59: The Effect
See also; "Immortal (and/or his ressurected babe) suffers with the trauma"
FRANCOIS BONNEFOY
CRASH!
You jolt at the sound that booms somewhere outside the cabin, heart pounding against your ribcages like it's dying to get out and escape whatever the fuck that was. Your knuckles turned white as you grip the blanket tight and close to your chest. The fear pulsing through your veins locks your body into the fetal position you had been in as you had been laying in bed next to Francois.
Your (e/c) eyes cast a glance at your lover, heart still hammering as you hoped he might do something about it. The Frenchman, who had been reading a book to you before the sudden commotion outside, was just as tense as you were. His hands keeps the book in a tight hold as he stared off, either waiting for another sound or thinking of something else.
As it clicks in your head that neither are you are going to move any time soon, you open your lips to speak. "Francois?" you call out, voice shaking lightly at the last syllable. "Is there something wrong?"
Francois knocks out of his stupor and looks back at you. "It's fine, cherie," he tells you, though you see the doubt in his eyes. He closes the book and puts it by the nightstand, as he kicks the blanket off of his bottom half.
Your eyebrows furrowed together. If it's nothing then why are you getting out of bed?
Another noise erupts from the outside, sending you rigid once more, before willing you to pull the blankets up and over your head as some makeshift shield. You peak from beyond the blanket and watch as Francois stares out towards the window, all the while eyeing the shotgun on display above the fireplace.
"What is it?" you ask, noting the shift in your fiancé's stance.
Francois had straightened his gait and marched towards the fireplace, grabbing the firearm from its place. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Francois?"
Your lover dismisses your calls. "Go hide in the closet," he commands instead as he readies the gun. The lack of emotion in his voice sends shivers down your spine, rendering you frozen at the bed.
"What?"
Francois gives you a stern look, demanding you to just follow his orders. "Go."
You did as you were told, scrambling towards the walk in closet near the desk and peaking to watch as your fiancé cautiously approach the window. The coats and hangers dig at your back, but you remained at your position, fearing whatever it is that's outside.
For minutes, you watch your fiancé stand ground like a soldier, as if something or someone could jump out of the darkness and attack at any given moment. The silence in the air sent your heart hammering even wilder against your chest in anticipation.
Overwhelmed, you close the closet door to find some semblance of peace, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. "It's nothing," you murmur to yourself, "probably just some animal, right?"
Eventually, you hear the faint closing of shutters, as well as the curtains being drawn for good measure. Nothing happened. The cost must be clear now.
A knock on the wood affirms your assumptions, the door being cracked open by your fiancé. You jump into his arms, and Francois was quick to secure a hold around you. Tears prick your eyes. You could feel your hearts beating against one another, rabidly running at the experience.
You bury your head into his neck as he carries you back towards the bed. Francois sits there with you draped over his lap—the both of you trying to calm yourselves down. "It was nothing," he soon mumbles into your hair, "just a few deers finding the backyard and knocking a few things over..."
A sigh of relief leaves your lips as your chest finally light enough to let you breath decently. Eyes still closed, you move to press a gentle peck on Francois' jaw in thanks before resting your forehead back against his cheek.
In exchange, you feel him pull you closer, almost possessively even. "I won't let anyone near you again," you hear him say, "I'll kill them if I have to."
Instantly, you pull away to look at him, eyes wide. Francois barely looks to be mentally present, and so you cup both his cheeks to pull him back to Earth with you. "No," you softly shake your head, "No more killing."
The Frenchman looks at you, conflicted. Killing was all he knew to protect you—to avenge you. What else is he to do?
"Let's just put it all behind us, Francois," you tell him, "please."
You looked at him closer, feeling his hot breath fanning against your skin. At such a distance, you were able to take notice of the existence of the exhaustion he's tried so hard to not be seen. His eyes were always rimmed with his dark eye bags, but they seemed to have taken a darker shade of purplish blue. A perpetual furrow existed between his brows, marred with the doubts and fears that nestled within him in a never-ending abyss.
All these signs point to restlessness, which puzzles you so, since you wake up in his arms every morning and see him sleeping soundly next to you. Had he really not been getting any sleep at all?
His hair was more unkempt than usual, and so you reached a hand forwards to brush them away from his face. At the sight of his eyes closing and his body easing with your touch, you continued with the gentle ministrations, successfully eliciting a soft sigh of bliss from him.
Eventually, your lover nods, as he finally mulls it over. "They all think I'm dead," he gently mumbles, "we can start anew."
A ghost of a smile resurfaces on your face, as you continue running your hands through his hair—your own actions calming you down. "That's good to hear," you hum, as Francois pulls your body close once more while he lets you both fall back on the bed.
With you lying on top of him, the Frenchman stares up at you like you're the stars resurfacing from the cruel hands of light pollution. "Je t'aime," he says, sending the butterflies in your belly in a mad hurry. His words came out soft, barely audible, in the vulnerability of the moment.
A smile tenderly conquers your features, filled with adoration you had for the man who had left behind his terrible past for you. You leaned forwards, encasing his lips with yours in a soft kiss. "Je t'aime aussi," you murmured against his lips when you pulled away. "We'll be okay, I promise."
ALLEN JONES
The rhythm of a filthy pop song echoes throughout the dim boundaries of the small nightclub you currently find yourself in. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as Allen fidgets with the mug of beer in his hand, along with an anxious beat to his steps. His red eyes scrutinizingky look through tinted glasses, tense but ready to fight at any given chance.
When you tilt your head towards him, eyes asking a silent question of concern, the American only smiles—a forced one that ends with a slight grimace and fails with convincing. You offer the immortal a soft one of your own, leaning a little to give him a reassuring peck on the corner of his lips. "You okay, hm?" you muse, all the while handing him your own glass for him to hold.
The hand that had been resting on your waist pulls away to hold your drink. "Yeah," Allen then responds with yet another tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod.
Noticing his discomfort, you decided that the nightout should end as is and spend the rest of the late hours snuggling in bed. "I'll just go to the bathroom real quick then, hm?" you muse as you rub his arm in an effort to ease his tense muscles. "Then, we'll go home."
Allen visibly perks up from your statement, nodding along with much more enthusiasm than the previous ones. "I'll wait here then, doll," he assures you, and so you went along towards the bathroom, mind not leaving the reckless immortal who owns your heart.
Allen's anxieties had been gnawing on him ever since you had returned, and you knew it wasn't right to grow contemptuous of his actions. To you, your death had only been a few painful seconds—a fleeting blow to the heart that took you away to the doors of the Afterlife. To him, it had been a far more scarring feat that sent him spiralling into madness and bloodshed.
You had your share of nightmares, sure, but they were nowhere near as catatonic as his. Allen would wake you at times with unintentional kicks as he squirms around in bed, anguished whimpers crying out your name. You had learned to gently wake him from his terrors, else he would jolt awake and attack you on instinct like he had the first few times.
Your fiancé had apologized numerous times for the things he had done, taking quite the consideration to actually let the both of you go out on a date for the first time in about three weeks. Thus, here you two were, ending you day-long date to the outside world in a club for a few drinks to g—
"I said get the fuck away from the drinks, scumbag!"
Your train of thoughts crashes with reality as the commotion behind you causes you to turn around and look for whatever it is that's going on. At a distance, a crowd gathers around your boyfriend and some stranger who looks like he'd been sent crashing to the ground, judging by the way he held onto his bleeding nose. Allen, in the other hand, looks feral—red eyes and teeth bared with furious danger.
Not even a second later, your fiancé marched toward the man, easily slamming him against a table before the stranger could launch a punch. "What the fuck did you want to do, huh?!" Allen barked, twisting the man's arm. "Huh?! Drug her?!"
The brunet stranger cries out agony as Allen only pushes him further. There was blood all over his face, making your skin crawl and your heart beat fast. You have to do something.
"Al!" you call out, pushing past the crowd. "Stop!"
It's not safe for your lover to start a fight, knowing the hell that would ensue if he did. The brunet in question even seems to be losing consciousness. "Stop it!" you yell again, this time reaching him at a distance enough to gran onto his arm. "You're going t—aH!"
Allen, in his blind rage, shoved your off of him—your scream only serving to anchor him back to reality. "Shit," he curses, eyes bulging wide in shock. "(Y/N), I—"
Your chest heaved from your hard breathing. "Allen, plea—"
Three burly men came—the guards stationed at the club—and pulled the two men away from each other, questioning them on what happened. Even the manager came to interrogate the two. In the end, the three of you were brough to a nearby police station and it took about a three hours for you and Allen to be cleared. The man, on the other hand, was caught red-handed with drugs on his person.
"I knew that shithead looked suspicious," Allen said after a good distance away from the station, his voice slightly echoing through the empty parking lot as the two of you made your way to his motorcycle.
A sigh leaves your lips as you further wrap your fiancé's leather jacket around you when the cold set in. "That doesn't mean you could go ham on the bastard," you grumbled, kicking at pebbles with your boot.
The American looked at you, appalled to hear such words leave your lips. "He tried to drug you, (Y/N)," he said, matter-of-factly, "who knows what else he could've done!"
You matched your fiancé's glare with your own. "I know he's a piece of shit!" you then exclaim, pressured to keep up with the volume of his voice. "A good punch or two would've been enough, but no, you almost killed the damn guy!"
The two of you reach the motorcycle, with Allen harshly grabbing your (f/c) helmet and handing it to you. "Sorry for not wanting to lose you," Allen sneered, as you took the object.
Though struggling to put the helmet on with your rage, you still continue to rant at your fiancé. "You could've been charged with murder, Al. They could've put you in prison, and they could've found out that you're not human. You could've gotten in much deeper shit," you reasoned, a shaky outbreath leaving your lips as your eyes sting at the thoughts you've spilled. "Then, I'd lose you."
Allen had been left with no words. "Fuck," he curses after a minute of silence, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for not thinking it through like that. I..." he says, "I just wanted to keep you safe. And when he tried to..."
Allen couldn't finish his thoughts, his emotions once again whipping up a storm. Gently, you cup his face in your hands, lifting your lips to meet with his in order to distract him from his pain. As expected, the American's rigid stance eases as he gingerly begins to wrap his arms around you, pulling you close and just as passionately returning the kiss. Your helmets clashing togther didn't stop you both.
Eventually, you pulled away, chests heaving, eyes fluttered close. "Let's both agree to keep one another safe, but in humane ways, hm?" you proposed, "No more trouble."
You feel Al nod with promise. "Not too much trouble," he instead says, eliciting a giggle from your lips.
You then smack him on the head, making him yelp. "I'm serious, Al," you tell him.
The American pouts at you, as he finally climbs onto the motorcycle. "So am I!" He retorts, "trouble's in my blood, doll. Y'know I can't help it!"
You follow suit, arms wrapping a secure hold around his waist. "Let's just go home, you big doof," you playfully jab, poking his sides.
You were only given a mock salute. "Aye, aye, ma'am!"
[I love writing, Allen 😭👌💕 I can swear as much as I want 😈]
MATTHIEU WILLIAMS
It had taken you quite a while to adjust to your second chance at life. You spent days wondering with Matt if this were real, if this were to even last long. You dreaded waking up one day in that empty apartment of yours back in the Afterlife with Matt and Kuma nowhere to be found.
After cocooning yourself in your shared bedroom for quite some time, you've managed to convince yourself to venture into the outside world for a good ol' grocery shopping. You prep yourself—thick coat, scarf, winter boots and all.
"(Y/N)?"
You froze as Matt emerged from the kitchen after he caught you passing by. Your fiancé eyes you in confusion, raising an eyebrow as he waits expectantly for an answer. "Oh, uhm," you stammered, "I was just thinking to go get some groceries. We're a bit low on that, right?"
Something immediately clicks in Matt's head, an emotion flashing before his eyes but it was too quick to register in your head. He instantly walks past you, grabbing his coat. "I'm coming with, hm?" he tells you, already grabbing a scarf and letting the red fabric wrap loose around his neck.
A blush flutters across your cheeks, as an urge to reject his offer bubbles within you. However, you gave him a soft smile. "Okay," you say, understanding where his concern comes from. Besides, you had a feeling that your lover will not be really leaving any room for argument, even if he did say it politely.
For the first time in three weeks, the cold wind of the outside world greets your skin, leaving goosebumps at their wake. An outbreath leaves your lips as your first steps come to a pause, the sensation of being out giving you a little spark of pride for yourself. You watch as the cold turns your breath visible in a white puff of smoke, a ghost of a triumphant smile lingering at your lips.
Your fiancé, however, soon comes up from behind you. "Are you cold?" he asks the question that was honestly starting to irk you with the number of times you've heard it throughout the weeks. Matt follows suit as you begun walking once more.
Adjusting the (f/c) knitted scarf Matt had gotten you two years ago, you simply shrug. "No," you shake your head, giving a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."
The Canadian eyebrows refuse to give up their furrowing. "Are you sure?" he proceeds to pry.
You sigh, shooting your fiancé a stern look. "Matthieu," you say, "I'm alright."
Matt turns a bit red, looking down at his feet in embarrassment. He knows he's getting on your nerves by now, but he couldn't resist. "Well, it doesn't hurt to be sure, eh?" he chuckles nervously as he tries to convince you. "Here have my scarf it'll keep you wa—"
"AH!"
Your heart drops as the mass of red fabric obstructs your view and your body launches backwards from something slipping you beneath your feet. The events of that day flashes before your eyes—the shot that takes down Kuma, the force that sends you over, the fall into cold water that traps you beneath the ice.
As your mind instantly comes to expect the plunge to freezing waters, you were shocked to find arms wrapping around you in a tight hold, Matt catching you just in time before you hit the ground. This harshly pulls you to reality, but you were grateful to see you had only been imagining things. Still, even as you were brought back to your senses, your heart picked up the pace.
Matt hovers above you, as you remained in a dip position. Both of your eyes were blown wide, staring into one another. "Fuck!" he soon curses, standing you both back properly. "I'm so sorry, (Y/N). I didn't mean t—"
Though your chest constricts and you find it hard to breath, you attempt to wave it off. "It's fine," you insist, even as your knees buckle. "It's fine. It's fine."
The Canadian manages to get a grip on your arms as your stagger forth, knees failing you. He watched as your hands clung onto his arms in turn, knuckles turning white. "Are you sure?" Matt says, "We could go back ho—"
"No," you say, just a wee bit too snappily. Taking a deep breath, you leaned into your fiancé, letting yourself calm down for a moment. Your heart refuses to cooperate at first, still shaken by the simulation of falling.
See, while Matt was desperate to coddle you in every single blanket imaginable in the very name of keeping you warm, what your very being truly fears was the very moment that had sent you freezing in the first place. You dread falling helplessly, being trapped again by a rushing current beneath the ice unable to bre—
You shake your head, wanting to get rid of the wretched memory. It takes you a couple more moments before you try and stand yourself up once more. Though you were still weak at the knees, you manage to do well on your own, handing Matt back his scarf. "Let's just avoid falling into the river, hm?" you try to joke, seeing the familiar bridge up ahead.
"(Y/N)..."
"I'm fine, Matt," you says, even as your voice still shakes. Another deep breath after and you give him the best smile you could muster. "I'll be fine." you nod, "I'm going to be fine."
The persistent smile on your face tells Matt of your drive to be okay again in a world that had tried to bring you down. Matt's purple eyes watch as you march the path leading towards the wooden bridge. He follows close behind you, ready to catch you in any case you slip again.
Reaching the bridge, however, he watches as you came to staggering halt, knees shaking as your feet hesitantly lifted to move from the ground and onto the wood. The sight is a stab to his heart. Matt doesn't allow you to wallow in your demons any further.
The Canadian takes you by surprise as he knelt to the ground beside you. Matt gestures to his back. "Hop on," he says, reaching a hand to pat himself, "I'll carry you across, hm?"
You look back at the bridge, only to have memories of that day flash across your mind. A shaky outbreath leaves your lips, forming yet another puff of smoke from the cold air. You decidedly admit to yourself then and there that you weren't ready to cross this just yet.
With a grateful smile, you adjust yourself over your fiancé's back, wrapping your arms over his shoulders. Matt then secures a grip on your legs, before standing up, a light grunt leaving his lips in the process. Your lips let out a little squeak as he bounces you both a little, both to test if you were doing alright with the piggyback and to distract you from any thoughts on the bridge.
Satisfied to hear a giggle, Matt craned his head towards you a little. "You doing alright, maple?" he softly asks.
You nod with a soft smile bearing your face, nuzzling onto him—a blissful warmth resonating from within you at his presence. "I'm doing just fine," you tell him, sneaking a little peck on his jaw.
The immortal smiles at the sensation, before nodding himself. He treads on, his boots making contact with the bridge one step at a time.
OLIVER KIRKLAND
The Monday morn filters through the window as you stood in the small kitchen, fixing you and your beloved Englishman some breakfast. You flipped the eggs on the frying pan, a ghost of a smile lingers on your face while you, yourself, swayed to the slow, steady beat you played from your phone. It feels nice to wake up early for once, a giddy sensation settling in your belly as you thought of doing something sweet for Oliver. The poor man's been fretting over your wellbeing for the past week or so. It'd be nice to give him a pleasant surprise.
It was then, however, faint footsteps reached your ears. You stop for a moment, turning towards the entryway in anticipation. "(Y/N), love?" a certain Brit's voice echoes from the hall, laced heavily with tiredness and a hint of panic. Your fiancé eventually does appear by the entrance, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Where are y—Oh! There you are, dear! I was wondering where you w... ent..."
You give him a soft smile, waving even with a spatula at hand. "Good morning, Ollie!" you greet him, before turning to move the eggs onto a plate. "I wanted to give you breakfast in bed," you tell him, all the while grabbing another egg to crack onto the pan. "But now that you're here we can just cook together, hm?"
Just as you were about to crack the said egg, you were shocked to see Oliver jolt towards the stove, instantly turning it off as he did. "I-I'm not quite sure you should be doing this, poppet," he stammers, moving the pan away from you.
You put a hand onto his shoulder, stopping him. "Why not?" you question, a frown on your face. "I was just making us breakfast."
Oliver only flashes you an apologetic grimace, eyes darting towards the stove. "You could hurt yourself, hm?" he tries to coax you into giving in before moving once more.
Still, you reached forth to stop your fiancé from his unreasonable deeds, trying to take the frying pan back from him. "Don't be silly, Ol—AH!"
You recoil from him, clutching the hand that had made contact with the still hot frying pan your fiancé had tried to keep you from. The flesh of your palm begins to redden, as the burning sensation persists and only worsens. You rush to the nearby sink and turn the faucet on, the water instantly soothing the area and making you sigh in relief.
"Oh, dear..." you hear Oliver behind you set the pan aside, his voice fraught with dread at the realization of what had just occurred. "(Y/N), I-I'm so sorry!" he cries out, stepping forth but unsure if it'd be safe of him to approach you.
You cast a glance over your shoulder, mustering an assuring smile. "It's fine, Ollie," you insist, turning back to your hand and flexing it to make sure it really is fine. The stinging is still there, but it's now faint, thanks to the water.
Behind you, the Englishman's hands grip at his strawberry blond locks as his very being trembles. "It's my fault," he whispers to himself, knees buckling as his thoughts dawned on him. "All my fault. Everything is all my fault. I'm so sorry, (Y/N). I'm so sorry."
It takes you aback to see your fiancé on the kitchen floor behind you. Oliver's shoulders shake as he curls, clutching his head. Your heart shatters as you have a feeling that this isn't just about the accidental burn at all.
Instantly, you turn the tap off and kneel beside him. "Ollie..." you gently coo, trying to meet eyes with him, but all he does is turn away in shame. You resort to straddling him, with your hands both cupping his cheeks to make sure he could focus on you and you alone. You wipe at the tears that ran down his plush, freckled cheeks. "I'm fine now, see?" you softly smile at him, pressing a small kiss on his nose to let him know you were real. "You didn't mean for it to happen. It's not your fault, hm? Just like that night wasn't your—"
"Yes, it is!" Ollie exclaims, hands coming over yours to tear them from his wretched face. Blue eyes slowly turn pink as the hatred in him burns through—hatred for himself. "You and I both know it is!"
The fire, your death, wouldn't have happened if it weren't for him—if it weren't for his damned self letting his demons take over and kill that boy, that poor, unsuspecting lowlife. But he deserved it, didn't he? That scum, he deserved to d i e.
Still, the consequences hurt (Y/N)! She died because of me. ME!
Just leave her, you damn bastard. She doesn't need you in her li—
"Oliver Kirkland."
You soft voice lulls the Englishman away from his train of thought, his eyes taking in the way your hands decided to hold onto his instead when his grip wouldn't let you close to his face. Your eyebrows were drawn together, framing (e/c) eyes that were swimming with utter concern. "Breathe with me, babe," you gently urge him, "In and out, hm? Breathe."
Oliver follows your breathing motions, his own breaths slowly but surely easing the weight on his chest. Still, the conflict within him remains. He finds himself falling forth into your arms, his hands coming to grip your shirt. "I'm ruined, love," he sobs into your neck, his hold tightening in spite of his words. "I'll take you down with me if you stay. Leave me, poppet. Please."
You pull him closer to you. "I'm not leaving," you persist, pressing a kiss against his head. Your hands draw circles onto his back in comfort. "It's over, Ollie," you gently tell him, "all over. Forgive yourself."
All words escape from your fiancé's lips, rendering him only sobbing further into you. It'll take more convincing for this man—you know that very well, but in your years of loving him, you've grown patient. And so, you remained there with him for what felt like forever, lightly swaying him to the music that had been playing all along in the background of your mishaps.
"I love you, Ollie," you tell him, "Never forget that, hm?"
Oliver's arms fully wrapped around you in return, a squeeze fraught with emotion in silent response—as if to say, I love you so much. Thank you for loving me back.
LUCIANO VARGAS
New beginnings meant a new chance of happiness, right?
Right?
You look around you, listening in for any sight of your fiancé as you tip-toed around the house you've recently moved into with Luciano. As to why you're sneaking around your own house, it's a simple reason of hunger. With the kitchen being the one of the rooms that had the boxes settled in earlier this morning, you took it upon yourself to do some cooking without a certain Italian nagging at you to stay put.
Luciano, since your miraculous return, has reverted to his days of not letting you lift a finger at any moment of any day, and it was driving you insane. Though you understand the fear that pulses through your fiancé's veins, you hated every minute of it. This was the Elena incident all over again.
Your eyes scanned around the pantry that had been lightly filled with the groceries that Flavio had brought in earlier, catching sight of familiar brand of canned goods on one of the upper shelves. A few seconds and a little stool later, you were able to get the can of (f/canned goods), a craving suddenly igniting within you. [lmao, is that a thing? A favorite canned good? Ahdsdsjdfj if not, just say Spam or something and go—]
Feet padding across the tiled floors, you walk towards the boxes set on one of the counters, searching for the things you'll need. Setting up the frying pan on the stove, you then look for a can opener. Your journey ends up to be a fruitless pursuit, the utensil nowhere in sight. Did it drop from the box or something?
Your stomach grumbles, a protest from your body as you were about to give up on the idea of cooking. A sigh leaves your lips and looked around again for something else to open the can. You froze as the box you opened contained the kitchen knives, along with other utensils of course. Your mother had taught you just how to use it as a makeshift can opener, but memories flashed before your eyes—a similar blade running down your skin, igniting pain along its path.
It hurts. It hurts. It hur—
"What are you doing?" you jump at the sudden voice behind you, almost causing you to lose your grip on the damn knife. Your turn to see your fiancé, loose buttoned shirt, black slacks, and all. He had just left his study, it seems, probably coming in here to get some water or something. "Are you cooking right now?" Luciano's tired eyes turned into a sharp glare as his mind processes the scene before him.
You straightened your back, head held up as you defiantly looked at the Italian. "Yes," you spat, "yes, I am. What about it?"
Luciano runs a hand through his hair, as a sigh escaped his lips. "(Y/N)..." he began, walking towards you as he attempts to stop your actions.
You defensively step away. "I can do this!" you say, blocking him from the stove. "Just let me do it, Luciano! I'm fine!"
Magenta eyes looked over you, your fiancé soon crossing his arms. "Why are you shaking then, hm?" he raised a brow as he casted a questioning glance at your shaking hands.
Your look at the knife you held so feebly in your hand, heart picking up a pace the longer you stared. "I..." you try and reason, but your words fail to escape. Okay so the knife is a bitch, but you can do shit, God damn it!
"I just want to do something," you managed to murmur, but Luciano hears it well enough, reaching behind you to turn the stove off with a sigh. He seems like a disappointed mother scolding a child.
"Then go ups—"
"No!" you were quick to interject, another fire lighting up the thoughts you've been spending pent up for the past couple of weeks. Slamming the knife down, you point a finger at the Italian before you. "Luciano, you being this suffocating is makes me very upset, and you know that."
A hind of hurt flashes before Luciano's eyes as he hears your words, but his skull remains thick and stubborn. "You could get yourself hurt, (Y/N)," he persists, stepping close once more and rendering the distance between the both of you to mere inches. "Why can't you jus—"
You shake with rage, eyes blurring with frustrated tears. "I am not going to break over mundane things," you gritted through your teeth, seething, "I want to do things, to decide on what to do or where to go. I want to be treated normally again."
Luciano grabbed ahold of both your wrists, trying to calm you down. "(Y/N)—"
You squirm from his hold, but he persists. "Tomorrow is never promised in the first place!" you defiantly protest, and you didn't miss the way he flinched at your words. You stop moving then, staring up instead to make firm eye contact and show him that you weren't leaving any room for argument. "I want to spend my time with you all, as best and as happily as I could. I know you want that, too," you say with a softer approach, "being like this isn't exactly doing any of that, and I don't ever want to be angry with you in the end, Luciano. Please."
There was silence in the air, one that sent your heart buckling under the weight of anxiety. After a while, Luciano lets out a sigh, letting your hands go and turning around. Your heart hammers as you think he'd leave, but instead, the Italian grabbed some ramen packets from the pantry, opening them and setting them down on the counter with other things. He then grabs the knife you slammed down earlier and easily opened the can before you. "Let me at least do the cutting, then," he says, "You're shaking too much. You might cut yourself."
Your gaze softens, as you watch him move around the kitchen. "But..."
The Italian nods towards the stove. "Go and boil the ramen noodles," Luciano says as he starts to ready a whole ass meal. "We can try a new recipe if you want..."
You don't move from your spot then, lookin at the way a blush forms on his guilt-ridden face. Luciano couldn't meet with your eyes then, but he turns to you, scratching his hair in embarrassment as he waits for your response.
Deciding then to embrace him, you earn yourself a small 'oof' as you take your fiancé by surprise. Nonetheless, arms wound themselves around your figure, squeezing you back with just as much passion. "I'm sorry, amore mio," Luciano murmurs into your hair, before pressing a gentle kiss there. "I went too far again. I'm sorry."
Giving him another squeeze, you pull away and press a reassuring kiss. "Let's cook, hm?" you say instead of prolonging the topic any longer. "I'm hungry."
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A Note
I wasn't planning on writing this but I felt compelled to write a scenario with the effects of trauma y'know? N e weys hope you enjoyed! 🥺💕
—Milady Mira