#and maybe post it on ao3 so that I can link it

[steddieasitgoes]

you can call me boyfriend for the weekend

I posted this earlier as a link to ao3 but I know some people like to read things straight on tumblr so this is for you people lol As noted, this was supposed to be a short little ficlet inspired by unfortunate "Black Out Wednesday"/hook up with someone in your hometown pre-Thanksgiving ritual and then Steve got a backstory and Eddie wanted a POV and it spiraled out of control like most of my work lol Also I wrote this all in twelve hours and it's not beta read at all lol but enjoy! And please ignore the wonky timeline. It's canon-divergent/no Upside Down. But basically in my head, all the normal things that happened to Steve/Eddie still happened in this universe and they got close during the Autumn months of 1986. I think that's all you need to know! wc: 8.8k | rated: M Read on ao3

The Hideout is unusually packed.

In hindsight, Steve should have figured as much. It’s not like he’s the only former resident in town who needs a shot or two (okay, maybe three, but who’s really counting other than the barkeep logging everyone’s tabs) of liquid courage before heading home to spend a few days with family. The overflowing parking lot and illegally double and triple-parked cars on the street are still a sight to see when he steps out of the Yellow Taxi.

Maybe he should have taken the cute stewardess up on the alcohol offer on the plane. Would have saved him a couple of bucks that’s for damn sure. Still, every time he was about to, Robin’s nagging voice would pop into his head, spewing one of her nonsense rambles about the importance of being fully coherent on an airplane, lest they have to land the plane as if he’d have the skills to land a plane in the first place. And yet, he remained stone-cold sober on the couple-hour flight into Indianapolis from Boston just in case.

Sure, there’s liquor at his parent's house — at least, he hopes they haven’t packed up the dry bar if they did, he’s really fucked this weekend — but he needs something now to keep the anxiety bubbling in his chest at bay. And last time he checked The Hideout is the only place within a twenty-mile radius that can serve up a quick, cheap drink. Plus, there’s the fact that the Yellow Taxi he took here from the airport has already disappeared into the night, and he’s not about to go inside to call another cab without buying something; that would be rude.

In yet another surprising twist, that shouldn’t be surprising given the parking situation; there’s a small line of people waiting to get in. In the nineteen and a half years he spent in Hawkins, Steve’s never seen a line in front of The Hideaway. He knows for a fact that the place never had a bouncer, much less one who meticulously cards everyone who walks in.

Well, everyone but him it seems.

Steve doesn’t even get his wallet open, much less out of his pocket, before the man is wrapping a bright orange ’21 and over’ wristband on his wrist. Which, like, ouch. He knows he just got off a flight after working a half-day shift at the stupid office, but he can’t look that much like an adult. Can he?

Thankfully, there’s no time to dwell on his fleeting youth as he’s pushed into the crowded bar with the rest of the customers who patiently waited their turn in the frigid Indiana November evening.

The familiar scent hits him the second he’s more than three steps through the opened doors — stale beer, nicotine, the undeniable musk bodies emit when they’re dancing and, well, horny. But there’s also something new going on, too. Crisp leather, a piney scene that can only be associated with floor cleaner, and something minty, peppermint, he thinks, maybe for the upcoming holidays. Gone is the stench of piss that no amount of power washing the concrete floors could ever scrub up. Steve notices the concrete floor is gone, too, apparently, as his shoes squeak against the shiny black laminate.

There are a few new booths from the looks of things, and the stage has gotten a major upgrade since the last time he was here to see… He shakes the thought from his head and keeps walking until he finds an open spot in the corner of the bar.

A bartender materializes the second his ass makes contact with the new vinyl seat. She looks vaguely familiar, too young to be in his class, but maybe someone from Henderson’s year. He figures he’ll be downing glasses of expensive wine when he finally musters up the courage to go home, so he orders a shot of tequila and a rum and coke in the meantime. She pours the shot right there, excusing herself to grab the rum bottle from one of the other bartenders working tonight.

He grimaces as he shoots it back, tequila burning his throat as it goes down before he sucks the sliver of lime between his lips. It’s impossible for the effects to kick in this fast, but he already feels the tension easing from his shoulders. He uses the reprieve from his anxiety to really take everything in. The Hideout may have gotten some major upgrades, but he can’t say the same about its patrons.

It’s a real who’s who of Hawkins High has-beens. Andy and a couple of younger guys he remembers playing ball with his junior year of high school, all wearing their Greek letter crewnecks, downing beers and slapping each other on the back. Jason’s in the center with his arm around a stereotypical-looking blonde who is clearly not from around here. Heather Holloway is unmistakable, pressed into a booth arguing with some guy Steve thinks was on their swim team while their three kids jump around unchecked. And is that Chrissy Cunningham with… Gareth? That nerd from Dustin’s D&D group? Steve makes a mental note to bring it up with Dustin when the little shit calls him next because holy shit.

It takes him a minute to spot Tommy and Carol, but once he does, he doesn’t know how he didn’t see them sooner. They’re pressed up against each other, practically dry-humping in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. Tommy’s got his tongue shoved down Carol’s throat, and her hand is fisted into his buttoned shirt that’s definitely a size too small. 

Somethings never change, he thinks, rolling his eyes as the pair stumble their way towards the bathrooms at the opposite end of the bar.

Steve’s about to turn back around and disappear into the shadowy corner he’s found himself in when the static feedback of the seemingly brand-new speakers goes off, sending every patron in the bar covering their ears.

“Sorry! Sorry!” A man calls from the makeshift sound booth a few yards away from Steve. “Give it another go for me?”

“Check one, check one, two. Sounds great, Frank. We’re all set up here if you are,” a woman says from the stage. Steve figures she gets a non-verbal cue from Dave because then she’s talking again, her voice bright and way louder than it needs to be. The giggle that comes next is even worse. “Hi everyone! Lots of familiar faces in the crowd tonight.”

It takes his eyes a minute to adjust to the bright spotlight illuminating the stage, but when it does, he nearly falls out of his seat. Is that?

“Anyways, I’m Tammy, and these are the Townies, and we’re Tammy and the Townies!”

Holy shit! It’s Tammy Thompson. The Tammy Thompson. Robin is going to be so pissed when he calls and tells her about this tomorrow morning. She’ll probably say that he was just seeing things, blame it on the single shot of tequila he’s had since he’s still waiting for his drink, but he knows the truth. Especially when Tammy launches into the opening lines of “Santa Baby,” trying her best to be sultry but still sounding like a rejected Muppet.

Someone chuckles behind Steve, before an all too familiar voice says, “I haven’t heard that one before.”

His first thought is: Shit, did he say that out loud?

And then comes something even worse: Wait, I know that voice.

All the anxiety the shot of tequila chased off comes surging back to Steve, swirling in his gut, threatening to creep up his throat and out his mouth. No. He’s not going to throw up in The Hideout after one shot, not with the entirety of his high school class in attendance. And definitely not in front of Eddie Munson.

There’s no doubt in Steve’s mind that it's anyone but Eddie Munson standing behind him and the bar. He would know that voice and chuckle anywhere, could pick it out in a line-up if he had to after the fall of 1985 when they— nope, not going there.

The way he sees it, he has two options. One, get the hell out of here without turning around. It’s dark in the corner, so there’s a chance Eddie hasn’t realized who he’s talking to yet; in fact, Steve’s pretty sure if Eddie knew who he just spoke to, he never would have opened his mouth to begin with. So, yeah, he could get the hell out of here, maybe leave a couple of bucks at the opposite end of the bar on the way out so he’s not drinking and ditching, and then hail a cab and head to his childhood house.

Or, he could woman the fuck up, as Robin would say, turn around and meet the gaze of a man he hasn’t seen since he was nineteen, confused and desperate to make something out of himself.

He weighs the cons: spend a few extra hours with his parents or face Eddie Munson, the only person other than Robin to ever see him. The real him.

The answer is easy.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie says, sizing Steve up with those big doe eyes of his the second Steve turns in his chair. “If it isn’t Steve Harrington in the flesh. What the hell are you doing around these parts? Thought you left to go make daddy dearest proud?”

Ouch.

Steve should have expected Eddie not to mince words, even if he is a paying customer and all. He doesn’t allow himself to get a good look at Eddie, meeting him with his own mean-spirited retort instead.

“Guess I should have known you’d still be around, Munson,” Steve snarks. Eddie wants to play? Steve’ll gladly participate. “Still flunking out of high school?”

“Now that one I have heard before.”

Eddie doesn’t stick around for a response. He slams Steve’s rum and coke on the bar counter and gives it a rough shove. The glass slides across the sleek countertop before crashing into Steve’s awaiting hand. The drink sloshes in the cup, a few droplets spilling out, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to wave Eddie down and demand a replacement, so he shuts up and brings the now half-empty glass to his lips. He takes a much-needed gulp and then another, alcohol going down better than the shot from earlier, dulling the regret from his mean-spirited retort with it. He sulks for a moment before letting his eyes drift behind the bar. Searching.

If The Hideout is crowded, the bar is just as congested. At least four bartenders shimmy around each other. Hands reaching for various bottles, glasses clinking as ice falls in. It’s the most people Steve’s ever seen behind the small bar top, and he’s willing to bet it’s more than they’re legally allowed.

Fire code and all that.

Not that he knows much about that.

Not yet, at least.

He will once he starts his Fire Academy classes in the new year.

That is, assuming his dad doesn’t kill him the minute he finds out about his career change.

That’s a problem for tomorrow, Steve thinks, shaking the thought away and chasing it further by draining the rest of his drink.

“Can I getcha’ another round?” The young bartender asks, reappearing like a damn bar fairy.

Steve’s not sure he’s fully thought his order out, too preoccupied stealing glances at Eddie, but his lips start moving anyway, words escaping before he has a chance to stop them, “Actually, can I get a Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice instead of pineapple.”

“Pickle juice? Are you sure?”

Shit.

No.

Yes.

Steve quietly contemplates changing his unusual order, tilting his empty rum and coke glass to his lips, desperate for another teaspoon of liquid courage. He’s met with the cool sensation of ice hitting his teeth instead. Another not-so-subtle sneak at Eddie, and Steve doubles down. “Yeah. Eddie should know how to make it.”

“Oh, uh, ” the bartender says, nervously glancing to her right.

Steve follows her line of vision, giving himself permission to do more than glance this time, and finds Eddie on the opposite end tossing around bottles and the shaker like he’s fucking Tom Cruise in Cocktails and not a super-senior who half the town was convinced was a Satanist.

“Let me see what I can do for you.”

Steve gives her his best customer service smile and a quick nod before watching her shuffle through the other bartenders on her quest to get to Eddie.

He lets his eyes linger as Eddie finally doles out the drink he’s been working on. Five years and some change has been good on him. His hair is still as unruly as ever, twisted back in a low bun at the base of his neck. Tending to the bar has clearly served his arms well judging by the tone biceps peaking out from under his black shirt. It’s done wonders for his entire body, if Steve’s honest, sizing up the way he finally fills out his jeans.

Eddie turns just so, new piercings catching in the reflection of the spotlight from the stage. Steve catalogs them, a few new ones to his ears, a hoop in his left nostril. There’s new ink, too, decorating his strong forearms and peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

Steve’s attraction to Eddie isn’t a surprise, especially after the Fall of ‘86. But it’s like a match has just ignited a new flame in the depths of his body. He looks good, is all. Really, really good.

Steve’s pulled from his not-so-subtle ogling when the young bartender finally gets Eddie’s attention. He can’t hear the conversation, but he spent enough time around Eddie to know what the man is saying without even looking at his lips. Her back is to him, but Steve knows the minute he brings up the drink because Eddie’s body goes stiff, his head jolting toward Steve, eyes growing wide as he glares at him from the opposite end of the bar.

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s truly fucked up. Well, more than he did five and a half years ago when he let his dad convince him to set him up with a job in Boston that forced him to leave without saying goodbye to anyone, least of all Eddie. But then he sees the moment Eddie’s stubbornness sets in, clouding his eyes and forcing his chunky boots to stomp through the hoard of sweaty bartenders.

“Did you come all the way home to fuck with me?” Eddie barks, still a foot and a half away from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit, Harrington,” Eddie snaps, hands smacking onto the countertop.

When Steve doesn’t say anything, Eddie rages on. If it wasn’t for Tammy Thompson’s wailing in the background, Steve’s pretty sure they’d have everyone’s attention right now. Thank God for Tammy Thompson.

“Seriously? Pickle juice!”

Steve’s hit with the familiar woodsy, nicotine smell he spent months chasing around town as Eddie drops to his elbows, leaning in closer to Steve. For a second, he thinks Eddie is going to deck him, at the very least fist his hand into his shirt and yank him forward, but he doesn’t.

“I know damn well you’re not ordering Vodka Party Punch with fucking pickle juice at the fancy bars wherever you ended up. What makes you think you can order one here now?”

“You’re right, I don’t order them in Boston,” Steve says, answering the question Eddie really didn’t ask. “But I’m ordering it now because you’re the creator of the drink, and I know you’ll make it taste right.”

Steve watches Eddie’s jaw drop. The bar is dimly lit but it doesn’t take florescent lights to catch the red tinting the tips of Eddie’s ears, fully exposed with his hair pulled back in a bun. It’s been a minute since Steve attempted this game with anyone, but Eddie’s always been a fun participant — especially when he’s pretending he doesn’t like it.

“I’m charging you double,” Eddie concedes, twirling the giant skull ring still perched on his finger.

“Better make it worth my dime, Munson.”

“You know I always do, Harrington,” Eddie taunts, clearly finding his footing in this flirtatious sparing match they’ve started. 

* * *

By the time Eddie returns with his drink, Tammy and the Townsies have wrapped up their set for the night — thank god — and The Hideout slowly starts to empty out. With a few less bodies occupying the actual bar, Eddie has no problem sticking around, tossing his dish rag over his shoulder as he slides the Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice over to Steve, much gentler this time.

The drink smells exactly like he remembers, but the presentation has improved since their days of mixing them in the Munson’s crowded kitchen. A mini pickle is skewered through a toothpick as garnish, and the glass is tall and clean, a rarity in the mug-infested kitchen of that autumn.

Steve makes a show of his first sip, slowly raising the glass to his mouth without breaking eye contact with Eddie as he licks his lips in anticipation. Eddie’s eyes dilate the second Steve’s tongue makes an appearance, and it takes everything in Steve not to jump across the bar and shove it down Eddie’s throat a la Carol and Tommy style. He knows the Eddie from five autumns ago wouldn’t mind, but this Eddie might.

He does the next best thing instead, taking a slow sip of the drink, exaggerating when he swallows before punctuating the first taste with a low moan of approval. Judging by the smattering of pink moving to Eddie’s cheeks, it works.

“Delicious, just like I remembered.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it the minute the words leave his lips, and the flush on Eddie’s cheeks drains to a ghostly white , eyes turning to fire.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that,” Eddie scoffs, snapping his dish towel off his shoulder to wipe the counter.

“I just, I—“ Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. Leave it to him to be back in Hawkins for less than three hours and already fuck things up. “Thank you,” he finally says, eyes trained on his drink. “You didn’t have to make it, and you did, so thanks.”

“Whatever customers want, they get here at The Hideout.”

Steve can’t help but snort, “S’that a new motto?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

When Steve glances up, Eddie’s smiling at him. Not his toothy grin Steve loved to coax out of him, but his lips are definitely quirked into a grin which he’ll take as a win. Small victories and all that.

“That what they pay you the big bucks for? Slinging drinks like Tom Cruise and coming up with new slogans?”

“Something like that.” Eddie finishes wiping down the counter in front of Steve and moves half a step to his right, working on the next area that’s vacated.

Steve thinks that’s it. The beginning and end of their civil conversation, but then Eddie looks across the bar, no doubt taking in the empty state of things, before turning back to look at Steve. Really, look at him.

If it weren’t for the liquor coursing through Steve’s veins, he doesn’t think he’d be able to sit there under Eddie’s gaze. But he does have alcohol on his side, so he stays glued to his seat, his own cheeks heating up as Eddie’s brown eyes roam over his body, taking him in the same way he did with Eddie a while ago.

When he’s done, Eddie cocks his head to the side and tuts. “You’ve seen better days, Harrington. I think your eye bags have eye bags.”“Corporate life’ll do that to you,” Steve grumbles, taking another sour sip from his drink. When Eddie doesn’t throw a dig he knows is on the tip of his tongue, Steve breaks the silence. “You look good behind a bar.” Jesus, maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. “I mean, uh, how long have you been working here.”

Eddie snorts, coming back over until he’s right in front of Steve. He drops to his elbows again, pillowing his chin in his hands as he makes direct eye contact. “About five-ish years ago. Right after I graduated.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“I, uh, thought the plan was to get the hell out of here?”

Eddie hums. “It was. Took the job to save money so I could do just that.”

“And you ended up loving it?”

“Hated it at first, actually, but you know we’re not all lucky enough to be able to get the hell out of Hawkins just because people tell us we should,” Eddie says, eyes boring judgment into Steve’s own. “Figured if I have to stick around I might as well try and make it better for those of us still here.”

“That’s what you’re doing, then?” Steve asks, generally curious. He always knew Eddie had a savior complex, saw it firsthand when Dustin and the rest of the kids started high school, and immediately got swept up in Eddie’s inner circle of outcasts. “Making Hawkins better?”

“Trying to,” Eddie says, and Steve can feel the walls around him shrinking, only for them to harden in an instant. “Turns out it’s a lot easier when the assholes flee.”

Steve winces and downs the rest of his drink. When it’s drained, he sets it down and fumbles through his pockets for his wallet. He gets no more than three measly bucks out before Eddie is shooing him away.

“It’s on the house tonight.”

Steve shakes his head, digging back into his wallet “Don’t think your boss’ll be happy about that.

“Good thing m’the boss then.”

Steve gawks. He’s pretty sure his jaw is fully open, but it's worth it to see the pleased look on Eddie’s face. “Shit, seriously?”

“What, you think old Dave was the one to plan the renovation of this place? That cheapskate was slinging water tinted brown with food coloring to the regulars once they got drunk enough not to tell.”

Steve laughs, but doesn’t get distracted with the anecdote like he knows Eddie hopes he will. Eddie Munson might have his heart in his sleep, but if there’s one thing Steve knows about him, it’s that he hates being emotionally vulnerable. Steve can’t say he blames him, but still, he presses on.

“Eddie Munson, CEO of the Hideout. Who would have thought?”

“I don’t know about CEO,” Eddie says, fingers struggling with the elastic holding his hair back. It takes a second for him to get the strands untangled, and when it does, his hair cascades over his shoulder in those same unruly curls Steve tried to tame once or twice. Eddie’s hand immediately finds a strand, twirling it around his fingers and pulling it towards his lips. “Owner as of the first of the year, though.”

“Eds, that’s really fucking cool. Holy shit! Congrats! I feel like we should toast or something.”

If Eddie catches the nickname slip up, he doesn’t mention it. Maybe Robin’s patenting ramble so they can’t comprehend every embarrassing thing you’ve said method actually works.

Instead, he waves him off. “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get another round of free liquor in you before heading home to the parents.”

“Damn,” Steve says, happy to play along. “Am I that obvious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but ducks behind the counter for a moment, popping back up with two clean cups. He blindly reaches for a top-shelf whiskey and pours just a bit too much to be considered a shot, but not a full serving either. They clink the glasses together in a silent toast before throwing back the over-poured shot like they’re nineteen and twenty again.

“You know,” Eddie says, closing the distance between them as he leans against the countertop again. “We’re looking for some silent investor, partner types to help out with financing. If you, uh, know anyone who might be interested.”

“Oh,” Steve says, liquor making his brain slower than usual.

Eddie pushes off the bar, shaking his head. “Don’t look too excited, Steve. I was just joking.”

“No, shit, I mean, yeah, I would invest. Love to even,” Steve rambles, desperate to keep Eddie from joining the rest of the bartenders in tallying up their tips. “It’s just, uh, I’m actually getting out of the investment world.”

“You don’t have to lie, Harrington. A simple no will do.”

“I’m serious. Today was actually my last day. I’m enrolled in the Fire Academy come January.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, that toothy grin finally making an appearance. “Way to bury the lede, Stevie! We should be toasting to you! Finally getting out from under your dad’s thumb!”

Unlike Eddie, the nickname isn’t lost on Steve, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Not if he wants to keep Eddie smiling, and dammit he does. It’s the only thing he’s ever really wanted.

“I mean, I still have to break the news to my dad. But yeah, assuming he doesn’t kill me, it’s happening.”

“Hey, Munson,” a bartender he realizes is Jeff calls from the opposite end of the bar. “Get your ass over here and close out so we can go home. Some of us actually want to see our families.”

Eddie flips Jeff off but doesn’t budge from his spot in front of Steve.

“I should probably head out, too,” Steve says, slowly rising from the stool. His legs are full of pins and needles, asleep from sitting so long, but he manages to stay upright.

“Wait,” Eddie says, shouting even though all Steve’s done is duck behind the counter to grab his duffle from the floor. “Did you drive here?”

Steve shakes his head. “Took a cab from the airport, gonna use the payphone out back to call another.”

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says in a rush. “I mean, I can’t let you waste your money on a cab when you’re unemployed now.”

“I’m not unemployed, I’m going to—“

“Fire school, yeah, yeah, I got that,” Eddie says, waving him off. “Just give me two minutes, and I’ll drive you home, okay?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Steve makes a show of sounding inconvenienced, which earns a dramatic eye roll from Eddie and a victory for himself. His streak of pretending not to care actually working lives on another day.

* * *

Seven minutes later, thanks to a mathematical error and a hushed conversation between Jeff and Eddie, Steve finds himself in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. “I can’t believe you still have this thing.”

“How is it any different from you still driving the Beamer?”

“How do you know I still drive the Beamer?”

“Please, the only thing you love more than that car is Buckley. Speaking of, where is your platonic other half?”

“Still in Boston. She got asked to write an article for her grad department’s journal.”

“Ah, so she sent you to the lion’s den all on your own,” Eddie teases, slowing to a stop despite the light still being yellow.

“Figured this was one Harrington vs Harrington battle she didn’t need to bear witness to.”

Eddie gasps, clutching a hand over his heart. “My, my, it seems like us lowly mortals are in the presence of the Great Sir Stevebert tonight.”

Steve can’t help but snort. He’s missed this. The easy teasing, the openness. Eddie and his silly voices and even sillier words. He can’t believe he’s gone almost six years without him.

“So,” Eddie says, drawing out the vowel. “Isn’t Dick going to be extra pissed off that you’re showing up on his doorstep at three in the morning?”

Steve shrugs. “Probably.”

“What time were they expecting you?”

“When are they ever really expecting me?” Steve laughs dryly. “I didn’t really give them a set date. Figured if I told my dad I was flying out today, he’d figure out the whole work thing so I told them I’d try to catch a late flight after I finished for the day and be there by Thanksgiving dinner at the latest.”

“So they don’t know you’re in town.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not unless someone at the unofficial Hawkins High reunion tonight ratted me out.”

“Jesus H. Christ you caught that too?” Eddie shouts, smacking his left hand against the dashboard. “I’ve worked plenty of Wednesdays before Thanksgiving, but none of them have pulled that many of our former classmates out. I don’t know why everyone is back in town this year.”

“Back in town or never left?”

“Hey,” Eddie scolds. “Watch it. Your life is in the hands of a Hawkins townie right now.”

Steve holds his hands up in surrender and is glad to see Eddie grinning at him when he musters the courage to steal a glance. He wishes he could offer a careless smile back, but the closer they get to Loch Nora, the more he feels the anxiety creeping in again. Eddie must sense it, too, because he slows to well below the speed limit.

“I wouldn’t mind having a roommate for the night,” he says nonchalantly. Like Eddie’s talking about the weather and not offering to spend the night in Steve’s presence. Steve, the guy who disappeared on him one day after months of fucking around — literally and figuratively. The same Steve who hasn’t been back to Hawkins because he’s been avoiding this exact situation like the chickenshit he is.

“Wayne probably will, though,” Steve says, trying his best to turn Eddie down without actually turning him down. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spend the night with him. Hell, he’d sell his left arm for the chance. The problem is it’ll just be one night, and Steve doesn’t think he has that in him. Not when he wants all the nights.

“Good thing he’s not home.”

“Wait,” Steve says, turning in the passenger seat to look at Eddie. “He left you on Thanksgiving? Isn’t that against your Munson Family Code or whatever?”

Eddie snorts, mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like ‘I can’t believe he remembered that’ under his breath. “I told him it was okay. He’s up in Chicago spending the holiday with Scott Clarke’s family.”

“Scott Clarke? The middle school science teacher?”

Eddie nods.

“I didn’t know they were friends.”

Eddie breaks in the middle of the street, leveling Steve with a look he finds himself receiving from Robin all the time. She says people like them are supposed to know when other people are like them, but so far, Steve has yet to inherit that superpower.

“Oh, shit,” he says, finally. “I didn’t know your uncle was into guys.”

“Neither did I,” Eddie laughs. “It was a real memorable day in the Munson’s house when I found out.”

A comfortable silence falls between them as Eddie eases the van back on the rode. They stay like that for a light or two before Eddie rolls to a stop at a familiar intersection.

“Great Sir Stevebert,” he says, switching into his deep, DM voice. “It seems you have a choice to make. Shall you continue on your travels, taking the golden brick road to the lone castle on the hill, or shall you take the road less traveled and embark on the twisting journey to the Moors?”

Once again, the decision is easy.

“If you really don’t mind,” Steve says instead of a definitive answer.

Eddie whoops and makes the sharp right turn that’ll take them to Forest Hills. “Onward, Sir Stevebert, to the Moors, we go!”

_ _ _

Eddie has no idea what he’s doing. One minute he’s fighting with himself, desperate to keep his attention on the out-of-town in-laws of some Hawkins High alumni in need of a blissful night out before the family shit starts and not on the sulking figure of Steve fucking Harrington on the opposite end of the bar. And the next second, he’s ushering that same Steve up the steps of the Munson trailer like he did so many times before.

Jesus H. Christ.

He should have listened to Jeff. He should have called Steve a cab and paid for it himself if it made him sleep better at night. Hell, he should have kicked Steve out the second he mouthed off to him. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t.

Despite all the bullshit, Steve put him through, despite five whole fucking years without so much as a call, Eddie still has a soft spot for the goddamn fallen King. Time heals many things, but the love he has for Steve isn’t one of them.

Love?

No. Strike that from the record.

Infatuation.

A crush, maybe.

Not love.

Not anymore.

Eddie shrugs his shoulders, shaking the thought from his entire body, and moves to unlock the door. He gestures for Steve to enter, and Eddie trails behind, bending down at the entrance to untie his work boots and free his sore feet. He wasn’t lying when he told Steve this is the busiest pre-Thanksgiving shift he’s ever worked. He’s pretty sure his blisters have blisters at this point.

His knees ache at the position, so he lets himself fall back, ass on the worn welcome mat as he finishes the task at hand. It feels nice to get off his feet, and he lets himself linger there for a moment. A hand massaging the ache from the arch of his foot while his eyes drift up, watching Steve asses the trailer much like he did the very first time he found himself in the humble abode.

As nice as it is to get off his feet, the last thing Eddie needs is for Steve to turn around and catch him staring at him from a spot on the floor. With a quiet groan, he hoists himself back into a standing position and dusts his hands off on his jeans.

“Wayne getting rid of his mug collection?” Steve asks, breaking the silence. Eddie follows his pointed finger to the top, empty rack shelf the patterned couch.

“No, just relocated ‘m. He spends most nights at Scott’s house now. I basically own the place. Wayne refuses to let me pay the full rent, though, since it’s his name on the lease.”

Steve lets out a low whistle that doesn’t do anything, Eddie, nothing at all, and turns to face him with a look of mischief in his hazel eyes. “Now, who’s the one with a silver spoon.”

He can’t help but laugh at how absurd that sounds. As if inheriting the trailer is some kind of privilege, but in some ways it is, right?

“It’s no rent-free apartment in a big city, but it’ll do,” he says, trying his best to throw a dig back at Steve, but it doesn’t sting the way he wants it to. If anything, it makes Steve’s lips dip into a frown instead of stroking that familiar petty flame he knows stays lit in his gut.

“Come on,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “You think Dick Harrington pays for my place in Boston? The asshole got me a shit job and told me to figure the rest out. I was lucky Robin was already there when I showed up. Her RA wasn’t too pleased, but we made it work that first year.”

Great, now he’s the asshole.

It’s such a different picture than the one he’s spent the last five years painting in his head. That good ol’ Dick Harrington shipped his only son off, far enough away that the town freak couldn’t continue sinking his teeth (and dick) into him without him knowing about it. Set him up with a good job and a nice place to sleep at night that left Steve no choice but to stay even though he knew that’s not what Steve wanted. Never was.

But that’s not the story, is it?

The real story is that Dick Harrington is an even bigger prick than he thought, and Steve is a coward. Eddie can understand Steve staying away if his dad made his new life nice for him and kept him comfortable and just shy of miserable, but he didn’t. And yet, Steve stayed in a job he hated, in a dorm he had no business crashing in because Daddy Dearest told him to do it.

A part of Eddie wants to ask why. Wants to dig his grimy finger into the still-fresh wound in Steve’s chest, judging by the grimace on his face, and get to the bottom of what the hell his dad has over him to keep in line. But what good would it do, really?

Eddie opts for a different strategy instead.

“Why now?”

Steve cocks his head, brows knitting together in that cute confused face Eddie used to love coaxing out of him with a single nerdy phrase back in the day. “Why now what?”

Eddie sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. He could change the subject, shrug off his question, and steer the conversation into calmer waters to get them through the night. But that wouldn’t be fair to him or Steve. Not in the long run.

“It’s been five years since you’ve been in town, Steve,” Eddie says blankly. “Why now?”

“My parents are selling the place,” he answers, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Said they wanted one last family Thanksgiving in the place before it’s not ours anymore. It’s bullshit if you ask me. I can’t remember the last time we spent the holiday together, even when I lived here, but here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Steve groans, collapsing on the couch behind him. “I don’t know what it is about my parents that has me running to them every time they ask, even though they don’t give a damn about me 99% of the time.”

Eddie follows Steve's lead, settling on the couch but leaving the middle cushion open. An unofficial barrier between them. “I’m no psychologist, but it sounds like textbook daddy issues to me.”

Steve shoves at Eddie’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move, too stunned by the sudden contact to do anything else. Steve’s hand leaves his shoulder as fast as it finds it, but the effects are already in motion. Eddie’s entire body vibrates under the ghost of Steve’s touch, skin alive and hot in a way it hasn’t been in years.

Eddie turns, expecting to find Steve staring off in the distance, but instead, he’s staring at him with those open, honest hazel eyes. All it takes is one look, one single slip of his eyes to Steve’s lip and back again, and Steve’s surging forward, closing the distance between them.

Steve tastes like cheap liquor and pickle juice, and all it takes is one swipe of Steve’s tongue, and Eddie’s transported back to the Fall of 1986. Of experimenting with whatever ingredients they had on hand in the kitchen and throwing back drinks to nurse their respective education wounds — Eddie not graduating again, Steve failing to get into college. Memories of playful shoves turning into wrestling matches turning hot and heavy until lips met lips and skin, so much skin.

Five years may have passed, but it feels like no time at all as Eddie sinks further into Steve’s embrace, fingers tangling in the wisps of hair on Steve’s neck, and Steve’s own hands find themselves tangled in his curls.

It’s only when Steve moves to straddle Eddie’s hip that the reality of the situation hits him. Eddie jolts away; hands braced on Steve’s shoulders to keep a respectable amount of distance between them. He hates himself the moment he looks into Steve’s cloudy hazel eyes, but he’d hate himself more if he let this continue without checking in.

With Steve an arm's length away, Eddie studies him. Squinting as he stares into Steve’s eyes, checking for glassy, unfocused eyes, excessive sweating, and flushed face — all of which Steve has, but maybe not for the reasons Eddie is checking for.

“You’re drunk,” Eddie says plainly.

Steve shakes his head, words, not even the least bit slurred when he says, “No. Maybe a little buzzed, but that’s it. I promise.”

Something snaps inside of Eddie at those two words, releasing the anger his horniess has been holding at bay. In an instant, he feels the rage boiling inside of him, and he shoves at Steve hard enough to send him back to his end of the couch.

“With much offense, Steve,” Eddie says, venom dripping from his lips as he spits out Steve’s name. “Promises don’t mean shit coming from you.”

And just like that, they’re back where they started the evening off. Opposite sides of each other, scowling and hurt in their own ways.

Steve sighs and shifts on the couch, not-so-subtly adjusting himself in his pants. “Eds,” he whispers, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I fucked up, okay. I know I did, but what was I supposed to? My dad was threatening you just as much as he was threatening me, and it was just easier to leave.”

“Easier for you, maybe.”

“I—“

“What are we doing here, Steve?” Eddie asks, cutting off whatever lame excuse is coming next.

“I thought I was trying to apologize but clearly I was wrong.”

Eddie can’t help the dark chuckle that escapes him. “So you apologize, and then what? We fuck, you get one last blowjob by the former freak of Hawkins, and then poof, you’re gone again?” Eddie rises from the couch in an instant, sock-covered feet pacing the length of the living room. He steals one glance down at Steve and shakes his head. “I should have listened to Jeff. Should have listened to everyone and stayed the fuck away. This is nothing but a pre-holiday fuck, and I’m so fucking stupid for falling for it.”

“No!” Steve shouts, standing up now too. “I’m not, I mean, I didn’t even know you’d be at the Hideout. I just stopped there because I couldn’t stomach the thought of showing up to my parents' place sober.”

“You think that makes me feel better?” Eddie snaps. “Tell me this: if I wasn’t at the bar tonight, would you have come to find me?”

Steve says silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t even know you were still in Hawkins until tonight!”

“Bullshit! I know for a fact Henderson has mentioned seeing me when he comes back for the holidays. Just stop lying!”

“You want me to stop lying?” Steve shouts, stalking over to where Eddie’s stopped pacing. He boxes him in against the new bookshelf he installed in the corner where Wayne’s roll-away mattress used to sit. With his shoes still on, Steve’s got half an inch on Eddie and it’s daunting staring up into those eyes when Steve’s jaw is set in a hardline. “I fucking love you, okay? I have for years! And yeah, I was a fucking coward for leaving, and I could have, should have called in the years since, but I was scared, okay? I was scared you figured out that I’m not worth it and found someone better, just almost everyone else in my stupid fucking life and—“

It’s Eddie’s lips that crash into Steve’s this time. The words die on Steve’s lip, and for a maddening moment, Eddie wonders if he’s broken him beyond repair. That maybe he sould have left him keep spiraling and hit rock button, but then Steve kisses him back and it’s perfect. Well, as close to perfect as they can get considering they’re both angry and exhausted and Jesus h. Christ when did Steve learn to do that with his tongue? It’s headier than the kiss on the couch, leagues better than their awkward teenage makeouts from that autumn. They’ve both grown up, practiced, and found what works, and god damn, does it work.

When they pull apart this time, it's only to catch their breaths before diving back in. Eddie gets his hands on Steve’s shirt, rucking it up and over his head in a tangle of limbs, his own shirt isn’t too far behind, flying through the air with reckless abandon. Steve’s lips find his throat and Eddie doesn’t know if he wants to scream or sink into him further so he does a mix of both, a wanton moan falling from his lips as he pulls Steve closer by his hips and ruts against him.

They’re really moving now, stumbling down the familiar hallway until they’re crashing into Eddie’s unmade bed. Eddie hovers over Steve, admiring his flushed torso and blissed-out face for all of two seconds before Steve pulls him close, whispering want you and need you, and who is Eddie to deny Steve anything, much less mutual pleasure?

They fumble with each other’s jeans, hands shoving and hips lifting and twisting until there’s nothing between them but the thick, musty air. Eddie’s hands trail up and down Steve’s body, his lips and teeth following leaving marks on his favorite moles. He licks a stripe from the dip of his waist to his belly button and back down, and Steve keens under him.

“Please,” Steve whines. “Stop teasing.”

“It’s call foreplay, sweetheart,” Eddie chirps, but ultimately gives in, taking all of Steve in his mouth in one go.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve swears, fisting a hand into the sheets.

Eddie pulls away, eyes wide and full of mischief. “First you say no teasing, then you get mad when I take you? What do you want from me, Stevie?” He cups Steve’s ball, rolling them with enough pleasure to coax another moan from Steve’s lips.

“Just play nice, Eds.”

Eddie hums, then dives back in, slower this time but still just as desperate. He’s missed this almost as much as he’s missed Steve in general. Maybe even more, if he’s honest. There are a lot of dicks in the sea, but none as beautiful and responsive as Steve’s.

Eddie laughs at the cheesy thought, and the vibrations do something to Steve to elicit the most beautiful sound Eddie’s ever heard. He almost laughs again just to hear it again, but before he has a chance, Steve’s shoving him off and flipping them over.

“Wh— what’s going on?”

“M’too close, and I don’t want cum without tasting you first.”

Despite his protests, Steve dives straight in with no preamble and Eddie feels the familiar coil of pressure building in an instant. He’s not going to last, not if Steve keeps doing that with his tongue and Jesus h. Christ he’s never going to live it down if he cums two seconds into getting Steve’s lips on him.

He tries to think of anything else. The disgusting bathrooms at the Hideout he’s going to have to clean tomorrow and the grocery list on the fridge he has to brave the last-minute holiday shoppers for, but nothing seems to work.

Eddie squirms, tries his best to get away from Steve but Steve hand settles on his hips, holding him to the mattress as he continues to move up and down. Eddie sees the stars building in his eyes without even closing his eyes and his hand moves on its own volution, finding Steve’s leaking cock and wrapping his hand around it.

If he’s going to cum embarrassingly fast, so is Steve.

He matches his strokes with Steve’s and they both fill the room with their moans and cries until finally they collapse on each other. Eddie’s hand and chest are sticky with Steve’s cum, and his own is spilling out Steve’s lips, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Steve closer, capturing his lips in a searing, sweaty kiss.

* * * 

Another round and an hour-long make-out session later, they finally get up to clean themselves up. Eddie leaves Steve in his room and disappears into the bathroom. One look at His debauched self in the mirror and Eddie can’t help the smile that breaks out. If someone had told him this was how he’d be spending the early hours of his first Thanksgiving without Wayne, he would have laughed in their face.

When he returns to the room a few minutes later, Steve’s back on the bed, the thin sheet doing little to cover his lower half while his torso lays on full display, light by the warm light seeping through the cracks of Eddie’s blinds as the sun rises outside.

“Hi,” Eddie whispers, suddenly shy as he slips back into bed.

“Hi,” Steve whispers back, shuffling across the bed and making himself comfortable on Eddie’s chest.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm around Steve’s bare middle before bending the other behind his own head. He looks down at Steve, slowly drinking in the look of peace on his face and the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he starves off sleep they’re both desperate for.

“How long are you in town for?” Eddie asks and mentally curses himself. Fucking Munson, just enjoy the moment!

Steve shifts, chin digging into Eddie’s solar plexus as his sleepy eyes find Eddie’s. “The weekend, at least. Maybe a few extra days.”

“Yeah?”

“I could be persuaded,” he says, reaching up to wrap a lock Eddie’s hair around his finger. “I mean, I am unemployed until January, as you so kindly pointed out.”

A part of Eddie wants to laugh, maybe even apologize for the uninspired jab from hours ago, but there’s something more important he has to do. Even if it kills him. He tries to keep his smile intact when he opens his mouth next, whispering the words as close to Steve’s ear as he can so he can’t deny hearing them.

“I’m not asking you to stay. You have to make that choice on your own, Steve. Start living your life for you.”

Steve’s smile falters, lips twitching, threatening to turn into a pout, but they don’t. Instead, he nods, and Eddie feels the weight of his confession and the fear-strikes anticipation of Steve’s reaction evaporate from his own body.

Steve nods, turning to press a chaste kiss to the same demon that’s been etched there since before Steve became his all those years ago. “I know.”

Eddie hums noncommittally and drags his fingers through Steve’s damp hair, nails lightly stretching at his scalp in the way he knows Steve loves. “So then, what do you want?”

There’s a moment of silence and Eddie watches the seven stages of grief wash over Steve’s face before he opens his mouth again. “I can promise you the weekend to start.”

It’s not the answer Eddie wanted, but it’s the one he was bracing for. He knows better than to expect Steve to make a life-changing decision in their post-coital haze. Wouldn’t want him to even if he gave him the answer he wanted. All he really needs is the truth.

“Boyfriends for the weekend?” Eddie says. The word feels foreign on his tongue and yet just right. “Does that mean I get a front-row seat to watch you ruin your dad’s life when you tell him about the fire academy?”

Steve snorts, hot air tickling Eddie’s love-bite-ridden neck. “I mean, if you want. Might make things worse, though.”

Eddie hums in agreement. The last thing he wants is to make Steve’s day even harder than it’s going to be, no matter how much he’d love to get some face-to-face time with good ol’ Dick Harrington.

“How about this,” Eddie says, turning so they’re nose to nose in bed now. “I’ll be your getaway driver. Drive you over, and when you’re ready to leave, I’ll be waiting around the bend like old times sake. And then…” He trails off, nose bumping against Steve as he peppers his freckled face with kisses and nips. “I’ll bring you back here and we can make good use of this whole boyfriends for the weekend thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, breathy and more of a sigh than anything else but the sentiment is there. “That sounds perfect.”

Eddie hums and pulls Steve’s lips between his in a long, lingering kiss before separating. “The only condition is I get to be the one who leaves this time when you have to come back.”

“Not forever, though, right?”

“Well, that’s up to you, babe.”

Steve nods, swooping in to give Eddie his own version of a passionate kiss. “Okay, but then we’re even.”

“Yeah, we’ll be even.”

Eddie watches the smile slowly spread across Steve’s face before he hides in the crook of his neck. Eddie presses his own grin into the mop of sweaty hair on Steve’s head as they lay there, completely intertwined from their head to their toes.

“Boyfriends for the weekend,” Steve mumbles through a yawn before finally letting his eyes flutter shut.

“And then for life,” Eddie whispers, lips pressing into Steve’s forehead before his own eyes give in to the exhaustion coursing through his body.

[nhasablogg]

Very happy to see criminal minds on my dash! I’m not huge into the fandom but I like the show and MGG (who doesn’t though). Thanks for writing!

Thank you!! I wanna marry MGG so bad :((

[themortaldraw]

read twilight thinks he's a dog

[deiaiko]

#5.3 Hwaryun

"I suppose you're looking for me?" A familiar red-haired woman approached Grace, her lips carefully smoothed to reveal no emotion.

"I am." Grace acknowledged her presence and gave her a friendly smile. It had been so long since he last heard her voice, and it was grounding in a way that only a guide could be. There was something different about the way she looked at him, but Grace supposed that it was to be expected.

"What is it that you want to discuss with me?"

Grace hummed and felt like humoring her a little. "Take a guess."

"You do know that I'm not a mind reader." Hwaryun gave him just the briefest hint of a smirk, and it was all he needed to see to know that she already knew what he wanted. "But if I had to guess, perhaps you want to join 'us'?"

"That's right," Grace confirmed.

"Very well. I will arrange a meeting with the director for you, but I'm sure you'll be accepted after he tests your strength."

Grace could already picture how bad the test would go, knowing Hansung. But knowing what the outcome would be eased some of his worry. "Thank you, Hwaryun."

Masterlist

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[brown-little-robin]

Mrs. Kageyama Reaches ???%

People have different sides to them. Mrs. Kageyama is fine with that. She knew getting into motherhood that her kids would bring some things to their parents, and other things, they’d want to deal with on their own. That’s fine. That’s what people do!

She, for instance, worries over her kids out loud, in front of them, but only about the little things. Bumps and scrapes. Bent spoons, dropped dishes. Not the big things. She locks the big things away like an adult, only letting them out a little bit at a time so she doesn’t explode. She whispers to her husband in the dark when the kids won’t overhear them: are there any psychics in your family? Do you think your parents would know anything about how to help Shige?

As far as either Kageyama parent can tell, there aren’t any psychics in their extended families at all. Shigeo Kageyama was the first person out of the ordinary in both entire bloodlines, all the way back to the farmers (on Mrs. Kageyama’s side) and fishermen (on Mr. Kageyama’s side) who started keeping records of their family lines. And oh, it worries Mrs. Kageyama that she doesn’t know how to connect with that side of him.

There’s nothing she can do. Shigeo floats in the air as a baby, and Mr. Kageyama pulls him down like a balloon, but he floats right back up again, and there’s nothing Mrs. Kageyama can do but wait until her baby gets hungry and comes down to her again.

As a toddler, Shigeo talks to things Mrs. Kageyama couldn’t see. He repeats swear words she couldn’t hear the spirits teaching him. Actually, in that case, there is something she could do; one conversation later, Shigeo understands some social niceties he didn’t know about before.

But she can’t help with the root problem of the spirits who teach him words that he shouldn’t know. She wishes she was a psychic, too, not because it seems like fun—it certainly doesn’t, not to her—but because at least she would know what her son was dealing with.

But it isn’t that big of a deal, probably. Shige manages fine. He floats potato chips around to make Ritsu laugh and levitates all the small objects around him when he cries. It’s just another side of him. Shigeo is clearly bothered when other kids think he’s weird, but the Kageyamas let him deal with that by himself. All they can do, really, is keep loving him, feeding him, and making sure he gets to bed on time. The rest will sort itself out. Some things just wouldn’t be helped by parents getting involved.

Shigeo gets quieter as he got older. He still smiles and plays, but he doesn’t laugh out loud as much. He got self-conscious, Mrs. Kageyama thinks, because of those other little kids. Part of Mrs. Kageyama wishes she could talk to him about it, but that’s not how these things are done. Even if she tried to coax Shigeo’s hidden hurt feelings out into the open, all the parenting advice says that that would just stop him from developing the strength to deal with it on his own. And besides, real adults don’t make their children deal with their parents’ emotions.

So she hides that side of herself away. She whispers to her dear husband late at night, what if Shigeo is actually being bullied? What’s the point where we should step in?

He doesn’t know. He says, I think the boy is doing fine for now. Let’s let him socialize by himself for a while. She agrees. They let him socialize by himself. Sometimes he comes home from the park muted and weary, but he usually perks up once he’s eaten dinner, and Ritsu never fails to get a smile out of Shige.

Ritsu can connect with that side of Shigeo that Mrs. Kageyama can’t. His delight in his brother’s powers makes Shigeo smile where Mrs. Kageyama’s loving concern would just be smothering. So that’s all right. Different people can help with different needs.

Shige and Ritsu are good kids. They’re good kids, and they love each other, and they love their parents. But there are things they don’t come to their parents for. And that’s natural.

One New Year’s Day, Mrs. Kageyama got a call from a concerned neighbor and rushed to her sons. She found Shigeo standing stunned, blank-eyed, a few feet away from Ritsu, who was bleeding heavily from a head wound. Head wounds bleed a lot, she was informed by the doctors who stitched Ritsu’s precious little head up. That’s normal.

There was more blood on the ground than what could be explained by Ritsu’s head. Since she didn’t have to do anything about it, Mrs. Kageyama allowed herself to forget that fact. And then she forgot it again whenever she thought of it. Forcefully.

Ritsu didn’t explain what happened. He just went along with his mother and the doctors in a stunned, disbelieving kind of silence. He was a model patient, the doctors said.

Alarmingly, Shigeo didn’t explain what happened, either.

Mrs. Kageyama scrubbed the blood off his face in the hospital bathroom, and he didn’t resist at all. His hair didn’t rise up off his forehead in discomfort, and nothing floated, not even the water from the sink.

She squinted at him. Something was strange about him. Looking into his cast-down eyes, she could almost see something behind Shigeo’s blank expression. Something…

Something…

“Shige…?”

Shigeo made dull eye contact, and for a moment she saw with perfect clarity a boy behind his eyes, a boy with white eyes, screaming.

And then she un-saw it. Forcefully.

After all, there was nothing she could do; everyone has different sides to them, and that’s normal. Not everyone can deal with all the sides of everyone else.

After that, something is different in the Kageyama household. It feels almost like the boys had hit puberty early. Mrs. Kageyama heard from other mothers and parenting books about teenagers, how difficult they were, almost like they became different people overnight. It’s like that with Shigeo and Ritsu, only they’re still baby-faced little boys, not teenagers at all.

The tendency Shigeo always had to turn into a muted shadow of himself after a particularly hard day becomes the norm. He’s quiet. Too quiet. He’s calm. Too calm. He doesn’t laugh at all anymore. It becomes hard to remember that Shigeo was ever genuinely, visibly happy. His smiles at dinner are muted, his eyes always tired, even when he’s thanking Ritsu for unbending his spoons.

He doesn’t use his powers anymore. Not on purpose, anyway.

It hurts the side of Mrs. Kageyama that she has hidden away, the side that wants to stare deep into Shigeo’s eyes and talk to him honestly, to show him her overpowering concern for the part of himself that Shigeo doesn’t come to her for help with.

It’s not like he’s a teenage delinquent or anything, though. He’s perfectly polite. In some ways, he’s exactly the same as before. He still returns from school tired and distant but cheers up at the dinner table, even though his expressions are subtler, nowadays.

But unlike before, Ritsu can’t cheer Shigeo up.

It’s similar with Ritsu: it’s impossible to explain to other mothers how he’s changed. He’s still a model child. He’s still cheerful and helpful and nice. He just…

Sometimes Mrs. Kageyama hears him crying at night. Sometimes she catches sight of him staring at objects with such a fierce expression that she knows instantly what he’s trying to do.

The parenting advice doesn’t cover what you do when one of your children hurt the other one but both of them refuse to acknowledge that anything is wrong. The parenting advice says that if your children are angry at each other, you should give them some advice but mostly let them work it out on their own. But what if they don’t work it out? What if they never even try? There’s nothing to say.

Their family name, Kageyama, begins to seem like a cruel joke. Kage, shadow, figure, dark omen; yama, mountain, something huge and powerful. Mr. Kageyama is the one who points that out, late at night, whispering to his wife. He asks, do you think we’re cursed? Our family?

She lies, No, I think we’re fine. This is pretty normal, I think. People have different sides to them.

He thinks that over. I think you’re right. This is just… like puberty.

Now that the boys are middle schoolers, “puberty” becomes an excellent excuse to explain why the boys don’t share their other sides with their parents or each other. Everyone in the household embraces the excuse with relief.

Ritsu gets good grades. Excellent grades. He’s diligent. Too diligent. He’s a perfect son and brother. Too perfect. Everyone accepts it.

It’s been years since the New Years incident, and Ritsu and Mob—Shigeo goes by Mob at school, Mrs. Kageyama learns from his homeroom teacher—still treat each other with polite respect and no genuineness.

And—Mob? Mob? It’s a name of no identity. Mrs. Kageyama finds that nickname more and more saddening as her son’s other side drifts further and further out of reach. She calls him Shige at the dinner table and he smiles. There’s a shadow self behind his eyes, just as there’s a shadow self behind Mrs. Kageyama’s eyes.

But, after all, people have different sides to them, and that’s only natural. It used to be Ritsu who could make Shigeo happy about his powers, who could touch that side of him that Mrs. Kageyama cannot. Now, there’s someone else in her son’s life who does that: one Reigen Arataka. Her son’s after-school part-time employer and master in the psychic arts.

Shigeo doesn’t show his psychic powers to his parents, not on purpose, anyway, but she’s so, so glad he has somewhere to go to use that part of him. He’s hard to read, but Mrs. Kageyama thinks he gets something really good out of those after-school consultation hours. He often comes home thoughtful, or happier, his shoulders a little lighter, the shadow self behind his eyes not so noticeably unhappy.

She’s happy Reigen Arataka is in her son’s life.

It’s a tremendous relief when Shigeo begins to blossom in middle school. He joins a club. A club! It’s amazing!

Of all things, he chose the Body Improvement Club, which baffles Mrs. Kageyama. Shige has never been… athletic. But she’s not complaining. She’s happy for him. She nearly gasps out loud, one night, when Shigeo tentatively refers to some girl associated with (but not part of?) the Body Improvement Club, Tome Kurata, as his friend.

She nearly gasps out loud, but not quite. She hides her true excitement in that other side of herself. Her shadow self and Shigeo’s shadow self are similar, she thinks—they’re too much for the dinner table. The dinner table is a place of relaxation. Never, never does any Kageyama disturb the sacred peace of the relaxed atmosphere of the dinner table.

Which is why it’s so strange when Ritsu starts acting up and declines to eat dinner with the family.

Something is going on with Ritsu. There’s another side to him, too, but it’s locked away where Mrs. Kageyama can barely even see it. Sometimes, she forgets it’s even there. She’s ashamed of that, but there it is: Shigeo’s troubles are so much more obvious and clear-cut than Ritsu’s that… well… anyway, it becomes obvious that something is going on with Ritsu.

His grins are sharp, his eyes deadly, mannerisms completely changed. It’s as if he doesn’t realize that Mr. and Mrs. Kageyama know him. It’s as if Ritsu doesn’t realize that his parents watch both their sons closely, knowing they’re going through things that they can’t help with because they’re just normal parents and you have to let your children work things out on their own.

Mrs. Kageyama begins to wonder if Ritsu is going to confront Shigeo, finally, with the way Ritsu looks at his brother, eyes venomous. She hopes nothing bad happens. So does her husband.

But then something good happens. Something involving Reigen Arataka and psychic powers, if Mrs. Kageyama had to bet. Shigeo and Ritsu miss dinner. They come home late at night, and in the darkness, straining her ears, tense all over so that she doesn’t make a sound and scare her sons off, she hears Ritsu and Shige stopping in the hall. She hears Ritsu say goodnight, Nii-san, and Shigeo answer, mm. goodnight, Ritsu. And then—amazingly—there’s a cloth-muffled thump that might have been someone clapping someone else on the shoulder, and a quiet, happy huff that can’t have been anyone but Ritsu.

Shige doesn’t touch Ritsu. He never touches Ritsu anymore.

And yet—!

Maybe kids do work things out on their own.

After the boys’ doors close, Mr. Kageyama shifts and hugs Mrs. Kageyama tight in sheer relief. She hugs him back, fiercely, silently, choked up. She’s close to tears.

The next day, Ritsu…. Ritsu has powers. He doesn’t show them off in front of his parents, but Shigeo accidentally bends a spoon at dinner, and while Mrs. Kageyama is scolding him and arguing with Mr. Kageyama in their well-worn, comfortable ritual, Ritsu takes the spoon and just looks at it, and it unbends with a happy little flourish.

Mrs. Kageyama is so happy she could cry, and probably will cry, later, actually, when the boys aren’t around to catch her. At the dinner table, she just lets those feelings slide into her other self and grumbles, “What’s with these kids?” to make them smile.

“Here, Nii-san,” Ritsu says.

“Thanks, Ritsu,” Shigeo says, accepting the spoon. And he smiles.

Shigeo continues to change. He comes out of his shell, little by little. Ritsu gets happier, seeming younger every day. Shigeo’s friends become a bigger part of his life. He starts leaving the house not only for Reigen Arataka but for his friends, not just for the club activities, either, but for karaoke, to go out for ramen, and just to hang out.

More psychic incidents happen. The Kageyama parents can’t help with that, but they can make dinner. They can tease Shige and Ritsu about their powers. They can watch, knowing something is wrong but not pressing Shigeo on it, when he comes home from a job one day with something deep and thoughtful in his eyes. Shigeo starts drinking water instead of milk for a few days. He flinches at the sound of crows and shies away when people move too fast. Mrs. Kageyama is torn in half with the desire to ask him about it, but she doesn’t. Shigeo deals with it on his own.

Shigeo temporarily quits working with Reigen Arataka, and the Kageyamas provide a no-questions-asked, relaxed atmosphere for Shigeo to come home to. It seems to help. They see Shigeo playing video games with Ritsu and they know that Shigeo and Ritsu are going to be fine. They’re taking care of each other, better than their parents can, in some ways. Kids are resilient. Their kids are resilient. They’re so proud of them. They don’t tell them how much they know.

They cheer for Shigeo at the school marathon with all their hearts, even though the sight of him with a skinned knee gives Mrs. Kageyama a jolt of pure terror. Well, he seems to have it under control now. He doesn’t even see them as he keeps running. He’s so big.

When Ritsu opens the door to a red-headed and clearly psychic “friend of his” they’ve never heard of before and looks at them with terror in his eyes, they pretend to believe him when he asks them to leave for a spur-of-the-moment onsen trip.

Maybe it’s selfish. Mrs. Kageyama asks her husband that as they eat dinner that night, pleasantly boiled-feeling from the hot water. “Do you think it’s selfish, leaving them to deal with their psychic problems on their own?”

“Oh, they’ll be okay,” Mr. Kageyama says. “We couldn’t do anything to help them anyway. I mean, look at that!”

He points at the television, where the news is going over the psychic terrorist attack in Seasoning City yet again, with not much more information than last time. There’s live footage of police cars floating in the air.

“After all—”

The TV frizzles and fills with static. Mr. Kageyama laughs a short, helpless little laugh.

“I get it,” Mrs. Kageyama sighs. “I just worry about those boys.”

The honest side of herself writhes in pain at the understatement, but she keeps it down.

“It’s all right as long as they’re together. Shigeo will have it handled,” Mr. Kageyama says. “He’d never let Ritsu get hurt.”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence. In each other’s eyes, Mr. and Mrs. Kageyama see Ritsu bleeding and Shigeo with blood spattered on his face.

“That’s true,” Mrs. Kageyama says, hoping it’s true. “They’re very capable kids now.”

When Mr. and Mrs. Kageyama return home, their house has been replaced with an almost identical house. They burst into muffled laughter together in their room, covering their mouths. The pattern of the floorboards in the hall is different. How—how?

They don’t tell Shigeo and Ritsu how much they know.

Everyone has different sides to them. The Kageyama parents are at peace with this. They are at peace with the fact that they are background characters in their sons’ lives. The four Kageyamas show each other a gentle, relaxed side of themselves. It’s a sorely needed safe haven for all of them.

They could keep this up forever. Mrs. and Mr. Kageyama giggle with each other sometimes at night about how Ritsu probably won’t know they knew he was having delusions of grandeur until they’re old and gray, and maybe not even then.

Everything is alright. Still, Mrs. Kageyama sometimes misses Shigeo as a carefree little boy. Still, her shadow self yearns to connect with his.

There’s a specific kind of loneliness she thinks she shares with her older son, something not quite shared by Ritsu or her husband, although they have their own versions. She sees Ritsu use his powers to open drawers and float his school bag over, and she sees Shigeo walk across the room to get his bag, and she thinks: Shige is still stuck in his head. But she doesn’t say anything.

It’s not because of the parenting advice anymore, and it’s not because she’s worried about stunting his personal development. Shigeo is a strong person. He’s been a strong person for a long time. It’s because it’s a habit, and every time Mrs. Kageyama thinks of cornering Shigeo and just… asking him, Shige, can we talk about your powers?, she remembers that she doesn’t have powers, and how can she dare to try to connect with that side of him now, when she hasn’t really tried to do that for Shigeo’s entire life?

It’s guilt. It’s shame. It’s a habit. It’s more comfortable to stagnate.

Kids work things out on their own, right?

Besides, Shigeo isn’t repressing his emotions so much anymore, just his powers. For instance, she heard him calling Mrs. Takane, the mother of one of Mob’s childhood friends. He’s going to talk to his childhood friend again! Mrs. Kageyama is curious what he might talk to Tsubomi-chan about. Is it possible that he might finally be processing the minor bullying that used to bother him so much? But that’s probably just overthinking on her part. Shigeo doesn’t talk about it around his parents, but she’s pretty sure he used to have a crush on Tsubomi-chan, and he might still have a crush on her. Adorable. He’s growing up so fast.

When the earthquakes hit, they hit her right in the guilty conscience.

It’s Shigeo. She knows it’s him. She never really had motherly instincts, but this isn’t a motherly instinct. This is her shadow self recognizing his shadow self, which is so much like hers. The boy with white eyes, screaming. She understands what he’s doing. He’s letting out all of the destructive guilt and shame and fear and rage at himself and everything else that Mrs. Kageyama has been seeing behind his eyes for years and years.

It’s Shigeo’s shadow self, and maybe if Mrs. Kageyama had managed to be brave for once in her life and talk to him about powers, secrets, and emotions, this wouldn’t be happening.

She stares at her phone, where a grainy photo of her oldest son blurs in her vision, and she feels the sob rise in her throat and the tear drip onto the phone, obscuring the bouquet in his hand, as if someone else was doing it.

She doesn’t go out to look for him. She doesn’t have powers. She’d get killed.

It’s Reigen Arataka who brings her son home—Reigen Arataka, who she’s only met once or twice before. He’s uncharacteristically disheveled and red-eyed with crying, and his head is bleeding. Shige did that to him—it’s obvious. Shige has clearly also been crying. He looks up at his mother and father, sniffs bravely, and starts crying again.

Mrs. Kageyama kneels and hugs Shige tight. Mr. Kageyama’s arms close around her and Shigeo, encircling them, and she starts crying again.

The government gets involved, in the form of a bored-looking bald man with a strange cigarette who shows up in a helicopter. He jumps down to ground level, interrupting the crying Kageyama family and the awkwardly standing by Reigen Arataka, and says to Shigeo, “Long time no see.”

Mrs. Kageyama does not like the implication that Shigeo has met this man before.

Shigeo pushes his parents’ arms away, gently but firmly, and steps up to meet the man. He says, “I’m sorry. I’d like to help.”

“Sure, sure,” the government man says dismissively. “Might take a while to rebuild the city, but I can pretty much guarantee no one’s going to mess with you. No one died, so…” he gestures lazily with his cigarette. “This kind of thing happens every once in a while with kid espers. Just thought you might like to know.”

The government man doesn’t spare even a glance for Shigeo’s parents. They don’t ask him anything. It’s like introducing themselves might shatter the illusion of good news and make the man shout, “Gotcha! Your son is going to esper jail right now!”

The government man returns to the helicopter and lifts off. And then it’s just Shigeo, standing awkwardly on the street and not quite making eye contact with his parents, and the voice of Reigen Arataka on the phone summoning other psychics, and a man with an umbrella, “Mob”’s coworker, apparently, arriving and nervously spiriting Shigeo away to meet up with some other psychics, including the one who apparently recreated the Kageyama’s house that one time.

So they don’t address the incident immediately. Shigeo comes home that night so exhausted that he falls asleep at the table. Ritsu looks more awake, but also so dreamily happy that his parents just… don’t ask him any questions. They don’t want to disturb that happiness.

The next day, they don’t address it again. Shigeo is a heavy sleeper. He wakes up slowly, brushes his teeth, and sets off for school, which didn’t get destroyed during his shadow self’s meltdown, probably for the same reason that their house went practically untouched, though shaken, among the earthquakes. Shige doesn’t come home until very late again, and when Mrs. Kageyama gives him a bento box to eat before bed, he just says thank you. To her tentative question—were you helping with the city today, Shige?—he gives an exhausted, affirming “mm.”

He’s tired. She lets him wobble off to bed.

It doesn’t actually take very long for the city to be healed. Shige stops being tired all the time right away after his bedtime gets back to normal. He’s livelier than Mrs. Kageyama has seen him in years—smiling, joking with Ritsu, arguing with him sometimes, sulking when he feels like it. He laughs again.

He’s so different. But he’s still Shigeo. And he still has something behind his eyes. At dinner, when their eyes meet, Mrs. Kageyama’s shadow self reaches out to her son’s shadow self, still.

Which is a strange sensation, because Shigeo isn’t repressing his emotions anymore, or his powers, either. But there’s still something there, something or someone existing in reserve behind his eyes. She second-guesses herself about it at first, particularly when Mob laughs or scowls or displays his powers and emotions like he’s never thought twice about it. He seems so… whole. It’s not a child made of shadows anymore. But in other moments—when he’s watching Ritsu or when he doesn’t have much to say, when he hesitates, when he has a forgetful spell—Mrs. Kageyama is sure she sees it. Another presence within her son.

Call it motherly instincts or call it Mrs. Kageyama’s shadow self resonating with her son’s shadow self—either way, she knows. Shigeo Kageyama is still hiding another side within himself, even though that other side is happier now.

So one day, a few months after the incident, once she’s sure Shigeo is really stable like this… Mrs. Kageyama catches Shigeo before school and asks him to come home and have a talk with her after school.

He looks surprised, then nervous, then pleased.

“Yes, mom,” he says. And that’s that.

Talking to a teenager is easier than they said! That’s Mrs. Kageyama’s first, indignant thought. And then right on the heels of that thought comes what am I getting myself into?!

After school, Shigeo comes right home. Mr. Kageyama will stay at work for a while, and Ritsu has student council today; it’s the perfect time. Mrs. Kageyama sits down with her son and finds herself at a loss, not knowing exactly what to say.

Shigeo waits, watching her seriously.

“Shige,” she says, and feels her shadow self rise up in her, telling her to just break down and cry. Her voice wobbles as she tries again. “Shige, I want to tell you something. I think you’re old enough…”

Mortified alarm flashes across Shigeo’s face. Oh no! She waves her hands, trying to erase what he’s thinking.

“About your psychic powers,” she says hastily.

He looks relieved for a split second, and then his eyes widen. His hair rises up off his forehead, and she hears a slosh as something happens to the water in the sink. He’s scared? Of all things, she had not expected Shigeo to be frightened of talking about his powers. She expected him to be irritated and dismissive, like the parenting advice says that teenagers always are. The parenting advice was wrong. Again.

Suddenly reaching her limit, Mrs. Kageyama throws out all the parenting advice she’s ever heard and just… tells the truth.

“Or, ah, not about psychic powers exactly. About… Shige, I think something runs in our family, and it’s not powers, but I think you and I share it.”

Shige’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He waits like his mother is about to reveal the secrets of the universe, and in a way, she supposes, she is.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” she says carefully. “But you have more than one “self”, don’t you?”

He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

Nothing at all.

Mrs. Kageyama says, “You split yourself in half, back then… I saw it happen. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know how to help, because I… I didn’t know what to do about my shadow self, either.”

“Your shadow self, mom?”

His voice is quiet, so quiet. Mrs. Kageyama nods, feeling her shadow self sob and writhe in her head. It’s an unsightly thing. It’s so possessive, so emotional. She can’t let it do whatever it wants. That would hurt her children, and she loves her children, so, so much. She would never hurt them.

“I kept it quiet because I thought…” she takes a sharp breath. “It’s too much, and I wanted to keep you and Ritsu… comfortable. Parents can’t ask their children to carry their worries.”

“What do you mean?” Shigeo asks. He sounds so young, and so hurt.

“I never asked you what it was like to have powers,” she blurts out, and the wave of guilt that follows is tremendous, but so is the relief. “I’m so sorry. I let you deal with everything on your own. I didn’t realize…”

Shigeo’s lips are trembling. He says, “Mom, you have a shadow self too?”

“You’re just like me,” she says, and how, how did she never know that honesty could feel so right? “I knew you were just like me, and I didn’t tell you. I thought you could deal with it on your own. I’m so sorry, Shige.”

“Mom,” he says, and starts crying.

To hell with parenting advice. To hell with keeping her shadow self from shattering the relaxed facade of the Kageyama household. Shigeo deserves better.

Mrs. Kageyama stumbles out of her kneeling posture and grabs her son and holds him close.

“Shige,” she says into his hair. “Shige. Shige.”

“I thought it was just me,” Shigeo gasps. “I thought it was just me in the dark.”

And, with a start, she realizes why his shadow self is different now. They switched places, didn’t they? The Shigeo she’s talking to right now is the one her shadow self used to stare at longingly across the dinner table.

“So you’re that one,” she says, with all the shaky, weepy tenderness she's been repressing for years. “Hello. I’m so pleased to finally meet you again.”

Shige sobs. Everything in the room is floating. She could cry. She does.

Then Shigeo pushes himself out of the hug and looks at his mother, trembling but clearly happy and calm in a way she’s rarely ever seen him, even when he was young.

“You're wrong,” he says. “I am myself. I accepted both parts.”

“So you’re—” Mrs. Kageyama stops, thinking that over. Does it not matter anymore, to Shigeo? Which “self” is which?

Could it not matter to her, either, someday?

Tentatively, she lets more of herself out.

“I’m so sorry, Shige. I listened to the wrong advice. I should be the one helping you figure this out, not the other way around.”

Shigeo looks her in the eye. He says, “Adults can change too. It’s not too late.”

She looks back, and in his eyes she sees both of him, and she knows that now he sees both of her too. And she is not afraid to show him.

Not anymore.

[zeldas-hair-pins]

Ok I’m gonna share the very first section of the long fic I’ve been working on. I’ve been debating putting the first chapter up on ao3 or not but for now I’m not planning to.

Instead I’m going to post here what is essentially the prologue and hope some of you find it interesting.

This very first part (it’s so short compared to everything else) is kinda in a wonky tense as it’s not necessarily in Link’s POV, I was hoping had a bit of a fairytale feel. But the rest is more traditional Link POV stuff.

Warnings for: Child soldiers, pressure being put upon a child, a bit of existential dread, nothing to angsty I don’t think but let me know if I should add anything

Enjoy!

—

Link was young when he became a squire, too young most agreed. A boy of only seven following at his father’s heels.

Plate armor clanking and sword belt digging into his small chest. Hair cropped to his chin and hands scuffed from tending horses and polishing weaponry. He was much too young to be a fighter, but he’d seen his first combat when he was three, with only a tree branch he’d destroyed a bokoblin that had come too near him and his mother while on a walk. The woman had been ready to defend her young child with whatever was near when purple smoke exploded and the creature was dead. Leaving her child standing above wriggling guts, covered in blood and holding a stick.

That was Link’s first fight. But it was far from his last.

At four he was able to fight the village guard with little problem, as well as all the other capable fighters in town.

Word had spread quickly around their small community in Hateno village. To keep him away from the rumors of ancient heroes and incredible talent his mother and father had whisked the young child away to Zora's Domain. Hoping to keep him from monsters and expectations.

Despite his troubles with speech, Link had quickly made friends. With King Dorephan’s daughter nonetheless, a sweet Zora girl named Mipha who was learning to use her healing powers. Everyday Link’s parents were grateful for the princess’s ability, because while the rumors didn’t follow them, Link couldn’t help but start more up.

He somehow always found himself in some form of trouble, usually diving off of rock outcrops far too high for a normal Hylian, or the many times he’d defended him and his young friends from wandering octorocks instead of alerting the kingdom’s soldiers like he was supposed to. It was really no surprise word spread of the Hylian knight's young son who saved Prince Sidon’s life when the friends were attacked by a moblin at the age of six.

It seemed Link couldn’t avoid these interactions, so with a sense of dread his parents couldn’t quite understand, they moved once more, to Castle Town, to make sure Link could at least be trained under proper supervision. His father was due back in the King’s service anyhow, so Link became his squire. Though with how fast he began to outshine the knights in training he didn’t stay a squire long, no matter how much his parents disliked it.

Link was knighted at the age of ten, only one year after his little sister Aryll was brought into the world. An exception had been made for his age, most people had to be the age of twenty before knighthood, but no one could slow him down. And with the slowly rising number of monsters… no one could deny he was good at his job. While he had trouble speaking verbally he was fluent in Hylian sign and could best even the King’s most trusted defenders in one on one combat. His father had been so proud of him for following in his footsteps, even if he seemed wary it was all happening so fast. He was the youngest knight in Hyrule’s recorded history, and Link felt pride burn within him at the opportunity to serve his kingdom.

That pride dimmed drastically when only months later his mother died of a strange and incurable illness, he had been on a mission to take out a monster camp with a small group of soldiers at the time. He came home to a dead mother, broken father, and little sister who would never remember her own mother.

After that day Link began to resent his skills. All his tireless training and backbreaking effort and he couldn’t protect his own mother? He hadn’t even been by her bedside when she’d passed. What was the point of protecting the kingdom when he had no mom to return home to?

After the tragedy his father resigned to raise his sister, and Link was only given more dangerous tasks to complete without his father watching out for him. He wished he could resign as well, he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps any longer. He was done with this pain. He’d almost worked up the courage to lay down his sword a year later when on a scouting mission, he was lost in the forest. Something was calling from deep within the branches and brambles, something pulled him along through the thickening fog.

Three days later with no sense of the time passed he walked out with a glowing sword in hand.

That was the first and last time he’d ever seen his father cry, a high ranking guard and soldier weeping as he clutched his son to him, begging the goddess for mercy. None came.

He gave up on his dreams of quitting and finding a more suitable path after King Rhoam of Hyrule announced him the Hero of Legend, the only one who could beat back the impending Great Calamity. As he was forced to kneel in front of his Majesty something fell upon his soul. A weight so immense and powerful that he lost any ability he had to form words. Even with his dear sister his throat remained clogged with fear of failure. His hands were slower as he signed as well, a difficulty he’d never experienced turning them numb and clunky.

On his knees before his King with the Sword of Evil’s Bane in hand, Link understood that the slightest misstep could spell the ruin of all he knew and loved. If he showed even a slight hint of weakness or fear the people would lose faith in him, and despair and depression would clutch at the land.

The people needed to believe he could save them, or else everything he held dear would fall to ashes and ruin.

In that moment Link’s face hardened to stone, his voice failed, and he decided no one could know how truly terrified he was. How unprepared he was to save the world. That he was only eleven years old, he wasn’t a man. He was a child, and he had just been told he had to go to war against evil and destruction itself. He wondered what would be left of him if he won.

[ifyougoillfollow]

as we sink into the open sea

M/F, Gen | QPR MicNight | 1720 words | Selkie AU CW: Depiction of Suicide Attempt (non-graphic)

-

On the eve of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into the ocean and comes back with a wife.

Please understand, that wasn't his intention. Yamada Hizashi is not the kind of man to believe in tales of sirens and sea wives, and he is especially not the kind of man with dreams of snaring one for himself. He is, in point of fact, not a man of any dreams at all. Not anymore.

So he walks into the ocean, figuring that if he can't find the will to keep dreaming, then he can at least find some peace at last. He finds a wife, instead.

Or rather, she finds him.

She finds him as his body hits the sea floor, at the very moment the first wave of doubt rolls over him in one fell, unrelenting swoop, much too late for him to do anything about it. He's so overcome with it he doesn't think much of the figure that glides out of the ocean murk and sidles right up to him. Wide, shark-bright eyes peer at him, so close they fill up his entire swimming, pin-pricking vision, and all Hizashi can think about is how soon he's going to die, and how he’s not so sure he wants to die after all, and how little what he wants matters in this final moment, as in all the rest before it, and then the figure places one cold hand on his colder cheek and kisses him. She's all Hizashi can think of, then.

She's dark-haired and beautiful. And strong. And a good swimmer, too, but that's to be expected. She drags him back to shore, lips locked tight over his the whole way, and she doesn't let go until his lungs are clear of ocean brine.

Hizashi lies there, alive and silent on the cold, wet sand for a good while after. Long enough for the first hint of morning blue to blush over the horizon. The sea maiden lies with him, just as alive, just as silent, and infinitely more at ease. Cozied right up to his side, as if she belongs there, seemingly content to remain there for however long Hizashi has left on this Earth now that she's saved him. Try as he might, he can't figure out whether he's grateful or not. He does, however, remember his manners, on occasion, so when he finally finds his voice again, he uses it to thank her.

"You're welcome," the sea maiden replies. There's laughter in her voice. Hizashi doesn't know what there is to laugh about, though he finds himself wishing she'd actually done so, just so he could hear it. He used to love laughter. Impossibly, he still does.

Yamada Hizashi had a knack for making people laugh, once. It was all he knew how to do, really. He doesn't know much of anything now, least of all how to make the sea maiden in his arms laugh, so he says nothing.

The sea maiden in his arms says nothing either, at first, for just long enough Hizashi startles when she does speak: "Is that it?"

"Pardon?"

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"... Is there more I should be saying?"

"There must be." There it is again – the laugh in her voice. "You don't strike me as the quiet type in the least."

That's what it is – she's teasing him. It's much too familiar to do anything but rankle. "Listen, Miss –”

She snorts. "Nemuri."

"Listen –” his face burns as he realizes that's her given name, and he refuses to say it "– listen, I'm grateful to you for saving me and all, but you don't know anything about me."

She peels away from his side. "Liar."

"Pardon?"

"You're not grateful at all," she grunts through an impressive stretch, current-strong arms flung upward and out towards the heavens. She's wearing a sealskin cape and nothing else, and is so unembarrassed by it Hizashi can't muster up any on her behalf. She winks at him. "But you will be," she adds. Then: "Take off your clothes."

"Pardon?"

This time she does laugh – seagull-like – loud and sharp and to the point. "Well, I don't know much about land folk, but it's my understanding you don't handle being wet all that well."

Hizashi wraps his arms around himself, scowling. "I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself."

The sea maiden stands – or at least tries to. She heaves herself upward in a motion that would probably be fluid underwater, then loses her balance, toppling backwards onto the sand, rump first. The sight of her glaring down at her legs is almost enough to pull a laugh out of Hizashi.

"Stupid things," she grumbles, kicking up sand.

Hizashi does laugh, then, which is a mistake. The sea maiden stands, suddenly sure-footed in her indignation, and uses her newfound mastery over her lower appendages to kick sand in his direction.

Hizashi cannot stop laughing. He laughs until his new companion loses interest in burying him under sand. He laughs until the sun finally frees itself from under the weight of the horizon. He laughs until he almost forgets he just tried to kill himself.

When he's all laughed out, the sea maiden is still there. Sitting across from him, hands and feet planted firmly in the sand, peering at him with a smile so dry it's a wonder she doesn't hail from land herself.

Without a word, she stands again, solid and steady, all remaining traces of sea legs gone, and hauls Hizashi to his own significantly less steady feet. While he's still reeling from... all of it – the strength of her hands around his, the seafoam-salt smell of her filling his impossibly pumping lungs, the laughter still clanging through every hollow part of him – the sea maiden takes her sealskin cape and drapes it over Hizashi's shoulders.

It's soft and musky and so warm it feels more alive than he does, but, most of all, it's heavy.

Hizashi tries to shrug it off. "Thanks," he says stiffly, "but I said I'm fine."

"I heard you," says the sea maiden, rearranging the cape around him.

"I don't need it."

"I know."

She fastens the cape closed around his neck, patting his chest firmly. It's so long it covers Hizashi all the way down to his shins. On her, it must have just brushed over the sand at her feet. The uncanny warmth of it doesn't seep even as the seafront breeze hits it, makes it flap and flutter around him in a heavy, even bump-bump, bump-bump beat. Nothing could ever hope to reach him past that beat and that warmth.

"I don't want it, either," he lies, because he has to, because he's never known what to do in the face of so much want, because he's always wanted too many things, and he's wanted them too much.

"Neither do I," says the sea maiden, breezy as the morning. "Maybe we should leave it here, lying around. I'm sure no one else would find it, if we hid it well enough."

Hizashi blanches at the thought. He may not be the kind of man to believe in tales of sea wives, but he has heard enough of them to be wary of the kind of man who does. He fumbles for the clasp at the base of his throat. "Just take it back. Go home."

"Hm, I don't think so." She sidesteps his attempts to foist the cape back onto her, walking away backwards, hands clasped behind her head. "I think I'll stick around here for awhile. Explore the land realm. It seems exciting."

Hizashi chases after her, cape held out like a net. "It isn't."

She twirls away again. "Liar."

"It's too exciting, then. Dangerous."

"So is the ocean – didn't stop you from walking into it."

"That was –" Hizashi falters, loses his footing "– different," he finishes lamely, hands fisted in the sand-soiled cape caught under his knees.

The sea maiden stands over him. "You're right," she says, "that was different – I'm not going into this trying to die. I'd say that alone makes my odds of survival look pretty swell, don't you think?"

Hizashi stares up at her, looming tall against the dawn sky, so tall she dwarves the rising sun itself, and has no doubt she'd survive even the drying of all seven seas if it meant she got to live.

"You're naked," he says, because he's running out of arguments, and the will to keep making them.

"I wouldn't be if you gave me your clothes,” she shoots back, “I gave you mine, didn't I? It would only be fair."

The cape is velvet-smooth as Hizashi slides it out from under himself, warmer still from the heat of his body and the sun-washed sand, which slides off of it like ocean spray from mossy seaside cliffs. His sea maiden – Nemuri – takes it from him and helps him back to his feet. She folds it over her arm, as if merely holding on to it for the moment, and arches an expectant eyebrow at him.

Sighing, Hizashi shrugs off his coat. "Yes,” he relents, “I suppose it would only be fair."

On the dawn of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into town with nothing but a sealskin cape on his back and a wife.

Or so the townsfolk like to tell it, because the townsfolk love a good fairy tale romance almost as much as they love to pity him. In time, they will come to pity him even this moment and his sea-wild wife, as outrageous as she is beautiful, as the very ocean itself, and Yamada Hizashi will do what he has always done in the face of undue pity, which is to laugh in it and continue loving whoever and whatever he loves, in whichever way he sees fit.

But that will come later. For now, in the rosy light of a dawn he never planned to see, Hizashi walks into town beside Nemuri, the sea maiden who saved his life – the woman who will be called his wife and be so much more – and is content enough to have finally figured out he’s grateful, even if he has yet to figure out much else. The rest will follow, he’s sure, in good time and – even better – good company.

[ionkent]

rewatching iwtv and the lesdaughter shit fandom does is so ass

[seaslimes]

Every time I see those posts about the AO3 F/F to M/M ratios, all I can think is:

Okay, excellent point. But what if you just wrote it?

Like. Yeah, man, I'm sure it's discouraging to see raw numbers talking about how your ship doesn't get the rep it needs. But when you get down to numbers... sometimes the difference within fandoms is less than 500 more M/M works than F/F works. That's actionable. You can fill that gap with a fraction of the people liking / reblogging posts about F/F erasure.

Sometimes the gap is bigger. It's like, 1000 more works are tagged M/M. 2000, or more. Yeah, that's a big gap, but you could make it one less. If every person liking or reblogging a post about the disparity of ship fics on AO3, that number would shrink drastically, or outright disappear.

IDK. I write F/F. I write M/M too, as well as M/F. But I write F/F, and when I see that sorta post. It doesn't feel like a call to action. It feels like somehow, in some way, I'm not doing enough when I post up fanfiction for free about stuff I like.

It makes me feel like I should stop sharing my F/F work, that it doesn't matter, that people don't recognize the effort or love or time that goes into it. Even beyond that, I feel discouraged about the work I have put out, because thousands of words written all about an F/F pairing are only seen in that raw stat format.

"There's X M/M fics and Y F/F fics." Yes, I know, and that has to suck. But look at how many people wrote F/F fics! Have you commented on each of those F/F fics? Have you given kudos? Did you feel inspired to write or draw because of those F/F fics? That's what fandom is for. That's why we create. If that's not inspiring you to "close the gap" on those stats, I don't know what to say.

[meta-squash]

dedication is writing a 20k+ torchwood fic and not even knowing if it'll be able to be posted on ao3 because it's an experimental piece with weird formatting

[ambrosykim]

your loving arms are the true delight

pairing: ambrose kim x f!button (alex wiseman) words; rating: 2,5k; mature (non-explicit sex at the end) summary: alex and ambrose's first time getting intimate a few months into dating a/n: i've been writing this for so long and it's sg really close to my heart so enjoy the nerds being super grossly in love while exploring alex's asexuality

"so, what are your plans then?" nick leans against the doorframe as alex is putting her shoes on.

"oh, i've been meaning to show ambrose this small restaurant--"

"the one with the squid ink pasta?! i thought we agreed on keeping that a family secret!" nick is looking at her as if alex just set one of his ovens on fire - which, for the record, she has done. but only once and he keeps bringing it up even though it's been years.

alex raises her brows in response to her brother, but still says "well, i'm showing it to him anyways. you're not the boss of me," ending the sentence with a mental picture of her sticking her tongue out even if she feels too formal in her outfit to actually do it.

nick rolls his eyes.

"fine, i may just not want the place to get ruined for me by knowing that ambrose kim has set foot in there before," at alex opening her mouth, nick continues. "and i know, 'i need to grow up' i'm trying, okay? it's hard enough to accept that ambrose kim is dating my baby sister."

at this alex once again raises a lone eyebrow and mentally responds to her brother. "-and yes, i know, you're not a baby anymore and i love seeing you happy but it might take me a bit more time to accept ambrose kim as the source of that happiness." as a response alex only leans in to hug nick, who in turn uncrosses his arms to embrace her back.

their moment is interrupted by two sharp knocks on the front door.

he's here.

"speaking of the devil," nick has a slight smirk on his face. "don't let me keep you from your beau." alex gives a slightly annoyed huff at this, but quickly regains her previous cheeriness.

it's hard to be annoyed when a fancily dressed ambrose kim is on the other side of the door, waiting for her. as she's about to open the door, she calls back a quick "don't wait up!" to nick. to this, nick only answers with a wiggle of his eyebrows and an "ooh la la!" which alex quickly tunes out in favour of being able to properly kiss her boyfriend in greeting.

even though it's becoming one of her favourite pastimes, sometimes it still feels odd to be leaning down to kiss rosy- ambrose. despite him reassuring her that the height difference doesn't bother him, alex sometimes still feels overly conscious of the half foot that she's got on ambrose. still, the height difference allows for easy access to his forehead for forehead kisses, which she's getting more and more fascinated with, even though - or especially because - he always grumbles about it, but still allows it.

—

nick's comment only resurfaces in alex's thoughts upon entering ambrose's house after their pleasant restaurant date.

it really was lovely, after their meals they shared some tiramisu and talked about their most cherished books. after a while it evolved into alex ranting about her favourite character, to which ambrose only attentively listened to without any complaints - in fact, he seemed very taken by her enthusiasm. he really is an ideal date, alex must say.

after closing the door, ambrose turns to her.

"would you care for some tea? i've recently bought some strawberry tea and i wanted to get your opinion on it."

"that would be great, thank you," alex is still toeing off her shoes, so she misses the way ambrose softly nods at her as he makes his way into his kitchen.

she suspects that he mainly keeps tea at home for her enjoyment, since she knows ambrose prefers coffee. a bit after they started dating, an electric kettle suddenly appeared in his kitchen which he was very nonchalant about, but alex assumes he most likely bought it for her, since she’s been spending a considerable time at his house in the past months.

it's become a habit to have tea after their dates, which alex absolutely adores.

they sit on his couch - a dreadful cream colour, devoid of personality - and usually read together or play cards. lately ambrose has been teaching her to build a house of cards, but she's not very good at it, usually letting it fall apart with her exhaling laughter.

today, however, alex is suddenly preoccupied with overthinking what nick said - or implied more like - to her, his way of singing out 'ooh la la' ringing in her head.

as ambrose approaches with two mugs of steaming tea - both strawberry, as he has been expanding his tea drinking horizons since starting to date alex - alex snaps out of her trance of overthinking. she takes the mug, cradling it in her hands while ambrose sits down next to her.

noticing alex's motionless state, he starts to gather their books, as if to settle in for a night of quiet reading, but alex knows that he's giving her time to start talking. despite being usually chatty, ambrose knows how hard serious conversations are for her, and he feels that alex is thinking over something heavy. when he has their books - alex keeps a book at ambrose's for nights such as this - he hands the right one to alex.

after taking it - while her focus is still seemingly on the cover of the book - alex starts speaking.

"you know i want to have sex with you, right?" flicking her eyes up at her boyfriend she realises he's staring at her with a blank look. though she hasn't figured out all his expressions yet in their three months of dating, she can feel his shock rippling through the air. "i mean... eventually, you know? not right now but," as she continues speaking, he slowly puts his book down on the coffee table to join their mugs of tea, turning his body towards alex.

when she still doesn't get a reply, she continues. "-but, like soon? i guess? i don't know how soon after starting to date is normal... and you know i haven't had sex before so i'm like, kind of nervous about it. not that i don't trust you, you know i do, i just-" ambrose puts one hand on alex's knee, which immediately shuts her up. she looks up from where she's still staring at the book in her hand, only watching as he plucks it from her grasp and joins their hands together.

"alex, please breathe. i hope you know i'm not expecting anything from you. not now, or ever." despite ambrose keeping his expression neutral, alex can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"i know, i just... don't want you to feel like i'm not attracted to you, or that i'm waiting for you to seduce me or something."

at this, ambrose raises a single eyebrow, as if him 'seducing' anyone - even alex - is ridiculous. to be fair, alex has to keep herself from laughing at the mental image of ambrose throwing himself at her while clad in lingerie. as if reading her mind, ambrose's eyes narrow in alex's direction, but she knows he's determined to continue the conversation. getting over the mental image of ambrose in lingerie, alex continues. "because i am. attracted to you, that is. you know that i've got difficulties with the whole sexual attraction thing, and after a comment nick made, i'm just overthinking everything." she gestures at her head, as if to indicate where exactly her overthinking is happening at the moment.

"plus, i just like having a plan for everything, so maybe let's come up with one for the time we end up having sex?" alex's big eyes bore straight into ambrose's own, and he nods.

"that sounds perfect. i would like to know what you'd be comfortable with doing and what i could do to make it enjoyable for you."

still sitting turned towards each other, alex suddenly tries to hide her face by looking over her shoulder. as ambrose reaches over to cradle her head while gently turning it to face him, he sees tears welling up in alex's eyes.

"i'm sorry. what you said was just so perfect and i just-" ambrose wipes the tears off her face with his thumbs and leans up to slowly kiss alex's forehead.

"we will have a detailed discussion later, about what you're fine with and what i should avoid doing," as he says that, he continues to hold alex's face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes.

alex opens her mouth, to which ambrose lowly chuckles before speaking.

"i know, you like to have a plan for everything, which is why, in this conversation, we will also include a detailed schedule for our first time, all right?" to this, alex only nods, while letting out a watery chuckle that sounds eerily similar to a sob.

"thank you. weird how the tables turned in this conversation huh? look at you, doing most of the talking," and with that, alex is back to being her usual self, only the subtle shining of tears in her eyes indicating that the past few minutes actually happened.

while glad that his girlfriend is seemingly returning to herself, ambrose stares into her eyes, as if looking for a confirmation that she really is all right. after finding what he’s looking for in alex’s gaze, he nods to himself, finishing his inspection with a peck to her cheek.

her eyes crinkling with joy at this, she chases his mouth to capture it in a proper kiss which he eagerly responds to, while not letting it become anything more. with that, she reaches to get their reading off the coffee table. she hands ambrose one of the books as she settles down on the couch, leaning into the side of her boyfriend for an evening of quiet relaxation, shelving this conversation for later.

—

in the end, after some thorough discussion, they came up with a plan they were both comfortable with. ambrose made sure to talk through exactly what touch alex would be fine with, even though they agreed that he would be physically removed for most of their first time.

alex has never done anything like this before and she is nervous. she is currently laying on the bed against the headboard, still talking to ambrose who’s just coming in from the other room.

even though she's gotten used to ambrose's attention being focused on her, this is something entirely new, and she knows he’s noticed her slight tension. she can feel his gaze on her as she gets comfy on the bed, while he sits in the chair that’s been brought in for him from the kitchen.

she proposed to let him on the bed with her but ambrose insisted that the chair would offer him a better view - to which alex blushed a deep pink, and ambrose only answered by clearing his throat.

now, she's leaning against the headboard - which is firm under her head, grounding her - with most of her clothes gone.

ambrose was meticulous in removing her clothes, while also not making her feel overwhelmed in the process. he made sure she was comfortable with his actions by dizzying her with kisses, which made her both more eager and more compliant with him. still, he didn’t overdo it, and was very precise in which part of her body he touched.

(god, alex loves him so much.)

after she has been properly riled up through the slow undressing and kissing process - which took around half an hour not that she was timing it - she is now laying against the headboard in only her bralette and an unbuttoned shirt, making eye contact with ambrose.

he's sitting with his arms crossed, only dressed in his black joggers - and looking very enticing if alex can say so herself.

maintaining eye contact, she slowly moves her hands down her body, stopping at her center. she doesn't know what to do with her other hand, so she slides that over her breast, more out of comfort than any stimulation.

she's hyperaware of her lover's intense stare, and though he hasn't changed his position since sitting down, alex knows he's affected just by how hard he’s clutching his crossed arms. still, today is not about his pleasure, but about getting to know alex and her comfort levels with intimacy and sex, and he knows that. his eyes suddenly jump from alex's own, to where she just started touching herself.

she still feels a bit nervous, but just looking at ambrose and his lips pressed together from concentration - and from how much he's affected by her - helps. shifting her focus to his arms - still crossed, muscles bulging from how hard he's holding himself back - she feels herself getting more and more wet. she's also just as affected by him as he is by her, her quiet breathy whimpers filling the silence of the room.

just then – maybe after hearing her - with eyes flicking to hers, ambrose stands up and makes his way to the foot of the bed.

he does so as slowly as he can, giving alex time to adjust to his proximity. as he sinks down to the bed, alex nudges him with her leg, giving him permission to touch her. he slowly snakes his hands onto her calves, tightly holding on, his eyes still boring into hers.

alex flits her gaze down to concentrate on where his hands are grabbing her skin, looking intently at his hands – she’s always loved his hands, strong and sturdy - as she continues rubbing herself, getting close. she's nearly willing him to move closer, but he's keeping a respectful distance, though he slowly starts stroking her legs.

she could come by only the way he looks at her. it's as if he wants to devour her whole, yet still so full of tender love.

as she's getting close, she detaches her hands from her body to make grabby hands to her boyfriend, who complies with a slight smirk on his face, coming to cage her thighs with his muscular ones, careful to not put his weight on her. he gently but firmly grabs alex's face, kissing her deeply but still keeping his eyes open, as if not wanting to miss a single moment of what's happening.

as he envelops alex with his frame – keeping a small distance between their bodies - she reaches down to continue rubbing herself where she left off. as a response, ambrose grips her waist with one hand and slowly holds her breast with the other, swiping his thumb over her nipple, making alex's voice hitch as she comes.

at this, ambrose detaches his mouth from alex's, wanting to be able to watch his partner come. afterwards, alex reaches up to kiss him, conveying all her love towards him, smiling into the kiss.

as ambrose lays down next to her, she turns to him, snuggling in close to him.

ambrose huffs a small laugh but accepts his fate, knowing that he can’t escape from alex’s need from cuddles.

[nedwec]

Back into the mha fandom after getting fics recommendation from tiktok currently reading 4 fanfics simultaneously probably will burn out after reading 2😅 and will need a break and read another in another fandom lol

Here they are if you are interested:-

First one is Switchblade by Cacid

Second one is Dead Tired by Robertws

Third is Locked In Digital by RogueDruid (Icarius51)

Fourth is (I can't believe no one has written any "self-insert as Bakugou" fanfics yet what a bunch of cowards) by the_incidental_author

[davy-zeppeli]

if you dont give me the link to your fic when its done I'll kill you and then you will be dead btw. I wanna read it and i will one way or another

(i will kill you. and you will be dead❤️)

Amber found dead next to a pile of FaceApp girl edits of Mike Nesmith and a phone with a google doc open with 50,000+ words labelled "For my beloved (Raya)"

[aparticularbandit]

...so the ao3 maintenance is going to start...within an hour of when i post the next chapter of oaei.

....

sorry, not sorry?

[pennamepersona]

Reference image for Col, my dearest darling beloved Dark Urge monk. By god do they look so fucking edgy. I used one of the Decay skin tones, which is why they look just a little bit dead. Can't tell you how pleasing it was to find the hot topic ass dexterity armor and for the sick monk gloves to match. Truly written in the stars

[cheswirls]

no idea why ywr/iwf has gotten an influx of kudos over the past week but its been both a compliment and an irk tbh