#vongola primo x reader

[heirloomgem]

KHR/Katekyo Hitman Reborn

First Vongola Family

Giotto Vongola

G

Asari Ugetsu

Alaudi

10th Vongola Family

Tsunayoshi Sawada

Hayato Gokudera

Yamamoto Takeshi

Hibari Kyoya

Arcobaleno

Reborn

Fon

Colonnello

Varia

Xanxus

Squalo

Others

Cavallone Dino

Byakuran 

Kozato Enma

Kozato Simon

Status: The request box is open only for the monthly one-shot voting if the characters are chosen.

[rearview-quandry]

It's been such a long time since I've read khr fanfic. God damn I missed it

𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕥: dedicating a body of work to someone 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 1,432 > 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: college au again bc i’m a sucker for it

Had you known Giotto would attend the student gallery opening, you would not have even considered using him as the subject of your painting final. 

When you’d brought it up, casually, saying that he might make an appearance in your final, he’d merely smiled and wished you luck. Despite only becoming friends with him in the most recent semester, you remember clearly the first time you’d seen him: late fall, on the precipice of winter as he waits for the light to change. 

You’d been going back to your apartment after an early morning class, half asleep and shivering in your boots despite the lack of snow. The sun had hit his hair a certain way, created a glow around his head that made you forget there were other people around him, too busy staring. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have taken a picture, but you’d just been so entranced by the light surrounding him, how—when you zoomed in on the picture to better see the shapes and shadows of his outfit—there was a hint of deep golden eyes peeking from underneath equally golden hair. 

Even after the two of you had become friends a semester later, you could never quite get that photo out of your head. He looked ethereal there, and it’s as if the crowd had consciously chosen to form around him, leaving him to stand front and center. 

Maybe that’s the reason you didn’t fully consider the consequences of turning him into your muse. 

Keep reading

[what-the-fic-khr]

THIS IS WHY I SWND MESSAGES ON MY COMPUTER NOT MY PHONE OMG. ‎(ﾉಥ益ಥ）ﾉ ┻━┻ *ahem* Giotto + hands🥺🥺

YOU LET ME HAVE FREE REIGN ON ANGST so welcome thank you for the request!! I hope you like being sad! also Giotto… I love him very much but also bc of the time era he’s from idk how to write anything accurately but I love him. also here’s assuming he’s not in HDWM like 24/7 and thus I think the cape is apart of that like Tsuna’s is. so he’s just in. y’know. nice shirt. striped vest. looks very handsome. no gloves lol this is long sorry BUT YEAH

character/s: giotto, reader-insert (gender-neutral)

word count: 444

warnings: alright angst, mentions of blood and other things, talks about reader killing their first person and whatnot

prompt: giotto + hands (body bonanza)

“Love.”

You looked so awfully tired, so small and vulnerable, curled up on the floor and leaning up against his desk.

Giotto knew, to begin with, you’d never particularly been a fighter. You did what you did, everything you did, for him. But you never really got in the line of fire, and he never forced you.

So, you’d seen plenty of blood before. All the dirt and grime that came with the job; you’d seen a lot. But you’d never been apart of it, a reason for it. Not like he was.

So, your shaky, bloodied hands set something off in him.

Seeing someone die was so severely different to killing someone, he knew that.

“Love.”

Giotto got to his knees, careful to not touch you, to not startle you. He finally got to see your face, and it only made the feeling in his chest tighter.

You looked so, so tired.

He held a hand out to you, and waited until you eventually dropped one of yours into his. The blood on your skin was dry. He had half the mind to wonder how long you’d been in here for, waiting for him.

With a deep breath, he tried to figure out just what to say. Asking you about it would only upset you further, he could tell. Even though he didn’t, you seemed to have the urge to tell him anyway. For his sake.

“While you were gone, someone was… I was on my own, so I…” You’d pursed your lips for a moment, thinking back on it. On how to explain it. “He’d said your name, and I thought… if I didn’t do my job, maybe you’d get hurt.”

You knew he likely wouldn’t, but you’d done it anyways, more for his safety than your own. Like usual. Because everything you did was for him.

“I’m sorry I was not around.”

Giotto could see tears welling up, so he averted his gaze, rubbing his thumb gently across your stained hands.

Saying it would only make this burden heavier on you, but he couldn’t help but think, with your small hand in his…

‘I’m sorry I made you a murderer like me’.

That wouldn’t work.

With a deep breath, he slowly pulled you up to your knees, and to his chest. He wrapped one arm around you securely, the other still holding your hand, between your chest and his.

“I’m glad you’re okay, my love. Thank you for working so hard. I love you no less than I did before this.”

He’d love you, no matter how many you ended up killing. After all, it’d never be the amount he had.

[therainroguefanfiction]

☁ Drifting Away (Giotto) #09

📑 Table of Contents | ◂ Previous

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☁ Plan ✖ Books ✖ Loyalty ☁

G was waiting by the gate, his arms crossed as he paced back and forth, his finger tapping against his arm impatiently. He was growing more and more impatient with each passing minute, being stuck at the manor while you were out there, completely unchecked. He was just waiting for you to return with the intent to harm his boss and he would be ready when you did. He was furious. Giotto had accepted you, trusted you even when he had advised against it and you had the nerve to steal from his boss? He wanted you punished and he wanted to be the one to do it, but Giotto didn't want you harmed, a decision G just couldn't wrap his head around.

Giotto stood at the window of his office, the breeze ruffling his hair and caressing his cheeks. He watched G as he paced, muttering under his breath. He knew how upset and confused his guardian was and, honestly, he felt the same way. Knowing that you're part of the Vongola made him feel protective of you, especially so since you're not from this era. So then, why did you steal from him? He turned from the window, settling down in his leather chair as his eyes fell on the open drawer where the fire ring once sat.

Given your own status as a bearer of the fire ring, he assumed that you were attempting to find the owner of the first-generation ring, but why would you do that? Did it have anything to do with you returning to your own time? He highly doubted that. Wouldn't you tell him if that were the case? His eyes narrowed as an uneasy feeling settled in his gut.

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"Do you remember the plan, Y/N?" came Zakun's monotone voice over the earpiece you wore.

You turned your head toward the cafe's window, bringing your hand to your mouth and speaking low. "You literally just explained it less than ten minutes ago. Is your faith in me that low?"

"Yes," Rorian replied before you even finished your sentence.

"Rude ass," you muttered under your breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you replied innocently, turning your gaze to the hustle and bustle around you. For a weekday afternoon, it was surprisingly busy and people were constantly coming and going. There was no sign of Holland, though, or the gossipy barista. Must be her day off.

"I'm going to explain the plan one more time, so listen up," Rorian stated.

You held back a groan, resisting the urge to call him a stick in the mud. It may be true, but you doubted that he would just ignore the comment and you didn't feel like listening to him bitch and moan. You needed to keep a cool head and if he started in on you, you'd definitely bite back.

"When the fire bearer shows up, Y/N will attempt to get him to return to the base so we can talk to him. While they are talking, Sylvian will slip by and attach a tracker to him. I doubt he will come willingly so when he leaves, Zakun will follow him from a distance until they reach a secluded area, at which people Y/N and Sylvian will move in to assist Zakun in capturing the target. We have to secure this man at any cost."

You hummed, leaning back in the chair. "Why not just offer him money? People'll do anything if you hit the right price."

"I don't want to hear any ideas from the likes of you," Rorian huffed. You could hear the scowl on his face. "You're the reason we have to resort to tailing him because you lost the address of his bookstore. Or have you forgotten?"

You sat up straight as your shoulders tensed, eye twitching in annoyance. "Actually, yes, I had forgotten about it until you brought it up, Mr. Buzzkill."

"Now, listen here, you -"

"Now, now," Sylvian interrupted, his tone soothing as if he were trying to placate a couple of upset children. "People make mistakes, Rory, and Y/N has already apologized."

"This one seems to make a lot of them," he muttered in reply, making you scowl.

"In my defense, it was really feckin' windy."

"Sure it was."

Before you could reply, Zakun cut in.

"Heads up. A guy matching the description you gave is entering the building."

Your head perked up, eyes set on the glass doors as they swung open, bringing with it a chilly, autumn breeze. Sure enough, there was Holland. He honestly looked exhausted, dark bags beneath his eyes and shoulders slightly slumped as he headed toward the cafe. His silver eyes scanned the area, looking for an empty table where he could sit, but the cafe was full and there wasn't a single empty table.

"Y/N, target confirmation."

You chose not to reply as your eyes met Holland's, giving him a smile and waving him over. He did not look pleased and quickly tore his gaze away, looking across the cafe a few more times, hoping that someone would get up and leave, but he had no such luck. Holding back a sigh, he slowly approached your table, settling down across from you, the newspaper resting on the table and his briefcase by his feet. Your lips parted to greet him but he cut you off with a sharp look.

"I am in no mood for your childish antics," he told you with a stern voice.

"Right." You forced a smile. "I was hoping to see you again, actually. I wanted to apologize for the other day."

He looked surprised for a moment but it quickly morphed back to annoyance as he watched you wearily. "Good. A child shouldn't be talking about the mafia, it's dangerous."

"I'm not a child," you scowled. "I'm eighteen."

"As I said, a child."

"Whatever. What's wrong with you?"

"What?"

"You look like you have one foot in the grave," you pointed out before sipping your hot chocolate.

His eyes hardened. "That's none of your concern." And then he huffed, folding his leg over the other and opening the newspaper, holding it up so he could no longer see you.

The doors opened again and you met Sylvian's eyes. He gave you a reassuring smile before heading in your direction. You weren't sure what he was planning. The briefcase was in perfect view, but he's so tall that he'd have to kneel down to plant it and that would definitely gather some attention. Your curiosity was soon sated as he approached, suddenly throwing himself to the ground beside the table. You saw his chin hit the ground and you winced.

This got the attention of Holland, who looked down at him with a mixture of confusion, worry, and annoyance.

"O-Oi, you good?" You questioned, frowning at him.

Sylvian smiled cheerfully as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "I apologize for disturbing you, I'm so clumsy." He rested his hand on the floor by the briefcase to push himself up and you noticed the tiniest flash of metal as he stuck the device to the bag. It was the same shade of black, allowing it to blend in, and it was so tiny that it would be hard to notice unless you were looking for it.

Holland cleared his throat, returning to his paper. "Be more careful not to disturb others."

"Yes, sir. Excuse me." Sylvian winked at you before approaching the counter to order himself a drink so he didn't look suspicious.

"People these days," Holland muttered, trying to focus on the newspaper before rubbing at his eye.

You watched him for a moment, propping your chin into your palm. "Hey, tell me about your bookstore."

His eyes snapped to meet yours, wide with surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Way to sound like a stalker, Y/N," Salmon laughed in your ear.

"Oh, uh..." You rubbed the back of your neck. "Sorry. Last time you were here, one of the baristas approached me after you left. She was quite... happy to talk about you. I think she likes you."

His body relaxed at this, a sigh passing his lips. "I don't know how she knows so much about me. I've barely said five words to her, but she always seems to run into me when I'm out and about. Do you know how many bookstores there are in this part of Italy?"

"Uh... five?"

"Seven. My store is the farthest out of town and it's quite small. What are the chances that she just happened to find mine? Plus, she works at this large store, why would she need to visit another? È abbastanza sospetto."

You tilted your head to the side, trying to figure out what the hell that meant, but Sylvian seemed to read your mind as he pretended to sip his coffee.

"He says it's suspicious, sweetheart."

"Ah," you replied, earning a raised brow from the man across from you. "Yeah, that's totally weird. So, why do you keep coming here, then? Scoping out the competition?"

"Because..." His eyes swept across the rows of books beyond the cafe, his expression softening. "I have fond memories here."

"It's a special place to you, then."

Holland realized he was giving you more information than he intended and his expression hardened again, a soft pink dusting his cheeks. "Not that it's any of your business."

You clicked your tongue, leaning back in your chair. "This man is a tsundere, ain't he?"

Salmon snorted through the earpiece. Rorian sighed, slapping his hand over his face. Holland just looked at you in confusion, not understanding Japanese.

"The truth is, I was really happy when she told me you ran a bookstore. Always been a dream of mine, you know, to run my own store filled with books." You ran your finger under your nose and smiled at the books surrounding the cafe. It wasn't a lie and he could sense that. It was the same way he had talked when he was a young child. "See, I found this place that I think might be a cool location, but I kinda have no sense, ya know? Would be great if I got the opinion of someone in the biz."

He met your eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. All he saw was his own love of books reflected back at him, softening his guarded heart. He busied himself with carefully folding the newspaper as he weighed his options. Holland was not a man that trusted easily, but there was just something about you... he felt connected to you, which kind of weirded him out since he had only met you twice. He wanted to trust you. With a heavy sigh, he stood up and grabbed his briefcase.

"I already regret this."

You grinned, jumping up from your chair. "Let's go~!"

"Hold it," he scowled, grabbing your shoulder when you tried to step past him. You gave him a confused look and he pointed to your empty cup on the table. "Throw away your trash. Were you raised in a barn?"

Rorian snorted this time. "Definitely. Y/N has no manners at all."

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from yelling at him, forcing a smile as you picked up the cup and tossed it into the trash bin sitting just outside the cafe. You then held your arm out toward the door. "After you."

Holland lifted his chin and stepped past you, out into the cold.

"Zakun, keep an eye on them but keep your distance."

"Understood."

"Y/N, don't screw this up."

You clicked your tongue, earning a raised brow from Holland. "It's cold..."

He scanned the clothes you were wearing. "It's autumn. Why did you not dress accordingly?"

"It's been a complicated life, okay."

He hummed but didn't reply as the two of you started down the sidewalk toward the old Gardiano house. You could feel the warmth of your ring beneath the shirt, but you weren't sure if it was because of Holland being beside you or because Zakun was nearby, watching your back. You've met many people throughout your life and you had become a pretty good judge of who was dangerous and who wasn't. There was no doubt in your mind that Holland would put up a fight, but only if he was forced into a corner, like an animal trapped by a predator. In that scenario, the desire to survive may just be enough for him to unlock his abilities as a guardian and it could be bad news for you and the boys.

You glanced at him and frowned. You didn't want to hurt him and, honestly, you weren't too sure you wanted to involve him at all. He was just some average Joe trying to make it through life, but this was bigger than you or him. If he didn't help you, the Vongola would cease to exist. All of your friends, your family, would be gone. They wouldn't even be dead, allowing you to mourn them. They would cease to exist, snuffed out like the flame of a candle. Your hands clenched at the thought.

You weren't going to let that happen, no matter what you had to do. You had been prepared to die, to kill for the Vongola since the day you joined. You knew he never would, but all Tsuna had to do was say the word and you wouldn't hesitate. This was no different. You were going to face whatever Kikyo threw at you and you would defeat him, even if it meant you weren't going to return from this. As long as Tsuna, Giotto, their guardians, and the Gardiano all survived, well... that was enough for you.

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▸Next

@kiralushia​

[selvatic]

Sleep with Me! Warm Pillow Boy [Giotto]

A page turns and her gaze caresses the beloved smile. Gentle eyes, the colour of the setting sun look back at her with adoration. Fingertips brush against the paper and a tear litters her cheek. She brings her hand to her face and stares at her fingers; the same fingers that used to brush through golden locks and trace familiar skin. A single blue petal peeks from behind the photograph. Another page turns. The same flower he had given her so long ago lies dry and lonely before her eyes, reminding her of his gift; true love. She closes the album and lets her sorrow fall in crystal drops on the cover. His smile fades away from her sight, her eyes blinded by tears. Her fingers fist the black material of his mantle, old and worn-out, and she wraps it around her shoulders, seeking solace in the waning smell; his smell. If only I could see you again. If only you could warm my heart with your loving flame. If only you could cradle me to sleep one more time. Her eyes flutter closed; her being, vexed by prolonged yearning, surrenders to exhaustion. I miss you. 

[therainroguefanfiction]

✰ Cute Sweater (Giotto)

Genre: Fluff, Birthday

Word Count: 1,353

Pairing: Reader x Giotto

World: Katekyo Hitman Reborn

Author’s Note: This was written for a friend of mine, @kiralushia​, for her birthday! I really hope you have a wonderful day and I hope you enjoy this fic Happy birthday, dear.

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Tomorrow was your birthday, but it was also Gokudera’s, a fact which you were not very happy about. It made sense, of course, with billions of people populating the earth, there were many who were born on the same day as you, but why did it have yo be someone you knew? Everyone wanted to celebrate the two of you together, as if you were the same person.

You felt bad not liking this, but something about it just didn’t sit right. Of course, you kept these feelings to yourself. Everyone was so excited and they were celebrating out of the kindness of their hearts – they didn’t have to wish you a happy birthday, they didn’t have to arrange a nice dinner at a restaurant, but they did because they love you. And you loved them, as well.

Still, you wished that you didn’t share your birthday with the silver haired male, but that was life and you just had to deal with it.

When the time came to head to the restaurant, you decided that you weren’t in the mood for the family’s antics and loud nature. You just wanted to relax and watch a movie or work on your art. It was your birthday, after all, and you wanted to do what you wanted.

Tsuna’s knuckles rapped on the door to your office, politely waiting for your okay before stepping inside. “Are you ready to go, Y/N?”

You were struck with a dilemma. Should you lie in order to not hurt his feelings, claiming that you feel unwell? Or do you answer him honestly, laying your feelings onto the table? For a moment, you just sat behind your desk, brow furrowed, bottom lip between your teeth.

Tsuna was perceptive, of course, and he could sense your hesitation. With a kind smile, he approached the desk, his warm hand coming to rest upon your shoulder. “What is it? Have you changed your mind?”

As your eyes met his, filled with warmth and kindness, you knew you couldn’t lie to your beloved boss, so you nodded. “I’m sorry, I just really want to go home and draw. I’m not in the mood to sit at a restaurant all night…”

His smile didn’t falter. “That’s alright. Go on home and get some rest, I’ll let the others know. And Y/N?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Happy birthday!”

You smiled. “Thanks, boss.”

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After returning home and changing into more comfortable clothes, you settled down in the living room with your laptop, opening up the art program so you could continue your work on the current project. It was a picture of Giotto, the Vongola primo, who was, in your opinion, the most beautiful man that ever existed. You had always been fascinated by him and the first gen family, but that only grew when the primo himself somehow ended up in your timeline.

No one knew how or why, but you didn’t really care. All that mattered was this beautiful man standing before you, alive and real. You could touch him, smell the orange twinge of his cologne and feel the warmth that his body radiated. He was real and he was here. Now that, you believed, was your true birthday gift, even if it had come a month earlier.

You smiled at the drawing. It was almost complete, just needing to be colored and to add a few touch ups here and there. The image depicted the primo standing upon a hill, his face turned toward you with a gentle smile despite the confusion dancing within those beautiful eyes of his. His body was silhouetted by the setting sun behind him, setting the world alight with hues of burnt orange and crimson red.

A knock on the front door broke you from your thoughts. Who could it be? Everyone should be at the restaurant by now. Had they come to drag you there against your will? You had no doubt that Ryohei would try such a thing. This thought made you hesitate. Perhaps you should just ignore it.

But they knocked again and you realized something. The knocks were soft, polite even. Something so quiet could never be produced by someone whose aesthetic was to be as loud as humanly possible. You set the laptop down onto the coffee table before heading for the door, your fingers curling around the doorknob before pulling it open.

Giotto stood there, in jeans and a grey sweater, smiling warmly as he always did. “You really should ask who is there before opening your door, you know. It’s dangerous not to do so.”

You felt your cheeks heating up a bit and you cleared your throat. “You’re right, my apologies, Primo.”

“I’ve told you it’s okay to call me Giotto,” he chuckled. “May I come in?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, of course.” You stepped back to allow him entrance, closing the door behind him. “Shouldn’t you be with the others at the restaurant?”

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” His lips twitched up, eyes dancing with amusement. “Tsuna said you changed your mind. I wanted to come and check on you.”

“T-That’s really sweet of you,” you smiled shyly, eyes raking his body as he glanced toward the living room. He was such a gorgeous man, especially wearing that tight sweater, clinging to his body before disappearing into his jeans, the black belt keeping them secured in place. Upon looking closer, you noticed a small penguin embroidered onto the left breast of the sweater. “How cute.”

“Hm?” His eyes slid back to you, curiously and you coughed, quickly averting your eyes.

“Your sweater… it’s really cute.”

“Thank you,” he offered you a closed eye smile, his bangs shifting over his eyes from the movement.

When you felt an awkward silence beginning to form over the two of you, you headed for the living room. “Please make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?”

“If you don’t mind, thank you.” He followed you into the living room, settling down onto the couch as you stepped into the kitchen, pouring him a cup of hot tea before returning to the living room. You nearly dropped it when you realized that his attention was on your computer, where the drawing of him sat open for him to see.

You swallowed hard shakily handing him the cup. “I-I can explain -”

“You’re quite talented,” he commented, taking it from your hand. “Thank you for the drink.”

His words sent a wave of pride through you knowing that someone you admired so deeply appreciated the art that you drew. The fact that he didn’t feel weirded out that you were drawing him without permission was also a plus.

“I hope you don’t think I’m intruding,” he commented softly, watching you as you took a seat in the chair. “He said you wanted to be alone, but I wanted to check on you.”

“Ah, you’re not intruding at all!” You smiled. “I really appreciate your concern. I’m happy that you’re here.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow, unable to stop the smile from coming to his lips as he set the drink onto the coffee table. “I’m happy to indulge you, then.” He patted the spot next to him and you headed over, sliding down beside him on the couch, trying to control the warmth in your face, which came increasingly harder when his warm hand came to rest upon your own.

“Primo…” Your eyes shook with love, as clear as day to him.

“Giotto,” he corrected softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your heated cheek. “Happy birthday, amore mio.”

“Thank you… Giotto.” You shifted your hand in his grip so you could lace your fingers with his.

This was the absolute best way you could imagine spending your birthday and you felt so happy and warm with him by your side. It was something you never wanted to end and you would be happy to just be stuck in this moment for eternity, but you weren’t the only one. You had, after all, captured the primo’s heart.

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📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

[therainroguefanfiction]

☁ Drifting Away (Giotto) #01

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Angst, Mystery, Comedy, AU, Fluff, Family

Word Count: 1,385

Pairing: Reader x Giotto/Vongola Primo

World: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Author’s Note: I don’t speak Italian, so I trusted google translate to help me out here. Hopefully it’s not too far off lol This is another series I started a long time ago that I don’t know if I will finish, but here ya go haha

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☁ Abyss ✗ Meeting ✗ Shock ☁

It was dark. Pitch black with no source of light. There was no sound, like the world had been put on mute. A black abyss of the mind and heart. You tried calling out only to find that you had lost your voice. Your eyes refused to adjust to the darkness surrounding you and your body felt as if it were floating inside a black hole. Had your eyes been blindfolded? Your ears plugged?

‘What the hell is happening?’, you wondered.

With a groan, your eyes slowly slid open, moving in and out of focus. The darkness began to fade and sound slowly reached your ears. Sitting up, your eyes blinked rapidly to adjust to the bright sun that was beaming down onto your body. The heat seeped through your hoodie and the scorching pavement your body sat on seeped through your jeans.

After your eyes finally adjusted, you stood up and took in your surroundings.

A cobblestone path was what lay beneath you. The street was alive with the chatter of passersby. You weren’t sure if it was you or just your mind on overdrive but you couldn’t understand a single word that left their mouths. It was a foreign language, one that seemed familiar yet you couldn’t give it a name.

Everything was laid out in a sepia tone, like in those old-timey movies, from the buildings to the sky, the ground and the trees and even the people. This made you blink rapidly and rub your eyes with the palm of your hand. Slowly, the sepia tone began to fade just as the darkness had and the color returned.

This was no Namimori.

Where were you? And more importantly, how the hell’d you get there?

You pulled yourself to your feet, feeling like a ghost. Not a single person looked in your direction. You expected some strange looks at the way you were dressed, so differently from them, but you didn’t even get that – it was like you weren’t even there. Did they ignore you because of the way you were dressed? Or could they really not see you?

Anxiety rushed over you, but you bit it back.

Shaking your head, you took off walking. You had no clue where you were going but anything was better than just standing there like a moron. The headache you had was finally beginning to fade, reduced from a stabbing pain to a lighter, numb pain. You let your feet guide you, pulling you away from the crowded street and into a dark and deserted alleyway.

You needed to gather your thoughts and figure out what was going on and in order to do that, you needed someplace quiet where you could be alone. The alley was the perfect place for that.

You didn’t know how long you had walked for but you were brought roughly from your swirling thoughts by a loud scream aimed toward you. “Hey! Voi!” A black-clad man appeared before you, grabbing tightly onto your arm.

“Dove lo pensate state andando?” Another black clad man appeared behind you, gripping your other arm.

“State venendo con noi.” They chorused.

So much for being alone. What the hell were they saying? You didn’t even know what language it was but it was making your headache worsen. You glared at the two men before reaching your foot up and kicking the first male in the side. He let out a grunt of pain, his hand releasing your arm. You then bent down, slamming your elbow into the second male’s stomach. He also released you and you turned around to run off.

Before you had the chance, the now recovered male number one re-grabbed your arm, twisting it behind your back and holding a gun to the side of your head. The second male grabbed your free arm and did the same as the first before binding your wrists tightly. If it didn’t bruise, you’d be thoroughly surprised. Not that you cared about that at that moment.

Your suspicions of the two men who dragged you roughly through several different alleyways were that they were Mafioso. Either that or they were men in black and thought you were an alien – which honestly wouldn’t surprise you, considering how out of place you felt. The latter seemed a lot less likely, though.

Your suspicions were proven correct when they dragged you into a large mansion-like building, whose halls were filled with black-clad men and women. Option three just made itself known inside your head. Maybe they were part of some cult and used magic to summon you, like England from Hetalia.

The two men roughly dragged you through the winding halls of the three-story home until you reached a set of large oak doors. Man number one knocked, waiting.

“Entra,” came a smooth, male voice.

The men opened the door and dragged you inside.

The man who sat behind the desk looked up as you entered the room, being pushed to stand a foot or so in front of said desk. Man number two didn’t miss the glare you sent him, causing his grip on your arm to tighten to a painful degree. The man behind the desk had golden blonde hair set in a spikey fashion, while his soft orbs were a mix of red and orange. His blonde locks fell into his face, but the strict expression wasn’t blocked by them.

“Boss, we found this suspicious-looking kid snooping around,” Man number one announced, his grip tightening to the same degree as his partner.

‘Asshole,’ you cursed. ‘Wait, these fucks can speak English?!’ “I was not snooping around, you prick!” you growled in response, glaring at the man on your left. “And I ain’t no kid.”

“Quiet,” he hissed, glaring at you through his black sunglasses.

“Che. Don’t tell me what to do, baldy. And who the fuck wears sunglasses indoors? You tryin’ to be cool or somethin’? ‘Cause it ain’t working, let me tell you.”

“Why you – !”

“I see,” the man behind the desk cut the bald man off, his elbows on the desk and his hands folded to cover his mouth. “You can both leave. I’d like to speak to our guest alone.” The blonde’s voice was soft, but the demand was easily detected. His deep voice flowed like honey and the deep accent was clear when he spoke.

‘He looks so familiar, I feel like I should know who this man is. Damn, Reborn was right. I really don’t pay enough attention to things,’ you scowled at the carpet below you. His accent was familiar as well, but you just couldn’t place it.

“But Boss – !” Man number two tried to protest, but quickly shut his mouth when his boss held his hand up, a clear sign that his mind would not change; it was not up for discussion.

With reluctance and a few dirty glares aimed at you, the two untied your wrists and left the office. Before the door closed, you caught the crest on their suit jackets. You hadn’t noticed it before. Your eyes widened in shock.

‘That’s the Vongola crest… They called this man the boss but… he’s not the ninth and he sure as hell ain’t Tsuna,’ your gaze returned to the blonde before you, narrowed in confusion and suspicion.

“My name is Giotto,” he introduced softly, watching your expression change from confusion to disbelief. As soon as you heard his name, an image of said blonde appeared in your mind. Things clicked into place and you finally remembered who he was.

“Giotto… Vongola Primo?!” ‘What in the hell is going on…?’

“You’ve heard of me?” he questioned, his eyes shining with traces of curiosity. He found himself feeling confused. You seemed like a normal young adult, so how did you know about him? Why did you know about the Vongola? Were you an enemy?

“This isn’t happening,” you muttered, backing away slowly. “There’s no fucking way…” you turned quickly, pulling the large doors open and stealthily dodging the guards before jumping out a nearby window. You stumbled slightly when your feet hit the ground from the strong impact, but quickly regained your balance and took off. ‘Who knew all that training with Reborn would help me successfully jump out of a three-story window mostly unscathed?’

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[namodawrites]

pairing: giotto x gn!reader warnings: none genre: fluff wc: 2,098 note: this is the last part!! thank you to everyone who followed this self-indulgent little series of mine :) <33

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5. part 6. part 7. part 8. part 9.

The air in the mansion is different in a way you cannot quite place. It caresses your skin when you wake up, blinking through the sun streaming in beneath the half-closed curtains. 

You eat breakfast half-asleep, not really sure what to make of it. None of the other’s attitudes seem to be much different to warrant concern; Lampo still tries to swipe your buttered toast; Asari still makes you a cup of tea; Knuckle bellows his good morning and says his prayers before eating; Daemon and Alaude glare at each other from opposite sides of the table; G looks about as tired as you feel. 

And Giotto...

There’s something softer about him today. It might be a minor illusion, the way he picks up his cup, almost delicate with his motions, carefully tilting it towards his mouth to take a sip. You think about the other week when he’d brushed your bottom lip with his thumb and look down towards your plate. 

Breakfast with this famiglia has become a new comfort for you. A luxury you’ve grown attached to. When you first started joining them for breakfast, it had felt like a set up; too good to be true. But now, as you sip your drink and feel the sun pass through the windows onto your skin, you think: I would give anything to stay like this.

One by one, the others leave, citing missions, previous commitments. Lampo glances at you, at Giotto, and opens his mouth, but G drags him out of the room by the scruff of his shirt, uncaring of the other’s pitched, echoing protests. 

Alone with Giotto now, it’s impossible to forget that moment in his office, and your cheeks fill with warmth as you hasten to finish breakfast. 

“Any plans for today?” You ask. Giotto blinks, eyes marginally wider for a split second before he smiles, relaxing. 

“Nothing much,” he replies lightly. “Though if the weather stays well that may change.” 

Your head tilts, not bothering to hide your confusion, but you return the smile all the same. “Yes, it would be a shame if it rained tonight. The garden would turn muddy.” Not that you’ve ever hated mud, and the way rain glistens on the flowers would be worth the mess, but walking through the garden without the sensation of squishy earth will always be a comfort. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Giotto says, smile a bit distant, thoughts going beyond your understanding of the gentle expression on his face. 

———

For all the urgency at which the other guardians had left, you see much of them around the house. G seems determined to not let Lampo be in a room alone with you, and the thought gives you pause. Was he perhaps worried about you losing your temper? Or maybe it was something he realized he should have been doing all along—keeping a leash on the Lightning Guardian lest he cause trouble that would give even Asari a headache. 

Whatever the reason, you did not see much of Lampo for much of the day, save for the suspicious flashes of green around the corner when you wandered about the estate. 

G is acting strange, too, though. You think, for a horrible moment, that he smiles at you, but then he blinks and the expression is gone, that usual flat, barely visible scowl comfortably on his face again. 

With the hallways quiet and bare of people, you take to the library. There’s a particular spot you’ve been quick to claim—much like the garden, except this place is for quiet introspection, closed off from the freedom of the wide blue sky despite the grand windows that allow natural light to stream in. 

The cozy nook you’ve come to covet is free—no Daemon or Asari in sight as you sink down onto plush cushions, pulling a book into your lap. 

It’s easy to lose yourself—to dive into a luxury that you’ve only recently become acquainted with at the Vongola’s mansion. To fill your heads with dreams and stories. Occasionally, quiet footsteps pass, but none enters the library, and the sanctuary remains your own. 

Later, after a quiet lunch by yourself, you abandon the library in favor of your own room, moving about the floor and adjusting your routine to accommodate for new furniture placements. You read, doze off, wake up and wander. 

The box of chocolates Giotto had given you sits on your desk, empty but closed. You get a flutter in your stomach when you see it, remembering him, the office, the sweetness of the chocolate.

You push the box into the shadows, face warm. The afternoon bleeds by quickly, though the sun is still in the sky as dinner approaches. It occurs to you that you haven’t heard any shouting; everyone else must still be busy. A strange thought, but not so bothersome. It would have been ridiculous to assume that they could not fend for themselves during the nights that missions ushered them away from the estate. 

Instead of rushing to the dining room for dinner, you take your time in a bath, relishing the curl of steam against your face, the humidity that turns the walls damp with heat and condensation. The water smells of herbs and flowers, sweet and spicy. 

By the time you’re out of the bath and dressed, the sky is telling of the beginnings of a sunset—the sky turning that periwinkle blue that signals the sun’s descent. 

Fresh, rejuvenated, you glide out of the room to find dinner. You expected to at least hear Lampo’s complaining drawls about the food, but the place is almost eerily quiet as you approach the kitchens. 

“Giotto.” You smile, passing through the door and seeing him seated at the little table there. “For a moment I thought everyone had let me have the place to myself.” 

“My apologies,” he says, but smiles with amusement at your joke all the same. 

Dinner is a simple affair—the food that’s been prepared is still hot, and you take what you want and sit adjacent to him, chewing slowly, laughing through conversation and pretending that you don’t wish for him to touch you each time his hands move. His own smiles seem secretive, like a treasure he’s sharing just with you. It is not impossible for the two of you to sit this close, but with G often occupying one of Giotto’s sides and having a group of five other people makes the occasion rare. 

The walls are bathed in orange, almost as violent in color as Giotto’s eyes. It’s all you see as you look around, lounging mere feet from him, sharing a meal with him. 

“Would you care to join me for a walk?” He asks when the two of you have had your fill. “The gardens look particularly lovely at this time.” 

You couldn’t agree more. 

———

He leads you to the back of the gardens—where the orchards begin—which is unusual, you think, because there are less flowers here than trees and miscellaneous shrubs. The trees are flowering pleasantly, though, blossoms bright and white; the branches will be bursting with fruit in some months, and you can’t wait until the air is heavy and sweet with the fragrance of citrus. The two of you take time to admire the sight of them, already thinking of what you’ll do with the bountiful harvest that’s sure to come. 

The mansion casts a large shadow over the orchard, and though Giotto walks easily beside you, there’s a sense of underlying tension you get from him. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he was scared of his own gardens. More than once his knuckles brush your own, and though your instinct is to pull away, you crave the sensation, ticklish as it is. 

“I’m delighted to show you the scenery out front,” Giotto murmurs, expression soft and fond. 

You smile back. “Has Daemon perhaps convinced you to include more poisonous flowers in the gardens?” 

He merely chuckles, guides you there with a hand hovering at your back. 

The sight of the garden forces air from your lungs in one quick rush of breath. 

There’s a path of flowers, petals scattered across the grass, leading in a sweet, curving path all the way to the gazebo, which has been decorated with even more blossoms, full and heavy and soft. The sunset is darkening, but there are strings of lights in the trees, illuminating the leaves and casting light on the rest of the garden. 

“Don’t tell me,” you turn to him, grasping for words. “You... you had this planned?”

The smile on his face is all the answer you need.

“Follow me,” Giotto whispers, and you do, entranced. “I have always enjoyed these gardens, but I have never seen someone fall in love with them as much as you have.” There’s pressure mounting in your throat, but you listen to him, speechless. “Do you remember dancing here? That evening by yourself?”

You do. The same day when Giotto had extended the first of many invitations to a ball—the same day Asari found you practicing dance moves alone. 

“The gardens at Casanova’s estate were never this full,” you say, quiet, contemplative. “They were never as free as the ones here. Nor were they as beautiful.” 

Giotto nods. “I do not believe he was one to appreciate natural beauty.” 

You chuckle. “No, he wasn’t.” 

He extends his hand. You take it, the thrill of his bare skin against yours sending goosebumps up your arm. Giotto leads you down a stone path, the petals fluttering with the movement of his cloak. 

“I have fallen in love with these gardens more since you came to live with us,” he confesses, “but more than that, I fell in love with the way you looked in them.” Your hand might have trembled in his, then, because his thumb slides carefully over your knuckles. “Even when you were sad, you made a beautiful image here.” He leads you up the steps inside the gazebo. 

The scent of flowers is heavy here, potent. You feel lightheaded. 

“It was so long ago, but do you remember the night we sat here together?” He asks. Throat thick with emotion, all you can do is nod. “That night you confessed your fears to me. You said you had something to lose, and that you would protect this famiglia with your life.” 

His thumb is soft as he strokes it beneath your eye, collecting tears. 

“You said that you care for the people here,” he says, “and I’ll never forget the way you looked: your sincerity, your conviction. It enchanted me.” 

Giotto’s smile widens. You raise a hand to cup his hand against your face. 

“I fell in love with you in this very garden,” he says, and you take in a sharp breath of air, unable to look away from his face. “When that thunderstorm came, and you laughed for the first time while drenched in rain.” 

Your chest is light with the memory—you would never forget the freedom that’d lifted your very soul from the depths, had hardly recalled anything but the joy that made you twirl and cry and laugh, laugh for the first time in years. 

“I fell in love with you then, and I haven’t stopped thinking of you since,” Giotto murmurs. “At that moment, I wanted to be the cause of your laughter. And I still do.” 

“Primo—” you gasp, straining up, “Giotto, I—the path I’ve followed has not been kind, nor has it been easy.” And you lift a trembling hand to touch his face, to cup his cheek as he is doing to yours, brushing your thumb over the soft swell of his cheekbone. “It has been difficult, and it has taken me many years to climb out of the desperation I once thought would consume me.” And you smile at him, wide and wet and embarrassed. “But thanks to you I’ve lived. I’ve been living. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you, too.” 

And he smiles, smiles so wide you can feel it even as he leans in to kiss you, to finally, finally hold you against him as you kiss and meet him with equal fervor. 

“I should have known something was happening behind the scenes,” you whisper when the two of you part. “Everyone was so scattered today—both G and Daemon were so kind to me I thought it was an illusion.” 

Giotto laughs, and dips to meet your mouth once more. 

[namodawrites]

pairing: giotto x gn!reader warnings: none genre: fluff wc: 1,183 note: the last installment of giotto/reader’s past relationship before we go back to the story’s present!!

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5. part 6. part 7. part 8. part 9.

The clouds finally part for you during a thunderstorm in April. 

You’d finally begun to feel at home enough to even consider cutting a bouquet for your room. A little woven basket hanging by the crook of your elbow and a pair of garden clippers in your hand, the options are overwhelming. You’re torn between simply enjoying the scenery and desperate to steal some of the garden’s magic for yourself. 

Rolling thunder echoes in the distance—a storm not too far off. It would be safer to wait inside, but you wanted to push your luck. You’d never seen natural lightning at the Casanova mansion, but maybe you’d get a show if you stayed out here. 

Giotto and G were somewhere outside, too; you’d seen them ambling off somewhere earlier, just before deciding to come out to gather some flowers. 

Casanova’s voice has not completely left yet—lingering like a parasite in your mind, taunting you, spilling out insecurities and fears. 

Taking a deep breath, you crouch by a patch of vibrant peonies, gazing at the feathered petals, the circular curve of the flower’s design. In this quiet sea of flora, you feel safe. Encompassed by those that are helpless to defend themselves against conflict. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine yourself in a field far, far away from war, you could live a peaceful life. 

But you have duties to take care of, and a leader to protect. 

You start with daisies, carefully snipping the ends of them with your clippers and placing them horizontally in the basket. It’s a slow, quiet process, even with the thunder crackling across the sky—a promise of powerful storms to come. Briefly, you wonder if G feels the most comfortable in this weather. 

The rain starts slow. You feel it on your back, your scalp, see the grass twitch as the sky opens up. It’s cold. It’s wet. It’s new. You think back to when all you had was the sound of rain, tucked away in your invisible room in a corner of the Casanova mansion. You had nothing then, but this time it’s different. 

The rain belongs to the earth. It belongs to the garden, the grass, the clouds—to you. It’s yours and everyone’s and now you can have it, can cup your hands and feel the cold drops splatter against your palms. It tickles. It stings. It’s freedom. 

The laughter comes faster than the rain. You abandon your basket of flowers, briefly, and turn around the garden. You spin and hold your arms out and embrace the rain and laugh and laugh for the first time in years. 

A drop of rain hits your eyelid, mixes lukewarm with the tears that blur your vision and you are free. 

You spin, catch gold in your vision, and smile wider than you can ever remember, your cheeks aching with the force of it. 

“Look, Primo, the rain!” You cheer, spinning and laughing and giving yourself to the clouds, the earth, the sky. Allowing yourself the relief of a new beginning right there in the gardens, a basket of daisies at your feet. 

The rain soaks you, of course it does, but when you tired of dancing, you crouch by a rose bush and watch how the flowers become heavy and shiny, dripping into the muddy earth below. 

You’re cold, shivering in a ball on the ground, and Giotto is there with you, meeting your smiles with his own, watching the sky pour down its good wishes upon to you in droves. 

———

Giotto falls in love with you during a thunderstorm in April. 

You’re there in the gardens again; he can see you as he walks along a stone path with G, talking of nothing. Giotto has seen you in this garden more than any of his other guardians. Sometimes you’re there for hours at a time, other times you wander through the foliage, a listless expression on your face. During those moments he can see it—the shadowy visage one gets when they think of the past too much. 

Yet most days, for all his super intuition, he cannot quite pinpoint what you’re ruminating on in these quiet moments, lost in a world of your own amongst the flowers.

Only recently have you started taking cuts of flowers, creating beautiful arrangements that you then carry to your room. He makes a note to have a bigger variety of flowers planted for next spring. Today you have a basket hanging on your arms. He wonders what kind of bouquet you’ll make today, lingers with G in the hopes that he’ll see it come together. 

It’s going to rain. He can smell it in the breeze. G follows along with him, expression stony when he sees what Giotto is looking at. 

“There’s no point worrying over them,” G tells him. “It’s been long enough. You don’t need to play babysitter.” 

“That’s not it, G,” Giotto says, a gentle admonishment in his voice. “I’m simply interested in seeing what they’ll make from the garden this time.”

G grumbles, but keeps to himself, reluctantly watching you at Giotto’s side. 

You’ve chosen daisies today, to start. Giotto thinks they suit you, watching you place each individual cutting in the basket carefully—lovingly, even. 

The sky opens up, and rain begins to sprinkle across the garden. G pulls out an umbrella, but Giotto has begun to walk forward, hoping to coax you inside. 

You are not dressed for rain, crouched among the bushes as you are. Giotto loathes to disturb the peaceful moment you’ve crafted for yourself. He watches as you stand, head tilted up. Your hands come up to catch the rain. He cannot see your full expression, but he notes how your jaw sets, then loosens, eyes sliding shut, shoulders relaxing. 

Then, out of nothing, you laugh. He stops mid step, ears straining to capture the sound. But then you do it again, and again, turning in tandem with a smile, arms spread out, and he can see the full sight of your mirth, at mercy beneath the clouds. 

It’s beautiful. It’s enchanting, like breathing after a deep swim in a lake, seeing a rose golden sunset splashed across the horizon. Giotto melts. 

G mumbles something about how it’s finally time that you stop moping. Giotto cannot hear him over the echoing roll of thunder, mixing with your laugh. He watches dots of water trail down your cheeks. 

Then you spot him, and for a moment he thinks you’ll wither, shrink in on yourself when you realize this moment is no longer private. 

But instead, your smile widens, and you accept him. 

“Look, Primo, the rain!” You say, but Giotto isn’t watching the way the landscape glistens and darkens under those billowing clouds, only sees you through streaking droplets, unbothered—free. He wants to sweep you up and dance with you; he wants you to savor this moment; he wants to hear your laughter in his ears forever—wants to be the cause of it. 

Giotto falls in love with you during a thunderstorm in April. 

[namodawrites]

pairing: giotto x gn!reader warnings: past trauma, talk of murder genre: slight angst wc: 2,175 note: another look at mc and giotto’s early relationship :) a handful more installments and then this little series will come to an end!

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5. part 6.  part 7. part 8. part 9.

The Vongola mansion’s halls are empty as you stroll towards Giotto’s office. The adjustment period had been strange enough—the atmosphere never ceasing to unnerve you. The place is eerily quiet during the majority of the week; gone are the bustling crowds moving up and down the floors, the sideways glances and poorly guarded whispers. With the other guardians scattered on various missions and personal matters, this mansion feels bigger. 

You’ve only seen a few other people here, a few extra hands to help cook and clean. For the most part, Vongola mansion is self-sustainable—the sprawling gardens of flora and various vegetables and fruits are a sight to behold. 

Stopping at the end of the hall, you consider your options. The whole area is quiet; perhaps that means Giotto is working and you shouldn’t bother him. You dreaded what might happen if you interrupted him during an important moment. 

Fingers clutched into your forearm, you approached the door, cautious of Giotto’s mood. Perhaps you should have completed this previous assignment faster—“Quick and dirty,” Casanova often jeered at you, “was the only acceptable duration for a mission benefiting the famiglia.”

No matter the outcome, you reason, you could handle a fair bit of pain—Casanova did not consider you his favorite for nothing. 

Your knock is too loud. Breath stilling in your chest, you wait for a response. Perhaps G would be in there, storming towards the door and glaring at you with those piercing crimson eyes. 

“Enter.” 

Get over it. You’re prepared.

The room is dimly lit for a spring afternoon—soft orange lights cascading over the bookshelves lining the walls, the dark wooded furniture, Giotto at his chair. G is a striking image beside him, blazing red hair and that gaze, positively stabbing knives into your direction as you shut the door. 

“You’ve returned,” Giotto greets you with a smile as you step onto the carpet, crossing the floor to stand some feet in front of his desk. “Were your assignments a success?”

“Yes, Master,” you nod to him, careful to look at the spot just below his cheek. Giotto’s expression doesn’t change, but you can feel the air around him shift, and begin to sweat. Clasping your hands behind your back to hide their trembling, you give him a verbal report. 

“You did well. Good work,” he says, still poised at his desk, still surrounded in that shifting aura. 

“Thank you, Master.” You bow. 

“Oi, what’s with that ‘master’ crap?” G scowls. You stare at the spot below his chin. 

“It’s what my old Master had me call him. Is it incorrect?” You ask. 

“Primo isn’t the same as that dirtbag,” G snarls. Giotto holds up a hand. 

“G. It’s fine.” 

Giotto stands. The sweat on your forehead is cold. Had you insulted him somehow? Soured his mood? Interrupted an important meeting with his right-hand man?

“I am no one’s master,” Giotto says. “You left that life behind when you came to be with us. Rather than a master, I want to be your friend.” 

Friends? A master and his subordinates? The idea is ludicrous enough to almost make you laugh. But you hold your tongue. 

“This famiglia is not for the purposes of instilling fear in each other; we have a deep trust for one another, and seek to better the lives of the innocent.” 

Your mouth goes dry when he begins to step around his desk towards you. His eyes are gazing into you even without meeting them. Your palms are slippery with sweat. 

“Please, take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair. 

Shutting your fear away in favor of obeying, you gingerly take a seat, fingers clutched into the fabric of your pants. 

“G,” he addresses his right hand man, “can you leave us?” Fear slips into dissociation as the other man complies, leaving the two of you alone in Giotto’s office. A torturous moment passes; you stare hard at the tidy surface of his desk, spotting an unfinished document and a pen. You were right: you interrupted him. 

“I’m sorry,” you squeeze out, shoulders twitching up as he comes to stand in front of you. 

“Will you do something for me?” Giotto asks, voice floating down in a calm tempo above your head. 

You blink up at him, taking deep, silent breaths. It’s okay. You’ve endured worse. You could handle whatever he wanted from you. 

“Of course, Master.” 

Giotto takes a knee in front of you. The gesture has your eyes blowing wide—visibly twitching in your seat as you have the higher line of sight. You stare at him in disbelief; no one in a higher position of power has ever—should ever lower themselves for one of their subordinates. Your heart jumps against your ribcage. Is this an illusion? 

Giotto’s expression is exceedingly gentle, not a trace of deception in his eyes. Then, to your continued astonishment, he smiles. 

“I want you to unlearn all of the cruel things that family has put upon you. Can you do that for me?” He asks, voice firm, soft.

There’s no room for disagreement—but rather than feel threatened, a strange emotion wells up in your throat as you hold his gaze. 

“You’re—” It’s humiliating that your voice cracks, but Giotto’s expression does not change. “You’re strange, Vongola Primo.” 

Giotto’s lips turn up in a smile, face alight at your words. 

Even if it’s an illusion, you’ll keep believing in it—in him. 

———

The Vongola’s gardens are yours. Not by official document or engraved golden plaque, but in your heart—clinging to each blade of grass, the way morning dew twinkles on drooping branches, from closed flower heads to sprawling leaves. 

The gardens are yours, because even if you own nothing in this mansion, how could you not come to claim the one spot of reprieve you’ve forged for yourself? 

Winter melts into spring with the sweet scent of roses thick on the air. The earth is still cold and frozen when you’re called into a meeting with the other guardians. 

“We’ve received an invitation to a ball,” Giotto says to his guardians, eyes scanning across a letter held lightly in one hand. “The Russo famiglia is hosting a spring party.” 

“Another one?” G scowls. 

Asari smiles. “It would not kill you to take the night to relax, busy as you are as Primo’s right hand man.” G’s glare deepens. 

You recall the last ball you’d been to; Casanova assigned you to assassinate one of the patrons there. “Without a trace, if you please,” he’d made sure to mention with a vile little grin. 

It was the height of summer then, the thick scent of wine and perfume heavy in the air when you’d stalked through the shadows, poisoned blade in hand. The sun had cast a deep golden glow across the trees and through the windows, but you weren’t there to indulge yourself. 

(You still remember the music, the trilling violin notes, the piano setting the tempo for the people swaying and twirling in dance. You remember looking down at the spread of rich food and wine, the sparkling glass beneath the chandeliers. 

You remember Casanova spotting you the moment you’d stopped to take in the scenery, and the frigid shock of fear that’d shaken your spine.) 

Someone says your name; invisible thorns prickle into your skin when you realize. 

Giotto’s golden hour eyes hold a soft gaze on your face. You count the seconds it takes for the lingering jumpiness in your muscles to fade. 

“I’m sorry?” You prompt, voice quiet, fingers clammy. 

“You’ll join us, won’t you?” He asks. 

“I apologize, Mas—… Sir,” you catch yourself, “I do not know much about dancing. I should make a fool of myself, I’m afraid.” 

He nods, solemn, knowing. “I see. I do not wish to force you. I’m sure Alaude will already make himself scarce,” he says. G scoffs, but as you catch his gaze when it flickers away, you think it is not directed at you this time. 

Unknowing of what to say, you simply nod.

——— 

Asari is the one to find you in the garden as you practice the dance moves you still remember. 

He moves like a whisper, too quiet for you to detect, so that when you’re mid-spin and see him standing there, you flinch, arranging yourself in a sorry excuse for a bow. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes, still carrying a gentle expression. “Are you perhaps nervous about the party?” 

Though you want nothing more than to shrink into the ground, you anchor yourself with the sensation of grass beneath your feet, the scent of flowers and pine in your nose. Asari has been kind. You have nothing to fear. 

“I must admit, I did not expect the invitation to extend to me,” you tell him truthfully, directing your gaze to the blossoming rosebush beneath your fingertips. “My old Master forbade me from attending any, but once in a while when I was sent as an assassin I would get a glimpse of what parties are like.” Your mouth pulls down into a frown. Asari is still like a plant, watching you with a serene, sincere smile. “Back then I knew what was expected of me. But here… I have no idea what anyone wants with me.” 

Asari nods, considers your words. “Primo has never been a man to choose force against one of his own.” 

Eyes misting over, you look out over the garden, and think of the Casanova manor. The gardens there had not been as divine or lush. Casanova liked his gardens organized, methodical in the shape and spread of plants. There was no organic beauty, save from the flowers that bloomed only during spring. 

But here, surrounded by various flora, you see no over-trimmed bushes, no painstaking arrangements of carefully selected flowers. It all blooms sporadically, gently untamed, coaxed into sprawling bushes of red and pink blossoms, and far more colors than the eyes can see. 

“If I… if my Master had allowed me to join the festivities perhaps things would be different.” You tell him, stroking the velvety petals of a blood red rose.

“This could be the first,” Asari suggests gently. “Our famiglia has its own way of doing things, but perhaps it could be the start of something better for you.” 

You contemplate his words for a long while. 

“I do not know if I can,” you tell him finally, voice quiet. “All I know is murder. I’m afraid I would ruin it.” Your fingers close around a blossom, and for a moment you consider plucking it, to feel the thin stem snap under your finger. But it would not be right to tear it away from the bush when it has not even fully opened. “If… if Primo should send me on an assassination assignment, knowing what it would be like outside of that would only clutter my brain.” 

Asari smiles, something kind and sad and understanding. You think he’s analyzing you, though perhaps not as deeply as Giotto would be had he been standing in Asari’s stead. 

“If I must, I believe I know some of the basic steps,” you speak up to break the solemn quiet that befalls you. 

It’s hard to imagine a partner where you’ve never had one before, but you arrange your hands, straighten your back a little, and try to remember the rhythm. 

“Often I would stalk the shadows,” you say, taking careful steps through the grass. “Most of my targets would let their guard down,” you can remember it, too, stealing through the intricate woodwork of a ballroom, silenced pistol in hand. “My master thought of it as some sort of show. After all, who would dare think to kill someone during something so frivolous like a ball?” You take one step forward, one step back, arms still outstretched. “It was easy most of the time, if my Master was not watching me from some obscure place.” You turn, imagining yourself being lead to twirl. “I would kill them mid-step, or at the very end of the dance. When their heart rate is high and they least expected it.” 

You catch a glimpse of Asari’s expression, the disquieting sadness of it as you stop with your back to him, slowly lowering your arms. “I don’t think I’ll ever be normal,” you admit. “Not when there will be assassinations to carry out.” 

“I see,” Asari murmurs. He takes a moment to himself, eyes closed, lost in some invisible thought. “I apologize, I did not mean to remind you of something unpleasant.” 

You turn to him, offer a hapless smile. “All duties of a guardian are though, aren’t they?” 

He does not respond, merely offers an arm to lead the two of you back into the mansion. 

You do not know what exactly comes out of your exchange that day, only that, by the time you realize it, many years have passed without you needing a silenced pistol or poisoned knife, and the night terrors you experienced post assassinations had all but ceased. 

[namodawrites]

pairing: giotto x gn!reader warnings: none genre: fluff wc: 2,035

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5. part 6.  part 7. part 8. part 9. 

Sometimes you wished for Alaude’s aloof personality to be shared with the other guardians.

“Aren’t you done yet?” Lampo drawls, a whine in his voice as he leans across the kitchen’s marble counter. “You’ve been down here for hours.”

“Baking takes time, Lampo,” you remind him, wiping your palms on the starched fabric of your apron. “It only feels like a long time since you’ve been coming here every fifteen minutes to swipe food from the kitchen.” This was his fourth time down here, loudly demanding to know when you would be done. You could feel your patience getting thin, and the urge to yank a clove of garlic from the hanging garnish and fling it at him was growing by the minute. “It’ll go by faster if you stop trying to eat the raw cookie dough one spoonful at a time.” You’d caught him using at least three of your spoons, chasing him away with a wooden spatula and pulling a fresh, clean one out of the drawers.

It wasn’t just the cookie dough he was stealing, however. You’d baked a carrot cake earlier and had just finished frying a batch of cannoli shells when Lampo had last entered the kitchens, complaining of the heat. He’d eyed the trays of unfinished desserts with suspiciously twitchy hands, likely seconds away from snatching them up and running off with all of your hard work.

“What’s the big deal? It’s not like we have a shortage of ingredients. Ore-sama was hungry and there was food within Ore-sama’s reach.”

You suppress a roll of your eyes. “If you get sick from eating raw flour don’t come crying to me,” you chide him, grabbing a thick bar of chocolate. “You’ll get some when they’re done so make yourself scarce until then.”

“You wouldn’t be complaining so much if it was Primo eating the batter,” Lampo accuses, a pout on his lips as he squints at you.

Ignoring the blatant attempt at provocation, you simply shrug, tearing open the wrapper. “Primo wouldn’t be an idiot and do that. He has patience. Unlike someone,” you retort, picking up a knife to chop the chocolate into chunks. “Scram before I have G come down and drag you out.”

Lampo turns his nose up. “Stingy,” he frowns, slinking off the chair and sauntering out of the kitchen.

Left in peace and quiet, you resume baking, setting aside the chocolate and pulling out the cooled cannoli shells. As the cookie dough chills, you prepare the filling for the cannolis. With the rest of the guardians scattered about the mansion (save for Lampo, who seems to have scheduled visits to the kitchens out of pure boredom), you’re left free to do as you please.

You’re just whipping the frosting for the carrot cake, using a spatula to scrape down the sides of the bowl, when the sound of footsteps approaching catches your attention. Your eyes roll. Lampo. The fool was back after only ten minutes, probably even more impatient than last time now that you’re almost done with the cannolis. Taking the knife you’d used to smooth out the carrot cake batter, you fling it towards the door frame. It buries itself in the wood, the shing of metal echoing slightly.

“Lampo, if you’re back here to snack then forget it. You’ll get some when I’m done.” You call out, scraping the metal spatula on the rim of the bowl.

“So this is where you’ve been all day.”

The voice makes you freeze, nearly dropping the bowl of frosting as Giotto appears around the doorframe. The knife is stuck mere inches from his face, and you watch in horror as some of the excess batter drops onto his cape. You spring into action then, yanking a dish towel from its place and running the warm water.

“P-Primo!” You gasp, abandoning your temporary workspace to hurt forward. “I-I’m sorry, I thought you were Lampo trying to steal food—” You fret.

“Your aim is on point,” Giotto merely says as you pull out the knife from the wall and slide it on the counter behind you. “Lampo’s been visiting, has he?”

“Before that, your cloak—oh no,” your face is hot, even hotter than when you were standing in front of the oven. You reach up with the cloth, gently swiping away the batter from his shoulder. It’s sticky and damp, leaving a slight streak on the cloth and you bite back a swear, air filling your cheeks as you huff. There’s nothing on his suit—a small mercy, you think, shuddering at the earful G would have given you for ruining Giotto’s clothes—but your attention is now on the stubborn, damp stain on Giotto’s cloak.

Teeth digging into your bottom lip, you dab the cloth over the traitorous mark. Hopefully when it gets washed there won’t be a stain.

“I didn’t realize you decided to come down to the kitchens,” Giotto’s eyes scan the counters. “You’ve been busy.”

“I suppose,” you agree, looking up. The sight of him gazing down at you makes your breath stutter. Him and those damn soft tufts of hair, the curl of his lashes and those eyes—they all serve to distract you.

If not for the threat of having almost stained his clothes, it would have been successful. You crumple up the cloth, wiping away the batter slowly beginning to drip down the wood. It leaves a mark there, too, but you’re hardly concerned about that as you place the cloth on the counter. You eye the hole in the wood, deeply hoping that no one will ask why there’s an indent in the wall, or why one of the kitchen utensils is now slightly crooked.

Even after the fiasco with the knife and the batter, Giotto lingers, watching as you finish preparing the frosting for the cake and the cannoli filling.

“Do you enjoy baking?” He asks.

You can’t look him in the eyes. “On occasion. When I would get the opportunity in my old Master’s—I mean, in my previous home, I would sometimes experiment when no one was around.” You tell him. “Lampo didn’t ask you to bring him a sample, did he?”

Giotto smiles. “No, I simply wanted to see where you were.” The honesty in his voice gives you pause.

“Well, here you have it,” you shrug, gesturing to the mess of a kitchen. “Asari-san has been wanting to try cannolis, so I said I would make some. Oh, but the carrot cake—” you glance at the oven, “I thought Alaude would hate sweet foods, so I made a more savory alternative. The cookies are for fun,” you say.

“I see,” Giotto sweeps through the kitchen, observing your handiwork. He stops some inches from you, leaning slightly towards you so he can watch by your shoulder. “You’ve done a lot.”

“Well, it’s rare to have free time like this, so I thought I would put it to good use,” you say. “With Lampo coming in every fifteen minutes, however…” you glance back at the dark spot on his cloak. A frown pulls at your lips.

“The stain will be washed out. There’s no need to worry,” he says. You blink at him, and then smile.

“Forgive me while I’d already prepared for swift punishment by G’s bare hands,” you joke. “But perhaps the desserts will be enough to quell his wrath.”

“I’m sure they will,” Giotto smiles in return. He takes a seat across the counter and watches patiently, quietly as you begin to fill the cannoli shells. His presence is miles different from Lampo’s. The Lightning Guardian bore no sense of anticipation, no anxiousness that could have overwhelmed your irritation at having to swat his hands away. But now, with just you and Giotto, and inexplicable pressure settles on your shoulders. Even him sitting there quietly is enough to keep you on your toes.

“Am I distracting you?” He asks.

Yes. Damn that super intuition. “No, though I will admit it’s nerve-racking to be watched so closely,” you say, eyes flickering up to meet his.

“My apologies,” he says, “I don’t mean to be intrusive.” You offer a small, reassuring smile and go back to piping the cannoli fillings. You make quick work of them, brows set in concentration as you then focus on the carrot cake, removing it from the pans and setting it on cooling racks. The initial apprehension melts as a peaceful quiet takes its place, the only sound being your footsteps as you flit around the counters with quick and practiced steps.

“It’s rare to see you down here, Primo.” G’s voice makes you look up from the oven, just about to change the temperature for the cookies. He nods at you. You return the gesture. “Duty calls. I’d have found you earlier but this was the last place I thought to look.” G crosses his arms. Giotto smiles, stands.

“Of course. Then, [First], I’ll let you get back to your work,” he says, before pausing. You’re wiping down the counter when he comes over, hoping to tidy up a bit so he doesn’t think of you as a complete slob. His movement gives you pause, and you look up at him, just in time to feel his thumb swipe gently from your chin to the swell of your cheek. The chill from his gloves is not the most surprising part, nor is it the look on his face—as soft and endearing as the day you first set eyes on him—nor is it the white spot of icing on his thumb, one you know must have been there long before he joined you. No, the most surprising part is when he steps away, lifts his thumb to his mouth, the pink hint of his tongue poking out between his lips to taste the icing.

G, eager to leave, makes a noise, one that sounds like “what are you waiting for”, but your brain has short circuited, hardly registering the smile on Giotto’s face, kind as ever with a hint of mischief glinting in those warm irises. All at once you’re reminded of the ball all those weeks ago, the way his eyes bore so deeply into yours that it was impossible to look away. The warmth of his hand on your waist. The feeling of his fingers curling into yours.

“I look forward to trying the desserts. All of your hard work will pay off for sure,” he says before exiting the kitchen with a sweeping motion of his cloak, a disgruntled-looking G in his wake. The red-head tosses a glance at you over his shoulder, brows furrowed and their muffled voices becoming distant as you raise a hand to your cheek.

'What the fuck?”

…

“Asari-san,” you offer a smile as you approach, a short stack of neatly packaged boxes in your hands. “I was able to make the cannolis we were discussing earlier. Here’s a box for you—it has some extra sweets I prepared, too. And, um, would you mind taking this box to Primo?”

“Thank you, [Last]-san, I appreciate it greatly,” he says, bowing his head a bit as he takes them. “I have to ask, though, why not deliver them to Primo in person? I’m sure he would enjoy your company, even if only briefly.”

Memories of Giotto’s closeness, the sight of him licking icing from his thumb, and the dark stain on his shoulder has you taking a physical step back, freezing in place only at Asari’s confused expression. Mortification and panic well up inside you. You try to squash them with a smile.

“I-I’m sorry, I would but I’m a bit busy this afternoon,” you say. It’s a half-truth. “You’re going to his office soon, right? I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Not to worry, it’s no trouble at all,” he offers a reassuring smile. “I will be sure to deliver them safely.”

“Thank you, Asari-san,” you bow your head. “Then, I must be off. I look forward to your review of them.”

The two of you part ways, and you raise a hand to touch your cheek, unsure of what to do with your heart throwing itself against your ribs, or the tight sensation in your chest.