanons??: 3
Take your time on writing this btw,, i hope you are having good day/evening/night 💐💐
—Mitu
Dating Elysia would include...
Contents: Fluff with light angst, Ely being her radiant and dramatic self, clingy affectionate girlfriend behavior, lots of teasing and pet names, soft vulnerability when it’s just the two of you, established relationship, strictly fem!reader
The confession wasn’t really a confession. Elysia never sat you down to declare her feelings. She simply slipped into your life in that effortless way of hers. She started calling you her beloved before you were even sure you were dating, casually linking your hands together like it was the most obvious thing in the world. By the time you realized what was happening, you were already hers.
You never really stood a chance. Elysia is the type of girl who doesn’t ask if she can be yours, she just is, and suddenly the idea of life without her feels impossible.
Elysia is overtly affectionate. She thrives on physical closeness, brushing stray hair behind your ear, leaning on your shoulder mid-conversation, hugging you from behind with a hum in your ear. PDA isn’t just fine with her, she adores it. Loving you openly is, to her, the most romantic thing in the world.
Compliments come as naturally to her as breathing. Sometimes they’re playful like “Darling, you’re making it very hard for me to focus when you look like that~” Sometimes they’re soft like “I could never get tired of looking at you” Either way, she means every single word.
Playful teasing is her love language. She lives for making you blush, whispering flirty things when no one else can hear, poking your cheek when you’re trying to be serious, laughing delightedly when you get flustered. To her, your reactions are the cutest thing in existence.
At her core, Elysia’s love is genuine. Behind all the glitter and teasing, she treasures your happiness above all else. When the world is quiet, she’ll curl up next to you, lace your fingers together, and whisper, “You know, you really are my everything.”
Elysia adores spoiling you. Handmade flower crowns, little trinkets, surprise sweets. She loves the act of giving. But what she loves more is watching your face light up. That joy is her favorite gift in return.
But she secretly wants to be spoiled too. She may act like the perfect giver, but when you brush her hair, kiss her hand, or tell her she’s beautiful, she turns into a giggly, soft mess. “Oh my, I wasn’t expecting that,” she’ll say, while absolutely basking in it.
Matching things are a must. Outfits, accessories, even nail colors. She loves showing the world that you’re hers and she’s yours.
She’s clingy in the sweetest way. If you’re gone too long, she’ll pout dramatically about how lonely she’s been, pressing against you until you promise to make it up to her. Half performance, half genuine, because truthfully, she really does miss you when you’re not around.
Sleeping with her means being trapped in the best way possible. Elysia wraps herself around you, arms and legs, like you’re her personal pillow. Try to escape and she’ll groan and pull you right back.
She shows up randomly just to be with you. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, studying, napping, reading, she’ll appear beside you with a soft smile and say, “Don’t mind me, darling. I just missed my girl too much.”
For all her brightness, Elysia sometimes worries about being forgotten. That one day, you won’t remember her or won’t love her anymore. She’ll hide it most of the time, but on rare quiet nights, she’ll whisper against your shoulder, “Promise me you’ll remember me… even if I’m not here.”
You often have to remind her it’s okay to lean on someone else. She puts so much effort into being radiant that she forgets she doesn’t always need to shine. The first time you told her, “You don’t have to be perfect for me. I just want you,” she broke down in your arms.
When she feels insecure, she masks it with laughter and affection. But if you gently press her, she’ll admit her fear. “Sometimes I wonder if you’d be happier without me. And that terrifies me.”
If you’re upset with her, it wrecks her inside. She’ll smile like everything’s fine, but the moment you’re gone, her heart aches. When you come back, she’ll be the first to apologize softly, “Please don’t be angry, my sweet girl... I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
Lipstick marks everywhere. Cheeks, collarbones, lips. She kisses, pulls back, giggles at the pink stain, and does it again.
She listens intently to everything you say. You could ramble about nothing, and she’ll smile at you like you’re telling her the greatest story in the world. “Mm, keep going, darling. Your voice is the loveliest sound.”
If you ever wear her clothes, it’s game over. She’ll cling to you the whole day, absolutely smitten.
Sometimes she hums or sings softly while you fall asleep, but nine times out of ten, she’s the one who drifts off first, clinging to you until morning.
In short, Elysia loves you with her whole being. It’s playful, dramatic, and affectionate on the surface, but underneath it all her devotion runs deep, full of quiet fears and even quieter tenderness. She wants to make every moment magical, while also needing you to remind her she’s loved simply for being her.
