#I miss vine oh god I miss vine

[galactic-dragoness]

Is adulthood just yearning for the things that happened over a decade ago every decade that passes you by

[living-mites]

person: "Why are you in my house! I'm calling 911"

Me *standing at the end of their bed*: "shhh don't talk. I'll do the talking here.... Achilles and Patrocles were lovers but history wrote them out because of homophoibia- They were more than friends- more than mere lovers... they were roomates.."

person: "oh my god they were rootmates"

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table; framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly – not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me–”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say... until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter; just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just, vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock; gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen in mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[robbysreaders]

Sorry I don’t make the rules, we need more ex x baby daddy!Jack!

Especially their wedding, breeding kink Jack, more babies, the whole thing.

Hehe pls & thanks

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 3.6k notes: part 4 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack way hornier than the rest of writing but tbh like .5 chili peppers haha and thank you for this req in my inbox!!!! i love these two and i'm working my way through some ideas that have been shared with me but i just started a new job so they will probably be over the next few weeks!

Something unlocks after you get engaged.

It’s not dramatic, not fireworks. Just this quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you. This is it. This is real. There’s a ring on your finger, a boy in the other room who looks like both of you, and Jack—Jack, who once felt like an impossible choice, now feels like home.

And you continue to see a side of him you’re not entirely used to.

He's still Jack—still grumbles about budget cuts and leaves coffee mugs in strange places—but he’s also… attentive. Almost absurdly so. Sweet in a way that feels like he’s been saving it all up. And maybe a little unhinged in the best, horniest way. He touches you constantly. Always finds a way to press a kiss to your temple, your shoulder, your stomach. Like he still can’t believe he gets to.

“I locked you down,” he mutters one morning, arms snug around your waist as you brush your teeth. “You, Beau, and a damn ring. The trifecta.”

“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you laugh, spitting into the sink.

Jack grins against your neck. “Maybe I should squirrel you away to the courthouse before you change your mind.”

“Oh, we were dangerously close to that, don’t kid yourself,” you say, rinsing. “But I wanted the view.”

And the view was worth it.

Lake Como in late May. A small villa perched on a hillside, all warm stone and blooming vines. The ceremony was intimate—friends, family, a very small and slightly chaotic PTMC contingent somehow made the trip. Robby cried, and Dana pretended not to. Your sister wrangled Beau through the flower-petal aisle like she’d been training for it her whole life.

You danced under string lights. Said “I do” to a man who still sometimes forgets to fold towels correctly but looks at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow—shockingly—you agreed to let your sister take Beau back with her, so you and Jack could have a true honeymoon.

Just you. Just him.

The first night, you’re on the balcony in a linen robe and nothing else, wine glass in hand, the lake glowing below you.

Jack comes up behind you—barefoot, shirtless, lazy smile on his face—and wraps his arms around your waist like he can’t help himself.

“I love this,” you murmur. “I love you. I want to stay here forever.”

“I know,” he says, kissing that spot just beneath your ear. Then, after a beat, “But… is it just me, or does it feel like missing a limb without Beau? …no pun intended.”

You laugh and spin in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck. “God, I love you. This is why I married you. You’re in my brain.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, brushing your hair back. “Maybe we wouldn’t miss him so much if you were already carrying another little Abbot with you.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Wasting no time, huh?”

“I’ve been waiting six years Mrs. Abbot. You can’t be surprised.”

“Careful,” you say, teasing, “you sound like you get off to me being barefoot and pregnant.”

Jack hums, low and amused. “I mean… if the shoe fits.”

You groan, half-exasperated, half turned on. “God, you’re such a menace.”

“An insatiable menace,” he says, sliding his hands beneath your robe. “Who happens to be very good at making you come. Efficient, even. Fill you so good we’d get twins. Two for one.”

“Okay, Doctor Abbot,” you laugh, swatting at his chest. “Did you hit your head or is this just post-wedding delirium?”

He grumbles into your neck.

You swat his chest. “You know, for a doctor, you know nothing about conception.”

“I know the basics,” he says, hand smoothing over your hip, “and that I’m pretty damn good at it.”

“God, you are so full of yourself. Should’ve never married a jock.”

He smirks. “Did someone say cock?” His hips roll against yours, slow and deliberate, pressing a point.

You groan, laughing into his mouth as he kisses you. “You’re ridiculous. And I thought you’d go for the “and you’ll be so full of me’ route”

“What can I say, I’m maturing,” he mumbles, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming now. “You’re lucky you married me. Any other man would’ve passed out from post-wedding exhaustion.”

“Instead I got the energizer bunny in scrubs.”

He scoops you up with ease—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back—and carries you inside like it’s your first night all over again. He drops you onto the bed gently, then follows, kissing a path down your stomach.

“Jack,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I’m just doing a thorough exam,” he says into your skin. “You’ve under my care, it would be negligent not to check on you after such a major life event like getting married.”

“You’re annoying,” you say, breath hitching.

“You love it.”

You do.

You love all of it. The warmth, the ease, the hunger in him that never faded, just changed shape over time. You let him take his time—relearn your body like it’s the first time all over again. You lose yourself in him, in the soft press of lips to skin, the whispered confessions that slip out only when his guard is down.

Laughing, gasping, kissing like it’s the only language you know. After, you lay tangled together, sweat-damp and boneless.

He traces circles on your back, eyes half-lidded. “Seriously. Twins.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m just saying, it’s efficient.”

“Beau is six and I’m still tired.”

Jack chuckles. “Fine. No pressure. Just practice. Lots of practice.”

You roll over, facing him. “You happy?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I knew I could be.”

The room is quiet. Outside, the lake glimmers in moonlight.

“I was scared, you know,” you whisper.

Jack glances down at you. “When?”

“All of it. Letting you back in. Saying yes. I kept thinking, what if we just mess it up again?”

He brushes a hand along your jaw. “We probably will. Sometimes. But I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let you carry the weight alone.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s what scared me before. Feeling like I was alone in it.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I felt it too. But I didn’t know how to fix it then. I was still trying to outrun things.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m tired of running.”

You press a kiss to his chest. “So no running. No hiding.”

“No hiding,” he repeats.

There’s a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of the night and your breathing slowing in sync.

Then Jack says, so quietly you almost miss it: “I want a big life with you.”

You look up. “You already have one.”

He smiles. “I know. But I want more of it. All the messy, beautiful pieces. Soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Slow Sundays. Another baby. or two. or ten. Just—more.”

Your throat tightens. “God, you’re such a sap now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, pulling you in closer.

You grin into his skin. “Don’t worry. I’m into it.”

And he’s into you—clearly—because within minutes, he’s proving again just how committed he is to “practice.”

That night, you fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the quiet certainty that this time, you didn’t choose wrong.

His arm is slung heavy around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. His hand is resting possessively on your hip, thumb tucked just under the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. You don’t move. You just lay there, soaking in the stillness.

The lake outside is calm. There’s birdsong, a faint breeze, and nothing else.

You sigh into the silence.

“Mmm,” Jack mumbles, tightening his grip. “Alive?”

“Barely.”

“You wore me out,” he says, voice hoarse and self-satisfied.

“You begged for it.”

“I did,” he agrees. Then, after a beat: “I’d do it again.”

You smile, pressing your nose to his chest. “We’ve officially entered the honeymoon stage.”

“We skipped it the first time. I’m cashing in.”

You shift slightly, pressing your cold toes to his shin. He flinches.

“Jesus.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Poor circulation. Still your wife though.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laugh, then kiss his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“No idea. But I think I’ve achieved full body paralysis.”

“Same.”

There’s a long, quiet pause. Then Jack says, “We should go swimming.”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not? Lake’s right there. We’re in Italy. No Beau to referee. Might be our last chance before life crashes back in.”

“Very romantic. Also, I don’t even know where I packed my swimsuit.”

“Who said anything about swimsuits?”

You arch a brow. “You want to skinny-dip? In the daytime?”

He shrugs, rolling onto his back. “I’m just saying, we’re legally married. What are they gonna do, arrest us for being in love?”

“Jack.”

“Live a little, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stare at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m proposing an impulsive memory. Don’t make me swim alone like some pervert.”

You groan dramatically, grabbing a sheet as you roll out of bed. “Fine. But if I get arrested in a foreign country for public indecency, you better bail me out.”

He grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You wrap yourself in the linen sheet toga-style and pad barefoot out onto the balcony. The stairs down to the private dock are warm beneath your feet, sun already high and bright.

Jack follows behind, also barely dressed, with two towels slung over his shoulder and that cocky post-wedding glow.

The water is cool but not cold. Crisp. Clean. You wade in first, shrieking at the initial shock until Jack yanks you forward and pulls you under with him.

When you surface, sputtering, hair slicked back and gasping from laughter, he’s looking at you like he can’t believe this is his life.

“You’re unreal,” he says, reverent.

You splash water in his face. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Best scam I’ve ever pulled.”

You drift closer, legs brushing. His hand cups the back of your neck. You kiss, slow and deep and lazy, and when he pulls back, you can see the smile in his eyes.

The lake stretches out behind him. A postcard come to life.

You stay in the lake until your fingers are pruned and your stomach’s growling. Breakfast is pastries you picked up from a little corner bakery, still flakey and warm. Jack makes espresso in the tiny kitchen, whistling off-key. It’s stupidly domestic. And perfect.

You sit on the floor of the villa, legs tangled, plates on your laps. He steals a bite of your sfogliatella without asking.

“Do you think we should call Beau today?” you ask, chewing.

Jack nods, swallowing his own bite. “Yeah. Just to check in. Not now though. He’ll be with your sister at the zoo or the pool or learning how to disassemble small electronics, depending on her mood.”

You laugh. “She does run a very strange babysitting operation.”

“She’s a miracle worker. Honestly, I’m still shocked she agreed to take him.”

“She told me every married couple deserves three uninterrupted days after the ‘I do.’ Then handed me a jumbo box of condoms and said not to come home pregnant unless it was intentional.”

Jack chokes on his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, smug. “Just saying—her words, not mine.”

He leans back against the couch, eyeing you. “And is it?”

You glance at him.

“Intentional.”

The air shifts.

You don’t answer right away. Just push your plate aside and crawl into his lap. He adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around you, palms dragging up your thighs.

“I think… I’m not not open to it,” you say slowly. “Before, it felt impossible. Everything felt so fragile. But now? I look at you and Beau, and it’s like—yeah. I want more of this. More of us.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. “You’re sure?”

You smile. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

His mouth finds yours, urgent now, full of promise. You kiss like it’s a decision, a vow, a whole damn future.

And when he finally pulls back, he’s flushed and breathless.

“I love you so much it’s physically uncomfortable.”

You laugh against his jaw. “Sucks to be you, I guess.”

He grins. “Yeah. Tragic.”

That afternoon, you nap in the sun. The villa has a hammock strung between two cypress trees and Jack insists on sharing it, even though he’s too long and your legs keep tangling and one of you always ends up with an elbow in the ribs.

“I hope Beau’s having a good day,” you murmur, eyes closed, head on his chest.

Jack’s hand is tracing idle circles on your bare arm. “I’m sure he is. You think he’ll remember the wedding?”

“Some pieces,” you say. “The dancing. The cake. Robby giving him ten euros to yell ‘just kiss already!’ before we even got to the vows.”

“God,” he sigh. “What a circus.”

You hum in agreement.

Then, “Do you think we’re doing okay? With him? With this?”

Jack shifts beneath you. “Honestly? I think we’re doing great. Not perfect. But real. He’s kind. Confident. Feels safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod slowly. “I used to worry so much about what we were showing him, you know? The split. The mess.”

“He saw love,” Jack says simply. “Even when it was hard. Especially then.”

You press your face to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sun, sweat, skin.

“I’m glad we waited to do this right,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could’ve survived a version of us where we never figured it out.”

Jack’s voice is thick. “Me either.”

That night, you dress up.

No real reason. Just a silky dress you’ve been saving, heels a little higher than you usually wear. Jack puts on real pants—well, linen slacks—and a button-down that’s already half undone by the time he finishes wrestling with the cuffs.

He sees you and stops short.

“Jesus.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough.”

Dinner is just a short walk into the village—twinkly lights and hand-pulled pasta and a carafe of wine that disappears too quickly. You talk about everything and nothing. The neighbors at home. Future holidays. How much more you can fit in your suitcase without paying extra baggage fees.

“You’re going to check my carry-on and judge me, aren’t you?” you accuse.

“Only because you brought six pairs of shoes and wore the same ones every day.”

“They’re options, Jack.”

He leans over the table, resting his chin on his hand. “God, I love you.”

You stop. Just for a second. Let it wash over you.

“I love you too.”

Later, you walk back slow. His hand finds yours. Your shoulders brush.

Back at the villa, Jack peels the dress off you like he’s unwrapping a gift. Kisses every inch of bare skin he uncovers. You let him take his time.

You make love slow. No rush. No hunger. Just reverence. It feels different this time—heavier, softer, but still electric.

You don’t remember falling asleep—just the weight of Jack’s body against yours, the slow press of his kisses, the steady rhythm of your breath returning to normal in the quiet afterglow.

What wakes you is the light. It spills through the shutters, golden and soft, casting lazy stripes across the sheets.

Jack’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you’re some kind of sunrise. His hair’s a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and he has the nerve to look smug about it.

“Morning, Mrs. Abbot,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“God,” you groan, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re going to say that all the time, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” he grins. “Until it’s on your driver’s license.”

You roll onto your back, stretch slowly. His eyes follow the movement like he’s hungry again.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Still counts.”

You nudge him with your foot. He catches it, presses a kiss to your ankle, and suddenly you feel a whole lot warmer.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Starving.”

“I’ll make breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought me to Italy just to feed me scrambled eggs?”

Jack swings his legs off the bed and stands—naked, unabashed. “I’m a man of many talents. But fine. Pancakes?”

“In Italy?”

He shrugs. “International pancakes.”

You laugh as he heads toward the kitchen, grabbing a pair of boxers on the way. He whistles while he moves, some Sinatra song you vaguely recognize, and your heart tugs in your chest like it still can’t quite believe this is real. 

You pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot after him. The villa is quiet, the lake just barely visible through the open patio doors, glittering in the morning sun.

Jack’s already got flour out. There’s a pan warming on the stove. You wrap your arms around him from behind, rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t burn them.”

“You wound me.”

“I’ve seen you try to flip a pancake. You get too cocky.”

“That’s because you heckle me,” he says, flipping the first one with unnecessary flair. “Watch and learn, Mrs. Abbot.”

You roll your eyes but sit at the table, watching him with something dangerously close to adoration. There’s something ridiculous about how seriously he takes this—like he’s proving something. Like if he makes these pancakes just right, he’ll have earned it all over again.

He sets a plate in front of you with a flourish. “Bon appétit.”

You take a bite, eyes widening. “Okay. Okay, maybe you have improved.”

Jack smirks, sitting across from you, fork already in hand. “I’ve been practicing.”

“For this moment?”

“For this life.”

The words hit you low and deep, like a drum. You look at him—really look—and see it there: the steadiness. The certainty. He’s still Jack, but he’s… more. Softer around the edges. Not smaller, just less armored.

You reach for his hand across the table.

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t think I let myself imagine it,” you admit. “Not after everything.”

Jack’s expression sobers. He sets his fork down. “Can I tell you something?”

You nod.

“That night. The one when you said you needed space. I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I’d ruined my life beyond fixing.”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I let it happen,” he continues quietly. “I was so afraid of screwing it up that I stood back and watched it fall apart. It’s like—if I didn’t fight for it, I couldn’t be blamed for losing it.”

Your throat tightens. “Jack…”

He shakes his head. “But I realized it wasn’t fair. To you. Or to Beau. Or to myself, honestly. But I didn’t know how to be better then. I didn’t even know what better looked like.”

“You do now,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “Because of you.”

There’s a silence that stretches, heavy but full. Then you stand, walk around the table, and sink into his lap. He holds you like he’s anchoring himself.

“You did all the hard work, I just pushed you to do it. We’re allowed to be happy now,” you murmur into his neck.

Jack’s arms tighten. “Yeah. I don’t think I ever thanked you”

“I can think of a few ways to start showing your gratefulness”

The rest of the day unfolds like a dream.

You spend the afternoon wandering through the nearby village—stone streets, small shops, gelato for lunch. Jack insists on carrying your bag. You make fun of his touristy camera strap, and he makes fun of your obsession with ceramic bowls.

You take a million photos together, and he looks so happy—so open—that you save one immediately as your phone background.

When you get back, you read on the balcony while he naps on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a romance novel hero. You don’t even wake him when he starts to snore.

By evening, you’re tangled again in bed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jack is tracing his name on your thigh with his fingertip.

“You know what I was thinking?” he says, voice low.

“Mm?”

“That I want to take you everywhere. That we should do a honeymoon part two, with Beau. Paris. Or Morocco. Or Tokyo. Somewhere Beau can try weird candy and yell at me in public without getting in trouble.”

You laugh. “He already does that.”

“True. But we could do it under the guise of cultural education.”

You turn to face him. “You really want to travel?”

“I want to do anything that keeps us feeling like this,” he says. “Like we’re not just surviving.”

You study him. The honesty. The hope.

“Then let’s make it a plan,” you say. “Once a year. Somewhere new.”

Jack’s smile softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Deal. Annual Abbot Adventures.”

“Trademark pending.”

“You, me, a six-year-old with a suitcase full of Legos. What could go wrong?”

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. “Everything.”

“Exactly,” he grins. “Perfect family vacation.”

Later, after you’ve both showered, after he’s poured you a glass of wine and rubbed your feet and claimed it was “medically necessary to assess swelling from travel,” you’re curled together in bed with the windows open to the night air.

Jack’s arm is around you, fingers resting on your stomach again. Always that same spot. Like he’s waiting. Or willing.

You place your hand over his.

“You really want another?” you ask, voice soft.

“I want whatever you want,” he says.

You don’t respond right away, “You’d be a great girl dad.”

He snorts. “God help me if she’s anything like you.”

“Smart, stubborn, charming?”

“Dangerous,” he says. “too smart, perfect.”

You smile. “You’re already soft. You’d fold the second she looked at you.”

“Don’t tell Beau.”

You laugh, and the sound is easy. Real. Everything feels easy tonight.

And it hits you again—like it’s the first time.

You’re married. To him.

[nymphoatic]

just read your little logan smut with flower mutant!reader. ugh!! it was literally so sweet !! all the little nicknames for her “his flustered girl?” “the sweetest thing.” UGH i’m clawing my hair out it’s so good.

it made me think like what happens if he were to like overstimulate her or something. or maybe she’s had a bad day, or logan had been out on a mission and she misses him. and so when he gets back and pounds her into the mattress, bc duh obviously he missed his girl, little vines of some climbing flower wrap around his arms where he holds her, and eventually up his biceps, around his waist where they can sprawl over his abs, all of her favorite places of logan. and obviously she doesn’t realize it bc she’s too lost in how logan makes her feel and how much she missed him.

oh and maybe when she realizes, they start to retract because she’s so embarrassed !! and logan’s all like “hey, now don’t pull away from me, pretty girl,” and just kisses every inch of her and holds her close. please i’m obsessed. logan and his pretty flower girl are all i need !!!

a/n: YALLLL she's back. i literally had a whole other fic i was writing but this ask shot me and i just had to so thank u anon :) i will post the other fic soon but for now! be kind to me work has been busy i love uuuu enjoy!

Logan Howlett x f!reader | 18+ i'll bop you between ya eyes | flower!mutant :)

you all but jump into Logan's arms. 19 hours away; of silence. it was necessary for his stupid mission but agony for his darling love back at their cabin in the woods. he couldn't even make it inside, you ran out so he wouldn't have to find you in the house. "hey, sweet-pea." he gruffs, your eyes just beaming. he sure doesn't miss the dandelions that you leave behind with each step.

"about time! you said you'd be home by ten! god i was worried sick, i-i didn't know if i should cook dinner or not so there's nothing to eat." you babble, worried and running up the wall with meaningless stress. he just watches with a keen eye.

his hand ushers to your head, petting so sweetly to calm you down. "hey. hey. 'm alright, dolly. don't even care about dinner." and then the softest kiss to your forehead. "just happy you're here." like you'd be gone when he came back.

you're relaxed in his palm, eyes glued up to him. it's like he never left you. "bought some whiskey for you though." oh he's dating an angel, he knows it. and your proud smile just sends him in a frenzy of wanting to sip and stay with you in the living room or carry you over his shoulder to your bed. he wants the latter so badly.

he chuckles lowly and wraps his big burly arms wrap around your waist, his nose nudging under your ear. "too kind to me, baby." he murmurs. your all too familiar scent envelopes him and the switch is flipped. he has you to himself again. and Logan is just sooo greedy for his girl.

greedy and impatient. he all but shoves his large backpack into the corner of your shared room before you're thrown on the gentle plushness of the comforter. and you even made the bed for him, his sweetest girl. he's panting, eyes blown while your sweater rises up on your skin. the most he can do while he's crawling towards you is press the softest pecks on your knees and the front of your calves.

"missed you so bad." you're heart flips in its place, the sight of big bad Wolverine slinking slowly up your legs worshipping every inch he saw just too much.

"it was only a day." you chuckle, a hazy grin on your lips. your hands trail down to his hair, running through it with a smile. its fuel to the fire.

there's a small nip onto your thigh from the comment. "you say that like i don't need you every fucking minute of the it." he's quick to peel off pesky clothing in the way of the grand prize. both your tops and your own shorts were laid lazily on the floor. Logan nearly ripped it all off, his teeth baring a few times with how wanton he seemed. it's just you in your cute cotton panties and he aches all over for you. "can i? christ- lemme have you dolly, please?" you gulp, cheeks red and knees weak.

"please. yes please, need you so bad" oh how you're eyes go wide when you're desperate. Logan's hand gliding up and up your abdomen, a soft gleam shown with how smooth you've stayed. fingers run over the breasts he's worshipped so many times. after all that's been done, you've stayed his sweetest girl. so sweet you'd let him fuck you silly so quickly!

🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻

"i know sweetie, so deep, ain't i? jus' feel good, petal" he cooed so sweetly with your legs on his shoulders, pressed so lean against the silk pillowcases (bought by you but loved the most by Logan).

"oh fuck! 's so good, god-!" your eyes were screwed shut. you couldn't keep up, it always happens. senses get clogged up with how his dick stretches you so nice. all you hear is the quickness of skin on skin, his movement so unforgiving. you see Logan with a slacked jaw from how sloppy he's gotten you even within the few moments he's had you back in his arms.

but what you feel? you feel heaven and light all at once. you feel loved and loving, your skin melting into his. wanting him closer. to stay. on Logan's end, he's relishing in your sweet noises. just working along to keep your legs shaking, keep those warm tears falling down your cheeks, keep those vines growing your skin onto his hands rested on your waist. Logan does a double take.

the vines. oh shit. gardening again! just like those weeks ago with the wisteria. he remembers how red you were when your eyes laid upon those flowers. poor thing, your first thought was you hurt him. sure, like your mind would ever let yourself harm him. he prays it's a normal occurrence now, maybe he's a good man after all if you're so willing. a beautiful creation he has laid out so beautifully and for him?

yeah, you're growing more for him. "thas' it dolly, just feel good. you like my cock so bad? hm?" in your head, he's just talking about how you've gone limb from how the head of his cock rams deep into what feels like your gut. makes you so dumb you nod eagerly. he grins. the vines grow and grow to where they keep his hands attached to curve of your lower back. he can't loose you in all this now, can he?

Logan's just happy you've had your eyes welted shut focused on the bliss he's giving you, moaning like it's second nature. you were a vision beyond anything he'd seen with your charming trailing plants making him keep fucking into you. even the most darling buds pop next to the leaves.

"some pretty flowers for me too, huh?" Logan curses himself for saying that when your eyes meekly open, the words unfamiliar from his lips when it came to being fucked into a mattress. and then they're quarters from there. wide and beady while watching the fruits of your labor spinning and twisting up your lovers arms while he fucks you so good.

"oh...L-Lo, ah! i'm sorry i'll stop- fuck!" you really wanted to be sorry and pitying, to cry more than you were but from sheer humiliation. not from blinding pleasure. but maybe the vines had the good idea. they're not constricting yet not too different from your clawing hands onto his back.

he simply shakes his head. "nah. nah, keep em. lemme see it all, petal, please." embarrassment subsides. it's your Logan! there's no need for it. your shoulders relax with your head lulling back into the pillow, too cock drunk to think of ever letting this stop. more vines blossom onto his broad shoulders now. he'd be covered by the end of the night at this rate. "good girl, there we go..." the vines were kind enough to let his arm bend down to your cheeks pressing haste kisses on your flushed skin, peppering and spoiling you for you compliance. always so eager to please. his filthy girl.

he's insatiable, eager for more. his hips buck into you with more intent. to push you over, to have you more intimately. or to put it plainly, to feel you cum hard on his cock. and with how you clench around him with your little noises of "ah! ah! ah!" his lips capture yours in a sloppy kiss. all teeth while he drinks in every muffled moan. you just taste like fucking candy everywhere he puts his mouth, you're magic incarnate. in all his blistering years barely alive he's never known a feeling like having you below him so desperate to have his cock.

he doesn't know it but his stroke are getting messy. he's getting close and you're right behind him, your back arching into the sheets. he has to move his hands. his knuckles feel raw where those three shiny blades seep out. Logan's all too familiar with it. though he didn't think moving your flora would be so easy when detaching his hands to avoid an accidental injury to his lady.

fingers wrap around the bed frame with another large palm cradling your head to face him. you face the foliage you've made on his shoulders, and now, his chest. what a sight. seeing the ivy leaves decorate him and his specially carved abs.

oh you were a weak woman. "fuck, 'm gonna cum! more, please gimme more-" you cry out, now pulling him in by those strong stems able to carry while buildings. no longer auto pilot. you're all too aware. he groans, eyes nearly rolling in the back of his head.

"doin' that on purpose now, bub" oh you were. you simply wanted his fat cock deeper for when he unloads inside your poor pussy. you smile with mischief. his brows furrow. his pace picks up once more, groans turning to growls while the bed shakes with the direction force from his hands. beastly man he was . "cum with me, baby. cum on this cock and i'll fill ya up. i'll get y'so full, whatever you want"

and that's was all you needed for you're poor hole to clench violently while you drip down his thighs with a broken cry out. the vines tighten then expand, crawling out onto the bed with a poof. even cuter, the flowers bloom. he relishes in seeing his girls pretty pussy make a mess on him he just needs to return the favor. feeling the subtle clenching from your orgasm, he's cumming with one last mean buck of the hips.

"fucking christ-!" his claws unsheathe into the wall, his other set of knuckles driving into the mattress next to you while he grinds slowly to dump every drop into you. his veins on his forehead nearly pop, his eyes only watching your glossy pupils zeroed on abs. so shameless you were. he pants out with his entire body breathing with him.

he settles slowly, his claws reeling back from exhaustion. your plants remain however. yet he's only settled on you. his hands begin their soothing, his thumbs caressing your cheeks while you catch your breathe. "easy now. you okay? did i hurt you at all?" your head shakes in his grasp, eyes lazily opening to meet his eyes. your poor guy, he thinks anytime those knives come out around you he'll dice you on accident.

"spooked me." you mumble, but half heartedly. the smile on your lips shows it's a joke. Logan only huffs.

"it's only hot when you loose control." you gasp, a hand playfully patting his arm clad with your leaves. he chuckles while pressing a kiss to your forehead.

his sweetest flower, back in his arms again.

🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻🪻

dt: @nervous-person @clownprinzzzz

ask for a dt ! ! ! !

[hoe4hotchner]

Another idea I have for Hades Hotch & Persephone Reader also has them blending in with humans with Hotch still being the Unit Chief and Reader being a botanist, but this time the rest of the BAU team are also Greek Gods.

Hotch and reader are the only ones who remember being gods, and like to discuss the others and whether they'll remember being gods too, and poke fun at the different relationships the team has compared to their old lives.

The gods I have in mind for each member are:

Reid — Athena

Morgan — Ares

JJ — Hera

Rossi — Zeus

Penelope — Hermes or Aphrodite

Emily — Artemis

You can change them if you think another Greek god fits them

Imposters | [A.H]

Pairing: Hades!Hotch x Persephone!reader | WC: 1.0k | CW: loss and longing, exile and punishment, kind of existential undertones, melancholic tone.

A/N: I changed Reid to Apollo based on a moodboard series that @h0tchnr made a few years ago.

The first time you and Aaron sat down for coffee after another day at the Quantico headquarters, it had been beneath a planter overflowing with marigolds and ivy. The symbolism wasn’t lost on you—bright blooms and creeping vines thriving in the shadow of the lord of the underworld. It was almost poetic, if not a little on the nose.

Mortals might have called it fate, but you knew better. Fate, as the Fates themselves would tell you, was rarely so subtle.

You cradled your mug in your hands, the warmth soothing against your skin, but your mind drifted. The gods may have been scattered, their power diminished, but remnants of their true selves clung stubbornly to their human forms. You saw it in the flash of Penelope’s dazzling smile, in Emily’s ferocity, in the way Derek strode into a room as if it were a battlefield waiting to be won.

“Do you think Morgan’s figured it out yet?” you asked, tearing your gaze from the window, where Derek and Penelope laughed together like soldiers who’d just won a great victory.

Aaron’s dark eyes followed yours, his expression as still and unreadable as the River Styx—oh, how you missed accompanying Charon on his boat occasionally. “Ares?” He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Not likely. He’s too busy trying to win over Aphrodite to notice why he’s so drawn to conflict.”

You couldn’t suppress a grin. “She’s entirely too charming for her own good. Then again, Aphrodite always was.”

“Charm has always been her weapon of choice,” Aaron replied, his voice low, almost reverent.

Your laughter filled the space between you, light and melodic. For a moment, it felt like you were back in another life, in another world. One where your throne was surrounded by endless fields of flowers, and his by the shadowed expanse of his realm. But this was the mortal world, where you were no longer Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, and he was no longer Hades, its ruler.

Still, you both remembered.

“She’s not the only one,” you mused, your gaze shifting to Spencer, who was absorbed in a book across the room. “Reid might piece it together eventually. Apollo’s curiosity will get the better of him. It always does.” Aaron chuckled quietly, a rare sound that felt like it was meant only for you. “Apollo always fancied himself all-knowing, but even he can be blind to the obvious. He’s human now, just like the rest of them.”

That was the cruelest truth of it all. The others didn’t remember. They lived their mortal lives, echoing their divine personalities, oblivious to the power and grandeur they once held. And you and Aaron? You sat in silence, watching it all unfold.

Your eyes drifted to Emily, standing apart from the others with her arms crossed, her gaze sharp and watchful. Artemis, goddess of the hunt, protector of maidens, and champion of independence. She carried herself with the same fierce grace she always had, though she was unaware of it now.

“Do you ever think we should tell them?” you asked softly, your words barely audible.

Aaron didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched the others, his gaze lingering on Rossi—Zeus himself, laughing boisterously as though his thunder still rumbled—and JJ, her poised demeanor a quiet testament to her role as Hera.

“And what would that change?” he asked at last, his voice steady but tinged with the gravity of someone who had borne the weight of a throne. Who knew the issues it would cause. “We were exiled for a reason.”

You nodded, though the ache in your chest remained. Whatever crime led to the gods’ fall, it was severe enough to shatter Olympus and scatter its rulers among mortals. Now you lived among them, stripped of your divine power, haunted by memories of what once was.

Still, in the chaos of this second life, you’d found each other. As always. Aaron’s hand brushed against yours, his touch grounding you. “We have each other. That’s enough,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of an oath made long ago.

“For now,” you replied, your smile bittersweet.

But as you watched the others, their mortal facades wearing thin under the weight of their forgotten divinity, you couldn’t help but wonder: How much longer would they remain in the dark? And when they finally remembered, would the mortal world survive the return of the gods and their wrath?

The next time it happened, it was late afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting shadows over the city streets. You and Aaron had taken a detour from your usual route home, walking past the row of shops where the scent of fresh bread mingled with the distant scent of fresh-cut grass.

Then you saw it—just for a split second, a dog running across the sidewalk, its movements eerily familiar. The way it barked and wagged its tail, the way its fur shone in the golden light. You froze.

Aaron noticed your stillness immediately, his eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

You blinked, but the image of that dog remained—its three heads swirling in your mind like a forgotten dream. Cerberus, once your companion, now reduced to this—an ordinary canine in a world where gods had no power.

Your heart sank. “Do you think we’ll ever find him?” you asked quietly, your voice trembling ever so slightly.

Aaron’s brow furrowed as he followed your gaze, the intensity of his thoughts mirrored in his eyes. He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your jacket. “I’m working on it,” he said, his voice steady despite the sadness in his gaze. “But a three-headed dog turned into a single-headed one is not so easy to track down. Especially when he doesn’t even know he’s ours anymore.”

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest spreading. “He was always so loyal. To you. To us.” Cerberus had always been more than just a guardian. He had been a symbol of your connection to the Underworld—loyal, protective, and steadfast. He had been your first real friend when you had arrived in the underworld. And now, like everything else, he was lost.

“We’ll find him,” Aaron promised, his voice carrying the weight of the oaths he’d made. “We always do.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and nodded again. Maybe the gods had been cast down, but you and Aaron—Persephone and Hades—would never stop searching for the ones you’d lost.

[arc-misadventures]

Friends AU: Still want to know how the other specialists react to pictures of Jaune's nephew, and whether or not Winter is now planning on calling Saphron for Jaune's baby pictures

Sorry, I would have answered these sooner, just couldn't make it work. Until now!

///

I Regret That Now

Marrow: Oh gods... it's in my tail?!

Jaune: I thought, Grimm didn't have guts!?

Vine: They don't.

Harriet: Then why the hell am I covered in Grimm guts?!

Winter: Because, you destroyed, Vilbiofactor's creep sack, after you threw a gernade down it's throat, and it exploded. It's filled with biowaste that the, Grimm produces. It fires these as a bioweapon, granted when it get's vomited it is there where it is actually dangerous, so you should be happy you didn't get covered in that.

Harriet: Oooo, listen to misses fancy pants rich Mcgee over here! Fuck you!

Winter: E-Excuse me?!

Jaune: Please forgive her; She's just upset that we're covered in, Grimm guts, and you're not.

Winter: Very well, I'll let it slide...

Jaune: Now then, everyone hit the showers!

~~~

Jaune: Bleh... I swear I got some of that in my mouth... tasted like black licorice.

Marrow: Oww... my tail hurts from all the scrubbing... can you top off my aura, Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah sure.

Marrow: Ahh, hahaha! That's the stuff.

Jaune: Oi! What did I say about weird noises when I top off your aura?!

Marrow: Nothing sexual?

Jaune: No! Don't say anything at all!

Marrow: Sorry...

Jaune: Haa whatever... I gotta grab my spare officers uniform now... I need to send all of my stuff to the cleaners. As well as my armour at that! That blasted, Grimm gunk has caked itself onto my armour!

Clover: Hey, relax, Jaune it won't take that long to get rid of it.

Jaune: Oh, stuff it, Lucky Charms!

Clover: What did I do?

Vine: I think he's angry that you didn't get covered in, Grimm guts, even though you were in the blast zone.

Jaune: Very much so.

Clover: Hey?!

Harriet: Ahh~! That's better... you guys doing better?

Jaune: No, only if I can shove, Clover into a mud pit!

Clover: Hey?!

Elm: Good luck with tha...? Hey, Jaune, what are those photos in your locker?

Jaune: These? Oh. they're just photos of my family.

Winter: You put family photos in your locker?

Jaune: Yeah, is there a problem with that?

Vine: Of course it's fine, it's just... There is ten people in that photo alone.

Jaune: Oh yeah, that's my mom, and dad, and my seven sisters.

Elm: Seven sisters?!

Jaune: Yeah, my sisters, and I like to think my parents were really trying for a boy. But, we all know that they just have high libidos... very high libidos... and, loud...

Clover: Ouch.

Harriet: Uhh... Jaune, who's that pair with the kid?

Jaune: Hmm? Oh, that's a photo of my sister, Saphron, and her wife, Terra, and my nephew, Adrian.

Harriet: Nephew...?

Winter: You're... you're an uncle, Jaune...?

Jaune: Yeah.

Harriet: Oh he look adorable!

Winter: He'll be a heartbreaker when he grows up!

Jaune: Uhh, yeah...?

Marrow: You two interested in babies?

Winter: Well...

Harriet: I wouldn't put it like that.

Vine: What, Marrow meant is, are you interested in starting a family one day?

Elm: Oh, you made it sound like you meant something else entirely, Marrow.

Marrow: My bad, I've just seen a lot of woman act weird around babies. Baby fever, and all of that stuff. But, my question still stands, are you two interested in retiring from the, Specialists, and starting a faily?

Winter: Well... I admit... I am interested in having a family some day. With a loving husband, and a few kids running around. But, only with someone special~!

Jaune: Uhh...?

Elm: What about you, Harriet?

Harriet: Oh, I'm in the same boat as, Winter. I hope to have a family one day too, with... with a special someone~!

Clover: Uh oh...

Vine: What about you, Elm?

Elm: Only if they're okay with adoption.

Jaune: Are you okay explaining that?

Harriet: Why are you asking if she's, 'okay' saying she wants to adopt?

Elm: Because, Jaune has a highly analytical mind, and from that one word he figured out that I'm infertile.

Jaune: Damn, I was hopping my guess was wrong...

Harriet: Wait, what?!

Vine: Is that true, Elm?

Elm: Yeah. I was basically born infertile, nothing major, that's just how it is sometimes.

Jaune: I'm sorry to hear that, Elm. I hope I didn't make you upset asking you that.

Elm: It's alright. Like I said, maybe I'll adopt some kid someday. But, at the very least, I can be the cool aunt when you two have kids!

Winter: Well, I'd hold my breath if I was you, I don't know when that will happen. Hopefully, soon though~!

Jaune: Uh oh...

Harriet: Same, but who knows... maybe I'll get 'lucky' some day~!

Clover: Oh shit...

Harriet: Well, I've got to get going, I've got some paperwork I need to catch up on. I'll see you guys later.

Marrow: Yeah, I've got some paperwork to catch up on too.

Winter: Good luck you two. I need to go to the training grounds to check up on some equipment. If you have time to spare, can you help me with them, Elm?

Elm: Sure, lead the way, Winter.

Vine: Well, I'm going to go rest, I am tired from that mission. I'll see you later everyone.

Winter: Goodbye.

Elm: See ya!

Vine: Good luck.

Harriet: Have fun.

Marrow: See you tomorrow!

And, with that; Everyone soon left, leaving the leader, and the rookie of the, Specialists all alone.

Jaune: ...

Clover: ...

Clover: Whelp... we're boned.

Jaune: Pretty much...

Clover: What should we do now?

Jaune: Hmmm...

Jaune: Squeaky Cog?

Clover: Oh gods yes! I really need a drink after hearing what, Harriet hinted at.

Jaune: Same. The way, Winter looked at me... (Shudder!)

Clover: I'm so glad you told me to buy those condoms... Otherwise...

Jaune: Otherwise, I'd be holding you at gun point threatening to fill you full of lead if you didn't marry her. That's if, Winter, or gods forbid, Elm didn't get to you first...

Clover: ...

Clover: N-N-Noted...

Jaune: Good. Now come on, drinks are on me. And, we're going to need it...

Clover: Yeah... We're going to need it...

[nameless-jamie]

Hiiii, could we get PA story roommates trope but this time PA's flat gets flooded and Jamie tells her to stay at his place? Himbo behaviour ensues

Oh my God, They Were Roommates

Read AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES first!

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes, mentions of nudity

A/N: HIIII this is the last chapter before the big Climax of this story I hope you guys are as excited as me! (Please I hope someone gets the Vine reference of the title)

When Jamie walked into Nelson Road that morning, the last thing he expected to see was Y/N lugging a full suitcase through the entrance like she was moving in.

He stopped dead in his tracks, eyebrows shooting up. “Uh… you plannin’ on goin’ somewhere? Or did I miss the part where you secretly play for Richmond now? You got an away match?”

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh and dropped her bag by the receptionist’s desk. “If only. Might be easier than dealing with this bullshit.”

Jamie stepped closer, crossing his arms. “What bullshit?”

She turned to face him, clearly exhausted. “My flat. It’s infested.”

Jamie wrinkled his nose. “Infested with what?”

“Bed bugs. Fucking bed bugs, Jamie.”

Jamie took an instinctive step back, eyeing her suspiciously. “You bring any of ‘em here? 'Cause I like you and all, but if you’ve just unleashed some tiny demons into my locker room—”

“No,” Y/N groaned. “I took all the necessary precautions. My clothes are sealed up, my bag’s been disinfected—I googled everything, alright?”

Jamie smirked. “Bet you made a whole checklist, didn’t ya?”

She shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

“So, where you stayin’ then?”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “I was gonna book a hotel for the week, but now I have to fight with my insurance company, and I really don’t wanna deal with that and overpriced room service at the same time.”

Jamie, already grinning, shrugged. “Easy. Stay with me.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Jamie.”

“What?”

“You’re not just saying that because you think it’ll be funny to mess with me for a whole week?”

Jamie gasped, feigning offense. “I am a gentleman. I am graciously offering my spare room—”

“You don’t have a spare room, Jamie.”

“Alright, fine, but I do have a couch.”

Y/N hesitated, glancing down at her bag. The truth was, she really didn’t want to deal with finding a hotel. And as much as Jamie was a menace, she knew he’d make things easier just by being himself.

She let out a slow breath. “Fine. But if you pull any shit—”

Jamie grinned. “I never pull shit.”

Y/N just scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Jamie, however, was already thinking about how fucking great this was going to be.

Y/N stood in Jamie’s living room later that day, arms crossed as she surveyed the situation.

“So, let me get this straight.” She turned to him. “Your actual guest room is now a home gym.”

Jamie nodded. “Yeah.”

“And your couch is… that?”

She pointed at the comically small loveseat in the corner. Jamie followed her gaze and shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s, like, a luxury loveseat.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jamie.”

“What?”

"Where is your big ass couch? The 10.000 pounds one?"

Jamie just shrugged his shoulders. "Had to put it in a storage unit, I wanted a pool table in my living room and it is so fuckin' big that only the small couch fits in 'ere now."

“I am not sleeping on that thing. Two people can barely sit on that!”

Jamie smirked. “Guess that means you’ll have to take my bed, then.”

She shot him a look. “Where will you sleep?”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Dunno. Maybe with you?”

Y/N groaned, throwing a pillow at his face. “You are insufferable.”

Jamie, laughing, caught the pillow with ease. “Alright, alright. I’ll take the couch.”

Y/N exhaled, relieved. “Good. Thank you.”

Jamie let the moment settle before adding, “But if you change your mind—”

“Jamie.”

“Alright! Christ.” He held his hands up, laughing. “Go get settled, love.”

Y/N muttered something under her breath but disappeared into his bedroom, dragging her suitcase behind her.

Jamie, alone now, grinned to himself.

This was going to be the best fucking week of his life.

Y/N had known, logically, that staying with Jamie would be an experience. What she hadn’t expected was just how much of a menace he could be in his own home.

For example:

He never set an alarm. Instead, he relied on his "natural internal clock" (which clearly did not work), meaning Y/N had to wake him up for training every morning. Which she did anyway, but now she had to physically drag him out of bed.

He stole her coffee. Every. Single. Morning. Even when she explicitly told him not to.

He walked around shirtless all the time. And sure, okay, she had seen him shirtless before—football training and all that. But it was different when he was standing in the kitchen at 8 AM, stretching like a smug cat while waiting for the toaster. We are not talking about his bottomless sleeping behavior again...

And now, on day three of her stay, she had another new problem to deal with.

Jamie would not shut up about the sleeping arrangements.

Y/N had taken the bed the first night, and Jamie had pretended he was fine with it, but by morning, he was dramatically groaning about how his back was ruined from the tiny couch, dragging himself around the house like he’d been injured in battle.

“You literally run sprints for a living,” Y/N had pointed out over breakfast. “You’ll be fine.”

Jamie had just groaned louder.

But now, after three nights of suffering (his words, not hers), Jamie had resorted to full-on negotiation tactics.

“If I let you keep the bed, what do I get in return?” he asked that evening, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway of his bedroom.

Y/N, currently unpacking her pajamas from her suitcase, didn’t even look up. “The satisfaction of not being an asshole?”

Jamie huffed. “You could just share it with me, y’know.”

Y/N snorted. “Oh, sure. Because that’s a great idea.”

Jamie smirked. “What, scared you won’t be able to resist me?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Scared you’ll snore like a chainsaw.”

Jamie gasped, clutching his chest. “I do not snore.”

“Colin says you do.”

Jamie glared. “Colin’s a liar.”

Y/N laughed. “Look, if it makes you feel better, you can switch. I’ll take the couch tomorrow.”

Jamie perked up instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He grinned. “Alright. Deal.”

Y/N should’ve been suspicious of how quickly he accepted that.

Y/N had severely underestimated how fucking tiny Jamie’s couch was.

She tossed. She turned. She curled up in a ball. Nothing helped.

The worst part? Jamie was thriving in his stupid bed, probably starfished across the mattress without a care in the world.

After another twenty minutes of trying—and failing—to get comfortable, Y/N gave up.

Dragging herself up, she stomped over to Jamie’s bedroom and pushed open the door.

Jamie, who was indeed starfished across the bed, blinked up at her.

Y/N sighed. “Move over.”

His lips twitched. “Oh? What’s this, then?”

She crossed her arms. “Your couch sucks.”

Jamie grinned. “I did say we should share.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jamie.”

“Alright, alright. Get in, love.”

She hesitated for only a second before slipping under the covers, careful to keep a respectable distance between them.

Jamie, of course, was not that respectful.

Within minutes, he was shifting closer, throwing an arm over her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N stiffened. “Jamie.”

“Mm?”

“Are you—” She exhaled. “Are you cuddling me right now?”

Jamie hummed sleepily. “S’just warmer like this.”

She should have shoved him off. She really should have.

But… the bed was warm. And Jamie was warm.

And maybe she didn’t mind as much as she thought she would.

Y/N and Jamie walked towards the exit of Nelson Road together that late afternoon, chatting and joking together.

"It's going to only take a few more days till the bugs are completely gone, and then I'll be finally back home," Y/N mumbled to him.

Jamie clutched his chest in fake heartbreak. “What, you don’t wanna live with me forever?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Jamie tsked. “Shame. Thought we made a great team, what with our shared history of, y’know…” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Accidental kisses. Me walkin’ ‘round shirtless. You ogling me all day...”

Y/N groaned. “Shut up.”

Jamie just smirked, clearly delighted to have fresh material to torment her with.

“Oi!”

Something must have been off because Roy Kent immediately squinted at them from the locker room entrance.

“The fuck is goin’ on with you two? Leaving here together in one car, all happy and bubbly and shit.”

Jamie, ever the picture of innocence, shrugged. “Nothin’.”

Y/N, knowing Roy had bullshit radar, quickly said, “My flat’s infested. I’ve been staying at Jamie’s.”

Roy’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been what?”

Y/N sighed. “Not like that. Just for the week.”

Roy looked between them. “And you haven’t killed each other yet?”

Jamie grinned. “Nah. She likes me too much.”

Y/N groaned.

Roy crossed his arms. “There’s always a choice. And you chose this prick?”

Jamie gasped, full-on offended. “Oi, I am a delight to live with!”

Y/N scoffed. “Jamie, last time we lived together, you—”

She stopped herself just in time.

Roy’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Y/N pressed her lips together. Jamie smirked.

“Oh, nothin’,” he said, way too smug. “Just that she’s seen me naked.”

Roy froze.

Y/N froze.

Jamie just grinned like the shit-stirring bastard he was.

Roy closed his eyes. Took a very deep breath. Then muttered, “Not my problem,” and walked away.

Jamie laughed.

Y/N punched his arm.

Jamie just winked and leaned over to whisper in Y/N’s ear. “Y’know, if Roy finds out we’re sharing a bed, he might actually murder me. He sees you like a daughter or some shit.”

“Shut up.” Y/N elbowed him. “You are the worst,”

He just smirked. “C’mon, love. Let’s go home.”

[hotchology]

hi! need some hotch fic recs, would love to know if you have any writers you’d recommend :)

hi omg!!! i have my sideblog @hotchologydotlib (and backup sideblog from when that one was shadowbanned @hotchologydotfic) with their own hotch fic tags!! main here and back up here <3 i havent read much lately ive been in a weird mood (depression)

as for specific writers!!! (please tell me if you dont want to be tagged here and ill remove you!!) undercut bc its gonna get long im sorry!!!

phi @ssa-dado writes awesome stuff. im partial to fleabag!reader but genuinely everything shes written (symposium is also so freaking good) will hit the spot if ur anything like me i Promise

ali @softtdaisy also HELLOOO highly reccomend. youll be able to tell from my tags on my fic sideblogs that im not very good at all with saying how i feel about thigns beyond HELLOOO and YUMMM or OWOWOWOWOW but genuinely. yeah. here

ki @kiwriteswords i read before even (re)joining this site actually!! i have the Discord DM Proof because i was like omg ssaki... (lesserafim voice) WHERE THE HECK IS SAKI!! but no for real genuinely lovely stuff.

@winterscaptain is another one i read before rejoining as well. from this point on i migiht be sayng that a lot but. my phone was breaking my screen was disconnecting from the rest of the phone internally liike strobing in my face and i was pushing thru. it was a year ago now. but iw as GUSHINGGG in dms wth jojo. im goiing thru each message now i was genuinely having the time of my life reading ajf on ao3. im not caught up (still im sorry) but please READ!!

i feel like @luveline is a given but also very much tumblr user luveline. what can i say that hasnt already been said. just awesome stuff. partial to sick of maybe and if things go bad!! also unexpected daughter au but i dont think you were asking for things like that i just have issues that are scratched wonderfully by these ones.

lari @hotchfiles yet another ive read before joining and HELLOOO i rmr reading smells like roses and being like yes... YESS..... (im a fiend for angst) if ur in the headspace for it i highly recommend. i also love love LOVEDDD IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI. masterful.

mick @solardrop i rmr reading beanstalk b4 i joined and again being like OH MY GOD YUMM. all of her work please check her out!!

denise @aureatelys adore you and soft as the rain, pretty as a vine are so wonderful. realising now im very grateful to have so many talented and skilled mutuals. i love u guys. all fics! check out nodding emoji

@atlabeth dance until we're bones i think is permanantly burned into my brain. just awesome stuff i love pretty much everything sadie puts out please check it out! (i know u asked for hotch fic recs but the prodigal daughter is so good. please. Please.)

@whosscruffylooking the purest things geniunely has me hooked im having a very good time there.

@honeypiehotchner LOVEEE. been loving the gambit (ive fallen behind a bit due to the Weird Mood but ive been loving it nonetheless) and i LOVEEE autistic!reader so much. please check out. please.

these arent all mutuals but!! if i missed out one of my lovely mutuals know i didnt mean to im just scatterbrained and forget things. i <3 u fic writers

[the-moon-files]

Wait, quick idea! Twilight looks like the only hylian in his village because everyone else has round ears, so what if he wasn’t as surprised as the others to see their human companion so resilient, but still fairly impressed because of the fact that most if not all people in his village don’t put themselves in as drastic situations as the reader? Or is this just humans from our world?

get out of my head lmao /lh - you, me, and wayfayrr are actually the same person on diff accounts LMAO

im of the belief that (blame @wayfayrr, my beloved) that he knows of humans bc of some in his village but yeah, just not the type of human in drastic situations

(ALSO they wrote me a fun, long, glorious, male reader human space orc au fic for winning their raffle a bit ago, and it brings up their headcanon abt this and i Adore It actually, check it out here pls if u wanna know🤲)

(also if u see this wayfayrr, sorry for the ping, also should i be calling u moss? or wayfayrr?? idk which, i hope thats even ok to ask 😭 i assumed u would call my ass Moon)

Moon: Male-Masc Reader (he/him)

Orbit: short headcanons-ish, rambling mostly

Stars: Twilight Princess Link (Twi/Twilight), mentions of other Links

Comets & Meteors: CWs: none known, & TWs: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

to reiterate what i said up there, in case u skipped it for the bullet points,

i like the headcanon he knows humans, knows some of their quirks, and how they were the first ppl the other hylian villagers called on to help stuck cows or downed wagons, lots of heavy lifting stuff

but he really hasnt seen the extent of real humans, bc the humans who were in Ordon, well, they lived in hylian society,

why would they need the adrenaline to lift a car when hylians have set up whole tools and systems in all their towns to help lift just a full bucket of water out of the well??

not to mention, i think all the humans in his village were older adults? like at least not the age theyd be doing things like parkour or going to any trampoline parks type of age,

id imagine its more like stories talked about amongst hylians how hard humans can go, and even the humans themselves talked abt things like,

“well compared to u hylians, we have stomachs made of molten lava to you guys really, but we never have to use it, bc u know hylian food works just fine”

when Twi asked they would say stuff like that, but as soon as he saw ur human ass just picking wildflowers and berries off the side of the road to snack on? even random grasses/vines at some point (kudzu)?? easily eating Wild’s Dubious Food that's DEFINITELY got monster parts in it???! gnawing on the bone of a cucco and it just breaks??!!! and you look surprised too, thank fuck finally a normal reaction from u- oh my goddesses u were just curious (damn the elders were right abt human curiosity too) **and are now sucking out the marrow and eating the bone-!!!!!!!!!!!!

Twilight’s perspective of you is actually the equivalent of like, reading stories about vampires all ur life, then this new friend you made starts to get allergic to garlic, crave blood, has crazy strength and advanced senses, etc

and he’s just watching those honest-to-Hylia human mythological feats play out in real time in front of him, like he’s the only self-aware character in the story that immediately clocks the really obvious vampire as a vampire lmao

is the first to either 1. start choking on his laugh as he theoretically knows ur about to jump on the back of a lynel/hinox to ride it around and watch as the others come to the same conclusion OR 2. try to Stop you from jumping on said big monster in an attempt to ride it around bc he gets used to ur human BS quicker than the others and can see it coming a mile away now lol

very much so this meme:

(ur welcome i made it myself <3)

anyway id love to rant abt this dynamic

abt both Twi’s shock at you eating peppers like a god has come down from the sky to prove their immortality,

but also poor rancher esstientally humansitting you too lmao

the Chain/Time/Wars absolutely put him down as the resident human expert like: “ok he just drank like, 5? No- Four stop him from drinking more at least- (dual sighs). okay, 6 stamina potions, will that kill him??”

Twilight, saviour of Hyrule, of the Twili, Link from Twilight Princess himself,

has to keep a record book of all the new shit he’s heard/learned about humans in Ordon, what he has actively learned abt ur ass just fucking around and finding out, and the few bread crumbs of information u give him abt ur species

(that rlly just come off as kind of cryptid statements abt u/humanity, or don't apply in this scenario bc ur only comparison is Earth Rules, which honestly scare every single fucking one of them in the same way as walking on Ganon’s lawn or something, like straight up view ur home planet as enemy territory, the Amazon jungle, the Hyrule wilds if you will-)

Twilight also gets involuntarily volunteered for human-sitting duty too

tbh the only person Not allowed on human-sitting duty, when u guys go new areas esp, is Wild/Hyrule

you’d tell him you wanna get inside the guardian robot to operate it and ride it around and he’d probably be in shock you even fathomed something like that, yet also now EXTREMELY intrigued to watch it play out

(they’re both more of a “u wanna jump off a cliff?? that's actually crazy, wait for me please.” he seems to think he can somehow protect you if he joins you? its worked sometimes to be fair to him ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ just not really conveniently when the rest of the Chain are around lmao)

☆

i live btw, ive been writing/updating fics along with life updates (moving states/new job/online class) so a few asks will hopefully be answered over here in the next 2ish weeks

no promises, my life is kinda girlbossing at the moment too close to the sun and i am Nervous abt disappointing u guys

i already feel like im disappointing my other blog bc i haven't posted in forever bc im writing a fic instead of asks during any free time i dedicate to writing for it so :/

pls excuse my super slowness like a package ur waiting for in the mail or smth type of slow

AGAIN thanks for the ask!! i hope this was at least entertaining to read as some addon to what u said, you guys have gotta check out some of wayfayrr’s stuff if ur into this, bc they're the only other place i can think of that's talked abt humans not just being the same as hylians

have a great week!!

Peace out hugs and chaos,

🌙

[hanespiritu]

ON HIS KNEES

(Hermes x Telemachus (?))

written by: Han Espiritu

Note: I just got this idea from @ccoldsodaa from tiktok ....the animatic made me blush.

---

It was the third evening since the temple fires had dimmed, and still the sea had not yielded his father. Telemachus stood on the balcony of the palace at Ithaca, his robes untouched by the breeze, his hands clutched tight behind his back. The court within murmured of suitors, of inheritances, of long shadows stretching into fatherless nights.

He was tired. Gods, he was tired.

He had prayed already. To Athena, to Poseidon despite his fury, to Zeus. He had even left offerings at minor altars, hoping one neglected lesser deity might take pity.

But there was one god he hadn’t dared ask.

Until now.

The moon rose bright, polished like a coin. And on the temple steps, Telemachus knelt—not inside the sacred threshold, no. Outside. In the chill of dew and stone, he bared his knees to the cold. The temple of Hermes, Messenger of the Gods, Trickster of Olympus, Patron of Thieves and Travelers, stood silent. Telemachus bowed low.

“…Hermes. Argeiphontes. Fleet-footed one,” he whispered. “Please.”

No answer. Not even a breeze. The torches flickered and hummed in the windless night.

“I’m—I’m Telemachus. You know me. I am my father’s son.”

A pause.

Then, louder, with something cracking in his voice:

“I know you don’t care about mortals. That you flit between skies and shadows, laughing while we toil—but please, I’m begging you—”

He dropped flat to the marble, forehead pressed against cold stone.

“Please. I will do anything. I’ll honor you every day. I’ll build a shrine. I’ll burn golden honeycomb for you every festival. I’ll be a good boy. I promise.”

A sudden gust of wind—no, a whoosh—swept through the colonnades.

“...A good boy?” came a voice like a chuckle hidden in windchimes.

Telemachus looked up fast. His breath caught.

He had never seen a god in true form before.

Hermes hovered just above the ground, sandals winged and gleaming, his cloak fluttering weightlessly, curls tousled like ivy vines under sunlight. A staff twirled in his left hand, lazily, as though everything here bored him. But his cheeks—

—his cheeks were red.

“Did you say,” Hermes drawled, descending with infuriating elegance, “that you’d be a good boy for me?”

Telemachus flushed, but didn’t move. “I meant—I mean—I’ll be loyal. I’ll serve. Please, I just—”

“Oh, no no no,” Hermes waved a finger, then pointed it directly between Telemachus’s eyes. “You do not get to say things like that and then grovel on marble like some pious little virgin prince. That’s unfair.”

“I’m—what?”

Hermes blinked. “You’re lucky I’m into that.”

Telemachus blinked back.

“I—I didn’t mean to offend—”

Hermes, flustered and flapping his wings awkwardly, stepped back, pacing in a small circle like someone trying to reset their mood.

“Oh Olympus, you mortals and your knees, I swear—” he muttered to himself. “I was just passing by. Literally just flying to Delos to drop off a love letter from some Mycenaean barmaid to Apollo, and this—this beautiful mortal princeling just drops to the floor and says, ‘I promise I’ll be a good boy’—Are you trying to make a god combust?!”

Telemachus, who had until now never been flirted with by an immortal being, looked wildly between Hermes’ rapidly pacing form and his own trembling hands. “So…you’ll help?”

Hermes froze. Then turned.

“…You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Telemachus nodded, voice shaking now. “Yes. I’m not asking for riches or glory. I don’t want war. I don’t even need you to stay. I just want him home. I want my father.”

Hermes’ smile faltered. For a heartbeat, he looked young—not eternal, not divine, just…young. A boy with too many places to be, too many burdens on his feathered heels.

“You miss him.” Hermes said quietly.

“Yes.” Telemachus’s voice cracked. “He doesn’t even know the man I’ve become. He fought gods and monsters for us. And now everyone thinks he’s dead. If I let them say that, I—I lose hope too.”

The god stepped forward, crouching so their faces were level. His eyes—brilliant and ancient—studied the trembling prince.

“I don’t often do this,” Hermes murmured. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

Telemachus blinked.

Hermes leaned close. “The thing no one tells you about gods is—we like it. When mortals beg.”

Telemachus stiffened.

Hermes grinned, soft and sharp. “Not because of power. That’s Zeus’s thing. But because we’re lonely, princeling. You kneel and pray, and for once, someone isn’t demanding. You’re offering.”

“I’m not offering much.”

“Oh, I think you offered plenty.”

Hermes’ hand brushed Telemachus’s chin, and the boy nearly reeled at the featherlight touch. Then Hermes stood, cocky again.

“Alright, alright. Enough divine vulnerability. You want your father? Fine. I’ll go nag Calypso. She’s got him holed up like a love-struck nymph.”

Telemachus gasped. “He’s alive?!”

“Very.” Hermes twirled his staff, spinning it into the crook of his arm. “And bored. I’ll get him moving again.”

The boy’s knees gave out with a soft gasp. “Thank you—thank you, thank you—”

Hermes whipped around. “Don’t kneel again! I already said yes!”

“But—”

Hermes pointed a warning finger. “If you say ‘good boy’ one more time, I will make you my personal shrine attendant for a decade.”

“…Is that a punishment?”

Hermes turned red.

Then disappeared.

A gust of wind.

A swirl of dust.

Silence.

And the faint sound of laughter from the sky.

---

Later, in Ogygia…

Odysseus sat beneath the laurel tree, eyes lost in clouds. Calypso stirred beside him, braid tangled with salt.

“I feel a wind coming,” she whispered.

He sat upright.

Hermes landed with a crash, wings disheveled, face flushed, and attitude aggrieved.

“Get. Up.”

Odysseus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your son made me blush, Odysseus. He begged. He said he’d be a ‘good boy’. Do you understand what that does to a messenger god?!”

Odysseus stared. “…My son said what?”

Hermes grabbed his wrist. “Say goodbye to your sexy nymph. Ithaca is calling.”

Calypso sighed. “He could’ve written a letter.”

Hermes muttered, “He did. With his knees.”

---

⚠️ Plagiarism Warning:

This work is original and written by HAN ESPIRITU. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission. Plagiarizing or claiming this story as your own is strictly prohibited and will be reported.

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE | Michael x Reader

a long awaited rewrite of my favorite fanfic i've written... i've come far since my first time writing it and i'm so so happy to be able to recreate my pride and joy!! if you want to see the original, here it is! but i'm thrilled to rewrite it and i hope you all like it :)

MICHAEL MYERS X FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence & injuries

NEXT

The smell of wet earth enveloped you as you made your way back home. The earlier afternoon rain had let up long enough for you to walk home from work, a long day spent at the farmers market and plant nursery. It was rewarding work and one of the few jobs you'd actually wanted to be hired at. Your family had moved here a few years ago and you'd fallen in love with the town instantly. You and your father lived on the edge of town, more in the woods than the city itself, but not too far that you had to go out of your way to go to work. Even after you graduated, you still hadn't moved out. Why would you? You helped pay rent, shopped for groceries, and could tend to your garden.

It was, as far as you were concerned, the perfect location. A lovely little house surrounded by trees and bushes of flowers, overgrown with vines, and a stepping stone path that led to the front door. The house itself was covered in a dark brick with the inside a beautiful white with dark wooden floors that smelt of books and fresh fruits and vegetables. And sometimes the smell of rain leaked in when you left the windows open.

So no, you had no intention of moving.

Today was one of those days where you'd get the house to yourself. As the current chief of police, your dad was known for working late nights and leaving you to your own devices for a few days. With Halloween coming up, the police were on edge. Rumors were circling in the station that Michael had escaped again but couldn't confirm yet. They were avoiding telling the public until they were sure.

You always enjoyed walking home more than you enjoyed driving. It gave you a chance to think while enjoying music in your headphones, hopping along to the beat. You were weighing your options for dinner in your mind as you got closer to home when you felt a sense of wrongness wash over you. When your song came to an end, you lowered your headphones to hang around your neck as you scanned the nearby area with scrutiny.

The smell of iron reached you in a soft breeze that brushed your clothes and skin. Coyotes weren't unheard of but you didn't exactly have a way to defend yourself if they got any closer. Not to mention there was the chance your cat had gotten out.

You picked up the pace, grimacing when the smell grew stronger and stronger. Had your head not been on a swivel, you would have missed the way the bushes shook. You froze, swallowing hard as a man stumbled out of the treeline and onto the paved street towards you. He was tall, dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit and a white Halloween mask that rang a bell in the dark recesses of your mind. But you were too prioritized by the gunshot wound in his side that bled copiously, staining the jumpsuit in dark blotches.

"Are you okay?" You gasped, watching the man stumble for balance. He just made a grunting sound so you rushed forward to catch him by the shoulders. "Oh fuck, okay, uh, I might have a first aid kit at home. It's not far, c'mon." You said, trying not to panic. God knows how this dude was even standing with how much blood he'd already lost. But you slung his arm around your shoulders to practically drag him along. He was silent, which unsettled you slightly, but you didn't have the time to be unsettled. This man was possibly dying and that was far more important to you.

Did you need to talk to him to keep him awake? You were worried that if he did collapse on you, you wouldn't be able to move him. "How'd you even get an injury like that?" You tried, jostling him a little. The size difference was glaringly apparent like this but you did your best to move him. "You're lucky I live near here. Don't want to imagine you bleeding to death out here in the woods alone."

The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

The walk home felt like hours but you finally pulled him up to the back door, kicked the rickety old screen door open with your foot, and practically dropped the man on the floor against the counters. No way were you carrying him up the stairs, especially not when he could track blood all over the carpet. You threw your bags aside and ran upstairs to the bathroom, hurrying past your cat Mayhem who cried in hunger. "Later." You said quietly as you began rifling through the cabinet under the sink. "I should clean this out later."

First aid kit in hand, you tore down the stairs again and came to a stop in the awning of the kitchen. The man was slumped over where you'd left him and you took the brief moment to get a better look at him. Dirty, brown work boots that were covered in grass stains and wet mud had left a small trail of dirt alongside the blood drops. The jumpsuit was mostly clean except for what looked like oil stains and the blood on his side. As you approached him, you noticed blood staining his sleeves in streaks too. Odd. You made a mental note to check his arms when you were done.

You knelt down in front of him, close enough that you could hear his frantic breathing. Like he was attempting to stay awake. "Can you tell me what happened?" You asked softly, clicking open the first aid kit and reaching for the zipper of his jumpsuit. When he flinched away, you froze. "I'll need to unzip you in order to take care of your wound."

He stared at you. Or you assumed he did. The black voids of the eyeholes left much to be desired.

"Just give me a nod." You sighed.

A moment passed but he finally nodded. A small little motion that you would've missed if you hadn't been looking. You gave him a little smile and unzipped the jumpsuit to his waist, careful to avoid brushing against the wound as much as possible. The black tank top underneath had ridden up slightly which made your cheeks warm. Stuffing that down, you helped him carefully shrug his sleeves down so you could better see the damage.

It was hard to see what had happened with how much blood covered his skin. So you reached into the kit, using one of the little sanitizing wipes on your hands before grabbing the disposable gloves. "Okay, uh, I'm not exactly a doctor so just let me know if the pain is too much, okay?" You gave him a nervous smile before hiking the tank top up more around his chest to let you wipe down the skin with a clean wet wipe.

The amount of blood was almost ridiculous. But you were eventually able to make out what was undeniably a gunshot wound. "Who the hell shot at you?" You mumbled more to yourself than to him. But he still gave you a tilt of his head as though answering. "At least the bullet went all the way through," You sighed, looking between him and your supplies as you tried to figure out what to do. "Okay. Let's… see what I can do."

You didn't know anything about gunshot wounds, much less how to clean them. But you'd helped patch your dad up when he stuck himself with a fishing hook so you figured it couldn't be that much more difficult. Anything was better than letting it get infected. "Sorry," you said softly before giving his hand a squeeze, "This is gonna suck."

And you poured the hydrogen peroxide on both ends of the wound, wincing at the pained grunt he let out. You kept apologizing as you fumbled around for the needle and thread, also dousing that in the peroxide before you tried to stitch him up. Sewing had never been a skill of yours but it was the best you could offer him. At least until you could get him to a hospital. You pressed gauze at either end of the wound before wrapping him tightly in bandages. "I think the wound is supposed to drain? I think I remember hearing stuff about that. We'll have to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't get infected." You tried to give him a reassuring smile and sat back to view your handiwork. It was probably sloppy, yeah, but at least it was cleaned and covered.

It could've been much worse.

"Can you pass me one of the wipes?" You asked, holding up your bloodstained hands and giving him a toothy grin. "I don't wanna stain everything with blood."

He offered you a blank stare before reaching slowly into the kit and handing you one of the little packages. You tore it open and got to scrubbing. "I'd give you a sucker for being a good patient if I had any. Would you take dinner and a shower instead?" You scooted back to clean up more, letting him stand on shaking legs. "My dad shouldn't be back till late. But he should be able to drive you to a hospital once I explain-"

At that, he shook his head violently no. "No, what?" You paused, brow furrowing. "No hospital?" He gave you a nod. "I'm not exactly a doctor. Your injury probably needs more than my below average sewing skills and half a bottle of peroxide." But still, he shook his head. "Fine. Okay. No hospital." You sighed loudly, giving him a quick once-over. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He tried to pull away but you finally saw it: a spot on his opposite shoulder where he'd been just grazed by a bullet. More a flesh wound than anything, but you'd missed it in your stitching him up. "Alright, c'mere mister," your tone was light as you raided the kit for more gauze and bandages. "Got anything else you're hiding from me?" You gave him a playful smile as you wrapped and cleaned his wound. "It doesn't look too bad. I'm way more worried about the gunshot wound." You trailed off. "I wasn't kidding about dinner and a shower though. My dad's got clothes I bet could fit you. Though the pants may be a bit short." He gave you a calculating look as you shrugged. "At least until I get your jumpsuit washed."

The two of you just stared at each other for a while. His head tilted slowly in confusion and you couldn't help but snort. "What, you think I'll just patch you up and throw you out? Not a chance. C'mon," you took his hand and led him towards the stairs. Mayhem had ventured downstairs and began to sniff you both over, hissing at your guest despite your soft scolding.

Once inside the bathroom, you tossed the first aid kit back in as the man took a look around the small space. White tiled floors and faint, floral wallpaper framed a huge mirror, spanning the distance of the smooth countertops. You pride yourself on keeping the bathroom clean, so you only winced slightly at the dirt on the work boots that left a small trail of dirt behind. "I'll get you some clothes if you want to get undressed. I don't mind washing your clothes for you." You gave him a smile, sidestepping him to slip back out into the hall. "A shower might help you feel better. Just try to avoid getting your bandages too wet."

You left him in the bathroom and slipped down the hallway to your dad's room. A rifling through his dresser earned you some plain sweatpants and an old, black shirt you knew he wouldn't miss. Worst case scenario, your guest bled all over the shirt and you'd have to throw it out.

Heading back towards the bathroom, a realization came to you. "Hey, I'm sorry, I don't think I introduced mys-" You froze in the doorway, words dying on your lips. The man had his back to you and had shrugged the jumpsuit off the rest of the way, his boots laying near the doorway by your feet and the blue material like a puddle around his ankles. His shoulders were broad and you could make out tiny scars that littered his forearms and shoulders. His mask had remained but that wasn't what surprised you.

He didn't have underwear on.

Your face felt like it was on fire as you slammed fresh clothes down on the counter, pointedly not looking at him. "Alright, here's your clothes, bye!" It felt like your words slurred together as you slammed the door behind you, leaning against it with an embarrassed sigh.

Once you heard the water turn on, you went downstairs to clean up the kitchen floor, grateful the blood hadn't dried too much yet.

Mayhem, having decided you'd spent long enough fussing over your guest, began to complain and shout for his dinner. "Alright, you needy thing, c'mere." You scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his fuzzy head. "Let's get you fed and then see about feeding our guest, yeah?"

Mayhem meowed, as though enthused only about the coming tuna.

The man took his time showering but you didn't really mind. He certainly needed it. Plus, you could empathize there - showers always made you feel much better too. In the meantime, you'd snuck back upstairs to grab his clothes and toss them into the washing machine. When you'd gotten a good look at his clothes, you recognized the auto mechanic company logo on the jumpsuit. "L. Smith?" You'd wondered aloud, frowning to yourself. "Pretty sure I'd tutored his kids when I was a junior…" But he didn't look anything like Lawrence Smith. "Maybe it's just a common name," you had mumbled. Something about this whole situation felt off but you couldn't exactly place why.

You shook your head slightly and sighed, trying to dismiss a nagging feeling you had in the back of your mind. Sparing a glance down at Mayhem, who brushed against your leg insistently, you frowned. "You don't think this is Michael Myers, right?"

Big yellow eyes blinked up at you and you sighed, chewing on your lower lip. Not much about the Myers case was made public beyond his crimes and his mugshot. Your dad had refused to divulge anything to you about the case and you'd only managed a quick peek at crime scene photos. Nothing about the way the man had been dressed or anything like that. Besides, it had been so long since that night that any details you could have seen have been lost to time.

"Impossible." You decided with a shaking sigh as you opened the can of tuna, not even believing your own words despite their conviction. "There's simply no way."

The sound of thunder outside was a welcome distraction from your thoughts. The rain had always been peaceful to you, the smell of wet earth and the chill breeze from the window had you relaxing. You smiled, whistling for Mayhem to come get his dinner and slipped past your hungry cat into the kitchen once again.

Cutting the vegetables and boiling pasta was peaceful, a wonderfully monotonous task you could just get lost in with the soft white noise of the rain. You would have missed the sounds of the shower turning off if you'd been any more zoned out. You had just taken the tomatoes out to cut them up when you heard heavy footsteps behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and took him in. The sweatpants had stopped just above his ankles, which you had expected. What you hadn't expected was the way his broad chest filled out the shirt, struggling to hug around his biceps. You turned back around to hide your swooning, biting your lip hard to keep yourself from smiling like a fool. He'd put the mask back on but you couldn't even bother to give it a thought.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat. "Are the bandages alright?" You asked, turning your attention back to the tomatoes. He didn't say anything but, then again, you hadn't really expected him to. "Pasta's boiling right now so dinner should be ready in a few minutes if you want to sit down." You gestured to the nearby dining room table with only a few chairs pulled up. But you didn't hear him move. The feeling of eyes on the back of your neck made you tense for a moment but you brushed it off. If he needed something, he'd let you know, right?

As you reached for a knife, his hand shot out and covered yours. You weren't even aware he'd gotten that close and you jumped in surprise. The eyeholes of the mask bore into you as you turned to look at him once again. "Do you… want to help?"

He just tilted his head, as though bewildered by your offer.

You move your hand aside to let him grab the knife, stepping to the side to give him room at the cutting board. "You just have to make them into small chunks. Try and get them around the same size, I'll get the garlic going." You hummed, your fingertips barely grazing the extra knife before he grabbed your wrist tight, jerking your hand back. A surprised yelp left you as you stared wide-eyed up at him, noticing the way he white knuckled his own knife.

Something about this was very wrong.

Swallowing back your terror, you held eye contact with him, the two of you locked in a standstill. The room was silent except for his heavy breathing, barely audible over the pounding storm outside. Soft bluish grey light cast shadows on his face, making the eyes of the mask seem like bottomless pits. Everything felt frozen in time as the two of you stared at each other.

You were the one who broke the tension, reaching over with your free hand to uncurl his fingers from your wrist as casually as you could. Anxiety pounded through you when you heard his breathing hitch. "Don't worry," you gave him a weak smile once you were freed, "I have every confidence in you." You said, giving a weak gesture to the tomatoes laying on the cutting board. You slowly moved towards the stove to set about roasting the garlic cloves, trying to appear as calm as possible while he continued to stare you down.

You only let your shoulders drop when you heard him start slicing.

Making the rest of dinner didn't take long, especially with your guest's help. He seemed unwilling to leave you alone now, hovering around you as you finished cooking and plating dinner - pasta with garlic sauce and dried tomatoes - and only retreated to the living room when you'd reassured that you were right behind him. He took a seat on the couch and you caught him staring at Mayhem comfortably sprawled out on his favorite chair.

"His name is Mayhem," you told him as you sat beside him, setting two water glasses down before digging in. "He won't bug you, he knows he's not allowed on the couch."

The man's head turned slowly to look at you, letting you get a brief sight of one of his eyes: a blue-green color that looked almost hazel in the darkness of the mask. You held in a soft gasp and turned away, trying to push the idea that the man was pretty from your mind. You hadn't even seen his face for crying out loud! Much less gotten his name.

Instead, you just clicked the television on. "Anything in particular you wanna see?" You asked around a mouthful of food. "We've got movies too but I dunno if you like horror." You hummed, setting your plate down briefly to shuffle over to the drawers in the tv stand, leafing through VHS tapes. "It's almost Halloween though," you smirked, "But, judging by your mask, you knew that."

His eyes were boring holes into you again but you just chuckled to yourself. While you pride yourself on being good at reading body language, his ramrod straight posture and silent staring was like gazing at a white canvas. But maybe that's one of the reasons you liked him so much: he wasn't complicated to understand, when he needed to be heard.

You pulled out a particular VHS and flashed it to him. "Do you like cartoons?" You asked, dangling 'It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown' for him to see.

He nodded then - so clear and obvious that you didn't waste any time popping the tape in and sitting back down alongside him. You kept your eyes glued to the screen as you ate, hoping that would be enough privacy for him to comfortably eat. He'd have to give you his name later, at the very least, but you felt the urge to give him some semblance of privacy as he ate. So you kept your eyes off him and the two of you ate in amicable silence, both your attentions rapt on the little cartoon. He ate like he was starving for it and practically chugged the glass of water when he was done, which made your heart hurt a little.

How long had this guy gone without eating or drinking anything?

"There's more in the pot if you want. Help yourself." You said softly, bumping his knee gently with yours to get his attention. He'd tensed up slightly at the contact and you momentarily scolded yourself for that. He was clearly not good with touch, but it had just felt natural to do for him.

But he didn't seem to hold it against you and just stood up, retreating into the kitchen with his plate. You watched him with a slight smile on your face. He was, no doubt, intriguing. His mysteries had you utterly fascinated and there was so much you wanted to ask. But a part of you feared the answers, paranoid your suspicions would be proven correct.

He would have killed you if that were the case, right?

The two of you continued watching movies once you'd learnt he hadn't, in fact, seen most horror films. "Well obviously I'm going to show you 'The Thing,'" you'd said as Charlie Brown came to an end. "It's one of my favorites, I think you'll like it." His staring didn't bother you anymore so you took his silence as agreement when the movie began playing. The night continued like that, the two of you watching movies together. Horror films seemed to intrigue him and you swore he jumped a little at some of the visceral body horror moments. But the two of you had cozied up just a little. He'd finally sunken back into the couch and had tolerated you scooting closer to him.

You were halfway through Frankenstein when you heard the phone ring in the kitchen. "Be right back," you whispered to him, feeling his eyes on you as you walked away. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was nearly midnight and you frowned. Your dad should've been home by now and your guest didn't seem in any hurry to go home. Didn't he have somewhere to go?

Regardless, you stepped into the kitchen on socked feet and plucked the phone off the receiver. "Hello?

"Kiddo? Oh thank god you're alright!" Your dads voice sounded monetarily relieved, letting out a sigh as he spoke. "You should've called me after you saw the news." He said, once again becoming frantic. "Lock all the doors, keep Mayhem inside tonight, and-"

"Calm down," you cut him off, "What's going on? I haven't even seen the news, I've been watching movies with-"

Your dad wasted no time cutting you off as well. "Just stay inside, okay? Keep your eyes on the news and just- just stay safe. My pistol is in my room in the bedside table if you need it."

A sinking dread began to settle in the pit of your stomach as you twirled the phone cord. "Just tell me what's going on!" You became equally frantic, running your hand through your hair in frustration.

He was silent for a moment before sighing. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell you. This is strictly police business. But the last thing I want is you digging into this yourself-"

"That was one time-!" You protested.

But he ignored you. "There's a killer on the loose." His words were like a gunshot to your chest. "We nearly caught him this afternoon but he managed to escape. We're- we're not sure where he'd gotten off to so I want you to stay inside and call me if you hear or- or see anything strange."

A lapse of silence passed and you can tell your dad was about to hang up but you quickly squeaked out. "What's his name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you." His voice had a finality to it. He didn't plan on telling you.

You knew how to play him though. You faked a sniffle and a sob. "Dad, please, I- I need to know what I'm up against! W-what if he gets inside?"

Despite his voice being barely a whisper, it was deafening to you. "Michael Myers."

Instantly, you sobered up. Your fears were confirmed and you felt your blood run cold. Michael Myers was sitting in your living room in your dads clothes after you'd had dinner together. He'd been fascinated by Charlie Brown and had jumped a little at the chest defibrillation scene in The Thing. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield had helped you cut tomatoes and let you tend to his wounds.

You were still alive. As terrifying as this revelation was, you were curious why he hadn't killed you. You didn't know Michael Myers to be very forgiving or benevolent…

Wrapping up the call with your dad, you practically slammed the phone back into the receiver, your back still to the living room. You steadied your resolve and forced your hands to still when you turned back around. You nearly slammed into him when you did. He'd been eavesdropping and the idea that his mercifulness would end made you talk before he could move. "Seems we're locked in tonight." You managed a smile and a shrug. "Dad says it's too dangerous to go out tonight so at least it'll just be us two. If you want, I can set you up on the couch to sleep when you're ready."

He continued to stare at you and you swore he almost seemed…surprised.

You sidestepped him to head back into the living room and he let you, though he was hot on your heels. "Means you and I get more movie time though." Grinning up at him, you sat back down with a soft "oomf" and looked up at him expectantly. If you just acted like everything was fine, maybe he wouldn't kill you?

It seemed as good an idea as any.

Eventually he rejoined you on the couch after staring at you for a few good minutes.

You knew. And you had a feeling he knew that you knew. But what could you even do? It wasn't like you stood a chance against him if he decided to attack you. In fact, a part of you felt almost guilty for withholding your newfound information from him. He was literally a serial killer and you didn't want to make him think you were against him.

Which bewildered you. Why would you feel bad? You knew, logically, you should call your dad back and tell him Michael was here and let him and the rest of the force come try and catch Michael before he ran you through with a knife.

He'd extended trust to you though. You recognized that. You didn't want to betray that, especially since you didn't know who the last person he trusted could have been.

As the movie came to an end, you decided to take a risk. "Want me to make popcorn, Michael?" You kept your tone light and casual as you stood and stretched.

You didn't even get two steps in before he was up, grabbing your wrist tight and spinning you to face him. You kept your smile light and tilted your head the way he liked doing. "I think I have M&Ms if you want me to mix those in too." He continued to stare and you finally sighed. "I already knew. I, uh, had my suspicions before we made dinner. But dad called and confirmed it, basically." His grip tightened but you brushed it off. "I'm not going to tell anyone." You finally admitted.

His posture remained rigid, like he expected a fight. You felt your heart break a little. Has he ever had anyone be kind to him ever since that night? "Do you know about doctor-patient confidentiality?" His blank stare was an answer in itself. "When a doctor treats a patient, that patient has the right to keep their information private. Including their name." You placed your free hand atop his in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. "So, since you're technically my patient, I don't have to tell anyone anything." He still seemed confused and you just let out a soft sigh. "I'm not gonna rat on you, is what I'm saying."

He seemed to consider this before giving you a slow nod.

A part of you was relieved. A fair trade, you thought as you went into the kitchen to make popcorn. You patched him up and fed him and, in exchange, he didn't kill you.

The two of you wound up watching movies late into the night, with you adding soft commentary as you munched on popcorn and M&Ms. By 2AM you were fading, your head lolling to the side and bumping against Michael's shoulder in your attempts to fight off sleep. He was warm and, despite knowing who he was, you felt safe.

So you'd nodded off.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were being shaken awake by your father. "Get up," he whisper-yelled as he turned off the tv, a quick flash of the movie menu disappearing as soon as you saw it. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

You hummed, yawning and rubbing your eyes. "Early." A glance at the clock confirmed it was nearly 6AM. "Sorry, guess I was up watchin' movies." You sat up and looked around a little before your sleep-addled brain immediately recalled that Michael Myers had been sitting on your couch last night and you looked around.

As your dad herded you upstairs and past the kitchen, you noticed Michael's boots were gone. The dishes had been left atop the table but yours had been placed in the sink as though to hide the fact there had been two people here. Once of the knives from the block was missing too, but that didn't surprise you.

If your dad's weary expression was anything to go by, Michael had escaped before he'd gotten home. "'m headin' to bed," he grumbled, "You should too." He said before shuffling into his bedroom, closing the door with more force than intended. You nodded to empty air before retreating into your bedroom, noticing Mayhem lazily dozing on top of your messy bedsheets.

Your bedroom was dim and cool, the morning light just starting to shift the pitch black sky into a dark tealish blue color. Raindrops still covered the window, indicative of the storm that must be still going. You frowned and went to close your curtains to avoid being blinded by the sun once it rose but you paused just before you could yank the fabric closed.

There, across the street, only visible thanks to the streetlight he stood under, you could see Michael Myers staring up at you.

Dumbfounded, you smiled and gave him a little wave, swaying on your feet as you tried not to swoon. You wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt you, seeing as he had ample opportunity to do so and had instead laid you gently down on the couch to sleep when he'd decided to leave. But the realistic part of your brain reminded you, as you closed your blackout curtains, that it should be more concerning that you'd become a fixation of his.

You'd heard of Laurie Strode and how she was assumedly his previous fixation, seeing as he'd stalked her for a while before deciding to take action against her friends. She'd been terrified of him for years and continued to lock herself in her house for the past two years to protect herself against him. Despite her fear of him, she'd yet to move out of Haddonfield.

There wasn't any point in trying to figure her out though. She was of no help to you. You couldn't tell anyone about what was going on or risk yourself or Michael.

You were far too tired to think about any of that for now and just flopped down into bed, freezing when your hands brushed an unfamiliar texture. After scrambling around under your stomach, you held up Michael's tank top. He must have left it for you when he'd gone to change into his jumpsuit. You felt your face heat up at the implications of him leaving his shirt for you, opting instead to shove it under your pillow with your cheeks burning.

The memories of him in the tshirt filled your head as you fell back asleep.

Crunching dry, brittle leaves beneath your boots, you made your way into town for work. You always liked the walk, especially with how beautiful Haddonfield got in the fall. A gorgeous watercolor painting of oranges, browns, and reds, touches of yellow and green giving pops of color. Despite the tragedies that had happened two years ago, Halloween decorations were still up in full swing, the town determined to celebrate no matter what. There was even a small festival at the farm nearby, complete with haunted houses, hayrides, and pumpkin patches. Halloween spirit was everywhere and you loved it. It'd always been your favorite holiday, even before a certain man fell into your life.

As you approached the plant nursery you worked at, you mulled that over. The police hadn't caught Michael yet but were working round the clock. And although you hadn't seen him in person since he'd stayed over a few days ago, you'd seen glimpses of him. Enough to know he was definitely stalking you. While you should logically feel afraid, you instead felt… oddly comforted.

You stopped beating yourself up over why. You knew why. Michael Myers was the most dangerous person alive and he was looking out for you, in a way. You felt safe with him watching you. So you played the game and pretended not to see him. It was easier to play along anyways and, as far as you knew, he hadn't killed anyone since he found you. No one your dad talked about at least.

So you'd been spending more time in town or out in the woods, hoping that entertaining him would keep him from killing. At least, you hoped so.

It didn't help that you still found yourself fascinated by him.

You'd stopped beating yourself up for that too. Most people you knew were predictable, bland, or boring. They had routines and patterns that were easy to predict. But Michael wasn't like that. You never knew what he was thinking or how he'd behave. He was interesting, unique, and unpredictable.

You liked that. Maybe that was sick or twisted of you, but it was true.

"Helloooo?" Your co-worker's soft voice pulls you from your thoughts. "Did those blackberries do something to you?" Kalei snorted, nudging you gently. "You've been staring at them for, like, ten minutes now."

You responded with a yawn, rubbing your eyes. Despite having only been at work for a few hours, you were ready for it to be over. "Sorry, jus' haven't been sleepin' well." You slurred as you tried to give her a smile.

"Bad dreams?" Kalei asked, frowning slightly as she set her own blackberry plant aside. Working at the plant nursery had been your idea, more interested in working with plants than people. But Kalei was a good friend and always looked out for you. It was nice to have company while taking care of the plants.

You chewed on your fingernail and gave her a little shrug. "Just been… thinking about a guy, I guess."

They let out a shocked gasp. "A GUY?!" Kalei squealed, ignoring your desperate attempts to shush them. "Tell me everything RIGHT NOW, oh my god!" 

You blushed, trying to get them to quiet down, flustered at the idea of Michael listening in. "It's not anything serious! Just, um, met this guy and he's… interesting. I like him." You blushed at the childishness of your own words, focusing on your plants to avoid meeting Kalei's eyes.

They gave you a nod. "Well, as your workplace bestie, I am obligated to give him The Talk."

You chose to not mention the fact there were only five total employees counting you both. "Kay, it's Illinois. I doubt he'd be interested in me, available or not." Which wasn't untrue. Even if Michael was interested in you, it likely wasn't anything beyond obsession. At least the obsession went both ways, you thought to yourself with a private smile.

"Well, regardless, I have a duty to fulfill." They beamed at you, hands on their hips. "You're a cute guy and, if I didn't have a partner, I'd take you out sometime." They ignored your snort and continued. "If this guy screws you over, I'll kick his ass for you."

If only they knew, you chuckled to yourself as you left Kalei to attend to a customer. Michael wasn't exactly great "bring-home-to-the-parents" boyfriend material. Much less introduce to your co-worker. When you'd finished helping the customer, you froze at the sight of movement in the tree line across the road. Standing in the tall grass and brush, you swore you saw Michael standing there…

As far as you were aware, he stayed close by to watch as you finished your shift. You hoped that as long as he was watching you, he wasn't out killing someone. Hopefully. For all you knew, he could be supernatural.

But you'd let him watch you. The whole rest of your shift, the walk home, and as you got in the car to go shopping. While you usually got vegetables and fruits from the plants at your work, you still needed to get normal groceries at the store. So you parked around back to be a little more secluded and went inside.

It was a cute little supermarket, clean linoleum floors and shelves lined with food. You didn't need much but you definitely needed to refill your medkit and find a proper first aid book, just in case. Thankfully, it was relatively empty that day, meaning you had free reign of the aisles to explore and take your time shopping.

You knew Michael wouldn't come in the store but you didn't doubt he was waiting for you outside.

So when you finished loading your grocery bags into the trunk of your car, you didn't feel surprised when you heard footsteps approaching you. Michael was definitely taking a risk being out with you in public but you hadn't exactly spoken to him in a few days and you were itching for the chance.

Turning around, however, you were met face to face with an unfamiliar black ski mask. Definitely not Michael. The stranger grabbed you by the arm before pulling out a knife, his head on a swivel. "G-gimme all your cash! Now!" He hissed, jerking you aggressively.

"I don't have anything on me." You said calmly. Your dad had always prepared you for situations like this so you didn't worry too much, even with the glint of his knife in the corner of your eye.

"D-don't bullshit me! I know you j-just got outta there. G-gimme what you've got and I'll b-be on my way!" He spat at you, pulling you closer to press the knife against your neck.

You caught the faintest of movement in the shadows of the alleyway behind him but you kept your eyes on him to prevent the guy freaking out. "Okay. Let's just calm down," you said, keeping your movements slow as you reached for your hip, pretending to go for your wallet. The guy kept looking around frantically as though expecting something to jump out at him. Police, most likely. But when you saw the white face of a familiar mask over his shoulder, you felt a sense of calm settle over you.

"C-c'mon!" He hurried you, jerking the knife again to threaten slicing your throat.

At that moment, you jerked back as hot blood splashed across your face. Michael had effortlessly slashed the guy's neck open from behind, bright red falling like rain against the concrete below. You closed your eyes as the choked gurgles of the mugger's voice faded to silence and his body hit the ground. It was like you were frozen in place, unable to make your muscles move as you listened to the sounds of Michael killing the man. The vicious stabbing sounds made your skin crawl and you turned away from the scene entirely to check yourself over.

You hadn't gotten blood anywhere besides on your face, which was good. Easier to clean.

This was inevitable, you reminded yourself. That man wanted to hurt you and Michael was doing you a favor. Still, you tried to steady your breathing, bracing on the trunk of your car as he dragged the body away, presumably to hide it.

You heard Michael start to approach you and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. His footsteps could be silent, almost supernaturally quiet, so if he was making an effort to be loud, you knew it was his attempt to make you feel better. To let you know he was coming.

He stood in front of you now, covered in fresh blood and gripping his knife tightly. You were thankful for the setting sun that cast dark shadows over you two, obscuring the bloodsoaked Michael from view on the streets. You noticed the body slumped against the wall a little ways away and you swallowed back bile. "T-thanks." Your voice was soft and you cleared your throat. "For saving me."

It was only an assumption that he'd killed that guy to protect you. He didn't have to. He could have just let you die or at least be robbed. You were confident in that assumption though. He wouldn't risk your game ending so soon. 

On some level, he wanted you alive.

The blood on your face was beginning to dry uncomfortably and you desperately wanted to go home. You gestured to your car and gave Michael a tilt of your head. "You coming?" He seemed to weigh his options in his head before casually making his way for the passenger seat after a brief deliberation. "What's the plan if we're caught?" You asked him with a raised eyebrow and climbed into your own seat.

Turns out, once the cops got wind of the body, they were very easy to avoid. Predictable, you thought as you gripped your steering wheel tighter, careful to not draw attention to your car as you drove through the windy roads that led to your house.

You got Michael inside, shoving the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as Mayhem came around the corner, meowing for attention and approaching Michael to give him a curious sniff.

It was then that you remembered stories your father would tell you about how Michael would kill animals for fun as a boy. How he'd leave the dead bodies of cats and birds in his locker at school to terrify the other kids. You weren't sure how truthful the stories were but you felt a heavy pit of anxiety when Michael looked down to acknowledge Mayhem.

"If you hurt Mayhem, I will turn you in." Your voice was steady despite the way you trembled. His head snapped up to look at you and you could feel the glare behind it. "I mean it. T-this is one thing I'm not bending on. He's my kitty and I won't let you hurt him."

Michael was still for a moment, letting Mayhem rub against his boots and yowl as though expecting the man to feed him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent over and let his fingers brush against soft black fur. The motion was gentle, like either you or the cat would lash out should he make a mistake. Mayhem loved the attention, purring and rubbing against his fingers more, which made you smile.

He was usually an anxious cat so seeing him this comfortable with Michael made you smile. You set about making up Mayhem's dinner while Michael tried to navigate petting him. He was shockingly gentle despite clearly never having pet an animal. "Did you have pets as a kid?" You asked as you scraped food into the bowl.

He didn't answer but you didn't really expect him to. His hand was still, just letting Mayhem rub all over it and meow at him. It was endearing, you thought as you set the bowl down and let Mayhem go to town on it. Michael's head tilted curiously as he watched and gently stroked his back once before standing back up.

"I think he likes you," you giggled, scritching the cat behind the ear.

Michael just watched the cat before slowly standing back up and heading back into the living room. You followed him, tugging on his sleeve gently. "Want me to wash your clothes?"

Your words trailed off when you noticed Michael was looking at a photo of you with your dad at your graduation party. A tired sigh left you when the man tilted his head. "I don't… want to talk about that." You mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's not like it's easy to plan for your own dad's murder." The words were heavy in your mouth and you forced yourself to look away from the photo.

Ever since your mom had died, you knew your dad had been different. She'd died in childbirth with you and all your dad's friends would whisper about how that changed him drastically. He'd always been distant with you, especially as you'd grown up. When you'd hear stories about him before your mom died, he sounded like an entirely different man: happy, enthusiastic about life, and excited to be a father.

But then your mom died and he retreated inward. As though the whole thing was entirely your fault. He didn't want to parent you on his own and therefore you had to grow up taking care of yourself instead. 

"Whatever you have to do," you swallowed, turning away from Michael entirely and your voice hollow, "Just make it as painless as you can."

It wasn't like there was an easy way to ask him to kill your dad painlessly. You tried not to dwell on how easy it would be to let him go. It wasn't exactly like he'd ever been there for you anyways.

"So. Your clothes. I, um, still have your shirt and the sweats you borrowed are clean, if you want to change." You changed the topic quickly, ignoring the way he stared at you. The last thing you possibly wanted was pity from the Boogeyman. "Either way, I'm going to go wash my face before someone sees me."

You went upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Michael to his own devices downstairs. You opened drawers at random until you found the wet wipes you kept stashed for when you wore makeup. Some good hard scrubbing and scented lotion and it's like you were never there, all evidence flushed down the toilet and out of sight. You sighed, staring at yourself in the mirror as the events of the day hit you, leaving you feeling winded and exhausted all at once. You were complacent in a crime now. It wasn't just you hiding Michael from the cops, you'd let him kill a man in front of you.

Trying to argue with yourself that it was self defense was pointless. No use in lying to yourself.

When you opened your eyes, unsure of when you'd closed them, you met Michael's eyes where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom. "Oh, sorry, do you want to shower?" Before you could even move to leave, he unzipped the jumpsuit, leaving you speechless.

You gasped in horror at the state of his chest. The black shirt was gone and left his bandages on display, dirty and stained with reddish-brown blood that mixed with ugly yellow pus from the drainage of the wound. It reeked of infection even a few feet from him. "Michael!" You hurried to him to get a better look, feeling sick for the second time today. "Christ, you should have come to me before it got this bad! With how wet it's been… Take these off and sit down on the edge of the tub. God, this looks awful."

Michael sat, watching you with amusement. At least you assumed it was amusement. Though you couldn't find anything funny about this. "I should have stitched you," you mumbled as you reached for your first aid kit and began sterilizing a pair of scissors, "Or at least looked up what to do."

Swallowing back your squeamishness, you cut him free of the bandages, practically retching when you got a better look at his wound. It had somehow gotten worse, a painful red and oozing pus. "Oh my god, Michael." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

He tilted his head and you almost wanted to smack him. How he wasn't in any noticeable pain was bewildering to you.

You began to undress him, uncaring of any potential nakedness, and he grabbed your wrists tight when you reached forward to take off his mask. "Michael, this infection could kill you. I need to see if you're running a fever. So either let me touch your forehead or I'm touching your neck." 

He stood quickly, stumbling slightly as he grabbed the bloodstained knife from where he'd apparently set it down on the counter. But you didn't back down. "Be mad all you want, this is really fucking infected and I'm not letting you get worse." You sighed, racking your brain to come up with an idea to placate him. "If I close my eyes, will you let me take your temperature?" 

Slowly, his shoulders fell. Which confused you. You'd seen his mugshots, you knew he wasn't disfigured or anything like that. So his insistence at not being looked at confused you but now was not the time to be worrying about that.

Prettiness aside, you needed to help him.

So you shut your eyes and held out your hand. A minute passed without Michael moving and you briefly worried he'd left the room entirely. Before you could open your eyes, you felt his fingers encircle your wrist and press it to his neck. You felt him swallow and you tried your best to focus on how hot his skin felt and not how this was an incredible show of trust. Goosebumps erupted across your arms as you cupped his neck gently.

His skin was soft and feverish and you felt your heart clench.

"You're definitely running a fever," you sighed. "I'll look for a sewing kit or something to stitch you up but I want you to shower and get all that gross off first. Don't scrub too hard, okay?" Before you could retract your hand, his grip on your wrist tightened. "Are you-?"

He lifted your hand, letting your fingers graze his bare cheek. You felt Michael lean into the touch momentarily and you reacted quickly, holding his face gently. He was burning up so hot you weren't sure how he was even standing in this condition. When was the last time anyone had taken care of him? Or the last time he was even sick?

Judging by his height, he was likely slumped against the bathroom counter. The idea made your heart clench. Despite every instinct in your body telling you to pull away, you ran your hand up the side of his face in a gentle, soothing motion. Your fingers ran through tangled hair, soft and curly, before sliding down behind his ear to rest back on his neck. "You'll be okay," you said softly. "The fever will break and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Having had enough of being touched, he took you by the shoulders and moved you aside, careful to not let you stumble and fall. You kept your eyes closed when you heard the shower turn on and the curtain shift as he stepped inside. Only then did you open your eyes.

What... was that?

You looked down at your hand like it offended you before shaking your head in bewilderment. He'd never fail to surprise you.

You figured out pretty quickly that that instance of seeking your touch was the extent that Michael wanted you to touch him. He barely tolerated you checking him over for fever symptoms, opting instead to lounge in your bed like he'd been exorcised of a demon.

For the past few days, you'd done your best to keep Michael's presence in your house a secret. With your workaholic dad's late hours, he usually just came back home, ate a frozen dinner, and passed out in his bedroom before waking around 9AM to stumble to work and repeat the process all over again. So, provided Michael kept quiet, there wasn't any worry. You'd taken a few days of sick leave from work to take care of him, citing a head cold. Now you just had to hope that the police would continue their dedicated search even if people weren't dying.

You wondered, as you sat on your bed with a feverish serial killer half naked and asleep beside you, if hoping he recovered soon made you a bad person.

Probably.

But god he was a bitch when he was sick.

He kept the godforsaken mask on, which you had expected. But when his fever rose to 102 you had kind of hoped he'd take it off for the sake of wanting to cool down. He was persistent, you'd give him that.

You were getting the hang of his body language too. It was subtle but you'd begun to notice the slight shifts in his stance or the way his hands would twitch without a knife in them. At first you'd assumed it was just you projecting but you'd grown confident you could understand him now. Being sick definitely made him more expressive too.

Though, right now, you wanted to strangle him. "Michael, it's chicken noodle soup." You sighed, rubbing your temples. Trying to feed him was like dealing with a picky toddler sometimes. "It's chicken, noodles, carrots, and broth. All things I've fed you before." You could feel his glare at you and you were half tempted to get your own knife to speak his language better.

The infection was running its course, which was the only reason you had so much patience with him. His bitchiness was a byproduct of his fever and you had to keep reminding yourself that he probably hadn't been sick before.

That didn’t make you want to clobber him any less.

"If you eat the fucking soup I'll go buy you pumpkin pie when you feel better." You tried, glaring him down. "Because the sooner you eat this, the sooner you'll get better. And then you can go back to slaughtering the town."

He seemed placated by that. You turned your back to him so he could eat and you let out a silent sigh. You knew him well enough to know he liked that soup, he just wanted to be a jackass about it.

Later that afternoon you yet again threatened him with violence when he refused taking medicine. You weren't surprised he wasn't interested, seeing as he grew up in a hospital. But you were outgrowing your patience with him. You did smirk a little when you realized he absolutely wanted to throw you across the room for all but forcing the antibiotics down his throat. But once it was down, you softened. "C'mere, sleep will do you some good."

Michael glared at you but let you sit next to him against the headboard of the bed as he laid down. You'd learnt he was definitely a stomach sleeper and you could tell by his huffing that the heat underneath the mask was beginning to frustrate him. You jerked your head away when he ripped the mask off, throwing it with a growl and face planting onto the pillow.

"It's okay," you said softly, keeping your gaze straight ahead and fighting the urge to look down at him. "You don't feel as feverish today, you should be back on your feet in a day or two." You heard him grumble and you giggled. "Want me to rub your back? Might help you sleep."

He was silent. But he didn't immediately lash out so you kept your movements slow and purposeful. Like approaching an anxious, abused cat. He didn't know touch that wasn't associated with pain and you had to be careful to avoid startling him or overstepping. Your fingers made contact with his back and you slid your palm over his upper back, rubbing in slow, soothing motions.

Maybe it was exhaustion, the fever, or resignation to your touch but you swore you felt him relax.

Michael's skin was tacky to the touch and incredibly warm but that didn't deter you. You hummed a soft lullaby, keeping your movements slow and gentle. He looked painfully human and you were choking on the urge to care for this man. This strange, silent Boogeyman who'd fallen into your lap and sought you for care and food and attention and it made you want to cry.

If it weren't for his murderous hobby, you'd be infatuated with the sleeping man. The slow rise and fall of his chest made something in your own clench painfully as you continued to rub his back. You'd only known each other for a short time and yet you both had extended a lot of trust to each other. Most people met him with hostility or violence but you'd met him with kindness. A kindness he was unfamiliar with and must have been a welcome change. Either that or he just liked your cooking and bedside manner enough not to kill you. You weren't too picky about his motives.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't fond of him regardless.

The sound of the front door opening was like a bucket of ice down your back. You crept from the bed, carefully shutting the door behind you and heading downstairs, meeting your father's tired face. "You're back early."

"I'm only on my lunch break," he sighed as he shrugged his coat off, "Didn't feel like packing one so I figured I'd come check on you." He was giving you a strange look. "Are you okay?"

You watched him go into the kitchen as you loitered on the stairs, watching him through the awning closest to the steps. "Yeah, just been a little under the weather." You feigned a cough and sniffed. "Getting better though."

Your dad hummed as he opened the fridge. "Michael Myers killed a man at the store the other day." He reached in to pull out a sandwich you'd made for yourself at lunch and hadn't gotten around to eating. Trying to feed Michael was a laborious task.

"Really?" You raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms over your chest. "I didn't hear about it in the news."

He watched you with a painfully blank expression. "Correct me if I'm wrong but… I think you were out shopping before you fell ill, am I right?" Your dad took a slow bite of his sandwich, poorly trying to act casual. "The store clerk said a man was following you outside the store."

Fortunately, you were a better actor than your father. "I didn't see anyone."

But, of course, he didn't believe you. He never did. "Son, a man was killed by Michael Myers the day you went out and now you've been hiding away since then." His cop voice grated on your nerves. It felt like he never stopped being a cop, even with you. Every conversation with him felt like navigating a maze to try and hide yourself from him. You hated it.

"The weather has been getting colder and I work outside. It's really not that surprising."

"Have you seen Myers?" He got sick of beating around the bush, his hands on his hips as he leveled you with an unimpressed look. "Is that why you've been hiding out here?"

The word "hiding" made your hackles raise. Like this wasn't the same man who'd told you to lock the doors and windows when he first informed you of Michael. "Nope." Your smile was fake and bitter and you could see the way he flinched. "Hard to miss a man walking around in a Halloween costume." 

"Kid-" He tried to placate you.

But you weren't interested. "I'll be back to work in a day or so, don't worry."

He seemed remorseful now. "If Myers is stalking you, you can talk to me. You know that, right?"

An awkward silence hung in the air. Your dad seemed to deflate and he ate in silence, pretending to not see you. "Have you talked to Laurie Strode yet?" You asked as you picked at a stray string on your sweater sleeve.

He swallowed and shook his head. "We're hesitant to let her know what's going on until we're certain he's still after her. Dr Loomis has been working with us to try and find him as soon as we can." He scratched his chin in thought. "Maybe I should make a statement soon, what with Halloween approaching."

You gave him another acidic smile. "You'll find him, I'm sure. You're very dedicated."

Your dad gave you a helpless look. If you were five years younger, you might have apologized for being so curt with him. But you weren't sixteen and craving your father's approval anymore. You knew that the family charade you both put up was only because you helped around the house. He wasn't home enough to give a shit who lived there anyways.

He didn't even know the killer he was hunting was asleep in your bed, stitched up with your string and your soup in his stomach. You had no intention of telling him, partially out of spite at this point.

You hoped Michael got better soon.

Lucky for you - and unlucky for Haddonfield - Michael was back on his feet a day later. He was still a bit warm but you knew it was fruitless to try and keep him inside any longer. He had to make another appearance in town anyways or else he'd risk you both. If people paid too close to timelines, your sick leave corresponding with his disappearance would be too suspicious.

But his stitches came out easily and his wound had healed decently. "Next time, come back before your bandages get too dirty." You'd smirked at him as you zipped his jumpsuit up. It felt too close to a wife sending her husband off to work for the day and the thought made your face warm.

You managed to get a few days of relative peace, especially once your father was occupied by Michael killing again. It had also been a few days since you saw Michael and you hoped that was just because his bandages were holding up well. The last thing either of you needed was another sick week.

Currently you were heading home after spending the afternoon reading at the park. Your little bag bumped against your hip as you hopped along to the music coming out of your tinny headphones. It was unlikely Michael had been watching you, since you didn't feel his eyes on you, but you still felt like taking a break from the house for a minute.

The sight of a cop car parked haphazardly along the sidewalk made you freeze. It had hit the curb slightly and looked like the driver had been in a hurry to get out. The door was wide open and you lowered your headphones slowly, the frantic voice over the radio better. The voice was staticy and it sounded like whoever it was was running but their words were crystal clear. "All units respond. Multiple fatalities reported on Orange Grove Ave. Suspect has been identified as one Michael Myers. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Shoot to kill, I repeat, shoot to kill. Over."

You felt your stomach drop and your head whipped around. Orange Grove Ave was just ahead so you took off like a shotgun, sprinting down the street. The only sound was that of your shoes hitting the pavement as you tried to come up with a plan. If they hadn't seen him yet, you just needed to get an opening for him to escape. You knew of Michael's unnatural ability to vanish if your eyes weren't on him.

Desperately, you didn't want him to get shot again.

You rounded the corner onto Orange Grove with a sharp turn, your eyes immediately spotting a second cop car. "Fuck!" You hissed to yourself as you picked up the pace. You should have gone looking for Michael sooner. Should have left for the park earlier in hopes of catching his attention. Anything, anything to have avoided him getting caught.

When you got closer to the car, you noticed a cop hanging halfway out of the car. His head had been smashed in, a puddle of gore, blood, and brain matter leaking steadily down the side of the car door. You felt like throwing up but you held it in when you spotted his partner. A young man, likely fresh on the force, clutching his gun as he pointed it down the alleyway. His trembling told you all you needed to know.

The officer gave you a quick glance, fear obvious on his face. "Get back!" He called to you.

You ignored him and looked down the alleyway. Michael stood there calmly, hanging back in the shadows between the two buildings. Another cop lay before him and you watched with horror as Michael's boot made heavy contact with the cop's skull, a wet, sickening crunch echoing out in the small space.

"Get down and put your hands in the air!" The rookie said, hands on the gun shaking as he kept his eyes on Michael. An idea came to you. It was stupid, reckless, and dangerous.

You lunged for the cop, knocking his gun from his hands and sending him stumbling.

He didn't even have time to do anything but look at you with horrified eyes before Michael descended on him. He grabbed the rookie by his collar and lifted him effortlessly before running him through with his knife, spilling his guts on the sidewalk in warm waterfalls of blood. You scrambled backwards to avoid being caught in the spray but Michael gladly covered himself in the fresh gore. The rookie's lifeless body hit the floor with a heavy, empty sound and Michael turned his attention on you.

You scanned the nearby area and spotted a little path between two houses overrun with grass and brush. Without a second thought, you took off towards it and just hoped Michael was behind you. Other members of the force would be on their way and you both needed to disappear. You ignored the scratching of sharp branches against your arms and hands, only wincing when a particularly sharp one sliced a thin cut across your calf.

But you didn't falter. You kept running through the town, your heart pounding hard and pumping pure fumes through you as you ran. As soon as you broke into the treeline of the forest, you collapsed to your knees and let yourself catch your breath.

A hand gripped the back of your shirt and for a brief second you feared you'd been caught. But Michael dragged you towards a tree, pinning you to it and holding his bloody knife close under your throat, the blade digging into your skin. "Wait!" You struggled against his grip, kicking out at him with your heavy boots. "What did I do?! I got you out of there without getting shot!"

You could see his eyes this close. Hazel, like you'd suspected. His eyes were narrow with hate and anger as he glared you down. But you stopped struggling and that only seemed to make him madder. "I wasn't just going to let you get hurt!" You hissed, reaching up to grab the hand that held your collar tightly, keeping you rooted in place. "I don't see what you're so angry about."

He didn't like that answer. The knife pressed in and you gasped when you felt a stream of your own blood run down, wetting his fingers. "Stop," you pleaded, clawing at him frantically. "Stop, please, I'm sorry."

That wasn't good enough for him and held you tighter. Tears welled up in your eyes and fell, mixing with the blood. Pain shot through you when Michael yanked his knife away, taking a few steps back and letting you slide down the tree as you gasped for breath. Your hands gripped at your neck, slightly relieved it wasn't more than a surface cut. Blood started to stain your hands, falling in rivulets down your arm and leaking over your elbows only to stain the grass beneath you a muddy red color.

His head tilted as he watched and you wanted to spit at him. "Y'know, I kinda thought we had a partnership going on." Your words were choked as you glared up at him. "Was I wrong?"

That seemed to get to him. He straightened up and stared you down. You got up on shaking legs and stumbled away from him and towards the forest. His footsteps were loud as he followed behind you and that only served to make you angrier. The walk home was silent and he stayed a few feet behind you the whole time, never getting closer nor straying. The only sounds were the twigs crackling under your shoes and you were too rattled to feel or think much of anything. Your only goal was getting home.

You kicked the back door open and stormed inside and upstairs to the bathroom. You stared at yourself in the mirror and wanted to smack yourself for your infatuation with a killer who didn't care about you. The cut was, thankfully, small. And hopefully the amount on your arms could convince your dad you were just handling a blackberry bush at work or something. The one on your leg could be hidden under pants until it healed. So you began rooting around for bandages and ignored Michael standing in the doorway.

"I help you get away and you try to kill me?" You growled, glaring at him in the mirror. "I could have let that cop shoot you and I didn't because I fucking care, Michael." Tears threatened to fall again and you swallowed them back when he gave you a tilt of his head. "I get you aren't good with feelings and- and maybe this is just you needing me to clean and feed you but I wanted to help you." You dabbled your neck with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and hissed at the sting. "If that's all you want me for then fine but I need to know where we stand."

He watched you bandage your neck, his shoulders set tight as he waited for you to finish. He set the knife down on the counter and reached for you but you flinched back. "Wash your hands." You mumbled and stepped back more to give him access to the sink.

The water ran for some time as the two of you watched the blood swirl down the drain and out of sight. Once the water ran clear, he pulled his hands out and reached for you again. You wanted to run but were backed up into a corner with no way out.

He covered your eyes with one and you frowned in confusion. "What are you-?" He took your wrist with his free hand and held it to his face again, silencing you. His face felt wet and that concerned you. "Are you bleeding somewhere?" You tried feeling around for any cuts but he shook his head no. "Was it raining?" Another no.

So an idea came to you. A dangerous one if you were wrong. "Were you… crying?"

He nodded. Your heart broke.

You pulled him in for a hug, keeping your eyes closed as you just held him. He dropped the hand from your eyes to hold your hip, leaning into your touch like he did when he was ill a few weeks ago. "What happened?" You tried, holding his face with both hands.

Michael just shook his head helplessly and bumped your foreheads together. Oh. Oh. "Were you… worried I was turning you in?" No. "Was it because I was there while you were, uh, hunting?" No. You chewed on your lip as another dangerous thought came to you. "You were worried I was going to get hurt."

His jaw clenched as his throat worked around a growl. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield couldn't afford to feel anything. He doesn't. As far as anyone is concerned at least. Yet here you were, defying all odds and earning Michael's favor. His protection. His care. And the idea of losing you had terrified him, causing him to lash out at you for willingly putting yourself in danger. Emotions had run high and he'd acted out. He hadn't known what else to do but scare you back. 

"I'm sorry I worried you," you said softly, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks and wiping the moisture away as you kept your eyes closed. "I was worried about you too. I heard the police radio mention shooting you on sight so I went looking for you." His grip on you tightened slightly and you sighed. "I know that you're used to people shooting at you or- or attacking you. But I'm not used to hearing about it."

You finally admitted to yourself and him: "I don't want you to die."

After a moment of silence, he pressed your foreheads together. You felt his breath ghost over your skin and your noses bumped together awkwardly. You hooked a hand behind his neck to just hold him and he squeezed your hips tight. "I don't want you to die," you gasped into your shared air. He made a muffled sound and this felt so much more intimate than any kind of kissing you'd done in the past. You just stood there in each other's spaces, sharing air and warmth and closeness that you hadn't had with someone else in a long time. You couldn't imagine how it felt for him.

"We're in this together now, okay?" You said softly, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. Pretty, you thought absently. But you already knew that. Brown ringlet curls, one eye injured from his fight with Laurie Strode, and a light dusting of freckles across his nose. His face looked damp and you brushed under his eyes with the hem of your sleeve. Despite that, his face was expressionless even though you could see conflict swirling in his eyes. You couldn't imagine how he was feeling. "We'll look out for each other, yeah?"

He gave you a slow nod and you smiled. Your foreheads pressed together again and you felt his shoulders relax as his eyes closed. Trust. You both trusted each other and were partners in this now. You accepted you'd be complacent in his crimes going forward and he'd learn to accept your care in time.

Just you and your Boogeyman against the world...

[bennyboyfics]

hey love your work 🫶 could you write something with how ben is so confident and cocky on the court but with reader he becomes shy and clingy and his friends and family always tease him it

Whipped || Ben Shelton x gf!reader

A/n: luv this idea 🥲

Wc: 1,030

Warnings: none just fluff!!!

MASTERLIST

-

You weren’t entirely sure when the teasing had started. Maybe it was the day Ben brought you to a tournament and insisted you sit courtside in his hoodie, one three sizes too big, draped over your sundress like you were a walking billboard for Shelton 101.

Or maybe it was when his mum caught him sneaking you into his childhood bedroom after a late-night drive, thinking nobody would notice how his voice got soft, how he curled around you like a vine wrapping itself around the only thing that kept it grounded. Ben Shelton was cocky.

Unapologetically confident, especially with a racquet in hand. On the court, he was loud, fiery, chest-beating and smirking—a showman with a serve that could kill and a wink that could disarm. But with you? Ben became soft. “I swear to God, man,” Frances said one night during a dinner with his team, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.

“You were a different person before her. Now you’re just walking around like a lovesick puppy.” Ben, sitting beside you in the booth, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, didn’t even argue. He just ducked his head into your shoulder, face flushed, lips twitching as he tried not to smile.

You could feel the way his fingers curled tighter around your hip, like he was trying to hide in you.“Don’t start,” he mumbled, muffled by the soft cotton of your sweater. “Oh, he’s blushing again,” Taylor added with a fake gasp. “Bro, you’re so whipped. She’s got you by the balls.”

You laughed, combing your fingers through Ben’s curls like it was second nature. “That’s not true,” you teased, eyes twinkling. “He still pretends to be tough. Until he wants cuddles.” “She’s lying,” Ben groaned, burying his face even deeper. “She’s not,” his sister Emma chimed in from across the table.

“You should’ve seen him when he FaceTimed her after the match in Australia. We were all in the locker room. He had a towel on his head like he just stepped out of a spa, talking all soft, like— ‘Did you eat today, baby? Did you sleep okay?’”

“Baby, I missed you so much,” Frances echoed dramatically, clutching his chest. “I can’t sleep without you. My bed’s so cold.” Ben groaned louder, and you couldn’t stop laughing. “Y’all are so annoying,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his voice. Because the truth was, Ben didn’t care. Not really.

He was different with you. On court, he was a beast. He roared when he hit an ace, let out fist pumps and stared down his opponents like he was about to tear them apart. But the moment his eyes found you in the crowd—usually with a cap on backwards and one of his oversized shirts hanging off your frame—something shifted in him.

He softened. You always watched him closely, even before the world knew you were together. You saw it in the way his jaw unclenched, in the way he tapped his chest like he was grounding himself whenever he caught your eye. It was like he needed the reminder that you were there—that the fire burning in him had an anchor.

One night, after a win in Miami, he found you. You barely got a word out before he was pulling you into a hallway, away from the chaos, away from cameras and fans. “You saw me, right?” he murmured against your temple, arms locked around your waist.

“I’m always watching you,” you whispered. He let out a shaky breath, forehead pressing to yours. “I needed that.” And when you got back to the hotel room that night, he was the one who refused to let go. Wrapped around you under the sheets, breath warm against your skin, he clung to you like you were his whole world.

“I know they tease me,” he said quietly once, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your bare back. “Call me whipped and all that.” “You mind it?” you asked, kissing his shoulder. He shrugged. “Not really. They can say whatever they want.” And then, turning his head toward you, eyes sleepy and soft in the dim light. “Because it’s true.”

You blinked. “What?” “I’m whipped,” he said again, firmer now. “For you. Always have been.” You couldn’t stop the smile that took over your face, nor the way your heart did a slow, warm flip. Ben Shelton was a lot of things. A showman. A star. A force on the court.

But at the end of the day, when the stadium lights faded and the crowd’s cheers turned into a memory, he was just yours—shy, clingy, and hopelessly in love.And honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

[2danny2furious]

Haunt

Danny Gonzalez X Reader

wk: 3.4k

blurb: When you fill in as Danny’s videographer for his ghost-hunting trip to the infamous Stanley Hotel, you expect creepy corridors and bad Wi-Fi—not this kind of tension. (Based on this video)

A little angst, a little fluff, a little spice. Minors: there is suggestive material towards the end but not explicit material so please approach the one shot accordingly ❤️

He’s just not into you– not professionally, not platonically, and definitely not romantically. Despite the fact that you’re working the camera on your first assignment for him, Danny’s eyes seem to move right through you, his voice clipped, sending one syllable directions your way when the monitor isn’t showing a perfect read.

“Left.” “Zoom.” “Again.”

No please, no thanks, no good job—just the bare minimum, like you’re an inconvenient piece of equipment he didn’t ask for.

Which, technically, you are.

You flew out to Colorado from California last-minute after your mutual friend Jake—Danny’s longtime editor, and videographer—came down with food poisoning. (“Bad sushi,” he’d groaned over the phone. “Save me from myself.”)

You’d been a fan of Danny’s videos since his skits were filmed in his dorm room and his punchlines were seven second Vine wonders. You flew in the night before Christmas Eve, missing time with your family just in the excitement to see Danny behind the scenes. But now, you feel like the only true ghost in this shitty tourist trap mansion.

You’re sitting in his hotel room, as he scans the old carpet with an EMF reader.

“You good with that lighting?” he asks, not looking at you as he adjusts his mic pack.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, unless you want it more eerie? I can—”

You’re interrupted by the loud zipper of his equipment pouch opening as dull plastic thuds together in his search for something he hasn’t told you about. He’s not even listening to you anymore. You clench your teeth and bury the burn of humiliation for the millionth time today as you watch him slam batteries into a flashlight, the reader, and a ridiculous headset he’s wearing.

You watch him through the monitor, tuning out his charming babbling to keep yourself from getting hurt by the insane contrast of how warm he is only when there’s a camera between you. You realize that he’s now sniffing the floor like a bloodhound, nose scrunched in concentration around a “cold spot.” The EMF scan shows a large patch of something wet, which leads off into a tiny glowing trail. Wait.

“...Is it pee?” you say.

Danny freezes. For a second, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then his shoulders shake. A snort escapes him. Not the performative, for-the-audience sarcastic laugh from his videos, but something real and startled. It’s cute. So cute.

“Oh my god, what?” He looks up at you, half-offended, half-delighted. “Why would hotel cleaner be my first guess?”*

He actually giggles, and you feel your chest warm. He’s looking at you, smiling with his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes blazing blue with mist.

The moment breaks when his phone sounds an alarm. “Shit,” he says. “We’re going to be late for the underground tour.”

And then his back is to you, sauntering towards the door and out, and all you can do is follow.

*

The hotel’s underground tunnels are colder than you expected, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic. Your camera's night-vision casts everything in a sickly green hue as you descend.

Vanessa, the lead guide, stops where the passage opens into a cavernous ice cellar. Frost crackles along the walls.

"This is where the night watchman went mad in 1932," she says, lantern light carving shadows under her eyes. "He swore the hotel manager's wife—who'd drowned in the lake out back—was standing down here every night, wringing lakewater from her hair." She pauses dramatically.

"They found him frozen to death right where you're standing, his hands clawing at his own throat... like something had been pouring water down it. His throat was found to be clogged with seaweed that looked exactly like a woman’s long, mangled braid."

You zoom in on Danny's Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His fingers hover near Vanessa's elbow as they walk—whether to steady himself or her, you can’t tell.

She adds, "Guests still report hearing gurgling sounds down here."

The camera catches it all: Danny's nervous knee bounce, the way candlelight illuminates the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs at Vanessa's joke about "cold feet," how his gaze slides right past you like you are part of the wall.

Tom, the junior guide, takes over in the servants' passage. His voice is warmer, his delivery charming as he points to a large rusted hook on the ceiling. "This is where the chef hung himself after the 1911 avalanche trapped guests here for three weeks. Strange thing is—" he lowers his voice, "—every December, that hook starts swinging on its own. Kitchen staff keep removing it... but it always reappears."

A draft makes the lantern flames flicker madly. You shiver, and when Tom notices, he steps closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Too much?" he murmers. "We can skip the hanging pantry if our guests—"

"We're good on footage," Danny cuts in. He’s not looking at you, but Vanessa. He points to her phone. "Show me those spirit photos again?"

The camera's red light winks out under your thumb.

As the rest of the tour group takes the tours built in free time to wander the passageways, Tom falls into step beside you.

"So," he says, voice low, "you always let YouTube guys boss you around haunted basements?"

"Only the ones who forget I'm a person when the camera's off." The words slip out before you’ve processed them, and Tom huffs a laugh.

"His loss." He nods at your rig. "You've got a steadier hand than most pros who come through here."

You are about to respond when movement catches your eye—Danny leaning over Vanessa's phone, his arm braced against the tunnel wall behind her. She swipes through blurry images while he nods with that focused intensity he reserves for everyone but you. "This one's insane," he breathes, and you look away before the bitterness can crawl up your throat.

You let Tom fill your brain with some his funnier ghost stories— lights turning off anytime he starts to pee in the bathrooms, DUMDUM wrappers materializing within seconds on his desk whenever he’s working the graveyard shift, and his shoelaces becoming tied together whenever he’s talking to a girl he finds pretty.

“Well,” you tease, “your shoelaces look definitively normal.”

“Maybe they’re giving me a break,” says Tom. “Maybe they want you to want me too.”

He’s not handsome, he's not ugly, but he’s warm and kind, and he’s leaning into you to give you a kiss you desperately need. The touch of a human, tangible proof you’re not worthless. Your lips barely touch when you hear Danny bark your name, telling you it’s time to head up.

Embarrassed, you lean away from Tom, who just smiles knowingly. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll find you when you’re done with work.”

Back in the lobby's electric light, Danny corners you near the front desk. "Did you get footage of the pictures she was showing me?"

Your mouth drops open. "Shit. I'm sorry, I thought you said—"

"You thought I said what?" His voice is a blade. "Are you not a fucking UCLA film grad? You have no initiative?"

"I'm sorry, let me go talk to her—"

"Forget it. Why don't you just go back to flirting with Tom? You're here to have fun, right? Not work?"

Vanessa materializes beside you. "Come on, angel," she says, touching your arm. "Let's go back down. I'll reshoot everything with you."

Danny's anger evaporates the second she speaks. You are both aware now that everyone in the lobby is frozen still, watching you.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says—to her, not you—running a hand through his hair. "Didn't mean to cause trouble for you guys. Your shift's over, go have fun. Our mistakes aren't your problem to fix."

You follow Danny toward the elevators, emotion choking your throat. That honeyed tone—the one he uses with Vanessa, with the staff, with the other guests, with literally everyone but you—echoes in your skull and you stand in silence a few feet away from Danny, waiting for this elevator that won’t come. You still have so many segments to shoot but the thought of being near him for a single more second makes you wish you were another ghost victim and God, this elevator is not coming.

Danny exhales sharply through his nose, then veers toward the stairwell exit. The metal door slams behind him, the clang of his footsteps on the stairs fading as he ascends alone.

When the elevator finally comes, you let the tears fall. You hit the fifth floor and find yourself running past curious guests, past the flickering hallway sconces, until you crash through the women's bathroom door. Your best friend's contact photo blurs as you stabbed the call button, your breath coming in wet hitches against the phone.

"Hey," you manage when she answers, "remember how I said this gig would be fun...?"

She sighs empathetically, and you hear a movie in the background become paused. “Is a man being a disappointment?”

“Yes,” you sniffle. "He's so funny and goofy and charming on camera, but so weird et when it's off! Everyone said he's a nice guy but he's-well he's not a nice guy. He's fucking weird! Only to me! It's like he's acting or something, l don't know!"

Your best friend is silent for a beat. "Well. He is a former theater kid." You could hear her crunching popcorn through the phone. "It's on you for expecting normalcy."

"No, no, you're right-"

"Why do you care so much? Aren’t the Hollywood execs so much worse?"

You pick at a loose thread on your sweater.

"I don't know. I guess he's... well, he's hot. And funny. And I love his videos. It just stings to be so repulsive to him. It’s not that I want to date him or anything, but can't he at least be nice? Like on a normal human-to-human level? I’m missing Christmas for this!"

“Im so sorry angel,” she says. "Don’t you have a red eye? Just get your bag and go. Like, go to Denver. Go out. Drink. Have fun. Have rough, hot anonymous sex. Fuck this guy."

“You’re right,” you say. “I love you.”

You hang up, staring at your puffy-eyed reflection. After a few more embarrassed sniffles, you wash your face, reapply your makeup with military precision, and twist your hair up into a claw clip. The mirror shows someone who looks like they have their life together-someone who definitely wasn't about to spend Christmas Eve with an apathetic ass hat.

Danny isn’t in his room when you go to find him, and in the end you discover him pacing the lobby as you approach, his sneakers squeaking on the marble.

"I'm heading to the airport early," you announce.

He checks his watch. "Six hours early?"

"Yeah. Just want to be safe."

The receptionist chooses this moment to clear his throat.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am." His smile is painfully polite.

"As I was just telling Mr.Gonzalez, all roads to Denver are closing. There's a snowstorm coming-we won't have clear roads until morning at the earliest."

As if on cue, your phone chirps with a flight delay notification. You aren’t expected to leave until tomorrow morning now. Outside, the first fat flurries began spiraling past the windows, dancing as if to taunt you.

"She'll be staying with me," Danny says. His voice has a warmth you’ve been craving all day, but you know this is because he wants you to finish the video and get his checklist complete.

"I think I’m done for the day," you say coldly. “I’ll happily cover my own space.”

Danny holds your gaze as the receptionist taps his keyboard.

"All our rooms are booked for tonight-Christmas Eve and all. But!" He brightens. "There's a lovely motel down the road-"

"The one where actual murders happened?" Danny leans on the desk, his cheeks flushing. "Wasn't there a human trafficking ring busted there last summer?"

The receptionist's smile doesn’t waver. It says, quite clearly: Not my problem.

You sigh and turn on your heels, heading to the elevators as Mariah Carey cries in Christmas happiness over the hotel speakers. You hear Danny’s steps in quick succession behind you, and you both are once again facing the elevators in awkward silence.

Danny finally clears his throat. "So. Room situation." He won’t meet your eyes, fiddling with his keycard. "I can film the rest by myself. You should take the bed and get some rest."

The unexpected decency hits like a punch to the ribs. You think of the LA producer who'd thrown a latte at your head for "missing his good side," the cameraman who'd "accidentally" grazed your waist every time he reached for a lens. Danny had paid you upfront. Had only really gotten mad at you not getting footage.

"Wait." The words tumble out before you could can stop them. "I'm—god, I'm sorry. I've been so unprofessional. You're not even the worst boss I've had this month, and I—"

"No, stop.” Danny runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks in flames. "I shouldn't have yelled. You're doing fine. I'm just..."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Got dumped by my high school girlfriend right before this trip. Holiday and family stuff's got me acting like a total dick. And I’m sorry."

The confession hangs between you, raw as the winter wind rippling through the hallways. Your eyes meet. You're looking in his eyes, tender, and you’re trying not to drown in them. And he’s looking at yours. And you swear he can hear your heart.

The elevator chimes and Danny suddenly stiffens, shoving his hands in his pockets

"Anyway. Not your problem."

The silence in the mirrored elevator is suffocating. You watch his reflection chew his lip, both of you pretending not to notice the other looking.

"I’ll take the couch," he says abruptly when the doors ding open.

"No, Danny, it's your room, and I’m not even finishing what you paid me for. I’m totally fine."

"Yeah, well, you don't want to sleep on that couch." A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.

He opens the room door and immediately reaches for the thermal light.

The stains on the hotel couch glow neon purple. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they are. You both stare at them in horrified silence until he says, “I’m gonna be honest I don’t want to sleep on that either. I’ll take my chances with piss floor.”

"Let's just share the bed," you say. "It's a king. We can put some pillows in between us."

Your face burns the moment the words leave your mouth, and you can't bear to see his reaction. You grab your backpack from the floor and hurry into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in the silk pajama set you'd packed.

Danny is already sprawled on the bed, a neat line of pillows dividing his side from yours. He’s down to boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. One arm is thrown dramatically over his eyes.

"Too tired to film," he grumbles. "Turn off the light and call it a day."

You flick the switch, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of the emergency exit sign under the door. The bed dips as you slide under the covers, putting as much distance between you and the pillow barricade as possible.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the old hotel creaking around you—the groan of pipes, the whisper of wind against the windows. Then, a sharp thud from somewhere down the hall.

You hear the sheets rustle, the dividing line depressed by his body, his head propped up by a hand, his eyes finding yours in the dark.

"...You heard that too, right?" His voice is tight.

"Yeah," you say, "Probably just the heating system."

Another thud. Closer this time.

Danny exhales sharply. "Cool. Right."

In the dim light, his profile is all sharp angles—jaw clenched, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he stares resolutely at the ceiling.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

"Peachy." His fingers dig into the comforter. "Just. You know. Ghosts."

A surprised laugh escapes you. "Danny Gonzalez is scared of ghosts? After a whole day proving they’re not real?"

"Shut up," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. "I can handle —" Another creak from the hallway cuts him off, and he swears under his breath.

You hesitate, then slowly reach across the pillow divide, your fingers brushing his wrist. "Hey. Breathe. It’s just an old building."

His skin is warm under your touch. For a second, he doesn’t move—then his hand twists, his fingers lacing with yours. His eagerness to lean into your touch surprises you, and the action goes unmentioned by you both. You don’t understand his mind, but you let yourself feel this softness, whether it be purely because he’s scared or whether it’s because he’s really warming to you.

"...You’re really not freaked out?" he asks after a beat.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. "I grew up in a house that made noises like this. Kind of comforting, honestly."

His grip on your hand relaxes slightly as he lays back down, your bodies closer, your fingers still intertwined. You're not sure if it’s his heart you’re hearing or your own.

Two hours pass. His breathing evens out, his thumb absently tracing circles against your knuckles until it stills completely. The weight of his hand in yours is heavy with sleep.

And now you’re hyper-aware of every inch of him—the heat of his body just a pillow’s width away, the way his shirt has ridden up further, revealing the faint trail of hair leading beneath his waistband. The soft, sleepy sound he makes when he shifts, his leg brushing against yours under the covers.

You stare up at the ceiling, painfully awake. You’re holding hands with Danny Gonzales in a potentially haunted hotel bed, and you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust before sunrise. Your legs kick, your shoulders fidget, your breath huffs. You try and try to squeeze your eyes shut, willing sleep to come. But then—

"Every time I open my eyes," Danny murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, "you're still awake. You okay?"

“Ghosts,” you say quickly. “I’m uh, scared.”

"Bullshit." His thumb strokes your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You're not scared. You told me you're not scared."

This time his touch isn’t just him being scared. This time his fingers tightening around yours means something, but he’s confusing you so much you could cry. You can’t think of a response, your mind stuck on processing every cell aflame from his skin on yours.

"Tell me what you need."

"Need?" You swallow hard. "I don't need anything."

"Yeah, you do." His voice drops, rough as gravel. “Tell me."

Your pulse thrums in your throat.

"Fine. I need to know why you were such a jerk to me today. What you think of me, what you’re doing. You’re hot and cold, and you shut me out and bring me in– I mean, you’re holding my hand still and I just–"

"It's not rocket science." He exhales sharply. "Girlfriend broke up with me. First and only person l've ever been with. Now I'm doing the holidays alone, away from my family, away from the one person I thought would always be there."

His fingers tense against yours. "And then there's you-gorgeous, funny, charming, smarter than me, way out of my league-and I want you. And I’m out of practice and I know I can’t have you. So yeah. Not my proudest moment, but... surprised after all those film classes you didn’t figure that out."

Your heart stops. "Who said you couldn't have me?"

Danny laughs—a startled, breathless sound.

"That's what you got from all that?"

Heat floods your face. You're grateful for the dark.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer: "You still haven't told me what you really need."

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You roll over, facing him. The pillow barricade is long forgotten.

"You tell me," you whisper. "What do you think I need?"

Danny doesn't hesitate. He closes the distance between you in one smooth motion, his breath warm against your lips as he murmurs—

“Like your friend said. Rough, hot, anonymous sex.”

Your stomach drops. Oh god. He heard your phone call.

Before you can panic, his hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs.

"Or," he adds, voice dipping lower, "I can be nice. If that's what you want."

You don't get a chance to answer.

His mouth crashes into yours in a heat you’ve never felt before. There’s a promise in the way his hungry hands are reaching for the hem of your silk pajama pants, a promise he’ll possess you in ways that will haunt you all the way home.

[apoll0-gies]

hi heres my theories for what was included in the s5 teaser

SO... who else cried

this seems to be either a heart to heart or some kind of pep talk?? i mean if you think about it we havent seen much of joyce and will reconnecting in these recent seasons so this could be like an early-season catch up before all the absolute chaos that will ensue

also if i may just slide in any little bit of byler that i can further in this conversation i would love love love it if will told Joyce about his crush on Mike but this is kinda just delusion and i don't think it will actually happen

heres my main question; who's behind joyce? and to me, it looks like robin to her right and will + one of the new characters, one of the main characters looking down or erica

this does prove us one thing though.

ROBIN AND WILL INTERACT IN SEASON FIVE OH EM GEE OA YES

but also, the lights flicker in this scene and theres something banging on the doors. i think this is a sort of parallel to the demogorgon scene with will at the beginning of season one, but it seems like the amount of force on the doors is too big to be a demogorgon. so is it something new?? is it like- an army of creatures from the upside down?? is it the swat team that they show us later??

i actually have no idea BUT joyce has an axe!!!! we love women with axes!!!

also note i know everyone already knows this but i think its so cool that they released season one on the 26th of november and theyre releasing season five on the 26th. i know everyone kinda expected it but still

also

the fact. that they're ACTUALLY putting the finale out on NEW. YEARS. EVE. theyre putting out vol. 1 & 2 in the last two months of the year like EVERYONE said they would and THEYRE ACTUALLY RELEASING THE FINALE ON THE 31ST OH MY GOD AS LATE AS THEY CAN GIVE IT TO US

so theyre obviously looking at something. now this is one of two options in my head

they're looking outside to the contents of the upside down being spilled out into the town and the town being torn apart. i really do think were going to have some kind of chaos where all the demogorgons and bats kind of go from staying in the upside down to kind of merging with hawkins and its just an all over battleground

theres something in the house. most likely a demogorgon and this is where holly goes missing (the dissaperance of ___ ((holly)) wheeler) because yknow demogorgon snatches holly

now this does also mean that karen now also fully has proof of the upside down existing. the parents, other than joyce & hopper, do not know about the upside down. this is gonna be such an eye opening moment for karen and possibly will make her much more of a present character for season five.

not much to say here, because we all know that max was in hospital but here she has no neck brace here, where in the end of the show she was in a neck brace. so either she woke up before this scene happened or shes making good progress.

(also i dont know shit medically so this could just be something they do in hospital idk)

so dustin.

theres really not much to say about steve here but dustin.

he looks very clearly beat up, which could be a result of the upside down OR

its from the graveyard where he supposedly got beat up. which leads me to believe that in that scene with steve, they weren't in the upside down. that was in hawkins.

the vines are already in hawkins, which means the upside down has travelled over to hawkins. and if theres a grave there for eddie that means that they had time to bury him and have a funeral between the end of s4 and beginning of s5, but wasn't his body in the upside down? does this mean that they went in to get his body to have the funeral? so does vecna already have clear access to hawkins, so much so that they were able to go down and grab his body?

this could make no sense btw it is so late at night

what is going on here.

i seriously have no idea

she looks like shes in pain, so maybe vecna is in ehr head?? shes grabbing her ears and it looks like theres something shes using her powers on something so is it another mindfight?? maybe she just defeated something??

but also yippee more hopper and el scenes yippe yippe!!

wall.

i think this could be like the end of the upside down. like hold on

do you guys see the vision?? also sorry this looks like ass i drew it in chrome canvas using a mouse

i also think that the big orange pimple looking thing could be like.. an egg?? like a demogorgon egg of sorts?? so maybe the objective is to like destroy the wall so that they can't make eggs any more and therefore stop existing?? maybe??

so theres a whole ass swat team here

this also means the government is involved in some sort so thats nice

now i dont know if its like. how all those gates opened and something is just poking out under the floorboards but everyone seems very afraid of it so this is where im thinking theres some kind of new monster for season five

we can also see will unconscious on the floor in this scene right behind one of the soldiers/swat team members idk what to call them man

so these last two clips seem to be in the same military base/same scene which means its very important. which leads me to believe that it IS a new kind of monster

now the people behind him i think are just bystanders. i don't count on them having much of a significance to the plot

but we can see joyce holding on very tightly to will which leads me to believe hes still unconscious because he also looks very sloppy?? like lazy?? idk how to explain it but he looks limp

NOTE: there's also a soldier passed out behind the gang. so maybe there's something in particualr making people pass out?? that or the soldier is dead and the swat team is useless.

i did will so dirty in this screenshot im sorry

but anyways, will is so terrified in this photo. re-possessed?? maybe?? hes looking up at something which means its huge. so is this the hydra theory coming back and actually in the show?? maybe maybe not

but there is something new and big definitely coming. and im scared. and excited.

NOTES:

season five is a concluding season. this means they have to cover everything of nuance. the painting, byler vs elmike, stancy vs jancy, any questions about the upside down, lumax, etc etc. just trying to get you excited.

in my opinion, they wouldn't have all this build up and talk about will liking mike if it goes nowhere. theyve talked about it constantly, hinted it in scenes and letters and confirmed that a love interest will be a present trope for Will in season five. i don't think this will just end in a "sorry will, i dont like you that way." and if it does then that will have to be used for some kind of motive for will in some kind of actions later on in the season

i will add more when i am less tired

anyways lets enjoy the next 214 days until the finale yippee huzza i will go cry myself to sleep

[biibini]

hiiii i love ur writing!!! if ur doing requests... can u do high school au teen mizu (like 16 or 17) x reader where the reader and mizu are in the same grade (preferrably with an artist/nerd reader) (this is very self indulgent) i would love that so much!!!

high school!mizu AU x artist!reader

tags: high school AU, teen mizu, reader is an artist, assume this AU is completely different from college!mizu that i usually write, cringy, vines are mentioned,

a/n: hs was a while ago but ooo i just have some thoughts on teen!mizu. writing this and looking back on high school made me internally cringe but i was free. currently tweaking from job apps like pls pls hire me plssss

teen!mizu is kind of… how to put in… an awkward loser mess of a student

in college, she def grows up more and becomes her own person and fades out of that awkward phase-ish

but in high school?

kinda maybe sorta pathetic loser behavior

(she’s just an awkward kid, like most ppl in high school… trust me, ive been there too)

but she won’t really make small talk with other peers that she doesn’t recognize,

awkward with eye contact,

she never really nailed that down until later on,

when called on, she doesn’t really pay attention so she ends up saying the wrong answer half of the time

and when she does get called on, all of a sudden she can’t get her hand up without having to fight for a say against her friend akemi, little miss know-it-all

teen!mizu references the most niche tiktoks, most notably, niche vines.

yes. u read that right. vine compliations on youtube.

there’s at least a playlist of 1 hour compilations with titles starting with “TRY NOT TO LAUGH Best Funny Vines of the Year!”

she would probably in one of her classes goofing around with ringo and rip a “whoever threw that paper, your mom’s a hoe”

(iykyk)

does it make ringo laugh? yes.

he would also be spitting the same thing, word for word, bar for bar with her.

but she would never reference that outside of her friends

teen!mizu would not care ab classes

yes, she’s smart but she wont apply herself too hard because at the end of the day, its whatever

don’t worry, eiji would always berate her ab her work ethic despite the A’s and a rare B he would see on her grades

taigen would always be a pain in the ass, constantly nagging her to at least try and “lock in” so he can get a better score than her

he ends up losing to mizu every time by 1-2 points

“This cannot be real, chat.”, Taigen yells.

The buzz of the school bells ring over Taigen’s bitching, thank god. The signal of the end of the school day meant to stop all thoughts about calculus, chemical reactions, or the meaning of the green light emitting from the lighthouse. Time to go home and be away from everyone, minus Ringo, of course.

Mizu shrugs, showing off her grade on the recent pop quiz. Written on her quiz was a 96%, circled in a bold red pen.

“It’s real.”, she claims, waving the quiz in front of Taigen’s beet-red face.

“Every fucking time bro.”, he groans.

In front of Mizu’s tracks was Akemi, waving her paper around like a flag, with a smug look plastered on her face.

“Oh, it’s real.”

She pushes her paper in front of Taigen and Mizu. Circled on her paper was her result: 100%.

“I can never win.”, Mizu sighed.

teen!mizu would NOT know how to act around crushes

a cute girl would pass by and she would end up staring too long,

get caught looking at their direction,

or end up bumping into the wall

totally doesnt happen often it happened 3 times

she has confidence in herself but the second she gets to the point of a real conversation, it’s out the window and dying on the floor

and when she does get a chance to talk, it typically doesn’t go the way she thought it would

and she’d end up asking the same question again

“What did you get on the quiz?”, Mizu asks, placing her hand by her scalp oh so nonchalantly.

“Didn’t you just ask me?”

Her eyes widen in panic, realizing her idiotic mistake.

“Shit, uhhh…I just uh… thought you couldn’t hear me.”

yeah she never talked to that girl for the rest of the school year…

although when it came to you, things were a lil different

teen!mizu kind of… maybe… lowkey… had a thing for you

not necessarily a huge romantic crush, but more of a friendly crush that stemmed from the little moments of interaction during art class

yes she would replay those moments again and again in her head

and prob go crazy over how idiotic she sounded

at first glance, you didn’t stand out to her

just another person she didn’t know

but your interest and focus on your artwork got her attention in a rowdy environment

while everyone else during the free period was ditching school, hanging with friends, or on the rare occasion: seeing their teachers for help, you were patient amidst the chaos in the art room

with akemi bickering with ringo over which glaze they should pick for their project

and on the other end of the classroom, taigen and his posse of bros cursing at their work

there in the middle of the classroom was you

Among the swarm of curses and bickering, the art room was usually the rambunctious classroom during free period. At Kyoto High, teachers and students were never familiar with the concept of peace and quiet.

You, however, were the rare few.

Mizu’s gaze went across the large industrial table, observing your calm movements amidst the chaos on your left and right. With Ringo pointing out all the flaws of each project choice and Taigen’s friends screeching in stress, you were focused on your carving as if no one in the world existed in that moment.

Your face, calm and focused, struck a dry chuckle out of Mizu. Her eyes glanced up to your eyes, gentle yet determined, while your head bopped to whatever song you were playing through your wired headphones. She then got distracted from the gloss from your lips, making them look rather soft and plump.

Maybe even kissable.

Wait what?

Mizu shook away the thought, placing her hands on her own project in order to distract her mind.

With a deep breath, her mind cleared. The scene in front of her was a comical one, regardless of your pretty face. However, this was the time to be focused…

Right?

teen!mizu would practically pray that you were there in the art room during every free period

hoping to find you at the same seat, surrounded by chaos every time

and every time, mizu would sit across from you in silence, partially in awe as well

although you’ve kept your focus on your handiwork, you weren’t oblivious to her presence

every free period would run like clockwork

it was comforting to know a familiar place but you never shared any classes with her

teen!mizu , eager to know you more, ends up confining in akemi ab her little art class crush for the sake of information

after getting another pep talk by akemi about how to just “relax and be yourself”, she finally spilled the beans

“From what I know, her name is Y/N and she’s a transfer.”, Akemi answered.

“From where?”

Akemi quickly types on her phone, her nails clanging against the screen. Before Mizu could even read the text, the phone immediately buzzed.

“Tokyo High…”, Akemi quickly responded, “Damn, you picked a smartie and a hottie.”

Akemi quickly whipped around her phone, showing Mizu a golden treasure: your Instagram account.

“How did you—”

“Don’t question my ways, just get to know her a little before you stumble your words.”

Mizu huffed in response, trying to focus on any signs of a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, if she’s lucky.

Thank god for Instagram highlights.

It didn’t take long for Mizu and Akemi to find your love life. An old highlights section with a little heart as the title, showcasing your history of significant others, including a girlfriend.

A smug smile grew on Akemi, always proud of her spy work.

“Bingo.”

teen!mizu, now filled with hope, interacts with you more, little by little with a “you’re here for free period again?” or a “how was your day?”

those little interacts continued to grow her crush on you

although its a friend crush, she couldn’t help but grin a little when you asked to sit next to her during the free period

after finding out you were in the same grade, teen!mizu‘s heart definitely exploded in glee

“Are you okay? You look a little hot?”, you question in concern, looking at her flushed cheeks.

“Oh, um… yeah, it’s a little hot in here.”, Mizu quickly responded, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

Underneath her totally normal response, she was in panic because:

A. You’re in the same grade as her. That increases the chance of you guys potentially spending more time together.

B. You just called her hot.

C. Your leg is currently 4 inches away from her leg…

“It’s okay!”, you reassure her, “It’s probably from this weird heatwave. The art room can get a bit stuffy from the shitty AC.”

She somehow thanked the universe and the sun rays at that moment. Mizu zipped down her jacket, pulling the entire thing off and playing along with her response. Little did she know a pair of familiar eyes next to her was watching.

Did you also have a crush on her? Maybe.

Did you want to talk about it? Absolutely not.

Did you stare at her arms, well toned from fencing, as if they were the last piece of juicy meat on earth? Mm…Yes.

You quickly whipped back into place as Mizu fixed her posture, now facing her upcoming project. However, Mizu caught a glimpse of your gaze without notice. Her heart skipped a beat.

One quick glance at your stiffened posture confirmed her curiosities: mutual (potentially romantic) interest.

She looked up at you to meet your gaze. Although everyone was talking, it had felt like time had slowed down between the two of you.

Before Mizu could open her mouth, the bell buzzed, signaling all students to move on to their next class.

You quickly gathered your things, before basically sprinting out the doorway.

“See you tomorrow!”, you waved goodbye, smiling at Mizu.

Mizu waved back, her heart practically palpitating from whatever just happened 30 seconds ago.

Oh, how she couldn’t wait for the next free period tomorrow.