Hi! I call myself Aura. Welcome to my side of the internet. I enjoy writing smut but like, smut with meaningful lore. I've been writing for my favorite characters all my life but I'd love to broaden my horizon and write based on other people's prompts. So if you have any request, drop them off at the top of my blog. And if you're just here to explore, scroll down. <3
Jujutsu Kaisen
Ryomen Sukuna
Heian Era, True form
Part 1 Part 2
Sukuna and Yuuji as twins
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
Nanami Kento
Office AU
Even though I believe I've mastered writing about Sukuna, requests are open for other characters, preferably the adults. If fics are requested for teenage characters, they will be aged up and put in an AU.
Shingeki no Kyojin
Requests open for most characters. I will not write Zeke (hate his monke ass), Floch (creep), and Zacharias (weirdo).
Kimetsu no Yaiba
Requests open for all characters, including demons and slayers, except for Nezuko and the other little girls. And if any teenage character is requested for smut (maybe don't do that at all), they will obviously be aged up and most likely put in an AU.
Haikyuu
Requests open for all characters, post time skip.
Boku no Hero Academia
Requests open for most characters. I won't write AFO and Mineta. And if any teenage character is requested for smut (why would you do that?), they will be aged up and put in an AU. If you request anything weird for Eri, I will report your account.
Persimmon is back home and debating whether Henry was just a dream. After having disappeared for 48 hours, home doesn't feel home anymore and everyone is too much. Except for Steve. He is just Steve. But is Persi happy with just Steve anymore?
Content warning: feeling displaced, discomfort around food, creepy kids, FMC saying creepy things, mention of murders
Word count: 3.9K
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
When I open my eyes, he isn't there. Or maybe, I'm not there. Whatever that means.
My eyelids are heavy, like I've been crying for a really long time. I rub at the inner corners to push myself further awake.
This is my room. The pink that my Dad had painted on the walls when I was nine has faded over a decade of me hiding in it every free minute of my day, hoping Mom had a decent day at work so she wouldn't want to look at my homework again. There's a wooden table, the one I studied at while penning my imaginations at the back of my notebooks just to get them out of my head. It had been neatly arranged the day I left but now pages from my journal have been torn and strewn around in my absence, apparently in search of a note, any note, the police thought I had left before running away from home.
Nancy said they found me lying unconscious at the edge of the woods near the daycare, my belongings intact, my clothes untouched as if someone was hanging around guarding me the entire forty-eight hours that I had gone missing.
The orange sweater hanging from the back of the door attests to that.
It shouldn't be here.
The last time I saw it, Kid had made it his little plaything. Henry had said something about it mimicking my warmth — something Kid might have grown fond of.
Henry hadn't said anything about himself. When he took me out on the walk he had promised, he asked me so many questions. He had answered some of mine too, enough to quiet some of my doubts, but—
He never said he didn't want me to leave.
I had to guess. I had to pick up on his body language.
Like when he kissed me and lingered a second too long, rendering me breathless and heady for longer than I could take. Or when he sat down on the park bench near his house and pulled me close just to rest his face against my chest.
I didn’t realize then how much I wanted him to ask me to stay.
"Wakey wakey, little cupcakey."
The door squeaks open and Robin's face emerges from behind it. This time, she really is here. When she and Nancy were helping me change and get into bed last night, my hand didn't go through them anymore. I really am back home.
"You're up early." Nancy follows Robin inside, making space for herself at the foot of my bed. "You know you could sleep in, right? Nobody expects you to go back to your regular schedule so soon."
"But I'm alright," I stop her. "I was alright. I just— wasn't here."
"Say that to your mother," Robin mutters. "If Officer Powell hadn't found you exactly when he did, who knows what would have happened? The whole of Hawkins might have drowned."
I scoff. "You know she would have reacted the same way even if she knew exactly where I was, right?"
Nancy meets my eyes. She has questions, I know it. "Where were you? I mean, we know now where you were but— why were you headed towards the woods? Do you remember anything?"
"Not really," I lie, a little too quickly. "I don't remember much after I locked up the daycare."
Nancy nods, even though she doesn't look satisfied with my answer.
"Let's get breakfast." Robin pulls my hand and I'm forced to get off the bed.
Mom starts sobbing at the sight of me, as if I've returned from war or recovered from a deadly disease. She pulls me into her arms, her whole body shaking as she holds me to herself. "Mom," I speak right into her ear when she refuses to let go. "Mom, I'm okay."
"Yes, Persi." She wipes away my hair even though there weren't any on my face. "You're home and you're okay. You're with me and you're okay."
She's right. So, why am I finding a hard time agreeing?
This is my home. The kitchen I grew up stealing cookies from when Mom was asleep or at work. The table I sat at when Mom and Dad fought like lawyers in front of a judge — only, the judge was me and I knew I'd soon have to make a choice about who I wanted to stay with.
It smells like home, like childhood. All the right smells — the garlic in the gravy, the sting of the chopped onions, the warmth of fresh bread. It just— doesn't feel like it.
"Eat." Mom puts a plate in front of me. A full plate loaded with carbs she only makes when I'm sick. "Persi, eat. You haven't had anything substantial in like, two days. Eat."
I pick up the fork. Reluctantly.
The eggs are warm, soft, exactly like Mom always makes them when she's trying to be careful with me. There's mashed potatoes, the Saturday ones, with no lumps. It melts in my mouth, leaving only the rich aftertaste of the garlic butter she makes at home.
I know this taste. I've grown up loving this taste. But, right now, it's burning down my throat.
"Feel free to transfer everything you don't want to eat, okay?" Robin nudges me when I put a little piece of bacon in front of my cat's mouth and she nibbles at it. "I'd completely forgotten what an amazing cook your Mom is out of the school canteen."
"Hey!" Mom swats at Robin's hand. "She needs the calories."
This is probably the first time I've heard her say that.
"I—" Pushing my plate away, I slump backwards on the spine of the chair. "I'm not hungry anymore."
"Awesome!" Robin takes over my plate, transferring everything onto hers in one fell sweep. "I mean— I was going to take it anyway. I'm not above stealing from the recently resurrected."
"I wasn't—"
"Dead," Nancy and Robin say in unison. "Yeah, we know."
Nancy shifts from one leg to another, resting against the kitchen counter. "So, you were unconscious the entire time, right?"
I usually admire her curiosity but it's getting on my nerves, now that I'm the subject of all her interrogation. Picking at the skin of my lips, I answer honestly, "That's what I've been told."
"Right. It's just— the police had searched up and down that road. We had too. Robin, Steve and I. Even Dustin, Lucas and Max helped out. There was no trace of you or anything unnatural."
"And that's somehow my fault?" I cross my arms over my chest.
"No, Persi— No, I'm not saying that." Her eyes blink rapidly. shutting and opening with an exasperation I've learned to notice whenever she can't solve her calculus homework.
Mom intervenes. "Nancy, dear, let's not do this right now."
"Yeah," Robin mumbles with a mouthful of toast. "Let's bank the investigation for later."
"I'm not investigating." Nancy turns away from us, toying with her own breakfast. "Just asking some questions."
The house falls silent when my friends leave for school. Two students have died unnatural deaths, one alumni had been missing for forty-eight hours, but they don't think it might be best to shut down the classes for a few days. That's just how Hawkins High works!
It was the same when Will Byers and Barbara went missing, and even when Max Mayfield's brother died at the mall fire. The school must go on!
"Persi, stay here, okay? I'll be back soon." Mom walks around with a bunch of clothes to put in the washing machine, my orange sweater peeking from in between bedsheets and pillow cases.
The silence here is different from Henry's place. Not as unnerving, but not as comfortable either. It's not heavy. It's not watchful. Just— empty.
My fingers curl around the edge of the table as my thoughts run back to Henry. I can't fully remember our last conversation anymore but I know he didn't ask me to stay. Not even once.
But what if he had?
Would I have stayed back with him?
Henry said he couldn't hear my thoughts there. But this isn't that place.
This isn't his domain. It's mine. So—
Henry?
Nothing. Of course, nothing.
I look around, expecting my thoughts to somehow conjure him up in his full physical form. Of course, that doesn't happen either. Only my cat cocks her head up in curiosity.
"Yeah, okay," I murmur, shaking my head slightly in amusement of my own desperate acts of reaching out to him.
Am I not thinking loud enough now? I challenge him, even from behind sealed lips.
"This is stupid," I murmur again. "I'm stupid."
"No, you're not."
I flinch.
This voice is real. Familiar. But it's not Henry.
I turn.
Steve stands in the doorway, one hand still on the frame like he’s just walked in without knocking. His hair’s a mess, like he ran his hands through it too many times on the way here. His eyes land on me immediately, scanning, checking.
Steve. Someone real. Someone who probably wouldn't ask me so many questions but would still somehow know exactly what to say to make me better.
Without hesitating, I rise from my chair and run into his embrace. I put my arms around his neck. He pulls me in. When the door frame comes to close onto us, he holds it back with one foot so it doesn't thud into me.
"You're safe," he whispers, nuzzling into my hair. "You're here and you're safe."
That makes me take a step back.
Steve looks at me, blinks, wondering what made me pull away. His arms are still open. I know I need another hug but all I can think of is how much Henry hates listening to my thoughts of Steve.
"I am here, yes." I force a giggle but I can't agree with the rest of his sentence. Shaking my head, I walk back toward the table. Steve follows me.
We sit down beside each other, and he reaches out for my hand on instinct. Something makes me flinch inside but I refuse to show it.
"What do you want to do today?" He asks, squeezing my fingers together.
For the first time since I woke up, somebody has asked me that instead of wanting to know where I was for the last two days.
To be honest, it didn't even feel that long.
Was it really two whole days?
"I— I don't know. I should go for my shift, now that I'm back. I already lost two days."
"The daycare can wait, Tangerine," Steve reassures me in his own unique way. It's not soft like Nancy's, or enthusiastic like Robin's. It's just— Steve.
"I wanted to go see Teddy."
"Teddy? The quiet kid?"
I nod.
"Alright! I can take you. But only—" Steve giggles when I frown. "Only if we can get ice cream later."
"Ice cream sounds lovely."
As I'm going back to my room to change, I stop in front of the frame on the wall — the one from Disneyland. Dad had placed it right in front of my door, saying that if I look at it every morning, maybe I wouldn't forget his face.
I never forgot his face. Nor did I forget how he abandoned us.
The frame is new, a solid black border with no chippings. Nancy did replace it after all.
"Oh, hello!" My heart leaps into my throat when I climb into the passenger side seat of Steve's car. A curly haired boy shows off his gummy smile at me from the backseat — one of Steve's adopted kids. "Dustin, right?"
"Yeah! So glad you're back." He gleams at me.
"Thanks," I reply, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach anywhere. Turning to Steve, I give him the look. When he fails to read my face, I put it into words. "Was he here the whole time?"
"Yeah! We're just— hanging out." Steve lies to me. His pursed lipped smile and incessant hand combing of his hair only further push my doubts.
Steve starts his car and the stereo jumpstarts into life, playing Time After Time.
"Is that playing on a tape?" The song abruptly stops when I push out the rectangular backside of a cassette sticking out of the audio system. I read the label. "Time after time cross twelve? What the hell?"
"Yeah, Steve's a big time Cyndi Lauper fan." Dustin butts in.
"Since when?"
Steve looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't really want to put his thoughts into words. "Well —" He finally does. "Since the day you went missing."
My cheeks start to burn. "You've been listening to my favorite song on repeat for two days?"
Steve doesn't answer straight away but I can see his fingers tapping furiously on the steering wheel, his cheeks flushed like a child caught red-handed.
"Umm— maybe I shouldn't be here for this." Dustin interrupts again, shifting behind my seat to hide himself. "Just think of me as gone, okay guys? I'm not even here."
"You're overreacting, Henderson," Steve murmurs, his eyes not straying from the road ahead.
The rest of the car ride is silent with Dustin's walkie-talkie buzzing every now and then. I look out the window, letting the wind wash over my face. When Steve takes a turn toward the longer route, I only look back at him without saying anything. I know he's avoiding the road I usually take on my way home from the daycare, trying to stave off triggers from the day I went missing.
I have maintained to the police and everyone else that I don't remember what happened that day. What else could I have done?
Told them about Teddy's voice calling specifically for me? About the unrealistically beautiful man who said he could hear my thoughts?
What if it wasn't real?
Maybe I did lose consciousness and dreamt it all?
How pathetic would that be — feeling truly seen and heard for the first time ever and for it all to have been just a dream?
"Are you sure about this?" Steve bursts the bubble I was isolating in before pressing down on the brake.
I look out the window again. We're in front of the daycare, only it's on the other side of the road. Up ahead, the sidewalk is sealed by police tapes that disappear into the woods in the same direction I had gone looking for Teddy.
"Yep!" I unbuckle my seat belt.
We are welcomed with open arms — small but open. The kids run up to me, the little ones concerned and the older ones putting their worries into words.
"Were you scared, Ms. Greene?" One ten-year-old asks.
"I'm not anymore."
I sit down with them and one little girl named Julie wraps around my back while a six-year-old Oliver sneaks into my lap before anybody else can take up the spot. Some politely sit in front of me, with very snooty noses and their beady eyes gleaming at me, filled to the brim with questions about my adventures in the woods.
At the back of the crowd, Teddy stands, holding Candice's hand, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He doesn't look like he has any questions for me.
"Did you meet any grizzly bears, Ms. Greene?"
"Sadly, there are no grizzly bears in these woods, Matty." I pat a boy on the head.
"What animals did you see, Ms. Greene?"
My geography is weak but I make something up. "Mostly deer and rabbits. Maybe a couple of foxes. Or, was it just the one? Anyway, guys, I had fun on my adventures. I learned a lot."
"What did you learn, Ms. Greene?"
"I learned that—" My voice cracks. "That— sometimes, the only way home is by getting a little lost."
There are a few oohs and aahs before Dustin breaks the tension by pointing out, "I don't think we should be teaching toddlers to get lost. Steve!" He tries to whisper but the room is too silent for him to be inconspicuous. "Are you sure she's okay?"
Candice takes the kids away for their outside time and Steve grabs my elbow. "Persimmon." He only calls me that when he wants me to take him seriously. "Are you sure you're okay? We can just go back home, you know? You could sleep some more."
"Steve." I let the dam break, the well of emotions I couldn't display in front of anybody else. But I know he would understand. To some extent, at least. "I need you to be Steve. Please. I'm tired of Mom's anxiety and Nancy's questions and Robin's excitement. I just— I need Steve right now. Just you. Please."
He pulls me into his arms without me asking for it. Smoothing his palm over my hair, he whispers, "I wouldn't look good in any of their clothes anyway."
I laugh, swatting at his shoulder. When his eyes search for mine, a type of warmth crawls up my neck and seeps into my cheeks.
It was eight grade when I first realized I had developed a raging crush on Steve Harrington. That was when the hair started growing out and falling beautifully over his forehead, when the jawline set in and his eyes got that wicked sparkle about them. And I wasn't the only girl in that situation; every other eighth grader at Hawkins High was falling self-respect first in love with Steve "the hair" Harrington.
The only difference between these girls and me was that I was already friends with Steve. Well, sort of. Our moms knew each other and we were invited to their Thanksgiving dinners every year since Dad left. Steve barely spoke to me during these gatherings, locking himself up in his room with his comic books until the food was ready while I brooded away behind my own books near some window on some floor of the huge Harrington mansion.
But when the time came for our middle school prom, I was the one Steve asked out. Which, honestly, surprised me more than any other person on campus.
But that was the beginning of our friendship, a catalyst to my ever-growing affection for him. And I knew that for the longest time, before Steve met Tommy Hayes and Carol Perkins, and remodeled his entire personality, he considered me to be his only friend.
"Don't you have to be at the video store today?" I ask, fixing his collar just to distract myself.
"I can take a day off." Steve shrugs. "I wouldn't miss an ice cream date for this job."
"It better be that good of an ice cream."
"Hi!" Dustin suddenly appears from behind Steve, knocking the air out of my lungs. "Look who I found roaming around unsupervised. Says he was going peepee. Why were going into the woods for a peepee, my guy? This isn't the 1600s."
Dustin pulls up a small hand of a very distressed looking Teddy.
Once the bathroom door swings shut behind us, I softly ask, “Teddy, honey, do you actually need to use the restroom or were you just trying to escape Dustin?”
"Oh, hi!" I snatch Teddy's raised hand away from Dustin and pull the four-year-old toward me. "Hi, Teddy! What— Do you need to use the restroom? I can take you."
Teddy climbs onto the closed toilet seat instead of answering, his little red sneakers knocking against the cabinet.
For a moment, he only stares at me. Then—
“Did you meet him, Ms. Greene?”
My fingers freeze halfway toward the sink. Every hair on my arm rises. I know in my heart exactly who Teddy is talking about.
"Teddy—" I pause, biting my cheek, wondering if I should actually entertain this. Half an hour ago, I thought this could have been just a dream. But if Teddy knows Henry too, maybe he was real after all.
"Have you met him?"
"Mr. Whatsit said I can meet him only when I've learned enough about the world." Teddy pulls in a deep breath to keep his nose from running.
"Mr. What?"
Shit! Are we even talking about the same person?
"Mr. Whatsit! He talks about you too. A lot, a lot, a lot."
The lightbulb flickers overhead. Like a warning.
"Teddy, what does Mr. Whatsit look like?"
The kid fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt. "Like a— a generalman."
"A generalman? You mean, a gentleman?"
"Yes, Ms. Greeeeeen. With a hat and everything."
Before I can ask him anything about his drawing, the one that started everything, there's a sharp knock on the restroom door.
"Tangerine." Steve's voice cuts through sharply. "Everything okay in there?"
I flush the toilet and lead Teddy out. When we meet Steve and Dustin, I fake a smile and say, "Yeah, his zipper wasn't working. It's all good."
Steve takes my hand as we start to walk out of the daycare. It happens so suddenly, my breath gets trapped in my lungs. But it doesn't do what I was hoping it would — it doesn't vaporize any part of Henry at all.
"Shall we drop off Dustin and make our way to the new Scoops Ahoy?" Steve winks.
I want to say yes but I can't. Not when every cell of my body is screaming to go back into the woods and look for him.
"Before that—" I hesitate. "Can we...? I mean, I was hoping to see the area where the police found me. Just to see if it jogs any memory."
"Do we really need memory jogging right now?"
"You're talking like my mom again. Just be Steve, okay?" I squeeze his hand, hoping he'd find humor in my words and let me go into the woods or at least, come with me.
But he lets go of my hand. "And what does being just Steve mean to you? Someone who goes along with all your whims?"
"What—"
"Right now, you need a little bit of Mrs. Greene and a little bit of Nancy. I'm all for being Steve for you but going into the woods now is not a good idea."
"Actually, it's never a good idea," Dustin comments.
I take a deep breath. "Fine," I say on a loud exhale. "Fine. We don't have to go right now."
I go round the front of Steve's car to get into the passenger side. I open the door and take a pause, lingering just to look at the daycare for a little longer. Candice and two other coworkers of mine are taking all the kids back inside, struggling to keep them in a straight line. I wonder what inside playtime they've been planning since I went missing. It was my forte, and I always encouraged the children to be creative.
"Persi, let's go," Dustin calls out, his car door slamming shut. For a second, his voice makes my teeth grit but I try not to show it.
Steve's door slams shut and I break into a sprint.
Clutching my tote bag to my chest, I run towards the yellow police tape. I cross the road, not caring how many cars come at me.
"Persimmon." I hear Dustin screaming behind me.
I know if Steve tries, he can catch up to me in no time. But I can't let it stop me from getting to Henry again.
My bag flies from my hand, landing on the sidewalk, but that doesn't stop me either.
I take one last look as I step into the treeline. Steve is almost upon me. He isn't calling my name. Maybe he doesn't know which name to call me by anymore.
It's a bird! It's a plane! No wait, it's a domesticated nightmare. It's an illusion. It's a dream come true. It's possession disguised as homely comfort. It's the aftermath of a thunderous kiss and Persimmon is torn between going home and staying with Henry.
Thunder rumbles on as Henry kisses me, his hands all over me, his tongue in my mouth. I'm sandwiched between him and the wall, trying my hardest to contain the spill of his overflowing... feelings? Lust?
It doesn't feel like lust.
It feels like years of yearning, and decades spent looking for someone he wanted to open up to.
"I'm sorry—" He backs away suddenly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "I shouldn't— I shouldn't have."
"No, it's—" Before I can finish my sentence, he's gone. I watch his back as he runs up the stairs. The door to his study creaks open and slams shut as he escapes into a place where I know I'm not allowed.
I press my lips together, waiting for my heart to slow down because... what the hell just happened?
What am I supposed to do now?
Hesitant, I open the front door again to check up on the creatures. The rain has stopped but the air is cool, making my damp clothes feel like a blanket of ice wrapped around my body. Kid is snuggled between his friends on the wet grass, my sweater between his paws like a child cuddling their comfort plushie to sleep.
"Persimmon."
My heart leaps to my throat and I'm thirteen years old again, hiding a half-eaten Mars bar in my bra just so my Mom doesn't find out. "I wasn't going outside," I blurt out as I turn to face Henry standing at the bottom of the stairs with a towel in his hand. Wordlessly, he walks up to me.
His hands are shaking. He has discarded his jacket but his shirt is still as wet as mine, clinging to his broad chest.
He puts the towel around my shoulders.
For a while, we just stand there like that, neither of us uttering a word.
"I'm sorry I scared you," he finally says, stepping a little closer like he's seeking some warmth from me.
"I wasn't scared."
"I was," he admits quietly.
That makes me look up.
He swallows, eyes searching mine. "Losing control around someone is... new."
The towel shifts as he adjusts it gently. "You don't know what you do to me, little one."
Little one?
I blink up at Henry, mostly in surprise but partly in confusion about how someone can view me as little. Has he forgotten the size of my clothes, the amount of space I take up, the pressure I put on every piece of furniture I sit on?
"You're thinking again." Henry brings the corner of the towel up to dry a trickle of water running down the side of my face.
"And you can hear it, right?"
"No." He sighs. "Not here."
"Really?"
"Yes, Persimmon. And it's killing me."
He doesn't use that name for me anymore during the rest of the day. When I come downstairs after having washed my hair and changed my clothes a second time, I find him in the living room, his hair falling loose into its natural curls, kneeling in front of the TV with a small notebook in his hand.
"What are you doing?" I ask, hovering over his shoulder to look at the yellowed pages of what seems to be a hand-written instruction manual.
"I am—" He looks up to find a knob the book is referring to before going back to reading further. "I'm trying to find a way to fix the TV so you can watch it if you like."
My cheeks heat up at his words. I swallow a smile. "Henry, you don't have to do that. I—"
"No, no, I'm sure I can figure this out." He is bent over the manual like a child reading scripture for the first time.
The toolbox beside him looks old, rust creeping along the exposed edges of the tools inside like psoriasis. He picks up a screwdriver and starts to work on dismantling the bottom panel altogether. His hands are still shaking, and I can't tell if it's from earlier... or from the fact that he's never had to fix anything before.
"Henry, have you ever used a screwdriver before?" I stifle a smile.
"I'm doing it wrong, aren't I?"
"No, you're okay." Our fingers brush as I extend my hand to gently pull the tool from him. "But I don't think I'll be watching a lot of TV so we don't need to fix it."
He sighs, giving up. Closing the toolbox, he sets it aside and looks at me. "What do you want to do?"
"Umm... I'm sure something will come up. Oh— why don't we take a walk like you said we could once you came back?"
"We can do that tomorrow, Persimmon. Why don't we get some rest today?"
I nod. Even though I can see the darkness outside the window, I know the day isn't over yet. Not in the way it happens in Hawkins at least. Time works differently here, I know that from what Henry said earlier. And I feel it better now. Minutes felt like days when I was alone, and now when he's around, it's all going by a little too fast for my liking.
Dinner is served even though neither of us has stepped into the kitchen, not even once. Two plates, one at the head of the table, and another just beside it, and two full glasses of water wait for us as Henry pushes my chair in — the first one on the right. He takes up the head of the table and smiles at me as I peruse the contents of my plate.
Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and dinner rolls — exactly what I was planning to make for Steve, Nancy and Robin for dinner.
"This is... normal." I whisper under my breath but Henry catches on.
"Were you expecting something more... grand?" He asks, almost picking up his cutlery. "If you want something else—"
"No, I didn't mean that. This is what we eat on—"
"Saturdays, right? Because your mother has the next day off."
A spoonful of mashed potatoes stop midair in front of my open mouth. "So you know everything about me, do you?"
He smiles softly. "Only the things you think about the most."
"Which are...?"
"Your mother, your relationship with food, college and... Steve." His eyes lock onto mine, clinging for a reaction from me.
I put the spoon in my mouth and the potatoes melt. No lumps. Just how Mom makes it when she's in a good mood. "Fuck! This is good."
"I can tell you're enjoying the meal."
I scoff. He tears apart a bread roll but only puts a thin layer of crust in his mouth. His plate remains untouched for most of our time together. He eats a bean every now and then, and then rests his fork, watching me. He's still trying to understand me, as if he's not been reading my mind every day of my life.
"Do you read everybody's thoughts?"
"I can," he answers honestly. "But not many have intrigued me the way your mind has."
"Really?" I shrug. "Don't I always just think about—"
"Steve, yes."
The undercurrent of jealousy in his voice makes me press my lips to one side to contain my sly smile. "Henry, what do I think about when I think about Steve?"
"Little one." There it is again. I look up. His fist is clenched around the stem of his fork, almost bending it. A muscle twitches in his jaw like he's remembering one of my thoughts.
"Must you torment me, little one?"
Maybe it's the one from that weekend Steve's parents were away, and Nancy and Robin both had their midterms.
We part our ways in front of the door to Henry's study. "Good night, Persimmon." His hand lingers on the doorknob as he watches me going into my room.
"Good night, Henry," I whisper before shutting my own door.
A small bedside lamp lights up the entire room, its orange frilled shade reminding me of the dresses my mother used to buy for me when I was five.
From the other side of the wall, I hear Henry's movements. His stern footsteps, like he's an important man, the drag of his chair on the carpeted floor — once towards the wall separating us and then away — then the soft thud of a hardbound book being dropped on the table. He clears his throat before everything goes silent.
White sheets of paper lay scattered across the bed and the floor. I go about collecting them, stacking them back in a neat pile with the sketch I made of Henry's face on top.
Henry clears his throat again on the other side of the wall as I gaze at his face on this side. The practised tightness in his jaw and the unplanned softness in his eyes.
I've been wondering if its only for me.
Picking up the pencil again, I sit back down at the table. His shoulders come out first, broad and reliable. His jacket hangs open. I draw the buttons of his shirt, trying to fit in as much of the minute details as I can remember.
And then comes the patch. The dark patch on his crisp white shirt when he returned from his errands. I can't remember if it was still there when he was fixing the TV, or when we had dinner, or even when he kissed me.
I shade it in but I cannot, for God's sake, remember what color it was.
"Tangerine."
Steve?
I turn to the door, where the voice came from. The hinge creaks, the wooden panel moves, and a light shines through the gap — the round glow of a flashlight moving about in the dark, searching for something lost.
"Persi."
Nancy? She's screaming, expecting me to answer.
"Guys?" I walk up to the door and pull it open. On the wall opposite to me is a photo frame I know too well. The brown chipped edges, the white border around the photo, the three people standing in front of Mickey's Fun Wheel at Disneyland — Mom, Dad and me. I was ten and my parents were still married. This is the only copy of this photo and this frame hangs in the hallway of our home in Hawkins. The real Hawkins.
"Persi! Persimmon, where are you?"
Is that... the Henderson kid?
I look to my left. My mother is sitting at the dining table, her shoulders drawn closer and shaking. Somebody places a glass of water in front of her and she looks up. "Have they found her yet?"
"Ms. Greene, they're still looking." Robin comes up to her and my mother wraps her arms around her waist in a child-like manner. "It'll be alright. We'll find her. I'm sure she's just... on... some adventure, you know. Only this time, she didn't let me or... or Nancy tag along. Very unusual, yes, but possible too."
"Robin?" I call out to her. "Robin? Mom?"
"We had lunch together." My mother sobs into Robin's t-shirt. "She didn't say anything about going anywhere. She was so... normal."
"Mom?" Why can't they hear me? "Mom, I'm right here."
I start walking towards them, down the same hallway I've run up and down as a child, paced with a textbook during exam season, sneaked out of during late night hangouts with my girlfriends. Only now, I can't seem to get to the end of it. The more I walk, the longer it stretches, the further my Mom and Robin get from me.
"Ms. Greene." Steve comes over to where my Mom is sitting and stands behind her. "The officers are here. They wanted to..."
"Steve?" I ignore the rest of his words and scream out my lungs for him to hear. "Steve? Come on now, Steve. Can you really not hear me? Nance? Nancy?"
"Is there anything you could tell us, Ms. Greene? Any relatives Persimmon could be visiting?" It's the new Sherrif's voice. "Where does your ex-husband live again?"
"Florida," Nancy answers for my Mom. "But we've called him and she's not there."
"Yet," Robin adds. "If she took the train, it would still take her a few more hours to get there."
"Why would she go to Florida the night she asks all of us to come over for dinner?" Nancy, as always, is the voice of reason.
"Alright!" Sheriff Powell interrupts their bickering. "When was she last heard from or seen? Any idea?"
Steve steps in. "I was supposed to pick her up from her job at the daycare. But I couldn't go so I had to call her there. That was the last I spoke to her."
"We also spoke to her colleague, Candice," Nancy adds. Of course, she did, my favorite investigative journalist. "She said Persi had offered to lock up and she had last seen her around six before Candice left."
"Headache," Robin butts in. "Candy, or whatever her name is, she said Persi was having headaches."
"She had a nosebleed at lunch," Mom adds.
"Okay, alright," the Sheriff stops his note taking. "We'll comb the area from the daycare to your house, including and especially the woods. In the meantime, if you hear anything from your husband- your ex-husband, do let us know. We don't wanna be exhausting our staff over nothing. But don't worry. We'll not be taking this disappearance casually, considering there have been two unusual deaths and everything has happened within a span of only twenty-four hours."
Deaths?
"Oh God, no, no, no," Mom cried out. "Don't— don't. No, she's alright. She's alright. Please."
"Mom, I'm here. Mom, I'm alright. Mom? Mom? Please... can you hear me? Mom? It's me. Mom, please don't cry." My voice cracks, my throat tightening but they still don't acknowledge me.
I know I've always dreamt of disappearing but not like this. I know I've learned not to expect anybody to look for me but... they are looking for me. They are worried. Nancy is biting the skin off her lips over this. Steve looks like he hasn't slept in forever.
"Mom?" Tears run down my cheeks. The sight of her clinging to Robin for support shatters my heart. "Mumma? Mumma, I'm right here."
Steve squats down in front of her so they're eye to eye. "Ms. Greene, I promise you, we'll find her. I'm... sure she's absolutely alright."
"I am. Steve, please—" I start walking towards them again but I trip over my own foot. I fall to the floor with a thud, gasping, and they finally look at me. "Steve. Mom. Mom, can you see me now?"
Only, they're not looking at me. They're looking through me.
"I'll get it." Nancy gets up from her chair and walks past me to pick up the photo frame that has slipped from the wall, cracking open on the floor. "It's—" She hesitates to tell my Mom. "Nothing. I'll fix it tomorrow."
"Nance? Nance?" I call out to her again as she walks by me. When I try to touch her, my hand passes through her skin.
That's when I realize it. I'm not back home. I never was. "Mom? Mom, I'm scared. Mom, please look at me."
There's a cold touch on my feet, slithering around my ankle. I gasp, looking down. It's a gooey, blackish vine snaking around my leg like it knows me. "No." I try to jerk it off. "No, no, no. Mom! Mom! Please, Mom."
The vine tightens. "MOM—" I scream out as it starts to pull me back into the darkness of the hallway. The floor slips from under my scraping fingernails. There's nothing to grab, nothing to anchor me to home. Nothing.
"Mom! Mom! MOOOOMM!"
"Little one."
I sit up, heart pounding in my chest, my ears ringing like a fire alarm, tears drying on the sides of my face. I'm in my bed. Not my bed, the bed in the room Henry has arranged for me.
When did I get here?
Was I sleeping? It couldn't have been just a dream. Mom, Steve, Nancy and Robin — did I only dream of them looking for me?
No. They're on the other side of the door, I'm sure.
I throw the covers away and scramble off the bed. My heartbeat rises as I approach the door. It's closed now, no familiar voices on the other side calling out my name.
My hand hovers over the knob for just a second before I turn it and pull the door open.
And, there he is. Standing exactly where I was expecting to see my family photo.
"Henry—" My voice cracks.
He is leaning against the curtains that cover the arched windows of the hallway, his shirt loosely hanging around his hips, his thumb pressed against his lips. His gaze roams over me before settling on my face, or more precisely, the tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Am I hurting you, little one, by keeping you here?" He finally asks.
"Henry, I—" I step forward and press into him. The sobs come naturally. Henry freezes for a second before pulling me closer, letting me cry into his broad chest.
"She was—" My whole body is shaking and Henry is trying to contain me in his arms. "They were looking for me. They were crying for me, Henry. They—"
"Do you wish to go back, little one?" His voice is low, tight, hesitant.
"Can I?"
"Persimmon," he bargains. "Why don't you rest now? And, in the morning, you can make the decision."
"But—"
"You're tired. And I'd very much prefer it if you rest your mind... and body." He gently squeezes my arms. "In the morning, you can make the decision. Whatever it is."
He leads me back into the room and waits for me to stop trembling. When I don't, he sits down on the bed beside me and I give him my hand. Involuntarily. "Can I really go back if I want to?"
His left eye twitches or maybe I imagine it but when he speaks, he sounds genuine. "I will always make sure you are where you want to be, Persimmon."
With one last squeeze to his arm, I creep under the comfort of the duvet. Henry gets up to leave but I take his hand again, clasping my fingers around his wrist. "Can you— stay?"
He bites his lip but very subtly. To any untrained eye, it would go unnoticed but Ms. Kelly has been teaching me to read body language for three years now. I push him a little more. Letting his hand go, I mutter, "or not, if that makes you uncomfortable."
Henry takes in a sharp breath of surrender. He goes round the foot of the bed to the window and settles himself on the settee. One ankle over the other knee. Even when he's sitting, even from this distance, he's towering over me.
"Don't you want to lie down?" I ask, patting the bed beside me.
His sharp chin twitches. "I will not risk touching you, little one. Especially when you already have doubts about staying."
It's my turn to bite my lip. I touch it instead, my lower lip, with the tip of my finger. Is it weird that I'm still thinking about the kiss?
Is he still thinking about the kiss? Or, was it just a heat of the moment thing for him?
"Stop thinking," he barely whispers. He isn't even looking at me; his gaze is fixed outside the window, towards the vast darkness of the woods yonder.
"Henry," I call out, even though I can feel my eyelids growing heavier. "What is this place?"
He snaps toward me, like I've discovered something I wasn't supposed to know. When he realizes I'm mumbling in my sleep, he walks up to the side of my bed and almost bends over me. He reaches out with his long fingers and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ears. "This is how I remember my life, little one."
"Remember... your... life?" I drag out his words in my half-asleep state. He's a beautiful man, even through the watery slits between my eyelids. "Are you not alive?"
"I am." Henry presses his thumb to the corner of my lips. "I am now."
Between slow sleepy blinks, I watch him drift to the table and look at the sketches I must have left there. He murmurs something but I don't hear him anymore.
When I finally drift, it's not into silence. I don't dream anymore, not of Hawkins at least. I sleep with the quiet certainty that Henry is right across the room, watching over me, waiting for me to be restful. And for the first time in a long time, I finally feel like I'm not alone, that I don't have to be.
Henry brings Persimmon over to his house, and then leaves her alone for hours, clearly stating that she's not allowed to step outside alone. But a girl listens to nobody. What does Henry do when he finds out she has disobeyed him in broad daylight?
On the other side of the general store is a land of dreams. Sky brighter than Hawkins in summer, trees lush and heavy with green and yellow leaves, and an air that is easy to breathe. But it's still not my Hawkins.
There's a mansion in front of us, painted dark blue with white trims. The stairs leading up from the road end on a clinically mowed lawn. An old-timey out-of-place letterbox further cements my suspicion that this isn't the Hawkins I grew up in.
As the dogs slow down and settle on the stairs, Henry leads me toward the house. The rose on the stained glass window stares me down while I wait for him to open the door. I feel observed. I have been feeling this way since I somehow healed the vine and ended up surprising myself and Henry.
His shoulders are still tense as he pushes the door open and extends his arm inside. "Come in, Persimmon."
It's warmer inside. The sunlight slants through the panels on and above the door. There's a chandelier hovering over a well polished, beautifully carved wooden table — it's straight out of the 50's. Henry takes his jacket off and hangs it from a black iron coat hanger thingy. We don't even have something like this at our place; we just put our jackets around the backs of chairs.
This is a rich man's house.
"May I?" Henry pats my shoulder to make me hand my tote bag over. He proceeds to take my rust colored sweater and hangs it right beside his suit jacket.
"Do you live alone?" I ask, looking at the wooden stairs that lead to a floor above.
"Yes, Persimmon," he replies, without really looking at me. "Come, let me show you around."
Henry walks past the entry table and leads me to the right into a massive sitting room. A dark blue couch sits opposite a big TV, the kind of model that's as good as obsolete nowadays. Two sitting chairs are placed on the sides of the couch, angled perfectly for a family that never lived here. There's no forgotten coaster on the coffee table, no coffee stains, no clutter of photo frames atop the fireplace mantel. Like this house was constructed but never lived in.
"This is where my family spent most of our time together. I've kept it the way I liked it. Come, let's go upstairs." He turns, allowing no time for further questions.
We pass by the dining area with a long table sitting across the space. Twelve chairs all pushed in, twelve place settings laid out with meticulous precision, twelve crystal glasses turned upside down like they haven't been used in ages. But there's no speck of dust anywhere on any surface at all.
Our footsteps echo a little too loudly as we climb the stairs. I run my hand along the smooth banister, polished to a reflective shine.
Sunlight floods in through the tall, arched windows that line the hallway on the first floor. The air is different here, even quieter. Henry turns the knob on the first door but he doesn't lead me in.
"This is my study," he declares while I manage to get only a peek of the massive wooden table and the unkempt bookshelves behind it.
Henry quickly closes the door, quietly signalling that I'm not to enter this room without his permission. He leads me to the next door. "This will be your room, Persimmon."
The knob shines golden under his grasp and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Henry shoulders the door open, waiting just a second before, as if hesitating.
The room is bright, soft.
Sunlight pours in through tall windows draped with sheer, frilled white curtains that stir gently, even though I can’t feel a breeze. The walls are a pale, warm cream, a stark contrast to the polished wooden interior of the rest of the house.
There’s a four-post bed against the far wall, large but not imposing, dressed in layers of neatly folded blankets and pillows in muted earth tones — rust, sage, soft gold. The sheets look untouched, crisp like in a hotel room but still inviting, like they’re waiting for someone rather than guarding against them.
I step inside slowly.
A writing desk sits near the window, its surface bare except for a small stack of thick paper and a fountain pen laid out with care. In front of it, a chair upholstered in soft fabric — worn in just enough that it looks chosen, not ornamental. Like someone tested it before deciding it was right.
There’s a bookshelf, too. Not massive like the one I saw in Henry's study but bigger than the one in my room at Hawkins. The shelves are thoughtfully filled. Art books. Old psychology texts. A few novels I recognize from high school reading lists. And others I don’t but when I run my finger along the spines, I realize they’re all stories about longing, about isolation, about people standing at the edge of something vast.
I turn slowly, taking it all in.
This room feels… human.
“Was this your parents' room?" I ask quietly, knowing the answer even though I don’t know how.
Henry stands just inside the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. As if he is embarrassed to have crossed a threshold he has stood on the other side of for far too long. He watches me the way he watched the vine heal — attentive, careful, almost holding his breath, nervous about my reaction.
“Yes,” he says. “It was.”
My chest tightens. “You redecorated it?”
“For you,” he replies simply.
I turn to him then, really looking. “How did you know what I’d like?”
A sense of belonging flickers in his gaze. “I told you,” he says like I must be too silly to have forgotten it. “Your thoughts are too loud.”
He has said it before, maybe only an hour ago.
Only an hour ago?
I snap toward the window, suddenly realizing the daylight as if it has just been switched on. I feel so stupid. How did I not realize it?
This should have unsettled me.
I drift toward the window and plant a knee into the edge of the settee to look out. Warm, bright sunlight washes over me, reflecting on each leaf, each tree branch I can see, as far as I can see into the woods.
"How long has it been since we met?" I ask, my thumb between my teeth.
"Feels like forever to me, Persimmon." He walks up next to me, trying to follow my gaze. From this angle, I can see Boy, Girl and Kid slumped on the stairs, their hairless tails swaying left to right, as if to a rhythm. "What is bothering you?"
"I— I left the daycare when there was still some light in the sky," I start to ramble. "But it was evening. I was supposed to go home, make dinner for my friends. How long has it been since then that it's morning again?"
"Time doesn't work the same way here as it does in Hawkins. Does that answer your question, Persimmon?" His jaws are squared again, his knuckles clenching on the windowsill.
I sigh, knowing that's all the explanation I'm gonna get. "Not really."
Henry walks back to the door and for the first time, I see him in the light. I mean, I look at him, take in his... figure? Is that a creepy thing to say?
He's tall, much taller than I am. And, lean. In shape. His tan pants hang from his hips in parallel lines, the hem flowing around his ankles. His boots are dark leather, laced tight, polished to the point of reflection — very him. His hair is coiffed in his strict, controlled style, but the ends refuse to stay that way, coiling into what I assume is their natural permed state. He's big but not imposing. Just like this house. This room. This bed.
I follow his silent footsteps just to get a whiff of what he smells like. There's no trace of him in the air he walks through, like he doesn't really exist, at least not in the way other people do.
"You must be hungry," he says, and my stomach growls on command. Even his chuckle is calculated, like he was expecting me to make that sound. "Why don't you change and come downstairs? I'll whip something up for you."
When I get downstairs, he has already laid out a plate for me at the head of the twelve seater table. A chair beside it is pulled out too but there's no plate in front of it.
"Will you not eat with me?" I ask as he politely pushes my chair in. There's a cleanly halved egg sandwich on the plate in front of me with a heap of vegetables on the side, reminding me of my mother.
"I have some—" He looks away. "Some errands to run." Then shuffles on his feet before adding, "I hope that would be okay with you, being alone for a while. One of the pets would be here with you, just outside. Or, if you need, I can leave them all behind. Just say the word, Persimmon."
"When will you be back?" I blurt out. I don't mean to sound needy but it probably comes out that way because he chuckles.
"As soon as I can."
He starts to walk out and I follow him like a recently adopted kitten at her new home. I watch him collecting his glasses and his hat, done his jacket and flatten it down his torso, and when he notices my eyes, he slightly tilts his chin. I shake my head, tearing my gaze away.
"Do you mind if I take a look around the neighborhood later?" I ask, watching him put his hat on as I stand at the door like a pre-suffragette housewife bidding her working husband adieu for the day.
"I—" He looks at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little from the sunlight. "I would prefer it if you stay close, Persimmon. For today. If you wait just one day, I promise to be the one to show you around tomorrow."
"Will I still be here tomorrow?" I look up at the bright sky, shielding my eyes to look further in the corner where a little darkness has started to emerge. I wonder if those are clouds or if it's an early evening settling inward.
"You will be here as long as you wish to. If I may suggest, Persimmon, why don't you stay inside today? See if you can make this house feel like home to you. And once I return, you can tell me about all the things that upset you, no matter how little or silly it sounds to you, and I'll fix them."
"Why would you make changes to your home for me?"
"Because I want you to want this to be your home too."
The hours stretch in Henry's absence, if time is even divided into hours in this place. After I'm done with the food, I go over to the sink to wash the plate like a good house guest. But there's no water coming through the tap. Forgetting the utensils in the sink, I move to the living room and settle myself on the sofa. The cushions bend around me as I sit, like welcoming me into the soft, warm lap of a mother. Not my mother but somebody's. Henry's?
I pick up the remote on the coffee table and press the biggest, roundest switch at the TV. That doesn't work. "So time is a myth and nothing else works," I think out loud, hoping this house really is empty, praying nobody is watching me and wondering if I'm schizophrenic. "What am I even supposed to do?"
Should I make dinner for when Henry returns? Maybe the oven wouldn't work either.
At a loss of ideas, I climb back up the stairs to go into the room designated for me. Settling on the window-side settee, I look out at the sky. It's not as bright anymore, like a muted blue, the paintbrush drained of all the color as it swiped on the canvas up above. Not the evening type of rich splish-splash of hues, it looks like it might rain. Unless the wind blows the clouds away.
Bored still, I move to the writing desk. I pull the stack of papers towards me then push it away. Finally, I decide to pluck the top sheet, pick up a pencil and put it to the paper.
Stroke by stroke, I draw out the only image in my head. Henry's face the first time I saw him in the woods outside my Hawkins. He looked reliable, like when he extends his hand, it's never with a half-hearted intention of letting it go the moment the earth shakes under our feet. His smile is always touching his eyes but with secrets concealed under his warmth. He's playful when he touches me or tries to stay physically close to me, flirty to some extent but when I ask him the real questions, he shies away.
But I have to know. Why me? Why was I lured into the woods by the voice of a child I wanted to protect? Why did I let my curiosity get the best of me when he asked me to accompany him home? Why do I— why do I feel at home here?
Before my thoughts are answered, the sheet of paper in front of me slips out from under my hand, as if brought to life by a sudden gust of wind. I rush out of the chair to close the window but it's already too late. The stack of paper has been scattered like dandelion. The fabric of the settee is drenched in the rain that started like a shower being turned on. I run out into the corridor to see if any other window is left open only to feel the house rattling with the thunder in the sky.
Shit! Kid must still be outside.
The stairs rale under my feet as I scurry down the flight. I yank the front door open.
Rain pours down in sheets, cold and dangerous, immediately wetting the hardwood floor inside the house. Kid is exactly where Henry left him, sitting at the top of the stairs on the other side of the front lawn. Upright and facing the road like he's waiting for someone.
"Kid!" I scream over the rain. "Come inside."
He turns his petals toward me but doesn't move. Rainwater slicks down his narrow, bony back and pools at his paws. He doesn't even shake it off. Just... waits. That's when I realize that Kid isn't staying out in the rain because he wants to. He's staying because he's been told to.
"Oh my God," I mutter under my breath, running back inside, looking for something. I move from the living room to the kitchen to the dining room, then back to the front door. Chewing on my lower lip, I snatch my sweater from the coat hanger and dash out.
The rain immediately soaks through my blouse and skirt, making them heavier and clinging to my skin before I can even reach Kid. I wrap him in my cardigan but he shakes his body uncomfortably, trying to get rid of the fabric.
"Kid, please come inside," I beg him, trying to pull him toward the house and when that fails, I attempt to lift him like I do with my cat. But he's not a cat and he's far too strong for an animal that looks like he hasn't been fed well in ages. "Please. You can move. I promise it will be okay."
Thunder explodes overhead like a warning. My teeth start to chatter as I crouch beside Kid, trying to shield him from the relentless rain.
And then—
"Persimmon."
His voice cuts through the rain like a blade.
I turn and the sight of him scares me a little. Henry stands across the street, waiting for a reaction from me. Boy and Girl flank him on both sides, their petals open, red and angry. Kid makes a sound that reminds me of my cat before circling my leg to hide behind me.
If I was in my right mind, I should have tried to hide too.
Henry looks... wrong. His coat hangs open, the front of his shirt smudged, darkened with mud or... something else, something I don't want to decipher right now. His hair is soaked, returned to their natural state, some of his curls sticking to his forehead and his round glasses are gone.
His breathing is too loud, strained. Like he's returning from somewhere far worse than this rain. I almost don't want to say anything or argue. I just want to take him inside and make him a warm meal. But he's—
He looks angry. His gaze shifts from my face to the clothes sticking to my body to my muddy, rain drenched shoes. Then to Kid who, at this point, is trembling with fear, or cold, or maybe both.
"Henry, listen—" I start.
"Inside." He paces toward me with his long legs, making me take a nervous step back.
"Yes but—"
"Now."
Henry doesn't wait any longer. His hand wraps around my wrist, firm and unyielding, and he pulls me with him back inside the house. The last thing I see is my sweater being pulled to threads by the three creatures before the door slams shut.
The warmth of the house creeps into my skin a little too quickly, making my bones shake.
"I told you to stay inside, didn't I?" Henry growls through gritted teeth.
"I was inside." I snap my arms around my chest when his gaze shifts to my shirt still clinging to me. "But Kid wouldn't move. Him and the others, they're going to catch a cold. We should—"
"It's not your decision to make."
The words land like a smack across my cheek. He's right. This isn't my home. Kid is not my pet.
"I wasn't trying to defy you. I was just trying to help," I say with my eyes fixed on the carpet and whatever dignity is still left in my spirit.
"You don't know what's out there." Henry runs a hand through his hair, fully undoing them. He takes a step closer but I don't back away. The water from his coat drips onto the carpet and over my shoes. With my lowered gaze, I see his fists clenching then opening, almost rising to reach me but he restrains himself. "Persimmon, you don't understand what's watching when you step outside this house."
"Then, tell me." I look back up to meet his eyes. "You say my thoughts are too loud. Then, can you not tell that this anxiety is killing me? That not knowing is something I hate with my very soul? You leave for hours and expect me to just sit around the house like all your furniture, like a TV that doesn't turn on, like the taps that don't run water."
Thunder claps outside and the whole house hums alongwith.
"Persimmon, I—"
"I'm not fragile, Henry. I wouldn't die from getting a little wet in the rain. I don't need to be protected."
His eyes lock onto mine. When the thunder rumbles again, I'm suddenly aware of how alone we are in this big house. It's just him and me. What he says next solidifies this even further. "Persimmon Greene, you're mine to protect."
He's so close, too close and suddenly, there's no gap between us. His hand is around my waist and he's pulling me flush against his chest. Only this time, it's not to protect me when the Earth splits open or when strange vines chase us.
I relax a little when his breath washes over my face. His eyes bear into mine, a fire in them like he wants to consume me.
"Henry—" My voice trembles when the tip of his long nose touches mine. I should pull away. Instead, I rise onto my toes.
"Persimmon Greene," he whispers my name like he's too scared to call me anything else. And before we can say another word to each other, our mouths close the distance by themselves.
Persi sees the Upside Down. Or, maybe it's the other way round. As Henry guides her through this unknown terrain, she makes three new friends and discovers an ability she didn't know she had.
It's dark. Not completely dark. But dark like a negative camera roll, dark like an early winter morning. There's something in the air, floating, drifting, falling from the sky. Ash? Or, are they spores?
Is this even safe to breathe?
"Breathe," Henry whispers like he's replying to my thought. His arm is around my waist and I feel small in his grasp, still clinging to his coat. Being the size that I am, I don't remember ever feeling small. Until now.
"Breathe," he says again as he watches my lips open and shut in short gasps. Not even a single hair on his head is out of place, while I can feel the clip at the back of mine threatening to snap, my jeans soaked through.
There are goosebumps on my arms and I believe that's the only reason I'm yet to physically distance myself from Henry. Because I need the warmth. That is the only reason, I tell myself twice.
"Where are we?" I ask once my breath steadies.
He hesitates and looks around, trying to find words to explain our surroundings. "We're on our way home, Persimmon."
I wiggle out of his arms before finally looking closely at the trees around us. They're the same from a few minutes ago when there was still some light in the sky. The vines at my feet feel like they're slithering away from me but it could totally be my imagination. "Are we still in Hawkins?"
"Yes." He still hesitates and it looks like he doesn't believe he'll be able to explain everything to me. "And, no."
Henry maintains a polite touch on my elbow as he walks past me. Without a word, I follow him. Vines crawl away from me as if on command, clearing the path ahead. When we step out of the woods, crossing the same treeline I stepped through to find Teddy, I realize what Henry meant when he said this is not really Hawkins.
It is Hawkins, but a dilapidated, frozen, lonely version of the town I grew up in. I recognize the houses, the bus stop I walk by every day on my way home from the daycare.
The sky is a cloudy blue, patches of red bleeding through every time there's a thunder. The falling of spores is constant but it rarely touches Henry, or me. Fleshy vines spread across the road like tunnels — looping, stopping, starting again. Just like Teddy's drawing.
"Has Teddy been here?" I ask even though I'm scared of the real answer.
"No, Persimmon. Not the way you're here now." Henry keeps walking, and I follow without having to be told to.
"Then, how did he draw the things that I'm seeing here?" I ask and immeditaly hear Henry sighing. "Hey! You can't be offended by my questions. If you thought I was just going to follow you and not ask any, you have the wrong person."
When he turns to face me, his face is alight with amusement. Like, he was expecting me to fight back. He waits for me to catch up to him before saying anything. "If anything, Persimmon, I'm glad you're curious. And to answer your question simply, Theodore saw this place in a dream."
"Did you show him the dream?" Every time I learn something new about this guy, I get equal parts scared and more curious.
"In a way, yes."
"Have you been showing dreams to other people too?"
His lips quirk up on one side. I think he knows exactly who I'm talking about. "Only those yearning to see the same change in the world as me."
"And what—"
I don't get to finish that sentence. There's a snap on my right, at the shadowy doorway of what used to be the general store in my version of Hawkins. A snap like someone stepping on fallen debris. Then what sounds like the hushed growl of a wild animal.
Before my eyes can get accustomed, three four-legged, sinewy, slim figures emerge from the darkness of the store. From a distance, they look like malnourished dogs. But if the whole town here can be this crooked, what will the dogs be?
With heavy footsteps and drool slipping from their chins, these creatures pad their way toward us. Instinctively, I pull closer to Henry. I know they're probably just dogs but I'm a cat mom.
My misconception of these creatures being just dogs gets washed away quickly. Henry shields me with his arm. Two of the dogs stand back, as if holding position. The smallest one runs up to us and what I thought was the nose or the snout of the creature, opens up into petals, emitting a shrill vibrato that rattles my skul
"Oh God!" I gasp, hiding further behind Henry while still peeping to look at the creature's gaping round mouth. I've never seen anything like this before, not even on the Discovery channel.
"Easy," Henry says in a steady tone, lowering his hand. And it listens. Closing up its petals back into a pointy snout, as if in obedience, it walks backward to join the others.
Henry pulls me back to his side. "Don't be scared. They don't bite. Well... not unless I tell them to."
"What are they?" I ask while I'm still trying to understand their anatomy. They don't have eyes but it seems like they're looking at me, assessing me.
He points at the bigger ones standing on either side. "That's Boy, that's Girl and—" He points at the smallest of the pack, the one that came running. "That's Kid."
"What are they?" I repeat.
"Friends. Children. Pets." His touch lingers around my wrist before he drops my hand. "Whatever you want to call them. They guard my home. They protect me."
"Were they trying to protect you just now?" I mirror the way Kid cocks his head to one side. "From me?"
Henry laughs. It’s a strange sound — familiar, like he’s known me long enough to earn it, and distant all at once. A warning threaded through warmth, reminding me that no matter how close I get, there will always be parts of him I’ll never reach. "No, Persimmon. They're just curious. It's not every day they see someone I'm trying to protect from them."
Kid takes another attempt to approach me. Walks up slowly and extends its closed mouth toward me. "Go ahead," Henry encourages me. I close the gap between me and the creature. Placing my hand near its snout, I wait for it to sniff me or stick out a tongue to lick me. Like cats do. But these aren't cats, I forget.
When Kid spreads its petals again, I back off in fear. Henry laughs, pulling me away. "It's alright, Persimmon. You're safe." We stand entwined, watching as Boy, Girl and Kid encircle us. Every time one of them snares at me, I coil closer and closer to Henry. And by the look on his face, he seems to be very amused by the closeness.
"Okay, enough!" I push him away. Boy bares its petals, sensing my agitation, but Henry steps in between me and his pet. He puts his hat back on his head which I hadn't realized he was holding and quietly starts walking in the direction of the store. The same store the dogs came trotting out of. Boy and Girl flank him on both sides, guarding him from some danger I can't see. Kid walks with me, getting too close, brushing its wet-ish body along my calf in a way I can only describe as feline affection.
Thunder continues in the distance in more of a hum than a rattle. Looking around, I realize for the first time that the vines don't just grow on the roads. They're everywhere. On the houses, over the bus stop bench, running up along the lampposts and the tree trunks. Like an invasive species. They're fleshy, they move when I'm about to step over them like they have a mind of their own. I stop abruptly, curious out of my mind to take a closer look. Like girthy earthworms, they contract and extend away as I reach out.
Kid comes in closer and nudges my hand away with its snout. It opens up its petals and gnaws at the vine, holding it down with its paw so it doesn't slither away.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, half expecting it to understand me like my cat does.
Kid’s petals click shut again, disappointed. It nudges the vine once more, impatient. Henry watches for a moment, then exhales through his nose like he’s just remembered a chore he meant to do earlier.
“They’re hungry,” he says simply.
“They eat… that?” I gesture vaguely at the ground, at the living mess of vines threading through the road.
Henry reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a knife. It’s old. Not ornate. The handle is worn smooth, like it’s been used often and without ceremony. He kneels beside the vine with an ease that tells me this isn’t new, that he’s done this a hundred times before, maybe a thousand.
With practiced precision, he presses the blade down. The vine reacts instantly —coiling, tightening, trying to pull away —but Henry pins it with his boot and slices clean through.
It doesn’t bleed. Not exactly. A thick, dark fluid seeps from the cut, glossy and slow, and the vine thrashes weakly before going still.
I flinch. “Henry—”
“It’s fine,” he says, already cutting the length into smaller pieces. “They can’t tear it off themselves. Their jaws aren’t made for it.”
Boy and Girl lower their heads immediately. Kid lets out a sound that’s almost excited.
Henry slides the pieces across the ground. The dogs descend on them at once, petals opening and closing as they feed, the sound wet and unpleasant and impossible to look away from.
I swallow. “Aren't the vines... alive?”
Henry pauses. Just for a fraction of a second. “Yes.” He sounds upset, has been like this since I pushed him away.
“And does this—” I gesture helplessly at the cut, at the way the vine has gone slack. “Does this hurt them?”
He shrugs, wiping the blade clean on the grass, and says in a matter-of-fact tone, “They heal in a few hours. Faster, sometimes. It doesn’t matter.”
It does matter. I don’t say it out loud. I just feel it, sharp and sudden in my chest.
Without thinking, I crouch down.
“Persimmon—” Henry starts, but I’m already reaching out.
The vine twitches when my fingers hover over the cut edge. The fluid clings to my skin, warm like blood and sticky like sap, and something in me reacts before I can reason it away. I press my palm gently against the severed end.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, to the vine, or maybe to this place, to something that looks unaware of my language.
The reaction is immediate. The vine pulls toward me, fibers knitting together beneath my hand, the dark fluid receding as the wound seals itself shut. The surface smooths, pulses once, twice, and then goes still, whole again.
I jerk my hand back, heart slamming into my ribs. “What the—”
The dogs have stopped eating. Henry is frozen. Not tense. Not angry. Stunned.
He slowly rises to his feet, eyes fixed on the vine, then on my hand, as if he’s seeing something he didn’t know how to imagine before.
“You didn’t—” he starts, then stops himself.
I stare at my palm. There’s no mark. No residue. Just my skin, trembling.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say quickly. “I just — I thought it was hurt and—”
Henry steps closer, not invading. Careful. Reverent. He doesn't give me his hand anymore but waits for me to rise, as if afraid of what might happen if he touched me again. “You didn’t command it,” he says softly. “You didn’t force it.”
“What does that mean?” My voice wobbles, my brain too foggy to decipher his riddles.
His gaze lifts to mine, and something fundamental has shifted there —something newly alert. “It means,” he says slowly, “that you don’t take from this place.” The vine beneath us stirs, curling closer to me — not away. “You give.”
Henry looks over my shoulder but before I can turn, he grabs my wrist. "Let's go," he says. There's a new tone of urgency in his voice that wasn't there before, like he thinks we're not alone anymore or like we're being watched but he doesn't want me to know. "Stay close to me, Persimmon. And trust them." He points his chin to the dogs. "They know they're expected to protect you the same way they protect me."
"Where are we going?" I ask, not pushing him away anymore.
"We'll go through the general store," he tells me and for the first time, I don't feel like I'm being lied to or kept in the dark. "On the other side is my home. You'll be safe there, I promise."
Kid leads us into the store while Boy and Girl guard our backs. In a moment of blatant disregard for Henry's unsaid rule, I turn my head and peek from the side of his broad shoulder. The last thing I see before the darkness of the store engulfs us is the network of vines slithering along the road.
Towards, this time, not away. Like a hand reaching out, asking for help.
Boy meets girl. More like, boy monster meets girl human. And for the first time in years, Persi feels heard, seen, recognised. By a mythically handsome stranger who shows up right when she needs someone. Someone. She thinks she needs someone, anyone. But what she really needs is him.
"Teddy. Where are you?" I turn my head towards the threshold of the woods I just crossed. Or was it a while ago?
Rainwater drips from the points of my umbrella, the downpour making the street beyond the treeline almost invisible. My shoes are soaked, my bag is falling off my shoulder, but hey! At least the headache is gone.
"Ms. Greeeeeen."
"Teddy!" This is getting tiring now. I'm starting to think it's a prank by some middle schooler or maybe, one of my bullies. But it is the little child's voice. "Teddy, is it really you?"
"Ms. Greeeeeen." It's still his voice. "Did you like my drawing?"
"I— What? I did, Teddy. I wanted to talk to you about it. Let's—" I stumble over a vine and grab at a nearby tree for support. The moss sticks to my palm, wet and velvety. "Teddy, let's go back to daycare and you can tell me all about it. How does that sound?"
For a while, there's no reply. Only the steady pattering of the rain on the leaves, the occasional yet distant snaps of branches and crunches of leaves. For a while, I feel alone.
This is... somewhat peaceful.
If I didn't have dinner plans, I wouldn't have minded staying here a little longer. My arm would be sore from holding the umbrella but maybe I wouldn't mind getting wet. The hems of my pants would be drenched, soiled but I wouldn't mind washing them as soon as I get home.
But...
Mom would worry if I don't show up home soon. She'd have to start cooking, which I specifically told her she wouldn't have to worry about. Steve would blame himself for not picking me up. Nancy would give me a lecture for being irresponsible if I catch a cold.
And... Teddy! I still have to look for him. Why did he stop calling out? Was I really imagining it all?
I hesitate for a second before deciding to call out to him again. "Teddy? If you're really here, can you please say my name again?"
What if he's hurt? Or maybe he got so scared, he fainted?
Jesus! What should I do? Should I go back to the daycare and call 911? Or call Teddy's parents first?
The sensible answer presses at the back of my teeth.
Turn around. Go back. Get help.
I glance over my shoulder. The street is barely there anymore — a gray smidge through the rain, distorted like something seen through stained glass. The bus stop light flickers once, twice, then steadies. For a moment, it feels impossibly far away, like I’d have to walk for miles just to reach it again. When did I get this far into the woods?
Listening to the smarter part of my brain, I turn around. But before I can take a step, I hear it again. Only this time, it scares me.
"Ms. Greene." It doesn't sound like Teddy anymore. I mean, it's still his voice but it doesn't sound like him anymore. "Do you wish to see the inspiration for my drawing?"
"Teddy, I'm going back to the daycare. You can come with me if you want to. Or—" What am I even trying to say? I should just tuck my tail between my legs and run like a scared cat.
Without looking, I take one step back. The earth gives away beneath my feet, toppling me over on my ass. I gasp. The umbrella falls from my hand. "Fuck!" I look around to realize I had stepped on a fallen tree branch, slick with rainwater. My tote has slid off from my arm and rolled away from me.
"Here."
My heart leaps into my throat as I hear a clear voice this time. Not Teddy’s.
I snap my head upward. The rain that was falling straight into my eyes has stopped — not eased, not slowed, but stopped — caught by the wide brim of a hat hovering just above me.
A man stands there.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still in a way that feels deliberate, like he’s chosen not to move rather than forgotten how. His coat is tailored, snug against the lines of his body. The rain is barely touching him. The hat casts his face in shadow, but not completely. I can see the line of his jaw, sharp and pale, and the faint suggestion of eyes watching me.
"Here," he says again, holding the umbrella out to me by the curved handle.
I take it from his hand, wondering when he could have had the time to fold it up nicely. And furthermore, how did I not hear him coming toward me? And an even more important question.
"Thanks," I say, trying my hardest to keep a steady, confident voice. "Do I know you?"
"I think you do."
I blink. This time, he holds out his hand to me. I feel small, like one of the kids from daycare sitting in a puddle they thought would be fun to jump in but slipped and fell the moment they took the first leap.
"Oh!" He takes his hand back and slides it into his pocket. Pulling out a white as snow handkerchief, he offers it to me. "You're bleeding."
"Shit!" I touch the base of my nose where I feel the trickle. Nosebleed, again. Before I'm concerned for myself, I remember Chrissy Cunningham.
"You make it quiet for everyone else but your own thoughts are too loud, aren't they, Persimmon?"
My breath catches. "How do you— Are you a friend of Fred's?"
"Fred's?" The man stands back up and the rain falls on my face again. His face is fully visible now. He's... he's sharp. Everything on his face is so sharp. He could cut butter with that jaw, make a hole in paper with the pointy tip of his nose.
But his eyes. So blue, so clear, so reliable. He looks away, as if trying to remember if he knows a Fred. Then he laughs. Chuckles, really. "Oh no, no, Persimmon. I'm not a friend of Fred's. Not at all."
"Then how do you know my name?"
"Teddy. He talks about you all the time."
"Are you a friend of his p— parents?" My voice quivers.
"I'm a friend of his."
Oh God! Did this man kidnap Teddy? And is he trying to kidnap me now because I heard Teddy, or because...
Fuck! My head throbs, an electrifying pain jolting across my skull like the pinball machine at the arcade.
"Teddy is with his parents, Persimmon. They're grocery shopping together."
"And why should I believe you?" I clutch and pull at my hair at the back of my head to relieve some pain.
The man smiles. He takes off his hat, further illuminating the sharp features on his face. "You shouldn't. But will you please get off the wet branch now? I don't want you to catch a cold." He produces his hand again and I stare at it.
His long fingers are clinically clean. Pale against the tan of his coat. There's not a single smudge or crack or wound on his skin. Like he was made, not born.
The rain doesn't really touch him, and when I place my hand in his, it doesn't touch me either. But my sleeves are wet, and so are my pants. I just want to get home and get out of these.
When I look up at him, his eyes are already reading mine. His head is slightly tilted, as if he's studying my face.
"You're awfully polite," I finally say, hating how small and scared I sound. "For a person who followed me into the woods."
"Did I follow you?" He asks, softly gripping hand. "You came to me."
"I was looking for Teddy. That doesn't mean I wanted to be here."
"Where do you want to be right now, Persimmon?"
His mulled-wine voice soothes my headache, dulls the noise around. And within. Ever since I stepped into the woods, this is the first time I'm not panicking. Part of me still doubts this man's intentions but the other part somehow believes every word he's said to me so far.
"I have to be home. My mom is probably waiting and my friends are on the way and—"
"Persimmon." He says my full name and for the first time in ages, it doesn't feel like rebuke. "Where do you want to be?"
His eyes are still studying my face. The corners of his mouth lift when he realizes I'm thinking of an answer. Not quite a smile but something akin to amusement. Or, even fondness.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the ground underneath slick. "I— I don't know. I just know that I have to be at home."
His face hardens. The softness in his eyes evaporate, giving way to a calculating gaze. He withdraws his hand and turns to pick my bag up. When he hands it to me, our fingers brush briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through my bones. Actually, he doesn't hand the bag over immediately. We just sort of hold it together, neither of us pulling it away.
"I'm not keeping you," he says softly. I believe him. It scares me more than if I didn't.
His face inches closer to me as if he's trying to kiss me and then halts halfway, seeking consent. I back off and his shoulders stiffen completely. He lets go of the bag.
"Then, can you show me the way out?" I say, immediately trying to cut the tension.
His lip quirks up on one side in a wry smile. "I've been looking for that my whole life."
Thunder rumbles overhead, shaking the trees with it. I'm once again made aware of the fact that the rain doesn't touch him. And me when he stands this close.
"What do you mean?" My headache returns but in the form of a soft tingle down my neck.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his face, listening — not to me, but to something farther away. Deeper.
“To leave,” he says at last. “You have to know where you are.”
“I’m in the woods,” I snap, too quickly. “Outside Hawkins. I walk this road all the time.”
He looks back at me then. Really looks. “No,” he says gently. “You walk near it.”
"I'm tired. I just wanna go home." I realize I'm starting to plead. All my plans of playing it cool and being confident are being washed with the rain. "Please. You're scaring me now."
His face stiffens. His eyes lose their magic for about just a second. “I don’t want to,” he says immediately. And for the first time, there’s something raw in his voice. “I don’t want to scare you.”
“Then tell me who you are.”
He considers this. Carefully. “My name,” he says, “is Henry.”
The name settles in my chest like a dropped stone. Like I've known that name forever.
“I don’t know any Henrys,” I whisper anyway, still scared.
“Yes,” he says. “You do.”
I take a step back and my bag falls from my hand again. My forehead buzzes with a new type of pain. I take another step back. Or, intend to. Whatever I plant my foot on, moves away. I gasp, my arm pinwheeling, and Henry grabs my wrist, steadying me. He pulls me to his chest as my breath falls in shudders. The trees around us shudder too, in response to another soft rumble of a thunder.
"Stay close," he whispers against my ear. "And I'll give you the quiet you've been looking for when life gets too loud."
"How— how do you know what I've been looking for?"
When he doesn't answer, I break away from his embrace. "I have to go home. I don't want to scare my mom, I don't want Steve— my friends worrying over me."
This time, Henry takes a step back. His sapphire eyes burn through me as he still studies me like I'm some lab experiment gone wrong and he's trying to understand how to fix me. "I won't keep you if you don't want to stay, Persimmon. If you choose to walk back to the road, this moment will be forgotten. Like a dream you can't really remember anymore."
"And, Teddy?"
"He's safe. You'll see him tomorrow. You'll remember that he was a part of the dream you saw but you wouldn't recall why it felt wrong, why it felt... special." His gaze drops to my chest where my breath still hasn't steadied.
"And—" I can't believe I'm asking this. "And, if I choose to stay here? Will I still be able to return home?"
"You will be home, Persimmon."
My heart clenches, pulling in two directions. I'm scared of Henry and I'm curious about him. I know I should be at home and I also want to run away.
My voice is at its smallest it has been since I walked into the woods. I clear my throat before looking at Henry. He's waiting for my response. There's something so gentle about his eyes, I understand why Teddy would feel safe with him. "Show me," I whisper but I think Henry hears me clearly.
He extends his hand — not demanding. Waiting.
I place my chubby palm in his.
The trees lean in. The woods fold inward. The branches at my feet transform into vines. When they crawl up my pants, I pull up closer to Henry, clutching at the lapel of his coat. "What's happening?" I panic.
"Don't be afraid." Henry sounds calm. He looks at me with a sort of... reverence? Like he's glad I said yes. "We're going home."
And then... and then, there's quiet. The kind of quiet I've been chasing all my life.
Meet Persimmon Greene, the quiet, chubby, kind girl who listens. She dreams of college, of being a therapist, of a life she can call her own. She is loved by her mother, her friends, her mentor and the children she looks after at daycare. But, who listens to her?
Clouds gather across the skies of Hawkins, creeping slowly but surely, announcing the oncoming downpour. Leaves rustle in the wind that shifts the color palette of the town from a warm, homely locality where everyone knows everyone to a dark, sinister neighborhood being haunted by a monster with nails for days.
And it's only seven-thirty in the morning!
Which means, I have to be at Hawkins High in half an hour, prepping Ms. Kelley's case files for today before running to the music room to get my ukulele tuned and helping Miss Harris' new choir practice for the upcoming year-end show, meeting Mom for lunch, sitting in on Ms. Kelley's sessions in the afternoon, then filling in for my sick colleague at the daycare on a day that I'm not even supposed to show up. So if it rains, I'm sorely fucked.
"These application forms are so gnarly, you know? The way they don't just fill themselves."
That's Robin, my across-the-street neighbor, friend from when I was one and she was just born, technically my first kiss, and my platonic wife. After last year's mall fire, she has somehow become extra protective of me. It's funny because she's younger and I should be the one protecting her. But then, she has always been more street smart than I'll ever be so I allow her the ego boost of being my hero in lieu of sometimes helping me stand up to my mom when I return home late.
"So will be those pancakes if you don't flip them soon." I point my pen at the stove she's just been standing in front of for the last I-don't-know-how-long.
"Oh shit!" She finally picks up the spatula. "Downside up, right?"
"There's no other way."
Mornings are almost always like this. Mom leaves before I even wake up, Robin comes over, we have breakfast together while she bullies me into finishing her homework, I put out food for my still asleep senior calico cat before riding pillion on Robin's bike to Hawkins High.
But today, I'm going to walk. I just have too much stuff to be able to carry on both arms while also balancing my fat ass on the bike's back seat. There's the tote bag with my paint supplies, a small easel just in case, my uke, some notebooks, umbrella for the rain and a scarf in case it gets chilly.
"So you don't want me to take you to school?" Robin asks, stepping out on to the porch. There's a tremor of mischief in her voice that I've learned to detect since childhood but I brush it off.
I kiss the tiny head of my cat before turning to walk out behind Robin. "Yeah! I mean, it'll just be an unpretty sight of me wobbling on the back of your bike, trying to balance— oh! Oh, hi!"
"Morning, Tangerine!"
"The name's Persimmon." I whisper under my breath as Steve snatches my tote off my shoulder. The ever reliable Steve. The phenomenal, pragmatic, popular Steve "the hair" Harrington. Adults like him, children love him, we tolerate him. Kinda.
If tolerating someone meant adoring them, planning every event based on their availability, visiting the mall almost every day for a year just to hang out with them at Scoops Ahoy, tutoring them before finals and celebrating them barely passing high school meant tolerating them, then yes, I tolerate Steve Harrington. I almost had a heart attack when he and Robin barely survived the fire and came back with their noses bashed in. Their wounds were inconsistent with a fire accident but what else could I have done other than believing them? Especially when Nancy backed them too.
"I know." Steve winks before turning to walk towards his cherry red foreign car. A gift from his Dad for graduating. If anybody deserved a gift for that feat, it should have been me.
"I was planning to walk, you know." I protest but only verbally. Because much to my own confusion, and Robin's amusement, I involuntarily start to follow Steve. When he opens the passenger side door open, I slide in. Involuntarily. When he puts my stuff in the back seat, I watch and mutter my thanks. When he gets behind the wheel and tells me to put on my seat belt, I comply. Involuntarily.
"See you at the store after school." He waves out the window at Robin as we drive past her.
I allow him a moment of silent wheel tapping before beginning my interrogation. "So, which one of them called you?"
"Huh?" Steve divides his attention between me and the road.
"You know, Robin or Nancy? Which one of them called you to drop me off at school today?"
"Have I never driven you to school before?"
"You have but not after... you know..." I fidget with the sleeves of my cardigan.
"What?" He breathes sharply through his nose. "Persi, I thought we decided never to talk about that weekend again. I mean, that's what you told me you wanted."
His words make me bite my tongue. "Right, yeah!"
"Yeah? Alright! Now can we be normal again?" The road in front of us is pretty empty and, out of nowhere, he swerves.
"Jesus!" I clutch at the dashboard. "What is wrong with you, Steven Harrington?" He laughs, cranking up the radio. It's a pleasant sound. I mean, a pleasant song.
"There you go, your favorite song." Steve dials the volume higher and starts to hum. "If you're lost, you can look and you will find me... time after time... da da da na na na I'll be waiting... time after time."
Hmm... pleasant song.
"Can we have dinner tonight?" Steve asks as we sit in his car in front of the school, finishing yet another Cyndi Lauper superhit. He has his big palm wedged between two of my small, chubby hands, asking me to warm him up for an apparently big day at Family Video. I know bullshit when I hear one!
"Nance wanted to get away from home tonight." I tell him. "Why don't you all come over?"
"That's not... yeah okay, that sounds like a plan." He retracts his hand. "I'll pick you up from daycare?"
I nod.
The walk from the parking lot to the guidance counselor's office is rehearsed. I know the locker-lined hallways, the corners where sweethearts steal kisses before separating for the day, the thud of the basketball that echoes through the corridor leading to the gym. Year after year, only the faces change, not the school.
As soon as I open the door to her office, Ms. Kelley smiles and hands over a notebook. The one I forgot to put in my bag yesterday.
"I was just curious." She watches me flip through the pages of my extensive note taking through her counseling sessions. "You're a prodigy, Persi. I've decided on what to write on your recommendation letter. Just say when, okay?"
When? That is the real question.
Eddie Munson comes in for his weekly check-in, leaving Ms. Kelley and I discussing his case at length for a while after he's gone. He used to be my senior, then my classmate and now... my ex-classmate. We're also visited by the star cheerleader Chrissy Cunningham.
"Should we refer her to someone else?" Ms. Kelley scribbles in her notes after she's gone and I peek in. Nosebleeds, nightmares, auditory hallucinations.
"Clearly, she needs medical attention. This might be way out of the league for cognitive behavioral therapy."
"You're right. I should refer her to a psychiatrist. You alright?" Ms. Kelley notices me massaging my temple with the back of my pen.
"Yeah, probably just a headache." I shrug it off.
At lunch, I realize for the umpteenth time this week that, even though I have graduated Hawkins High, my life has not changed much. Or, at all. I still have lunch at the same cafeteria with the same person I've had for the last four years. My mom.
My friends and classmates also know her as the lunch lady. Some students adore her, some have problems with her lunch trays that are handed to the students with steamed vegetables already heaped on them. I still remember the time one of my bullies complained to the Principal, stating that I would not have had an obesity problem if my mom stayed at home and fed me those veggies for every meal, every day. It was funny because that was already the case. Still is. And I'm still chubby.
"Hey! I'm taking a minute." My mother takes off her apron as soon as she sees me. Her much younger colleague, Linda, smiles and waves at me.
"Maggie, take this." Linda hands Mom a typical Margaret Greene style lunch tray — broccoli, beans, and corn on one side, a pleasant looking red sauce penne in the middle with scrambled eggs, and a small bowl of yogurt with sliced apples peeking out the top.
Mom takes one look at the tray and shoots Linda a sharp glance that has been silencing cafeteria brawls for eternity. But she sighs and takes the tray anyway. "Looks like you're still a student here," she mutters before handing it to me.
"I mean, you're the one who wants me to stay." And with that, I get the glance too.
We take the corner table we've been hogging for five years now, the one behind the vending machine that's been broken since before Steve and I were freshmen. Mom pulls up her chair as close to me as she can, her knees bumping against mine, our arms touching. Very territorial.
"Did Robin drop you today?" Mom asks as I place all my stuff on the empty chair next to us. I look at where she's chin-pointing to see a Robin waving comically at us.
"No, Steve did," I answer and immediately regret not just nodding.
"Steve?" She sounds offended. "I thought you two fell out and weren't talking anymore."
"Well..." I stammer. "We reconciled. He is... coming over for dinner tonight. Along with Nance and Robin." And I immediately add, "I'll cook. You don't have to worry about anything."
She scoffs. "I worry about everything."
"Right! So I'm taking this off your list."
She bites her tongue and pouts her lips sideways. She does this every time she has planned on saying something clever but I ruin it by saying something nice. So she digs into the plate with a fork and divides the food into two very unequal portions. She gets most of the pasta and I get most of the veggies, the eggs are half-half, and the yogurt is for later.
"How much longer are you going to see Kelley?" She asks with a tissue over her lips.
"Until she writes my recommendation letter." I get the glance again.
"Persimmon." She says my full name. Like a warning. "You have expensive dreams."
"We've spoken about this, Mom. I'll just take a loan out and pay it off when I have a job. I mean, that's usually how it works." I roll my eyes but I wish I didn't.
"For people who want to struggle. I'm offering you a safer, nicer, closer to home option."
This time, I pout my lips sideways. "You also chose the safer, nicer, and... what else did you say? Closer to home? You did that. And then what happened? Mom, you dreamt of becoming a chef in New York. Now you're the lunch lady at Hawkins High. I don't understand why you can't or... or won't let me see my dreams through."
"Fred is not your father."
"Fred is almost the same age as you." I lower my voice. "Do you know how disgusting and criminal-ish that sounds? The fact that he offered to marry me as soon as I got out of high school? How did he know? Where did he see me? What happened to his previous wife?"
"Persi—"
"No, Mom, listen. That man is predatory. I'm not marrying him. A few years later, he'll get bored of me and go for another younger girl."
"Persi, your nose." Mom grabs a tissue and holds it just above my lips. "Calm down, will you?"
I pull the tissue away and look at it. The red streak is striking against the virginal white of the paper. "Shit! What the hell?" I dab at the base of my nostril again.
"You have to hold it there." Mom suggests. "And push your head back a little. Downside up."
I look up at the cafeteria ceiling, my head dizzying, my pulse drummimg in my ears. The chaos of the cafeteria dulls. My mother's concern sounds muffled, faraway. That one tubelight above me is flickering. Has it always been flickering? Jesus!
If I could just be somewhere quieter, darker, it will all be okay. It will all be okay. Some day. By the end of winter, hopefully.
I skip Ms. Harris' choir practice and rush out of the school building. In all my years of knowing and working with her, she has never expressed disappointment but I've always been able to see it on her face. In her sorry, concerned eyes and her thin lips thinning further when she presses them into a line to keep herself from saying something traumatizing to someone at an impressionable age. Is it too evident that she's my favorite?
The clouds block out the sun completely as I sit at the bus stop, my elbows resting on my knees with my head in my hands. It's colder, a more evening type weather on an autumn afternoon. I don't hate it. I'm just not wearing a warm enough cardigan.
There's the signature muddy, earthy scent in the air. The one before rain. Petrichor. It's been there all day. So why hasn't it started raining yet?
When I finally reach the daycare, two of my coworkers are out in the field with the toddlers. They've all lined up, waiting for their turn on the slides or the swings. Some are making sand castles, some are just... I don't know, roaming around?
"Care to join us, Ms. Greene?" Candice, one of my colleagues waves at me. I wave back before going inside to put my stuff down. I have a painting session planned for today so I set out the papers and the colors, and my tiny easel which I brought just to fascinate the kids.
I walk out on to the field to join the others. The kids laugh as they see me and I try to mirror some of their actions. The cute hand flapping, the tiny jumps and the awkward dances. Oh my God! They're so cute. They're making my headache go away.
Field time is routine. We supervise their time on the slides and swings, make sure they don't eat dirt, collect the strays that wander off toward the woods and keep them from scraping their knees and elbows. Easy peasy!
On our way back inside, little Theodore takes my hand by surprise. "Hi there, Teddy!" I squeeze his small palm. "I noticed you stayed close to the gang today. Thank you for being a good boy."
"No..." He draws in a snot-filled breath. "No problem... Ms. Greeeeeen."
"Have you become friends with David? The one you were building the sand castle with?"
"Yes, Ms. Greeeeeen." He tightens his hold when he changes into his inside shoes. I sit down the floor in front of him and pull out a tissue.
"Come on, blow into this," I say, holding it at his nose, and he complies.
"Thank you, Ms. Greeeeeen." He replies in a much less nasal voice and then leans in to hug me. "You're nice. You make it all go quiet. That's why—" A sneeze cuts his chain of thought and I have to hold up another piece of tissue for him to blow into.
Leading him to the group, I start to show everyone my cute easel. As expected, it garners excited cheers as the kids gather around me to look at it. I flip through a few of my previous works clipped onto it and they seem impressed. "Ms. Greene, how did you draw on this when your hands are so big?" One of them asks.
I laugh. "Why don't I show you how easy it is?" I dip a No. 2 round brush in yellow paint, lightly wet it and gently swat it across the paper clipped to the easel. The color splatters and the toddlers gasp as if I've shown them a magic trick. Some of them flick their wrists, trying to recreate my exact hand movement.
So I send them back to their low tables with papers arranged and crayons and watercolor tubes all laid out in front of them. Some of them are filled to the brim with ideas, mixing colors together and smearing their brushes across the pages. Others are taking their time, deciding which color to use or which brush would best produce their ideas onto paper. "Take your time, guys," I assure everyone, especially the ones that are going too fast. "All you have to remember is, paint is not food so don't chew on the crayons and don't try to drink paint water like tea. It tastes horrible. I know because I drank it once." The older kids laugh while the younger ones are busy. "Not on purpose. It was an accident. So listen to me, okay?"
I decide to sit down beside Theodore. He has always been the thinker, the wanderer, the one straying from the group, the one others can't relate to. I have an inkling he might find art to be a relieving outlet.
But the longer I look at his work, the more uneasy I start to feel. He has used red, brown and black broken lines to cover the whole page. The lines don’t form shapes so much as paths — looping, stopping, starting again. Like he kept changing his mind halfway through. I squint so hard to try to make out any discernible object or figure in all the chaos, it gives way to another headache. "Teddy," I call out to him. My voice quivers. "That's a lot of colors. Can you tell me—"
"Persi!"
Before I can ask him anything, Candice calls me. She's holding up the receiver of the reception phone. "It's Steve."
I rush to take it from her and she gives me a cheeky, knowing smile. "Hey! What's up?" I ask, pinching my eyebrow in a futile attempt to curb the ache.
"Woah! You alright?" There's the signature concerned Steve voice.
"Yeah, just a headache." I don't lie.
"Oh! Oh... umm... alright!" He sounds like he's calculating. "No worries. When does your shift end again? I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Steve, what's up? You didn't just call to check in, did you?"
"Well..." He's hesitating again.
"Spit. It. Out." That's exactly how I sound when I'm trying to get my cat to throw up a bug she's put in her mouth.
"I might be a little late to pick you up today. Remember I told you about the big day at Family Video?" He's rambling. "Yeah so we opened up a new section of Asian movies. Horror. Drama. All that shebang. What we didn't anticipate—"
Steve, get off the phone and come help me. I hear Robin's scream in the background.
Steve continues. "Nerds. Pervs. Nerdy pervs. There's a whole line outside—"
"Steve." I try to stop him. "Steve! Steve! Listen. I'll walk. Okay?"
"Perse, you just said you have a headache. I'll come get you. Just wait a little."
"Just come for dinner, okay? Meet me there. I'll be fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Steve!"
"Yes...?"
"Go, help Robin. I'll see you later."
By the time I get back to the kids, some of the parents have started coming in to collect their children. The toddlers leave their drawings with Candice. Some stand by to watch her clip them to a clothesline we have hung across the room. Some show their art to their parents.
My eyes dart around to find the one most intriguing to me. It's at the end of the row. I pull it off the clips, still squinting at it.
"Bye, Ms. Greeeeeen." I hear Teddy's voice and turn towards the door. His father is holding him in his arm while the mother smiles and waves at me. They look like a happy family. It would be a shame to concern them over nothing. So, I hide the drawing behind me as I walk up to them.
"Bye, Teddy." I shake his extended hand. "You be a good boy to mum and dad, okay?"
"Ye—" He sneezes and his mother rushes with a tissue to clean off his snot. "Yes, Ms. Greeeeeen. See you... on... the other side."
Kids say all sorts of things, right? I laugh it off. "Not if I see you first."
Candice finds me in the break room half an hour later, holding my head between my hands over a white cup of disgusting machine coffee. "Are you alright?" She startles me.
"Umm yeah, just a headache." I wish it was.
"I'm heading out. Do you want me to walk you home?"
"It will be the opposite direction for you, won't it? I'm gonna wait here for Steve and Robin. I'll lock up. Don't worry."
"Alright! I'll see you on the other side."
What the fuck? "I'm sorry?"
"I said I'll see you tomorrow."
"Right. Yeah. See you tomorrow."
I've lied through my teeth during that entire conversation. I'm not waiting for my friends, or calling Steve to come pick me up after I told him explicitly that I'll be fine.
Dropping the rest of the coffee down the sink, I go back to the kids' playroom. Candice has tucked away all the paintings and the art supplies away and for that I'm grateful. I leave some of my stuff here for the day to make my bag lighter to carry. The one thing I make sure to fold nicely and shove in my bag is Teddy's drawing. I absolutely must show it to Nancy.
The daycare lights click off behind me with a dull finality. The lock sticks, like it always does, and I have to jiggle the key twice before it turns. The sound echoes too loudly in the empty evening.
The road home stretches ahead of me, gray and familiar. However, uncannily empty.
The woods sit to my left, darkening fast. The treeline seems thicker than usual. Or, maybe it's just the headache doing its tricks.
I take a few more steps before I hear it.
"Ms. Greeeeeen."
I stop, looking around. The voice came from among the tree trunks. I squint harder, just like I did looking at Teddy's drawing. "Teddy?" I call out, stepping off the concrete and towards the woods. Even though I'm skeptical, even though I keep wondering how he'd have gotten separated from the very loving parents who picked him up.
Maybe they got distracted. Maybe they left the car door open a second too long and still haven't realized that their five-year-old isn't strapped safe in the backseat.
"Ms. Greeeeeen." The voice is a lot of closer this time. A lot clearer. And a little more urgent.
"Teddy," I call out again. I'm certain this is not my brain playing tricks because my headache has eased. Not entirely but like when Steve turns the radio down to find a nice parking spot. "I'm right here, dear."
"Ms. Greeeeeen." He sounds scared.
The muddy smell weighs down around me like an undried towel and the damp grass gives way beneath my shoes. The branches extend toward me like welcoming arms, beckoning me to come look for a lost child within their dark embrace.
A low thunder rumbles overhead. I take my first step beyond the treeline as it starts to rain.
In Hawkins, Indiana, Persimmon’s life is already mapped out for her: stay close to home, marry a man she doesn’t love, give up on college, and accept that wanting more is a luxury girls like her can’t afford. She’s soft, chubby, kind, and quietly desperate for a future that feels like her own.
Then a child goes missing near the woods.
When Persimmon follows a familiar voice into the woods on the edge of town, she crosses a threshold no one else hears calling. Beyond it waits a dark, living world — and its solitary ruler, Henry — a being shaped by exile, silence, and a loneliness as vast as the realm he governs. He has never known gentleness until Persimmon Greene steps into his realm. Where others fear him, she listens. Where the world above cages her, the darkness offers truth, power, and a terrible kind of freedom.
Henry is not a monster.
He is not a savior.
And Persi was never meant to be a victim.
As Hawkins searches for a girl they believe is lost, Persi must decide who she is willing to become—and where she truly belongs.
A dark romantic retelling inspired by the myth of Hades and Persephone, Bring Me a Dream is a story about agency, softness as strength, and choosing the life — and love — that feels like home.
what if I did a Stranger Things retelling of the Hades x Persephone myth with Vecna/Henry/One being Hades and OFC being Persephone? still set in 1980s Hawkins, just with a lot of liberty taken with canon events and characters.
what if I did a Stranger Things retelling of the Hades x Persephone myth with Vecna/Henry/One being Hades and OFC being Persephone? still set in 1980s Hawkins, just with a lot of liberty taken with canon events and characters.
synopsis: in the simple quiet of your bedchambers, your loyal knight considers the kingdom’s future, his sworn duty to protect you, as the princess who will soon inherit it, and the weight of the devotion he keeps close to his heart.
tags: knight au, medieval royalty au, reader is a princess and nanami your most devoted knight, very mildly suggestive themes, repressed chronic yearner nanami, just an entire story of unbearable yearning really, he’s lowkey trying very hard not to lust over your shadow on the floor that’s how bad it is, implied age gap, wc: 2.6k
a/n: honestly this was so much fun to write!! i have been plagued by knight fucker thoughts and just wanted to try something new.
The sunlight is a cruel thing.
Nanami Kento stands with his back pressed to the wall, both arms raised to rest atop the hilt of his sword. Outside the castle, the evening sun sinks lower into the horizon, a gentle whispering of a late summer day that filters through the stained glass windows, painting your chambers awash in a golden haze.
Behind the divider on the other end of the room, your maids are busying their hands with the whispers of silk and lace upon your skin. He’s long grown used to this rehearsed choreography — of hushed voices and ties pulled tight upon your waist; of lavender oil that threads through the air and settles deep into the trenches of a heart he still has yet to tame.
The last offerings of daylight casts your silhouette across the polished floors, and your knight forces his gaze away. It is this sight itself he cannot get used to — a cruel taunt of the outlines of your body drawn upon the floor with shadow and light; a battle so onerous even the kingdom’s best warrior struggles against yielding to.
The sunlight is especially cruel today, in fact, for it casts the outline of your shape perfectly across the floorboards; moving when you lift your arms, bowing as you bend. If Nanami only looked — a temptation he is trying his very best to avoid falling into — then perhaps he would be able to see the locks of stray hair yet to be pinned in place by your maids, or the way you shift on your feet, clad in just your stay as you pick out a gown for the evening.
And perhaps his heart would be weaker at the sight of something about you remaining so unmade, unguarded and untouched by the weight of the crown or the stifling air of ceremony.
But he does not. Instead, his eyes drop on their own accord each evening, standing guard by your door and counting the hinges, the latch, and the exact number of footfalls it would take to cross the room to you if he had to.
Seven.
Seven too many, but seven Nanami commits to memory just the same. He averts his eyes from the outline of your body and counts those seven steps; before recounting the hinges on the door and the scratches on his sword — and he thinks of the crown with a heart equally as heavy as the armour he wears.
No, not the thing itself; not the heavy gold adorned with intricate carvings and precious gemstones his unlearned tongue struggles to identify with confidence — but what it shall mean to bear the weight of it.
A life of inevitability, of responsibility you shall have no choice but to bear with your head held high and your smile fixed tight upon your face. Meetings that drag on till dawn and do not resolve. A charming prince whose smile hides something far sharper than the blade he wields. A throne too hot in the summer and ice cold in the winter.
(Too lonely, no matter what the season.)
The wooden screen that divides him from what his heart so stubbornly longs for is adorned with tanchozuru taking flight; red-crowned cranes with their ink-dipped wings outspread, the sky almost boundless amidst the gold lacquer.
They are symbols of longevity and good luck, amongst other things, and although Nanami has never been one to count on something as flimsy as luck, or on something as intangible as hope, he supposes now might be a worthy time to begin.
You are but nineteen years of age, and if the whisperings within the castle walls are to be believed, then you will quickly be expected to rise to receive your new title within the year, as the only heir to a rapidly weakening king, inheriting a kingdom bordered by blood-thirst and neighbours that circle like vultures at the slightest hint of instability brewing.
Nanami hopes to god the rumours are wrong.
They never are. And he should know better by now than to hope for the impossible.
But still — his stubborn heart persists.
He hopes that you might breathe a little longer in the powder pink and baby blue of the gowns you favour so much, before the crown turns them into bold shades of crimson red and royal purple, before your bright laughter is stifled beneath heavy velvet and brocade. Before his tongue must adapt to the way the words Your Majesty hang a little too heavy off his lips, before you stop being his Princess and are called upon to become the Queen.
The screen shifts. The cranes ripples in place as it does, and Nanami has to wonder if they truly are as untethered as they seem, or if even these birds before him are held down by some unspoken force, the same force that binds him to you, and you to the throne.
Then, the silhouettes behind the screen multiply briefly. One maid comes into view, peering round the screen with surprise and curiosity she fails to conceal entirely. She is young, new to her role, and perhaps not used to seeing a knight in the princess’s private quarters. Another maid bends down to fix the hem of your dress, the rustle of silk continuing until they finally step away and leave your shadow standing alone.
Finally, you step out, and the smile you seem to spare only for him these days is probably more cruel than the sunlight that was casting a sinful outline of your body upon waxed floors.
It doesn’t take much to undo him — the corners of your lips simply have to tip upward, the edges of your eyes carrying a softness that twists at his heart.
You call his name quietly, and as taken as he might be with you, he isn’t blind to the way your smile has recently lost some of the light it once carried so easily.
The air in the castle rests heavier and heavier each day, like a breath held in trepidation of the fall of a great king. But the dark eye circles, the hollowness to your cheeks; nothing bites at Nanami’s heart more than seeing you like this.
Lonely.
“…I saw the physician leaving father’s chambers earlier,” you say. You hesitate around the next words, fiddling with the fabric of your gown. “He isn’t getting any better.”
His fingers tighten fractionally. He bows his head because he cannot bare to see your sad smile fracture further. The sunlight is cruel for multiple reasons, he supposes. Each new dawn brings the beloved king one day closer towards the edge of a precipice the kingdom will soon mourn for.
“No,” Nanami replies, less of an affirmation and more of an apology. “I am afraid he is not, your Highness.”
You do not ask if your father will be alright. You do not cry. A younger you would have — he can picture it still, your eyes brimming with tears, lips quivering as you cried for a week straight over your favourite horse, inconsolable by nothing and no one.
The crown is changing you before it even rests atop your head. You grieve silently these days, without tears, and for all Nanami swore to protect you against, he never imagined it would be the weight of the inevitable itself. Of destiny that looms in the distance.
Nanami watches as you move to the windowsill, palms coming to rest on the ledge. He joins you because he knows this is the kind of heaviness that begs for a companion to hold it with. He joins you because words have never been his forte, and what he cannot offer with an eloquent tongue he tries to offer with a steady presence.
That is a knight’s duty, after all.
(Or at the very least, it is his.)
“I do not know if I can do this,” you whisper after a long silence. You do not cry anymore, but the quiver of your voice still betrays your sorrow. “I cannot be like my father.”
“You do not need to be your father, your Highness,” he replies lowly. “The realm does not seek a copy, it seeks you.”
An easy answer, but one that is no less lacking in honesty.
Nanami doesn’t doubt that you will become a great ruler; his only fear lies in what the crown will demand in return for greatness. He wonders if your easy laugh will still carry over the breeze, if your hands will still obstinately reach for him in those small, thoughtless moments where you refused to see rank and status, where he only found himself a mere man before you.
(He hopes, yet again, for just a little more time.)
“Whatever happens,” he adds, because in your continued silence he reads of your need for something more solid to hold onto. “I shall keep you.”
At that, you smile. A tired, amused curve of lips. “You have said that before. At a time most similar to this one.”
Of course, he remembers it too.
A younger you, your hands pressed similarly on the windowsill, the sunlight falling in the same patient streams through the panes of glass. The scene is painfully similar, except your eyes were burning with tears and your head was bowed to hide the way they trickled down your cheeks in hot streams.
“You do not want me,” you had sobbed bitterly, your shoulders shaking as you cried. “Am I correct?”
Even as he watched you, he could still feel the ghost of your lips lingering on his own before he had quickly stepped back from you, the heat of that touch now burning against his skin as you wept quietly.
Nanami thought to himself, then and there, that he ought to be put to death for daring to draw sorrow from your eyes like that. Instead, he had simply stood the same way he stands now, unmoving, pretending he wasn’t choking on his own splintering heart.
He had the good sense to turn away before his body could betray him with a hand reaching out to fix your collar, or to adjust the ribbon in your hair — before he could accidentally lay bare his lifetime of devotion on impulse to console you with more than words could allow.
“No,” he told you quietly, and his own voice was weak and fractured at the edges with the kind of emotion he rarely let himself show. “You are not correct, your Highness.”
“Then—” you turned to face him again, your lashes darkened and wet, “why do you hold yourself so far from me?”
His answer had been similar to the reply he just offered you now.
Because I must keep you.
And for now, keeping requires distance.
“Will it always be this way?” you’d asked, and though your brows were furrowed, your eyes were desperately searching his for a hint of hope to be found within the autumnal warmth of hazel irises.
“No,” Nanami found it in himself to say, because he could not bear the sight of seeing you like that for a single breath longer. “Not always.”
He might be a stone statue enclosed in steel, but his heart has always seemed to move for you, and you alone.
And so he held those words close to his heart, and they became his new oath that day. He held them tight, not as a mercy spoken lightly by a lesser man — but as a promise, a plan he intended to uphold.
“I meant it then,” he tells you. “But I mean it even more now.”
Your head tilts, considering him, and when your eyes flicker over to his mouth and back, Nanami knows you must be reliving the same searing heat against your own mouth, the same pull of gravity.
“Do you also remember what else you said?”
He swallows, feeling his throat working around a reply. You answer for him in his hesitation. “You said,” you remind him, eyes steady on his, “Not always.”
“Yes,” he agrees quietly. “I believe I did.”
“And has that hour finally come?” you ask, and in the slow flutter of your lashes against the glow of the dying sun, he finds himself going weak in the knees.
Keeping requires distance, and Nanami is familiar with distance.
It is woven into the three steps he trails behind you at all times, in the seven it would take to reach you from where he stands guard at your door each night, and now, in the one singular step it requires to close the distance and let his desire be louder than reason.
What he is unfamiliar with, however, is the sort of keeping that asks him to stand near enough to hold.
His breath trembles in his chest, but he doesn’t have it in him to refuse you a second time. Not after it nearly killed him inside a year before. He thinks that maybe the kindest thing he could do for you now would be to stand nearer, not farther.
“If you’ll allow it,” he says slowly, every word laid down like permission being sought, “then it shall.”
You simply shift towards him in response, wordless, and suddenly the one singular step between your bodies is no more. The last inch that remains is for him to close. The last inch is for a knight to decide if he shall break his princess’ heart once more.
“Are you sure about this?” he murmurs, even though the answer is written plain as day on your face. He does not need to seek confirmation, but he does so anyway.
“I am,” you whisper, certain, sure. “Keep me, Nanami. But for the sake of my heart, do not keep me alone any further.”
Weary as you are lately, Nanami has never seen any beauty comparable to the lady in front of him. Closeness is an indulgence his duty has never allowed him, but now, standing only a few breaths away, you are positively radiant – even the sunlight does not dare compete. That must be why it lays itself softly on your cheek, threads itself through your hair in awe, and sketches your silhouette upon the floor like an artist does before their muse.
There are vows fixed by words etched on stone tablets and set in the obsidian ink of a quill taking to paper. But then, there are also vows not spoken nor written, and instead forged by inches and breath, in the distance between two people finally closed and not withheld.
Nanami takes that last step, and already your head tilts toward him. In that instinctual response he finds the sharp reminder that his longing for you was never a well-kept secret, and neither was it an unreciprocated desire.
And so–
He kisses you.
He kisses you because you are his Princess, but in the privacy of your quarters, he finds himself not your knight, and just a man losing something he’s never had the right to hold in the first place.
He kisses you because one day you shall be Queen, and you shall sit atop a throne that might as well be an unscalable mountain, and Nanami Kento feels very determined to rebel against that fate today.
He kisses you back because the sunlight is unbearably cruel, and each new dawn brings you closer to a destiny he hopes would just wait for a gentler time to call your name.
The truth is, Nanami knows more than anything that the destiny that looms on the horizon could never be gentle.
But he kisses you as if it could be.
Let me keep you, he thinks. It doesn’t matter where I have to stand. Three steps behind you, seven by the door, or kneeling at your feet; I shall keep you.
And when the time comes where keeping no longer requires any distance at all, your loyal knight will never be standing too far.
a/n: honestly i have no idea what this is LMFAOOO but i mostly wrote it for myself and i had a lot of fun in the process so that’s what matters.
— the title of this fic is from a song, and the full lines are: so can we pretend sweetly, before the mystery ends? // i am a man with a heart that offends // with its lonely and greedy demands
— red crown cranes symbolise longevity and long life, but these birds also mate for life and can be taken to represent devotion and loyalty, which, uh… nanami has plenty of. i figured it would be appropriate lol
Billy Butcher x plus-size, brown, female Supe reader
ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʙʏ ᴅᴏᴊᴀ ᴄᴀᴛ
Billy being his cocky and avoidant self, jealousy, ending with make up sex; WC: 4K
You're a Supe, flying under Vought's radar for a really long time but not lowkey enough for The Boys. Frenchie and Kimiko find you on one of their missions and bring you back to the pawnshop. Hughie and Annie immediately warm up to you even though MM keeps calling you both a liability and a danger. And then comes the cocky motherfucker Frenchie keeps calling Monsieur Charcutier.
"What can the bitch even do, eh?" He asks in his demeaning voice. Kimiko angrily gestures at him and he corrects himself. "What does the girl do? Is that better?"
"Show 'im, mon amie," Frenchie encourages you.
You wait for a nod and a smirk from Kimiko before locking eyes with Butcher.
"Ah fuck!" Butcher cries out as his head snaps back from being flicked on his forehead. "Bollocks!" He clutches his chest before grasping at his crotch and succumbing to the floor. "Fuck!" Breathless, he holds on to his balls as he looks up to the woman he was challenging mere moments ago.
You have your thumb and middle finger curled at eye level, prepared to flick any part of Butcher's body at any time.
"She got you in the balls?" Hughie rushes to Billy's aid, struggling to hide his grin.
"The nipples too, lad. Fucking diabolical!" He stands up, his knees still tense from being flicked at such a sensitive spot. "So she can cop a feel from afar. Big deal!"
Kimiko gestures again and Frenchie translates. "She can be an awesome support for us and attack from a distance."
"So can bullets," Billy argues.
"Bullets can't kill Homelander but an attack from an invisible force can—"
"You lot think she can kill Homelander, eh? She looks like she can't even run."
"Woah! That's not— hey! Girl!" Before MM can finish his sentence, you take off, stomping toward the exit. Annie tries to follow you but you turn and push her back in one sweep of your wrist.
"Boy, she's strong," Annie comments as Hughie helps her up.
MM's one glance makes Butcher grimace. "You've got to be kidding me, mate," he whispers under his breath before following you out. He catches up to you in no time, walking just a few steps behind.
"Look, miss, I'm sorry, alright? Miss? Oi? Would you like me to get on my knees and beg, eh?"
"You know what?" You stop in your tracks and turn. "That'd be fucking great. Why don't you go right now?"
"Alright, lady, that was just me being nice. Eh? Don't want ya thinking just about anyone can make Billy Butcher kneel for 'em, alright? Also—"
"Help! Please!"
Butcher's monologue is cut short by a scream on the opposite side of the road. Your heads snap in that direction to a wheelchair being pushed into oncoming traffic.
"No! Wait!" Before Butcher can stop you, you are already posed for rescue. With one hand, you stop the truck about to crush the disabled person and with the other, you push the wheelchair back on to the sidewalk and past the bullies who were about to get them killed. But before you can smack down the miscreants from the other side of the street, Butcher steps in, turns you around and lifts you up in a bundle in his arms. "Cut it, will ya?"
"Put me down. Those motherfuckers need to be taught a lesson. Put me down."
Butcher carries you into an alley, pushes you up against a wall and covers your mouth with a big, rough hand. "Quiet down, will ya? Or do ya want the boys captured and tortured for the rest of their lives while Vought uses your powers to up their stock price?"
You calm down. Not just because of the calloused palm over your mouth, or the stern twitch in Butcher's jaw, or the iron grip on your elbow. His eyes stop you. His dark, dependable eyes that speak in high volumes when they ask you to just trust him to handle everything.
"’Cos they’ll do exactly that — slap you in sparkly spandex, parade your big arse in front of cameras and nick all the bloody credit. Ask Starlight." He refuses to loosen his hold on you. "If they don’t cosset you, they’ll call you a Supe terrorist, put a price on your head, and turn your life into a fuckin’ reality show before they kill you on camera. Ask Kimiko what they did to her brother, alright?”
"I know what happened to Kimiko's brother," You mumble against his hand. "And I know what Annie is fighting for."
"Let me guess. You wanna be a part of it, isn't that right, luv?" You nod and he finally lets you go. He takes a step back. "What did the Supes do to you?"
"Compound V made me kill my parents."
He never asks you what happened. But his actions henceforth show you he respects you and sees you as one of the Boys. He oversees your training with Kimiko, and even personally prepares your meals with high protein, less carb food items.
"How have you turned Monsieur Charcutier into your personal chef, mon amie?" Frenchie asks at dinner one night as you munch on your shrimp and bok choy salad.
"It's because he thinks I'm too fat." You snap. Billy doesn't reply to your ragebait so you egg on. "Maybe he's not used to seeing women of my body shape much in his life. All the spice that his ancestors stole from our lands and still couldn't make good enough food to plump up their women."
“If your lot’s so bloody good at cookin’, why don’t you whip us up somethin’, eh, doll?”
His tone is cocky when he challenges you but everyone knows he's the most interested when he runs to the supermarket early in the morning to tick off your grocery list. Basmati rice? Check. Saffron? Check. Rosewater? Check. Garam masala? Check.
"Oh wow!" You exclaim as you go through his shopping bag. "Oh my God! I can't belive you got me a whole jar of ghee."
"Any good?" He asks, watching you twist the lid open to sniff.
"Almost," You reply with glee. Then you walk up to him and tiptoe to place a small, polite kiss just above his beard. He stiffens under your touch. "Thank you, Will."
Billy hesitates, not knowing how to respond. He transfixes you with his eyes, the ones you've grown rather fond of but wouldn't ever admit, unless at gunpoint. You've learned to read them, to help you understand when he's just stressed and wants to down a few shots of Glenlivet versus when he's really angry and wants to bash his fist through the wall.
Whenever you sense the second, you simply hold his arm from a distance, patting the inside of his bicep to offer some comfort. The first time that happened, Billy had been rightfully shocked, swatting in the air to find the invisible hand. He had relaxed the moment his eyes met yours across the room and nodded in approval.
“Oi, easy now, luv. Nobody calls me Will — ’less you’re tryna get under me skin.”
"Do I not do that enough already?" You wink.
His fingers curl against the countertop. “I’ve got a wife, yeah? So don’t go makin’ eyes at me like that.”
His tone kicks up your defenses. "Do the girls you fuck on the side know that?"
“Whatever birds I mess about with — none of ’em is you, alright?” His stare is intense, jaw tight.
You let out a low laugh before turning to hide the water on your lids. "Right, not as fat."
Before you can walk away, Billy catches you. He turns you around, his hold tight around your plush waist, and pulls you in. When his mouth lands on your lips, all the chaos around you and the self-doubt within subside. All there is in your world at the moment is his touch — his urgent embrace, his chapped lips, his prickly beard, his warm breath when he finally stops kissing you. "You play dirty, don't ya? The bloody problem is you're too fuckin' special and you know it. Too fuckin' special for your own good... and mine. You know damn well what you mean to me, but you’d rather twist the knife, make me admit it, eh?"
"So admit it, Will." You graze the back of his neck with your fingernails. This is the first time you've actually physically touched him without using your Compound V-given powers. You know he wants you to become stronger and even if he viewed you as a weapon before, things have changed. In his own twisted way, he cares about you and half of his bullying and cussing and angry drinking translates into unexplainable adoration and kinship.
"You want me to confess, doll? Here goes nothin'." He takes in a deep breath, still not letting you escape his embrace. "You’re… bloody hell. You’re everythin’ I’ve spent my life keepin’ out, you know that? Soft. Warm. All that good shit I told myself weren’t for the likes of me.
“You walk in here, all light and kindness, and it don’t make sense. I’ve seen people turn to stone over less than what you’ve been through — but you… you still give a damn. You look after the Boys like family, even when they don’t deserve it. I’ll be honest, love — it does my head in watchin’ it.”
He gives a short, helpless laugh — more breath than sound. “You reckon I’m tryin’ to change you, yeah? Well, I ain’t. I just— I want you ready. For when the world gets ugly again. If I’m not there to fight it for you, or... or with you…" He trails off, swallows, his voice softens almost to a whisper. “I don’t ever wanna hear you’re gone. Not from the telly, not from anyone. I just want to come home and find you right here — givin’ me that look that makes me forget how bloody broken I am.”
You bring your hand to rest against his cheek and quietly stroke his beard. "Come home broken, come home angry, frustrated, feeling like you could strangle Homelander with your bare hands. I will be here nonetheless."
Right when he's about to kiss you again, Frenchie walks in. "Monsieur Charcutier et mon amie? Ce qui se passe?" Kimiko and M. M. follow behind and Billy lets you go, raising his hands in defense as Frenchie and M. M. come up to him to squeeze his shoulders and cheer him on. Kimiko holds your hand and smiles. You smile back but one look at Butcher's face tells you this is not what he wanted. His smile, that reached his eyes only moments earlier when you were in his arms, now barely shows his teeth.
And, voila! He disappears after lunch.
Two days later, Hughie runs in speaking in jargons. The bits you can make out are Hughie being a canary, Argentina, dog toy, a British bulldog named Terror, and M. M. realizing it's all about Becca.
Becca. Becca. Becca.
That name has been an earsore to you since the day you realized you were falling for Billy Butcher. Everything is always about her. And you understand Billy's need for her, avenging her being his one true purpose. Every member of the Boys has a backstory that defines them and constantly fuels their rage against the Supes. Yours is your parents; Billy's is Becca. You're not unaware of this fact and you're not that shallow that you'd demand Billy to erase her out of his life just because you guys kissed once. But sometimes, you wish everyone would just. shut. up. about. Becca.
When M. M. orders you to stay behind as he and Hughie leave for Aunt Judy's, you spend the whole day buried in pastries and weed you steal from Frenchie's stash. And as your last act of self-sabotage and to make sure Billy is irreparably disappointed in you, you track Hughie's location on Find My Phone. You drive there red-eyed, dry-mouthed and undeniably high but before you could reach where you were heading, two police officers pull you over.
"What? Seriously?" You hear Marvin's frustrated voice over the police station phone. "It's so tiring to keep up with the two of you. One gets attacked by Noir and another gets herself arrested. Listen, sit your ass down in the cell and do not make a peep. Frenchie will come get you in an hour."
"No, not Frenchie. Him."
Give me the phone. You hear Billy's voice in the background. “Oi, listen, doll — I’m in no bloody shape to bail you out without endin’ up in cuffs myself, yeah? Frenchie’ll go fetch you. I’ll meet you back at the pawnshop. Try not to blow the bloody place up 'til then, alright?"
"Right. I get Frenchie. If it was Becca, you'd be breaking the necks of these motherfuckers who arrested her. Or... or maybe she wouldn't have gotten in trouble in the first place because she's so. fucking. perfect. Isn't she?" You slam the phone down on the receiver. It earns you a side eye from the officer but it feels cathartic to finally release all the pent up jealousy.
About an hour later, you hear the lock on the cell door click and Frenchie waves at you from the other side. "Sorry I stole your weed." You brush past one of your current closest friends, your eyes still red but rhis time, not from smoking up.
"Do you have a smoke?" You ask as Frenchie follows you out of the police station and he hands you one.
"Oi!" Billy pops out from behind a car, trench coat bellowing behind him like a cape and pulls the cigarette out from between your lips. "Enough of that now." He nods at Frenchie who then proceeds to leave without a word.
"I thought you weren't coming." You look away as he lights the cigarette at his lips.
“Speak your mind, love. Go on. Tell me I’m heartless, yeah? That you think I didn’t wanna come, that I don’t care. Think I just sat there doin’ nothin’ while you were sittin’ in a bloody cell? Truth is, it tore me up not comin’ for you. But I can’t keep lettin’ my gut run the show. That’s how people end up dead. One day you’ll get it — when you’re my age and you’ve got more ghosts than guts.”
You sigh. "Like I said, if it was Becca—"
"Enough about Becca, alright?"
"But that's where you went. You went to Becca, moments after you told me what I mean to you. And you don't show up for days. No texts, no calls, no nothing. And it's Hughie..." The stone of sorrow in your throat chokes you as hot tears roll down your cheeks. "I called you so many fucking times and it's Hughie whose call you finally pick up. And you don't even ask for me. You tell him he's your fucking... sparrow or whatever. But you don't ask how I am. And I'm still not supposed to think that you're heartless?"
“You’re right. I fucked it. I know I did. And the worst part is… I heard the phone ringin’. I just… couldn’t pick it up. Not then. Not with everythin’ in me screamin’ that if I heard your voice, I’d drop the whole bloody world to get to you. You know rescuin' Becca—” He watches your face contort at the mention of her. "It's not important no more. But you are. More than I know how to bloody handle. But I'm willin' to learn. I swear, doll. Don’t give up on me yet, yeah?"
When he holds your face and kisses you, you finally relax. Your shoulders drop and your frown disappears at the mere touch of his lips against yours. You open up to let him in, and he pulls you closer. You inhale a hefty drag of cigarette smoke between smooches and he takes the exhale from your mouth. His strong hands move precariously over your body, sliding up and down your sides, only stopping to squeeze your flesh — the tummy, the rolls, the love handles you're so ashamed of, he paws at them like a lovesick teenager, like he can't get enough of you.
He stops his hand just shy of your breasts, aware of the stares you two are garnering. "What I wanna do to you, doll, these lecherous eyes don't deserve to witness."
"Pawnshop?" You ask, impatient.
"Too many people. My place."
He opens the passenger side door of his car and when his arm lingers on your elbow possessively before letting you in, you can't help but blush. An idea creeps into your head as he gets in beside you.
As soon as he drives into the evening traffic, you touch his thigh. Not with your hands, but with the superpower you're supposed to use to kill Homelander.
"Doll, stop." He commands, his voice low, with a faint undercurrent of panic. But you don't listen. You slide your touch further up and gasp.
"Is that why you're so hard? Because you want me to stop?"
"Oi, doll.” His breath shudders when you give him a little squeeze. “Traffic’s a nightmare — we ain’t doin’ prison twice in one day, are we? Keep pullin’ that little party trick and I’ll bet my arse that’s where we’ll end up, yeah? Cut it out.”
When you still maintain the touch on his thigh, Billy takes one of his hands off the wheel to hold both your wrists in his grasp. The moment he finds a gap among the cars and bikes on the road, he steps on the gas. "Now, behave until I can get the two of us on a bed."
"Will," you plead. "The back of your car will work just as fine."
"Vixen." He mutters before speeding up, this time getting out of traffic and toward somewhere more secluded.
Where he parks, it's at an overlook halfway up a hill, headlights zooming past you from both directions every few minutes. The gold and white city lights beneath glower at you, warning you of the storm you're about to encounter. You scowl back like you don't care, waiting for Billy to make the first move.
Impatient, you reach for the door but pause abruptly when he barks, "Stay."
Billy gets out and walks over to your side to open the door for you. What a gentleman! He pulls you out and pins you against the closed passenger side door.
Sticking his face in your neck, he rasps, “I need you, doll. Need you to keep me tethered in all this bloody madness. Every time I start losin’ hope, I just— I look at you smilin’ like this unfair world’s still worth savin’, and it reminds me what I’m fightin’ for."
He lights a cigarette and sizzles the smoke into his throat. "I need you in the fight, yeah? Right beside me. I can’t do this on my own anymore. And I’m only sayin’ this once, so keep it between us — don’t let the Boys hear I’ve gone soft, alright? But when the time comes… I need you and the lads on my flank, guns up, sights on that bastard Homelander. Even if it takes a thousand rounds to put that son of a bitch down.”
You watch him with a warm smile, your cheeks tepid with all the fondness you have for him. "If I'm fighting by your side, Will, I'm not doing it to die for you. I'm doing it to make sure you come out of it unscathed. Deal?"
"Deal." He smooches you, the scent of nicotine creeping from his tongue to yours as he flicks the last embers of the cigarette into oblivion.
When he kisses your neck again, you melt in his embrace. The feel of his beard on your skin makes you swoon and roll your eyes back in anticipated pleasure. You can't help imagining how that would feel on the inside of your thighs.
He trails wet kisses down to your collarbone and you gasp when he sucks your flesh between his teeth with the clear intention to mark. "Need you," he whispers again, whiny, impatient. His hands are on your breasts, groping, squeezing. "I need you, doll."
"Need you," You whisper back as you watch cars drive past, passengers looking out, making eye contact with you as you tremble in Billy Butcher's grasp.
He takes your hand and leads you round the back of the car to the other side. "C'mere, doll." He opens the door to the backseat and gently guides you inside. "Get comfortable."
Billy hops back into the front seat and twists the key halfway back on; the radio crackles and starts humming a familiar tune— two less lonely people in the world by Air Supply. How accurate!
When he slides into the backseat next to you, you make no further delays in capturing his lips between yours again. You straddle him while his fingers tangle in your hair. "Vixen," he whispers again when you start to grind against the tent in his pants. It seems to form every time his hands hover over your chest.
"I thought you hated me."
"Hate you?" He kisses you between undoing each button on your shirt. "Bollocks." He kisses your throat. "You look like a million fucking dollars the moment you wake up, even before you've brushed your teeth. I've been up against the bloody wall trying not to kiss you every morning."
"You should have." You giggle, holding his face in the crook of your neck.
"Let me make it up to you, doll." His hands snake around to your back to unclasp your bra. Billy whistles when the cups come off, offering him the best view. "You know hiding this treasure under goddamn clothes has been a crime, yeah?" He mumbles against your flesh before wrapping his wet lips around one taut nipple.
You gasp, forgetting your fingers as they work on Butcher's belt.
There's a bit of struggle and lots of giggles as you take each other's pants off. Eager. Impatient. Like children discovering a new game.
The radio plays letter to hermione by Bowie the next time his lips find yours. Billy is on top of you, his solid chest gliding over your soft tummy. "I know this ain't no king mattress, doll." He positions your calf at the crook of his hip. "But stay with me, alright? Fuck." He touches you between your thighs, the tip of his fingers quickly finding your clit. "You're so ready for me."
"I am, Will." You press your heels into his glutes, guiding him into you.
Billy grunts at first touch, then loses himself completely as he slides in. "Oh mama," he whispers as he buries his face in your neck. You giggle as he kisses your neck, collarbone, jaw before finding your lips again. You moan when he starts to move, stretching you thin around his girth. "S'good, doll." He holds your legs apart as he ruts, panting and groaning, like an animal possessed. "Fuck, so good. You're squeezing me so bloody good, doll. Keep doin that, yeah? Such a good doll."
"Will," You cry, reaching up to touch his chest.
Billy increases his pace, as much as he can in that tight space. "You keep squeezing me like that, doll, I won't last that long." He laughs. "I feel like a schoolboy but don't you go making me finish like one. Fuck!"
Mhm, you moan in his ear as he bends to capture one of your nipples. "Will... Will..." You extend your fingers to find your clit, chasing the momentum he's building, preparing to crash together. "Please... Will... don't stop... please... s'close."
"Come for me, doll. Come. For. Me." His final thrusts shake your entire world, your orgasm boiling up like chai on the stove before spilling over the edge.
Sticky and sweaty, Billy lies on top of you, panting in your ear like the old man he is. You smooth your palm over his shoulders and back, calming him down, leaving fluttery kisses on his earlobe. "Vixen." This time, he sounds pleased, almost smiling.
please don't copy my work, or publish it elsewhere without my consent. all banners are from pinterest.
should I write a billy butcher fanfic at the end of season 2 where Becca meets the boys and MC is a part of the gang and she and Butcher have been... you know... fucking, and MC feels insecure and jealous?
