#⨭ idiots to lovers!trope

[foreveia]

snow one like you ⤨ miya atsumu

⨭ genre; college!au, frat!au, enemies to lovers!trope (sort of)

⨭ pairing; miya atsumu x f!reader

⨭ word count; 16.4k

⨭ descriptions; you're convinced that miya atsumu is the world's biggest fuckboy asshole, and yet, when the iota nu alpha (ina)'s exec board and your sorority's exec board go on winter break together, you come to prove that there really is a thin line between hate and something else.

⨭ warnings; alcohol, profanity, sexual innuendos, LOTS of dick jokes

⨭ a/n; i have been FIENDING to write frat boy! & fuckboy!atsumu bro so here's the 'tsumu redemption story lmfao i am very proud of coming up w greek letter versions of the hq teams. hope u love seeing a fuckboy conversion story as much as i do mwah :)

one.

Winter break should have been perfect. 

Here’s what should have happened: (1) you, your sorority’s executive board, and an obsessive amount of luggage for a two week break all pile into Mao’s sexy black Jeep; (2) drive six and a half hours up to the cute, girly AirBnB you rented for this; (3) sleep in until 1 PM every day and wake up in the softest sheets ever; (4) spend the whole winter break snowboarding down black diamonds and drinking mimosas in the hot tub. You even treated yourself to a shopping spree in preparation for it; four sets of pink bikinis and matching silk pajamas for the girls had put a significant dent in your bank balance but who cares because it was meant for your perfect winter break.

It could’ve been perfect. It should’ve been perfect. 

But here you are instead, the day after finals on what could have been a lovely end to the first half of your junior year but instead is the start of an imminently torturous two weeks, standing at the curb of your university apartment building, shivering your absolute fucking ass off in just a hoodie because Aran’s rental car was delayed an hour for pick up. All your favorite winter wear is already packed into the massive duffel bag by your feet, stuffed to the absolute brim with just one of your new bikinis (since apparently, you had to do bonding activities now), plain pajama sets (the girls worried the others would feel left out), and everything you could ever need to commit a murder and get away with it. 

Your planned victim? Atsumu Miya, the official worst human being on Earth.

This belief is confirmed by the blue 2012 Hyundai you’ve been waiting on finally rolling up, and the back door popping open to reveal Atsumu, sprawled across the three seats as if he owns the place. He looks as if he plans on you feeding him grapes and massaging his feet during the ride there; you want to punch him in the jaw. His eyes flick up, lazily scanning you from head to toe with a smirk that could infuriate a saint.

“Awh, look who’s here to grace us with her presence,” he drawls, not bothering to move an inch. “So princess, ready to fall in love with me yet?”

You grit your teeth, forcing a smile that’s more a baring of teeth. Mentally, you scratch out human—because he’s actually closer to a demon. 

“In your fantasies,” you scoff, heaving your duffel bag into the trunk with more force than necessary. The trunk is a struggle to close because it’s already overflowing with way more baggage than is needed for a winter break trip.

He chuckles, an irritating sound that grates on your last nerve. “Oh, I have plenty of those, babe. You’re just usually not wearin’ clothes in ‘em.” 

Yep, it’s confirmed. You’re going to kill Atsumu. 

Unfortunately, Yui Michimiya, the sorority president and apparently shotgun, rolls down the window before you get the opportunity to strangle him right then and there. “Y/N, get in the car, we have to go! Mao and them are already on their way there.” 

You sputter. “I’m stuck in the back with him? Are you kidding?”

“Aran is driving the first three hours, and then I’m switching with him. We don’t have time for this.”

“What, so I not only have to share my winter break with the fucking foxes, but now I’m backseat? Why didn’t you just let me go with the other girls, Yui?” you whine. You know you’re being childish, but you don’t care. This is practically a matter of life or death (albeit not yours—for Atsumu). 

Yui’s eyes dart between you and Atsumu, her lips pressed into a thin line as she navigates the tension with the ease of a seasoned diplomat. “Look, I know you two have your... differences, but we’ve got a schedule to keep. It’s a long drive, and we can’t afford to start late. You two both need to just suck it up, okay? It’s just a few hours.”

You glance at Atsumu, who’s now sporting a grin that suggests he’s already won whatever game he thinks you’re playing. The prospect of spending hours confined in a car with him makes your skin crawl, but with a resigned sigh, you grab the rest of your gear and slide into the backseat. The door slams shut, sealing your fate. You’re already sad for your future self.

Atsumu shifts, making a show of spreading out even more, his smirk never faltering. “Are ya feelin’ cozy, sweetheart?” he teases, nudging you with his knees as his legs open so far he’s past the empty center console.

“Your tiny dick does not need that much room. Now get your legs away from mine before I chop them off and throw them in the woods behind our cabin.”

“Wow, princess, didn’t think 8 inches was tiny in your book. Or should I say size queen?”

This is officially the worst winter break of your life.

When Chizuru, the sorority secretary, had first proposed the idea of sharing your annual break retreat with a fraternity executive board, you thought she was joking. And then when Mao, the internal vice president, said it was a lovely plan so that both parties could have bigger facilities and more funds, you begged for it to be any other fraternity. And then finally, when Yui officially confirmed that your retreat would be a joint trip with Iota Nu Alpha (INA)’s five executive members, you actually lost your mind. 

Because Iota Nu Alpha, while being a generally very respectable fraternity with a decent national establishment and well-regarded chapter on your campus, contains a particular flaw: a certain external vice president who is the actual devil and goes by the earthling name of Atsumu Miya. 

The truth is that you’re not a very violent person—you don’t even knowingly kill bugs, much less go on mental tangents fantasizing about someone’s downfall. Before freshman year of college, you wouldn’t have ever believed that you’d be on the verge of homicidal rage just from the sound of someone’s voice. 

But Atsumu truly is a special case because he has an innate talent for bringing out the worst in you. Every smirk, every condescending comment, every casual brush of his arm against yours feels like a deliberate provocation, and it has ever since you first met him in a frat basement during your freshman year. Deciding he was nothing but bad news, you had tried to distance yourself from him, but somehow, he continues to be pulled back in everywhere: from being chemistry lab partners in your freshman spring to being paired during the Greek life matchups to being forced to take him to your sophomore sorority formal because your initial date ghosted last minute, for some reason, the universe hates you and you literally cannot escape him. 

Atsumu Miya spends half his time flirting with you and the other half pissing you off; he’s a thorn in your side that simply will not budge. He’s evidently already made it his mission to ruin your break before it’s even started, so that’s just reason #13092 of why he is in fact the bane of your existence.

The car pulls away from the curb, and Aran, INA’s secretary, adjusts the rearview mirror to glance back at the two of you. “Let’s try to keep it civil, alright? We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

Atsumu snickers and you roll your eyes, keeping your gaze trained on what’s outside the window. The cityscape blurs past, a mix of buildings and holiday lights from tourist spots in the area.

If you had been in Mao’s car right now, accompanied by her and two tolerable members of the fraternity, you’d probably be excited, chattering on and on about all the fun you were going to have. But now, the only thing you can think about is how to survive the next few hours—and then the next two weeks—without throttling the blonde asshole sitting next to you. 

“Y’know, princess,” Atsumu says after a few minutes of blessed quiet, “Ain’t it funny how ya swore in freshman year you’re never speakin’ to me again? And yet here we are.”

You don’t bother looking at him, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, hilarious. It’s the comedy of the century how you’ve become an inescapable part of my college life. What’s next? Are you planning to haunt my dreams too?”

Atsumu’s grin widens, undeterred by your sarcasm. “Are ya sayin’ you wanna sleep with me? Awh, at least buy me dinner first.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean, as ya wish. Or I can fuck you, I don’t mind changin’ up positions.”

You glare at him, but the intensity of your anger is somewhat mitigated by the fact that you’re squished in the backseat, your knees almost touching his. Yui and Aran exchange a glance in the front, clearly relieved that the bickering hasn’t escalated to physical violence—yet.

You think they shouldn’t be relieved yet. With the way Atsumu is currently simpering at you, it won’t be long before you act on your deep urge to punch him.

two.

The first few hours of the drive pass. You try to ignore Atsumu as much as possible, staring out the window and counting the trees as they whip by; still, he keeps saying stupid things and making you acknowledge them because they’re just that stupid. He just has the miraculous ability to pull you out of your head and whenever he speaks, he becomes all you can think about (because you’re so enraged by his audacity). Occasionally, you catch snippets of Yui and Aran’s conversation, but their voices are low, and you’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts and debates to pay much attention.

And then you notice the snow outside. You’re far enough outside of Tokyo now where the weather has begun to change; it is so incredibly beautiful to see the snowflakes flying down gently as the car flies past the snow-dusted neighborhoods and you can’t help but press your forehead against the cool glass, fascinated. You haven’t seen snowfall this hard in so long, and you are enthralled by it. It’s like the universe itself is trying to soften your mood, scattering diamonds across the landscape to distract you from the simmering tension inside the car. Even Atsumu seems momentarily quiet, his usual remarks on pause as he gazes out his own window.

The serene moment, however, is shattered when Aran suddenly pipes up, “We’re going to make a quick stop in Sendai. Need to stretch our legs and maybe grab some snacks. Anyone need anything specific?”

“Head from the princess.”

“A break from Atsumu.”

Yui snaps, evidently reaching her limit. “Okay, that’s enough. Everyone out.”

The car pulls into a convenience store parking lot, and the group disbands for a brief respite from the confined space: Aran goes to refill the tank, Atsumu and Yui head inside the store, and you trail behind in the lot. You step out, taking in the crisp, cold air, feeling it sting your lungs—a welcome pain compared to the annoyance of dealing with Atsumu. Still, you’ve made it this far; you refuse to allow his presence to deter you from enjoying the snow. 

The break is brief, and soon everyone is piling back into the car, arms laden with snacks and drinks. Atsumu tosses you a pack of peach gummies with a smug look. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for ya.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Thanks?” you say, but it comes out more like a question; you’re struck by the gesture but even more so by the fact that he in fact had gotten your favorite candy. “How’d you know I liked these?”

“Oh, I just got them ‘cause they’re peaches. And I like your ass.”

Ah, there he goes, opening his big mouth and ruining everything. 

His smirk widens, and he shifts closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Y’know, if yer cold, they say body heat is the best way to stay warm. Maybe we should try—”

You shove him away. “Keep your theories to yourself. I’m not interested.” You’re frowning again, staring outside the window with a refreshed intensity. 

It’s infuriating how he does nice things as if he cares about you when he’s really just the world’s biggest fuckboy. He is pretty and he knows it, so it’s not some random mistake that he spends half his time charming girls into dropping their panties. In a fraternity already known for being Man Sluts™, he really does stand out as the biggest one of all because everywhere Miya Atsumu goes, broken hearts inevitably follow.

He grins as if your hostility is just another game for him to win—because he’s an instigator, he doesn’t let up. “C’mon, we’re stuck together anyway. Might as well get close, babe.” His tone is mocking, and you can feel his eyes on you even with your gaze fixed firmly out the window.

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why? ‘Cause ya know ya like it?”

“Because I have a name, Atsumu,” you snap, plugging in your earbuds and turning up your music loud enough to drown out everything and everyone (and especially Atsumu) around you.

Yui and Aran sigh. They had been the only ones to agree to take you two, and even their patience is wearing thin. The rest of the drive to the AirBnB continues in a similarly miserable pattern—moments of near silence punctuated by Atsumu’s insufferable comments and your equally sharp retorts. By the time you arrive, everyone’s a little cranky except Atsumu, as obnoxiously cheery as ever.

The sole saving grace is that the cabin is just as charming as you’d hoped.

With the INA’s additional funds, the AirBnB is significantly nicer than any you’ve stayed at before. Nestled in a small clearing, it’s a picturesque retreat with smoke gently curling from the chimney and warm lights glowing from the windows: altogether, it’s a two-story, wood-paneled beauty that looks like it was plucked straight from a Christmas postcard. The surrounding forest is peaceful, there’s a gorgeously still lake just past the trees, and the snow-covered opening glistens under the setting sun as the car finally comes to a slow in the stone-lined parking space. 

You step out of the car, stretching your legs and taking a deep breath; the thin snow sinks under your sneakers as you retrieve your duffel bag from the trunk. Atsumu, of course, makes a show of grabbing his own luggage with exaggerated effort, smirking at you as he hefts a comically oversized yellow suitcase over his shoulder.

“Need any help, princess?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock concern.

“I got it, thanks,” you reply curtly, not bothering to mask your irritation. You start towards the cabin, eager to claim your room and escape the tension of the car ride.

Inside is even cozier than it looked from the outside. The living room has a large stone fireplace, plush leather couches, and a comforting red-brick aesthetic; the kitchen is spacious and modern, with a large island perfect for group meals. The centerpiece of the house is the tall Christmas tree in the center, already adorned with twinkling lights and ornaments; there are no gifts under the tree yet, however, because Chizuru has made one of the ongoing activities for the trip to sneakily buy or make everyone else a gift. They’ll show up, little by little, over the break, but you imagine by the time Christmas actually rolls around, it’ll be overflowing.

Mao and Kita, the two other drivers, have both arrived with their cohorts, so the cabin is officially full of life. Both the fraternity e-board and sorority e-board are exploring the amenities; you know from the listing that there’s a game room and hot tub somewhere, so you’re sure they’re seeking those out.

You, however, are focused on something else. You’re too busy looking for the room Chizuru has assigned you, praying to every god you know that you aren’t placed near the human embodiment of a rash. 

When you find your room, you drop your bag at your feet and sigh peacefully. It’s a single on the short end of the hallway, with a queen-sized bed and a lovely balcony that overlooks the snowy forest. There’s only one other room on this end, and what are the chances of that being—

“Oi, princess, I guess we’re neighbors!” Atsumu whoops, walking towards you from down the hall, waving dramatically and now lugging two suitcases, his obnoxious yellow one and an identical one in gray.

Apparently a hundred percent. The world does in fact hate you, and you’re sure now that this is definitely going to be the worst winter break you’ve ever had.

three.

It turns out that not only is Atsumu loud when you’re awake, but he’s loud when you’re trying to sleep too. 

The walls of the cabin are remarkably thin for the whole aesthetic being wood-planks and brick, so much of your first night is spent with your pillow pressed over your head, trying desperately to drown out the loud conversations echoing from next door. The Miya twins are sharing the double room next to you, and despite your best attempts to muffle them, apparently Atsumu speaks at the volume of a F9 fighter jet, because you can hear every time he laughs. 

When you see the clock tick past 1 AM and they still haven’t stopped talking, you are done.

You give up on the idea of them shutting up on their own, and you need sleep—you’re an absolute terror without it. So you do the only thing you can think to do: get up out of bed, march yourself over there, bang on the door and demand them to please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up. 

You bang on the door with more force than you intended, each knock echoing down the hallway (you’re thankful the other rooms are on the opposite end). After a few seconds that feel like forever, the noise inside finally ceases, and the door swings open.

There stands Osamu, wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxers with a simultaneously perplexed and annoyed expression on his face. He looks like he’s been pulled from the midst of the most intense discussion of his life—his hair disheveled, a hint of confusion flickering across his features as he registers who’s on the other side of the door.

“What’s so important thatcha gotta bang down our door at one in the mornin’?” he asks, his tone more curious than irritated.

Despite the cold creeping in around your slippers, you feel a flush spread across your cheeks—and it’s unfortunately not from the chill. It’s hard not to notice his well-defined muscles and the way his boxers sit so nicely on his hips; all the INA boys are sculpted like art and it’s part of why they’re such a popular fraternity on campus. Still, regardless of how hot he may be, your exhaustion and frustration are quick to overshadow any hint of attraction.

“So you do know it’s one AM! In case you two didn’t know, most normal people are trying to sleep at this hour,” you snap, trying not to look at how the dim hallway light casts shadows across his abs. It’s honestly a shame that this is the bane of your existence and his grayscale clone you’re talking about. “Including me, and I can’t do that with the Miyas recreating a live studio audience next door.”

Osamu’s expression softens a bit, actually looking slightly apologetic, and he leans against the door frame, crossing his arms. “Ah, sorry ‘bout that. Guess we got carried away.”

Behind him, you catch a glimpse of Atsumu, just as minimally clad, who has now paused in the midst of grabbing a snack from their cluttered table. He truly is cursed to be a demon trapped inside a beautiful body.

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between you and his brother, licking his lips before he teases, “Ya know, princess, you could always join us. M’bed’s got room for two.”

Osamu glances back at his twin, rolling his eyes slightly before returning his attention to you. “Bro, seriously?” He sighs, but you can see the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as well.

“No thanks,” you mutter, crossing your arms and standing your ground, determined not to let Atsumu’s pointed commentary distract you from your mission. “Don’t need your help cuddling me to sleep. Just shut up, please.”

Atsumu strides over to the door to stand next to his brother, grinning as he eyes you up and down. “C’mon, babe. We’re just havin’ a bit of fun. What’s a few more minutes, ey? Besides, you look cute in yer bunny slippers.”

“I hate you. And I told you to stop calling me stupid nicknames,” you huff. In your initial moment of rage, you forgot you’re standing there in just your fluffy slippers and polka-dot pajama set. “Just be quiet so I can sleep.”

Osamu chuckles, clearly amused, but still he takes a step back and drags Atsumu with him. “Alright, alright, we’ll keep it down, promise. Ain’t our intention to keep a pretty girl like you up all night—unless, of course, that’s what you’re aimin’ for.”

The joke sends a wave of heat across your face, but you manage a quick, “Shut up,” before turning on your heel and heading back to your room. As you walk away, you hear the soft thud of the door closing and the remnants of their now blessedly muffled voices.

Back in your own room, you climb back into bed, pull the covers up to your chin, and stare at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to calm down. “Stupid Miyas,” you mutter to yourself, rolling over and burying your face in your pillow.

It’s going to be a long night.

***

The next morning, Mao is the first to point out your dark circles. 

It had been a struggle to wake up this morning, given how you had hardly slept; when your phone, blasting a cheery Ohayo, Ohayo! alarm, obnoxiously alerted you to start the day, you almost threw it across the room. You are bleary-eyed and extremely grumpy, so when she gasps at your appearance over breakfast, you are quick to react.

“I look exhausted because I am, Mao,” you snark back, rubbing at your temples in an attempt to ward off the impending headache. It doesn’t work. “Thanks to the Miya twins and their late-night comedy show, I barely got any sleep.”

You feel bad for snapping at your best friend—after all, she had only been concerned. But thankfully, she doesn’t seem to take any offense to your tone; she just sympathetically nods and slides a steaming cup of coffee your way. “Well, hopefully, today will be less noisy. Maybe the activities will tire them out.” 

You doubt it, but you’ll take whatever peace you can get.

 ***

The morning actually passes relatively uneventfully because Aran and Chizuru, as the secretaries, have put together a tight itinerary that’s meant to keep you all moving. From a group hike to tubing to a stop at the holiday market to ending the night with board games, they have everything fleshed out.

But somehow, Atsumu still manages to find every opportunity to get under your skin. From bumping into you “accidentally” during the hike to stealing your pink tube right at the top of the slide to buying the stall’s last Mt. Iwate snow globe you had been eyeing, by the end of the day, you are practically stomping into the cabin. You are seething for an opportunity to execute revenge.

Said opportunity makes itself present when the group gathers around the large dining table for Pictionary after dinner. Chizuru draws names from a hat to decide teams, and you end up paired with Osamu—you can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at your partner. Osamu is focused and competitive, just like you, and despite his contribution to the teasing and noise last night, you know he’s just as enthusiastic about beating his brother as you are.

The game starts off lightheartedly, with everyone laughing and shouting guesses as each pair takes turns drawing. When it’s Osamu’s turn, he pulls a card and starts sketching quickly; he draws a round shape with spiky hair and you squint, confused.

“Um… a pineapple… a sun?” you guess tentatively, but Osamu shakes his head and continues, his hand moving frantically to add more details—a few lines here, a few there. “A duck?”

Osamu keeps drawing and you keep futilely guessing, until finally, he adds two distinctive eyebrows and a stupid grin that you’d recognize anywhere. The lightbulb finally clicks on in your mind; really, you can’t believe it took you this long.

You blurt out, “An asshole!” 

The room falls silent for a beat before everyone (excluding Atsumu, of course) erupts into boisterous laughter. Even Kita is smiling—and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him express real emotion. Osamu’s face positively lights up, and he gives you an enthusiastic high five.

Atsumu, though momentarily stunned, quickly retorts, “Oi! I’m right here, ya know!”

Chizuru, being game coordinator, tries to maintain some semblance of order. She coughs into her hand, trying not to laugh, as she says, “Technically, she’s not wrong based on the drawing, but let’s stick to the actual prompts, please.”

Osamu all but wipes a tear from his eye. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up the little card that says in all caps, [ YELLOW ].

“The fuck? How’s me even relate to that?” Atsumu scoffs. 

Osamu shrugs mock-innocently, but the shit-eating grin on his face gives him away. “I dunno, jus’ came to mind. Maybe it’s yer hair.”

Yui giggles beside Atsumu, who is glaring daggers at his twin. “Well, at least you’re… memorable,” she says, patting her partner on the shoulder.

“Yeah, memorable for being an ass,” you retort, trying to suppress your own laughter.

The game moves on, even as the laughter continues; despite Atsumu’s ongoing and constant attempts to throw you off, you and Osamu manage to rack up a respectable number of points. And you do so again and again, even when Atsumu declares a team rematch in the form of Codenames and Uno; the camaraderie with Osamu comes shockingly naturally and by the time you have finished playing rematches with all the available games in the rec room, you are practically in sync. 

Osamu is easy to work with. You two work together to get on Atsumu’s nerves and you can tell the blonde is boiling. He competes with Osamu at an intensity you haven’t even seen before from him—you chalk it up to sibling rivalry, though you wouldn’t know for sure.

Then, when your team is declared as the official overall second place (after Kita and Aran—who would’ve guessed), Osamu scoops you up into a brief hug; your feet come six inches off the ground and you gasp at the unexpected embrace. A blush spreads across your cheeks when he settles you down because Yui and Chizuru are squealing so loud you think the rest of the sorority can probably hear it from Tokyo, 543.5 kilometers away. You don’t even have it in you to make eye contact with the bemused younger Miya twin, so you keep your eyes steadfast on the ground. His arm is residually slung around your shoulders; he leans much of his weight against you when he does.

You’re okay with it though. Osamu’s arms are just as toned and yummy as they look.

four.

Over the next week, you find yourself getting to know the gray-haired Miya more and more. He makes breakfast for everyone in the mornings without fail, and you’re an early bird, so more often than not, you two end up alone in the kitchen before the light has fully woken up the cabin.

Osamu is thoughtful, considerate—he’s so naturally comforting and sincere, down to his smallest movements. He listens more than he talks. He makes people feel heard. He takes care of the people around him. He doesn’t flirt with you or provoke you or leave you breathless. He is nice. 

You think that you like him. 

One morning, Osamu is telling you a story about learning to cook because at twelve years old Atsumu almost burnt down the kitchen while trying to make eggs, when Atsumu (further proof he really is a demon because he was summoned on cue, Beetlejuice-style) groggily stumbles into the room in the humble pursuit of coffee.

He blinks, registering what he’s seeing, his eyes flickering between you and his twin confusedly. “Why’re ya here?” he asks, sounding almost accusatory. “Why’re you canoodlin’ at seven in the mornin’?”

You snort. “We are not canoodling,” you mock, resting your head in your palm, leaning on the kitchen island. “Osamu’s just telling me about the time you almost burned down your house.”

Atsumu’s head snaps at an insane speed to look at his brother, a boyish look of embarrassment and betrayal all over his face. “‘Samu, what’re ya spillin’ that for?” he whines. This action makes you smile even more: the mental picture of little Atsumu setting off smoke alarms while Osamu calmly puts out the flames behind him only becomes more vivid when you imagine Atsumu pouting and in tears. It mitigates his irritating personality, even if just by a bit. 

Osamu, noticing his twin’s flustered state, gives a nonchalant shrug. “Just sharin’ some childhood memories,” he replies smoothly, a glint of mischief in his eyes that you don’t catch.

Atsumu narrows his eyes at his brother but doesn’t say anything, instead turning his attention to the coffee pot. As Osamu adds more and more silly details and your conversation continues, Atsumu’s demeanor… shifts. The embarrassment fades, replaced by a subtle, tightening jawline, his eyes darting between you and his brother; he looks irritated. Is he really that mad at having his childhood mishaps dragged into the light? 

The thought of him as a kid is actually kinda cute, though you suspect that if you told him this, Atsumu’s ego would inflate so large he’d float into outer space.

“Really, ‘Tsumu, it was like you were tryna to summon a fire spirit with that stove,” Osamu teases, slicing fresh strawberries with a chef’s finesse. He shoots you a playful wink. “Had’ta save our house from becoming a pile of ash. Ma’ almost killed us both!”

Atsumu huffs, pouring himself a cup of coffee, the steam swirling between you. “Cut it out, ‘Samu. Don’t need ya makin’ her think I was a total menace as a kid,” he shoots back, his tone playful yet strained.

You laugh at their banter. “Well, you’re still one now, so I don’t know,” you smirk, leaning towards Atsumu. “Maybe Osamu’s just the better brother.”

Atsumu shoots a playful glare at his brother, but when his gaze falls back on you, it lingers just a bit longer than necessary. “Just in the kitchen,” he mutters, but there’s a noticeable edge to his voice. He grabs an extra mug from the cabinet, setting both it and a little container of cream cups and sugar packets down in front of you before pouring you a fresh cup. “The usual?”

“Mhm,” you hum absentmindedly; it doesn’t quite click that Atsumu knows your coffee order by heart. “It’s nice you guys always had each other growing up, huh? I mean, you’re lucky you’ve got Osamu around to keep you out of trouble,” you tease. 

As Atsumu locates some cinnamon sticks and mixes your coffee, his expression hardens. “Yea, lucky me,” he says, his tone dry. He slides the cup toward you with a careful nudge. “‘Samu’s the saint and the hero, always has been.”

Osamu chuckles from his spot by the counter. “Oi, you ain’t gotta sell yerself short, ‘Tsumu. You got your moments... they’re just hidden very, very deep,” His voice is light, but you sense an underlying seriousness that suggests he’s proud of his twin more than he lets on.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee, eyes trained on watching you stir yours. “Can’t ya ‘ave told some of those magical stories to her then? Had to keep it on ma failures?” 

You eye him over the mug, playful. “I mean… you tell me plenty about your moments. I like hearing about your weaknesses.”

A sly smirk creeps onto Osamu’s face. “Oh, don’t cha worry your pretty head. I’ve got lotsa stories ‘bout ‘Tsumu,” he says, placing a hand on your shoulder, the touch light but enough to make you aware of his presence.

Glancing up at Osamu in your surprise, you happen to miss the way Atsumu’s jaw clenches, his grip on his coffee cup tightening until his knuckles turn white. You happen to miss the way his frown settles deeper on his face. Above all, you happen to miss the way his glare at Osamu darkens with annoyance, with something that burns with more than just sibling rivalry, and the way Osamu grins right back. 

five.

“I think I like Osamu.”

Mao squints at you from her spot at the foot of your bed, peering up momentarily from her debate on which pair of pants to wear. “Girl what? Wrong Miya.”

“I knew you were gonna say that!” you groan into your hands. You had called your best friend over for the primary purpose of helping you pick out your outfit for the activities today (a walk through Morioka and hitting up a food market for dinner), but honestly, you’re starting to regret it. It really would’ve been easier to have just spun a wheel or something, because Mao has not been helpful in anything besides causing you more agony. “You watch too many k-dramas. I hate Atsumu!”

“Bitch, please,” Mao scoffs. Like a true friend, she does not tolerate any of your bullshit and says things as they are, blunt and completely honest. And like a truer fake friend, she’s been #TeamAtsumu since day one because she’s convinced that the Universe constantly bringing you together is the real life equivalent of Our Beloved Summer (but in college). “Hate is such a strong word. You don’t hate him. What you guys have is sexual tension.”

You want to let out a visceral scream. “That is not true. He’s just…”

“‘Stupidly pretty and gets on your nerves’, yeah yeah, I know,” Mao finishes your sentence with a shit-eating grin. “Have you ever considered just riding his dick to get the feelings out?”

Glaring at her does nothing besides make her smile grow even bigger. 

“I’m not going to ride his dick because even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to find it. Y’know he keeps saying he packs eight? As if he would have both an eight-pack and eight inches. The universe wouldn’t do that. Atsumu’s gotta be nerfed somehow, right?” you ramble, half annoyed and half trying to stop imagining him naked. 

“I can see the rated X thoughts in your head, lovebug.”

“Whatever. How did we even get to this? The point is that Osamu’s nice to me. Super respectful. Why wouldn’t I like him?” 

Mao shrugs. “Yeah, he’s a sweetie. But like… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s right for you.”

“You suck. Who do you think you are?” you glower.

“I’m your fucking twin flame, give me my respect,” she snorts, not getting a reply because you both know she’s right. She then holds up two pairs of jeans—one dark-wash, one light-wash, but otherwise virtually identical—and stares them down like her life depends on it. “But anyway. Just don’t think you’re meant for a nice guy, y’know? In fact, I think Atsumu makes you better.”

You gape at her, in utter disbelief she could even say those words out loud. “Be so fuckin’ serious. Better? He, like, thrives off my rage.”

“Right, and you thrive off competition,” she replies boredly, tossing the light-wash pair over her shoulder and standing to wiggle the other on. “I’m telling you, Atsumu gets under your skin in a way no one else can–”

“You’re getting real close,” you interrupt, earning yourself a pointed look.

“Shut up. As I was saying, Atsumu gets under your skin, challenges you, and that lights a fire under your ass. Makes you wanna prove him wrong, prove yourself right. And that’s what makes you better. Makes you both better.”

“It’s like you want me to be miserable.”

She snorts. “Of course not. I’m just saying, for someone so hellbent on hating Atsumu, you sure spend a lot of time talking about him. I mean, really, do you even hear yourself?” She spins around, both to show you the fit and to mock you with little hand gestures. “‘I hate Atsumu, Atsumu this, Atsumu that, Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.’ It’s like you have a little shrine dedicated to him in your mind.”

“You’re delusional,” you mutter, even though you know her words have at least some truth in them. “I don’t care about him.”

What a lie. It’s a lie and both of you know it, because Mao squints at you, hands on her hips. “Look, all I’m saying is, you can try to sell me on Osamu all you want—he’s nice, he’s sweet, he respects you, blah blah blah. But are you sure it’s him you actually like?”

You freeze, her question slicing through your defenses like a knife. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She turns to face you, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised like she’s ready to dismantle you piece by piece. “I mean, are you into Osamu? Or do you just like the idea of him because it’s easier than dealing with whatever weird, messy thing you’ve got going on with his brother?”

You blink at her, completely thrown off balance. “That’s—that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she fires back, her tone casual but sharp. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re running from something.”

“I—” You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your tongue. You’re not sure what to say because, annoyingly, she’s not entirely wrong. She never really is.

You’re truly blessed in this world because you and Mao were random suitemates who coincidentally rushed the same sorority freshman year and have been inseparable ever since. She’s the IVP to your EVP, the peanut butter to your jelly, the Starfire to your Raven, and your real mothafuckin’ OG because she’s been there for you through literally everything. Right now, however, it means she has the ability to brutally call you out like she can read your mind with X-Ray vision, straight down to your thinly veiled thoughts about Atsumu’s abs.

Mao gives you a knowing look, pulling her phone from her pocket to check the time, a helpful reminder that you in fact do have things to do today besides sit around and mope.

She dusts off her outfit one last time, before heading towards the door. “Look, think about it. You clearly don’t not care about him. And c’mon, lovebug. All these ‘random’ run-ins since then? Not so random when you think about it. The Chem partners, maybe. But you two at formal? Matching during blind dating two years in a row? The universe isn’t subtle, babe.”

You are hating this call out. It’s such an accurate read that you feel annoyed that she’s able to just put it in the world like this when you have spent the last two years trying to choke it down. The truth in Mao’s words sting; you can’t even argue because every random encounter with Atsumu feels less like coincidence and more like the cosmos relishing in your anguish.

“Why did it have to be him?” you mutter, more to yourself than to Mao. “Why’d the universe pick him of all people?”

Mao snorts. “Because he’s an idiot, just like you. You’re probably the only two people in the world who could pull off two and a half years of weird, messed up pining.”

You roll your eyes, but finally, you allow yourself a small smile; Mao really is the only one who can simultaneously call you out for everything you’ve been trying to ignore but also make you feel seen in ways that no one else can. It’s the brutal honesty, the tough love that she delivers without sugarcoating it, that makes you value her words even when they sting.

“Fine, maybe you have a point,” you admit begrudgingly, much to her thrill—which you promptly kill by waggling your finger in her face. “I do care about him. But Osamu’s really sweet to me and… I dunno. I promise I’ll think about it.”

“And that’s all I’m asking for, babygirl. If you do actually like Osamu, I’ll support you—I mean, he’s hot and makes fire pancakes,” Mao shrugs nonchalantly. “But when you end up with Atsumu, I’m gonna tell you I told you so.”

You scowl at her. “I said I’d think about it. That does not mean I’m going to suddenly start confessing my undying love for Atsumu.”

“I don’t expect that!” Mao says, faux innocence dripping from her voice. “Because I already know you will next time you drunk make-out with him at a kickback.”

She’s instantly hit in the head with a pillow (the first thing throwable you could reach), cackling boisterously like she’s told the funniest joke in the world. That’s it. It’s official. As of this moment, you are officially confirming it: it’s time to find a new best friend. 

six.

It’s the perfect night to unwind.

It’s been a long enough day of playing tourist. The rest of the fraternity and sorority boards finished several cases of beer and a handle of Tito’s over dinner, so they’ve long retreated into their rooms; you’re the sole person still lingering awake. All things considered, you’ve been high-strung all week (worsened now—thanks Mao!), so even if you were to try, you probably couldn’t sleep anyway. So you opt for the best relaxation method you’ve got at the moment: breaking in the good ‘ol hot tub.

It’s a decent size and takes up almost all of the back veranda, sans a small patio space—under the open sky, the air is chilly and you can see the snow-covered landscape extending for what feels like miles. The setting is so calm, so beautiful and something right now feels so immaculately undisturbed, it really is the perfect night. You have donned your favorite bikini, turned on the jets, and set the water to the hottest setting; your eyes are fluttering shut in an attempt to find some peace. The sound of the water bubbles and cracks around you, and you can feel your muscles start to ease.

This is exactly what you wanted from your winter break: a chance to loosen up.

But good things aren’t meant to last, and especially not when the very premise of this vacation is to make sure you can never catch a break, because the tranquility is quickly disrupted by the sounds of footsteps crunching across the wood-paneled porch. You pry open your eyes to find Atsumu approaching the hot tub, a huge smirk spread across his face. He’s wearing dark blue board shorts and carries a towel slung casually over his shoulder; without waiting for an invitation, he dips a toe into the water, then with a satisfied nod, slips in across from you.

The universe hates you, clearly. 

“Fancy seein’ ya here, princess,” he teases, the warm water swirling around as he settles in.

You roll your eyes, trying to avoid the flutter in your chest that starts up again seeing him. “Can’t you find someone else to bother?”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. Just thought it’d be nice to join ya. The night’s too pretty to spend alone,” he says, flashing a stunning grin that you suspect has melted many hearts before yours. A pompous, arrogant fuckboy to his core.

“Well, you’ve seen the night, you can leave now.”

Atsumu chuckles, unfazed. “Nah, I think I’ma stay. Matter-a-fact, why don’t I get reeeaaall close…” he trails off, inching closer to your side.

You splash him with your hand in prompt retaliation. He laughs, dodging the splash as if he’d anticipated it all along—probably because Atsumu thrives on your attention and revels in your irritation. 

“You’re so annoying.”

“One of my most charmin’ qualities, ey?” he smirks.

“No.” 

“Well you’re still here, so… at least a part of ya definitely likes it,” he says, his eyebrows doing an absurd dance that pulls an involuntary smile from you. “See? Yer even smilin’! I got the great and stoic princess to smile! I can die happy now.”

As much as Atsumu infuriates you, your lips truly do betray you: you suppose he can be funny… sometimes. “Then please, do us all a favor and die.”

“Awh, but then who’ll keep ya company?” he simpers, sickeningly sweet. 

“I’ll call Osamu down here to join me.”

Atsumu’s face falls. “Ya kiddin’? ‘Samu’ll bore ya half to death. He ain’t hold a candle to my glitterin’ personality.”

You snort. “We have plenty of conversations in the mornings when you’re not even awake.”

“Right, right. Ya mean your conversations ‘bout me?” Atsumu says challengingly. 

The argument you were about to make fades away as it hits you—he’s kind of right. Most of your chats with Osamu do end up circling back to him. This realization irks you because it suggests one of two things: your growing interest in Osamu is just a misplaced fixation on his brother, or you do think about Atsumu far more than you’d care to admit.

Either and both implications are terrible.

You scowl, “Shut up. I don’t need you to spice things up.”

His eyes light up, and you prepare yourself because he’s clearly just come up with a terrible idea. “Oi, wanna really make things interesting?”

“What?”

“Let’s play truth or dare,” Atsumu suggests, his eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Are you kidding? No.” 

“C’mon,” he pouts exaggeratedly, his lower lip comically jut out. “We’ll have fun. Unless you’re scared or somethin’.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to play your dumbass game.” 

“Scared, you’re definitely scared,” he taunts, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head, clearly settling in for the long haul. “Afraid I’ll make ya fall for me? Afraid ya can’t handle it?”

You glare at him. He’s obviously provoking you, but God, is it frustratingly difficult not to rise to the bait when he’s giving you that smug, self-serving look. “Ugh, fine. Whatever. I don’t care.”

Atsumu’s grin widens; he looks so infuriatingly triumphant. “Great. So truth or dare, princess?”

Considering your choices, you pause for a moment before sighing. “Truth.”

You expect something insincere or flirty, maybe a dumb innuendo he’s definitely practiced before on countless other girls. You’re prepared to be pissed off by whatever he’s got to say, because Atsumu is a man of many talents, the best of which is making you mad.

Then he just asks, “What’s yer secret talent?”

“A secret talent?” you echo; you’re caught off-guard by the lack of underlying implications. 

“Yea, somethin’ you can do that ya haven’t told anyone ‘bout,” Atsumu clarifies, leaning in with genuine curiosity.

You contemplate momentarily, before you let out a slow, deep sigh. At the end of the day, it’s an innocent enough question; you suppose that since you know so many embarrassing stories about Atsumu (again, courtesy of Osamu), it’s only fair you tell him something embarrassing about you.

“If you make fun of me, I will actually kill you,” you mutter, though the threat carries no real weight when your face is as flushed as it is. “But um… I know a bunch of magic tricks. Like cards and stuff.”

“Honest?” Atsumu’s eyes practically pop out of their sockets—it seems a bit overdramatic, but he prods further, as if genuinely fascinated by this tidbit of information you’ve just shared with him. “Why’d ya learn? Will ya show me?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “I um… I wanted to be a magician when I was little. I even tried to convince my parents to get me a bunny, but they said it’d be cruel to just keep it in my hat,” you admit, your voice small under the intense scrutiny of his gaze. He bursts into laughter at this revelation, and you find yourself oddly proud of it. “And I dunno. Maybe? If you get me a deck of cards, I guess I could—but no one else can know, okay? You gotta keep it a secret just for us.”

Atsumu’s face widens until he positively beams. “Deal! I’ll get ya a deck of cards,” he declares, already plotting where to find one. “Neva woulda expected that from you, princess. That’s amazin’! Can’t wait to see what ya got.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t even fake annoyance when Atsumu’s excitement is so damn contagious. By no means had you expected him to react like that, but it does make the game more bearable and you more at ease. “Fine, but remember, not a word to anyone.”

“Cross ma heart,” he replies, drawing an exaggerated ‘X’ over his chest with his finger. He leans back, his face alight with glee at his newfound secret. “Alright, alright, yer turn. Ask me.”

“Well, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Pouting, you think carefully about your question before shrugging half-heartedly. “I don’t really know what to ask you. If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Pussy,” Atsumu says wistfully, his eyes dreamy. 

You shoot him a look. “You must like getting splashed.”

“Only if it’s by your pretty p–” His sentence cuts off because you in fact have begun to thrash around in the water, kicking wild waves in his direction. Atsumu raises his arms in mock surrender, laughing even as he wipes the water from his face. “Alright, alright, just messin’ with ya, swear! For real though. If I hadta pick just one thing, it’d just be ‘Samu’s onigiri. He’s got magic in ‘is hands, honest.”

Catching your breath, you can’t help but chuckle, your arms crossed as you float in the shallows of the tub. “That’s surprisingly wholesome of you, admitting Osamu’s the better cook. You're proud deep down, huh?”

He shrugs, but the corners of his mouth turn up. “Yea, sadly gotta give ‘Samu that one. But don’t go spreadin’ that ‘round, don’t want him gettin’ a big head.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” you promise, mocking his same theatrical ‘X’, feeling the tension ease slightly between you two. Squaring your shoulders, you nod. “Alright, your turn. Dare.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before Atsumu’s expression brightens. He leans closer, his voice dropping to say conspiratorially, “Call me a nickname ‘til the game ends.”

You snort. “I already do, dumbass. I’m princess, you’re dumbass. That’s just the way it goes.”

“No!” Atsumu whines, scooting closer to your side of the tub. “Call me something cute. Like honey or pumpkin or–”

“I’ll call you babe and that’s the most you’ll get,” you interrupt warningly, and obediently, he stops talking, nodding away like an oversized bobble head with a stupidly cute smile on his face—honestly, his simplemindedness is impressive.

“So, babe–” you pause to wince at the nickname, unfamiliar and strange but not necessarily bad on your tongue. “–truth or dare?”

He licks his lips before he answers, which involuntarily draws your gaze to them; you shift your stare up to his warm brown eyes instead.

Under the sky, Atsumu’s eyes seem to collect the very stars above. And when he’s looking at you like that, you have a flash in your chest, and you think that either A) you’re having a heart attack, or the much worse option, B) you definitely don’t not care about him.

seven.

You and Atsumu have managed to play this stupid game for hours.

And you know this for two reasons: first because you two have already made it two-and-a-half times around the cycle of 1) getting out of the tub with pruney toes, 2) settling on the patio couches, and 3) complaining of cold and getting back in the tub.

Second: you’ve exhausted all small-talk options and resigned into the deep shit—deep shit being increasingly stupid stories and dumb dares. You’ve sprinted to the end of the yard and admitted your deep fear of squirrels, Atsumu has belted Perfect by One Direction and confessed that he once replaced Osamu’s protein powder with flour, and neither of you can remember the last time you’ve laughed so hard. It’s strange: by the time you’re asking Atsumu his next truth, your cheeks hurt from smiling and conversation comes more than easily.

“Okay, okay, what’s the dumbest thing that you’ve ever done to impress someone?” you ask, nudging his side a little with your foot.

You’re nestled into the opposite ends of the same couch, the firepit fully ablaze beside you (Atsumu struggled for twenty minutes to get it alight). The couch isn’t quite long enough for you both to extend fully even while sitting up, so your legs have ended up slotted between his and your heel is now resting comfortably on his thigh; he’s fiddling mindlessly with your anklet as he grumbles, “As if ‘Samu ain’t already told ya all my stories.” 

But he pauses momentarily to think anyway. When he’s apparently decided on what to tell you, he averts his gaze from yours with sheepish eyes. “One year, for my ma’s birthday, I wanted ta get this real pretty flower from the top of a tree cause ‘Samu made her a fancy schmancy breakfast. Ended up fallin’ and breakin’ my arm, didn’t even get the flower either. Ma told me it was okay, but I bawled the whole way home from the ER cause I wanted her to have a nice gift.”

“You’re joking! Over a flower?” you gasp out, even as Atsumu’s face scrunches up, halfway between embarrassment and amusement—your stomach hurts with every breath you take, but you can’t stop your laughter. 

“Oi, it was a real nice flower!” he defends, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite the bashful story. “‘Nd ‘Samu was actin’ all high-n-mighty with his eggs benedict or whatever. I had to do something.”

The image of a young Atsumu, just as determined and headstrong even back then, a boy who would climb a tree for his mother, who would risk everything to make her smile, who cried because he wanted to do something nice for her, warms you more than the hot tub ever could. 

“Well, babe, if it makes you feel better, I think the effort was sweet,” you pause, savoring the pink on his cheeks at both the pet name and your response. “Stupid, but really sweet.”

“Shaddup, it’s yer turn. Truth or dare?” he asks, still pouting.

Midway through your consideration on what to pick, you get distracted by the way the firelight crackles and casts flickering shadows across Atsumu’s face. His eyes are always beautiful, but right now, they glow like pools of honey and amber. His hair is fluffy and tousled and damp from the tub and he’s wearing just his swimsuit, sans the towel thrown hazardously around his shoulders. You swear to yourself to never tell him, but you want to commit this image of him to memory forever, pretty and human and yours alone.

Atsumu smirks, the rosy tint on his cheeks deepening as he catches you staring. “What’s the matter? See somethin’ ya like?” he teases, his voice dripping with playful mischief as he leans in a little closer, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “Yer gonna drool starin’ like that.”

“Fuck off, I was not staring,” you lie blatantly, flushed at his calling you out. “I was just thinking about what to say.”

“Cause I stole your breath away?”

You glare at him. “About whether to say truth or dare, dumbass.”

“Don’t call me dumbass! Call me babe,” he whines. “‘nd ya still ain’t picked.”

“Fine, truth.”

“Then admit the truth that you can’t resist me.”

“Oh my god,” you huff, crossing your arms across your chest; truly, he ruins his natural beauty by opening his mouth. “Ask me a question I can answer, please.”

Atsumu chuckles, a low, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Fine, fine. I’ll letcha keep your pride,” he grins, his eyes twinkling in the firelight as he contemplates the perfect question to unravel you a bit more. “Fine. Why d’ya hate me so much anyway?”

You blink, caught completely off guard by Atsumu’s question. Of all the things he could have asked, this wasn’t what you were expecting.

“Why do I hate you so much?” you echo, stalling for time, though your voice wavers ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in slightly, the firelight casting shadows across his face. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—something serious, something that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight. “C’mon, princess, spill it. You’ve called me an idiot, a dumbass, and everythin’ in between. Gotta be somethin’ behind it, right?”

He’s teasing, but his voice is softer now, his usual bravado dimmed. And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a game anymore.

Your first instinct is to brush him off, to joke, to deflect—because isn’t that what the two of you always do? But this time, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, you hesitate.

“I…” You glance down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your towel, anything to avoid the weight of his gaze. “I mean… hate is a strong word.”

He leans back slightly, but the intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver. “Yeah? Then what’s all the name-callin’ and eye-rollin’ about?”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Because you’re annoying! You’re cocky, you’re loud, and you always find a way to get under my skin.” You pause, lowering your hands to glance at him, and there’s an odd mix of frustration and amusement in your tone as you continue. “But... somehow, you make everything fun. Even when I don’t want to have fun.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And I dunno…” You swallow, the words sticking in your throat. “It’s just that you’re... you’re so…” You trail off, waving your hands in a vague gesture, struggling to articulate what you mean without outright admitting that he’s charming, or handsome, or kind in ways you’re only just starting to notice.

Atsumu, of course, seizes the opportunity. “So irresistible?” he offers with a grin, though his voice is quiet, almost cautious.

You shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “So infuriating,” you snap, but the small, wobbly smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The fire crackles softly beside you, filling the silence, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look away from him. His usual cocky grin has softened into something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not think about. 

Atsumu tilts his head, watching you with an expression that feels far too tender for your liking, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Y’know, princess… I think you might like me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and dangerous, and you force out a scoff, shaking your head as you pull your legs away from his and sit up straighter, putting some much-needed distance between you. “You’re delusional, babe,” you mutter, ignoring the way your heart stumbles over itself.

But as you turn your gaze to the fire and refuse to meet his eyes, you already know you’re lying—to him, and to yourself.

eight.

A year ago, on the night of your sophomore formal, your date ghosted you last-minute with only a “can’t make it” text to explain.

You freaked out, panic-scrolled through your contacts list for who still didn’t have a date, and, after a few additional minutes of hyperventilating and really talking yourself into it, spam-called Atsumu. You hadn’t expected him to actually say yes.

He showed up at your door just in time, dressed in his nicest suit and his blonde hair combed neatly, armed with your favorite flowers just-because. And you’d told him then that he didn’t have to do this for you, that this didn’t make you two friends, that this didn’t mean anything at all—neither the dance to him nor him to you. 

But he had just smiled, that crooked, heartbreaking smile of his, and said, “Sure, sure, princess. Ain’t like I had anythin’ better to do, right?” And when he took your hand to lead you out, his touch was gentle, careful, as if he was afraid you might break if he held on too tight. At the end of the night, you had kissed him on the cheek to say thank you, and when you pulled away, he had that softness in his eyes, a mix of bravery and hope and something else you couldn’t quite place. It’s a look that’s haunted you since last winter, something that lingers in every new guy you kiss in nasty frat houses or meet on Hinge, because no one else quite looks at you like that.

And that’s terrifying. Because last night, he looked at you the exact same way, fiddling with your anklet and admitting his most vulnerable secrets, undoing your own understanding of him and his character and upending all the reasons you hate him. 

***

The next day, you are actively avoiding thinking about Atsumu, and as the afternoon fades into a soft, early evening, you find yourself in the kitchen helping Osamu prepare for dinner. Everyone’s already returned from the day trip to Morioka and are now spread throughout the cabin, recovering before eating and the planned game night after. 

The quietude of the tasks are meditative, the rhythmic peeling of potatoes matching the gentle bubbling of the curry on the stove. Osamu moves around with an effortless grace, his movements methodical and precise and deliberate; he operates so seamlessly that his presence is both comforting and slightly unnerving. Despite only being here for a little over a week, it’s like he already knows the kitchen by heart, so much so that you find yourself wondering if perhaps he is too perfect, too polished.

The room is filled with the smells of cooking and the occasional clink of utensils against bowls, a domestic symphony that should be comforting.

But it’s just… not.

“Ya need any help with those?” His voice snaps you from your thoughts and you vehemently shake your head.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve got this,” you reply, though your hands continue their steady work and he ends up reaching over and taking one from the pile anyway. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, noting the way his brows furrow slightly as he focuses on his task.

The conversation flows easily enough. It meanders on safe topics, the kind that fill the air but leave little impact; you talk about college, the upcoming events for the week, and the movies Chizuru picked for the night. It’s not particularly energetic or enthusiastic, especially now that you’re acutely avoiding mentioning Atsumu (all while cursing the blonde for pointing out last night the uncomfortable fact that, yes, in fact your conversations with Osamu are always easier when Atsumu’s the topic), but it is continuous and ongoing and maybe that will do. 

“Ever thought about opening your own restaurant?” you ask, clinging to a thread of conversation that might spark more interest.

Osamu’s reaction is a simple mild chuckle, a sound that lacks any real depth.

“‘Tsumu thinks I should too,” he responds without looking up from his knifework. “Maybe one day, when things settle down a bit.”

You nod, but the response doesn’t satisfy you. It’s sensible, reasonable—just like everything about Osamu. But where’s the challenge, the playful banter that Atsumu always brought into even the simplest interactions? The thought of Atsumu’s teasing, his infectious laughter, and the way he could turn even a mundane moment into a playful challenge makes you ache with a sudden intensity. 

You miss him.

The realization comes unbidden, a silent whisper amid the clatter of the kitchen. It’s a missing piece that makes Osamu’s perfect attentiveness seem somehow incomplete. You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the evening air seeping through the slightly ajar kitchen window.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. You help with cooking the rice, taste test with laughter and light conversation, but beneath it all is a current of dissonance. It’s not long before you’re wiping your hands on your apron and excusing yourself to get changed before dinner, and quietly slip upstairs.  

They say ignorance is bliss, and last night is proof. The conversation you just had with Osamu is nothing out of the ordinary, not at all different from the mornings you’ve spent together over the last week. And even now, it’s not that you don’t like Osamu, because you do. He’s good, he’s kind. He’s the kind of guy your parents would be proud of you for being with, a sort of stable and calm and reliable that’s everything you ever wanted. That’s everything you thought you ever wanted.

Somehow right now, it feels slightly hollow. 

As you step into your room, you let out a long sigh. Glancing at your phone, you briefly entertain the idea of texting Atsumu. You want to scream at him for ruining your developing feelings for his twin, blame him for destroying the tiny hint of stability you had for the week. But you don’t do that, mostly because that would be stupid to blame him for, but also because you think that if you see him right now, you might make a stupid decision you’ll end up regretting. 

nine.

Thanks to Chizuru’s insistence (it’s Christmas Eve, you have to!), you are convinced into joining tonight’s games of trivia and Jeopardy despite your misanthropy. Curse her and her supreme begging skills. You had been hoping to avoid the twins as much as humanly possible. 

Atsumu, sitting opposite you, kicks your foot. “Are ya good, princess?” he whispers when you look at him and raise your eyebrow. Aran, leading tonight, is saying something about Jeopardy rules, but it goes unheard, because the blonde in front of you continues, “Penny for your thoughts please.”

“You don’t have a penny,” you whisper back. “Pay me for my thoughts, dumbass.”

“What kinda guy d’ya take me for?” Atsumu mock-scoffs back. “A prostitute?”

Despite all the thoughts swirling in your mind, his stupid grin distracts you from them and you end up rolling your eyes, feeling the hint of a smile pull at your lips. “Maybe. You’re already kinda a fuckboy.”

“Don’tcha worry then, ‘cause you’re still ma favorite client,” he grins back. 

And you let yourself smile too.

***

The sorority ends up winning because Mao is a history major and there are no noticeable questions about agriculture or Sigmund Freud or business management or the average expenditure of calories (Kita, Suna, Osamu, and Atsumu respectively—the boys lowkey all study odd shit now that you think about it) that could allow the frat board to gain an upper hand. For the first time ever, you thank Mao for reciting her textbooks out loud to study, because now all of you are forced to have a comprehensive knowledge of war dates and Confucious.

The prize for winning, however, is a Certificate of Extraordinary Intelligence in Useless Facts, so Mao has officially launched herself into a very long declaration that history is not useless, so you don’t know if there was really a winner in the end.

It’s not in the itinerary for the night, but when Yui looks out the window and points out the clear sky, everyone is quick to agree to step outside for a “breath of fresh air.” Everyone meaning everyone but Kita, who is off to pack because he’s leaving at midnight to go stay with his family nearby. Though it would be Kita to have family in the little northern sector of Iwate: you could just see him living in a town of 50 one day, leading the calm, remote village life. You’ve never been close to the president of INA, but you guess he probably deserves to live a simple farm life because the foxes absolutely owe it to him for keeping the organization together.

The crisp night wind nips at your cheeks as you leave the cabin’s warmth, but after sitting around the table for so long you feel only invigorated by the chill; it really is the perfect night because the whole sky is just a tapestry of twinkling stars. The porch light casts a gentle glow, and the snow glistens under the moonlight, gorgeous and serene.

Without warning, Atsumu scoops up a handful of snow and lobs it at Osamu, who dodges just in time, causing the snowball to hit the cabin door with a soft thud. The playful challenge is met with enthusiasm, and within moments, everyone is gathering ammunition.

You’re bending down to scoop up your own snow when suddenly the shock of the cold against your warm skin causes you to let out a yelp. You spin around, eyes blazing, to find Atsumu standing there with a triumphant smirk on his face; his hand still holds some of the evidence, though most of it has been so rudely shoved down your back. 

“You jerk!” you yell, shrieking and jumping up and down, trying to shake the ice from the back of your sweater. Your tone is of annoyance, but it’s hard to stay truly mad when the whole scene is so ridiculously fun.

Atsumu is already backing away, a wild, teasing grin plastered across his face, his eyes sparkling with mischief under the moonlit night. “C’mon, princess, don’t tell me ya can’t handle a lil’ snow!” he taunts, his laughter echoing around the snowy clearing.

As if you’d let Atsumu just get away with that. So naturally, you scoop up as much snow as you can in your cold, red hands and take off sprinting after him, screaming, “Oh, you’re dead!”

The thrill of the pursuit drives away any lingering annoyance from last night; you barely even register the way your heart pounds with adrenaline and cheeks flush from the cold. The laughter of the others fades into the background as your focus narrows down to the gleeful figure darting just ahead of you.

Atsumu is fast, sure, but your determination is faster, and the freshly fallen snow slows him down just enough for you to gain ground. With a determined yell, you launch your armful of snow at his back, hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades; the impact makes him stumble forward with a playful groan. “Alright, alright, I give!” he laughs when he spins to face you, raising his hands in mock defeat.

Just as you think you’ve won, just as you start laughing triumphantly and let your guard down, he’s charging back at you. You try to sidestep, but the slippery ground betrays you, and you both end up tumbling into a soft snowdrift. The world whirls into a blur of white and laughter as you wrestle in the snow, trying to pin each other down. Atsumu manages to get the upper hand briefly, pinning your wrists gently above your head with a victorious grin. His breath comes in visible puffs in the cold air, his face inches from yours, eyes sparkling with mischief and something warmer.

“You’re such a child!” you shout, breathless from both the cold and the exertion.

“You love it,” he retorts, a smug grin plastered across his face despite the snow sticking to his hair and clothes.

You roll and wrangle and as you do, Atsumu manages to push more snow down the back of your shirt, making you squeal and squirm. “Atsumu!” you shriek, half-annoyed, half-panting, mostly all laughing. Your hands are freezing, but you keep trying to shove snow into his face in retaliation until you finally manage to squish his face with a clump of snow. The rest of the group watches, cheering at your antics, thoroughly entertained by the display, but their voices go unregistered to both of you as you both fall back, exhausted and satisfied and covered in snow, looking up at the starry sky. 

As the laughter subsides and the rapid heartbeat begins to slow, you and Atsumu lie sprawled in the snow, the cold forgotten for a moment. The serene silence that falls over both of you is a rare kind of peace, something that feels close to perfect. You can see Atsumu’s chest rise and fall with each breath, his eyes reflecting the twinkling stars above, and there’s something unspoken in the way he looks at you—something that makes you feel softer, lighter, like you’re floating on air. 

You want to say something sarcastic. You want to throw more snow into his face and tell him he looks stupid. You want to be mean to him and you want him to flirt with you so you can tell him to fuck off. He’s the bane of your existence. He riles you up and makes you angrier than most other people ever could. It’s so much easier to argue with him. It’s so much easier to hate him. 

But you don’t. So you just lie there and take it in.

ten.

The moment gets stolen by a voice. 

“Oi, lovebirds, everyone’s headin’ in! You two plannin’ on makin’ snow angels all night, or do ya wanna join the rest of us by the fire?” Osamu calls out.

Atsumu glares in the voice’s direction, his brow creasing. The peaceful moment shatters like thin ice underfoot, and you can practically hear the crack because it’s visible in how his gaze shifts from the stars above to his brother and the tension in his grip that wasn’t there before. “Can’t ya see we’re havin’ a moment here?” he snaps back, the words almost biting through the frigid air.

Osamu, unbothered by the snap, just chuckles and strolls over, offering a hand to help you up. “Yeah, yeah, yer playin’ in the snow like a couple of kids. Let’s get inside, yer gonna catch cold.” His concern is sincere, his tone sweet. You accept the hand with a smile; when you stand fully up, Osamu wraps his arm around your shoulders and leans in close enough to mumble, “Yui told me that ya get sick easy. Got worried, hope ya ain’t too mad at me for snatchin’ ya away.”

His close presence is warmth cutting through your chill and you subconsciously lean into him. “Oh, thank you,” you say softly; he sounds so genuine. “You’re really considerate. It’s just At-”

You turn around to find Atsumu pushing himself up, brushing snow from his hair. He had been watching your quiet exchange with close eyes, and now that you really look at him again, his expression is briefly unfamiliar. It’s just for a brief second—a moment so quick it was gone in an instant—but you could have sworn it was a gaze tighter, darker, than you have ever seen from him before and it makes you shiver. It’s quick to be replaced by his usual grin when he notices your concerned expression, though, as if he’s trying to placate you. As if he doesn’t want you to know how he’s feeling. 

The snowball fight had been playful, a rare truce in your usual war of words with Atsumu, and now he seems reluctant to let that end. Still, his tone is light, or at least lighter than before, laced with a hint of forced cheerfulness, when he assures you, “S’okay, princess. Let’s get inside.”

But the sharpness in his eyes betrays his words. And as if to keep pushing him, to keep jamming his finger straight into the bruise, Osamu’s arm slips downwards to hover around your waist—it’s so delicate that you wouldn’t have noticed the shift in position if not for the way his hold ever so slightly tightens to pull you closer. 

Atsumu’s smile fades into something heavier and his hands clench into tight fists by his side and there’s a look that crosses his features, something filled with irritation; there’s a palpable tension between the two brothers that makes you nervous. Still, Osamu just smiles like he’s completely oblivious, cheerily saying, “Yeah, don’tcha worry, ‘Sumu. Just tryna keep our princess warm.”

Our princess. The words are loaded. Osamu isn’t just being kind; he’s provoking him. He’s pushing his brother, trying to see just how far Atsumu’ll let him go, trying to drive a reaction out of him. 

There’s an undeniable undercurrent of something more in the air. 

Atsumu, witnessing this, locks his jaw, his good-natured facade struggling to mask the surge of emotions that seem to whirl behind his eyes. And yet, he stops. He doesn’t say anything, even though it seemed as though he would, even though when you met his eyes there was that terrifying darkness from before. Atsumu just turns on his heel and starts marching back towards the cabin.

And for some reason you can’t quite comprehend, you feel your heart sink.

eleven.

It’s significantly quieter that night. 

Atsumu hadn’t shown up to dinner, nor did he join everyone to watch Elf in the living room. Chizuru and Aran had expressed concern, offering to go upstairs and check on him, but Osamu had assured them all that Atsumu was fine and just worn out from the day and that had seemed to placate them. You tried to trust his word too, but even as the film plays and Osamu drapes his arm onto the couch behind you and Yui nudges you and wiggles her brow at the closeness and you try to convince yourself that you’re fine, you can’t help the awful feeling of dread you have in the pit of your stomach. 

It doesn’t go away even when the movie ends and you retreat upstairs to shower and get to bed; it doesn’t go away even when you settle into the softness of your sheets and turn out the lights; it doesn’t go away even when the only illumination in the room comes from your phone as you stalk your Instagram homepage trying to distract your mind. You almost want to hear Atsumu’s overwhelmingly loud and obnoxious laughter from the next room; you want to know that he’s okay, and you don’t really even understand why. You’ve spent the last two years being an Atsumu Hater™ and here you are anyway, your heart racing. 

But just as you’re about to surrender to the warmth of your blankets, your ears pick up the muffled but unmistakable timbre of raised voices from the room next door.

The Miya twins.

You sit up in bed, heart pounding. You can’t make out the words through the wall, but the low rumble of Osamu’s voice and the sharper, heated tone of Atsumu’s are unmistakable. You hesitate for a moment, caught between pressing your ear against the wall to catch more of the conversation or trying to ignore it altogether. But then Atsumu’s voice cuts through clearly, loud and raw with frustration:

“Why’re ya doin’ this, Samu? Seriously, what the hell?”

You freeze.

There’s a pause. Osamu’s voice comes next, calmer but with a sharp edge that makes the air in your room feel heavy. “Doin’ what, exactly? Bein’ nice? Spendin’ time with her? ‘Cause last I checked, you’re the one who’s been actin’ like she don’t exist unless it’s to get under her skin.”

You hear the sound of something—maybe a chair or a bed frame—scraping against the floor. Atsumu’s voice comes back, even louder. “Don’t gimme that crap! You know what I’m talkin’ about! You’ve been all over her this whole week, like you’re tryin’ to... to—”

“To what, Tsumu?” Osamu cuts in, his tone sharp enough to make you flinch even from the other side of the wall. “To do what you won’t? You’ve had two years to say somethin’, to do anythin’, but all you’ve done is act like a damn idiot around her. And now you’re mad at me ‘cause I actually treat her like a person?”

Your chest tightens. You press your hands against your mouth to stifle the sharp inhale that escapes you. Are they... talking about you?

There’s a heavy silence. For a moment, you think maybe it’s over, but then Atsumu speaks again, quieter this time, almost hesitant. “It’s not like that...”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Osamu snaps. “If it’s not like that, then why are you so pissed off, huh? If you don’t care about her, why’s it eatin’ at ya every time I so much as look at her?”

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice now, though it’s tinged with something more serious. “Admit it, Tsumu. You like her. Hell, you’ve probably liked her for years, but you’re too chicken to do anything about it. So don’t come at me like I’m the bad guy when all I’m doin’ is fillin’ the space you left wide open.”

Your heart is pounding so loud you’re surprised they can’t hear it through the wall.

“I—” Atsumu starts, but his voice falters. He sounds... small. Defeated. “I don’t—”

“Yeah? Then prove it,” Osamu interrupts. “If you really don’t care, I’ll back off. But if you do? If you actually want a chance with her? Then grow up and ask her out before it’s too late.”

Another beat of silence stretches between them, so tense and thick it feels like the walls of your room might crack under the weight of it. Then there’s the sound of footsteps—heavy, frustrated—and the slam of a door.

Your mind is racing. You sit there frozen for what feels like hours, trying to piece together what you’ve just heard, what it all means, and why your heart feels like it might break free of your chest.

You glance at the door to your room, wondering if Atsumu’s stormed off to his, or if—

A knock. A soft, hesitant knock at your door.

Your breath catches.

twelve.

The knock comes again, a little louder this time, but you don’t move. You press your face into the pillow, hold your breath, and will your heartbeat to calm down. He waits for a moment, long enough that you can almost picture him standing just outside your door, shifting on his feet and second-guessing himself.

Finally, there’s a sigh, barely audible through the door. The sound makes your chest ache.

But then the floor creaks softly as he steps away, and the silence that follows feels louder than anything he could have said.

You stay like that for a long time, staring into the darkness of your room as the words from the argument next door replay in your head on an endless loop. You don’t know how to feel, or even what to feel, but one thing is certain—you’re not going to get any sleep tonight.

***

The next morning, the sound of laughter and the warm scent of cinnamon pull you from your restless slumber. It’s Christmas morning.

You drag yourself out of bed, trying to shake the unease still settled in your chest, and join everyone downstairs. The living room is alive with energy—Chizuru and Yui are wearing matching pajamas and passing out mugs of hot cocoa, Aran is fiddling with the Bluetooth speaker to get a holiday playlist going, and Osamu is helping himself to the tray of cookies on the coffee table, ignoring Chizuru’s scolding about “ruining the aesthetic before everyone’s here.”

But even with all the warmth and chatter, the absence is glaring.

Atsumu is nowhere to be seen.

You try not to let it bother you. He’s probably just sleeping in. Or avoiding you after last night. You’re not sure which thought twists your stomach more.

The morning rolls on, and soon everyone gathers for the gift exchange. Laughter fills the air as ribbons are untied, wrapping paper is torn apart, and heartfelt thank-yous are exchanged. Yui squeals over the skincare set Kita picked out for her, and Aran grins ear-to-ear at the custom jersey Chizuru ordered. Even Osamu looks pleased with the knife set you picked out for him, ruffling your hair as he thanks you.

But as the last gifts are unwrapped, you realize something’s missing.

Everyone else has given you something, no matter how small—a book from Chizuru, earrings from Yui, a scarf from Suna—but Atsumu’s name is noticeably absent.

You don’t say anything, but you feel the knot of disappointment settle in your chest. Maybe it’s silly to care so much. Maybe it’s selfish. But after the week you’ve had, after all the bickering, the teasing, and everything you heard last night, you thought...

You thought he’d at least try.

***

The rest of the day passes in a blur of food and laughter, but you can’t shake the hollow feeling that lingers in the back of your mind. That night, you retreat to your room early, needing the quiet to sort through your thoughts.

You’re not expecting the knock.

It’s soft at first, like he’s testing whether you’ll even respond. You hesitate, wondering if you should ignore it again like last night. But then it comes again, more insistent.

“Hey,” Atsumu’s voice calls softly through the door. “You awake?”

You don’t answer, but you also don’t move.

A pause. Then: “I know you’re probably mad at me or somethin’, but... I wanna show ya somethin’. Come on, get up. Please.”

There’s something in his voice that makes your stomach flip—nervousness, maybe, or the slightest tinge of vulnerability.

When you still don’t reply, he tries again. “There’s... there’s somethin’ I wanna say, but it’ll be easier if ya just come with me. I’ll be out back. Meet me at the hot tub if you wanna.”

His footsteps retreat, leaving you alone in the quiet.

For a moment, you just sit there, staring at the door and debating whether to follow him or let the silence stay.

But curiosity—and maybe something else—wins out. You pull yourself from the bed, slide on your slippers, and head downstairs.

thirteen.

The night air is crisp, biting against your skin as you step out onto the pool deck. The stars above are sharp pinpricks in the deep velvet sky, their light barely competing with the soft glow of the string lights strung along the edge of the fence.

Your heart pounds as you glance around, unsure of what you’re expecting. And then you see him.

Atsumu is sitting by the edge of the hot tub, his legs dipped into the warm water, hands fidgeting in his lap. The tension in his shoulders eases the moment his eyes meet yours, and he lights up in a way that makes your chest ache. He stands quickly, his movements awkward but eager, like he’s been waiting for hours just for this moment.

“You came,” he says softly, his voice carrying over the gentle hum of the water.

You nod, stepping closer, unsure what to say. There’s a nervous energy between you now, not the usual teasing or bickering, but something fragile and unspoken. 

He gestures toward the edge of the hot tub. You hesitate for only a moment before moving to sit beside him, the warmth of the bubbling water chasing away the chill in the air. Neither of you speak at first, the silence thick but not uncomfortable.

When you glance at him, you notice his hands are no longer fidgeting. Instead, they rest on his knees, tense, like he’s holding himself back.

The quiet stretches on, and you don’t know whether it’s you or him who breaks it first. But then he moves—slowly, carefully—and cups your face with his hands.

You can’t breathe. You can’t even comprehend anything but his large, warm hands gentle around your face. His thumbs brush softly against your cheeks, and his eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you—steady and unguarded—says it all.

And in that moment, you’re reminded of everything.

The way he looked at you during truth or dare, his gaze flickering with something almost too heavy to hold. The way he showed up for you, always, even when you tried to convince you both that it didn’t mean anything. The way he looked at you that very first night you met him, in the dim, crowded, musty basement of the frat house, when your heart had betrayed you by skipping a beat the very moment his golden eyes landed on you. He has never looked more beautiful; he has never seemed more human. 

You love him. Oh god. 

You love him.

Atsumu hesitates, leaning in slightly but stopping just short, his breath warm against your skin. He pauses, like he’s waiting for your permission, or maybe just bracing himself for the possibility that you’ll pull away.

Against all odds, you kiss him first.

The moment your lips meet, he lets out a small, almost startled sound before kissing you back. His hands slide to the sides of your neck, steady and sure, while his lips move against yours like he’s been imagining this for years. He holds you like he’s terrified that this isn’t real, like if he lets go then you’ll disappear. Your fingers knot in his t-shirt, his hand gets lost in your hair, you are breathless in every way but you don’t care because if he wanted to steal the air straight from your lungs you would let him. 

When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, both of you quiet as the world seems to settle into a kind of peace. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression so tender and full of awe that you wonder if he’s committing this moment to memory. And then he grins—a smile so wide and full of boyish delight that it makes your heart skip a beat.

“So you do like me,” he teases, his voice warm, his thumb brushing against your cheek. 

You snort. “Nah, I change my mind. I hate you.”

He rolls his eyes because he knows you’re bluffing, and just kisses you again.

The two of you sit there for a while longer, wrapped up in each other and the quiet intimacy of the night. But then you remember something, a question that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind all day.

“Atsumu?”

“Hmm?” he hums, still holding you close, his fingers absently tracing small circles against your skin.

“Why didn’t you get me a Christmas gift?”

He freezes for a moment, blinking at you like he’s just remembered something. “Oh, crap.”

“What?” you ask, laughing at the sudden panic in his face.

“That’s what I came here for,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, before quickly standing and rummaging through the pocket of his hoodie. He pulls out a small, folded cloth pouch, holding it carefully in his hands like it’s something precious.

“I’ve had this for years,” he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as he sits back down beside you. “And I didn’t know if I should give it to ya. Or if it was even the right time. But... I guess it is now.”

He opens the pouch and carefully empties its contents into his hand.

You stare, halting as you take in what’s inside:

A small square of paper with the element “Au” drawn on it, the edges worn like it’s been folded and unfolded a thousand times. “From freshman year chem,” he explains softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You were the only one who laughed when I joked that it stood for Atsumu instead of gold.”

A torn scrap of notebook paper with your name written on it in messy handwriting. “Greek match,” he says, chuckling quietly. “I wrote it down when they paired us up. Figured it’d be my one excuse to talk to ya.”

A dried, pressed petal from a rose. “Semi-formal,” he murmurs. “You were wearin’ that red dress, and I was an idiot who thought bringin’ roses was a good idea. You said they were beautiful, but you... you were somethin’ else entirely.”

There’s other little things, little bits and pieces from the two years you’ve known each other, little reminders that you can barely remember a time where he wasn’t in your life. Atsumu has been a part of your routine since the day he met you. You lived eighteen years without knowing him, but you can’t imagine living without him anymore. 

And then, as if you weren’t touched enough, he passes you another small wrapped item. You gently peel back the paper to find the Mt. Iwate snow globe he had bought before you could last week. 

As you cradle the snow globe in your hands, the memory of that day comes rushing back—Atsumu’s smug grin as he held up the very item you’d been planning to buy, the gleam of satisfaction in his golden eyes when you’d glared at him. You’d been so furious, so determined to outmatch him for the rest of the trip, but now, holding the snow globe in your hands, all you can feel is an overwhelming warmth.

“You…” Your voice falters as you run your thumb over the cool glass, watching the tiny flakes swirl around the miniature Mt. Iwate. “You bought this for me?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Felt bad for bein’ an ass that day. But ya stormed off before I could give it to ya, and then… I guess I kept it, hopin’ one day it’d mean more.”

You blink at him, at the boy sitting beside you, nervously scratching the back of his neck. The boy who had spent two years teasing and frustrating you, yet somehow still managed to worm his way into your heart. The boy who’d quietly kept a snow globe and a collection of mementos, waiting for the right moment to share them with you.

“Atsumu…” Your voice is soft, almost fragile, as you set the snow globe down and turn to face him fully. “This is—” You pause, searching for the right words. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“I know,” he says quickly, his gaze dropping to the water, then back to you. “But I wanted to. You’re… important to me, y’know? And I don’t always show it the right way, but—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you interrupt, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his voice. “I get it. I do.”

His eyes search yours, his expression caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. For a moment, the two of you just sit there, the night air heavy with unsaid things. Then you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his, and his breath catches audibly.

“You’re not as bad as you think you are,” you tease lightly, trying to ease the tension, though your voice wavers with the weight of everything unspoken.

“Yeah?” His grin is lopsided, nervous, but the spark of playfulness in his eyes is unmistakable. “Don’t get used to me bein’ this sweet, though. Still gotta keep you on your toes.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head against his shoulder, your fingers still tangled with his. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

For a while, you sit in companionable silence, the bubbling of the hot tub and the distant chirping of crickets filling the air. You watch as the snow globe sits on the edge of the tub, the flakes settling gently at the base. Somehow, it feels like everything—your bickering, his teasing, the hesitant steps toward this moment—has led to this: an unspoken understanding that this, whatever it is between you, is real.

Finally, Atsumu breaks the silence. “So… was that the right gift?” He nudges your shoulder lightly, his tone casual but his eyes searching.

You pretend to think, your lips twitching into a smirk. “Hmm… It’s alright, I guess.”

His jaw drops in mock offense, his free hand flying to his chest. “Alright? Do you know how much thought I put into that?”

You grin, squeezing his hand. “It’s perfect, Atsumu.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his golden eyes warm and steady. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Because you’re kinda perfect to me, too.”

And just like that, he has you all over again—breathless, flustered, and hopelessly in love. You lean up and kiss him, slow and soft, and when you pull back, his boyish grin is so bright it almost hurts to look at.

“Alright, enough mushy stuff,” you say, standing up and stretching, though your heart is still racing. “I’m freezing, and I need to head back inside before I turn into an icicle.”

Atsumu groans dramatically but follows your lead, climbing out of the hot tub and grabbing the snow globe for you. He drapes his hoodie around your shoulders as you head back toward the cabin, the warmth of it—and him—chasing away the cold.

As you walk, side by side, you realize something: revenge had been the last thing on your mind tonight. Because somehow, Atsumu had managed to do what he always did—get under your skin and make himself impossible to hate. And for once, you weren’t going to fight it.

Tomorrow, you might bicker again. He might steal your favorite mug, or you might prank him during breakfast. But tonight, under the glow of the stars and the string lights, you let yourself fall a little deeper, knowing he’d be there to catch you.

⨭ closing; i love this one sm honestly. i lowkey even drew out the room plan of the cabin in case ur curious, which looks like this:

btw all the sorority girls mentioned are actually the girls' karasuno team lol; i'm trying rly hard to keep these stories all in the same universe but there are so few girls in the hq universe and even less in high school </3 wld it be confusing if i started reusing kiyoko and yachi as y/n's besties it wld be so much easier on me :')

vote down below or maybe offer some suggestions for other ways to work around the lack of girl besties/roommates/etc (ie. maybe age change!older/younger sisters??)

[dumbassunicorn08]

One of my favorite things about buddie is that they're friends. They're each other's best friends. They like each other not just romantically but as a person. They like hanging out with each other. They're incredibly codependent. Evan "this is Eddie's house I'm not really a guest" Buckley. Eddie "no one will ever fight for my son as hard as you" Diaz. They wear matching costumes and be silly together. They know each other. What a duo.

[8thmuse]

i think a lot of people miss the part where zutara is not enemies to lovers

its an enemies to friends to lovers, which is just such a better trope, and it highlights their friendship while not denying the fact that they definitely had some romantic feelings for eachother

[mblue-art]

...take my hand, while we dance, on the edge of a knife…

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

character A and character B are enemies who are in fact idiots in love (but they’re such idiots they don’t know the feelings are mutual). one of them is drunk, so the other has to be sober in order to look after them. suddenly the drunk one prompts their enemy to play two truths and a lie with them. it’s fine, it’s just a silly game.

until one of the 3 choices provided is an outright love confession.

and of course, that damn confession isn’t the lie.

read a fic with this prompt here

[logoleptic-since-06]

Imagine you go on Tinder as a joke, making up a fake identity with the silliest name and personality, only to be matched with an equally odd profile. Texting back and forth and bluffing with everything you say, you realise the other person is doing the same. You both end up texting as your real selves, slowly growing into each other.

I don't have a specific character in mind for this scenario, so feel free to imagine your fave for this one <3

[sheisjoeschateau]

"Oh, so we DO love Steve..." | PART VI

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

CHAPTER WARNINGS: tw - mention of death, injuries, emotional smut (minors: DNI), language, end-of-the-world terror talk, newfound shared codependency. 18+

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You felt like you could sleep for five years. 

That electric fence had robbed you of your energy, draining your battery completely.  No doubt you were useless at this point.  But you were just so exhausted, you couldn’t even bring yourself to fight against what you were physically experiencing.

Everything hurts.  Your chest.  Your shoulders and back.  Your legs, your lungs.  Even your neck. 

Guess being brought back from the dead can take it outta you.

A lot of what went down after you…well…blacked out… It’s honestly a blur. 

You remember Steve eventually lifting you up, carrying you bridal style.  And you remember seeing his eyes. Dark brown orbs, scanning you like a hawk and uncharacteristically glassy.  You also remember Hopper over the walkie, telling your group to abort the plan and head back to base for a re-group.  His crew was on their way back, and Group 1 would be back with the supplies later that night.

Jonathan offered multiple times to help carry you, along with Eddie. But Steve just shook his head every time, insisting he was fine, clinging to you tightly while tucking your head against his chest. Dustin worriedly asked them if you would be alright a handful of times, and you kept wanting to tell this sweet kid all sorts of sweet comforting things. But damn, you were wiped. So you just let the guys assure him that you are fine.

The way Steve held you felt so…safe.  Almost familiar, despite the nurturing touch from him being so foreign.  Just last week, you never would have thought him capable of being so gentle.  Then again, it seemed that the ones who show the least amount of affection tend to be the most capable. He definitely struck you as someone who is affectionate in a relationship, given how he used to be with Nancy.  You gathered that much.  Touchy, flirty, all that jazz. 

But this?  This was different.

He was different.

You were right.  You fucking knew it.

The past few days had changed so much between you and Steve. And if you could think straight at the moment, or even think at all, it would overwhelm you. You knew that it would eventually.

…you also knew that your uncle was never gonna let you live this down.  The thought made you internally laugh, as you were carried through the trees until you all reached your destination.  Although, Murray probably would cut you some slack. Given the whole… temporarily dying thing.  At least that would work to your benefit, you think to yourself morbidly.

You had drifted off in Steve’s arms during the journey back.  As you all approached the house, you stirred back awake.  You could hear everyone shuffling out the front door, getting closer to you guys.

Murray was the first to race his way over to you, hovering above you in Steve’s arms.  His eyes were uncharacteristically glassy, his scruffy face etched with worry and relief.  He struggled with what else to do or say.  Sentimentality did not come naturally to the Bauman bloodline…

But after he swallowed, thickly, he told you — “Don’t do that to me again kiddo, alright?  The rest of our family is crazy, you’re gonna have to…stick around.  Got it?”

You smiled faintly.  “Love you too, Murray.” 

Your uncle gave you a curt nod, but you could see him tearing up.  He sniffed aggressively, biting back emotion and looking up at Steve.  Lucas and Erica stepped closer, coming into view for you.  Poor babies looked so worried.

Murray managed to convince Steve to hand you over to him, but that didn’t stop him from staying glued to your uncle’s hip.  Everyone else shuffled inside, too.  Steve asked Eddie to stay and watch the kids, giving his shoulder a grateful squeeze.  Jonathan said he’d wait up for the rest of the gang to make it back while Steve moved to give Dustin a bone-crushing hug.

You were carried off to the master bedroom downstairs, where Joyce and Hopper have been sleeping.  Suddenly you hissed in pain as Murray sat you down on the bed. 

Steve knelt in front of you, immediately asked you nervously, voice soft, “What is it, what hurts, talk to me...”

You tried to lift your arm but couldn’t.  The adrenaline was wearing off, now letting your body really feel the damage done.  “M’shoulder.”

Your uncle and Steve looked you over, realizing. 

“Might be broken,” your uncle murmured, then sighing, “shit.”

“We have to tell Owens,” Steve said, his hand on your thigh. 

Murray nodded, “I’ll tell Jim we need to get him over here.”

Your uncle watched Steve gingerly take your hands into his, assessing the deep tears in your palms from where the fence had scorched through them.  Even Murray had to admit — the Harrington kid definitely exudes sex appeal, especially when he looks dismayed.  It’s very Patrick Swayze.  But more than that, your uncle could tell this wasn’t just some puppy love thing.  It seemed like the real deal.

...ahh fuck, he thought.

When Jim answered his call, Murray walked away to talk and let him know they’d need to get you medical attention.  Steve was examining every single inch of you, touching you carefully and protectively.  He stood, moving to carefully lift your good arm over his shoulders.

“Bathroom.  Need to wrap up those hands.”

You leaned into him, and when you finally got into the restroom inside of the master, Steve put the toilet seat down and helped you sit before moving to get the first aid kit out from underneath the sink.  Steve was back in seconds, kneeling in front of you and pulling out the items he needed for patching you up.  You watched his perfect hair flop in front of his eyes while his head was down, admiring him silently.

“Here,” he spoke gently, moving to delicately hold one of your hands.  He looked up at you, his eyes rimmed red from earlier.  “S’gonna sting.  But we’ll get them done quickly, yeah?  Tell me if I need to stop?” 

Off your dazed nod, he moved to peck the swiftest of kisses to your cheek before getting to work.

Your eyes were closed while he did, scrunched shut in pain with a small hiss as the antiseptic made contact with your ripped palms.  Steve murmured, so quietly, “Sorry, baby, I know,” along with other whispered apologies that included the word baby or angel.  It made something strange flutter inside your stomach, despite all the pain.

You made yourself find joy in the unlikeliness of it all, grateful for the fact that you all were still alive and in one piece.  Otherwise, the dreaded truth that you were all a day behind schedule — putting you all in even bigger trouble — would consume your mind. You felt guilty. Everyone had to slow down because you’d been the one to get hurt. You’re the one who went and died on everyone, having to be resuscitated. 

Jesus, you thought. As if I wasn’t already a nag.

The feeling of Steve’s fingers tenderly closing around both of your hands made you realize that Steve's self-appointed nurse work was finished. Yours hands were freshly wrapped up and covering the raw, bloody cuts that the electric fence had seared into your palms.

Steve carefully brought all of your fingers, curled around his, to his lips.  He planted a long, soft kiss over all of your knuckles. You opened your eyes and saw his gaze fixed on the gauze wrapped in a makeshift pattern, encasing your small damaged hands.  He held them delicately, more than you ever thought him capable. He was always so brash, cocky and arrogant with you. But right now, that person didn’t seem to exist. This Steve was gentle. Soft.  His pretty brown eyes seemed lost, deep in thought.

You looked at him fondly.  God, you loved this boy.  You realized that now, that you loved him. Truly loved him. You couldn’t help but reach one of your gauzed hands up to his cheek, and he turned his head to lightly kiss your palm and hold it there, his large hand curling around your wrist.

“Steve,” you breathed.

He still stared at nothing, but finally his eyes glanced up at you.  They were sad, bloodshot and strained.  You hated it.  This was your fault.  

“You alright?” you breathed.

He pinched his brows together, nodding with feigned assurance, pressing his lips into a tight-lipped smile.  But he didn’t speak.  And you knew that was because he wasn’t alright.  Not at all. 

But he clearly was not ready to say that.  He sniffed, standing up.  “Let’s get you some water, yeah?” he asked tightly. 

You nodded, letting him help you stand while minding your bad shoulder.

The kids were already outside of the bedroom door, anxious to see you.  Lucas, Erica, Mike, Will and El.  They all went to ask questions, hesitant but unable to help themselves.  They kept their voices lower, knowing they needed to not bombard you fully.  You gave the kids all a soft smile, wobbly on your legs as you reached to pull them in for a little group hug. 

“Careful of her arm, guys, it might be broken,” Steve told them, motherly.  They obeyed.  “Let’s get her some water,” Steve added.

Erica immediately went off to fulfill the request.

Steve and El guided you over to the living room with Murray, who walked over to you to put an arm around you and walk you over to sit. 

Hopper now stood in the living room.  Jonathan was standing with Argyle.  Dustin was there still, with Eddie.  Poor kid looked so shaken up.  You gave him an apologetic look, extending an arm to him -- and he raced over to you after you’d sat down.

You ruffled his hair, letting him wrap his arms around your waist for a hug.  “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled against your jacket. 

Your heart broke.  “Dude, don’t be.  Better me than you.  Still, I’m…m'sorry you had to see that.” 

Hopper was looking over at you with a relieved expression, walking in your direction.  He glanced over at Steve as he did, seeing him standing there with his arms crossed and teeth sunk into his bottom lip with a pensive expression.  Hopper gave his shoulder an assuring squeeze, and a hard pat on the shoulder. 

Then, looking back at you and kneeling, “How you doin’, champ?”

You sighed.  “Feel like my battery’s on its last percent.”

Hopper nodded, breathing a light laugh.  He ruffled your hair.  “A little static-y up here.  You been sticking your finger into some sockets?”  You snorted, feeling tired all over again.  

Erica got back with water for you, handing it over.  You sipped, feeling the couch sink down beside you.  It was Steve, sitting next to you.  He had to physically restrain himself from pulling you into his arms, knowing that the kids — well, aside from Dustin — didn’t know anything yet, or Hopper.  Maybe not even Murray.  Although, Steve was beginning to highly doubt that now.

Everyone began talking about what happened.  What went wrong, why didn’t it work?  Lucas explained that the calculations weren’t wrong, regarding the hacking into the breaker switch system.  Murray flusteredly agreed, saying it didn’t add up. 

But then Eleven spoke up, saying, “Another hacker.” 

You all looked at her, confused.  She explained. 

“With their mind.  Someone used their mind.” 

It turns out, she had used her powers to see that it was being tampered with by some invisible figure.  Meaning that they had sensed your whereabouts.  Who “they” were, exactly?  That had yet to be figured out.  Point was, you all were doomed from the start. 

The kids started saying something about El being able to control it with her mind — to “counter the counter.” 

Hopper wasn’t keen on the idea, nor was Murray.  Steve definitely had his doubts.  Eddie and Jonathan did, too.  But Eleven said it could work, as long as she went there in her mind. 

But that raised an even bigger question: were you all at even bigger risk now that your visit had clearly been known by someone?  Something? 

Eleven said it was just an entity.  Not human.  But that made everyone gulp… Was it Vecna?  Was he not dead after all?

“Regardless,” Hopper was saying.  “We’ll need to lay low.  The evacuation mandate starts next week.  If we’re gonna stay here and figure this thing out, we’ll need an entirely new plan.”

“Orrrr,” Mike interjected.  “We do this before the mandate happens.”

It was definitely a light argument amongst the group now.  More of a debate than anything.  The kids were insisting that it could work, while Steve was insistent it was too dangerous to risk it again. 

“Hopping that fence is clearly out of the question right now,” he said, shuddering. 

Jonathan looked at him sympathetically, along with you. 

“...what if we go over it?”

Everyone turned to look at Eddie, confused.  He looked at everyone nervously, but with an idea clearly in mind.  The lightbulb over his head flashed. 

“What if Miss Superpowers here — gets us over it?  Meaning we don’t climb it, or mount it.  We just…float…?...over it…?”

Dustin begins to grin, looking over and Mike and Lucas.  Even Eleven looks hopeful.  She turns to Hopper.  “I can do that.”

Hopper sighs, battling it still.  “That doesn’t mean we aren’t in for a rude awakening on the other side.”

“We’re in for a rude awakening no matter what we do,”  Lucas speaks with fervency.

It’s a lot of back and forth from there, and you feel Steve’s arm slip across the back of the couch so that he can massage your neck with his fingers.  You sigh at the touch, relieved to have him touching you somehow.  You inch closer to him, and he does everything in his power not to lift your legs so that they can drape over his.

“But if we all wait until after the mandate,” Jonathan is saying.  “That’ll only put us in even more danger rather than doing it now.  Or, well, before this weekend.  Before next week.”

“I think it’s worth it.” 

Your voice causes everyone to look in your directions.  Steve’s fingers halt but stay in place.  You take a breath, continuing. 

“If we…branch off again.  In our groups.  This time we’d only need 2.  The group here, and group 1, can go with us, or with Hopper and El over to where the gate might be re-opening.”

“That’s true,” your uncle agrees.

“Actually, no, we’d need 3,” Jonathan points out.  “Someone has to stay here.  Make sure no one seeks shelter here, or tries to break in and steal supplies.  Shit’s getting gnarly out there.  Nancy said so over the walkie.”

“Okay, so 3 groups,” Mike said.  “That’s worth it.” 

Lucas and Dustin verbally agreed with him.

Hopper was contemplating it deeply. 

Murray nodded at him, “Jim, this could work.” 

The retired cop pursed his lips, still thinking.  But he didn’t argue it.

Just then, the others got back.  Will, Joyce, Robin and Nancy all walked in.  When they saw you, they sagged with relief. 

Joyce made her way over with Robin, kneeling in front of you.

“Sweetie, how’re you doing?” Joyce stroked your arms while Robin gave you the saddest of smiles. 

You returned their smiles, weekly.  “M’alright.”

Joyce fawned over you like a doting mother, and you saw Robin looking over at Steve with a furrowed brow.  She could tell he wasn’t okay, and it worried her.

“We have a plan,” Dustin said enthusiastically.

“Nooo.  We have an idea,” Jim corrected firmly.  Dustin scoffed along with Mike, both beginning to argue back.

“Guys, we have to make sure no one else dies out there, alright?”

Steve’s words come out harsher than he meant for them too, and his voice slightly hitches at the end. 

Everyone stares, and the silence is thick. 

You look over to see Steve, his eyes hardened with trauma.  He sighs, feeling bad and running a hand through his hair as he looks down and mutters an apology to Dustin and Mike -- who both honestly can't even blame him. 

You reach out to squeeze Steve's thigh, unable to not offer him comfort.  You really don’t care who sees it right now as your thumb massages his pant leg.

Robin definitely pinches her brows together, looking between the two of you.  But she figures that Steve just probably feels bad, given how he has treated you like shit then had to deal with bringing you back from the dead.  That’s probably it…right?

But Nancy knows that look in Steve’s eyes.  He doesn’t ever look that way unless he’s…in love.  No matter how traumatizing or upsetting something is, this look is different.  And that’s confirmed for her whenever Steve goes back to massaging your neck, instinctively tilting his head towards you, even as he stares down at his lap.

Jim clocks Steve’s outburst, frowning.  “Exactly,” he agrees in a low voice, carefully.  “No one’s going through that again.”

Everyone shuffles their feet.  After some silence, Mike speaks first: “I’m really glad you’re alright, Bauman.” 

That breaks the ice, and everyone adds their verbal agreements.  You feel your cheeks flush.

“Bauman Squared is a badass,” Jonathan adds, smiling softly.

“Never seen someone cheat death like that,” Eddie nods.  “Most metal shit I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a breathy, sheepish chuckle while Steve’s fingers absentmindedly trace the nape of your neck and top of your spine, seeking silent comfort. 

“You guys saving my life was way more metal,” you say, voice weak but grateful.  You look at Eddie and Jonathan, then turn to Steve — squeezing his leg again.  His hand on your neck slips to rest there, wrapped around the curve protectively.  Almost possessively.

Now Robin is onto something.

“Steve never stopped,” Dustin adds.  "Not for a second."

Jonathan's nodding. "Not one."

Steve digs his toe into the ground, eyes staring a hole into the carpet.  He’s seated so close to you, letting it ground him as he frowns at the ground.

Jonathan can tell someone needs to change the subject, for both your sakes.  He clears his throat.  “So let’s figure this out then.  A plan that won’t cost any of us our lives again.”

You turn to look at him, nodding.  Everyone else nods, too.

Hopper takes a deep breath, looking at everyone intently before turning to Joyce.  “Alright.  First, let’s sift through the supplies you all got today.  Get it stashed.  We also need to start storing things in the basement soon, so that we can all stay there safely after the mandate gets put in place.  We'll need to do it this weekend.”

Joyce gets everyone to follow her outside to her car and unload everything into the kitchen, so that they can all sort through the canned food and other supplies.  Robin quickly knelt to give you a tight hug first, saying how fucking relieved she was that you were still here.  You hugged her back before she ran off to help the others.  Hopper stays behind with you, Murray and Steve.

“Dr. Owens will be coming here in the morning to check on your shoulder,” Hopper is telling you.  He really is a comforting father figure, and a strangely calming presence.  “Here, lemme take a look real quick.” 

You let him feel around, swallowing down the urge to hiss out in pain.  Hopper says it could just be sprained, or maybe even fractured.  But he says it's best if you don’t take any chances.  “Go ahead and lay down for the rest of the day, alright?  Get some sleep.  You’ve done…more than enough.”

You look down, ashamed.  “I’m so sorry.”

That makes Hopper look at you quizzically, brow furrowed.  Murray does too. 

“Why in the world are you sorry?” Hopper asks.

Steve looks at you in silent dismay. But you're sighing with your eyes downcast, not noticing...instead feeling his gaze.

“...'cause, if this hadn’t happened," you were saying, "We might’ve actually gotten something.  This put everyone behind.  I just…hate that I did that.”

Your uncle looked so disheartened.  “Kiddo, this isn’t your fault.  You didn’t do this.”

“It’s my fault,” Steve murmured, shamefully.  “I should’ve – should’ve…”

“No one is at fault here.  Period.”  Hopper spoke firmly, but with parental empathy and assurance.  He looked at Steve, hard now.  Then back at you.  “You guys did everything you could.  Alright?  We’re not behind.  If anything, we’re farther along now that we’re all safe and can actually come up with a better plan.”

You nodded.  He was right.  Hopper gave your knee a squeeze, ruffingling your hair for a moment before looking back at Steve sadly.  Steve hadn’t looked up again, frowning at his lap.  Hopper ducked his head to his eye level.  “Hey, kid.  You busted ass in making sure we didn’t let us lose a soldier today.  You get that, right?”

Steve shuddered a deep breath through his nose, curling in his lips.  After a few beats, he gave a curt nod.  Hopper’s frown deepened. 

“Steve.  You saved a life today.”

Steve looked up at him with the saddest eyes.  Murray was watching him with more empathy than you’ve ever seen.  You reached over to take Steve’s hand with your wrapped one.  He clutched it instantly, mindful of your injured palms and applying the pressure of his grasp to your fingers. 

“Yeah, you did,” you added softly.

Murray swallows, shuffling.  “Thank you.  For saving my niece today, Steve.”

Steve gives him the quickest of smiles and nods.  It’s clear that he’s fighting off emotion.

Hopper can tell that Steve is really struggling, and he gives his shoulder a squeeze before rising to stand.  He looks between the two of you.  He’s…picking up on the vibe.  He thought that maybe Steve just felt really shaken up about having to watch someone actually die today, then save their life.  That shit causes lifelong PTSD.  But Hopper could tell, it was more than that.  He cleared his throat.  “Let’s help her upstairs.”

But Steve immediately stood. “I got her.” 

Hopper and Murray watched him help you up, hooking your good arm over his shoulders.  Tenderly.  Kindly.  Protectively.  Steve's eyes, soft and fond, never looked away from you.

…yeah, the two grown men knew. They were 19 once.

Robin rounded the corner.  “Steve, can I help?”

Steve was walking up the stairs with you.  “S’okay, I got it.  Love you, Robs.” 

Robin scrunched her eyebrows together, confused as she watched her best friend continue to mount the stairs with you.  But Hopper, who was still watching you both as you walked upstairs, just gave her a reassuring nod.  Robin cocked an eyebrow.  What did Hopper know that she didn’t yet?  And Murray, who had an all-knowing expression on his face.  It was much more somber, compared to his usual shit-eating-grins that he wears when he’s onto something.  But still.  He was onto something. 

Murray cleared his throat awkwardly, before moving towards the kitchen. 

Hopper stopped him.  “Hey.  You alright?”

The smart-alec know-it-all actually paused to reflect before answering that question.  He took a deep breath. 

“You know that feeling you get when you’re worried sick El won’t come back, or something’ll take her?” 

Something flashes in Murray’s eyes, and it holds more vulnerability than he has ever shown. 

“I get it now.  That’s how I felt today.  And it did get her.  And I was the one here, telling them –” Murray stopped, intasking a sharp inhale and collecting himself.  “I get it now.”

Hopper’s concerned gaze exuded empathy and kindness towards Murray.  He patted his shoulder, hard, before Murray nodded and walked off to his room, muttering something about being back to help in a bit.  Hopper let him go.

Robin was still standing there, awkwardly.  “Hop, should I…do something?  I mean, my best friend just brought someone back from the dead today, and I’m not really sure he’s alright because he’s never one to crack but I know that he needs to eventually and —”

Hopper sighed, giving her a polite shake of the head and gently cutting her off.  “I think he needs to be with her for a while.  Trust me.  He’ll thank you for it.”

With a pat on her shoulder, he walked to the kitchen.  Robin stood there, perplexed.  Because while the circumstances were grim, and Steve was the most giving person that she knew — since when did her best friend fall hard for the girl he hated the most?

***

Steve was helping you slip out of your combat boots and socks.  Then your army pants.  He carefully helped slip some of his sweatpants over your legs, fasting them over your hips and tightening the string as tight as they’d go.  Then, he gingerly peeled your shirt off — mindful of your bad arm.  He slipped your hands into the arms of his yellow crewneck before you ducked to let him pull it over your head.  It was all definitely baggy on you...which you found yourself adoring. It felt intimate. Special.

The whole time, Steve was quiet.  The air felt tense.  And you knew that he was not about to make it much longer without finally releasing whatever it was that he was holding back.

Until today, you had never seen Steve Harrington cry.  You began to wonder if he ever let himself cry.  Even when the Russians were torturing him, he panicked instead of crying.  The only time that Steve had allowed himself to even get tearful was about Max.  But even so, he didn’t let it show much.  You figured that he maybe let himself cry whenever he was alone, or whenever it was just him in Max’s room.  He’d shown vulnerability that one day, when you both sat with her, when you read her letter to him out loud.  Steve was just…determined not to break down. 

So yeah, seeing him like that today?  Bawling his eyes out over you, of all things?  You were still processing that.

“Hey… How you feeling?” you asked him in a low voice, ducking your head and trying to catch his gaze.  Reaching up with your good arm, you played with the ends of his hair.  But he didn’t answer.  He seemed distracted, lost in thought as he stared at his shirt on you, his hands on your hips.

You swallowed, trying again.  “...wanna talk about it?”

He pursed his lips so you wouldn’t see them tremble. The words he should have said got stuck in his throat.  He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing.  He settled for —

“M’gonna shower real quick, okay?” 

Your heart sank at his words, breathed more than spoken.

Steve looked up at you with his best tight-lipped smile. You almost cried at the pain you saw behind it.  It was unfamiliar.  Completely foreign for him.  But there was a time for everything, and you knew it best not to push him right now. Not that anything had stopped you before. Normally, you’d grill him and not pay any mind to whatever argument it would cause.  But something about the way that Steve looked right now — so solemn, almost defeated — made you want to forget any sort of friction that the two of you so often had. It had seemed to subside a bit.

After that night.

Not completely, of course. Would it ever be gone completely? This catastrophic rivalry between the two of you? Unlikely. Then again, maybe it was just a matter of figuring out what to do with it.  For now, you knew it best to let him be.

You cautiously cupped his cheeks and dared to peck his lips. “Okay.  I’ll be right here.”

He didn’t say anything, but you knew that he was silently grateful.  He gave you a nod and headed into the bathroom.

You laid in bed, waiting patiently.  Some time passed before you heard the shower turning on.  Maybe ten minutes or so.  Finally, you could hear the faucet squeaking and the water began to run.  You laid underneath the covers, twiddling your thumbs and trying to not feel the pain in your shoulder.  But when another 20 minutes went by…then another 10…you couldn’t help but feel worried.  Something inside of you told you to go check on him.  It was like this…gut feeling. Still, you waited.

...and then you heard it.

A strangled choke.

The door had been left cracked, so you followed the sound and slowly pushed it open.  The air was hot, steamy.  You swallowed hard, hesitant to speak.

“Steve?”  Your tone was wary, timid. “I just…wanted to check on you.”

The silence that followed felt like it lasted a year.  The water splashing onto the ceramic floor of the tub is all you heard behind the shower curtain. 

"Can I come in?" you asked softly, pleading.

Then finally, a tight voice answered —

“Please."

Your clothes were on the floor in seconds, even though you grunted and hissed in pain when removing the shirt.  You couldn’t get into the shower fast enough.

Peeling back the shower curtain, you found Steve’s back to you with his head underneath the stream of water. He was engulfed in steam and mist, yet you could make out his back muscles and how tense he was as he leaned a palm against the tile wall.  His head was down, the hot water seeping down and hard onto the tub at his feet near the drain.  God, he was beautiful.  Even when he was such a prick in high school, you knew even then that Steve was still pretty. If you were being honest, though, he seemed far more beautiful now.  His toned, athletic torso glistened underneath the shower head, his skin the perfect shade of sun kissed tan.

Steve turned his head over his shoulder in your direction, slowly.  Almost afraid.  His gorgeous brown eyes were red and bloodshot, even more than they had been before.  Sad brown orbs stared back at you, water clinging to his lashes and his soaked hair.  There were unshed tears pooling inside those eyes, and he was just a blink away from letting them all fall down. 

He finally turned his whole body to you as you looked back at him, heartbroken, stepping towards him and reaching for his waist.  You could see his breathing intakes were short, the way you get just before you have a breakdown.

“Steve,” you started, devastated.

“I just — c-can you just —”

Hold me, you knew he was trying to ask.  Just hold me.

Steve’s voice broke halfway, timid in a way you’d never heard before. Not even that night, when you two had let all the walls come down. You knew what he was asking now. To be held, comforted. He just couldn’t say it, because he didn’t know how. For a fleeting second, you wondered if he considered the possibility of you saying no. If he thought that maybe his pain was some kind of burden, or shameful.

You brought him into your arms without saying a word, using your good arm to wrap up around his neck and your bad arm — screw it — to hold his waist.  You stroked and gripped at the wet hair that sat at the nape of his neck, feeling his lips dig into your shoulder.  You turned your head so that your lips were pressed to his temple, breathing against him.  Steve clung to you desperately, as if trying to use it as confirmation that you were actually still here...

Despite the last two nights, this is the first time you both truly felt naked in front of each other. You both stood, skin to skin, the water falling around you both, and while there was nothing sexual about this time — that seemed to make it stronger.  It felt as though your bodies were connecting in some sort of irreversible way.  Two souls being tethered, permanently intertwined.

“I almost lost you today.”  

Steve’s words sent shivers against your skin. You felt them more than you heard them. 

The memory of it was haunting for you, yes — but the way that his body trembled against yours with a barely restrained sob in his throat while in your hold, made you believe it had been even worse for him. It’s not every day that you witness someone’s eyes go lifeless in front of you. It’s not every day that you almost have the person you began to care about be taken from you in the worst possible way.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Harrington,” you tried, but when the only answer you got was him squeezing you tighter, you stopped deflecting. 

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured into his shoulder, brushing your lips against his skin. “M’really, really sorry.”

You felt him shake his head against you. No, don’t be sorry.

“I know that you…” you trailed off, sighing.  “You guys went through hell.  Bringing me back. But hey, I knew that you’d be there for me. Even when I was astral planing.”

He still didn’t laugh.  Not even a little.  He just clung to you like a lifeline, trembling against you and haunted by the memory. 

You knew he was mentally fucked up from it.  Hell, you were too. But if you were being honest, there’s not much hell you’d had to go through on your end.  You were out like a light, then back again.  Sure, the pain was excruciating.  But for you, it was over just as soon as it had started.

Steve didn’t have such luxury, though.  You realized now that he’d had to watch you.  

Watch you fall.  

Watch you get hurt.  

Watch you die. Before —

“You saved me, okay? I’m right here.”

Pulling back only enough to look at him, you dared to cup his cheeks again and brush away his stray tears with your thumbs. Normally, he’d cringe at the mere thought of being emotional in front of you. That just wasn’t like him to be that way in front of anyone, least of all you. But right now, he looked lost and afraid. And he didn’t seem to care in the slightest how weak he looked or felt in front of you right now. 

In fact, the way he was looking at you — so haunted and traumatized — brought your heart a sense of pain that it never usually felt. You wanted to take it away from him, make it go away.

“Not going anywhere,” you promised him in a whisper, gently pulling the nape of his neck towards you so that he was leaning his forehead against yours.

In this moment, you thought back on how Steve had always had an oddly comforting presence about him, despite his cocky attitude. It surprised you, really. It came so naturally to him. But right now, it’s him who needed it. And that was alright with you.

“You guys got me,” you murmured.

Steve closed his eyes, his sharp nose nuzzling yours. 

“But what if we didn’t?” he breathed.

You watched as trails of shower droplets and tears made trails, finally released and passing over his perfectly placed moles and faint freckles.

“Fuck, Bauman, if I didn’t — if you’d…”

You held your breath as he choked on his whispered words, scared of them as he bit down hard on his lip. He couldn’t say it. He just couldn’t. 

“God,” he shuddered in a whisper, clenching his eyes shut again as he leaned his forehead to yours. “If you were gone…”

“Hey, hey,” you shushed him gently.  

“After everything I’ve said, fuck…”

“Steve, it’s okay,” you breathed, your fingers stroking the wet locks of his hair near the nape of his neck.

“Can’t lose you,” Steve said in the most inaudible, croaked whisper.

“You didn’t, okay?” 

“I did,” he managed to wheeze, whispered and cracked. “I fucking did.”

You pulled back, forcing him to look at you.  His chocolate brown eyes were rimmed red, strained and distraught at the memory. 

Your hands still cupped his cheeks, gently tugging at the skin beneath his anguished eyes.  “You didn’t, and you won’t.”

You carded your fingers through his dropping locks of hair, pushing it away from his face so that you could look him dead in the eye when speaking to him.  You spoken in that foreign hushed tone that you seemed to only have reserved for Steve, breathing the words against his skin in the hot mist of the shower.  You pecked his lips between the words of comfort, letting each one linger long and longer.  And Steve leaned into each one, becoming more desperate and passionate each time.  And he physically refused to part his lips from yours, even when coming up for air was something you both needed. He just kept pressing short kisses, both feather-like yet urgent, to your lips in a series multiple pecks before burying his head back into your shoulder again. Steve curled more into you as you stroked his back.

“I’m right here, Steve,” you murmured to him.

Finally, he choked on a broken sob that he’d been so desperately holding back. The way it sounded so strangled and strained, you could tell just how painfully lodged it had been in his throat this whole time. It broke your heart into a million microscopic pieces, and as you held him in your arms you realized just how vulnerable this boy was despite never letting it show. Steve Harrington might’ve been an arrogant heartthrob in his teen years, but underneath it all he was just a boy longing for something more. He had so much love to give, despite not knowing what it felt like to have it given to him.

Except with you. With you, he could. 

He would.  He did.

“Here as long as you’ll have me,” you promised him.

The two of you stood there in the shower for God knows how long. You let him break down for however long he needed, which still felt cut off too soon. And after you both finally got out, Steve kissed you all the way from the bathroom to the bed, mindful of your injury. You let him lift you up and carry you there, lowering you onto the mattress with his lips still glued to yours. You let him feel every inch of your skin, delicately exploring it with hunger and need, as his lips glided across your jaw and his perfect teeth nipped at your neck. You let him suck your nipples as he squeezed your hips, keening in his grasp and allowing yourself to let go. 

And when Steve’s hard length pushed against your thigh, you let his hand lift you from underneath the bend of your knee so that he could push into you until you felt him up in your ribcage.

Everything was slow, lovesick and heartfelt.

This time it wasn't sex. This was lovemaking.

You let him groan into your mouth as you moaned into his. You let him whisper things to you that were somehow dirty yet beautiful, and when he began to quietly murmur into your lips something about needing you — something about not leaving him alone — you pulled his perfect mess of damp hair and swore into his lips that you would never leave him. Never never never, thrust thrust thrust.  He fell apart, and so did you. He was desperate, and so were you. He needed you, and you needed him.

Steve loves you.

And you love Steve.

Neither of you said it yet. But it didn't matter, because your uncle was right. 

We do love Steve.

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thank u angels sm or supporting this series. :''') it's been so fun writing a reader related to someone other than Dustin or Hopper, or even the Wheelers. feel free to send me requests related to this series -- do you have ideas or things you might wanna see unfold in this? I'm open.

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[dont-tell-my-mom-im-here]

David Tennant asking his arch enemies to run away with him since 2007

[theangrypomeranian]

"friends to lovers" this, "enemies to lovers" that, okay but what about "idiots to lovers"???

[threalcrabbysamantha]

you know Kataang really kind of perfectly encapsulates the issues I have with a lot of friends-to-lovers dynamics

Let me preface this by saying: I have a fraught relationship with friends to lovers. Some of it I love (Jess and Nick from New Girl, Jake and Amy from BK99), but there’s a version of friends to lovers that I absolutely despise. I call it the Power Fantasy F2L.

In this version of friends to lovers, often one person pines for the other oblivious one, who, usually after some romantic trials and tribulations of their own, turn and realize that their friend was worth loving all along. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth for a couple reasons, namely that often at least one person in this pairing is treating the other one very badly (cough cough Colin being a dick to Penelope behind her back at the end of season 2 of Bridgerton).

More than anything though, I think the problem is that most of these relationships don’t belong in this category at all because the pairing is never really friends to begin with.

Let’s look at the most classic example of friends to lovers: Jim and Pam from the Office. Now look, I love Jim and Pam, okay? Ultimately I do like that they end up together, but they’ve never reached a favorite ship of mine by any means because they have PROBLEMS, namely that Jim doesn’t really like Pam all that much.

Okay yes it’s a bold statement, and some people are going to hate me for saying it, but Jim is not interested in Pam’s friendship ever in the show. He’s interested in being with her romantically, and that’s why he confesses that he loves her when she’s engaged (and clearly expects her to reciprocate), then leaves when she rejects him, and then when he comes back he does not try in any genuine way to rekindle their friendship. Of course, he’s not obligated to, and it makes sense if his feelings are hurt and he’s crushed and he needs space. But it’s hard to claim that he values Pam’s friendship, since he does everything in his power not to nurture their friendship in season three. She’s the object of his desires, not his friend.

This is true of Ross and Rachel on Friends as well. It’s also true of Stiles and Lydia in Teen Wolf, though I’d argue they manage to walk that one back a little bit because he kind of releases his obsession with her somewhat before they get together.

And it’s true of Kataang.

Is Aang really Katara’s friend? Maybe more than Jim is Pam’s friend, but when someone has girlfriend-zoned you from the first moment you met, I’m inclined to think you aren’t really friends, are you? Aang‘s obsession with Katara means he can’t really see her (note his inability to understand her during the Southern Raiders episode especially) and causes him to run head first past any of her own feelings to center his own need to be with her romantically.

How is that friendship?

And maybe this is all very personal. I know there are people who appreciate this version of friends to lovers. People went feral for Polin this spring, and Jim and Pam are maybe one of The Favorite Couples of all time. And Kataang obviously has its fans. But to me, friends to lovers is only satisfying if it’s like Jess and Nick from New Girl: two people who love each other so much, it doesn’t matter what form their relationship takes. They’re in each other’s corner, even if that corner takes them to a different romantic interest. They really see each other, flaws and all, and it’s that recognition that ultimately brings them together.

[shmaptainwrites]

wait so if daphne and simon were fake dating, kate and anthony were enemies to lovers, queen charlotte and king george were arranged marriage, and colin and penelope were friends to lovers…does that mean benedict and sophie are gonna be idiots to lovers?

[besttropeveershowdown]

The SECOND Best Trope Ever Showdown

Amnesiac Dissonance

A character with amnesia realizes that they used to be of a different alignment/allegiance than they've taken up post-amnesia

Propaganda:

I like tropes that explore a character's sense of self, and it's always interesting to have a character piece together information that they didn't even know about themselves, and in this specific scenario have to wrestle with whether who they were pre-amnesia is part of who they still are

Idiots to Lovers

Two characters whose love for each other makes them stupid or who are too stupid to realize they love each other.

Propaganda:

Nothing’s funnier than Kashima being like “yeah I consider seeing Hori-Senpai for the first time love at first sight, enrolled at this school because of him, constantly feel the need to be his favorite above everyone else, would publicly embarrass myself for him, consider any role he plays in my life a form of motivation, would want him to love me the most even if he got married, when my sister told me to bring “the most wonderful man I know” I brought him, and after accidentally kissing him asked if I could redo the kiss so it was more romantic…..but we’re just friends and I just look up to him :).”

[sunshine-and-her-ikevil-stuff]

I already view me and Kate as two separate characters (us both being Fairytale Keepers)

So I like to imagine while Kate is experiencing the usual Elbert route, me and Alfons are in the background trying to save that cat Kate called beautiful.

[liwysz]

War of Hearts? I only see Enemies to Lovers

Charles Leclerc x Max Verstappen

Chapters: 1/1 | Words: 11,760

“I do pay attention,” Charles replied, his voice wavering slightly, but he refused to back down. “And you should be careful who you step on.” Max raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into an ironic, humorless smile. “Is that a threat?” he asked, stepping forward, his taller frame making his presence almost suffocating. For a second, Charles felt the urge to step back, but something inside him ignited. It wasn’t fear, but a fierce determination. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let someone like this boy he didn’t even know intimidate him in a place he had dreamed of being for so long. “It’s a warning,” Charles responded, his words now firm, his gaze locking onto the other boy’s, challenging him in return.

Lestappen Masterlist | F1 General Masterlist | Meet me

This one shot is based on the plot made by @beensinning ❤️ Thank you for letting me use and adapt it

[marrowwife]

Big fan of idiots in love, star-crossed losers

[r0sesthings]

seeing all this recent headcannons about Melvin and Sergei is making me so happy. Writers keep doing your thing bc I’m enjoying them way too much