#I just keep thinking about that maybe he disappeared in autumn

[caramelteaa]

I don't think you understand

How much I have hoped

That you had hopped on that train

And leave this town behind

Were the leaves golden and red

The day you disappeared?

[solaerina]

𓂃 ˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀𓂃𓈒 ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪɴᴇ 𓈒𓂃⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖

𖥔 ͙ࣳ 𓂃ˑ ֗ ˖⋆⑅ ᴄʜʀɪꜱᴛᴍᴀꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ⑅⋆˖ ֗ˑ𓂃 ͙ࣳ𖥔

✿ ⋆.ೃ࿔:･ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴅɢᴇʜᴏɢ x [ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ] ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

: ̗̀➛ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏɴᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀʟʏ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇꜱᴄᴀʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ A ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ.

: ̗̀➛ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ[ꜱ]: none ˖ . ݁ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

: ̗̀➛ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4.1����

➹ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛꜱ: ᴍɪᴋᴇʏᴋᴜɴꜱ, ʙᴇʀɴᴀʀᴅʙᴇɴᴅʏꜱᴛʀᴀᴡꜱ | edited | AO3 Ver. | Mobian Reader

The bitter coldness of the evening bit at your furs. The warm lights shone through the delicate mist of the night. It was that time of the year where people rejoice on the eve of christmas. Folks passed, some of them had their hands intertwined chatting on with their lives. Romance floated strong and thick across the atmosphere, unfading. 

The touch of sadness roamed your heart in circles, loneliness greeting you like the autumn’s fall bequeathed by the winter’s chill. Here you sat on the bench alone, shivering in your boots. Shadow had gone and never came back. You supposed that this whole date set up took a toll on his patience and probably headed home. Shadow was not the one to engage in such activities but..a moment between you under the romantic occasion wouldn’t hurt to experience just for once. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have persuaded him with this. You might have forced him to go with you out of his will. The guilt jabbed at your heart like a needle. How could you have been so dense? Of course Shadow was not the one to blend into some pointless dates! Now you must have made him mad or ruined his mood. 

Your fingers screwed through the fabrics of your dress and bit your inner lip as your gaze lowered. Dozens of negative thoughts rammed through your head as you sunk into the depths of it. Too lost at detesting yourself, someone had approached you and called your name, unnoticed by you. Until they knelt before your level and tapped gently at your cheek. Surprised by the unwelcome gesture, you snapped away from your trance and was tugged back into reality. Your head lifted right up and your eyes met with familiar red ones you’ve been longing to gaze on the entire evening, donned in a brown coat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck to keep him warm. 

“Shadow?” His name fell onto your lips before you knew it. How you missed him. It took you great restraint from jumping to him and hugging him tight, never wanting him to disappear from your sight ever again. Yet, Shadow was not the one who is accustomed to physical contacts. If forcing him to engage with you unwillingly on this date was not bad enough, then you should start to refrain yourself from now on. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your voice almost failing you as if you were about to break any second, casting your eyes downwards again. “This date was a bad idea and I shouldn’t have forced you to go with me,” you failed to see the crease of the dark hedgehog’s expression as you continued to ramble out. “I’m  sorry on making you go even though I knew that you’re not used on this kind of things I just..” you pause for a second, needing a moment of reprieve by the heavy weight on your chest, your ears flattening against your head as a look of pure sadness painted your complexion. “I just wanted to spend time with you..” your voice drops, barely above a whisper. 

And it was followed by silence, receiving no answer from the black hedgehog himself. This caused an anxiety to stir inside your chest, thinking you might have made his mood sour that it’s already been. He might think that you were being  too ‘clingy’ for his liking. Were you acting rather persistent than you  realised? What if he decided to leave you  after this?

You heard Shadow give out a sigh, light and soft. One of your ears flicks at the sound. 

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Shadow finally spoke, his voice calm and steady. “You didn’t force me into anything,” he stated and raised a hand to show a cup he’s been holding in his hand, “I bought a coffee in the nearby shop here. Didn’t I tell you that?” 

Coffee? 

You look back up again and see the cup in the black hedgehog’s gloved hand. “The temperature had gone way lower than it probably should. I figured a hot beverage would keep you warm for the time being.” 

The sadness that once enveloped you was now replaced by a delicate flow of confounded relief. Did he really.. “You’re not mad?” you ask him quietly. 

Shadow raised a brow, your question bemusing him. “Why would I be?” 

You meet his eyes, his red irises boring deep into yours. Pleasant warmth creeped up into your neck and climbed towards your face, spreading the heat throughout your furs. 

“I thought you were getting annoyed by all this. Spending your time with me and dragging you throughout this place. You were suddenly gone and I couldn’t find you anywhere,” you meekly explained to him as a tiny smog wisps out from your lips from the winter’s air. 

A faint gleam surfaces from Shadow’s red eyes, barely visible that you failed to catch it. “I wasn’t,” he says as he took a moment to look around the wintry place; people with friends, family, and even the lovers passing by. He studied them as if figuring out if this is how they bond with each other when seasons like this occur. “This is all new to me. It didn’t sit right with me at first to be in this place, to be associated with many people since I am accustomed to solitude for a long time. However,” Shadow returned his gaze to you and you swore that you saw a glimpse of underlying crumble of the pensive, stern demeanor that hardened him, to a frontage display of vulnerability that resided deep somewhere in his heart. 

“..If it’s with you, then I’m willing to try and allow myself to adapt in this conforming world of yours. If that would cost me to see the look of joy of contentment in your face.” he professes, straightforwardly, his deep voice wreathed in pure and distilled sincerity that even it could quell the flame’s scorching disaster. 

You stared at him wide-eyed, flabbergasted, lost at words. Your heart raced against your ribcage as it ached to burst out. There was a constant tingle in your nerves, a tickle to your bloodstream, and a strew of downy sensation mending through your furs. Did Shadow always sound this daring and upfront? Or does he have a way of picking his words?

Either way, with each time that passes by, the longer you know him, the more you discover a part of him that you never expected to see. He was a man who was shrouded in obscurity, hard to decipher what runs inside his thoughts. 

Flame burned the surface of your face and covered it  with your gloved hands, embarrassment taking over you. Yet, the wagging of your fluffy tail from behind betrayed your concealment. Shadow caught the motion and the corner of his lips quirks into a small smirk, amused. 

“I thought you’d left me,” you murmur behind your hand, unable to look Shadow in the eye. At this rate, you were surely convinced that there were steams coming out of your now reddened ears. Then, a hand came to your wrist and gently pulled it away from your face. “I would never leave you here alone. You were probably too focused on watching the performer a while ago that you were unable to hear what I told you.” 

Your cheeks burned in embarrassment as you recalled Shadow telling you something while you were watching the performer do his tricks to entertain people. What an oblivious girl you were. “I’m sorry..”

“None of that,” Shadow replies and gestured the cup towards you, offering for you to take it. “Here, drink it before it gets cold.”

You look at him bashfully for another seconds before you softly smile, touched by his genteel gesture and took the cup from him. 

Shadow then got up from his knee and sat on the bench beside you. You blew the airy steam of your caffeine before taking a small sip, a calming relief flooding your senses as the liquid flows through you. While you were sipping on your coffee, a warm sensation was felt around your neck and you turned your head to see Shadow wrapping his red scarf around you.

“It’s getting colder out here,” he says to you while he worked his hands on the red scarf until it was loosely secured enough to give room for you to breathe and ensured it wouldn’t come off.  

Tingles of bubbly sensation formed in your guts. The scent of him wafted from the soft cotton on your neck, your fingers coming to gingerly caress the fabric on her skin. “Thank you, Shadow.”

Under the tranquility of the winter eve, the chill of the breeze went on and blew through the atmosphere in its tender currents. In the midst of the stillness, a group of people appeared carrying various instruments. They worked on arranging and organizing their equipment until they were all prepared to play a ballad for the crowd. 

The song starts in a delicate strum of violin, resonating throughout the atmosphere. Then it was followed by a soft hum of brass, coupled along with the piano and trumpet, until it formed into a lovely continuous play of the ballad, adding more charm to the winter’s eve. People were starting to take interest at the song; gathering around in two or more as joyous chatters and laughs left them as a mirthful aura spreaded across the area. Some of them started to sway along, dancing leisurely to their heart’s content with their lovers or friends while the children played and ran around.

“How lovely,” you mutter in awe, watching as the scene unfolds through your eyes. Shadow was watching as well, observing the way people interact with each other, how they were in sync with the song as they laughed in merriment to the delightful hour. 

“Do you want to join them?” 

Your eyes flickered to him, astonishment written all over your face, lips parted. Shadow, the Ultimate Lifeform, asking you to join along the people who are dancing? The world must be healing itself. 

“Do you mean to ask me for a dance?” You question, wanting to make sure if Shadow’s invitation is purely honest. Your tail ruffles lightly behind as you anticipate his answer. 

The black hedgehog shifts on his seat and teared his eyes from you, adjusting his scarf around his neck. That was odd, his neck felt warmer than usual and tight for some reason. “Maybe, I am.” He answers without looking at you. 

You blinked as you gazed at him. If there were things you knew about Shadow, he is good in nature, selfless, someone who cares for people but doesn’t know how to express it. And by so, he puts an effort to understand those around him, noticing the little things that they like, seeing through them, and most importantly protecting them from harm in the only way he knows how. In the image of a tough exterior to cover his weakness, concealing his true self that still lingered within him since the day of the tragic fate that had befallen him and took away the girl he cherished the most. 

Somewhere in him, there was still that innocent boy trapped inside him, longing to find where he belonged, someone he can call home, someone to hold him and shield him away from all the perils that seek to pursue him.

Not wanting to wait for long enough, you gave him an answer, “I would love to, Shadow,” a soft, tender smile bloomed across your youthful face, bearing that resemblance of a flower blossoming into a full bloom in its vibrant color. 

Shadow returned his gaze to you, his sanguine eyes boring into yours. His expression was unreadable, but not unreadable enough for you to perceive the faint spark that lingered in his sharp-red eyes before quickly vanishing. 

“That’s settled, then,” he states before standing up from his seat and offering you a hand. You took it and he gently pulled you up to his feet. He asks you if you already drank all of your coffee and you answer him with a ‘yes’ before he takes the empty cup and throws it away at the nearby trash can, not missing the target.

And so the two pairs went on their way to join the little crowd that continued to waltz the night away. Shadow was ahead of you, guiding your way where you both would situate yourselves among the people. His hand felt hot against yours. The hands that were used to destroy anything that imposes threat – a stark contrast of how he was holding your hand like a fragile glass, as if he was afraid to break it.

It didn’t take long for them to find their place. The engaging ballad stayed roaming free across the area in a beautiful trail of melody, whispering songs in the cold air. You faced one another. Your heart skipped a beat, nervousness claiming your being. 

To dance with a partner requires holding together as one. 

Your cheeks burned at the thought. Shadow, as if sensing your feelings, took the initiative action and grabbed one of your hands to hold it with his while he rested the other on his shoulder, leading them both to sway along with the people. A soft gasp escaped your lips, taken aback, your heart jumping inside your chest. The feeling intensified when the firm yet warm sensation of his hand held the side of your waist, then the mesmerizing image of his red eyes scribbled in restrained emotions, their rims glinting as if they told a million words yet remained unspoken. 

“Is this everything that you hoped for?” Shadow utters under his breath, staring deeply into your eyes. You hold his gaze, and find yourself being trapped in. There was always something in his voice that comforted you, though deep but strangely captivating. You softly smiled at him and nodded. 

“It is,” you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Out of the corner of Shadow’s lips, it curled into a small smile. Something he rarely shows to people he’s fond of. “Let’s make this a little more livelier, shall we?” 

You look at him with curiosity. Before you can ask him what he meant by his words, Shadow suddenly lets go of your waist and uses the hand that was still locked in yours to twirl you around. A high-pitched startled noise left you, clearly not expecting for Shadow to do such a lively gesture yet he did. And since when did he learn the concept of dancing?

You weren’t able to grasp what his next move would be, because you were suddenly swept off the ground, high in the air with two strong hands holding your waist and spun you around in a quick circle. You let out another noise, higher this time and a little louder, then followed by an enthusiastic laughter. You felt the ground on your feet again as you were carefully placed down back to Shadow’s arms.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” you asked breathlessly as you panted, your hands coming to hold onto his shoulders and rested your head against it. Your heart was palpitating fast. 

“I have my ways,” Shadow simply answers, as he envelops his arms around you back to steady your wobbly figure. 

You gave out an airy chuckle, still breathless from your recent activity. After all this time, Shadow never ceases to surprise you, uncovering yet another newfound part of him that existed. You pull your head away from his shoulder to look at him, a soft satisfied smile gracing your features. You locked eyes again. 

You’ve never been this close to each other. 

Your noses almost touched, bodies wrapped into one another with no gap left to separate you and him. It took a few moments for them to realize the angle they were in before the awareness struck in. Both of the pair’s eyes widened and quickly adjusted themselves, resuming back to their previous stance. Shadow cleared his throat and looked to the side, while you were trying your best to recollect your  jumbled thoughts of what just occurred, trying to calm your beating heart down. 

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?” Shadow asked, cutting the awkwardness that passed over them a while ago. 

Your heart had already  simmered down and finally recollected yourself, beaming a smile at him. “Of course, I am. Very so!”

Shadow’s expression softened at your words, far from the usual stern face he shows at all times. He didn’t say anything after that. 

The winterly night went on. The number of people became fewer as they went on ahead in their lives, their enjoyment throughout the evening already spent. The musicians stayed as they continued to perform their song, seemingly lost in their own world, filling the area with a sea of ambience.  

The cold air grew more potent as time passed by. But that coldness didn’t seem to trouble the two pairs, the warmth of their bodies preventing the chill to seep into their furs. 

“Hey, Shadow,” You called quietly to the black hedgehog to which he responded with a hum. “Did I ever mention that your eyes are pretty?” 

Shadow’s ear twitched as his left brow arched, intrigued. “My eyes?” 

“Mm-hm,” you smiled gingerly, her lids creasing as your irises twinkled in fondness. “I always love looking at them. It reminds me of the times when I would look at the red sky and watch as the sun slowly lowers from the horizon while I admire it from afar. It’s truly beautiful to see, just like yours.” 

Shadow’s eyes expanded, a shift in his demeanor as his lips parted. There was a speck of vulnerability that danced in the rims of his irises. But then it soon disappears and a look of disdain loomed over him and darted his eyes away. 

“You shouldn’t think of such sentimental thoughts. You overvalue your perceptions towards me. You know where I came from don’t you? What I’m created of?” his voice lowers, the tone cold as ice and sharp as a knife.

Both of them ceased their movements as mild tension hung between them. Sadness fell into you as your chest tightened. How quickly his demeanor has changed; earlier he was warming up to you as he appeared to be in a lighter mood and now, it immediately faded. The delicate look on his red eyes, she wanted to see them again. 

Shadow’s expression was strained, as if he’s relieving a horrible memory, how the self-loathe rekindles in him, despising his existence. You felt his hand tensed against yours. Whatever he was feeling right now, it’s taking a dreadful turn on his mood. 

“Hey,” you softly implore him and ever so gently, you unlatch your hand that holded him and place it on his cheek and carefully tilt it to meet your gaze. “You told me that story before, right?” you utter to him, reminiscing the time where he hesitated to tell you of his origins, how he was created, and his previous life at the Ark. It’s as if he didn’t want you to know whose blood that runs in him, and how he almost destroyed the Earth once out of hatred and revenge against humanity.

It took a second for Shadow to answer before he nodded. Your thumb fondly stroked the fur under his lids as you spoke, “Then do you remember what I told you after telling me your story?” You were answered with a nod again. Shadow remains quiet but is clearly paying attention to you.

“Then my words are the same as before. It doesn’t matter how you were born or whose blood you are connected with. You are way more than what you think of yourself. You’re you, Shadow. It’s what you do that makes you who you are, what you choose to be. And that includes protecting this world, humanity, and us. So please..”  you breathed, a melancholic gaze dawning on your features as you sadly smiled at him, your glassy eyes imploring. 

“Don’t hate yourself any longer. Don’t turn blind to the true value that resides in your soul.”

If there was the least you can do to ease the deep scar in his heart, is to be there for him through his dark times.

Shadow didn’t say anything. The only evidence of acknowledgement you could grasp was the spark in his gaze. His eyes screamed in dozens of emotions more than he could show, words that were left unspoken that ached to be told. 

Then, a tiny pale white particle fell over Shadow's nose. Followed by the other as it landed on his black furs, the shade of its contrast visible. More and more of the ice particles fell down from the sky until it became a semblance of a drizzle of rain. 

Shadow looks up, witnessing the first snow of the month pouring down from the greyish sky. He breathes silently, casting a light, transparent smoke to waft from his lips. He remembers a certain girl telling him once, aboard in the Ark where it’s only just the two of them as they both studied the seasonal occasions on the Earth with a book. Winter was the one she greatly wished to experience, rambling how they would play in the pile of snow, build a snowman, make an angel pattern on the snowy ground, everything else the season has to offer. But one thing stuck to his mind. 

“It says here that snow symbolizes innocence and a fresh start to life. Can you imagine how lovely would that be, Shadow? When we’re finally on Earth, we can start over and witness the beautiful experience of winter’s embrace! I can’t wait for that moment to come!”

He closed his eyes as he relieved the fond memory of his past, feeling the droplets of snow falling to his face and quills as he lost himself in it. Are you watching over me, Maria?

“Shadow?” a soft voice calls out. Shadow breaks out from his moment of reprieve. He opened his eyes again and casted his head down, meeting your gaze once more.

He knew that wishful dream between them would never come true. 

But wishes don’t always have to be one sided for him. She wanted him to be happy after all.

People around them bustled with life and merriment, overjoyed by the sight of the snow pouring constantly on their figures. The song had stopped too, the performers seemingly distracted by the winter’s grace visit. 

You thought you might have said something wrong or exaggerated your words, because Shadow was being silent longer than he should. You open your mouth to express your apology but before you could, Shadow had leaned in and rested his forehead against yours. Gone were the scornful gleam in his red eyes as they now swam in sincerity and longing. You nearly gasped at the contact, your breath stolen from you. 

“Perhaps I should start making memories with you from now on.” Shadow declares, his voice quiet but soft. One that he never thought he’s capable of sounding like. 

Your eyes widened at his statement in shock. He took the words completely right out of you, rendering you unable to form any sentences. Somersaults came breaking in through your chest, a strong wave of adrenaline coursing through your nerves. Never in your life would you ever hear such declarations coming from him. It sounded like a vow he forged between you. It’s as if you’ve  reached the stars in the sky, for they have blessed her with their divine gift. 

“W-What is it with you and the way you talk? It’s..unfair.” The entirety of your face turned bleak red all the way down to your neck, the close proximity between sending wild races to your heart. You feared it wouldn’t calm down after this. 

Shadow only gave you a sided smirk and to your disappointment, he pulled away from you too soon. 

“We should head home,” he said while looking around the area, observing whether the snowfall would amplify its strength as it will be difficult to ride in the thick pile of snow down in the road later on. 

Meanwhile, you still haven’t recovered prior to your blissed out emotions, hot steams blowing out from your ears. How could he act so normally after what he just did?!

And then again, there are still more time for them to unravel your moments together. Or even so, maybe there will be a time where Shadow can fully accept himself. 

author’s notes: another fic of shadow yeyyy! I hope you like this fic I’ve written. I was actually planning to write for the Idol! Shadow but this concept really took an idea out of me since Christmas is nearing! So Merry Christmas to you all and more for our beloved ultimate lifeform fics shall be written! Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! ♡ ꒰ˆ. . ˆ ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི꒱੭ﾞ

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

[Hey, how are you?] Simon Riley*F!Reader

Ten years ago, Simon lost you due to his mistake, and he meets you again after these years of regret.

Hurt and comfort, Happy Ending

“Are you married?”

He always be asked when others see the ring on his finger.

“No.” He answers while taking another sip of his wine, letting the person realize it’s a topic they don’t have the authority to dig in.

He still remembers the vow he chanted as he put the ring on your finger.

The memory is as clear as the day you left the house, and he never saw you again.

It’s his fault, you didn’t shed many tears when he yelled at you, saying that you will never be able to free him from his nightmares, who do you think you are? a fucking philanthropist?

He knew he screwed up everything the moment his taunt escape his mouth.

No, No. I didn’t mean to say that, I need you, I love you, please don’t leave me.

He watched you lower your head, trying in vain to hide your sadness, but your heart was already shattered into pieces, by him, the man who promised to protect you by any means.

I’m sorry.

The words stuck in his throat when he looked at you stepping out the threshold with your belongings.

Please stay.

The greedy wish was buried inside his heart when you stopped for a second. “Bye, Simon. Take care.” you whispered, and disappeared into the aisle.

Ten years, he’s still unable to move on.

He brainwashes himself repeatedly, she will have a better life without you.

Yet he still opens his phone every time he finishes his therapy sessions, looks at your number, and just stares at the screen for minutes.

His thumb lingers on the “call” button but never dares to press it.

Hey, are you doing alright? I’m sorry, I want you back. I went to therapy after that day. I’m not the same person caged in his past anymore.

I miss you so much.

but how selfish he is if he interrupts your life now? Such a nice person like you deserves someone to cherish you nicely, and treasure you with their whole heart.

That’s why he now stands afar from you, watching you behind the veil of autumn’s breeze.

You’re still stunning, time doesn’t deprive your beauty even a bit.

He gazes at you for a long while, and when you turn around and spot him, it’s obvious that you’re in shock and come to a halt.

The world keeps moving, but the time seems frozen between you two, as you both set eyes on each other and never dart.

You head towards him as he starts hesitating to take the first move.

“Hey.” You look at him with a shallow grin on your face.

“Hey.” He mumbles.

The silence fills the air, but no awkwardness, he’s just too indulged in your presence, which he has been dreaming of for years.

Sorry for that day. How are you doing now? Have you married? Have a partner?...

He has too many things he wants to ask, but his thoughts are like matted wool, until his eyes land on the ring on your finger.

“You’re marrie—“ He questions without a second thought, but the words get cut off instantly due to his realization.

because the ring is paired with the one on his finger right now.

It’s not until you chuckle that he’s back to reality.

“Yes, I’m married, about ten years ago? to an idiot man.”

“Why did you marry him? he’s a bloody dork.”

“Good question. or maybe that’s the reason why I married him.” Shrugging, you then meet his gaze with a smile “How about you? Are you married?”

“Yeah, ten years ago, to a woman that’s too precious for me, so I lost her.”

“If you meet her again, what do you want to tell her?”

“I’ve improved. I’ve reached for help and now I’m not the same man anymore.”

“Anything else you want to say?”

“I miss her every single day, and I hope I can have her in my arms again.”

“Well, I don’t know about her.” you step closer to him. “But I’m sure she will love to have some tea with you as her first compensation from you, what do you think?”

He blinks at the hand you reach out at him, and slowly, he takes it into his palms, that’s befitting to drive away the chill.

Your hand fits well in his, like it’s made for him to serve it with all his warmth, and he’s sure that he will never let go of it again.

“My pleasure.”

a/n: lemme give Simon a fucking punch/j

[jayden-killer]

Greediest man in the Stone World.

summary: you've just being awaken by your old friend and classmate, Senku, in a whole new human era. But, who's this young guy claiming you as his? a/n: waahh, i sincerly apologise if i disappeared...again. i literally forgot my tumblr writing page, and life took a.. strange turn of events(?) kinda. i hope this first ryusui one shot will make you guys forgive me!!

Dark.

And then... a golden beam of light passed through my eyes, blinding me. My muscles began to melt. I felt them sore, as if I had slept in an uncomfortable position all night. Or maybe, for three thousand and fifty years. This was what was brought back to me when I woke up from that sleep I thought was eternal. The first thing my eyes noticed when they hatched was a blinding sun. There was so much green. So much vegetation was not seen even in the well-preserved jungles. Then, a group of boys with familiar and unfamiliar faces. My eyes met his.

"Senku..?"

I uttered that name in a subtle tone of voice, and the boy did nothing but address to me that mischievous grin of his own.

"Yoh, Y/N...we need your help".

[ Time skip...(*ゝω・)ﾉ ]

"So... you need my dexterity in putting these little pieces together so you can build, um... Repeat it, thank you".

"An oxygen tank" Senku rest, without even thinking of getting that smirk off his face.

His attitude hadn’t disappeared after 3,700 years. Not even when he claimed in front of a professor that their speeches were meaningless.

Here we go again...

Between a sigh and the other I immediately set to work, while in the distance I heard Senku arguing with what seemed to be his colleague.

Just in the middle of my work I felt someone touching my shoulder gently. A delicate touch, like that of a…

"Child?"

The girl in question wore a watermelon helmet on her head, with lenses inserted in the two holes that created a space for the eyes. She made a sound of wonder, her hands to her mouth.

"So, you are new here!"

With a confused look I lowered myself to her level, able to have a face-to-face conversation with the little creature. " I suppose so..? And you are...?" That little girl who didn’t immediately show her intentions and courage was pretty to say the least.

"Suika wanted to welcome you to the Science Team!" she said clearly, now showing me her hand to shake her. I took her, and with a kind smile, I accepted her request. "How kind of you! Since I am now a new addition to your team, can I have the honor to meet my future colleagues and companions?"

Little Suika nodded happily, running in the opposite direction where I was working. Heck. Maybe it was me who was no longer a child like her, but Suika seemed really fast in the race, not giving me a chance to keep up. I didn’t know where she was taking me; we passed through several huts, erected on wooden structures, running as if someone was after us.

The only one chasing her was me. Looking back to see if we’d actually drifted apart, my foot tripped on a double-sized rock. The collision with the stone made me lose my balance; I was ready to crash on the dirty ground and have some bruises all over my face for a few days. Only that never happened. In the instant that I was about to feel my face against the damp soil, two arms wrapped my waists not too strong, but with determination, preventing me from slipping a second time. I didn’t even realize I closed my eyes.

"It’s not even the first day you’re back here on Earth, and you were destined to get hurt. Pff, not very convenient for our team, huh?"

A moment later my eyes sprang to meet his, and those eyes reminded me of an autumn now close to winter. " Well, lady killer, now you might as well put me down. I’m not meant to be your princess." I said authoritatively. His powerful arms let go of my body, and with a little thump my butt bounced off the ground.

What an idiot!

Not only was he now laughing at me with a fat laugh, as if I had just said the funniest joke on Earth, but he didn’t even deign to preseed himself! The blond slightly lowered his head, as I was still on the ground, and with an energetic voice he replied:

"Not yet", later going in the opposite direction, with firm step. Oh, what kind of weird I had in front…

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

"Become mine! With all my Drago you would become the luckiest woman in the world!"

Somebody kill me...

It had been two months since I had made my unexpected (better to say, unlucky) acquaintance with blondie, who had the name of Ryusui Nanami. With his egocentrism and sheer avarice, he had proved to be one of the most promising members of the Kingdom of Science so far, with great skills for navigation. Apparently he came from one of the wealthiest families in Japan, and he certainly had not lost the habit of being indulged in everything, even after 3,500 years. And since our first meeting, he hasn’t stopped trying once. On every occasion he would give me his flirtations comments (sometimes shabby), he would become handsy, or he would try to buy me with his stupid Drago.

I was not one of those women who was so easily deceived, especially if a situation was about money. He thought I would give in so easily. I was so determined to prove to him the opposite, during these months, that this would give him up. With a gesture of the hand, I pushed him away. " I’m sorry, Ryusui. As I’ve explained many times before, I’m not interested." I took a dramatic break. ".. to you."

He whined loudly like a little baby, fogetting his money behind to get close to me. "You’re making a mistake!"

"I have made many mistakes in my life," I answered sharply.

"Then add another to your long list." I nailed him down with my sharp look, sketching a tight smile. Nothing to do. That man would never wave the white flag in the sky. However, it was becoming a nuisance, and having it close to me like a fin was starting to run out. For the worse.

I had only one idea that could have saved me in that instant, from a near future in which he was no longer clinging to me like an octopus: make him believe he had a chance with me. A bold idea; nevertheless, it had to be tried. Either it will make it or break it.

"Maybe, in the future, you might have a chance…" I implied in a vague tone, already heading somewhere, any, to get him off my back. I could swear to see his eyes shining remarkably with hope, and a new fire, fueled by determination.

He snapped his fingers, his iconic gesture that everyone, by now, had learned to recognize, and if he did, it was because he decided to do something. There were no roads back.

"HA-HA!" His laughter seemed to flow throughout the Ishigami village. Even Senku and Chrome turned to us, with confused scowls, to see what was so funny at the time. But Ryusui found nothing amusing in this situation, except a challenge to complete.

"So be it! I’ll show you how much I’m willing to change your mind. Anything to get the chance to become yours!"

Though I did not turn to look at him, once again, his muscular arms clasped my waists, turning my body to meet his. Face to face. "You, damned Nanami, what do you want now?!" That gesture had taken me by surprise, because he was not used to come so near me, but with his cheeky smile, he kissed me on both the cheeks. A quick gesture that made me blush remarkably in my face, almost to feel it burn under the palms of my hands.

"What the f...?!"

"You don’t know it, but you’re already mine!"

[polarisjisung]

ꨄ FEEL IT THROUGH YOUR EYES ALL THAT I BEEN MISSIN'

LOVING JISUNG THROUGH THE SEASONS

wc: 0.9k pairings: jisung × fem! reader genre: fluff warnings: reader wears sundresses notes: jisungs cover actually altered my brain chemistry | library.

SPRING

The first time Jisung tells you he loves you, it’s spring. Wednesday night, a little before midnight, 11:19 to be exact.

You’re sitting on the swings at the old park near his apartment, your sneakers digging shallow lines into the damp earth beneath you as you rock back and forth.

The cherry blossoms are just beginning to bloom, petals drifting lazily through the night air, caught between the warmth growing in the atmosphere and the lingering chill of winter.

He nudges you with his foot. “Hey.”

You glance over at him, your hands gripping the rusted chains of the swing. “What?”

Jisung hesitates, then looks up at the sky like he’s gathering courage from the clouds.

“I love you.”

It’s not a confession. Not really. It’s casual, like an afterthought, like he’s been saying it for years and only just decided to let you hear it.

Your heart stutters. “You do?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Always have.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat, light and airy, as the wind picks up around you. “What am I supposed to do with that information?”

He loves that sound.

Jisung grins. “I don’t know. Maybe love me back?”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. He’s staring at you like he already knows the answer, like he’s willing to wait forever if he has to.

You kick off the ground, letting the swing lift you higher. “I’ll think about it.”

But you both know you don’t have to.

SUMMER

Summer with Jisung is golden hours and sunburnt shoulders, melted ice cream dripping down your fingers and his laughter ringing through the thick, humid air.

It’s sneaking into fancy hotel pools that you don’t belong in, running down empty streets at midnight, breathless and wild and weightless. It’s his hand in yours, warm and sure, tugging you along like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“You’re so slow,” he whines, stopping in the middle of the street to let you catch up.

You scowl, shoving his shoulder. “Maybe you’re just too fast.”

Curse his stupidly long legs

Jisung grins, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer. The streetlights cast a glow over his face, softening the sharp edges of him. He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. Like you are the world.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow. “Depends.”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m pretty sure I love you more in the summer.”

Your heart stumbles over itself. “Oh?”

Jisung pulls back, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah. Because I get to see you all the time. And you wear those cute sundresses. And you let me steal your slushies even though you pretend to hate it.”

You roll your eyes at his list, but the smile on your lips betrays you.

“You’re insufferable.”

“But you love me.”

You sigh dramatically, looping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, yeah.”

He grins. “Say it again.”

You press a quick kiss to his cheek before taking off down the street. “Catch me first.”

Jisung groans, but he’s already chasing after you.

AUTUMN

Autumn settles into your lives like an old friend.

It’s oversized hoodies and steaming cups of coffee, long walks beneath canopies of gold and red. You had tried pumpkin spice lattes, but they werent really your thing.

Autumn is Jisung dragging you into piles of leaves like a child, laughing as you shove handfuls of them down the back of his jacket.

“Remind me why I love you again?” he grumbles, shaking leaves from his sleeves.

You grin brightly, plucking a red leaf from his brown hair. “Because I keep your life interesting.”

He sighs, softly. “Yeah. You do.”

The air is crisp, the wind threading through your fingers as you lace them with his. Where they belong.

“I think this is my favourite season,” you admit.

Jisung tilts his head. “Why?”

You lean into his side, letting his warmth seep into you. “Because everything feels like it’s slowing down. It's not too fast not too slow, its steadying. Peaceful.”

Jisung hums, squeezing your hand. “Yeah. I like that.”

Truly, he'd like anything as long as you were part of it.

The two of you stand there, watching the leaves dance in the wind, the world quiet and still.

And for once, you don’t feel like you need to rush anything.

WINTER

Jisung kisses you in the snow.

It’s freezing, the cold biting at your cheeks, but you barely notice because he’s everywhere.

His hands cradle your face, his breath warm against your lips, and for a moment, the world fades into nothing but him.

You pull back, breathless. “My nose is cold.”

Jisung laughs, pressing a kiss to the tip of it. “Better?”

You scrunch up your face. “That’s not how it works.”

He shrugs. “Worked for me.”

You roll your eyes, tucking yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you without hesitation, holding you close, holding you steady.

“Stay over tonight,” he murmurs into your hair. “We can watch stupid Christmas movies and eat way too many marshmallows.”

You smile against his jacket. “Sounds perfect.”

And it is.

Because by now, you know how this works. The seasons will keep changing, the days will slip by in a blur of laughter and stolen kisses, and the world will never stop moving.

But no matter how much time passes— Jisung will always be home.

And he will always be yours.

tags: @yizhrt @suzayaaa @nanawrlds @sinisxtea @dearlyminhyung @flaminghotyourmom @jisworlds @jenobubbles @nctdreamchaser @lotties-readings @mystverse @chenlezip @blondemrk

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Everywhere is good but home is..." - Mihawk x Reader

@thetempleofthemasaigoddess wondered why Mihawk doesn't quite get along with his mother-in-law and who am I to keep such secrets to myself?

SUMMARY: Mihawk is not exactly fond of his in-laws. Nevertheless, he compliantly tags along whenever you pay your parents a visit. If it makes you happy, he's willing to bite his tongue. For a day, at least.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.6k

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Imagine, if you will, an angry boar. A large, stout boar with birse as dark as the night sky. As boars do, it will gore with its tusks to let out the frustration and get rid of whatever it was that made the animal seethe. Now, if you take away its tusks, what can it do? Angrily dig for truffles? 

Or maybe stand beside you, a scowl on his face and a begrudging “I am fine” every time you ask about the bitter expression?

Mihawk doesn’t like visiting your parents. It’s the sickeningly sweet familial atmosphere that suffocates him. Don’t misunderstand - he’s fond of the thought of having a family with you but the aura of your childhood home is a little too… overwhelming for him. A little too picture-perfect. But being the man he is, Mihawk has never outright talked about his dislike because he’s aware of how much that would hurt you. Still, you know your husband a little too well to disregard his sighs and frowns. This piece of secret knowledge always makes you love him more - he’s willing to suffer for a day or two just to make you happy. If it’s not love, what else could it be?

The farmhouse looks different than it did last year when you visited: the roof tiles have been changed, the outside of the building has been repainted and even some of the fence surrounding the land is new. Clearly, your parents have been busy with their retirement.

Despite the irate expression on his face, Mihawk silently overtakes you and opens the shabby wicket gate to let you enter first. He gives you a questioning look when you suddenly stop.

“It’s going to be fine, Mihawk,” you reassure him.

“So you’ve been saying, darling.”

Comforting warmth spreads inside his chest as you smile at him and kiss his cheek. He turns his head, hoping to catch your lips but you’re already on your way to the older man raking leaves in the distance. Mihawk clenches his jaw and lets out an exasperated sigh. With a loud bang, he closes the gate behind him. He follows you in slow steps, naively putting off the fateful moment of meeting your family.

Walking down the path leading to the farmhouse and the fields behind it, Mihawk looks around the desolate landscape. It’s quaint, he thinks to himself. Tall trees sway on the chilly, autumn wind. Right above their peaks, although far away, are mountains with their tops covered in snow. Uncut grass brushes against his clothes. A flock of cranes flies high in the sky, disappearing and reappearing as they fly through grey clouds. Their key is directed south, towards warmth that will shield them from winter snow. The area is a bit too colourful and bright for his liking but with a nice “please” from you, Mihawk could see himself settling down in a place like this.

Dracule just comes into earshot and has the displeasure of hearing your father yelling:

“Pumpkin!” The older man’s voice is filled with excitement. He lets go of the rake, letting it fall on the ground. Despite his age and clear exhaustion from the work, he wraps his arms around you and hugs you almost to death. “Honey, come out!” he shouts towards the farmhouse. “It’s Pumpkin!”

Mihawk almost can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. You’re a grown woman, married at that, and they still call you by a nickname they had come up with while you were still in diapers. ‘When I asked where children came from, they told me that they found me between pumpkins in their field,’ you once explained to him.

The door to the building flies open. Soon enough, your mother is running to you. Her greying hair is braided into a plait. She’s wearing an apron with traditional patterns hand-stitched into it. Half of the motif had been done by a skilled hand, stitched with precision and perfection. The other part, however, is a lot more crooked and amateurish, probably done by a child’s hand. Your hand.

Tears glisten in your mother's eyes. Despite her older age, there’s vigour and youth inside those irises - a certain love for life that you’ve taken after her. She quickly wipes her hands on the apron and hugs you.

“Oh, Pumpkin!” A stray tear leaves her eye. “I haven’t seen you in ages! You could have said you’re visiting.”

“You’ve always loved surprises, mum.”

She lets go of you and redirects her attention to Mihawk. Her face lights up as though he’s her own son, beaming with love and pride. To his absolute horror, your mother puts her hands on the sides of his face. He almost pulls away to avoid the unwanted affections.

“Sweetie, you look handsome as ever!” she exclaims. Her expression falls as she looks him up and down. “But you’re a bit thin, aren’t you? And that open shirt, tsk. Winter is coming, sweetheart, you’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t cover up.”

“Delighted to see you again, ma’am,” Mihawk lies through his teeth. To some degree, you’re impressed with how honest he sounds.

"Oh, sweetheart, I told you to just call me mum!” She laughs. “We're family now."

You can see the relief in Mihawk’s eyes as your mother lets go of him. Some part of you wants to burst with laughter as you recall countless moments when you’re the one cradling his face and Dracule is more than overjoyed with the tender touch. It feels like there’s something beyond special about you, that he welcomes such intimate things. Although, truth be told, when it’s your hands on his face, you usually lean in to kiss him and that’s definitely not something he wants to think about while standing in front of your mother.

“He’s a grown man, honey.” Your father nags at his wife. He waves his hand in a dismissing manner. “Leave him be.” Mihawk’s terror returns when a heavy hand reaches for his shoulder. “Come, son, you’ll chop some wood for the night. I’m too old for this. The last time I tried chopping firewood, I got sciatica.”

“Pleased to help,” Dracule drones his words. He gives you a glance like a silent plead ‘Look what I do for you’. Then, he follows your father further into the garden.

You feel your mother put her arm around your shoulder. “Boys are off to have fun and we have a dinner to make.”

Something inside you stirs with excitement - cooking and baking used to be your bonding activities with your mum. Since you’ve married Mihawk, you’re not allowed to do any housework. Everything is taken care of by servants. You find that you’ve grown to miss the rhythm of mundane life, although it would be a lie if you said that you dislike the life you have with Mihawk. It’s just… different.

The sound of pots, pans and knives hitting the cutting boards is like a symphony to your ears. An aria to your childhood. If you closed your eyes, you could almost see the world as it used to be, your eyes right below the level of the countertops, always standing on a stool to help your mother.

But the thoughts of your younger years dissipate as you stare out of the kitchen window. You have the perfect view of your husband chopping firewood with your father raking leaves in the back. Mihawk’s skin glistens in the afternoon, autumn sun. There’s not a bead of sweat on his torso. He appears completely relaxed as he swings the axe with one hand. Some logs are already cracked or particularly dry and those he rips apart with his bare hands. Those same hands that tear pieces of wood into matches have caressed your skin with almost fearful softness; the arms that bring destruction have tirelessly shielded you from the dangers of the world. 

Your dad looks over his shoulder at the pile of firewood with a nod of awe. If Mihawk keeps up his tempo, he’ll prepare enough fuel for the next week.

“You remind me of your dad and me when we were younger.” Your mother’s face shakes you awake from your thoughts. Suddenly remembering that you were supposed to be helping her, you look down at the awfully chopped carrots. At least you didn’t cut off your finger. “Always stealing glances as though we weren’t already married.”

A sigh of yearning leaves your lips. What did you do in your past life to deserve a man like him?

“Dad still looks at you in an uncomfortably intense way,” you answer, a smile on your lips.

Your mother’s laughter brightens up the small, crowded kitchen. It’s not hard to correctly guess what your dad saw in her that made him want to spend his life with that woman. “He does the same when you’re not looking,” she says while vaguely pointing at Mihawk.

Her words make you blush. A deep shade of red covers your cheeks, making your whole face hot to the touch. “What do you mean?”

She looks at you with sympathy. “I saw it the day you introduced him to us. And each time you come over, he seems to be a little worse in his affliction, staring at you like you’re the one who hung stars in the sky. It made your grandma remind her of grandad so much, that she cried at your wedding.”

Listening to her, your longing gaze returns to Mihawk who appears oblivious to your undivided interest in him. “Mum, does it ever get boring?” you ask without looking away. “The sense of calm when you’re around him. Like everything could be ruined but it’s fine because he’s there.”

“It’s the only thing in the world that never gets tiring.” A flustered, juvenile smile decorates her face. Even with wrinkles and greying hair, she looks barely older than you at the moment, reliving the flame of love inside her that has never dwindled. “Now, let’s finish with the sentiments and stuff the duck, eh?”

Mihawk is reaching for another log when something makes him momentarily freeze. There, in front of the stump he’s been chopping wood on, sits a dog. It’s clearly a mutt, each feature taken from a different breed. The fur is an amalgamation of markings in different colours: orange, grey, white and black. As the dog notices Mihawk’s interest, it gets up, restlessly stomping in place or rather hopping as the pet is missing one of its hind legs.

“Gulliver,” Dracule recalls the name of the mutt you’ve told him so much about. Your first and only friend growing up in the countryside.

The name is taken as an invite and so the dog places a drool-covered, chewed-out ball next to the piece of firewood. The pet sits again, tail wagging as fast as it can.

For a moment, Mihawk is torn. He wants the dog to leave him be but that would mean he has to put his hand on the slimy toy. Then again, the pet is sure to continue disturbing him now that he has acknowledged its existence.

Cringing at the wet and warm sensation of the ball, Dracule picks it up, only furthering Gulliver’s excitement.

"This means nothing," he drones his words and throws the toy so far it almost disappears from sight. The dog, overjoyed, runs after the ball. 

Considering that your dad’s throw has gotten weaker with age, Mihawk might have dug his own grave with the distance he made the ball fly. Gulliver will probably want another run. Or ten.

For a moment, Mihawk goes back to the fantasy of settling down with you in a mountainous wonderland. Maybe you could have a dog too? Not a mutt but a hunting hound? They look very noble.

But he shakes those thoughts away and continues chopping wood.

The dinner went well. Homemade food, family you haven’t seen in a year, the cosy and sentimental atmosphere of your childhood home… And Mihawk didn’t look as miserable as he probably felt. Although you’re enjoying this little family reunion, you seize the opportunity for solitude when it arises:

Your parents go to the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes, plate the dessert and brew some tea. Tugging on Mihawk’s arm, you pull him outside the house.

The old flooring of the porch creaks under your weight. A bright, melodic tune is carried by the wind as it brushes against the chimes hanging under the roof. The sun has recently set and the sky is still in a lovely, indigo shade. Birds croak in the distance, announcing nightfall.

His warm hand rests on your lower back. The touch makes you momentarily take a deep, relaxing breath. Your thoughts become both orderly and fuzzy as though Mihawk’s presence turned all of your wandering, useless ideas into static you can easily ignore. How can a person have so much control over you? 

Mihawk is towering over you. He tilts his head downwards to look at you. Something about his looming aura makes you feel not only protected but also well-cared-for, as though you could give yourself up to him completely and you’d still live like a queen in a castle.

“If you keep frowning, your face will stay like that,” you say to him.

Mihawk’s expression relaxes at the mere mention of his visibly bitter mood. Or maybe it softens because he’s looking at you. “I was under the impression that you’re rather fond of my face.”

“And you’d be correct. But I do have to say that seeing you tear wood apart was much better.”

You lean closer to him as you put your arms around his neck. He welcomes the gesture, allowing his hands to travel an inch or two downwards, a little too low for when one is in the vicinity of others. Especially someone’s parents.

“So my wife likes to see me do manual labour,” he states, his warm breath brushing against your cold cheeks. There’s no surprise in his voice and there shouldn’t be. He’s noticed the way you look at him when he wields a sword and Mihawk would be an awful liar if he said he doesn’t enjoy those glances.

“I like seeing you, full stop. Chopping wood is just a nice variation to the scenario. Strong arms and all that.”

The said arms pull you by your hips into a kiss. Although he’s spent only a day in this part of the region, he already smells like fresh mountain air and pine needles. Mihawk groans, feeling the curves of your body against his. He will never get enough of this. Enough of you.

“Tea is served!”

Your mother’s exclamation makes you pull away from Mihawk. He instinctively chases after your lips before letting out an annoyed sigh. A chuckle rumbles in your chest. Dracule rolls his eyes but lets you thread your fingers with his and pull him back inside the farmhouse. There, you interrupt an interesting conversation:

“Darling, when’s the cake tasting again?” your father asks while flipping through the calendar, a pencil in his hand.

“On the 25th, honey,” she answers. The dining room is immediately filled with the aroma of bergamot as your mother pours the tea. “At 6 in the afternoon.”

“Cake tasting?” you repeat in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Our golden wedding, of course!” the older woman beams with joy. “We’ve yet to send out the invitations, though, so don’t tell anyone. Especially your aunt. Gods know she runs her mouth like it’s a marathon.”

As though you’re thinking the same thing, Mihawk and you glance at each other. The miserable, irate expression in his eyes elicits a burst of bright laughter from you. He just can’t catch a break, can he?

[thatdammchickennugget]

pairing -firefighter!james potter x fem!reader

summary - james hands out halloween candy with you

warnings - none

wordcount - 1.2k

a/n - didn't finish my halloween fic but at least I managed to write this so yayyy

masterlist

Halloween night arrives with a crisp autumn chill and an air of excitement that you can feel in every leaf-littered breeze. You’ve got a cozy setup on the porch, a big basket full of candy, and a warm blanket draped over your lap. It’s quiet, with only the distant hum of children’s laughter echoing down the street as they run from door to door.

You’re just adjusting your costume’s red hood when the sound of footsteps makes you look up. James is striding up your front walk, hands tucked into the pockets of a loose, slightly scuffed rugby jersey. He’s paired it with athletic shorts, tall socks, and cleats, and his messy hair looks like he’s already survived a few tackles tonight.

He grins as soon as he sees you, and even though he’s clearly trying to play it cool, you can tell he’s excited. “Hey there, Little Red,” he says, giving you an approving once-over. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

You raise an eyebrow, taking in his outfit. “Rugby player, huh? Going for subtle?”

“Guilty,” he laughs, plopping down beside you on the porch steps and nudging you slightly. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t believe you actually came out here to keep me company.”

“Hey, I couldn’t let you hand out candy alone, could I?” He shrugs, casually, but there’s a softness in his expression, a certain warmth that lingers as he settles in beside you. “Besides, Halloween’s more fun with company.”

You settle into a comfortable rhythm, chatting as you wait for the next group of trick-or-treaters. When a group of pirates and witches runs up, you both lean forward, waving and greeting them with an enthusiastic “Happy Halloween!”

James takes the lead, tossing a handful of candy into each bag with dramatic flair, drawing delighted laughs from the kids. One little boy in a werewolf costume stares up at him, wide-eyed, clearly impressed. “Are you a real rugby player?” he asks, his voice small but hopeful.

James grins, nodding. “Absolutely,” he says, leaning down conspiratorially. “But only on Halloween.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, and he nods seriously, clearly determined to remember this “fact.” You hand him an extra piece of candy before he runs off, and James laughs, watching him disappear down the path.

“You’re such a softie,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Takes one to know one, Little Red.”

The next group of trick-or-treaters arrives, a mix of fairies, superheroes, and one very tiny, very sleepy bumblebee. James leans over to you, whispering with a grin, “How many times do you think we’ll see Spider-Man tonight?”

“At least five,” you say, tossing candy into an Iron Man’s bag. “But I’ll bet you a dollar we see more witches.”

James raises an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of mischievous interest as he leans a little closer. "A dollar, huh?" He pauses, considering, before a grin tugs at his lips. "How about we make it more interesting?"

You squint, a playful suspicion coloring your tone. "More interesting? Like… two dollars?"

He shakes his head, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. "I was thinking, maybe, a kiss."

The suggestion hangs between you for a moment, and you feel the rush of warmth that creeps up your neck. There’s a daring glint in his eyes, like he’s thrown down a challenge he’s confident you won’t be able to resist. You can’t help but smile, your heartbeat kicking up just a notch.

"Alright," you say, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse quickens. "But don’t get too cocky. I’m pretty sure witches will outnumber your Spider-Mans.”

"Guess we’ll just have to see about that," he murmurs, a teasing lilt in his voice. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer, as if he’s already half-won the bet, and your stomach does a little flip.

A new group of trick-or-treaters arrives, and you both spring into action, handing out candy and complimenting costumes. Every now and then, you exchange a sly glance, keeping a mental count as more costumes parade up the walk. Pirates, princesses, and of course, Spider-Men are sprinkled among the crowd, but witches steadily make their appearances too, brooms and pointy hats proudly on display.

By the time the last trick-or-treater has collected their candy and headed down the path, you’ve all but lost track of the tally. You’re still debating the winner, laughing over which costumes count as “witches,” when James leans back against the porch railing, hands in his pockets as he watches you with that easy, playful smile.

“Well,” he says, shrugging casually. "Seems like it’s still up for debate. But if it’s a draw…”

You arch a brow, crossing your arms. "If it’s a draw, then the bet is off."

He smirks, leaning forward just enough that you feel that familiar flutter. "Or… we could call it a mutual victory."

His voice is softer, the night’s lingering energy quieting around you both. He’s close enough now that you can see the hint of mischief in his eyes, the way his gaze flickers down to your lips before meeting your eyes again, searching, waiting.

You hold his gaze, the air between you sparking as he tilts his head, his eyes tracing over your face as though committing every detail to memory. He leans in, his hand coming to rest gently on your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. You feel the warmth of his breath as he closes the last inch between you, and then his lips are on yours, soft and searching.

The kiss starts slowly, just the slightest press of his lips, as though he's savoring the moment. His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer. It's tender but filled with a gentle confidence, his warmth radiating through you as if he’s wrapping you in his embrace.

Time seems to slow, the world around you fading into the background until it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other. You find yourself reaching up, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your palm. He’s close enough now that you can feel the rise and fall of his breaths, each one syncing with your own, a shared rhythm that feels grounding and exhilarating all at once.

When you finally part, he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing a stray wisp of hair from your face. There's a softness in his gaze, an unspoken promise that makes your heart feel weightless.

“Well,” he murmurs, “now I’ll have to challenge you to a rematch next Halloween.”

“Bring it on, Rugby Star,” you say, laughing softly.

The night winds down, a comfortable quiet settling over the porch as you both lean against each other, sharing the last few minutes of Halloween in the flickering light of the jack-o'-lanterns.

Masterlist

Requesting Guidelines

[sirenedeslily]

𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 ‎𐦍 𝐦atthew 𝐬turniolo

(⊹ֹ 𝐢𝐧 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 ) ──── ⟢ it’s the 2000s, and in stars hollow, rebellious matt sturniolo, tattooed and brilliant, somehow needs tutoring sessions. yn greenaway, somehow gets pulled into his world of distractions, leaving them both questioning what they really want.

you step off the bus, the cool air of stars hollow brushing your face, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and coffee from luke’s diner. the orange leaves crunch beneath your boots as you make your way down the street, your thoughts wandering. it’s autumn, your favorite time of year. the kind of day that feels like it’s plucked from a movie—a you’ve got mail kind of day. sophie—or soapy, as you call her— is waiting for you by the bus stop, her usual smile in place, earbuds in, head slightly bobbing to a beat you can’t hear.

“hey!” she calls as she pulls out her earbuds, falling into step beside you. she’s wearing a smashing pumpkins t-shirt under a plaid flannel and looks like she just walked out of a 90s grunge concert. classic soapy.

“hey yourself,” you respond, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “what are you listening to?”

“just some early radiohead. you know, getting in my ‘i’m too cool for mainstream music’ vibe,” she teases.

“of course. how very ‘ok computer’ of you.” you grin, tugging at your scarf. “i’m still stuck in the mazzy star phase. i think i’ve had ‘cry, cry’ on repeat for days.”

sophie gives you a mock serious nod. “that’s some deep emotional territory. you planning on staring longingly out a window while it rains?”

“maybe,” you joke, nudging her. “but first, i need to catch up on the weirdness that is stars hollow high. chris apparently got into a fight yesterday?”

“yeah, hockey drama,” she says with a casual wave of her hand. “it’s chris. the guy’s basically made of punches and sports equipment. it’s a wonder he doesn’t just carry around a hockey stick as an accessory.”

“where was matt during all of this?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

sophie shrugs. “nowhere to be seen, as usual. you know matt—here one minute, gone the next. probably off in some corner reading kafka or something, being all mysterious.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. matthew sturniolo has a way of occupying your mind without even being around. the fact that sophie hasn’t seen him at school recently doesn’t surprise you. he’s always been the brooding type, always disappearing into books, into his own world.

“so, any big plans for today?” sophie asks as you both turn the corner near the town square.

“just the usual. i’m heading to the bookstore later with nick, and then i’ll probably drop by luke’s for cherry danish day, my favourite day! what about you?”

“band practice. dave’s got this crazy idea for a new song that’s somewhere between the smashing pumpkins and the strokes, so… we’ll see how that goes.”

you both laugh, the conversation drifting into casual chatter about school, music, and soapy’s band. eventually, you part ways—she heads to meet her band, and you find yourself walking toward the bookstore.

as you round the corner of the alley that leads to the bookstore, you spot matt sitting on a bench, a paperback in hand, legs stretched out lazily in front of him. his arm, the one covered in tattoos, is draped over the back of the bench, his rings catching the late afternoon light.

you hesitate for a moment, watching him. he looks up, catches your gaze, and smirks in that infuriatingly charming way he does.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, closing his book without bothering to mark the page.

you cross your arms and approach. “not disappearing into thin air for once? i’m shocked.”

“ah, i have to keep some mystery alive,” he replies with a grin. “besides, i’m right where i want to be.”

his words hang in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken. you swallow and sit beside him on the bench, trying to ignore the way your heart picks up speed. his presence has always done that to you—ever since you first met him.

“so, what are you reading?” you ask, gesturing toward the book.

he glances down at the cover and smirks. “on the road.”

you snort. “of course you are. trying to live out some kerouac fantasy?”

matt chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “it’s not fantasy, greenaway. it’s more like… preparation.”

“for what?”

he looks at you then, his gaze steady, a little too intense. “for whatever’s next.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you change the subject. “chris got into a fight at school yesterday.”

matt shakes his head. “yeah, heard about that. not surprising. chris has always been a hothead. someone probably looked at him wrong.”

you laugh softly, and for a moment, it feels easy—just sitting here with him, like old times. before the weird tension, before you started noticing the way his voice softened when he said your name, or how he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

“i should get going,” you say, standing up and brushing off your chilton uniform. “nick’s waiting for me at the bookstore.”

matt stands too, stuffing his book into his jacket pocket. “don’t stay away too long, greenaway.”

there it is again—that weight in his words, something that makes your heart skip. you nod, unsure of what to say, and walk away, feeling his eyes on you until you disappear into the bookstore.

later, when you get home, sophie is already there with her band, setting up in the living room like it’s her personal practice space. dave rygalski is tuning his guitar, and you catch the faint scent of takeout wafting through the house.

“soapy, you’ve officially turned my living room into a recording studio,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.

“you’re welcome!” she calls over her shoulder. “we’re just waiting for your mom to get back with food.”

as if on cue, elle walks through the door, juggling several bags of takeout. “dinner is served!” she announces, smiling in that casual, effortless way she has.

you help her set the food on the kitchen counter, chatting about your day as sophie and the band argue over the tempo of a song. it’s loud, chaotic, and yet it feels completely normal.

not long after, your dad, spencer, walks in, his usual stack of books tucked under one arm, glasses perched on his nose. “what’s all the noise?”

“band practice,” you say, smiling as he surveys the scene. “it’s always band practice.”

spencer nods thoughtfully, like the existence of a band in his living room is something he’s fully prepared for. “well, carry on.”

dinner at the reid-greenaway household is filled with laughter and teasing, as it always is. elle asks about school, spencer throws in the occasional trivia fact, and the noise of the band practicing in the background creates a comfortable soundtrack to the evening.

eventually, the night winds down, and you find yourself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the memory of matt on that bench. his words echo in your head, mingling with the soft hum of ‘fade into you’ that plays in the background.

it’s saturday morning, and you’re walking down the familiar streets of stars hollow with “there she goes” playing on your old walkman. the sun’s just breaking through the clouds, bathing everything in a golden autumn glow. the crunch of leaves under your feet sets the rhythm as you make your way to luke’s, where a coffee run is a sacred ritual.

the bell jingles as you push open the door, and the warm, coffee-scented air greets you like an old friend. luke’s is bustling with early risers, and you make a beeline for the counter where luke is busy pouring coffee.

“mornin’, yn,” luke says in his usual gruff yet familiar tone, already reaching for three to-go coffee cups. he doesn’t need to ask what you’re ordering—three coffees to go is basically your weekend tradition.

“morning, luke,” you reply, slipping off your headphones. “you know the drill. extra caffeine. life-saving, consciousness-reviving levels of caffeine. honestly, i should just hook it up to an iv at this point.”

“you kids are gonna od on this stuff one day,” he mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

lorelai, seated at the counter, overhears and gives you a mischievous grin. “ah, the youth of stars hollow. running on pure caffeine and dreams. it’s like watching the next generation of me.”

you smirk. “i prefer to think of it as highly efficient multitasking.”

luke hands you the first cup of coffee. “you mean procrastinating on real work?”

you give him a mock-serious nod. “luke, when have i ever deceived you about the importance of procrastination?”

lorelai leans over, clearly entertained. “see? she gets it. chilton pressure plus caffeine equals survival.”

“don’t encourage her,” luke grumbles, handing you the next two coffees.

“too late!” you and lorelai say in unison, laughing.

with the tray of coffees in hand, you wave a quick goodbye. “thanks, luke! see you tomorrow for round two.”

as you step back outside, the cool air hits your face, and you continue your walk, heading toward the bakery. the sign above the door reads sweet street, the sturniolo family’s cozy little spot. as you approach, you hear the familiar sounds of sophie in deep debate with jimmy.

“i’m telling you, ‘siamese dream’ is the smashing pumpkins’ best album. it’s got the perfect balance of angst and melody!” sophie insists, her eyes wide with passion as she gestures animatedly.

jimmy, leaning against the counter, raises an eyebrow. “i don’t know, ‘mellon collie’ has its merits. it’s more experimental, shows growth.”

you push open the door and walk in, shaking your head with a grin. “if i had a nickel for every time i walked in on you two arguing about music…”

sophie turns, her eyes immediately locking onto the coffee tray in your hands. “you got my coffee, right? precisely how i like it?”

you hand her the cup with a deadpan expression. “in our years of friendship, when have i ever deceived you?”

sophie smirks, taking a sip. “true. you’re as dependable as jimmy’s music takes.”

“thank you for that… i think,” jimmy mutters, rolling his eyes but smiling all the same. he grabs a bag from behind the counter and hands it to sophie. “here, muffins for the road. you two are going to need fuel for your record store adventures.”

“jimmy, you are a saint among men,” sophie says dramatically, clutching the bag to her chest.

just then, marylou emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. her eyes light up when she sees you. “yn! i’m so glad you’re here. got a second?”

you exchange a glance with sophie, who raises an eyebrow. “uh-oh, that sounds ominous,” she says.

“i need a favour,” marylou says, leaning against the counter with a sigh.

you set down the coffee tray, immediately wary. “what kind of favour?”

marylou glances at soapy, who’s now munching on a muffin, before turning back to you. “it’s about matt.”

your stomach drops a little. “oh boy.”

“he’s been skipping school,” marylou says, her voice lowering. “a lot of school. stars hollow high is threatening to kick him out if he keeps it up.”

you blink, trying to wrap your head around it. “but he’s… matt. he knows more about hemingway and faulkner than half the population.”

“i know,” marylou says, exasperated. “but he’s not showing it in school. his grades are tanking, and… i thought, maybe, if you tutored him, you could get through to him. he listens to you.”

you glance at sophie, who’s smirking over her muffin, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation. “why me?” you ask, incredulous. “i’m not exactly on matt’s top ten list of people to hang out with.”

marylou gives you that mom look—the one that’s equal parts pleading and expectant. “he only seems to care about what you have to say. plus, you’re brilliant. you’re like your dad.”

you squirm a little under the weight of the compliment. “i don’t know, marylou. i mean, tutoring matt? what if he doesn’t even show up?”

“please,” marylou says, her eyes wide with hope. “you’re the only one i can trust with this. i’m running out of options.”

before you can say anything, you hear footsteps from upstairs, and nick comes down, his camera slung over his shoulder. he spots the coffee tray and grins. “ah, lifesaver! thanks, yn,” he says, grabbing his cup.

“ready to hit the record store?” sophie asks, stuffing the last bit of muffin into her mouth.

nick nods. “yeah, if we leave now, we can catch that new shipment kirk was talking about.”

you’re just about to grab your stuff when marylou gives you one last look. “yn, please. just think about it sweetheart, okay?”

you bite your lip, feeling a little torn. “i’ll think about it, i promise.”

with that, the three of you head out of the bakery, the cool autumn air swirling around you once again. as you walk, the conversation shifts to records and music, but your mind is still on matt, skipping school, and the weight of marylou’s request hanging over you like the last leaf clinging to a tree.

as you, nick, and sophie make your way through stars hollow, the crisp autumn air fills your lungs. leaves scatter across the street in shades of amber and crimson, a constant reminder that fall has fully settled in. the three of you are bundled up, coffees from luke’s in hand, weaving through the familiar streets toward your destination—the record store.

“tutoring matt,” soapy says, breaking the comfortable silence with a dramatic scoff. “i mean, it’s like trying to give life advice to a james dean character—lots of sulking, a cigarette somewhere, and an existential crisis about algebra. or better yet it’s like asking me to explain quantum physics to kirk. it makes no sense.”

nick lags behind, fiddling with his camera, capturing shots of the early fall leaves against the old buildings. “honestly, matt might actually listen to you. i’ve tried the whole ‘big brother’ speech, but he’s slippery.”

“too busy with his ‘rebel without a cause’ routine,” you quip. “i get it, geometry’s the enemy.”

nick chuckles as he snaps another picture. “it’s not just that. it’s like he’s checked out. he doesn’t care anymore. chris has his hockey, i have my photography, but matt… matt just floats.”

“floating,” sophie repeats, swirling her hand in a swooping motion. “that’s the sturniolo brand.”

you smirk but feel the weight of it. “and i’m supposed to ground him?”

“exactly, baby!” sophie says, throwing her arm around your shoulders.

nick snickers, adjusting the strap of his ever-present camera. “i mean, it makes a little sense. you’re the one who got him through that faulkner essay freshman year. and let’s not forget, matt knows more about ‘the sun also rises’ than our actual english teacher. he just doesn’t care about school.”

you shake your head, still trying to wrap your mind around Marylou’s request. “yeah, but tutoring matters is different. the guy reads moby dick for fun but won’t show up for class.”

sophie rolls her eyes. “maybe he’s like, secretly a genius. he’s too cool for high school, but deep down, he’s panicking that he won’t get into a college for misunderstood literary bad boys.”

you laugh. “that doesn’t sound like him. he’s more like ‘i don’t care about anything because everything is boring.’ why does it have to be me? he probably doesn’t even care about my existence.”

nick raises an eyebrow, giving you a knowing look. “are we talking about the same matthew here? because he definitely cares about your existence.. about you. he literally asked you about your thoughts on nietzsche last week, and we all know that’s basically his way of flirting.”

you blink at him, flustered. “that’s not flirting. that’s matt being… well matt.”

sophie grins, walking backward in front of you, her boots crunching against the fallen leaves. “oh, please. the guy’s got that ‘i’m too brooding for feelings, but maybe i’ll make an exception for you’ thing going on. i bet tutoring him will be just like dangerous minds but with more existential angst.”

you roll your eyes, taking a sip of your coffee. “you both are reading way too much into this.”

but before you can dwell on the idea of matt being interested in anything—or anyone—you approach the familiar, worn-down exterior of the stars hollow record store. the place smells like old vinyl and nostalgia, and as you push the door open, you hear the familiar chime of the bell above.

kirk is manning the counter, diligently arranging records in alphabetical order with the concentration of someone assembling a nuclear bomb. “ah, the trio returns! i assume you’re here for your usual eclectic mix of ‘stuff kirk doesn’t understand but pretends to be into.’” he greets, barely looking up from his work.

you smile as you make your way over to the bins. “you know us so well, kirk.”

sophie immediately makes a beeline for the indie section, eyes gleaming with determination. “i need some early pixies or maybe sleater-kinney. jenna—uh, someone i know—said it’s life-changing.”

nick raises an eyebrow at her slip. “you can say her name, you know. we all know you’re obsessed with jenna ortega.”

sophie, blushing but undeterred, begins flipping through the records. “i’m not obsessed. i’m… highly focused.”

you and nick exchange a glance before bursting into laughter. “highly focused, huh? you’ve been strategizing your next run-in with her for days,” you tease.

“she works at the theater!” sophie defends herself. “i’m just doing recon. casual recon. my plan is flawless—show up during the Friday night rush, bump into her, spill my drink—oops!—and then heroically offer to replace it. classic rom-com setup.”

nick shakes his head, grinning. “yeah, because nothing says ‘i’m interested’ like spilling soda all over someone.”

“you’re one to talk,” sophie shoots back. “mr. ‘i shared ice cream with dave at the founder’s day picnic and still haven’t made a move.’ what are your plans pretty boy?” nick’s face flushes immediately, and he ducks behind his camera, pretending to take a picture of the counter. “no moves. no plans. nothing.”

soapy cackles. “liar! you totally like him. what was it he said to you during the stars hollow harvest festival? something about ‘nice camera work’?”

nick groans. “he said he liked my composition, okay? it’s not a big deal.”

“right,” you tease, pulling out a talking heads record. “and then he asked you for your favorite lens, which is basically code for ‘i think you’re cute.’”

nick rolls his eyes. “that was… nothing. plus it’s complicated i mean lane literally dumped him not too long ago and not to mention the fact that it’s the early 2000s. i don’t even know if he’s into guys. i mean, what am i supposed to do? just ask him out at the town square while taylor’s running the pie-eating contest?”

you sigh rummaging through the sundays records. “just don’t overthink it, okay? dave’s cool. you’re cool. stars hollow’s already the weirdest place on earth, so who cares?”

nick lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “it’s not that simple. what if i make a move and it ruins everything? we have a good thing going right now. i don’t want to screw that up.”

sophie claps a hand on his shoulder. “just go in there with a plan. spill a drink, offer to replace it—works every time.”

kirk, who’s been listening intently while alphabetizing records, chimes in, “i once spilled milk on lulu’s book at the library. now we’re dating. so, yeah, maybe it works.”

the three of you exchange bemused glances before bursting into laughter. “thanks for the tip, kirk,” you manage between giggles.

“maybe. i don’t know. i guess i’m just not as bold as soapy over here with her grand schemes.” nick exclaims going back to their previous conversation.

sophie waves him off, pretending to be absorbed in her record search. “don’t worry. when jenna and i are dating and being all adorable together, you’ll be inspired by my brilliance. we’ll double-triple date! me and jenna, you and dave, yn and matt. picture it.”

nick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. “right. because triple dating with jenna ortega and my triplet brother sounds so realistic.”

“dream big, nick. dream big,” sophie replies, holding up a copy of surfer rosa triumphantly before heading to the counter.

kirk glances at the record soapy’s holding with raised eyebrows. “sleater-kinney isn’t for everyone, you know.”

“oh, trust me, it’s for me,” sophie responds, placing it on the counter with a grin.

as she finishes paying, you and nick continue to browse, flipping through records more for the vibe than anything else. but as you shuffle through the vinyls, you can’t help but think back to your conversation about matt. nick and soapy’s teasing aside, you know that tutoring matt could be… complicated. but there’s something about the idea that draws you in.

nick, picking up a fleetwood mac album, glances over at you. “so, are you going to do it? tutor matt, i mean.”

you sigh, half distracted by the thought. “i don’t know. it feels like a lot. he’s barely in school as it is, and i’ve got chilton, my dad’s constant pressure, and now this. i’m not even sure he wants help.”

nick shrugs, putting the record back on the shelf. “maybe he just needs someone to push him. and let’s be real, you’re probably the only person in town who can.”

“yeah, because ‘pushing’ matt sounds like a great idea,” you mutter. “it’ll probably end with him dropping out entirely and moving to paris to write nihilistic poetry.”

sophie returns from the counter, bag in hand, still riding the high of her record purchase. “look, yn, you’re the only person who even remotely gets matt. and if he’s not showing up to class or trying in school, maybe that’s because no one’s ever made it interesting for him. you’re different. you could get him to care.”

you let out a laugh, though it’s tinged with uncertainty. “or he’ll make my life miserable.”

nick smiles gently, a rare seriousness in his expression. “or maybe he’ll surprise you.”

you glance at your friends, feeling the weight of their encouragement, but still unsure. the idea of spending more time with matt is… intimidating, in more ways than one.

“i’ll think about it,” you say, but deep down, you already know your answer.

heading back from the record store, you spot dave rygalski crossing the street. nick freezes for a split second before quickly pretending to adjust his camera, but it’s too late—you and soapy already noticed.

“there’s your chance,” sophie whispers with a sly grin.

nick groans. “goodbye, ladies,” he mutters, clearly flustered.

you and sophie exchange a laugh as nick hurries off, and after a few more jokes, you all say your goodbyes and head your separate ways. by the time you’re alone, you’ve made up your mind: tutoring matt might not be so bad. worst-case, he throws a few sarcastic comments, and you both call it a day.

that evening, after a quiet dinner with your parents—spencer lost in some case files and elle chatting about her day at the bau—you head up to your room, prepared for a low-key night. but, as you’re about to settle into bed with your latest book, your phone buzzes.

it’s a text from matt.

still up for tutoring me?

you stare at the message, momentarily stunned. somehow, the fact that he’s actually asking you makes it all feel a little more real. a little more personal.

yeah, when? you type back, fingers moving faster than your brain can catch up.

tomorrow night?

you chew on your bottom lip, considering. tomorrow’s Sunday—usually a good day for catching up on homework, so why not?

okay. my place?

a pause. then, sure. see you at 7.

you toss your phone onto your bed, your heart doing that weird thing again—the fluttering thing it does when matt’s name pops up on your screen.

the next day passes in a blur of homework and chores, but by the time 7 p.m. rolls around, you’re sitting at your desk, textbooks and notes laid out, waiting for matt to show up. you tell yourself it’s just tutoring, nothing more. just helping out a friend who, for some reason, can’t keep up with school. simple.

but when the knock comes at the door, and you open it to find matt standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, you feel anything but simple.

“hey,” he says, his voice low, his eyes flicking briefly to your stack of books before landing back on you.

“hey,” you manage, stepping aside to let him in. he brushes past you, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—something subtle, but distinctly matt.

“you sure about this?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow as he glances around your room. “i’m kind of a lost cause.”

“don’t be dramatic,” you say, rolling your eyes as you sit down at your desk. “you’re not a lost cause. just… distracted.”

“distracted,” he echoes, a hint of amusement in his voice as he drops his bag by the desk and sits on your bed, looking far too comfortable for someone who’s supposedly in need of academic help.

you shoot him a look. “yeah, distracted. now, come on, i’m serious. we need to figure out why you’re failing.”

he shrugs, leaning back against your headboard, one arm draped casually across his lap, the other—the tattooed one—resting on the bed beside him, fingers playing with one of the many rings he wears. “what can i say? school doesn’t exactly hold my interest.”

you sigh, exasperated but not surprised. “okay, but if you don’t pass, it’s going to cause all kinds of problems down the line. you’ve got to at least pretend to care.”

he gives you a half-smirk. “maybe i need someone to make me care.”

the comment is so typical of him, and yet, the way he says it makes your heart skip a beat. you stare at him for a moment, unsure whether he’s being serious or just trying to get under your skin. it’s always hard to tell with matt.

“well, i’m not here to play therapist,” you finally say, flipping open his english textbook. “so, how about we start with the great gatsby?”

matt groans but swings his legs off the bed and drags himself to the desk, pulling up a chair beside you. “fine. but only because i like gatsby.”

you raise an eyebrow. “oh yeah? what do you like about it?”

he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and looks at you with that intense gaze of his. “i like that gatsby’s not really a hero. he’s flawed, but he’s still this larger-than-life figure. everyone’s drawn to him, even though he’s broken inside.”

there’s a beat of silence after he speaks, and you feel the weight of his words, like he’s not really talking about gatsby at all. you look at him, but he’s already flipping through the pages of the textbook, like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest ache a little.

you clear your throat and focus on the book. “okay. well, let’s talk about the symbolism in chapter four—”

but matt interrupts you. “do we have to? i mean, do you really think fitzgerald was sitting there, thinking, ‘i’m gonna put a green light in here to mess with students 70 years from now’?”

you laugh despite yourself. “yes, actually. i think fitzgerald lived for that kind of thing.”

he smirks, leaning back in his chair. “‘course you would.”

you nudge his arm playfully, trying to ignore the way his casual smirk makes your heart race. “focus, sturniolo. we’re here to get you passing, not to debate the merits of literary analysis.”

“right, right,” he says, but his tone is teasing, and he seems more interested in distracting you than actually working.

for the next hour, you try to guide him through his homework, but matt being matt, he keeps finding ways to sidetrack the conversation. one minute, you’re talking about nick carraway’s unreliable narration, and the next, he’s asking if you’ve ever been to new york, spinning some story about how he’s planning to move there one day, maybe open a bookshop, maybe just live in some crummy apartment and write.

“you could come with me, you know,” he says at one point, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

you laugh, shaking your head. “matt, you don’t even know if you’re going to graduate.”

he grins. “details. minor details.”

by the time you finally get him to finish one of his assignments, it’s already late, and you’re more frustrated than you care to admit. matt’s leaning back in his chair, watching you with that same infuriating smirk, and you can tell he knows exactly how he’s been pushing your buttons.

“you’re impossible, you know that?” you say, crossing your arms as you stand up, glaring at him in mock-annoyance.

he stands up too, but instead of backing down, he steps closer, closing the gap between you. “i thought you liked a challenge.”

your breath catches in your throat, the teasing banter suddenly shifting into something heavier, something more charged. he’s so close now that you can see the faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the curve of his lips as they quirk up in that signature smirk.

“i do,” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

the space between you seems to shrink, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you. and then—he does.

it’s soft at first, almost tentative, but then his hand finds the small of your back, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens. your heart races, your mind spinning as you kiss him back, losing yourself in the moment. his lips are warm and sure, and everything about it feels so right, even though you know it shouldn’t.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, and matt’s looking at you with something like surprise in his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting this either.

“i—” you start, but you don’t know what to say.

“don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low. “don’t ruin it.”

you nod, still caught up in the haze of the kiss, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you’re standing on solid ground anymore.

matt pulls away then, running a hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. “i should go.”

“yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “okay.”

but as he turns to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted between you—something big, and irreversible.

and somehow, you know things between you and matt sturniolo will never be the same again.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ gilmore girls au how we feelin?!?! i really tried to make the dialogue and energy as similar to the show as possible so please don’t ask me about half of the references cause i just went on google fr 😭😭 5.1k wc and i know not much really happened but idc i live for the trio :3 pls talk to me in da inbox

❝ 𝟐𝟐𝟐 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @eternaldecisions @elizabebabe

❝ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @l34n @sturniolossss @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @mattscoquette @chratts-left-ball @jetaimevous @angelesqve @starlace111 @fawnchives @starkeyszn @etherealval @slut4chriss

© sirenedeslily

[nanamineedstherapy]

Heat & Dust: Where the Wind Calls Her Name

Modern AU: Nanami Kento x Indian F!Wife Reader

Summary: Nanami & his wife were happy. That was before Rajasthan. Because when the wind howls through the ruins, the whispers call a name. (A slow-burn tragedy about a love lost & a man who never stopped looking.) Trigger Warnings: Smut (so minors & ageless blogs please touch grass), Heavy Angst, Unreliable Narrator, Shakespearian Tragedy, Haunting Love Stories, Loverboy Kento Nanami, Emotional Torture, Rajasthan & Indian Folklore, Death (Past & New), Ghost Prince GS, Hopeless Romanticism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. The Reader is of Indian descent, but you can hallucinate whatever you want, body type, skin complexion, etc., descriptions have not been used. The town is real & abandoned overnight for haunting reasons, but the palace described is fictional. A/N: Welcome to My TED Talk on Why Nanami Kento Can’t Have Peace. So yesterday, I watched an Indian horror movie, & then I remembered a convo I had with my Indian atheist friend (hardcore non-believer), who casually dropped the fact that in India, “Oh yeah, we don’t dress up too much around ruins.” And I was like… excuse me???. Apparently, this isn’t just a "women beware" thing—even guys warn each other about this, because it’s not just women—cute men have also disappeared or gone insane. So instead of reacting like a normal person, my brain said: “What if Nanami Kento went full Majnu?” So naturally, this is now Nanami’s problem. Also, why do I keep making this man suffer? I love him, I really do, but if he’s not in maximum emotional distress, am I really doing my job? Anyway, Nanami is suffering & the narrator is a liar. Believe nothing. Enjoy the pain, besties. 🖤

Rajasthan was a furnace in late autumn. The sun bled into the horizon, streaking the sky with burnt oranges and bruised purples as a foreigner husband and his local wife trailed behind their tour group.

"Are we really doing this?" She murmured, her fingers lightly brushing his wrist. The tour guide was droning on about the history of Kuldhara, the abandoned village known for its curse. But their real interest lay in the looming structure ahead—the palace of a prince, a name lost in history but kept alive by local whispers.

The palace was breathtaking, a relic of Rajasthan’s royal past, its sandstone walls glowing amber under the setting sun. Nanami Kento had never been one for grand romantic gestures, but even he couldn’t resist the allure of this Mahal, with its intricate mosaics and whispered legends. His wife had been the one to suggest the trip. “It’s a place for lovers,” she’d said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And we could use a little adventure, don’t you think?”

They had been married for five years, a union that defied cultural expectations—a half-Danish, half-Japanese man and an Indian woman who had met in the unlikeliest of places: a student exchange in Tokyo. Their love had always been quiet but fierce, built on mutual respect and a shared disdain for the supernatural. They were atheists, both of them, grounded in logic and reason. Ghosts, spirits, curses—these were the stuff of fairy tales, not their reality.

Nanami adjusted his sunglasses. "It’s just a palace. You wanted to see something ‘haunted,’ right?"

She scoffed. "I was joking."

"You were not."

A smirk tugged at her lips. "Fine. Maybe a little."

The group paused in front of the arched entryway; the marble cracked and overgrown with creeping vines. A hush settled over them as the guide began to recount the tale:

“This story isn’t in most history books, but ask the locals, and they’ll all tell you the same thing. Hundreds of years ago, a foreign prince came to this land—as a conqueror, though he stayed because of a person who lived here. Some say it was a woman, others say a man. The details were lost over time, but what we do know is that he had wealth, power, and control over vast territories. Yet, despite all of that, he chose to stay here, in a kingdom that wasn’t of his customs.

The prince was renowned for his striking beauty—his unique hair and captivating eyes—a ruler of immense charm but even greater misfortune. He built alliances, settled disputes, even took on the customs of the land. He was even undefeated in wars, a genius strategist. Some say he did it all for them—for the one person he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

But love like that rarely ends well.

One night, he vanished alongside his lover, a woman likely, promised to another. Some say they were caught and killed before they could run. Others say the prince’s enemies set a trap, making sure neither of them left these walls alive. But the strangest stories come from those who claim he never left at all.”

Nanami’s wife rolled her eyes. "He sounds like a tragic anime protagonist."

Nanami exhaled sharply—a rare, barely-there laugh. "You watch too much TV."

She elbowed him, and he caught her wrist, pulling her closer. The air between them shifted—heavy, charged.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s go somewhere less... crowded."

His hesitation was brief, a flicker of logic against the pull of her hand. They drifted past a crumbling archway, slipping into the shadowed halls of the abandoned palace. The moment the voices of the group faded behind them, the atmosphere thickened.

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

She tugged him into a hidden alcove, her back pressing against cool stone. "No one’s here," she murmured, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Careful, darling, you sound too eager," he smeirked, his voice lower and rougher.

"Maybe I just believe in you more than the ghosts," she teased.

But the Mahal had other plans.

He kissed her before she could say anything more—slow, deliberate, consuming. The taste of sweat and dust mixed with the softness of her lips, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond this—just the weight of her body against his, the sharp intake of breath when he gripped her waist beneath her t-shirt, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms. Her lips kissing his with a hunger that made his chest ache.

They kissed like they were the only two people in the world, the cool marble at their backs and the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air.

When they finally pulled apart, she laughed, her voice echoing strangely in the empty hall. “This place is magic,” she said, her fingers tracing the patterns on the wall. “Can’t you feel it?”

Nanami smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I feel you,” he replied, his voice low. “That’s enough magic for me.”

And then—

The wind shifted.

A whisper of cool air, unnatural against the desert heat, coiled around them.

She shivered.

He pulled back slightly, brows furrowing. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head. “I just... felt something.” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite put it into words.

A beat of silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken as he waited for her to elaborate.

Then she laughed, the sound light and airy, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Forget it. Let’s go back,” she said, her smile returning as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Her lips brushing against his ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “I want us to start trying for a baby.”

He shivered, a mix of surprise and warmth flooding through him. He’d wanted to have a family with her ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone and called the driver, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

As she stepped away, though, she hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Her gaze flickered toward the shadows of the palace, her smile faltering.

But then she shook it off, linking her arm with her husband’s waist, who kissed her forehead and pulled her towards the exit.

---

The first time he noticed something was wrong, it was subtle.

She was quieter on the ride back. Thoughtful. Her fingers tapped against the car window, her gaze unfocused.

"You’re not feeling sick, are you?" he asked, eyes flickering toward her.

She turned to him too slowly, blinking as if shaking herself from a daze. "No. Just tired."

He accepted it. At first.

But the things were going to change forever.

The moment the words had left her lips—“I want us to start trying for a baby”—Nanami’s world had narrowed to her, like it already didn’t revolve around her. His hands, usually so controlled, had trembled as they gripped her hips, pulling her closer. His lips had found hers in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and reverence; his breath had hitched as she melted into him.

“Are you sure?” He’d murmured against her mouth as soon as they walked inside their hotel room, his voice rough with need. When she nodded, his restraint had shattered.

He had been everywhere at once—his hands roaming her body, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. He was drunk on her, consumed by the idea of her carrying his child, and it showed in every touch, every kiss, every ragged breath. His composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, primal hunger that left her breathless.

Nanami had been relentless, each thrust drawing a gasp or moan from her lips. He’d already brought her to the edge multiple times, his hands and mouth working in tandem to unravel her completely. But now, as he hovered above her, his hips moving with a rhythm that was almost possessive, he was focused on one thing: filling her. The thought of it—of her carrying his child—had him teetering on the edge of control.

“K…Ken…Ahh,” she had whimpered his name, her nails digging into his back as she arched against him. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

“I’ve got you,” he’d murmured, voice rough, breathless. His hand had slid between them, thumb circling her clit as he felt her tighten around him again. “Come for me one more time, love.”

She had, her body shuddering as she cried out his name. He was about to follow her over the edge.

But then, she had frozen. Her eyes wide, as she’d turned her head sharply toward the window. “Do you hear that?” she’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch his breath. “Hear what?” he’d asked; his tone had been calm but tinged with concern.

“Music,” she’d said, her voice barely audible. "It's... it’s faint, but it’s there. Like a sitar or something.”

He had seriously listened but had heard nothing except the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of the curtains. “I don’t hear anything,” he’d said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you sure?”

She’d nodded, eyes wide with confusion. “It’s there, Kento. I’m not imagining it.”

Nanami had studied her face, his analytical mind kicking into gear.

He had known her well enough to recognize when she was serious, and right now, she looked genuinely unsettled.

“Alright,” he’d said softly, pulling out of her and sitting up. “Let’s figure this out.”

She’d blinked, surprised by his calm reaction. “You believe me?”

“I believe that you heard something,” he’d said carefully, his tone measured. “Whether it’s real or not, we’ll find out. But I need you to be honest with me—are you sure you’re ready for this? For us trying for a baby?”

Her eyes had been filled with tears, and she’d shaken her head. “I’m not lying, Kento. I want this. I want us. But I heard something, and it's...”

He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s take a breath and figure this out together.”

As he’d reached for his robe, she’d grabbed his hand, her grip tight. “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

He’d turned back to her, his expression softening. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he’d said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll figure this out. But for now, let’s just... breathe.”

She’d nodded, but the unease in her eyes remained.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Nanami had muttered before walking away.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of music still echoing in her ears.

Later that night, as they lay in their bed, she had sat up abruptly, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” she’d whispered.

“Hear what?” Nanami had asked, already half-asleep.

“A voice. It was… singing.”

He’d dismissed it as a trick of the wind or her exhaustion, but the next day, she’d insisted they return to the palace, her tone urgent and her eyes wide with something he couldn’t quite place. “I need to see it again,” she’d said, her tone urgent. “There’s something there, Kento. I can’t explain it.” He had to spend two hours convincing her it was nothing and they’d stick with their itinerary with the hotel.

Maybe it was the stress of traveling. Maybe the unfamiliar environment was playing tricks on her senses. Or maybe, just maybe, she was overwhelmed by the idea of starting a family. He’d convinced himself it was temporary, something they could work through together.

But then it started happening every time.

Just as he was about to cum inside, she’d flinch, her body tensing as she turned her head sharply, her eyes darting toward some unseen corner of the room. “Do you hear that?” she’d whisper, her voice trembling. “Music. It’s… it’s faint, but it’s there.”

And every time, he’d stop, his patience wearing thinner and thinner. He’d listen, his brow furrowed, but hear nothing. “There’s no music,” he’d say, his voice calm but tinged with frustration. “It’s just us.”

She’d insist, her eyes pleading with him to believe her, but he couldn’t. Not when it kept happening. Not when it felt like she was pulling away from him in the moments they should have been closest.

Nanami was a logical man. He prided himself on his ability to analyze situations, to break them down into manageable parts, and find solutions. But this... this defied logic. He’d run through every possible explanation—stress, fatigue, even the lingering effects of jet lag—but none of them fully accounted for her behavior. And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing doubt in the back of his mind.

Maybe she doesn’t want this. Maybe she doesn’t want kids with me. Maybe she doesn’t want me.

The thought was like a knife to his chest. They’d been together for so long—twelve years of knowing each other, five years of marriage. He’d fought for her, convinced her family to let him marry her, to leave everything behind and build a life with him. He’d never doubted her love before, but now... now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t want to believe his intrusive thoughts; he really didn’t.

She loved him, right? She married him.

But then why did this trip feel like he was better off back home than traveling the world with the love of his life?

So next time he hadn't been as kind to her.

“Ken baby,” she’d breathed one night, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. They had been in their hotel room, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her touch had been warm, familiar, and for a moment, he let himself believe everything was okay.

He’d kissed her deeply, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift her onto the bed from the table he’d been fucking her against. His movements were urgent but reverent, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. He wanted her, wanted this, wanted the future they’d talked about for so long.

But then, as he’d continued to roll his hips, tettering on the edge of her and his own release, his eyes dark with desire, she’d froze.

Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes wide with fear. “Do you hear that?” She’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, jaw tightening. “Hear what?” he’d asked, tone clipped.

“Music,” she’d said. “It’s… it’s coming from somewhere.”

He’d stared at her, his frustration bubbling over.

“There’s no music,” he’d said flatly, voice tight. “Are you... changing your mind? Is that what this is?”

“What? No!” She’d protested, voice rising. “I heard something, Kento. I’m not lying.”

He’d clenched his jaw and pulled out and away, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If you’re not ready, just say so. Don’t make up excuses.”

Her eyes had been wide, hurt flashing across her face. “I’m not making anything up! I heard music. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because there’s nothing there!” He’d snapped, voice sharper than he intended. He stood, pacing the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you’re not ready for this, fine. But don’t play games with me.”

She’d stared at him, her chest tightening. “I’m not playing games,” she’d said quietly, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not lying to you.”

Nanami had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to take a shower,” he’d muttered.

He’d grabbed his robe and left the room without another word.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of a voice singing her name still echoing in her ears.

Kento didn’t know that was the last time he was ever going to have sex with her.

---

Then, back in Tokyo, small things had began piling up.

She flinched at things he couldn’t see.

"You’re being ridiculous," he said one evening when she refused to step into their dimly lit living room. "It’s just shadows."

"You don’t understand," she whispered.

"You’re right," he snapped, patience thinning. "I don’t."

She recoiled as if struck.

Then she’d begun walking in the night, her side of the bed cold. She claimed she heard music, faint and haunting, like the strains of a sitar playing in another room. Nanami would check the apartment, of course, but there was never anything there.

“It’s stress,” he’d said one evening, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should take some time off.”

She’d glared at him, her usually warm eyes icy. “You think I’m imagining this?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” he’d replied, reaching for her hand. She’d pulled away.

And then there were the whispers—half-heard murmurs when she thought he wasn’t listening.

She’d started to wake up in the middle of the night, staring at the corner of their bedroom. Sometimes mumbling under her breath, as if answering a question.

The fights started small—her frustration at his refusal to believe her, his exhaustion at her growing paranoia.

But resentment festered like a wound left untreated.

She’d insisted she wasn’t crazy and that something—or someone—was following her.

Nanami, the pragmatist, had suggested therapy. “Just to rule things out,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please, darling. For me.”

She’d agreed, but the sessions only seemed to make things worse.

The therapist diagnosed her with schizophrenia, a word that hung between them like a death sentence.

She stopped going to work, retreating into herself. She spent her days at home, staring out the window or pacing the apartment, her once-vibrant personality dulled to a shadow.

Then the arguments got more frequent.

When he suggested starting medication, she laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh.

"You think I’m crazy?"

"I think you need help."

Her lips curled. "Of course you do."

She stopped sleeping beside him.

Stopped talking to him unless necessary.

Work became a distant thing, then a nonexistent one.

Nanami tried to be patient, but the distance between them grew. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing her. The woman he’d married—strong, independent, full of life—was slipping away, replaced by someone he barely recognized.

And one day, he came home to find her in the dark.

---

Nanami had come home to the sound of laughter. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in months, and it stopped him in his tracks.

It had been rich and warm, spilling from her lips like it belonged there.

A weight had lifted from his chest, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Maybe she’d been getting better. Maybe they’d find their way back to each other. Maybe she’d been finally healing. Maybe—

But as he’d stepped into the living room, his heart sank.

She’d been sitting on the floor, her back to him, knees tucked beneath her, hands gesturing lightly—casual, intimate. Her shoulders had been shaking with laughter as she spoke to someone, voice soft.

Except there had been no one there.

“Darling,” he’d called, his voice trembling.

She’d turned then, still smiling, but the moment she’d seen him, her expression had shifted—a flicker of something unreadable before she’d schooled her features.

Her eyes had still been bright with a joy he hadn’t seen in so long. “Kento. You’re home.” She’d greeted him like he was an afterthought.

He’d forced a smile, though his pulse had thundered in his ears. “Who were you talking to?”

Her expression had faltered, just for a moment. “No one,” she said quickly. “Just… thinking out loud.”

“What was so funny?” he’d pushed.

She hesitated. Then, softly added, "you wouldn’t believe me."

His fists had clenched. "Try me."

Then her eyes had flicked—just slightly—to something over his shoulder.

And that was when he’d felt it.

The air had moved.

A cold breath against the back of his neck.

A presence too close, too real.

He’d turned.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami Kento saw a ghost.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in fine, outdated robes.

Beautiful eyes and hair.

Beautiful white hair and piercing blue eyes.

The man—the prince—was watching him with an unreadable expression.

Like a king appraising a pawn.

Like a conqueror surveying his land.

Nanami’s knees had buckled, and he’d fallen.

His wife had rushed forward, instinct taking over, her hands gripping his face, her touch grounding—alive, but her hands had been cold against his skin.

"Kento—!"

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He’d been looking at him.

And the ghost, Prince Gojo Satoru, had simply smirked.

Like he’d already won.

Nanami had realized then—this wasn’t just madness.

It wasn’t a break, a disorder, a cruel trick of the mind.

She hadn’t been losing herself.

She’d been taken.

And he had let it happen.

The pieces had fallen into place with cruel clarity.

The voice she’d heard in the palace, the laughter, the way she’d become distant—it wasn’t schizophrenia.

It had all been Gojo.

The ghost of a prince who had taken a liking to her, who had followed her home and woven himself into her life.

Nanami felt sick.

He had failed her.

He had dismissed her fears, convinced himself she was ill, when the truth was far more terrifying.

And now he was losing her to a man who wasn’t even alive.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, his voice breaking. “I should have believed you.”

Her face had crumpled, and she’d pulled him into her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it either.”

But as they clung to each other, Nanami couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late.

---

In the weeks that followed, she’d grow weaker, her once-vibrant spirit fading like a dying flame.

Nanami watched helplessly as the woman he loved slipped further and further away, her laughter now a ghostly echo in their empty home.

And in the corner of the room, Gojo watched, his smirk never wavering.

But as he’d sat by her bedside, holding her hand as she slept, he’d make a silent vow. He would find a way to bring her back, even if it meant confronting the dead monarch himself.

After all, love was the only magic he had ever believed in.

Then Nanami had tried everything—doctors, therapists, even a desperate visit to a priestess who had taken one look at him and shaken her head. “There’s nothing I can do,” she’d said. “This is beyond me.”

And now, she was gone.

She died on a quiet morning, as if the universe itself was too ashamed to make a sound.

No violence, no struggle—just silence.

Nanami had left for groceries, and when he returned, the door was ajar.

The air inside was stale, thick, suffocating.

He’d called her name.

No answer.

He found her curled on their bed, her body unnaturally still, her hands resting lightly on her stomach as if she had merely dozed off. Her lips were parted, and for a moment, he swore he saw them move.

But she was cold.

Kento stood there for a long time, unable to move, unable to breathe.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

He shook her once, twice. "Darling."

Her head lolled to the side.

His fingers clenched around her shoulders. "This isn’t funny."

Nothing.

A sound escaped him—raw, broken.

They told him it was heart failure. A tragedy. Sudden. Unexplained.

But he knew better.

The days that followed were a blur.

Nanami moved through them like a ghost himself, his grief a heavy cloak that suffocated him.

He expected to see Gojo’s ghost lurking in the corners of their apartment, taunting him, but the white-haired figure was nowhere to be found. It was as if Gojo had vanished the moment his wife had taken her last breath.

Nanami hated him for it.

Hated him for taking her, for leaving him alone, for existing at all.

But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to save her. For not believing her in time.

The days stretched into weeks. He drifted, weightless, his mind full of echoes.

He stopped speaking to people. Stopped working.

The world became a distant thing, muffled and unreal.

But the pull remained.

---

It was a month after her death when Nanami stood in the shadow of the Mahal, its sandstone walls glowing in the afternoon sun, looming over him like a specter from a past he couldn’t escape. It didn't hold the same allure anymore.

Now, it felt like a tomb.

He didn’t know why he’d come. He hadn’t planned it.

He hadn’t planned on anything at all.

Maybe it was desperation, or maybe it was the faint hope that he could confront Gojo, demand answers, scream at him until his voice gave out.

But deep down, he knew the truth: he was here because he had nowhere else to go.

The palace was empty; no tourists.

Nanami wandered the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He found the alcove where it had all begun—the place where he had shared that fateful kiss.

The memory was sharp, painful, and he clenched his fists to keep from breaking down.

There was no sound, no music, only the faint rustle of wind through the palace’s ancient halls. Nanami sank to his knees, his anger giving way to despair. He whispered, his voice cracking. “Why? Why her?”

Still, there was nothing. No ghostly figure, no laughter, no sign that Gojo had ever been there at all.

Nanami felt a surge of frustration.

Had it all been in his head? Had her illness been just that—an illness—and he had been going insane and started seeing it too?

As he sat there, his mind racing, the air got heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and decay, and a faint sound reached his ears.

It was music—soft and haunting, reminiscent of the tunes she had described hearing all those months ago.

But this time, it was accompanied by the gentle jingle of the anklets she’d worn on their wedding day and during Karwachauth ever since.

Nanami’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood, following the sound through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors until he reached a small, hidden chamber.

Inside, the walls were covered in intricate carvings, their details illuminated by the faint light of a single oil lamp.

And there in the center of the room—

She’d looked just as she had in life, her eyes warm and full of love, voice soft. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Nanami stumbled forward, reaching for her, but his hand passed through her like smoke. “Darling,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Nanami demanded, his voice rising. “You didn’t choose this! He took you from me!”

She shook her head, her form beginning to fade.

“No!” Nanami shouted, lunging for her, but she was already gone, the music fading with her.

The next moment, there was nothing.

Only silence. Vast and consuming.

Then—a shimmer in the air, warping the space around it, like heat rising from the desert sand.

A figure materialized.

White hair. Piercing Blue eyes. Pale skin. A presence that did not belong.

Nanami could barely breathe.

Gojo Satoru stood before him, his gaze vacant, his posture relaxed in a way that felt unnatural—like he was here, but also elsewhere. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.

"Why her?"

There was no malice, no satisfaction. Just neutrality. An absence of feeling.

Nanami swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers curled into trembling fists. "You really don’t know, do you, Kento?"

Nanami’s jaw clenched. "Enlighten me."

Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if considering the request. When he spoke, there was no anger, no cruelty—just a simple, unwavering truth.

"You married an Indian woman. Lived with her. Loved her. And yet, you never learned the most basic rule."

The air around them shifted, thick with something rancid. The wind through the broken palace walls carried the scent of decay, of age, of something that did not want to be disturbed.

Gojo’s voice remained even.

"In India, there’s an unspoken rule—one even atheists follow."

The air grew colder.

"You do not show off your women in ruins."

Nanami’s stomach twisted.

Gojo blinked slowly, like a creature that had forgotten how to mimic human expression. "You don’t dress them up and parade them around cemeteries, old buildings, palaces." His voice lowered. "People get possessed. Things follow them home."

Nanami felt his breath leave him.

The memory came back. The moment he lost her.

The way she had laughed in that alcove, her lips swollen from his kisses, her body pressed against his, flushed and breathless. The gold that had glinted at her wrists, her throat, catching the dying sunlight—making her glow. The way her voice, filled with love, with life, carried through the hollow halls of a palace where no living thing should have heard it.

They had looked so blissful.

But now, the memory felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Because he’d been watching.

“You looked so happy,” Gojo murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. “So in love.”

There was no malice. No regret. No sympathy.

"And I…" Gojo’s voice barely wavered. "I wanted that."

Nanami’s heart threatened to crawl out of his throat.

Gojo blinked, his expression unchanging. "My love left me," he said. "Married another. Her family pushed her into it, and she stayed once she met him. I waited for her. I waited for her to come back."

His head turned slightly, looking out the window, gaze distant. Like he was watching a memory. Like he was watching something only he could see. "She never did."

The stillness in his voice was unbearable.

Nanami’s vision blurred with rage. "So you took mine instead?"

Gojo turned to face him, eyes boring into Nanami's.

His face was still empty. Void of anything human.

"Maybe I did," he said. "Maybe she left. Maybe she came back to me. Maybe you stole her from me in another life. Maybe she chose you. Maybe she didn’t love me as much as I thought. Or maybe—" Gojo exhaled softly. "Maybe I see why she fell in love with you."

Rage coiled in Nanami’s chest. His hands trembled, nails biting into his palms.

Gojo watched him without blinking. Without caring. "After everything I lost—after she left me to marry someone else because her family pushed her into it—I wanted what you had."

Gojo’s voice did not rise. It did not falter.

"So I took it."

Nanami’s body locked up, something primal and violent rising in his chest. His throat burned. His vision swam. His grief was a wildfire, an avalanche, a noose tightening around his own damn throat.

“You’re a monster.”

Gojo continued, reactionless. "Maybe," he admitted.

Then—Gojo’s head tilted ever so slightly.

"But you’re the one who brought her here."

The words slammed into Nanami’s ribcage like a hammer.

"You didn’t protect her," Gojo murmured. "You thought she was insane before you believed her."

The words hit Nanami like he was being set on fire. 

Because he knew.

He knew.

Deep down, he knew the truth in them.

He’d been so focused on their future, too confident in logic and reason, on starting a family, that he’d ignored the warnings—both spoken and unspoken—the unease in her eyes, the way her voice had shaken when she begged him to listen, to believe her.

And now she was gone.

He would never see her again.

She had slipped through his fingers like smoke, like an illusion he was never meant to hold onto in the first place.

He stood there, rooted in the ruins of a past that no longer existed, a future that had been severed clean from his grasp.

Gojo did not smile.

He did not mock.

He simply stood there, blank and unfeeling, watching as Nanami shattered into something that could never be put back together.

"Give her back."

Nanami’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.

It was not a demand.

It was a plea.

"Please." His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there. "Just give her back."

For the first time, Gojo’s expression shifted. Not in pity. Not in regret.

Just something fleeting. Almost human.

"I can’t."

His voice was quiet. Unshaken. Final.

"She’s not mine to give."

And then he was gone.

No shadow left behind.

No footprints in the dust.

As if he had never been there at all.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Nanami never saw Gojo again.

Not in the palace.

Not anywhere.

And neither did he see her.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not in the ruins where he had kissed her for the last time.

Not in the house where she had once lived, where the echoes of her voice had turned to silence.

But still, he searched.

Through the palace.

Through the crumbling ruins.

Through the empty villages.

Through the desert, where the sand swallowed footsteps whole.

Through the places where even the ghosts had grown tired of lingering.

But there was nothing.

There had never been anything.

No ghosts.

No answers.

Just silence—cold and unrelenting, stretching on and on until it hollowed him out from the inside.

Or maybe—maybe he had seen her.

Maybe she had whispered to him in the dead of night, her voice curled around his ear like a secret. Maybe he had caught glimpses of her in reflections, in the shimmer of heat rising from the sand, in the spaces between dreams and waking.

Or maybe it had all been in his head.

Maybe she had never been there at all.

The whispers started soon after.

Of the foreigner with blond hair who wandered through the ruins, his steps slow, his gaze hollow.

Of the man who murmured to the crumbling palace walls, who spoke to shadows, who waited for a love that would never return.

At first, people tried to help.

They approached him with cautious kindness.

“Are you lost, sir?”

“Do you have family we can call?”

“Here, drink this—eat something.”

But Nanami did not answer.

Did not acknowledge them.

Did not even seem to hear them at all.

He knew you’d be mad. 

You never liked when other women gave him attention.

He would sit in the dust, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the stone, lips moving in silent conversation.

With whom, no one knew.

And slowly, they learned to leave him alone.

He became part of the ruins themselves.

A figure wrapped in dust and sorrow.

A cautionary tale whispered to children.

"Don’t wander too far, lest you meet the mad foreigner who searches for his dead wife."

The weeks passed. Then the months.

His hair grew long and matted, strands clumping together, dirt and sand tangled in the once-golden locks.

His clothes frayed at the edges, sleeves torn, fabric thinning from exposure to the harsh desert winds.

His face, once sharp with quiet confidence, sank inward—cheekbones too prominent, lips cracked, skin burnt raw by the unrelenting sun.

A living corpse.

The police and NGOs found him once, coaxed him into a rehabilitation center, gave him food, bathed him, handed him clean clothes.

But the moment they turned their backs, he was gone.

He ran.

Back to the palace.

Back to the ruins.

Back to the last place he thought he'd seen her.

He was twenty-seven, but to those who saw him, he was ageless.

A mad saint.

A lost soul.

A pagala baba, dressed in tattered rags, muttering prayers that weren’t prayers—just a name, her name, over and over again.

Still—he walked.

Because maybe, if he searched long enough—

If he wandered through the ruins until his feet bled—

If he kept looking, kept listening, kept believing—

Maybe one day, he would find her again.

Maybe she had just stepped away for a moment.

Maybe she would return.

Maybe one day, he would wake up and she would be beside him.

And the desert, mercifully, swallowed his grief whole.

Because one day—

He disappeared.

No one saw him leave.

No footprints in the sand.

No body was found.

Just gone.

But still—the whispers remained.

At night, when the wind howled through the ruins, when the air was thick with the weight of something unseen—

Some swore they heard it.

A hum.

A laugh.

A faint, lingering strain of music.

Some claimed they saw a figure—tall, blond, beautiful, with kind eyes.

A man, waiting. Searching. Wandering.

Still looking for the love stolen from him.

Still lost in the ruins, long after his body had faded into the sand.

Still hoping—

That maybe, this time, he would find her.

Or maybe he already had.

No one knew.

No one ever would.

But they all agreed on one thing—

That sometimes, in the dead of night, when the desert wind carried the echoes of the past, those who listened closely could hear it—

A faint hum of laughter.

The ghost of a love stolen.

Or the sorrowful strains of music that followed him wherever he went.

A/N: So, my dear readers… how did you like Schizophrenia? No, Just a Rajasthani Prince With No Bitches. Did Nanami ever find her? Did Gojo win? Or did our beloved blond idiot just walk himself into an early grave, Majnu-style? Comment below: 🔘 “They were reunited” (Delusional Romantic)🔘 “Nanami died searching” (Realist Pain Enthusiast)🔘 “Gojo gaslit gatekept girlbossed all of us” (Clown) Let me know which version of suffering you believe in. Your engagement fuels my villain arc. 💀✨

All Works Masterlist

[awakenedevildays]

「one year anniversary gone wrong 」 Stiles Stilinski x F!reader

Requested by @krissyiscomingforyou 🩷

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You knew it was a bad idea when Stiles proposed it: as romantic as a date far enough to look down at the city lights is, with his jeep you knew there was going to be some problems... like, for example, it breaking down without any warning just as you were about to end your date. 

"Stiles, I'm going to kill you" you say and if looks could kill he would certainly be dead. Your reaction is excused tho, you're in the middle of nowhere, without appropriate clothes for the cold autumn night that is coming and without a car that could take you back home. 

He doesn't look at you, one because he's focused on looking at the jeep's motor in fake, deep concentration, and two because he doesn't feel like seeing your death stare directed at him.  "Now you're being dramatic" he says while walking back to the passengers seat to take the toolbox and the torch. "Could you help me with this?" he asks giving you the light and you sigh while nodding your head.

As Stiles begins to move what seems very important parts of the car around you look warily at him, "not that i don't trust you, but do you know what you're doing?" you ask and he briefly looks at you sheepishly. 

"yeah well, not really... but maybe by tentatives something will change...? i think?" he says and you can't help the smile that grows on your lips, after all, the night was perfect: Stiles prepared a wonderful but simple night under the stars with take out food from your favourite restaurant, candle lights and fluffy blankets to keep you warm... you don't feel like putting a bad mood between you two for a small accident that is not even his fault. You move the light to illuminate better the place he is working on. 

"One would think that after all the times this car broke down you would become a pro at repairing it" you tease and he chuckles. 

"Roscoe has a new problem everyday, it's hard to keep up, you know?" you chuckle at that and you both stay silent for half an hour expect for suggesting new things to try out. 

"I'm gonna try to call your dad, maybe he can come pick us up" you propose while taking out your phone only to find out that there is no signal. You don't worry about your parents, you already told them you would be spending the night at Stiles' house and you're glad at least them won't have an heart attack tonight. "No signal... fuck, what should we do? the city is too far to go back walking" you say worried, being trapped near a forest in Beacon Hills in the middle of the night is not on your wish list. 

He sighs annoyed and closes the dashboard of the car with more force than necessary. "No it wouldn't be safe" he says in contemplation while looking around, his lips pursued and brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, this is not how the night was supposed to end" he says disappointed and you hurry to walk to stand before him. The thumb of your free hand smoothes the furrowed slit between his brows to make it disappear.

"Don't worry about it Sti, it's not your fault" you kiss his lips briefly before caressing his cold cheek softly. "We could sleep in the back seats for tonight and tomorrow morning we'll try to start the car again" you propose and his hands wraps around your waist even if his eyes don't meet yours, clearly still disappointed by how the night ended. 

"We don't have many other choices, do we?" he looks at the car like it just betrayed him in the worst way possible. 

"Glaring at it will not make it work, baby" you say laughing while wrapping your arms around his neck. 

"Maybe not, but it doesn't hurt to try" Stiles answers immediately and his hands slips in the back pockets of your denim skirt as he turns his head to look at you. "I'm really, really sorry baby, this wasn't suppo-" you interrupt him with a kiss.

"Stop apologizing." your assertive tone shuts him up "this night has been far too perfect to be mad at you... or at your Jeep" he smiles at that and connects your lips together in a sweet kiss. 

"Happy one year anniversary" he mumbles and you smile, you're so in love with him. 

"Happy anniversary, Sti'" your smile makes him grin. "How about we try get some sleep?"

Stiles hesitates for a few seconds before nodding his agreement. "Yeah...yeah okay, you're right, let's just hope the backseat is big enough for two people" he says, trying to keep his voice cheerful which only makes it sound bitter.

"it was big enough when we had fun last night" you tease and Stiles genuinely chuckles while opening the backdoor and motions you to get in first.

"maybe we should stop having sex in my jeep, it might have broken down because we went too hard in it" he says as he climbs in after you so that your back is pressed to his chest and his legs are on either side of you, his back against the door. 

"yeah sure, thats the only plausible reason" you scoff as Stiles covers your body with the fluffy blanket he brought.

"you have a better theory?" he asks wrapping his arms around you, his warmth slowly creeping up on your cold body and you move backwards to try and get more contact between him and your body.

"I might have a few here, listen: dead battery, faulty spark plugs or coil, flooded engine-" 

"Ok stop, you're turning me on right now" he whispers against the back of your neck and you chuckle at that, pushing your body further against his.

"ew, that's weird!" you answer.

"How is that weird? You're listing out car parts that tone of voice! how do you expect me to react?" he asks, holding you tighter against his chest.

"what tone of voice?" you ask confused.

"you know the little know-it-all super sexy tone you use? When you're acting all sassy and sarcastic to correct me on something..." he says with a smile and you can feel his lips brush against your ear as he talks making you shiver.

"so... womansplaining? does that even exist?" you ask and your hand goes to his cheek to keep him there. 

"mhmh yeah" he says nuzzling his face on your hand, you can feel his lips on your palm and you move your fingers against the curve of his face gently "I call it sassyplaining but whatever works" he murmurs into your skin, his lips moving to your wrist.

You giggle "i don't know if I should feel flattered or offended." 

"why would you feel offended?" he asks pressing a kiss to your pulse point "it's a compliment, it means that you're a smart, know-it-all, sexy and confident woman, what's not to like?" his nose travels up your neck and then he plants a kiss right behind your ear.

"uhm, the fact that you just called me 'little know-it all'? maybe? It's not exactly a compliment." 

"little as in cute," he clarifies against the skin of your neck while he moves to kiss and nibble at a sensitive spot that makes your breath hitch, "the know-it-all as in super hot" he says while his hand slips between your naked thighs to warm his hand up. 

"You're cold." you squirm uncomfortably against your boyfriend but he doesn't budge."

"I know! And you're like my personal heater baby, move closer, please" he says wrapping his arms around your torso in a tight embrace before pulling you flush up against his chest.

You huff but comply as you sit still between your boyfriend's legs and rest your head on his shoulder.

"we should sleep" you mumble while wrapping your arms around the arm that is circling your shoulders and chest to curl up on him. 

"yeah yeah, I know" he mumbled as he plants a kiss to the top of your head before resting his cheek on it, his free arm tucks  the blanket tighter around your body, making sure there is no cold spot between the two of you. "Good night baby" he says softly against your hair and you let out a hum of agreement. 

"good night Sti" you reply before slowly drifting off to the comfort of his body against yours.

The next morning you're woken up by a loud voice. You're still on the passengers seat of your boyfriend's Jeep, the blanket is draped over you and Stiles jacket is under your head as a make shift pillow. Still half-asleep you stretch and sit up while rubbing your eyes, your neck is stiff and your entire body is sore and aching from the uncomfortable positions you slept in. 

You look out of the car, much to your relief you're not on the cliff anymore and you recognize Stiles house right away. Your eyes move to the porch and you see Stiles with- oh, his dad... his dad with a really angry expression on his face and an accusatory pointed finger pressed to his son's chest. 

You hurry to get down from the car to help your poor boyfriend. 

"Dad I swear the car bro-" Stiles tries to explain but before he can say anything the Sheriff interrupts him with a scoff.

"Your car 'broke down' in the middle of nowhere while you were on a date with your girlfriend? just like yesterday? very convenient, do you think I'm that stupid?

"okay, last time was a lie but I'm telling the truth now!" Stiles explains. 

"okay Stiles that's it, I'm taking the Jeep keys away."

Stiles gasps in disbelief "you can't do that! I need the car!"

"I can and I will, if your Jeep decides to magically break down every time you and your girlfriend are alone" the Sheriff says with an angry tone.

"sir I promise it's the truth!" you intervene as you reach them.

The Sheriff looks at you, still tired and wrapped in the blanket you slept with. He looks displeased at both of you for a few seconds before letting out a heavy sigh and pinching the bridge of nose between his fingers. "Please tell me you're telling the truth and the Jeep really broke down in the middle of nowhere last night" he says clearly tired of his son's antics.

"it's true, we didn't want to walk in the dark in the middle of the forest and decided to sleep in the car, I promise" you answer and the Sheriff sighs again at your words while looking at his son with a disapproving look.

"I swear to God if I find out that you two lied to me and you just wanted to-" but before he can finish the sentence Stiles interrupts him with a horrified look on his face.

"Dad! Can you please stop here?" Stiles begs with burning red ears.

He look at you again suspiciously before closing his eyes, he doesn't have any proof you're lying, after all. "...Alright, I believe you" he finally says and Stiles scoffs.

"Seriously?! You believe her over me?!" he asks and you suppress the smile that is growing on your face.

"Yes, because she doesn't lie to me almost every week" his dad replies and his son whispers a small 'unbelievable' 

"No YOU are unbelievable!" the Sheriff responds "You're still grounded: no Jeep, outside school's uses and no girlfriend."

"WHAT?!" both you and Stiles exclaims at the same time, the only difference is that his voice comes as whiny and desperate while yours is just shocked surprise.

"keep going and it will be two weeks." 

"Dad c'mon-" Stiles protests but you quickly interrupt him.

"Stiles shut up, now." you glare at him. 

"but he-"

"Stiles! Shut. Up." He looks at you with betrayed eyes but closes his mouth nonetheless, arms crosses to his chest like a child.

"I swear it won't happen again, Sir, we're both really sorry... right Stiles?" you nudge his shoulder with yours.

"yes, it won't happen again and yes, we're sorry" he repeats back while not looking at neither you or his father, still sulking with his arms crossed to his chest.

"Good, at least one of you is being mature" he says while nodding his head and then he finally turns to go at the front door. "Now, take her back home and come here immediately, if you're not here again in 30 minutes it will be not one, not two but three weeks" he orders his son before walking into the house and closing the door behind himself.

Stiles glares at the door for a second before he turns to look at you and sighs "three weeks, can you believe this?" he says shaking his head like he just got betrayed in the worst way possible.

"if we hurry it will be only one, come on!" you drag him by his hand towards his car.

He groans, clearly still annoyed by the situation and you can see that he's dying to protest but he only opens the door of the car. "Yeah let's just get it over with" he mumbles in irritation while you hop on.

At the end, Stiles got three weeks of detention because, of course, the 'see you on Monday at school' kiss turned into a whole make-out session in the back seats that lasted more than 20 minutes.

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Hope you enjoyed, recommendations, suggestions and requests are always welcome and open! <3

Do not copy or repost.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Part XII

Word count: 2200+

Warnings: fighting, swearing, burns, SA, blood

Autumn themed divider by tsunami-of-tears

Part XI | Part XIII

Your heart stopped at the sound of voice that followed you day and night, especially at nights, and then raced up. Another kind of tears filled your eyes and your teeth started chattering with fear. You didn't want to admit that sometimes you heard the echo of his laughter in the hallways, nor that his face terrorised you in the dreams. Because if you admitted it to yourself, you wouldn't even be able to leave the bedroom. You forbade yourself to think about it, but the horrors you experienced didn't disappear so easily, they just moved into your subconscious, lurking around in your most vulnerable moments. You wished this was one of them. You didn't want to see it but you had to. You slowly looked up to place where the voice came from. This time it really wasn't just your imagination, it was real.

The red head, Volkan, stood there with a mocking, cruel smile on lips, blocking your only escape route and for a short moment you were back in a room carved in stone. You were completely paralysed. He looked just like back then, the resemblance to his brothers undeniable now that you could see him clearly in the daylight. New was only a scar stretching from the temple to the corner of his mouth on the left side of his face.

And he wasn't alone. Behind him, near the door, arrogantly stood the other male, Lord Nail with a long sword attached to his back. He was waiting for you to give him your full attention. As soon as he had it, with one-sided grin he ran his hand over the lock and part of the door frame. The metal sizzled and melted. There was no escape from here, only a long, unsurvivable fall down.

"You even can't imagine how glad I am to meet you again," Volkan draw your attention back to him. "Last time we were interrupted in the best, unfortunately, but that won't happen again. I'm not done with you yet." His eyes slid down to your chest and then to the hem of your skirt and he licked his lower lip. You felt bile raising in your throat, instantly dirty solely from the way he gazed at you. He moved, slowly heading to you, that disgusting smile widening.

You internally screamed at your body to move, pleaded with any forgotten god who was willing to listen to send you help. A sob of relief escaped you as you legs and arms finally moved and you crawled backward, away from him.

He bursted out laughing. "Stupid woman. You can't escape me. Look around! The only way leads head first down. I doubt you could survive that, but we will test it soon, anyway." He wasn't in hurry, playing with you like cat with frightened mouse. He was enjoying this kind of situation, the power he had over you, the terror he evoked in you.

"Hewn City really brings up dumb women good for only one thing," Nail chuckled slyly, stepping closer, his dark eyes gleamed with lust. You felt sick. "Pity that this one have to die. I like quiet ones. It's much more fun to make them scream. Maybe we could get more of such like her when you become High Lord. What do you think?

"That's actually pretty good idea, but this one is mine," Volkan snarled. "You watch the door! That circus trick of yours can stop her but not my brothers. I don't wish to be disturbed this time."

Nail huffed discontent, but did as he was told. He was so ready to enjoy even watching though. You could feel it in his gazed that roamed over your body.

Meanwhile you managed to get up to your shaky feet, keeping the distance.

"You have quite a stamina," he started circling you like a wolf, closing on you. "I like that. It's pity I can't keep you. I'd love to examine it in detail. The look on Eris's face would be priceless."

"St-stay away," you stuttered. Your heart was about to explode. You had never been so scared in your entire life. You were so stupid. If only you hadn't come up here. If only you stayed with Eris, this wouldn't happen.

And Eris.. Your dear husband. You would give anything to see him one more time. To have a chance to apologize for your behaviour. To hold his big, warm hand. To see his beautiful boyish smile. To hear his deep voice.

No! You didn't want to end up like this. You couldn't give up yet, you had to fight. You rushed to the battlements, readying to shout at the top of your lungs for help. Hopefully someone would hear you. However, your mouth filled with smoke and you were choking on it, unable to breathe.

"Tsk, tsk. Forget that! I won't let you shriek for help." Volkan used the moment and lunged for you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and throat from behind. He easily dragged you to battlements on the other side where nobody could see you, and pushed your upper body down on the cold stone. You were trashing and kicking, trying to break away from him. It was useless. He was too strong.

"Let's proceed," he hissed to your ear as he pushed your legs apart with his. His breath caressed your face and for a moment everything went dark.

"Don't worry. It'll look like a suicide. Can you imagine what will people say about him? Less than a year after the wedding and he already drove his wife to commit suicide. It'll be fun."

You felt sick to your stomach. You couldn't do that to Eris. You didn't want him to suffer any more. You pushed with all your strength against the stone.

"But before I kill you," his body was holding you down with ease while his hand started to pull your skirts up. "I want to hear you crying out my name, bitch."

Still choking on smoke, you couldn't scream, you couldn't do anything. Hot tears slid down your cheeks. You squeezed your eyes closed and thought of only person who ever cared for you. Your Eris. You screamed his name in your mind as cold breeze touched your thighs.

In the same second the door melted into a puddle on the ground and your husband stepped from the shadows of staircase. You immediately felt his presence even though you didn't see him and sobbed in relief.

Nair cursed, but before he could do anything, a ball of fire hit him and lifted him off of his feet high into the air and above the battlement. With an ear-splitting roar, he fell from the tower.

Eris didn't even blink, his gaze trained on Volkan's hand on your thigh, just few inches from your butt. Liquid fire swirled in his amber eyes and he burst in flames.

"Hands off of my wife!" He snarled lowly, the sound so dangerous and raw coming from the depths of his chest that you shivered with fear and got goosebumps all over your body.

The smoke disappeared and you finally could breathe. You never thought that there would be a time when you would be so excited that you could take a lungful of air. There was only one thing that made you even happier than lungs full of fresh air.

He came.

Despite the fact that only a few minutes ago he was so upset with you, Eris came looking for you.

However Volkan wasn't ready to give up so easily. He grabbed you, pulling you up on your legs once again. Your back bumped into his broad chest while you had to balance on your tiptoes and something sharp and cold pressed against your throat. You gasped and froze, eyes widening in horror. It was a dagger, the first drops of warm blood already rolling down your skin.

Eris gritted his teeth and flames disappeared in a puff of smoke, his eyes jumping between you, the dagger and the redhead.

"That's it, brother," Volkan growled. "Don't try anything or I'll cut open that pretty neck of hers. And you know I'll do it."

"Let her go. She has nothing to do with this. It's only between you and me."

"Look at you! How low you have sunk. You not only brought this dirt to our Court, you are in love with her."

"Shut up!"

"How pathetic," Volkan laughed, changing the angle of dagger, so now it pointed under your chin. You tilted head back, trying to get as far from the sharp tip as possible. "Is she so good in bed or she used some dirty tricks to get here? Your coupling with this whore from Night Court has weakened you. I'm sure he got into your head with her help and uses you like a puppet."

"Do you even listen yourself?" Eris spattered. You'd never seen him so angry. His skin seemed to thin and you could see flames swirling under it. He was seemingly cool, calm, collected, calculating, nothing could break his focus. And his eyes.. Those amber orbs alone could kill. "No one can control me!"

"No? Really? To your knees," Volkan ordered.

When Eris didn't move, he pressed down on the dagger and more of the warm wetness ran down your neck and chest. You whimpered quietly. Eris's eyes shot to you. Your gazes locked and for a second you caught a glimpse of pain deep inside them. For some reason this was hurting him more than you.

Muscle ticked in his jaw and he reluctantly knelt down. Volkan started to laugh so badly that his head fell back. And that was a mistake.

That was your only chance. You didn't have time to think it over. You elbowed him in the left side as hard as you could. He didn't expect it. His grip on you loosened as he pulled arm that was holding you in place, to his sore ribs and you twisted to the side, dancing away from his reach.

Eris was immediately on his feet and his fist connected with Volkan's jaw with such strength that his head flew back.

His brother staggered but swung the dagger, managing to cut front of Eris's shirt and scratch his chest.

Eris caught his arm with dagger, the other hand landed on his throat. The air filled with a smell of burnt meat. Columns of smoke began to rise from under his hands and Volkan opened mouth in a silent scream, flames shot from his insides and his eyes. It was a horrible sight. Thankfully it took just a second and before your eyes he turned into ashes carried away by the wind.

As the relief that the nightmare was finally over, spread in your chest, you noticed something else. You again couldn't breathe. Your mouth filled with blood, the front of your dress was already soaked in it. He didn't cut you that much or he did?

Your knees buckled and you began to fall to the ground. Eris's arms wrapped around you, slowing down your fall. He carefully pulled you into his lap, his face contorted in pain and rage, his amber eyes filled with silver tears. He pressed a trembling palm to the long cut across your neck, trying to stop the bleeding. It must have happened when you elbowed Volkan, but because of the adrenaline you didn't feel it right away.

"No," he sobbed. "No! You have to stay with me. Do you hear me? Stay with me!"

You were making wet squeaking noises as you fought for air. Your eyes found his face in a fading light. You needed to apologize to him. You had to, before it would be late. You couldn't leave like this. You focused on that with your whole being while numbing cold was slowly spreading through your body, the darkness lurking at the edges of your vision. You couldn't feel your legs nor arms anymore. The time was running through your fingers like water, unstoppable.

Eris's hot tears were falling on your face and rolling down your cheeks like your own.

"You can't leave me. Not yet. Not before I-.."his voice broke and he shook his head. "My Y/N.. my sweet mate.. Please, not yet.. Stay with me.."

"E..ri..s.." you wheezed. It was so exhausting to push even so short word through your stiff lips. You desperately needed more air and more time.

The sounds of heavy footsteps filled the air and Killian with a few soldiers and healer at his heels appeared. They were slightly out of breath after running up so many steps.

"Five dead guards and several injured were found. I came as soon as-" Killian halted as he saw you in Eris's lap, the blood seeping between his fingers on your neck.

Eris was shaking wildly with sobs, pressing you to his chest, your eyes never leaving his face despite hardly seeing it. It's been a while since you stopped feeling his touch that was keeping you warm. "It doesn't heal.. Why? This can't be.. My mate is-"

You never learnt what he was about to say because darkness swallowed you suddenly, without warning. The picture of his harrowed expression and damp face was burned into your mind, following you to the nothingness. All your senses shut down at once and you felt as light as feather, floating in a void of space and time.

You didn't make it.

You didn't apologize.

[earlgreytea68]

LOOK AWAY IF YOU DON'T WANT SO MUCH FOR (TOUR) DUST SPOILERS, OKAY?

~~~

~~~

~~~

Set list:

(1) That Pink Seashell spoken word thing actually opens the show

(2) Love from the Other Side: I assumed they'd play this first, and they did, and they looked very happy with the reception that it got

(3) The Phoenix

(4) Sugar, We're Goin Down: I overheard two guys when I was leaving saying, "I only came to this show for that Sugar song, and it was the third song they played," whatever to those two guys lol

(5) Uma Thurman

(6) A Litttle Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Touch Me

(7) Chicago Is So Two Years Ago: I know they always play this song when they play Chicago but the way the show is set up, there's this spoken intro that references a light being left on in Chicago, and then they launch into this song, and so I feel like maybe it's permanently in the set list for this tour, we'll see.

(8) Grand Theft Autumn: Patrick told the story again of how he wrote the lyrics while jogging with Pete. Here is exactly what he said, because I recorded it, hahaha: "I wrote this song out here, jogging, trying to figure out the words. This was back when I wrote a lot of the words. And Pete was jogging with me and he was like, 'Eh, maybe change this, maybe change this.' Before we knew it he was writing all the lyrics." And then Pete said, "Imagine us jogging" lolololol

(9) Calm Before the Storm

(10) This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race: They added a little Peterick-y moment in here? I don't remember them playing at each other during this song in previous performances? It was cute, it was during the instrumental part before Patrick leads the singalong, maybe I've just always missed it? They played it each other and kind of did some kind of kick thing with their legs??

(11) Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes: Honestly, always a delight to hear this song, this is one of my favorites <3

(12) Heaven, Iowa: THIS SONG LIVE, I SWEAR

(13) "The Take Over, the Breaks Over": OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG AND I TOTALLY DIDN'T EXPECT THEM TO PLAY IT, I WAS SO HAPPY

(14) Headfirst Slide into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet: <3 Guess they got over being scared of playing this one lol

(15) Fake Out: I CANNOT TELL YOU HOW EXCITED I WAS THAT THEY PLAYED THIS ONE OMGGGGGGG. Also, there was some plan I wasn't aware of to, like, hold up cell phones with pink paper over the lights so the crowd lit up pink???? I have no idea who engineered that but it was CHARMING and at the end of the song Pete said, "Thanks for that, guys, that was beautiful," and the stage was on darkness so it seemed absolutely spontaneous on his part and I think they really did like the effect, so, Idk, future shows, keep doing it????

(16) Patrick did some kind of piano interlude where he played "Don't Stop Believin'"????? It was random but he was super charming, I think the rest of the band used it as a break, it was just SO GREAT. Part of his intro was: "Pete was putting together this show and he said to me, 'Hey, you should play piano.' And I was like, 'I kinda only play songs I wrote. I don't really play piano. I don't know how to play piano.' And he's like, 'Eh, you'll figure it out.'" And then Patrick sat down and played gorgeous piano ugh THANKS, PETE.

(17) Last of the Real Ones: I am glad Mania got some love.

(18) Save Rock and Roll

(19) PETE RECITED BABY ANNIHILATION WHAT. I SWEAR TO GOD. I SO DID NOT EXPECT THIS AND I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE THAT IT HAPPENED. If you're going to the show, pay attention, because I looked away and apparently there's, like, a magic trick at the end of the monologue where he disappears behind a piece of black silk?????

(20) Crazy Train cover: I...don't know what to say about this randomness hahaha but it happened??

(21) Dance Dance

(22) Hold Me Like a Grudge: I think Patrick adores singing this song, I really do.

(23) G.I.N.A.S.F.S.: I KNOW. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT, EITHER.

(24) My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Light Em Up)

(25) Thnks fr th Mmrs

(26) Centuries

(27) Saturday <3

The show ends with a little piano version of So Much (for) Stardust played over the sound system, so pay attention for that.

The set is super Alice in Wonderland-y and I adored it, it's playful and fantastical and has all these whimsical touches and interludes and I just thought it was delightful and at one point there were bubbles, and I heard some people complaining after the concert that the fantasy thing didn't suit their style of music and really, I was surrounded by downers after the concert, I thought they were perfect hahaha. Like, ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. They looked so, so, so tangibly happy, all of them. Patrick sounded fantastic and he looked like he was having a blast, he smiled the whole time.

I have a lot of videos but they seem like they're all pretty terrible, but I'll see how I feel in the morning lol

[steddieasitgoes]

you can call me boyfriend for the weekend

I posted this earlier as a link to ao3 but I know some people like to read things straight on tumblr so this is for you people lol As noted, this was supposed to be a short little ficlet inspired by unfortunate "Black Out Wednesday"/hook up with someone in your hometown pre-Thanksgiving ritual and then Steve got a backstory and Eddie wanted a POV and it spiraled out of control like most of my work lol Also I wrote this all in twelve hours and it's not beta read at all lol but enjoy! And please ignore the wonky timeline. It's canon-divergent/no Upside Down. But basically in my head, all the normal things that happened to Steve/Eddie still happened in this universe and they got close during the Autumn months of 1986. I think that's all you need to know! wc: 8.8k | rated: M Read on ao3

The Hideout is unusually packed.

In hindsight, Steve should have figured as much. It’s not like he’s the only former resident in town who needs a shot or two (okay, maybe three, but who’s really counting other than the barkeep logging everyone’s tabs) of liquid courage before heading home to spend a few days with family. The overflowing parking lot and illegally double and triple-parked cars on the street are still a sight to see when he steps out of the Yellow Taxi.

Maybe he should have taken the cute stewardess up on the alcohol offer on the plane. Would have saved him a couple of bucks that’s for damn sure. Still, every time he was about to, Robin’s nagging voice would pop into his head, spewing one of her nonsense rambles about the importance of being fully coherent on an airplane, lest they have to land the plane as if he’d have the skills to land a plane in the first place. And yet, he remained stone-cold sober on the couple-hour flight into Indianapolis from Boston just in case.

Sure, there’s liquor at his parent's house — at least, he hopes they haven’t packed up the dry bar if they did, he’s really fucked this weekend — but he needs something now to keep the anxiety bubbling in his chest at bay. And last time he checked The Hideout is the only place within a twenty-mile radius that can serve up a quick, cheap drink. Plus, there’s the fact that the Yellow Taxi he took here from the airport has already disappeared into the night, and he’s not about to go inside to call another cab without buying something; that would be rude.

In yet another surprising twist, that shouldn’t be surprising given the parking situation; there’s a small line of people waiting to get in. In the nineteen and a half years he spent in Hawkins, Steve’s never seen a line in front of The Hideaway. He knows for a fact that the place never had a bouncer, much less one who meticulously cards everyone who walks in.

Well, everyone but him it seems.

Steve doesn’t even get his wallet open, much less out of his pocket, before the man is wrapping a bright orange ’21 and over’ wristband on his wrist. Which, like, ouch. He knows he just got off a flight after working a half-day shift at the stupid office, but he can’t look that much like an adult. Can he?

Thankfully, there’s no time to dwell on his fleeting youth as he’s pushed into the crowded bar with the rest of the customers who patiently waited their turn in the frigid Indiana November evening.

The familiar scent hits him the second he’s more than three steps through the opened doors — stale beer, nicotine, the undeniable musk bodies emit when they’re dancing and, well, horny. But there’s also something new going on, too. Crisp leather, a piney scene that can only be associated with floor cleaner, and something minty, peppermint, he thinks, maybe for the upcoming holidays. Gone is the stench of piss that no amount of power washing the concrete floors could ever scrub up. Steve notices the concrete floor is gone, too, apparently, as his shoes squeak against the shiny black laminate.

There are a few new booths from the looks of things, and the stage has gotten a major upgrade since the last time he was here to see… He shakes the thought from his head and keeps walking until he finds an open spot in the corner of the bar.

A bartender materializes the second his ass makes contact with the new vinyl seat. She looks vaguely familiar, too young to be in his class, but maybe someone from Henderson’s year. He figures he’ll be downing glasses of expensive wine when he finally musters up the courage to go home, so he orders a shot of tequila and a rum and coke in the meantime. She pours the shot right there, excusing herself to grab the rum bottle from one of the other bartenders working tonight.

He grimaces as he shoots it back, tequila burning his throat as it goes down before he sucks the sliver of lime between his lips. It’s impossible for the effects to kick in this fast, but he already feels the tension easing from his shoulders. He uses the reprieve from his anxiety to really take everything in. The Hideout may have gotten some major upgrades, but he can’t say the same about its patrons.

It’s a real who’s who of Hawkins High has-beens. Andy and a couple of younger guys he remembers playing ball with his junior year of high school, all wearing their Greek letter crewnecks, downing beers and slapping each other on the back. Jason’s in the center with his arm around a stereotypical-looking blonde who is clearly not from around here. Heather Holloway is unmistakable, pressed into a booth arguing with some guy Steve thinks was on their swim team while their three kids jump around unchecked. And is that Chrissy Cunningham with… Gareth? That nerd from Dustin’s D&D group? Steve makes a mental note to bring it up with Dustin when the little shit calls him next because holy shit.

It takes him a minute to spot Tommy and Carol, but once he does, he doesn’t know how he didn’t see them sooner. They’re pressed up against each other, practically dry-humping in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. Tommy’s got his tongue shoved down Carol’s throat, and her hand is fisted into his buttoned shirt that’s definitely a size too small. 

Somethings never change, he thinks, rolling his eyes as the pair stumble their way towards the bathrooms at the opposite end of the bar.

Steve’s about to turn back around and disappear into the shadowy corner he’s found himself in when the static feedback of the seemingly brand-new speakers goes off, sending every patron in the bar covering their ears.

“Sorry! Sorry!” A man calls from the makeshift sound booth a few yards away from Steve. “Give it another go for me?”

“Check one, check one, two. Sounds great, Frank. We’re all set up here if you are,” a woman says from the stage. Steve figures she gets a non-verbal cue from Dave because then she’s talking again, her voice bright and way louder than it needs to be. The giggle that comes next is even worse. “Hi everyone! Lots of familiar faces in the crowd tonight.”

It takes his eyes a minute to adjust to the bright spotlight illuminating the stage, but when it does, he nearly falls out of his seat. Is that?

“Anyways, I’m Tammy, and these are the Townies, and we’re Tammy and the Townies!”

Holy shit! It’s Tammy Thompson. The Tammy Thompson. Robin is going to be so pissed when he calls and tells her about this tomorrow morning. She’ll probably say that he was just seeing things, blame it on the single shot of tequila he’s had since he’s still waiting for his drink, but he knows the truth. Especially when Tammy launches into the opening lines of “Santa Baby,” trying her best to be sultry but still sounding like a rejected Muppet.

Someone chuckles behind Steve, before an all too familiar voice says, “I haven’t heard that one before.”

His first thought is: Shit, did he say that out loud?

And then comes something even worse: Wait, I know that voice.

All the anxiety the shot of tequila chased off comes surging back to Steve, swirling in his gut, threatening to creep up his throat and out his mouth. No. He’s not going to throw up in The Hideout after one shot, not with the entirety of his high school class in attendance. And definitely not in front of Eddie Munson.

There’s no doubt in Steve’s mind that it's anyone but Eddie Munson standing behind him and the bar. He would know that voice and chuckle anywhere, could pick it out in a line-up if he had to after the fall of 1985 when they— nope, not going there.

The way he sees it, he has two options. One, get the hell out of here without turning around. It’s dark in the corner, so there’s a chance Eddie hasn’t realized who he’s talking to yet; in fact, Steve’s pretty sure if Eddie knew who he just spoke to, he never would have opened his mouth to begin with. So, yeah, he could get the hell out of here, maybe leave a couple of bucks at the opposite end of the bar on the way out so he’s not drinking and ditching, and then hail a cab and head to his childhood house.

Or, he could woman the fuck up, as Robin would say, turn around and meet the gaze of a man he hasn’t seen since he was nineteen, confused and desperate to make something out of himself.

He weighs the cons: spend a few extra hours with his parents or face Eddie Munson, the only person other than Robin to ever see him. The real him.

The answer is easy.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie says, sizing Steve up with those big doe eyes of his the second Steve turns in his chair. “If it isn’t Steve Harrington in the flesh. What the hell are you doing around these parts? Thought you left to go make daddy dearest proud?”

Ouch.

Steve should have expected Eddie not to mince words, even if he is a paying customer and all. He doesn’t allow himself to get a good look at Eddie, meeting him with his own mean-spirited retort instead.

“Guess I should have known you’d still be around, Munson,” Steve snarks. Eddie wants to play? Steve’ll gladly participate. “Still flunking out of high school?”

“Now that one I have heard before.”

Eddie doesn’t stick around for a response. He slams Steve’s rum and coke on the bar counter and gives it a rough shove. The glass slides across the sleek countertop before crashing into Steve’s awaiting hand. The drink sloshes in the cup, a few droplets spilling out, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to wave Eddie down and demand a replacement, so he shuts up and brings the now half-empty glass to his lips. He takes a much-needed gulp and then another, alcohol going down better than the shot from earlier, dulling the regret from his mean-spirited retort with it. He sulks for a moment before letting his eyes drift behind the bar. Searching.

If The Hideout is crowded, the bar is just as congested. At least four bartenders shimmy around each other. Hands reaching for various bottles, glasses clinking as ice falls in. It’s the most people Steve’s ever seen behind the small bar top, and he’s willing to bet it’s more than they’re legally allowed.

Fire code and all that.

Not that he knows much about that.

Not yet, at least.

He will once he starts his Fire Academy classes in the new year.

That is, assuming his dad doesn’t kill him the minute he finds out about his career change.

That’s a problem for tomorrow, Steve thinks, shaking the thought away and chasing it further by draining the rest of his drink.

“Can I getcha’ another round?” The young bartender asks, reappearing like a damn bar fairy.

Steve’s not sure he’s fully thought his order out, too preoccupied stealing glances at Eddie, but his lips start moving anyway, words escaping before he has a chance to stop them, “Actually, can I get a Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice instead of pineapple.”

“Pickle juice? Are you sure?”

Shit.

No.

Yes.

Steve quietly contemplates changing his unusual order, tilting his empty rum and coke glass to his lips, desperate for another teaspoon of liquid courage. He’s met with the cool sensation of ice hitting his teeth instead. Another not-so-subtle sneak at Eddie, and Steve doubles down. “Yeah. Eddie should know how to make it.”

“Oh, uh, ” the bartender says, nervously glancing to her right.

Steve follows her line of vision, giving himself permission to do more than glance this time, and finds Eddie on the opposite end tossing around bottles and the shaker like he’s fucking Tom Cruise in Cocktails and not a super-senior who half the town was convinced was a Satanist.

“Let me see what I can do for you.”

Steve gives her his best customer service smile and a quick nod before watching her shuffle through the other bartenders on her quest to get to Eddie.

He lets his eyes linger as Eddie finally doles out the drink he’s been working on. Five years and some change has been good on him. His hair is still as unruly as ever, twisted back in a low bun at the base of his neck. Tending to the bar has clearly served his arms well judging by the tone biceps peaking out from under his black shirt. It’s done wonders for his entire body, if Steve’s honest, sizing up the way he finally fills out his jeans.

Eddie turns just so, new piercings catching in the reflection of the spotlight from the stage. Steve catalogs them, a few new ones to his ears, a hoop in his left nostril. There’s new ink, too, decorating his strong forearms and peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

Steve’s attraction to Eddie isn’t a surprise, especially after the Fall of ‘86. But it’s like a match has just ignited a new flame in the depths of his body. He looks good, is all. Really, really good.

Steve’s pulled from his not-so-subtle ogling when the young bartender finally gets Eddie’s attention. He can’t hear the conversation, but he spent enough time around Eddie to know what the man is saying without even looking at his lips. Her back is to him, but Steve knows the minute he brings up the drink because Eddie’s body goes stiff, his head jolting toward Steve, eyes growing wide as he glares at him from the opposite end of the bar.

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s truly fucked up. Well, more than he did five and a half years ago when he let his dad convince him to set him up with a job in Boston that forced him to leave without saying goodbye to anyone, least of all Eddie. But then he sees the moment Eddie’s stubbornness sets in, clouding his eyes and forcing his chunky boots to stomp through the hoard of sweaty bartenders.

“Did you come all the way home to fuck with me?” Eddie barks, still a foot and a half away from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit, Harrington,” Eddie snaps, hands smacking onto the countertop.

When Steve doesn’t say anything, Eddie rages on. If it wasn’t for Tammy Thompson’s wailing in the background, Steve’s pretty sure they’d have everyone’s attention right now. Thank God for Tammy Thompson.

“Seriously? Pickle juice!”

Steve’s hit with the familiar woodsy, nicotine smell he spent months chasing around town as Eddie drops to his elbows, leaning in closer to Steve. For a second, he thinks Eddie is going to deck him, at the very least fist his hand into his shirt and yank him forward, but he doesn’t.

“I know damn well you’re not ordering Vodka Party Punch with fucking pickle juice at the fancy bars wherever you ended up. What makes you think you can order one here now?”

“You’re right, I don’t order them in Boston,” Steve says, answering the question Eddie really didn’t ask. “But I’m ordering it now because you’re the creator of the drink, and I know you’ll make it taste right.”

Steve watches Eddie’s jaw drop. The bar is dimly lit but it doesn’t take florescent lights to catch the red tinting the tips of Eddie’s ears, fully exposed with his hair pulled back in a bun. It’s been a minute since Steve attempted this game with anyone, but Eddie’s always been a fun participant — especially when he’s pretending he doesn’t like it.

“I’m charging you double,” Eddie concedes, twirling the giant skull ring still perched on his finger.

“Better make it worth my dime, Munson.”

“You know I always do, Harrington,” Eddie taunts, clearly finding his footing in this flirtatious sparing match they’ve started. 

* * *

By the time Eddie returns with his drink, Tammy and the Townsies have wrapped up their set for the night — thank god — and The Hideout slowly starts to empty out. With a few less bodies occupying the actual bar, Eddie has no problem sticking around, tossing his dish rag over his shoulder as he slides the Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice over to Steve, much gentler this time.

The drink smells exactly like he remembers, but the presentation has improved since their days of mixing them in the Munson’s crowded kitchen. A mini pickle is skewered through a toothpick as garnish, and the glass is tall and clean, a rarity in the mug-infested kitchen of that autumn.

Steve makes a show of his first sip, slowly raising the glass to his mouth without breaking eye contact with Eddie as he licks his lips in anticipation. Eddie’s eyes dilate the second Steve’s tongue makes an appearance, and it takes everything in Steve not to jump across the bar and shove it down Eddie’s throat a la Carol and Tommy style. He knows the Eddie from five autumns ago wouldn’t mind, but this Eddie might.

He does the next best thing instead, taking a slow sip of the drink, exaggerating when he swallows before punctuating the first taste with a low moan of approval. Judging by the smattering of pink moving to Eddie’s cheeks, it works.

“Delicious, just like I remembered.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it the minute the words leave his lips, and the flush on Eddie’s cheeks drains to a ghostly white , eyes turning to fire.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that,” Eddie scoffs, snapping his dish towel off his shoulder to wipe the counter.

“I just, I—“ Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. Leave it to him to be back in Hawkins for less than three hours and already fuck things up. “Thank you,” he finally says, eyes trained on his drink. “You didn’t have to make it, and you did, so thanks.”

“Whatever customers want, they get here at The Hideout.”

Steve can’t help but snort, “S’that a new motto?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

When Steve glances up, Eddie’s smiling at him. Not his toothy grin Steve loved to coax out of him, but his lips are definitely quirked into a grin which he’ll take as a win. Small victories and all that.

“That what they pay you the big bucks for? Slinging drinks like Tom Cruise and coming up with new slogans?”

“Something like that.” Eddie finishes wiping down the counter in front of Steve and moves half a step to his right, working on the next area that’s vacated.

Steve thinks that’s it. The beginning and end of their civil conversation, but then Eddie looks across the bar, no doubt taking in the empty state of things, before turning back to look at Steve. Really, look at him.

If it weren’t for the liquor coursing through Steve’s veins, he doesn’t think he’d be able to sit there under Eddie’s gaze. But he does have alcohol on his side, so he stays glued to his seat, his own cheeks heating up as Eddie’s brown eyes roam over his body, taking him in the same way he did with Eddie a while ago.

When he’s done, Eddie cocks his head to the side and tuts. “You’ve seen better days, Harrington. I think your eye bags have eye bags.”“Corporate life’ll do that to you,” Steve grumbles, taking another sour sip from his drink. When Eddie doesn’t throw a dig he knows is on the tip of his tongue, Steve breaks the silence. “You look good behind a bar.” Jesus, maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. “I mean, uh, how long have you been working here.”

Eddie snorts, coming back over until he’s right in front of Steve. He drops to his elbows again, pillowing his chin in his hands as he makes direct eye contact. “About five-ish years ago. Right after I graduated.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“I, uh, thought the plan was to get the hell out of here?”

Eddie hums. “It was. Took the job to save money so I could do just that.”

“And you ended up loving it?”

“Hated it at first, actually, but you know we’re not all lucky enough to be able to get the hell out of Hawkins just because people tell us we should,” Eddie says, eyes boring judgment into Steve’s own. “Figured if I have to stick around I might as well try and make it better for those of us still here.”

“That’s what you’re doing, then?” Steve asks, generally curious. He always knew Eddie had a savior complex, saw it firsthand when Dustin and the rest of the kids started high school, and immediately got swept up in Eddie’s inner circle of outcasts. “Making Hawkins better?”

“Trying to,” Eddie says, and Steve can feel the walls around him shrinking, only for them to harden in an instant. “Turns out it’s a lot easier when the assholes flee.”

Steve winces and downs the rest of his drink. When it’s drained, he sets it down and fumbles through his pockets for his wallet. He gets no more than three measly bucks out before Eddie is shooing him away.

“It’s on the house tonight.”

Steve shakes his head, digging back into his wallet “Don’t think your boss’ll be happy about that.

“Good thing m’the boss then.”

Steve gawks. He’s pretty sure his jaw is fully open, but it's worth it to see the pleased look on Eddie’s face. “Shit, seriously?”

“What, you think old Dave was the one to plan the renovation of this place? That cheapskate was slinging water tinted brown with food coloring to the regulars once they got drunk enough not to tell.”

Steve laughs, but doesn’t get distracted with the anecdote like he knows Eddie hopes he will. Eddie Munson might have his heart in his sleep, but if there’s one thing Steve knows about him, it’s that he hates being emotionally vulnerable. Steve can’t say he blames him, but still, he presses on.

“Eddie Munson, CEO of the Hideout. Who would have thought?”

“I don’t know about CEO,” Eddie says, fingers struggling with the elastic holding his hair back. It takes a second for him to get the strands untangled, and when it does, his hair cascades over his shoulder in those same unruly curls Steve tried to tame once or twice. Eddie’s hand immediately finds a strand, twirling it around his fingers and pulling it towards his lips. “Owner as of the first of the year, though.”

“Eds, that’s really fucking cool. Holy shit! Congrats! I feel like we should toast or something.”

If Eddie catches the nickname slip up, he doesn’t mention it. Maybe Robin’s patenting ramble so they can’t comprehend every embarrassing thing you’ve said method actually works.

Instead, he waves him off. “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get another round of free liquor in you before heading home to the parents.”

“Damn,” Steve says, happy to play along. “Am I that obvious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but ducks behind the counter for a moment, popping back up with two clean cups. He blindly reaches for a top-shelf whiskey and pours just a bit too much to be considered a shot, but not a full serving either. They clink the glasses together in a silent toast before throwing back the over-poured shot like they’re nineteen and twenty again.

“You know,” Eddie says, closing the distance between them as he leans against the countertop again. “We’re looking for some silent investor, partner types to help out with financing. If you, uh, know anyone who might be interested.”

“Oh,” Steve says, liquor making his brain slower than usual.

Eddie pushes off the bar, shaking his head. “Don’t look too excited, Steve. I was just joking.”

“No, shit, I mean, yeah, I would invest. Love to even,” Steve rambles, desperate to keep Eddie from joining the rest of the bartenders in tallying up their tips. “It’s just, uh, I’m actually getting out of the investment world.”

“You don’t have to lie, Harrington. A simple no will do.”

“I’m serious. Today was actually my last day. I’m enrolled in the Fire Academy come January.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, that toothy grin finally making an appearance. “Way to bury the lede, Stevie! We should be toasting to you! Finally getting out from under your dad’s thumb!”

Unlike Eddie, the nickname isn’t lost on Steve, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Not if he wants to keep Eddie smiling, and dammit he does. It’s the only thing he’s ever really wanted.

“I mean, I still have to break the news to my dad. But yeah, assuming he doesn’t kill me, it’s happening.”

“Hey, Munson,” a bartender he realizes is Jeff calls from the opposite end of the bar. “Get your ass over here and close out so we can go home. Some of us actually want to see our families.”

Eddie flips Jeff off but doesn’t budge from his spot in front of Steve.

“I should probably head out, too,” Steve says, slowly rising from the stool. His legs are full of pins and needles, asleep from sitting so long, but he manages to stay upright.

“Wait,” Eddie says, shouting even though all Steve’s done is duck behind the counter to grab his duffle from the floor. “Did you drive here?”

Steve shakes his head. “Took a cab from the airport, gonna use the payphone out back to call another.”

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says in a rush. “I mean, I can’t let you waste your money on a cab when you’re unemployed now.”

“I’m not unemployed, I’m going to—“

“Fire school, yeah, yeah, I got that,” Eddie says, waving him off. “Just give me two minutes, and I’ll drive you home, okay?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Steve makes a show of sounding inconvenienced, which earns a dramatic eye roll from Eddie and a victory for himself. His streak of pretending not to care actually working lives on another day.

* * *

Seven minutes later, thanks to a mathematical error and a hushed conversation between Jeff and Eddie, Steve finds himself in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. “I can’t believe you still have this thing.”

“How is it any different from you still driving the Beamer?”

“How do you know I still drive the Beamer?”

“Please, the only thing you love more than that car is Buckley. Speaking of, where is your platonic other half?”

“Still in Boston. She got asked to write an article for her grad department’s journal.”

“Ah, so she sent you to the lion’s den all on your own,” Eddie teases, slowing to a stop despite the light still being yellow.

“Figured this was one Harrington vs Harrington battle she didn’t need to bear witness to.”

Eddie gasps, clutching a hand over his heart. “My, my, it seems like us lowly mortals are in the presence of the Great Sir Stevebert tonight.”

Steve can’t help but snort. He’s missed this. The easy teasing, the openness. Eddie and his silly voices and even sillier words. He can’t believe he’s gone almost six years without him.

“So,” Eddie says, drawing out the vowel. “Isn’t Dick going to be extra pissed off that you’re showing up on his doorstep at three in the morning?”

Steve shrugs. “Probably.”

“What time were they expecting you?”

“When are they ever really expecting me?” Steve laughs dryly. “I didn’t really give them a set date. Figured if I told my dad I was flying out today, he’d figure out the whole work thing so I told them I’d try to catch a late flight after I finished for the day and be there by Thanksgiving dinner at the latest.”

“So they don’t know you’re in town.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not unless someone at the unofficial Hawkins High reunion tonight ratted me out.”

“Jesus H. Christ you caught that too?” Eddie shouts, smacking his left hand against the dashboard. “I’ve worked plenty of Wednesdays before Thanksgiving, but none of them have pulled that many of our former classmates out. I don’t know why everyone is back in town this year.”

“Back in town or never left?”

“Hey,” Eddie scolds. “Watch it. Your life is in the hands of a Hawkins townie right now.”

Steve holds his hands up in surrender and is glad to see Eddie grinning at him when he musters the courage to steal a glance. He wishes he could offer a careless smile back, but the closer they get to Loch Nora, the more he feels the anxiety creeping in again. Eddie must sense it, too, because he slows to well below the speed limit.

“I wouldn’t mind having a roommate for the night,” he says nonchalantly. Like Eddie’s talking about the weather and not offering to spend the night in Steve’s presence. Steve, the guy who disappeared on him one day after months of fucking around — literally and figuratively. The same Steve who hasn’t been back to Hawkins because he’s been avoiding this exact situation like the chickenshit he is.

“Wayne probably will, though,” Steve says, trying his best to turn Eddie down without actually turning him down. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spend the night with him. Hell, he’d sell his left arm for the chance. The problem is it’ll just be one night, and Steve doesn’t think he has that in him. Not when he wants all the nights.

“Good thing he’s not home.”

“Wait,” Steve says, turning in the passenger seat to look at Eddie. “He left you on Thanksgiving? Isn’t that against your Munson Family Code or whatever?”

Eddie snorts, mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like ‘I can’t believe he remembered that’ under his breath. “I told him it was okay. He’s up in Chicago spending the holiday with Scott Clarke’s family.”

“Scott Clarke? The middle school science teacher?”

Eddie nods.

“I didn’t know they were friends.”

Eddie breaks in the middle of the street, leveling Steve with a look he finds himself receiving from Robin all the time. She says people like them are supposed to know when other people are like them, but so far, Steve has yet to inherit that superpower.

“Oh, shit,” he says, finally. “I didn’t know your uncle was into guys.”

“Neither did I,” Eddie laughs. “It was a real memorable day in the Munson’s house when I found out.”

A comfortable silence falls between them as Eddie eases the van back on the rode. They stay like that for a light or two before Eddie rolls to a stop at a familiar intersection.

“Great Sir Stevebert,” he says, switching into his deep, DM voice. “It seems you have a choice to make. Shall you continue on your travels, taking the golden brick road to the lone castle on the hill, or shall you take the road less traveled and embark on the twisting journey to the Moors?”

Once again, the decision is easy.

“If you really don’t mind,” Steve says instead of a definitive answer.

Eddie whoops and makes the sharp right turn that’ll take them to Forest Hills. “Onward, Sir Stevebert, to the Moors, we go!”

_ _ _

Eddie has no idea what he’s doing. One minute he’s fighting with himself, desperate to keep his attention on the out-of-town in-laws of some Hawkins High alumni in need of a blissful night out before the family shit starts and not on the sulking figure of Steve fucking Harrington on the opposite end of the bar. And the next second, he’s ushering that same Steve up the steps of the Munson trailer like he did so many times before.

Jesus H. Christ.

He should have listened to Jeff. He should have called Steve a cab and paid for it himself if it made him sleep better at night. Hell, he should have kicked Steve out the second he mouthed off to him. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t.

Despite all the bullshit, Steve put him through, despite five whole fucking years without so much as a call, Eddie still has a soft spot for the goddamn fallen King. Time heals many things, but the love he has for Steve isn’t one of them.

Love?

No. Strike that from the record.

Infatuation.

A crush, maybe.

Not love.

Not anymore.

Eddie shrugs his shoulders, shaking the thought from his entire body, and moves to unlock the door. He gestures for Steve to enter, and Eddie trails behind, bending down at the entrance to untie his work boots and free his sore feet. He wasn’t lying when he told Steve this is the busiest pre-Thanksgiving shift he’s ever worked. He’s pretty sure his blisters have blisters at this point.

His knees ache at the position, so he lets himself fall back, ass on the worn welcome mat as he finishes the task at hand. It feels nice to get off his feet, and he lets himself linger there for a moment. A hand massaging the ache from the arch of his foot while his eyes drift up, watching Steve asses the trailer much like he did the very first time he found himself in the humble abode.

As nice as it is to get off his feet, the last thing Eddie needs is for Steve to turn around and catch him staring at him from a spot on the floor. With a quiet groan, he hoists himself back into a standing position and dusts his hands off on his jeans.

“Wayne getting rid of his mug collection?” Steve asks, breaking the silence. Eddie follows his pointed finger to the top, empty rack shelf the patterned couch.

“No, just relocated ‘m. He spends most nights at Scott’s house now. I basically own the place. Wayne refuses to let me pay the full rent, though, since it’s his name on the lease.”

Steve lets out a low whistle that doesn’t do anything, Eddie, nothing at all, and turns to face him with a look of mischief in his hazel eyes. “Now, who’s the one with a silver spoon.”

He can’t help but laugh at how absurd that sounds. As if inheriting the trailer is some kind of privilege, but in some ways it is, right?

“It’s no rent-free apartment in a big city, but it’ll do,” he says, trying his best to throw a dig back at Steve, but it doesn’t sting the way he wants it to. If anything, it makes Steve’s lips dip into a frown instead of stroking that familiar petty flame he knows stays lit in his gut.

“Come on,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “You think Dick Harrington pays for my place in Boston? The asshole got me a shit job and told me to figure the rest out. I was lucky Robin was already there when I showed up. Her RA wasn’t too pleased, but we made it work that first year.”

Great, now he’s the asshole.

It’s such a different picture than the one he’s spent the last five years painting in his head. That good ol’ Dick Harrington shipped his only son off, far enough away that the town freak couldn’t continue sinking his teeth (and dick) into him without him knowing about it. Set him up with a good job and a nice place to sleep at night that left Steve no choice but to stay even though he knew that’s not what Steve wanted. Never was.

But that’s not the story, is it?

The real story is that Dick Harrington is an even bigger prick than he thought, and Steve is a coward. Eddie can understand Steve staying away if his dad made his new life nice for him and kept him comfortable and just shy of miserable, but he didn’t. And yet, Steve stayed in a job he hated, in a dorm he had no business crashing in because Daddy Dearest told him to do it.

A part of Eddie wants to ask why. Wants to dig his grimy finger into the still-fresh wound in Steve’s chest, judging by the grimace on his face, and get to the bottom of what the hell his dad has over him to keep in line. But what good would it do, really?

Eddie opts for a different strategy instead.

“Why now?”

Steve cocks his head, brows knitting together in that cute confused face Eddie used to love coaxing out of him with a single nerdy phrase back in the day. “Why now what?”

Eddie sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. He could change the subject, shrug off his question, and steer the conversation into calmer waters to get them through the night. But that wouldn’t be fair to him or Steve. Not in the long run.

“It’s been five years since you’ve been in town, Steve,” Eddie says blankly. “Why now?”

“My parents are selling the place,” he answers, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Said they wanted one last family Thanksgiving in the place before it’s not ours anymore. It’s bullshit if you ask me. I can’t remember the last time we spent the holiday together, even when I lived here, but here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Steve groans, collapsing on the couch behind him. “I don’t know what it is about my parents that has me running to them every time they ask, even though they don’t give a damn about me 99% of the time.”

Eddie follows Steve's lead, settling on the couch but leaving the middle cushion open. An unofficial barrier between them. “I’m no psychologist, but it sounds like textbook daddy issues to me.”

Steve shoves at Eddie’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move, too stunned by the sudden contact to do anything else. Steve’s hand leaves his shoulder as fast as it finds it, but the effects are already in motion. Eddie’s entire body vibrates under the ghost of Steve’s touch, skin alive and hot in a way it hasn’t been in years.

Eddie turns, expecting to find Steve staring off in the distance, but instead, he’s staring at him with those open, honest hazel eyes. All it takes is one look, one single slip of his eyes to Steve’s lip and back again, and Steve’s surging forward, closing the distance between them.

Steve tastes like cheap liquor and pickle juice, and all it takes is one swipe of Steve’s tongue, and Eddie’s transported back to the Fall of 1986. Of experimenting with whatever ingredients they had on hand in the kitchen and throwing back drinks to nurse their respective education wounds — Eddie not graduating again, Steve failing to get into college. Memories of playful shoves turning into wrestling matches turning hot and heavy until lips met lips and skin, so much skin.

Five years may have passed, but it feels like no time at all as Eddie sinks further into Steve’s embrace, fingers tangling in the wisps of hair on Steve’s neck, and Steve’s own hands find themselves tangled in his curls.

It’s only when Steve moves to straddle Eddie’s hip that the reality of the situation hits him. Eddie jolts away; hands braced on Steve’s shoulders to keep a respectable amount of distance between them. He hates himself the moment he looks into Steve’s cloudy hazel eyes, but he’d hate himself more if he let this continue without checking in.

With Steve an arm's length away, Eddie studies him. Squinting as he stares into Steve’s eyes, checking for glassy, unfocused eyes, excessive sweating, and flushed face — all of which Steve has, but maybe not for the reasons Eddie is checking for.

“You’re drunk,” Eddie says plainly.

Steve shakes his head, words, not even the least bit slurred when he says, “No. Maybe a little buzzed, but that’s it. I promise.”

Something snaps inside of Eddie at those two words, releasing the anger his horniess has been holding at bay. In an instant, he feels the rage boiling inside of him, and he shoves at Steve hard enough to send him back to his end of the couch.

“With much offense, Steve,” Eddie says, venom dripping from his lips as he spits out Steve’s name. “Promises don’t mean shit coming from you.”

And just like that, they’re back where they started the evening off. Opposite sides of each other, scowling and hurt in their own ways.

Steve sighs and shifts on the couch, not-so-subtly adjusting himself in his pants. “Eds,” he whispers, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I fucked up, okay. I know I did, but what was I supposed to? My dad was threatening you just as much as he was threatening me, and it was just easier to leave.”

“Easier for you, maybe.”

“I—“

“What are we doing here, Steve?” Eddie asks, cutting off whatever lame excuse is coming next.

“I thought I was trying to apologize but clearly I was wrong.”

Eddie can’t help the dark chuckle that escapes him. “So you apologize, and then what? We fuck, you get one last blowjob by the former freak of Hawkins, and then poof, you’re gone again?” Eddie rises from the couch in an instant, sock-covered feet pacing the length of the living room. He steals one glance down at Steve and shakes his head. “I should have listened to Jeff. Should have listened to everyone and stayed the fuck away. This is nothing but a pre-holiday fuck, and I’m so fucking stupid for falling for it.”

“No!” Steve shouts, standing up now too. “I’m not, I mean, I didn’t even know you’d be at the Hideout. I just stopped there because I couldn’t stomach the thought of showing up to my parents' place sober.”

“You think that makes me feel better?” Eddie snaps. “Tell me this: if I wasn’t at the bar tonight, would you have come to find me?”

Steve says silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t even know you were still in Hawkins until tonight!”

“Bullshit! I know for a fact Henderson has mentioned seeing me when he comes back for the holidays. Just stop lying!”

“You want me to stop lying?” Steve shouts, stalking over to where Eddie’s stopped pacing. He boxes him in against the new bookshelf he installed in the corner where Wayne’s roll-away mattress used to sit. With his shoes still on, Steve’s got half an inch on Eddie and it’s daunting staring up into those eyes when Steve’s jaw is set in a hardline. “I fucking love you, okay? I have for years! And yeah, I was a fucking coward for leaving, and I could have, should have called in the years since, but I was scared, okay? I was scared you figured out that I’m not worth it and found someone better, just almost everyone else in my stupid fucking life and—“

It’s Eddie’s lips that crash into Steve’s this time. The words die on Steve’s lip, and for a maddening moment, Eddie wonders if he’s broken him beyond repair. That maybe he sould have left him keep spiraling and hit rock button, but then Steve kisses him back and it’s perfect. Well, as close to perfect as they can get considering they’re both angry and exhausted and Jesus h. Christ when did Steve learn to do that with his tongue? It’s headier than the kiss on the couch, leagues better than their awkward teenage makeouts from that autumn. They’ve both grown up, practiced, and found what works, and god damn, does it work.

When they pull apart this time, it's only to catch their breaths before diving back in. Eddie gets his hands on Steve’s shirt, rucking it up and over his head in a tangle of limbs, his own shirt isn’t too far behind, flying through the air with reckless abandon. Steve’s lips find his throat and Eddie doesn’t know if he wants to scream or sink into him further so he does a mix of both, a wanton moan falling from his lips as he pulls Steve closer by his hips and ruts against him.

They’re really moving now, stumbling down the familiar hallway until they’re crashing into Eddie’s unmade bed. Eddie hovers over Steve, admiring his flushed torso and blissed-out face for all of two seconds before Steve pulls him close, whispering want you and need you, and who is Eddie to deny Steve anything, much less mutual pleasure?

They fumble with each other’s jeans, hands shoving and hips lifting and twisting until there’s nothing between them but the thick, musty air. Eddie’s hands trail up and down Steve’s body, his lips and teeth following leaving marks on his favorite moles. He licks a stripe from the dip of his waist to his belly button and back down, and Steve keens under him.

“Please,” Steve whines. “Stop teasing.”

“It’s call foreplay, sweetheart,” Eddie chirps, but ultimately gives in, taking all of Steve in his mouth in one go.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve swears, fisting a hand into the sheets.

Eddie pulls away, eyes wide and full of mischief. “First you say no teasing, then you get mad when I take you? What do you want from me, Stevie?” He cups Steve’s ball, rolling them with enough pleasure to coax another moan from Steve’s lips.

“Just play nice, Eds.”

Eddie hums, then dives back in, slower this time but still just as desperate. He’s missed this almost as much as he’s missed Steve in general. Maybe even more, if he’s honest. There are a lot of dicks in the sea, but none as beautiful and responsive as Steve’s.

Eddie laughs at the cheesy thought, and the vibrations do something to Steve to elicit the most beautiful sound Eddie’s ever heard. He almost laughs again just to hear it again, but before he has a chance, Steve’s shoving him off and flipping them over.

“Wh— what’s going on?”

“M’too close, and I don’t want cum without tasting you first.”

Despite his protests, Steve dives straight in with no preamble and Eddie feels the familiar coil of pressure building in an instant. He’s not going to last, not if Steve keeps doing that with his tongue and Jesus h. Christ he’s never going to live it down if he cums two seconds into getting Steve’s lips on him.

He tries to think of anything else. The disgusting bathrooms at the Hideout he’s going to have to clean tomorrow and the grocery list on the fridge he has to brave the last-minute holiday shoppers for, but nothing seems to work.

Eddie squirms, tries his best to get away from Steve but Steve hand settles on his hips, holding him to the mattress as he continues to move up and down. Eddie sees the stars building in his eyes without even closing his eyes and his hand moves on its own volution, finding Steve’s leaking cock and wrapping his hand around it.

If he’s going to cum embarrassingly fast, so is Steve.

He matches his strokes with Steve’s and they both fill the room with their moans and cries until finally they collapse on each other. Eddie’s hand and chest are sticky with Steve’s cum, and his own is spilling out Steve’s lips, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Steve closer, capturing his lips in a searing, sweaty kiss.

* * * 

Another round and an hour-long make-out session later, they finally get up to clean themselves up. Eddie leaves Steve in his room and disappears into the bathroom. One look at His debauched self in the mirror and Eddie can’t help the smile that breaks out. If someone had told him this was how he’d be spending the early hours of his first Thanksgiving without Wayne, he would have laughed in their face.

When he returns to the room a few minutes later, Steve’s back on the bed, the thin sheet doing little to cover his lower half while his torso lays on full display, light by the warm light seeping through the cracks of Eddie’s blinds as the sun rises outside.

“Hi,” Eddie whispers, suddenly shy as he slips back into bed.

“Hi,” Steve whispers back, shuffling across the bed and making himself comfortable on Eddie’s chest.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm around Steve’s bare middle before bending the other behind his own head. He looks down at Steve, slowly drinking in the look of peace on his face and the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he starves off sleep they’re both desperate for.

“How long are you in town for?” Eddie asks and mentally curses himself. Fucking Munson, just enjoy the moment!

Steve shifts, chin digging into Eddie’s solar plexus as his sleepy eyes find Eddie’s. “The weekend, at least. Maybe a few extra days.”

“Yeah?”

“I could be persuaded,” he says, reaching up to wrap a lock Eddie’s hair around his finger. “I mean, I am unemployed until January, as you so kindly pointed out.”

A part of Eddie wants to laugh, maybe even apologize for the uninspired jab from hours ago, but there’s something more important he has to do. Even if it kills him. He tries to keep his smile intact when he opens his mouth next, whispering the words as close to Steve’s ear as he can so he can’t deny hearing them.

“I’m not asking you to stay. You have to make that choice on your own, Steve. Start living your life for you.”

Steve’s smile falters, lips twitching, threatening to turn into a pout, but they don’t. Instead, he nods, and Eddie feels the weight of his confession and the fear-strikes anticipation of Steve’s reaction evaporate from his own body.

Steve nods, turning to press a chaste kiss to the same demon that’s been etched there since before Steve became his all those years ago. “I know.”

Eddie hums noncommittally and drags his fingers through Steve’s damp hair, nails lightly stretching at his scalp in the way he knows Steve loves. “So then, what do you want?”

There’s a moment of silence and Eddie watches the seven stages of grief wash over Steve’s face before he opens his mouth again. “I can promise you the weekend to start.”

It’s not the answer Eddie wanted, but it’s the one he was bracing for. He knows better than to expect Steve to make a life-changing decision in their post-coital haze. Wouldn’t want him to even if he gave him the answer he wanted. All he really needs is the truth.

“Boyfriends for the weekend?” Eddie says. The word feels foreign on his tongue and yet just right. “Does that mean I get a front-row seat to watch you ruin your dad’s life when you tell him about the fire academy?”

Steve snorts, hot air tickling Eddie’s love-bite-ridden neck. “I mean, if you want. Might make things worse, though.”

Eddie hums in agreement. The last thing he wants is to make Steve’s day even harder than it’s going to be, no matter how much he’d love to get some face-to-face time with good ol’ Dick Harrington.

“How about this,” Eddie says, turning so they’re nose to nose in bed now. “I’ll be your getaway driver. Drive you over, and when you’re ready to leave, I’ll be waiting around the bend like old times sake. And then…” He trails off, nose bumping against Steve as he peppers his freckled face with kisses and nips. “I’ll bring you back here and we can make good use of this whole boyfriends for the weekend thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, breathy and more of a sigh than anything else but the sentiment is there. “That sounds perfect.”

Eddie hums and pulls Steve’s lips between his in a long, lingering kiss before separating. “The only condition is I get to be the one who leaves this time when you have to come back.”

“Not forever, though, right?”

“Well, that’s up to you, babe.”

Steve nods, swooping in to give Eddie his own version of a passionate kiss. “Okay, but then we’re even.”

“Yeah, we’ll be even.”

Eddie watches the smile slowly spread across Steve’s face before he hides in the crook of his neck. Eddie presses his own grin into the mop of sweaty hair on Steve’s head as they lay there, completely intertwined from their head to their toes.

“Boyfriends for the weekend,” Steve mumbles through a yawn before finally letting his eyes flutter shut.

“And then for life,” Eddie whispers, lips pressing into Steve’s forehead before his own eyes give in to the exhaustion coursing through his body.

[lanormie]

blipped - mcu crossover au (pt. 4)

what if? the event of Thanos snap happened in the BNHA universe? you're forced to navigate the aftermath of The Blip, where half of the population get thrown back into existence after disappearing for five years. pairing: pro-hero!Shouto x f!pro-hero!reader (ft. slight katsuki x reader) read on AO3 previous part - next part

For what seemed like hours, you watched Katsuki go through all five stages of grief through his texts. He would go through them in the utmost chaotic order, barely grazing Acceptance before flipping right back to Denial. Anger was the only constant, though maybe it was just Katsuki being Katsuki. 

A casual ‘happy birthday baby’ would go right into him lashing out with fuck-yous and other expletives, then take a dizzying sharp turn with him apologizing profusely and more sweetly than you’d ever expected Katsuki to be. The next minute he would monologue for pages about the most random thing then call you rude for not texting back.

It was after about two years and a half when his laments slowly started to peter out. Acceptance took the driver seat, his spread out texts took on a melancholic overtone instead of pure manic. 

Then it stopped altogether after four years.

* * * * *

You find Shouto in the rear courtyard methodically hanging up freshly laundered clothings and beddings on the clotheslines.

You have stopped questioning a long time ago why the wealthy family of six (plus all the strays they keep taking in, like you for example) doesn’t own a dryer, and instead have come to love the nostalgic scent of line dried clothes.

Thin sheets flutter in the breeze, catching the harsh afternoon sunlight in their undulation. Birdsong twirls and mixes with the sound of wind rustling through crisp autumn leaves in a wordless call and response. Everything is so peaceful, so quiet. Too quiet. It vehemently contradicts the storm brewing inside of you.

You think it’s trying to say that the world would march on regardless of what’s happening to little insignificant ol’ you .

In fact, it did.

“You’ve been in there for a while. Are you alright?”

Shouto peeks out from behind a blanket. Whether he means in your room or in your head, since you look like you’ve been glued to the doorway, you don’t know.

You step into a pair of outdoor slippers set neatly on one side of the porch and make your way towards one of the laundry baskets.

“Sorry I didn’t come back out. I was reading Katsuki’s texts. There were… a lot of them.”

Falling back into the song and dance of pinning clothes onto the sturdy cotton ropes is easy. You’ve helped out Shouto with laundry duty many times before, knowing exactly how to space things out so the drying is optimal.

The lingering scent of detergent nudges its way into your hair and weaves into the warm sunlight around you like a hug.

“He was the one who gave me your phone, with some choice words about showing up here if I didn’t give it to you.”

“At least that part of him hasn’t changed.” You sigh. “He said he’d kept the stuff from my apartment at the agency and he wanted me to come by tomorrow to talk to him.”

“That is blackmail.” Shouto frowns. “You don’t have to go, we can replace all of your stuff.” 

“I don’t know what is worse, Sho. Facing him or sitting here dwelling on it.” You smooth out the damp pillowcase for the dozenth time. “He was…hurt. Badly. It might not have been my fault, but I was the cause nonetheless.” 

Shouto reaches over and gently stops your hands from anxiously fussing with the fabric.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not hurting too.”

He tosses half of the final sheet over the rope and hands you one end, and you both slowly walk backwards to spread the sheet out.

Once both ends are secured with wooden clothespins, Shouto collects all the baskets and sneakily flips one upside down over your head. Your surprised laugh is muffled slightly in the confines of the rattan weaves, and he lets a soft smile dance across his statue-like features.

“If you decide to go, I’ll walk back with you.” 

“Slacker. You're just using me to get out of work.” You lift the basket from your head and start heading for the porch.

He simply shrugs. “It’s not slacking if you’re not on the payroll.”

* * * * *

The open front gate of the agency threatens to swallow you whole as you stand stock still in front of it. Normally you would have to scan yourself in, but with the number of returning employees that are no longer part of the system, they have temporarily switched to manual check-in in the main lobby, leaving the gate wide open.

Yet you can’t seem to bring yourself to walk through it. As if it’s a threshold of something that would trap you in and you would not be able to back out.

Your grip on the red metal hand truck tightens. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe you’re still not ready to see him.

Perhaps you can head straight to the storage, grab your most important stuff then run right back out, and Katsuki will be none the wiser. 

So you push yourself forward, greet the receptionist with the best smile you can muster, quickly grab the code for your container and take the stairs down to the storage floor, the hand truck trailing in the air behind you.

The storage is basically an underground warehouse that contains about a hundred metal pods, all under temperature and humidity control. You are honestly glad that Katsuki had brought your belongings here, since finding them under 5 years of dust and spiderwebs wouldn’t exactly be thrilling.

The heavy door echoes loudly in the otherwise eerily quiet warehouse, making you wince. Reaching for your phone to double check the pod number, you see a text from Shouto.

‘Please let me know when you’re done, Sero is recounting 5 years of pop culture and he’s going to let a Solo Leveling spoiler slip, I just know it.’

You shoot back a quick ‘lol will do’ with a small smile on your face, your anxiety subsiding a smidge. You make your way to the far left corner where your container sits and plug in your code. The roll up door quietly opens, the light automatically turns on and you hear something stir.

Your couch is sitting neatly against the side wall, and the person laying on it just got woken up by your entrance.

And their squinting crimson eyes widen the moment they register that it’s you.

“How long have you been in here for?” You question, internally lamenting your ruined plans.

“I got an overnight patrol.” Katsuki sits up and roughly rubs the grogginess out of his eyes. His voice is significantly deeper with sleep, its familiarity tugging hard at you.

You look away and curtly hum in reply. Setting the hand truck by the door, you step into the pod and start rooting through the pile of boxes strewn all across the room. You can feel his eyes follow you closely, until he eventually clears his throat.

“What um, what are you looking for?” 

You don’t think you’ve ever heard Katsuki sound so unsure. Maybe he’s as unprepared for this ‘conversation’ as you are.

“My clothes.” You keep your eyes on the boxes in front of you, still unable to find it in you to look at him.

“Here.” He stands up and reaches for a few boxes sitting on top of your dresser. But before he can walk over with them, you lift them out of his hands with your quirk and float them over to the hand truck.

“Thanks.” You mutter, still digging through boxes with no real purpose. 

“Right.” He nods, then pats another box next to him. “This one too, if you wanna– you know,” He gestures towards the red metal contraption that’s slowly disappearing behind the growing tower of boxes.

“Sure.” Another one-worded reply.

Katsuki leans back against the dresser and watches in a mix of disbelief and awe as you pull out your cherry blossom snow globe from a box, shake it up and watch the petals dance. You look exactly the same as 5 years ago, but of course you do.

It’s absolutely surreal seeing you right in front of him after mourning you for so long, and he finds himself lost for words.

He hated the way you looked so broken when he left for the emergency the other day, and he didn’t want to leave things like that between you two, so he insisted on seeing you today to talk it out. He also just…wanted to see you again.

But now that you’re here, he doesn’t know where to even begin.

“I’m sorry.” is all he can muster.

“For what exactly?” You finally, finally look at him.

He doesn’t have an answer. And you seem to already know so.

“That’s the thing, Katsuki.” You try your darndest to keep your voice from breaking. “It hurts so damn much for me to look at you right now but at the end of the fucking day it’s not even your fault.”

A rolling wave of pain, guilt and longing crashes against the shore of Katsuki’s eyes, but he remains quiet.

“I can’t expect you to wait for me forever.” You weakly shake your head. “Yet I feel betrayed all the same. Utterly, pathetically betrayed.” You shove the snow globe back into its box and start pinching the bridge of your nose as incoming tears burn your nostrils.

Katsuki pushes off the dresser and makes his way over to you.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s my fault or not.” He stops in front of you. “Go on, yell at me. It’ll make you feel better.” He grabs your wrist and holds it to his throat. “Punch me. Hell, you can float me to the top floor and fucking drop me, I can take it. Please.” He searches your eyes. “I know you’re hurting, so hurt me back.”

You wriggle your wrist until he lets go.

“I think I’ve already hurt you enough.”

Your tears are free falling now. Heavy globs of salty liquid trail down your cheeks, still puffy from the past days. Without thinking, Katsuki reaches up to wipe them, only for you to hastily step back.

“Hawks offered me a job, and I’m taking it. Don’t expect me back.” You practically run to the hand truck to strap the boxes in. “I’ll ask Shouto to get the rest of my stuff when I find a place. You and I should,” you sputter, hardly able to breathe properly. “We should stay far, far away from each other, or it’d be difficult for both of us.” You take a deep inhale. “And for your fiancé.”

You don’t bother to hide the bitterness behind that word. You see him open his mouth to plead your name but you cut him off.

“Goodbye, Katsuki.”

And with that, you turn away, the metal dolly dragging sluggishly behind you as you walk out of this agency for the last time.

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

masterlist | part 4 | part 5

synopsis So maybe Rafe Cameron isn’t as bad as you thought he was.

wc 4.3k

As the football team files into the locker room after practice, Rafe Cameron jogs ahead, the space filling with sweat and grit. The vague scent of testosterone permeates.

“Dude,” Dalton carps, shoved aside as Rafe pushes past him. “You good?”

“I’m late,” Rafe pants, fishing his towel out of his gym bag before throwing it into his locker. “She told me she’d murder me if I was late to another meeting.”

He’s in too much of a rush to notice the reception this receives, a flurry of knowing looks punctuated by a keen sense of hubris. Kelce and Dalton may be the only two willing to bet on his odds with you, but it’s clear that the rest of the team—the prefects, the graduating class—have picked up on the lingering eye contact and ricocheting glances, the drawn out meetings and nescient closeness.

Not that it matters. September now, with the crisp Autumn chill beginning to unfurl, you maintain the same, safe distance from Rafe Cameron as jilted you had once delineated. Sure, you’re friendlier now, a little softer around the edges, but it’s clear that you’re fighting hard to keep things professional, hold him an arm’s length away and not closer.

He wishes it wouldn’t bother him as much as it does. There’s been a few instances where he’s attempted more than a ride in his pick-up; an invite to whatever lame party his team’s throwing that weekend, an offer to stop by the Burger Shack on the way home. As friends—colleagues. To minimal avail, of course, you’re always giving him the same answer when he asks: “Nice try, Cameron.” Not a yes, not a no, just this odd, taunting response that’s sweetened by your peach scented lipgloss.

His most recent attempt had been just the other week, when a meeting about winter formal had run longer than you’d initially planned. It’d been brought to his attention by a pang of hunger in his abdomen, and he’d pulled up Uber Eats without any sort of ulterior motive.

“What’s your McDonalds order?” He’d asked, looking up at you briefly.

The sun was hanging low on the horizon that evening; he remembers this because of the way it bedaubed the bottom half of your face, accentuated the smooth column of your throat.

Your frown looked prettier in yellow light — that’s another thing he remembers. You’d raised your eyebrows a little, not bothering to look up at him. Another pang. “Why?”

“You’re not hungry, Y/L/N?” He’d asked, raising his in tandem.

“Starving.” You’d glanced up then, frowning harder, prettier. “Maybe you should concentrate on getting this done so we can both go home for dinner.”

“Okay, not McDonalds,” Rafe had acceded, flicking back to the UberEats home screen and leaning in. “Chinese? Thai food? Something fancier? Vending machine crap?”

“Cameron.”

“Y/L/N,” he’d mocked, knocking his shoulder against yours cajolingly. “C’mon, we both need a bit of food. We’ve been at this for fucking hours.”

“So if I say yes,” you’d asked then, angling away and sending him a pointed look, “you’ll let me pay for my own meal?”

Rafe hadn’t missed a beat, scoffing, “Of course not.”

You’d sighed, “Exactly.” And then, “Nice try, Cameron.”

Like clockwork. He’s thinking about it now, mostly about the way his name moulds your gloss-shiny lips, when Kelce’s voice breaks his reverie.

“Pussy whipped,” he coughs, earning a few stifled laughs from the rest of the football team.

Rafe’s about to rise to the bait when his conscience forces a falter, reminding him of the last time you were brought up in this locker-room. He’s constantly, incessantly taunted by the stupid, sophomore version of him; more so now that he knows his fondness of you was misinterpreted back then. So he’s adamant that there won’t be any more crude shows of affection—when he tells you he’s grown, he’s wants to be able to mean it.

So, instead of responding, Rafe flips Kelce off over his shoulder, grabbing his lathering gel and disappearing into the shower area.

“Oh shit,” Kelce wolf-whistles, more a jibe than a taunt. “You really are pussy whipped, huh?”

“Do me a favour, Smith.” Rafe sounds calmer than Kelce had expected him to, his rough voice scary steady. “And keep her name out of your mouth.”

—

You’re scrunching your nose when he nears, head lowered and notes in disarray.

It’s that stupid, heady cologne he wears—musk and patchouli something, you think—that you’re developing a knack for recognising almost anywhere. And chlorine, always chlorine and other pool chemicals, except for Fridays which are devoted to football practice petrichor.

“I would ask if you own a watch,” you say, refusing to look up, “but I know you do, because the Rolex logo blinds me every fucking time it’s in the sun.”

Rafe takes a seat beside you, snaking his arm around your backrest and swivelling it around to him in one swift motion.

You gasp in surprise, though it melts into a scoff as the indignation sets in. “Cameron,” you angle back, eyes widening slightly. “I was in the middle of something.”

“So here’s the thing,” he begins, ignoring you. His thighs are pressed into either side of his seat, the groove of his knees nudging your thighs ever so slightly. “I was… alright, a minute late, yeah? And I thought — well, she isn’t going to care if it’s a minute or ten, she’s going to murder no matter how late I am.”

You raise your eyebrows, crossing your arms over his chest. “True.”

“So,” he leans down, fishing a cylinder of Pringles and a packet of Skittles out of his bag, “I thought I’d take some time to pick out my ideal last meal.”

You glance down at the assortment dubiously, narrowing your eyes. “Vending machine crap?”

“Vending machine crap,” Rafe affirms, throwing them onto the table beside him. The plastic crinkles ominously.

“Bold of you to assume that I’d allow a last meal, Cameron,” you say then, faux-serious.

He leans forward in his seat, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “Christ, Y/L/N, you’re going to deny me fundamental human rights now?”

“Wouldn’t you rather a quick, painless death than us delaying the inevitable with some food?” You respond, leaning forward in tandem.

“A quick, painless death, huh?” He asks, his voice lower now, roughened by the closeness. “How’re you going to do it then, head girl?”

The amusement on your features gives way to diffidence. It feels as though there’s a hidden meaning to the words he’s saying, something more crackling alive in the inch of space between your faces. “Poison,” you say, softer too.

A pause. Rafe’s gaze falls to your lips, and his chest stills, his broad shoulders tensing. “Don’t know if you’ll need it,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing arduously. “Not right now.”

You furrow your brow, momentarily bemused. “Hm?”

Rafe Cameron thinks about kissing you often. He thinks about it in this absentminded, matter-of-fact way, like it’s meant to be on his mind all the time, like the pull in his chest is an inevitable part of being your almost friend—colleague.

He thinks about it extra hard now, slanted by your proximity and the soft, bergamot notes of your perfume.

Contrary to your vow, it’s eliciting a slow, painful death not to lean in and press his mouth against yours. He swallows again, his gaze lingering on your lips, and the tension in the room sears through you like a meteorite.

You pull back hastily, clearing your throat and turning back toward the table. “Anyway,” you cough, pulling your laptop forward and touching the mousepad. “We should really get going on this agenda.”

Rafe takes a little longer to regain his composure, his warm breath folding over your shoulder as he sighs. He turns too, leaning forward to look at the screen, and suddenly his proximity feels like too much to bare.

You move your chair to the side a little, the legs scraping over polished wood tauntingly. Rafe’s chest pulls in protest. “Right,” he says after a beat, trying not to frown. “Winter formal.”

The pair of you work in silence for a while. Time ticks by slowly, the maddening inches between you shrinking, and it’s only at the sight of a purple horizon that you acquiesce and stop working.

When you close your laptop and turn to address Rafe, you find that he’s already looking at you.

The revelation makes your pulse jolt. You break eye contact and clear your throat, busying yourself with your tote bag.

“Your focus is unparalleled by the way,” he says after a beat, his voice somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Remind me never to leave you alone when you’re studying.”

You try not to look too pleased by this revelation. “I always study alone, Cameron.”

“For your safety, Y/L/N,” he replies, faux-sombre, “I really think you shouldn’t.”

You look over at him, raising your eyebrows. “Is this your weird way of asking me on a study date?”

“Oh no,” he responds matter-of-factly, pushing back onto the hind legs of his chair. “One, I don’t study.” He leans forward then, ducks his head to eye-level, the blue of his irises bright and ever present. “Two, studying together is not a date.”

In your head, this translates to: you’re overestimating his interest. You say, suddenly chagrined, “I was kidding. Obviously.”

“So was I,” Rafe returns, cracking a roguish grin. “Obviously.”

You scoff, throwing your tote bag over your shoulder and standing up. “Nice try, Cameron.”

“It’s true, though,” he replies, oddly sincere as he straightens. “Any other girl and I’d never fucking dream of bringing them to a library to hang out.”

“Make out,” you correct with a cough, earning another grin.

“Exactly,” he nods, raising his eyebrows significantly. “I mean, shit, I’ve got a reputation to uphold Y/L/N.”

You breathe out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. “What? As the Academy’s biggest fuckboy?”

“Fuckboy?” Rafe echoes, faux-affronted. “It’s not my fault I’m such a goddamn delight, now, is it?”

“Except,” you reply, trying not to smile, “that delight is probably the last word I’d use to describe you.”

Your shoulders knock together as you walk forward. It becomes harder not to smile, his closeness like warm syrup.

“And the first?” He asks.

“Well,” you splay your palm out and begin listing adjectives off, “cocky, arrogant, absolutely insufferable, sweet when you want to be which is actually rarely ever —”

“Sweet?” Rafe interrupts, something fond swelling in his chest. “I’ll take sweet.”

“You’re forgetting the rarely ever part,” you remind him, raising your eyebrows.

“Still,” he insists, grinning stubbornly, “ever.”

You shake your head exasperatedly, almost amused, and push through a set of double doors that take you to the foyer. The carpark isn’t far away, and the promise of a ride home—time and closeness like something rare—lingers in the air.

It’s as you’re grappling with its presence that you frown, suddenly aware of the silence. The pair of you have stopped walking and you aren’t certain why that is. “This conversation was going somewhere, wasn’t it?”

Rafe furrows his brow thoughtfully, though his features are quick to acquiesce. “Right. The fact that I don’t consider studying a date.”

You cringe again. “Oh.”

“But,” he continues, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

A tell-tale warmth spreads over your cheeks. “Nice try, Cameron,” you mutter, though your voice sounds weaker than you want it to.

“Don’t worry, Y/L/N,” he murmurs back, bowing his head to eye level. “When I’m asking you out for real, I’ll make sure that you know it.”

—

Lightning: his musk and patchouli scent—and chlorine today, no petrichor to fill the air.

Thunder: his voice. Deeper when he’s calling out for you than when you’re alone with him.

One always comes before the other, like this cyclical reminder of how much of him is now familiar.

“Y/L/N!” He calls out urgently, prompting you to halt.

“Cameron?” You turn to face him as he nears, evidently bewildered. “No meeting today, remember? Cromwell’s away.”

“No, I know,” he answers, a little breathless. “How’re you getting home?”

You furrow your brow bemusedly. “Walking?”

“I always drive you home after meetings,” he says then, quick to fall into your step. “Let me drive you home.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?” You ask, sounding a little exasperated. “We don’t have one of those today, genius.”

Rafe grins handsomely, knocking his shoulder against yours. “I’m a creature of habit, Y/L/N. Can’t you use your head girl goodwill and humour me just this once?”

You shake your head bemusedly, deciding to accede. “I don’t get why this is such a big deal for you.”

Rafe shrugs matter-of-factly, beads of water falling from his damp hair to his broad shoulders. It pulls your gaze from his muscles to the bare expanse of his forearms, his shirt sleeves rolled up so his Rolex glints in the yellow sun. “It’d be weird,” he says finally, “driving home in silence on a Wednesday instead of listening to your god-awful playlist.”

“Hey!” You chide, pushing him sideways playfully. “My playlist is fucking fire.”

Rafe makes a face. “Listening to that much Taylor Swift can’t be healthy.”

“Don’t do that,” you return, fixing him with a knowing look. “I hear you humming along to Delicate whenever it plays.”

“Good tune,” he defends, accurate lyrics, “that’s it.”

“Aw,” you tease, smiling this sweet, amused smile up at him—sunshine incarnate. “Don’t worry Mr Fuckboy, I won’t tell anyone that you’re actually a secret swiftie.”

Normally he’d return the jibe, but that fond look on your face is making it hard for him to breath. He wishes he had a camera, pathetic as that is. He wishes he had you, was afforded the luxury of endless time with your pretty face.

“Kildare Academy’s head girl everybody,” he says after a beat, unlocking his car with a tandem grin. “The paragon of confidentiality.”

Delicate plays once on the ride to your house. And when it does, his proclivity for the song now made public, Rafe Cameron isn’t afraid sing along loudly.

He’s proudly unabashed when the chorus blares through, singing, “Is it cool that I said all that?”

“Is it chill that that you’re in my head?” You join in between laughter, angling toward him to face him fully.

His long fingers drum against the steering wheel with the beat, making the muscles of his forearm pulse. He leans forward to turn the music up louder, and when he hand drops again, it falls onto the vibrating gear shift.

Dangerously close to your exposed thigh, a slate of sunlight painting it a warm shade of orange. “Cause I know that it’s delicate.” Rafe becomes acutely aware of the lyrics to this song, all of a sudden. “Isn’t it…”

“Isn’t it, isn’t it, isn’t it,” you continue to sing, that sweet, amused smile making a return on your face. Almost pleased. The awareness grows maddening.

You continue to hum along whilst Rafe tries to catch his breath. He’s almost grateful for the fact that he’s nearing your house until he realises that this means no more pretty girl in his pick-up truck.

“Think you can keep yourself from studying too hard this weekend?” Rafe asks, pulling into your driveway carefully.

You turn to face him, raising your eyebrows playfully. “Think you can force yourself to do a bit of study this weekend?”

Rafe throws his arm around your headrest and leans in a little, this fond, roguish grin on his face that makes your chest hurt. “Why? You asking me on a study date, Y/L/N?”

“No,” you answer, fixing him with a pointed look. “I just think your brain deserves a little bit of a workout.”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek, his gaze falling over your figure slow. “Trust me when I say,” he replies, his voice lower now, rougher. “That the real estate you occupy in there is a workout in itself.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, that pain in your chest dissolving into something softer. “All the nagging,” you deflect, “huh?”

Your front door opens, and Rafe catches the movement in his peripheral vision. His eyes linger on you anyway.

“Not quite,” he murmurs finally, just as you turn and unbuckle your seatbelt.

You look up at your porch and find your mother squinting down at you. She has a dish-towel clad hand pressed against her full hip, and her warm gaze scans over the pair of you knowingly.

When her expression changes, the delighted smile on her face creating crow’s feet, you recognise what’s coming before she’s even opened her mouth.

A few weeks ago, before his presence infused all this sweetness into your bones, you probably would’ve turned to him at this stage and pleaded he refuse.

Now, however…

“Rafe!” You mother calls out, gesturing for you to roll down the window. “Have you had dinner yet, sweetheart?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he answers, leaning forward to send her that handsome smile of his.

It’s a compromising position, his cheek close enough to press against yours, and you’re awash with the heat of his torso as it occupies the personal space in front of you. You swallow.

"Well then," she responds, "you'll have to stay and have it with us."

The arm he's wrapped around your headrest relaxes, his fingers brushing over your shoulder intermittently. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” your mother dismisses, waving the dish-towel around. “If you help me make the last few bits, you’ll be doing the opposite of imposing.”

Rafe hesitates momentarily, his eyes flicking to your face for approval. It’s only then that he’s able to recognise the closeness; his pupils flex a little, just enough to make you swallow once more.

You’re okay with this? He seems to ask.

You shrug. It appears all the confirmation he needs to shift the gear into park and release the ignition, his close proximity wavering.

And he walks the short walk to your porch behind you, his pleased expression hidden, unaware of the look of exasperation you’re sending to your mother.

She raises her eyebrows reproachfully. It’s only polite, they seem to say, as if we’re doing him a favour. As if Rafe Cameron doesn’t live in the most expensive house on the island, no doubt equipped with a private chef—a miscellany of fancy dinner items.

Maybe you’re embarrassed by the mediocrity of your own home, on the cusp of the Eight with enough roots to belong to the Cut. And you know it’s silly, thinking this way; terrifying too, because since when did you care what Rafe Cameron thought of you?

The fact that you’re grappling with these emotions must show on your face, because Rafe pulls close once the three of you are in the kitchen, ducking his head to your ear.

Goosebumps bloom where his warm breath fans over your skin. “Are you sure you’re good with this?”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but you sort of hate that he knows this is affecting you at all. You breath out a scoff, breaking away from him deftly. “It’s not a big deal,” you lie, sending him a stern look. “Drop it, yeah?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, raising his arms in surrender. Then, he shifts his attention to your mother, who’s grabbing a bunch of fresh vegetables from the fridge.

“Think you can handle chopping duty, Rafe?” She asks, handing them over to him with a smile.

“Yes ma’am,” he repeats, and then he raises his eyebrows at you, his blue eyes filled with mirth. “So this is where you get it from, huh?”

“Ma’am,” you mother echoes, nodding approvingly. “I like it.”

After she’s enlisted your help in making the salad dressing, she can’t help but hover over the pair of you, throwing jibes as she pleases.

“So Rafe,” she says, ignoring your stern look, “Y/N tells me you’re captain of the football team, on top of being head boy. Your parents must be pretty proud of you, huh?”

Rafe’s features falter. There’s a split second where the hand that’s chopping away at the lettuce freezes in place; it’s a subtle pause, but you’re in tune enough to recognise it despite your mother’s ignorance.

“Maybe,” he answers finally, quick to plaster a smile back onto his face. “Though they do tend to have pretty high expectations.”

“And I’m sure you’re meeting all of them,” your mother dismissed airily, her bright eyes warm. “Do you know where you want to end up next year?”

“UNC,” he replies automatically. “Wanna stay reasonably close to my family, you know?”

You frown at this, sending him a questioning glance. From the little Rafe has disclosed about his father, it’s clear that he’s a bit of a tyrant—why would he wants to stick around here for him?

He turns his head in tandem, somehow reading your thoughts. “Wheezie,” he adds, looking back to your mother. “I know my dad’ll take care of Sarah just fine, but me and Wheez tend to get a little bit forgotten.”

“And Wheezie and Sarah are your younger sisters?” Your mother asks.

“Uh-huh,” he affirms, returning his gaze to the chopping board. “But anyway, I’ll probably apply to some of the other colleges on the East Coast, too, just in case I don’t manage to snag one of UNC’s football scholarships.”

“I’m sure your grades’ll get you through,” you say then, unable to help yourself. There’s a pause as two pairs of eyes descend on you, Rafe’s a little surprised, your mother’s on the smug side.

“Careful, Y/L/N,” Rafe teases, nudging your shoulder with his. “That was almost a compliment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply, rolling your eyes playfully. “The dumb frat boy act may work your friends, but I know you pull more A-grades than all of them combined.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, a jibe. “More keeping tabs, huh?”

You shrug, mock-nonchalant, tapping the side of your nose conspiratorially. It transforms Rafe’s expression into something roguish, full of mischief, and he ducks his head slightly, feigning a challenge. “You’re right though,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m coming for your title, Miss Future Valedictorian.”

“So that’s why you didn’t want me studying this weekend!” You exclaim, faux-affronted.

“It’s also why we can’t go on study dates together,” he affirms, nodding soberly.

You furrow your brow. “You’ve lost me, Cameron.”

He raises his eyebrows significantly. “Too distracting, Y/L/N, keep up.”

It throws you, the ease with which he admits to this, your mother his witness. You try to dismiss it with a scoff, though the sound that comes out of your mouth is far weaker. “Anyway,” you glance down at the concoction in front of you, cheeks too-warm, “dressing’s ready.”

—

Rafe stays far longer than you expect him to.

He tackles your mother’s interrogatory remarks like a champion, deflecting as necessary. And he’s polite about it all, effortlessly charming, asking just the right number of personal questions—making your heart swell with his thoughtfulness.

And it’s terrifying, really, when dusk falls and he’s still here. Burnt ochre transforms into deep, purple hues, and it’s only then that your mother acquiesces and lets him go.

“Thank you again for dinner Mrs. Y/L/N,” he says, halted at your door with a handsome grin on his face.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Rafe!” She answers delightedly, sending him a playful wink. “Especially when you joke about the fact that I look thirty.”

“Sisters!” He insists, looking between the pair of you solemnly. “Seriously, Mrs. Y/L/N. Love your work.”

Her smile extends from her lips to the sides of her crinkly eyes, crow’s feet shining through. “Give your family my best.”

He nods kindly, and she turns, disappearing around the corner and leaving you to close the door.

Just you and him on your porch, now. The stygian sky descends on the scene like velvet, and the silence reclines, allowing your gaze to fall over him in paces.

His too, agonising over everything from the curl of your lashes to the osculate between your lips. The smooth column of your throat, illuminated by the dim glow of your porch lamp.

“Thank you,” he murmurs finally, breaking the silence. (He knows, if he hadn’t, the urge to kiss you would’ve grown unbearable.) “For tonight. I haven’t sat down for a meal like that in a while.”

You’re quietly surprised by the revelation, and in the beat that follows, his figure blurs around the edges. He’s proximal, though not proximal enough. And his once-damp hair is now fluffy with static, his taut muscles ever-present, his torso like a body heat furnace.

One step forward, and he’d be able to press you against your front door and kiss you. You swallow thickly.

“Don’t thank me,” you say quietly, willing yourself to look up at him. “It was fun.”

Another pause. He’s staring down at you with this intensity that makes your cheeks burn, and you find yourself grappling for purchase on something—anything, overwhelmed by his closeness.

“If only you were always like this,” you add, trying to tease though sounding a little weaker than you want to.

Rafe’s forearms are bare, rougher in the chill. He crosses them over his chest, leaning into the column of your porch, closer. “Like what?”

His warm breath unspools. He’s softer like this, at your doorway after dinner, his thick brows raised and skin awash in yellow light.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, looking away without meaning to. “Sweet.”

“Sweet?” He echoes, his voice lower, rougher. “I’m always sweet, Y/L/N.”

“That’s not true,” you whisper. You’re aware that he’s inched infinitesimally closer.

“To you,” he rasps, “I am.”

He pushes off the column of your porch then, ducking his head until it’s at eye-level with yours. When his rough palm finds the contour of your jaw, you let out a shaky breath, your heart a mess.

“Rafe,” you warn.

“Y/N…” he echoes, his finger sweeping over your warm cheek.

[satanslovergirl]

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S W E A T E R W E A T H E R

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❝ You’re the one person that I can count on. ❞

— Sam Winchester, Season 5

> Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: 5,670

Tone: Autumn Cozy, Crush to Confession

Rating: T (Emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, cuddles)

Written by: Little Devil ♡

Based on: Mid-Season Canon (Season 8–9 era bunker)

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Synopsis

She wasn’t supposed to stay. A few nights, maybe a week at most—just enough time to heal, research, and get back on the road. But the bunker started to feel more like home than anywhere else had in years. And Sam? Sam made it too easy to stay lost in late-night lore, warm drinks, and soft glances she wasn’t supposed to notice. One chilly evening, she borrows a sweater. She doesn’t mean to keep it. And he doesn’t mean to fall for the sight of her in it. But everything shifts the night he finds her asleep in the library, still wrapped in his scent and silence. He thinks she’s dreaming. She’s not. And his confession might just be the one thing she needed to hear.

---

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The first morning frost had crept across the Impala’s windshield, pale and glimmering like breath on glass. Autumn had arrived, subtle but sharp, curling into the corners of the Men of Letters bunker and making the stone halls feel colder than usual. She’d felt it in her bones the night before—how the draft slipped beneath door frames and over exposed skin.

She didn’t have many clothes with her. Hunters never did. She’d planned to be gone by now, anyway.

Instead, she found herself still here.

Still safe.

Still… close to him.

Y/N padded barefoot down the hallway in the early evening quiet, wearing leggings and a too-thin tee, arms crossed over her chest as goosebumps prickled her skin. She didn’t intend to snoop. She was just looking for a blanket or something warm.

But the drawer in the guest hallway wasn’t linens—it was clothes.

And not just anyone’s. Sam’s.

The sweaters were folded neatly—of course they were—stacked by shade and texture like a catalog. She hovered a moment, eyes scanning soft greys and forest greens, before fingers hesitantly tugged free the thickest one.

It was dark charcoal, cable-knit, and hung past her thighs when she pulled it on.

It smelled faintly of cedar and something warmer—books, maybe. Him.

Her fingers disappeared inside the sleeves.

She didn’t put it back.

---

The days grew shorter. The sweater stayed.

She tried not to think about what that meant.

Sam never said anything—not when she wore it to breakfast two days later, not when he saw her curled up in the war room with a lore book, sleeves swallowed past her wrists.

But she caught him looking.

It wasn’t judgment or annoyance. It was something softer.

And that made her nervous in ways a monster never had.

---

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The library smelled like old paper and cinnamon tea. One of the bunker’s vintage lamps cast amber light across the stacks, and rain tapped softly against the bunker’s steel door above. Y/N had been reading for hours. The book in her lap was heavy, text faded at the edges, and she hadn’t turned a page in at least ten minutes.

The sweater—his sweater—was wrapped tight around her frame. She’d tugged her knees up to her chest, curling into the corner armchair with a blanket folded beneath her. The sleeves fell over her hands completely now, frayed slightly at the cuffs from how often she wore it.

Eventually, her eyes drifted closed.

---

The creak of the library door stirred her, not fully—but enough to register footsteps.

Sam.

He paused in the doorway, a folded blanket in hand, fresh from the dryer by the smell of it. His flannel pajama pants hung low on his hips, and the black henley he wore clung to his chest in a way she was trying very hard not to notice, even in her haze.

His hair was damp. A post-shower softness to him.

He stopped a few feet away, expression unreadable.

She thought maybe he’d walk away. That he’d drape the blanket over the back of the couch and leave.

Instead, he stepped closer. Kneeling, he gently pulled the blanket up over her legs. She stirred slightly—just enough to murmur his name.

“Sam?”

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, voice soft. “You looked cold.”

Her eyes fluttered open halfway, heart thudding. “M’sorry. I didn’t mean to crash here.”

“It’s okay,” he said. His gaze flicked down to the sweater. “You… look comfortable.”

“I didn’t mean to steal it.”

“You didn’t.” He smiled—quiet and fond. “You look good in it.”

A pause stretched between them.

He crouched there, fingertips brushing over the knit fabric at her wrist, lingering just slightly too long. “You should wear my clothes more often.”

Her breath caught. She blinked up at him, lips parting—but nothing came out.

“You said that like you’ve thought about it before,” she murmured, finally.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin tingled where his fingers grazed her temple.

“I think about a lot of things I shouldn’t,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“You. In this bunker. In my sweaters. In the morning. Drinking coffee.”

Her heart twisted.

“That doesn’t sound like something you shouldn’t think about,” she whispered.

Sam swallowed. His voice dropped to something quieter. “I’ve spent years losing things I care about, Y/N. Sometimes it feels like I’m cursed to.”

“You’re not cursed,” she said softly, sitting up straighter. The blanket pooled at her waist. “And you haven’t lost me.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Like maybe he was afraid she’d vanish if he blinked.

“You stayed,” he said.

“I did.”

His fingers brushed her knee, tentative.

“I don’t want you to go,” he admitted.

“Then ask me to stay.”

“Stay.”

She leaned in—kissed him gently, barely a whisper of lips.

When they pulled apart, her head rested on his shoulder, heart thundering against his chest.

And just like that, she didn’t need the sweater anymore to feel warm.

---

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They didn’t talk about it the next morning. Not right away.

She woke in the same chair, the blanket still wrapped around her legs. Sam had fallen asleep on the floor beside her, book still open in his lap. His hand was resting on her ankle like a tether.

She smiled.

When he finally woke, bleary-eyed and blushing faintly, he offered her coffee without a word.

It wasn’t awkward.

It felt natural. Like maybe they’d already been doing this for a long time without realizing it.

---

That afternoon, she found another sweater folded neatly on her bed. Different color. Still his.

There was a note tucked beneath it in his scrawl.

> You looked cold. Thought this one might fit even better.

Also, I liked the kiss. Just in case that wasn’t clear.

– Sam

She pressed it to her chest.

And stayed another week.

Then another.

And eventually, she stopped counting altogether.

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E N D

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Tags: #sam winchester x reader #supernatural fanfiction #autumn fluff #bunker era #cozy sam #emotional slow burn #sweater weather #canon compliant #sam x reader fluff #soft confession #hunter reader #bunker domesticity #spn fanfic #midseason sam #third person reader insert