★; FuriLisa

walking through your bedroom was surreal, like he finally had the opportunity to crack your skull open like an egg and grab handfuls of your brain to eat—to see, moreso. 

it smells just like you. 

he took note of your soaps, your body wash and shampoo, and he glanced at your conditioner and lotions, for the scents you prefer. it wasn't as if he didn't already know, he knows your scent better than anything else, but curiosity kills the cat. and satisfaction sure brought it back. 

what he lingered on, however, was your countertop. just under the mirror, in a simple holder, is your toothbrush. would you get angry at him if he gave it a nice lick? jade isn't sure what to do. 

he's often seen as the levelheaded leech twin, lacking the strong mood-swings and eerily joyful disposition, but he's just as impulsive. jade, the poor man, is unlucky enough to have a better sense of taste than anything. 

surely you'd understand.

…rationality soon takes over.

paranoia creeps in. 

the very thought disgusts him; it's naught but a simple cleaning tool that's likely riddled with enough of your bacteria to drive him to the doorstep of illness. he couldn't possibly follow through… yet his hand, with a mind of its own, slowly closes around the handle with such hesitance it was as if you were to burst through the door any second. even though he knows you're far, far away. 

he settles for returning it to its holder and gnawing on the thumb that'd almost touched the bristles. 

is this what it is like to yearn? to want so deeply for your touch, the texture of your skin on his, to kiss your lips all but once. he wishes to understand you. if you'd allow him his wish to kiss you just one singular time, he'd stretch that time so long he'd have every millimeter of your mouth memorized. he'd know every one of your teeth, how they feel front and back and the divots of the bottoms. he'd mentally compare the difference from yours to his, the length and the width, the sharpness.  (jade has yet to ask, but he wants to know if you like how sharp his teeth are. is it off-putting to you? you've never expressed an opinion either way, but he can't help but doubt himself.)

if he were graced with your lips, would you be hesitant, or far too eager? he knows he will be shaking with nerves—(or maybe with stark excitement after waiting, anticipating, and daydreaming)—his trembling fingers would slide over your arms above your long sleeves as if it'd be able to substitute for your bare flesh. 

if he could, he would rebuke the blowing wind, the clouds for the imminent threat of snowfall, and the sky itself for the damning drop in temperature that robbed him of more of you. would it be unbecoming to scoot his hands up your sleeves? jade thinks so. it'd reek of desperation, but, he is desperate, horribly so. day by day, he wants you and he needs you more yet more. maybe he can urge you to take your jacket off; you'd surely agree if he'd gotten that far.

the thought brings him pause.

would he ever get that far? how long would it take? he isn't sure he could wait much longer, let alone an indefinite amount of time. a shuddering sigh shakes his frame. 

your sink is cold underneath his free hand. 

he holds the porcelain tight to keep himself upright under the weight of his quisling brain. he imagines if he hadn't his gloves on, it would be fairly pleasant under his usually chilling touch, because he has grown red hot at the thought of you. he burns, warming higher and hotter until he worries he could combust into flames. 

jade risks another glance. it's midday, so the bristles are visibly dry after long hours of sitting alone. how… lonely. 

your toothbrush would look much better next to his. 

jade is greedy.

he needs you. 

he needs you in every way. he would like to study you, lovingly; he wants to observe and commit to memory every single thing about you. how wide would your smile be when you awake to see him already gazing at you?—would it match his? would you know that it's because you're all he wants to see? not the sunrise, not dusk, but you. you're a better sight than the melting colors during dawn in the sky as the sun brightens it, greater than the twinkle of the stars deep into the night.

jade looks away. 

he couldn't possibly disrespect you so. no matter how badly he wants to reach a higher level of intimacy with you, the idea of being faced with your nose turned up with distaste... his traitorous pulse skips. be still his beating heart. you would never trust him again. 

you chose him specifically, out of anybody else on the planet, and rather than take his duty with the importance it deserves, he's wanting for you. goodness be, he would never be reinvited into your home. (you would have to choose somebody else for the task if he were banned from your house. the jealousy at the idea is enough to wipe the dreamy smile from his face.) he sighs to himself, turning to the doorway.

if you were to walk in, would you be angry that he'd even thought of desecrating your toothbrush? he'd just wanted to gauge the taste of your tongue, even just an afterthought. 

it's torture. you're tortuous. 

do you think about him the same way? 

jade sighs, long and heavy as he drags his hands down his face. what is adoration but dropping coins into a well wishing for its return? 

and, now of all times, he hears footsteps coming down the hall. floyd must be coming to snoop in your bedroom, just as he. while he loves his dear brother, he hates it when they have the same exact idea and it conflicts with his own plans. jade would rather die than deal with the teasing that'd follow being caught in here by him. he clasps his hands behind his back, and takes a single step forward. 

he walks slightly faster than usual, making sure to shut your bathroom door so as not to incriminate himself, hightailing it out of your bedroom. just as he exits your room, he peers down the hall before advancing. how embarrassing it would be if you had snuck up on him.

then, he's careening to the floor. 

you. 

he'd know what you smelled like, even if he'd been trapped in an empty void for a century, he'd forget all; his face, maybe even his own name, but not yours. not you. (jade occasionally has the thought that his poor eyesight is naught but a hindrance. will he one day in the near or distant future forget you face? he curses his future self for the possibility.)

he manages to catch both himself and you before you fall with him into a heap of meat on the ground. (would it be so bad if that'd happened? to be one with you, not a thing longer known but the other and the floor. he may get jealous of the hardwood if it got to spend eternity with you, too.)

jade wishes he paid more attention to what you told him before you left, he thought you would be gone into the night, but he despises hearing what you're doing with other people. especially as he knows that you've yet to be his. he can't handle all the jealousy.

when you're righted on your feet, you call his name, jovially, hugging him tight. your arm squeezes around his waist familiarly, and he can't manage to suppress his pleased shudder. imagining the feeling of you can never compare to you in the flesh. has the intimacy he hungers for always been right here? jade could've been so used to it, to you, that it became normal. ah, he feels himself flush, you're so exciting.

more. 

he craves more and more, constantly upping the ante until he's consumed by you—until he has consumed you.

you wouldn't mind if he took a bite.

you're talking, prattling on and on with a cadence he will forever commit to memory. he is oh, so close to you, no more than a foot away. he could just open his mouth and—

he snaps his jaw together, smiling far too wide when you suddenly turn and make a gesture that likely related to the story you were recounting. he schools his stance, standing straight as he always does, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. 

jade doesn't even know what you're talking about. 

he has the general idea. it's the same reason you chose him and floyd of all people to be housesitters—along with babysitters for the little sea lion, which is strange as the cat isn't even yours—instead of literally anybody else. so many people are so insistent at being by your side during your every waking moment. 

if you weren't so emotionally involved he'd take them by the neck and squeeze tight until their heads popped like balloons.

rather than seriously consider murder in an envious fit, jade relaxes his smile, as if the curve of his lips could convey the longing that lives in every atom of his body. 

he doesn't want to be replaced by any of those pond smelts. he worries that he may be too much. 

you're just out of reach.

jade catches your hand in his with grace, just before it returns to your side, and he imagines it would be hot against his skin. his gloves are a part of his uniform that he wears like the rest, but right now they feel like they're filled with fire ants. they're in the way.

he places his face into your palm, shutting his eyes for but a moment before opening them with his lids low. land dwellers are so warm.

jade has not a clue what he looks like now, only the hope that his composed, almost professional demeanor is what you see rather than how feverish he truly feels. he feels wild, like an electric shock is underneath his skin trying to escape.

“i miss you.” he murmurs into your pulse, showing his sharp, pointed teeth more than he meant to. miss, rather than missed. he'll never stop wanting you close, needing you near. you look best when you're next to him, after all.

oh, how nice it would be to live together. waking up to the sight of you everyday would be brightening. if jade could turn over just as he opens his eyes and see your drowsy expression, a smile—he manages not to shiver, yet he's unable to stop the flush on his cheeks from deepening. he can imagine the heart-stopping-feeling that would overtake him, pausing his blood flow for a moment that would threaten to end his day before it began. or maybe he could wake up before you do and gaze upon the beauty next to him in your moment of peace, taking in your vulnerability that's for him and only him.

his every waking moment is just as when he was in the sea, looking upon land that was just at his fingertips yet he could never traverse. the moon, high in the sky, he sees every night appeared so close, but would never be touched by him in this lifetime.

he feels as if he's said too much, but not enough at the same time.

jade could faint. rather than scream and run away—it wouldn't deter him much, as he'd follow you to the ends of the earth even if it meant he’d only be to watch you from a distance—you take half a step closer. strangely enough, you make a sound in the same tone you use with the sea lion and cup his cheeks in your palms. (jade doesn't know what that noise could mean for him, but he hopes you're not put off by him.) 

he's allowing you to hold his very life in your hands. trust is as precious a commodity as information, yet he gives it to you with an abundance like he had enough to go around. he doesn't even trust himself, he still can't shake the instinct he has to devour you.

is it as romantic to you as he, the thought of being one? the sink of his teeth into your awaiting flesh, and the stretch until the muscle tears wouldn't hurt as much as he does whenever you're not with him. you would look so beautiful egging him on as he consumed you. 

jade can only wish you'd want the same for him. he'd cut slivers from himself if you'd asked. people say romance is dead, as he thought for a long while, but you've broadened his horizons. you told him idyllic romance can be revived, and he has come to believe you. 

jade wants to keep you. he wants to keep you happy, keep you to himself, keep you by his side. everything he has, but nothing is enough. he is dissatisfied but on cloud nine. 

“i miss you, too.” you parrot his words back, and if he isn't mistaken, he sees the same intensity between the syllables. you cooed at him, squishing his cheeks like he were something to be treated with affection. do you find him as cute as he thinks you are in this moment?

rather than ask, he turns his head just enough to nip your thumb. greedily, he wishes he lacked the self control to take a bite of your arm. 

From six until twelve (maybe thirteen?) he was your whole world, your partner in scraped knees and secret dares, the almost-boyfriend who walked you home until the day you had to leave. You remember that day clearly— you were both young and curious and that was the only time you ever kissed someone so passionately.

And though years have folded and unfolded since, and other boys and girls have passed through your life, the memory of him and the house atop the hill lingered like the last line of a bedtime story you never got to finish. Now, at eighteen, with your suitcases unpacked and the town you wander both changed and unchanged since, you find yourself wondering; 

What became of the little boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair within the elusive house atop the hill? And more importantly… Had he waited for you as he promised he would? As you’d waited for him?

Oh, but the town, if anything, had waited for you. The same sloping lanes curled around themselves like the pretty ribbons every little girl has in her hair, the same shopfronts blinked their painted eyes beneath eaves of chipped wood, and the same cobblestones carried the same weary cracks as though not a day had passed since you last tripped across them. 

…Yet look closer; the illusion thins. The bakery that once smelled of sugared dough now carried the sterile tang of coffee beans. The playground, once rusted and loud with shrieks, had been repainted into silence. Faces that might have belonged to childhood friends now belonged to strangers instead. It was everything and nothing like you expected. 

You chastised yourself for the disappointment that rose in your chest. What did you think would happen? That the town would remain suspended in amber, unchanging, preserved exactly as it was on the day you left? That if you rounded the corner at just the right hour, you might find your younger self skipping along, hand in hand with a boy whose laughter always rang louder than the church bells? Perhaps you did expect it, though you would never confess it aloud. Perhaps a part of you did think the whole town had been frozen, a snow globe shaken only when you returned to stir its pieces back into place at your liking. 

But above it all— silhouetted against the sky that was as bright as you remembered— loomed the elusive house atop the hill. The house that did not blink when years passed, that did not repaint or refashion itself to meet the times. Its windows glimmered darkly, shuttered but watchful, and its slanted roof cut into the horizon like a blade. You told yourself it was only a house, only wood and brick and rose bushes, but you felt its presence all the same; patient, everlasting, a shadow stretched across your childhood, a shadow that had never quite receded from the corners of your mind. Did the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair still live there?

What was completely new to the town, though, was the music. 

Loud and brazen, the sort that rattled windowpanes and startled sparrows into flight. It did not belong to the town you remembered, yet you found yourself drawn, drawn toward it— pulled, pulled as surely as a tide toward the moon. Each step carried you further down the lane, until instinct led you to the very corner you used to round as a child.

And to your surprise, there the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson stood… with a microphone in hand?

His rosy cheeks were painted now, half-concealed beneath a mask of dark cosmetics. Nor did he wear a full crown of crimson hair, for black had been streaked through it, deep and dark as ink spilled across parchment. He was clothed in splendour you’d hardly seen anyone wear in person— an oversized coat of luscious red fur spilling from his shoulders, shoes so tall they lifted him out of reach— and there was no mistaking the passion that set his whole frame alight as he sang.

So you stood there at the edge of the forming crowd, mesmerised by the sight of him. Riddle. The name trembled in your chest like a secret only you could bear. He was beautiful in a way that startled you, sharp and dazzling all at once, his face carved in light and shadow, every line of him made for a stage rather than a playground. You scarcely dared to breathe, lest the vision collapse. 

And because you were so transfixed, you did not notice at first— did not see how his gaze broke from the crowd to find you, how his eyes locked as though they had been searching for you all along. It was only when the music faltered and the cheering dimmed that you realised; he was moving. 

He was moving toward you. 

Every stride devoured the distance, until suddenly he was there, close enough for the smell of perfume and faint cigarette smoke to cling to his coat, close enough for his arms to sweep you into him with a ferocity that stole your breath.

“Oh—!” 

The sound barely escaped you before he crushed you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder. His grip was iron, desperate, achingly familiar, and the years of silence seemed to mean nothing to him. If anything, they spurred him on more— he clung as if he meant to reclaim every missed moment in one embrace, as if you had never been estranged at all.

“(Y/N)! You’re back!” Riddle exclaimed, his cheeks puffing up in a smile like you remembered it to. “I missed you so much! Oh, you look so cute…!”

“Wh—” You sputtered. You’d been so caught up in what was different that you hadn’t anticipated being thrust into such affections so soon— nor did you expect him to hang off of you like this. Why, he clung to you like he used to on the monkey bars all those years back…!

“Mm, and you still smell the same!” He murmured, his words muffled by the fabric of your clothes. “I could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded.”

“Riddle! You don’t even seem surprised…?” You found yourself looking at the floor. You were scared of whatever emotions might come forward if you looked at him directly— for you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself back from kissing him.

“Oh?” Riddle’s lips pursed in thought as he pulled back. You knew he was examining you, but frankly… you were much too shy to look at him in return. “Why would I be surprised? You told me you’d come back, didn’t you?” 

“…I did say that, didn’t I?” You muttered, surprise softening your features. You had always meant it, of course, yet seeing him know it too, feel it as surely as you had, made your heart jump up out of your chest and into your eyes. 

Suddenly, the world around seemed to be tinted a shade of rose and devotion. And when you mustered the courage to look at him… through his eyes, you saw it—

His soul. 

In his soul, he knew you would come back, because you told him you would. So in that tender pause, the years of locked-away feelings slinked out of the depths, up to the surface.

For the first time in years, you let your own soul come out, and your hands found his, and it was as if you’d never left on that hot summer day; as if no time had ever come between you at all.

“…I’m not going anywhere this time, Riddle. So tell me, how have you been?”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 was elusive and that was all it ever was. It was intangible, something to watch and be watched by, but never touched. Never approached, or lived in, or any of the other things that houses were made for. So you never truly imagined what the inside might look like; somehow, you had never considered that there was an inside at all. And yet here you sat upon the living room couch, your shoes tucked neatly beneath you. 

Now, what struck you most were the photographs. If there was anything that you were expecting as Riddle dragged you up the hill— it certainly wasn’t this. 

Framed portraits littered the walls, frame after frame, almost cluttered in its quantity. Smiling children— you and Riddle together on the playground swings, faces pressed cheek-to-cheek. Candid portraits of you laughing, caught mid-motion. Family photos— Riddle between the mother you had always heard about but never actually seen until now, and a tall man you had never known existed. 

You did not recall these pictures being taken. You did not recall Riddle even having a father.

A warm breath brushed your neck, followed by the scrape of teeth against your skin. “What are you looking at?” Riddle hummed, his voice low and petulant, lips skating over the curve beneath your ear. “Kiss me back, won’t you?”

“Riddle…” You tried for composure, but the sound was already shaky. His hands were splayed over your waist, tugging you closer, closer still, and you could barely manage to push words through the heat curling in your chest. “These… photos. When did we take so many together?”

He hummed against your throat, but he did pull back— if only to resettle himself. His weight settled into your lap, his arms winding back round your neck. Your hands, hesitant, slipped from his shoulders to the edges of his coat, peeling it from him. The intimacy of the gesture struck you— it was everything you’d ever dreamt of— and yet your gaze returned inevitably to the wall.

He followed it, but not before pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw. “We always did. You’ve just forgotten, you silly thing.”

“…I think I would remember this many pictures.” You murmured. “I mean… I didn’t even know you had a father.” Your eyes stayed on the tall man, that easy smile, the hand on Riddle’s shoulder. There was a slight abashed feeling, having to admit it. Not knowing something so obvious about your friend was… embarrassing.

“My papa…” Riddle supplied smoothly, his lips grazing your cheekbone as though punctuation. “Of course you met him. He liked you.” He said it almost fondly, followed by another kiss, softer, more insistent. His nose brushed yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But your memory was always bad. That’s why I remember for both of us.”

His words weren’t particularly untrue. You never did have the best memory— you were always forgetful. That was fact, you weren’t going to deny it. But still, your brows pinched together in confusion. “I… I guess?” Your hand raised to brace your companion’s hip. “But I wouldn’t forget something important like that. I mean— I knew you had a mother even though I never met her… I can’t believe I’d forget you had a father, let alone meeting hi—mmh?!”

Your protest was cut short by the sudden press of his lips against yours. It was playful in its abruptness, yet deep enough to make your pulse skip. His mouth moved insistently over yours, stealing the rest of your thought before it could form. He tasted of sugared strawberries and the faintest trace of smoke, and when he finally pulled away you were left breathless, your words scattered.

“Don’t pout so much.” He teased, eyes glinting as he slid off your lap with eagerness. “I’ll prove it to you!” He straightened his coat, then tossed it carelessly over the arm of the sofa, already turning toward the stairs. “I’ll fetch the pictures from my room— the ones with Papa!”

You blinked, still gathering your bearings. “Your… your room?”

“Oh, and speaking of Mama…” He glanced back at you with a mischievous smile, as though he’d just remembered to mention something small and inconsequential. “Why don’t you go say hi?”

You froze sharply. “She— she’s home…? While we were—?”

“Of course!” He laughed, bright and carefree, the sound so at odds with your racing thoughts. “You’ve gotten so uptight over the years, you know. What’s a little kiss on the sofa between us?” He reached over to pat your head, almost condescending in its fondness, before pivoting toward the staircase in the hall.

“I’ll be right back!” He called, already bounding up the steps, leaving you alone with the walls of smiling photographs and the sudden, pressing knowledge that you were not quite alone in the house. 

At once, you made motions to neaten yourself— and rub the lipstick stains from your face. You rose, because the motions were better than sitting and staring, and because ‘one could not be frightened while busy with tasks’— as was what your own mother taught you.

So you began in the parlour, touching the picture frames to confirm their authenticity. Then the hallway opened up into a kitchen that smelled faintly of lemon polish and something sweet, as if a tray of scones had been set down and then, deliberately, removed. Drawers were closed. Chairs were pushed in. The kettle sat innocently on the hob. You opened the door to the back room on a whim and found nothing but a slant of sunlight and a chair with a forgotten scarf draped over it. Each room you moved through gave the same answer; empty.

The house, which had watched you from the hill for so many years as if it were merely an ornament on the horizon, felt suddenly hollowed and personal in a way that made your skin prick. All at once you were aware of how alone you were— not alone in the comfortable, peaceful sense, but alone the way one is when a room holds its breath and refuses to exhale. You thought of Riddle upstairs; he was only a flight away, and that ought to have comforted you. He had promised to fetch the photographs; he would be back in a moment. It was absurd to be afraid.

Still, when you reached the foot of the stairs you hesitated, the wooden banister sticky beneath your palm from some remembered summer, sweat gathering, small and hot, at the nape of your neck. You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Riddle was there. His mum was, too, probably bustling somewhere with the sort of domestic efficiency mothers showed only to those they loved. You took the first step.

That was when the voice came.

“My dear, what are you doing all alone? A house like this can swallow a girl whole if she is not mindful.”

The words did not arrive from one place but from many— blooming and settling over you, soft and impossibly near. From the parlour, the kitchen, from the walls, from every room you went in and from every room she wasn't present in— the voice had already unfurled itself into the house and claimed each corner. You turned, trying to place her— Mrs. Rosehearts— but there was no one to face.

“Ah, don’t look so startled…” Mrs. Rosehearts continued, each syllable sugared and coaxing. “There’s nothing to worry over, not here. You’re very welcome in this house. Very welcome indeed.”

The warmth of the words pushed in on you, invading the space where reason would sit. You listened to them as though to music you already knew the melody of, yet with a growing, illogical tension at its edges— a note just a fraction out of tune, the sort that sets teeth on edge only after the song has finished. Your throat tightened. Your mouth, which had been rehearsing a thousand sensible replies, went suddenly blank.

“My, my!” She chimed, an obvious smile audible in every line. “What a timid little thing you are. Won’t you sit down properly? I’ll fetch us some tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer cake? You do like cake, don’t you? Oh, I’m quite certain you must.”

You felt very small then, and very exposed. Where was she? Where was she calling you from? There was a basin in the mind, one full of thoughts that would never be answered. Why couldn’t you see her? Why hasn’t she shown herself? And in your confusion, there was only one sensible reply.

“Oh, Mrs Rosehearts…! I— I’d really like to see you, please. Could you… show yourself?”

For a moment there was silence— so complete it felt as though the whole house had leaned in to listen. The ticking of the grandfather clock stopped mattering, the creak of the rafters vanished. Then above it all was a laugh, elegant and affectionate.

“If that’s what you wish, little dearest. Of course I’ll oblige…”

A beautiful woman with cheeks of rose and hair of crimson. 

A hot flush came down the back of your neck, and suddenly every sense of unease you’d had went away. How stupid of you… Honestly, how ridiculous! Working yourself up over nothing, prowling around the house like some silly child afraid of the dark. You’d gotten way too in over your head— jumping at shadows, inventing ghosts where there weren’t any. This was only Riddle’s mother. His mother. Just what were you thinking?

Her thumbs brushed over the apples of your cheeks before you even realised she was approaching you. The touch was soothing, her smile impossibly fond as her eyes roved over your face. “There now…” She whispered, and now her voice felt normal. “So timid… no wonder my darling boy kept you all to himself.”

“Oh…” You breathed out. Was there still lipstick on your face? Sevens, you hope not. How could you explain your way out of that—? Or find another boy with black lipstick in a ten kilometre radius to pin the blame—? “It’s lovely to finally meet you, aunty.” Finally, you remembered your manners, straightening your spine and lifting your chin just the way your parents taught you.

The woman before you laughed. It was the kind of laugh that felt both indulgent and knowing, as though she were in on a secret you weren’t yet privy to. She leaned closer, her perfume sweet and heady— she smelled like smoke, too— and you felt her breath stir your hair as she murmured, “Go to him, won’t you?”

The words remained in your ear long after she’d withdrawn, and for a strange, uncertain beat you couldn’t remember if she had actually touched you or if it had only been imagined. Either way, by the time you blinked, she was gone. The house seemed oddly empty again. So you found yourself drifting up the stairs, each step taken half by will, half by instinct to not be alone, until you reached his doorframe. 

There, Riddle was kneeling on the floor, hunched over a small wooden box. His shoulders jumped when you knocked gently against the doorframe, but the startlement quickly dissolved into a bright smile and he sprung up to his feet.

“Look, look!” He beckoned, tugging you to his side with boyish excitement.

You lowered yourself to kneel beside him, smoothing your skirt with careful hands before folding them neatly in your lap. And then you did look—

Photographs. Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked and scattered, all of you, all real. You, and Riddle, and a man whose features echoed his son’s. The man downstairs, who you swore you’d never met. His father. And in the background of one, unmistakable as day— your own parents.

It made perfect sense by all accounts— a family outing. Yet still you were shocked. You had… no memory of this. 

Riddle giggled, tilting his head towards you with a grin that was both triumphant and fond. “I told you so, silly girl.”

The words made you flush with a sudden, sheepish heat. …Perhaps he was right. Perhaps you really were being ridiculous. A laugh slipped from you, small and uncertain, but you forced it into something lighter, more natural. Your memory had always been poor— everyone knew that. It wasn’t impossible that you had simply… forgotten. Yes. That had to be it.

“…You’re right. Yes, silly me…!”

So you allowed yourself to relax, let the questions fall away like loose threads unpicked (even though you were always taught to flounder until everything was perfect). What did it matter, when everything here made such perfect sense? Riddle was beside you, his delight radiating like sunlight, and suddenly you became aware of something else thrumming beneath the surface; the low, insistent pulse of your own arousal. You’d been so caught up in what did and did not make sense that you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to enjoy what was finally yours.

Riddle seemed to notice your change of heart at once. His hand slipped over your shoulder, his fingers grazing the slope of your collarbone in a gesture so casual it made your breath hitch. You answered without thinking, leaning into him, closing the small distance— as your body had been waiting for, all along.

“Do you remember? You promised we’d do so much more when we saw each other again.” He whispered against your jaw, leaving new traces of black lipstick along your skin— and after you’d worked so hard to rub the last set off, too…

This promise, you did remember. It was all those years ago, that day, after you’d separated from him with nothing but a string of saliva connecting you; You’d swore that you’d come back, then you could do all the things that adults in love did with each other. You were so young, then— but you were filled with affection, and passion, and all the other things that growing teenagers felt when they kissed each other. Much like how you felt now— hot, bothered, desperate to arch and cling to the boy beside you and never let go.

You tilted your head, allowing his mouth to trail down the hollow of your throat, a sharp gasp torn from you as you leaned back on both hands. Riddle wasted no time in mounting himself atop of you, letting his kisses trail down to your chest. Thank God you wore a low neckline today— A contented, lazy smile crossed your face as you took a deep breath in, relishing in the way his fingers moved to cup your breast. 

“I do remember…” You hummed, moving to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. When his pretty, supple collarbone was exposed to you, you trailed your hand across them, before cupping the back of his neck. Pulling him close, you whispered against his lips; 

“So, take me in any way you want.”

𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓. After the way his body had pressed into yours, after the way your throat still ached from moans you hadn’t known you were capable of, after the way you had given yourself up entirely— there should have been nothing left but exhaustion and contentment. Your skin was still warm from the heat, your core still weak from the aftershocks, your lips bitten and sore from the force of his kiss. You should have been lulled into the deepest, sweetest sleep, drunk on pleasure and closeness.

But sleep had other plans for you. When you pushed yourself from the plush duvet, it was not in the sluggish, half-conscious manner of one roused from slumber, but rather with the sharp and unthinking urgency of terror. There was nothing deliberate in it; it was instinct, the body leaping to preserve itself from some danger already forgotten— for the memory of the nightmare had fled the instant your eyes opened. Its claws had been deep in you, of that you were certain, and yet by the time you sought to grasp at its particulars, it had already dissolved into nothing. All that remained was the undeniable certainty that something had been there, and that you had to escape it.

The first thing you noticed, when you steadied yourself, was the absence of all things comforting. The bed was empty. Riddle was gone. The room around you was steeped in a kind of darkness that did not belong to ordinary night. So you turned toward the window, hoping for the pale reassurance of moonlight, or the faintest suggestion of a starry sky— but instead, you were met with nothing. 

The view opened only onto a smooth, endless black, as though the house were suspended in a void. How? How was this possible? You pressed your hand against the pane, half-believing that some obstruction had been drawn across it— but the glass seemed bare on both sides. You tried the latch; it refused to yield. You pushed harder; the frame rattled, but the window would not give.

And then— you could not help but feel it— the blankness outside seemed to shift, as if it were not absence at all, but a presence. A presence that had been watching long before you thought to look.

You shivered, though the air was not exactly cold, and your arms folded around yourself in a poor attempt at comfort. The room, so plush and indulgent only hours ago, now seemed stripped bare of safety. A thought struck you— maybe he had gone to the bathroom? You crossed to it at once, each step uncertain, and threw the door open with more urgency than you intended. Empty. Utterly empty.

So maybe you were still dreaming. Yes, that had to be it. That this was merely some cruel continuation, a lucid dream from which you had not yet parted from. The notion made a fragile sort of sense, enough that you pinched the soft skin of your forearm until the flesh protested. Pain flared sharp and real. But you did not wake up. Shouldn’t pain wake you?

Heart quickening, you returned to the room and slipped out into the corridor. 

What met you there was worse. Every picture that had once lined the walls— faces, new and old, of family… forgotten memories preserved— was black. Every window that ought to have revealed the night instead opened only onto the void. They were pools of nothingness, eyes of nothingness, gazing down upon you in silent judgment. Their regard was so heavy, so oppressive, that you yourself began to feel like nothingness, as though your body, your mind, your very name might dissolve beneath their stare. In that moment, as you clutched yourself closer, you found yourself deeply missing Riddle. What is going on? 

“(Y/N)?”

It should have been a comfort. You had been yearning for him with such aching desperation that the sound of his voice ought to have undone you. Yet the instant it reached you, your heart recoiled. It sounded like him, yes, but it did not feel like him. The warmth was gone. The intimacy was gone. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, irreparably wrong.

You ran.

You did not wait to see from where it came; you only fled. The corridor stretched before you, longer than you remembered, the familiar turns and doors rearranging themselves into a maddening geometry that led nowhere. You ran blindly, driven by the certainty that what followed you was not him and must not catch you.

And as you ran, the house changed. The pools of nothingness— those blank, oppressive eyes in the pictures and the windows— began to bleed red. First one pair, then another, until they multiplied, until the whole corridor swam with them. Blood-red, glaring, dripping. The black backdrops glowed as though veins had burst within them, and each new eye threw its own cast of crimson light. The glow spun across the walls like sirens, one moment lancing straight at you, the next wheeling away, only to return from another angle. 

The house atop the hill watched you all your life— now, so did the eyes. 

Some tracked you directly, following every frantic step; others swivelled without pattern, disorienting in their ceaseless movement. The corridor pulsed red and black, black and red, until you no longer knew which way you were running, only that you had to keep moving— because what was behind you was not the Riddle you loved. But your body betrayed you. Breath tore at your throat, your legs faltered, and at last you stopped. The silence that followed your ragged breathing was almost worse than the chase.

In the black and the red and the red and the black, and in the silence and the deafening sound of your breathing and heartbeat— you heard her; you did not see her.

“Dearest, where are you going?”

“Oh, Mrs. Rosehearts…! My parents will be wondering where I am.” The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. “I was going to tell them I’ll be spending the night—”

“Why don’t you go back to bed? My darling boy will be missing you.” When it spoke again, its voice had drifted closer, though no figure stood before you. 

“…Mrs. Rosehearts,” you called into the darkness, forcing the words through a throat gone tight, “could you show yourself again?”

“You look so beautiful, dearest.”

“Please,” you tried again, your voice trembling on the edge of a plea, “I really want to see you…”

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Its suggestion came sweetly. “Or, would you rather sleep beside me?”

No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. The walls breathed red, and the eyes turned, one by one, until you were their singular focus.

“I’d rather like to see you, Mrs. Rosehearts.” You pleaded to it. “Please show yourself?”

For a long moment there was no sound but your own breathing. And then, very softly, the voice returned;

“…Go back to bed, dearest. He will be missing you.”

This wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t it answer you? Just one request. You only wanted to see its face. You knew it wasn’t Mrs. Rosehearts, but still, you wanted to see. It sounded like her, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. Was it ever? And yet, even knowing that, some small, frantic part of you still wanted to see.

Then there was the sound of heels on the floor, approaching your direction from the right. You turned toward the sound and saw, not a body, but a shadow stretching far and thin across the red-washed walls. It was his shape— Riddle’s— the body you knew intimately, yet every familiar movement was made strange. The distortion of the light enlarged it until the silhouette blotted out half the corridor, crawling closer with every click of those unseen platforms.

Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs. Something was very wrong. You staggered back, despite the voice of Mrs. Rosehearts coaxing you to stay put. The shadow grew longer, wider, swallowing the corridor with every step. You didn’t wait for it to reach you. You turned and ran.

“Don’t let the walls cave in on you!”

The voice chased you down the hall, bright and ringing with laughter. A sweet giggle, laced with the happiness of childhood. It was the sound of afternoons in the park, the sound of hide-and-seek when you were young and innocent and unafraid. But here, in this corridor of red light and nothingness, it was wrong. Horribly wrong. The memory itself had turned against you.

Run, rabbit, run. The beloved childhood song pounded in your skull, faster, faster, a cruel song keeping pace with your desperate feet. Run, rabbit, run—

But your legs betrayed you. The floor clung to them, thick and sticky. You looked down— Black, searing tar had bubbled up under you, gripping your skin, dragging you down into its suffocating heat. Each step was slower than the last, every movement an agony of resistance. But when had it appeared? Where had it come from? 

The answer was nowhere and everywhere. The walls themselves were bleeding now. Every picture frame that had once held some cherished memory was spilling over rushing tar. Childhood portraits, family photographs— the father you never remembered hearing about, the photographs you never remembered being taken— all of them slick and running with molten black. The void was pouring out of them, flooding the hallway, surging around your ankles, your calves, latching and dragging and choking.

You tried to lift your legs. The liquid pulled tighter. The red light spun madly across the corridor, eyes upon you from every angle, watching as the black tide swallowed your steps. Now you were stumbling, hardly able to see. It invaded your eyes, and you were weeping salt and tar. So you shut them hard, and frantically felt around for something, someone to hold onto. Hands clawed at the floor, arms pushing through the sticky drag, every movement a battle against the tide. Your knees buckled, slipping, dragging you backward. 

With a final, desperate heave, you surged forward, feeling the resistance thin beneath you— and then gravity took you. You pitched forward, tumbling onto something soft and warm, the world lurching before settling.

When you lifted your head, the burning tar was gone, stripped from your skin as though it had never been. No suffocating heat. No tide dragging you under. Only the parlour, neat and whole, dressed in the red glow. The walls still writhed with shapes you could not name, eyes dripped wetly from the cluttered picture frames, but the flood had vanished.

And there, seated upon the couch as if he had been waiting all along, was Riddle. Your Riddle. At your gaze, a smile curled his lips.

This was right. This was right. You wanted to cling to him. To crawl on your hands and knees and cling to his legs— to hug his body which sprawled in casual elegance. …But— wasn’t he the one chasing you? You turned, wild with confusion, to the hallway. Red walls, glowing eyes— but no tar. Nothing but silence. …So it couldn’t have been him.

When you looked back, he was crouching before you and you had no time to question anything. His hands clamped your face, cold and firm, and he dragged you into a kiss. 

…You love his kisses— but this time it felt different. You could’ve sworn this was your Riddle— not what was chasing you in the hall. So why did this feel wrong? It didn’t feel like you were kissing him— you knew what it was like to kiss him; Erotic, tender, passionate. That’s what kissing him felt like. Empty, fierce, unyielding. That was what you felt now. 

So, who are you kissing? Who is kissing you?

Panic bloomed in your chest. You shoved him away, desperate for space. Now, everything judged you. Now, everything watched you. The house atop the hill, the eyes of nothingness, the eyes of red, the eyes of the boy in front of you— all honed in on you, you, you.

“Why did you push me away?” His voice was low, then cracked, higher, a whisper of someone else threaded through it. “Why did you try to leave? Surely you’re not trying to leave?”

You’d never seen him like this. Never so angry, so livid, so certain in unforgiving.

“Don’t leave us again.” 

The words split and weaved together until you couldn’t tell which voice was his and which wasn’t. Where he ended and his mother began no longer seemed clear.

“Won’t you come back to bed?”

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

Your strength, not exactly in the physical way. Being at Darwick asks for some degree of it, given the risk of anomalies, even more if you have to go on missions and are constantly on edge. It takes a lot not to crack under pressure, or end up completely closing yourself off.

There are many things Sho finds beautiful about you, even if he thinks of himself as a sap for that, but one of them is your smile. Specifically, your smile after you eat something he made, or the one you show him after taking your helmet off when he drives you back to your dorm. It's a smile just for him, one that he managed to put on your face despite everything that might be troubling you.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

Sho isn't the type to comfort with words, but with actions. If you're okay with touch, he'll keep an arm around you, pulling you closer so you can hide your face against his chest. He isn't really talkative in that situation, but will fill the silence if that helps you feel better.

That day you're eating your favorite foods, no matter how difficult the recipes might be. It's something that might even take a few days because of some ingredients? He'll find a way, or if not, you'll still get that dish as soon as possible, but enjoy something else in the meanwhile. This man keeps track of your likes and dislikes.

It doesn't matter if he had to open the food truck, if Leo or Alan wanted him to do something, he isn't leaving your side until he's sure that you're alright. Don't try to lie to him, he knows you too well.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Living and maybe taking care of a restaurant together. Sho is quite a simple man when it comes to that, he doesn't dream of anything big, just having you by his side as years pass by.

Once you're out of Darwick, he wants to drive you to places he wasn't able to before, maybe take you out to try snowboarding or snorkeling if you haven't yet.

...He's going to try and keep you out of meeting too much with his family though, or at least his brother. Leo will most likely still be hanging around and appear at your place on a whim, so he's also picturing that headache already.

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

If needed to be one, he's more on the dominant side, but he's a pretty chill guy most of the time. It ends up having more to do with him being very protective of the people he cares about rather than dominance itself.

Sho's the type to make sure you walk on the inside of the sidewalk, puts an arm in front of you the second he senses danger, doesn't hesitate to confront anyone who dares to insult or touch you with bad intentions.

But, at the same time, he folds extremely easy for you. No matter how angry he is, if you grab his sleeve and pull him back he isn't resisting at all. There's still a glare in his face, it only softens for a moment when he glances at you before he's looking back at the other person, warning them with a simple stare as he follows you away, one of his arms around your waist or a hand on your lower back.

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

He's hotheaded at times, depending on the reason for the fight, he might need to step back when he notices he's going too far. He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he calms down.

Sho isn't the type to jab at your insecurities in itself, but he can seem quite harsh. One of the most common reasons for this to happen could be related to your safety, he wants to keep you safe, and it frustrates him to no end when he learns you've been to close to being hurt.

"Idiot. What were you thinking!? I told you to stay back, are you deaf!?"

Once he has calmed down, he'll apologize for raising his voice, but will insist that you need to take better care of yourself. If you let him, Sho will cook something nice for you as part of his apology, and offer to take you anywhere you want. Hit him, too, if you're still angry.

Unless something very, very serious happens and you actually hurt his feelings, Sho will forgive you pretty easily, he just needs some time to himself first. As long as some boundaries aren't crossed (such as cheating, or doing something on purpose to hurt him for some petty reason) he'll always be willing to listen to you.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

Very. He shows it through acts of service, some of them more subtle than others: adding more to your order, preparing something good with the leftovers at the end of the day and driving to the cathedral, always willing to drive you anywhere you want, sewing your clothes if they get damaged in a mission, carrying your bags for you...

Sho knows that you're doing your best to spend time with him as well, letting him in even during your worst moments, helping him at the food truck even after a day filled with classes, testing his dishes without complaints... It's obvious to him, how can he miss that when he can't help but keep looking at you?

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Sho is pretty honest about everything, the only exception could be something stupid he had to do because of Leo. Maybe something like how he has had to dress as a woman for Halloween more than once, up until you see it happen. Not really secrets in itself, just things he doesn't mention.

But he does have some topics that are difficult to talk about, his older brother being one of them. Just the mention of his name is enough to make him roll his eyes, he doesn't want to talk about that guy. So, you won't know a whole lot about their relationship for a good while.

Other than that, Sho appreciates communication and tells you things straight, better tell you himself than have you finding out later by yourself if it's a more touchy topic that can concern you. So, the only type of stuff he might have a harder time talking about are always those that only have to do with him and aren't all that important.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

Without a doubt. It was thanks to you that his food truck exists, and any praises you give about his cooking only help him find it even more enjoyable. It's also because of you that he ends up being a bit more careful about some of Leo's plans, especially if you might get involved in some way.

As for you, at the very least your diet will improve, and you'll end up learning more about cooking, maybe become more confident in yourself. Sho supports you a lot, he's also the type of boyfriend that's like "wear whatever you want, I can fight". Knowing that someone will have your back can do wonders to your self-esteem.

And trying new things? This man has so many hobbies, you just need to ask and he will teach you anything you want. Snowboarding? Sure, just make sure the people at Frostheim don't catch you. Sewing? No problem, he'll even have some bandaids ready if you poke yourself. Cooking? Please.

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Not really, Sho trusts you a lot, he knows you have guy friends, and you know he might also talk to other girls, but there are zero doubts when it comes to your loyalty towards each other. He never lets it get too far, especially if you're the one who gets jealous, he can be quite observant and knows you too well.

More than jealousy, the problem with Sho might be his protectiveness. If he sees another person getting too close, openly flirting even though you're obviously uncomfortable or insisting that you're taken, he'll jump in, an arm around your waist pulling you closer. Depending on how the other person acts, it may turn into a fight, so it'd be wise to take the chance and leave as soon as possible.

He needs some time to calm down, and after that, teasing you is a good way to let go of all those feelings. If you try to reassure him in some way about what happened, he appreciates it, deep down it's something that helps quite a bit.

In the worst case scenario, he'll just need some more time while doing something to keep busy and so he can spend some energy, like cooking a handful of dishes, playing sports or training at The Pit to let out some steam.

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

Definitely. When serious, Sho is the type of man who can love quite intensely and his kisses show just that, sometimes almost like he's savoring you, other times as if he wants to devour you. He kisses you like you're a delicious dish he's trying to figure out, slow but deep, leaving you gasping for air.

Other types of kisses are more teasing, like kissing the corner of your mouth when he knows you were expecting a proper one. During more tender moments you get kisses on your forehead or the crown of your head. When you're busy, a peck will do, but it's given with the promise of more when you're free. He also likes cheek kisses to say goodbye if you're in public or simply not too much into PDA.

The first kiss was soft, showing a vulnerable side of him that is usually hidden, the kind of kiss that is gentle and leaves you with a smile afterwards.

His body is leaning towards yours, a hand cradling your face while his thumb caresses your cheek. A faint shade of red dusts his skin, but his blue gaze doesn't falter as he maintains eye-contact with you, brows furrowed slightly in a feeling much different from anger.

"This okay?" Sho's thumb moves lower, now brushing against the corner of your mouth. His breath is warm, mixing with yours as he has to stop himself from simply closing the distance, saving your expression in his memory while he waits for your answer.

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

It's something more casual than fully planned, a moment where the vibe is just right. It's too early for him to show a much sappier side of him, so while at one point he does entertain the idea of trying to be more romantic with something like a candlelit dinner, he ends up feeling like that's a bit overkill, maybe for the future.

Instead, he takes you out for a ride to places you have mentioned wanting to visit in passing conversations, enjoying the sights and eating something together before getting back on Bonnie. It's when the two of you stop at a lonely park to stargaze while leaning on his artifact, talking and laughing. You look at each other, your cheeks flushed red from the colder breeze, giving him one of those smiles that make him want to tease you a little... and then the moment in the previous letter happens.

It's after your first kiss that he confesses, although at that point his feelings for you are more than obvious, he can see in your face that you want to hear the words directly from him. So he does, trying not to think about how red his cheeks must be. Point out that he's blushing and he'll tease you right back, saying that you aren't looking much better. Now, why don't you say it back? It's only fair.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

Sho doesn't care a whole lot about it, you don't need to be married to live together and do everything a married couple would do, but if it's something you want? You bet he's going to find a pretty ring, might even ask Leo his opinion on some.

Here is where the idea of a candlelit dinner comes back around. He'll wait for a day when you're busy, or ask some of your friends to invite you out (also telling them to make sure you don't eat too much before coming back), and then spend the entire time preparing everything.

Your favorite decorations, candles with a scent you enjoy and goes well with the food, and the dishes he knows never fail to make you ask for seconds. Sho even prepares the dessert himself, he wants everything to be meaningful.

He welcomes you back with a kiss, shrugging with a grin when you ask him why he's so dressed-up, before surprising you with the dinner.

"Wha— Did I forget our anniversary!?" Your panic gets a snort out of him, and helps him calm down the slight anxiety that had been bothering him for hours even though he's sure you will say yes.

"Pfft, nah. C'mon, the food is going to get cold."

It all makes sense when he kneels after you finish eating, a small box in his hand as he takes in your reaction, teasing you a little with silence until he finally proposes.

There isn't much change afterwards, to be honest, the two of you were already acting like a marriage couple, but now there's a ring on your finger and you're his spouse. Sho prefers to wear his in a necklace he never takes off, it's better for sanitary purposes and so he doesn't risk getting it dirty or damaged.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

He's very used to calling you "senpai", so that's what he calls you most of the time. Other times, he calls you by your name, especially when you're outside the academy.

Sho isn't really the type to use pet names a lot, mainly just to tease you or to make more obvious that you're together if someone doesn't take the hint. Maybe some like "babe", "love", "sweetheart" or even "princess", the latter especially if you're being a little bossy or he's spoiling you.

"Here, is it to your liking, princess?" There's an amused grin on his face as he places a recreation of a limited-time dessert in front of you. You had been sulking for days because you were unable to buy it, so he tried his hand at it even if it isn't the same as cooking.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

It's painfully obvious to anyone who had known Sho for long enough, Leo doesn't hesitate to call him a sap or even a simp every time he catches him smiling at his phone, knowing that it's because of a text from you.

He looks at you as softly as he looks at Bonnie, and everyone knows how much he cares for his artifact. He invites you to the food truck pretty often, just to have you nearby and slip you some bites of food.

Sho isn't too loud about his feelings, most of his affection come in the form of touches, gifts and him being unable to say no to you. He isn't the type to say "I love you" all the time, but always says it back when you do, still feeling a bit flustered because of how much he's fallen for you.

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

He couldn't care less about what others think, as long as you're okay with it he's more than happy to go around with an arm around you, tease you if you kiss his cheek... just simple shows of affection. If anyone has a problem with that, he's always ready to throw a punch.

Not really the type to brag, Sho is pretty chill and doesn't see the need to do so. Might do it if it's around friends and you're by his side just because he likes to see you a little flustered... or to piss Leo off if he's bothering him about something, such as having a kiss mark on his cheek or similar.

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

Sho is surprisingly good when it comes to organizing his schedule. He has quite a few hobbies, and learned how to organize his day to make the most of it, especially because some recipes need some careful management of time.

When you're dating, he always makes sure to leave himself a good amount of free time in case you want to hangout, although very often he just tells you to go to wherever he is while he's still working.

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

Sho can be quite romantic when he wants to. As mentioned before, he's the type to prepare a very nice dinner for special days, maybe bring you breakfast to bed if he knows you're really tired, make you chocolates for White Day no matter if you've been dating for a few months or years, driving you around on Bonnie at night,surprising you with something you mentioned wanting...

Simple but meaningful things, he isn't the type to make it too complicated. If you'd like to do something a bit more fancy some time? Sure, he's willing to try that out at least once for you. Sho finds it really hard to say no to you unless there's something that risks your safety.

Whether cliché or creative it depends on his mood and your own preferences, he'll try to think about ways to spice things up sometimes.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Without a doubt. Sho might tease you at times if your goals seem a bit too idealized, but it never goes far, he's quick to support you and is there for you for anything you need.

You hit a wall and need some help? Sure, he'll try to help you out in small ways, your goal is something you need to achieve yourself, but having a new set of eyes to find another perspective isn't bad. Plus, he enjoys giving you his opinion and seeing your face brighten when you finally reach a solution by yourself.

Sho always has your back, especially when it comes to reminding you to eat. You're never skipping a meal on his watch, he'll bring it to you if you can't get to the table, although he'd prefer for you to take a break and enjoy the food.

He believes that you can do anything you put your mind into, but won't let you trade your health for that.

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

He likes the idea of trying out new hobbies with you, but doesn't need anything too grand. Finding and driving to new restaurants or places that catch your attention, surprising you with a dish you told him about, and of course, teasing you. If you have any ideas, he'll be willing to try them out.

Overall though, Sho doesn't mind a routine, he enjoys being with you no matter what you're doing. Years could pass and in his eyes everything you do is cute, or something worthy to playfully poke at you for.

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Sho knows you extremely well, he's very observant and remembers a lot of your preferences, even keeps a few notes about which flavors you prefer just in case. It gets to the point that sometimes he knows what you're going to ask before you even turn around, such as having a spoon ready when you move closer so you can taste the dish, or taking his jacket off because he knows when you start to feel cold.

He isn't the most empathetic person, but also isn't heartless, it depends on the mood and the situation. He can usually come off as apathetic due to his way of speaking and acting like a delinquent, but he still cares even if he can't put himself completely in your shoes at times.

When it comes to people he cares about, especially you because he has opened up a lot with you, he can offer a stronger connection.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

Very, probably one of the most important things to him. Sho is someone who loves intensely, he doesn't just give his heart to anyone who wants it. If you're important to him, Sho will try his hardest to protect you, be it physically or from words.

Being with you means that you're someone he trusts, someone with whom he can be himself with. He appreciates his friendships, so of course it's not different when it comes to a relationship.

It doesn't matter if the person who mocks you is a stranger or Leo, he will draw a line at any comments thrown at you.

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

Even though he's usually the one who does it, Sho secretly loves when you kiss his forehead. It's usually covered with his bandana, so it wouldn't happen so often, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't make his heart jump in his chest.

Make him lean down and push his bandana either up or down so you can press a kiss to that spot. He'll playfully complain about you messing his hair if you pulled it up, but his fingers instinctively move to touch where you kissed him before he fixes his bandana, his cheeks flushed a light red.

Something else he would like? Waking up to you kissing his face. It's cute, gives him something to tease you about, and makes him feel like one of those sappy love interests in movies. If he's smiling like a fool, no, he isn't, you're still half-asleep.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

Not excessively, most of his shows of affections are quite simple and also depends a lot on your own preferences or his mood at the moment. If he feels like teasing you and knows that showing affection is a good way to get some nice reactions? Better start praying.

Pretty normal overall, a kiss here and there, an arm around you especially when it's too crowded so he doesn't lose you, handholding and the like.

Sho is more of an acts of service type of guy, carrying your things for you, not hesitating to drive to wherever you are if you forgot something or are too tired to walk, making time in his day for you...

He does enjoy the affection though, you'll never hear him complain about your kisses or if you pull on his sleeve to drag him onto the bed for cuddles. He'll tease you about it, but comply regardless.

"Pfft, so needy, senpai. Could've just told me you wanted attention."

Y earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

Sho keeps himself busy, wanting to focus on anything that stops him from looking at the time waiting for you to come back, or else the minutes would feel like hours.

He focuses on trying new recipes, going on rides with Bonnie, might even try playing the guitar again just to feel that usual free time he keeps for you. The second you send him a text, though? He leaves whatever he's doing (as long as it doesn't concern food on the stove or any similar risk) just to check his phone.

He teases you, asking if you miss him so much to message him so often, especially if you express impatience about coming back to him. It's all a trick though, to avoid showing you how he's actually the one who can't wait to see you again.

There's a certain tension after three days or more pass without being with you, to the point that he doesn't complain when Alan drags him to train, playing basketball and doing other similar activities help him take some of that tension off.

If possible, he'd enjoy calling you just to hear your voice for a while, especially late at night. Maybe he's cooking dinner, head tilted to keep his phone close to his ear, or he's already in bed, listening to you ramble about your day.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

You ended up being extremely important to Sho, much more than he ever expected, so of course he'd do anything for you. The more time you spent together, the more he was sure he wanted to be with you for as long as you'd have him, hopefully forever, honestly.

You're sick? He can stop whatever he was going to do, don't worry, you'll get some soup in a few minutes. You need him to pick you up? Give him a moment, he'll be there. As long as it's nothing that's extremely important and can't be postponed, he'll put it aside if you need him.