#he's so real for that. king is NOT passing his classes

[yugiohmangaoutofcontext]

[heartsiebyul]

Hii what about jamil and kalim (separate) having A HUGEE crush on gn!reader!!!💕💕

how Kalim and Jamil act when they have a huge crush on you.

featuring — Scarabia : Kalim : Jamil x reader.

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☀️ Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim having a huge crush is like being caught in a sunbeam that doesn’t let up.

He’s obsessed—in the most open way. Kalim doesn’t even try to hide it. He lights up like fireworks when he sees you. He waves from across the courtyard like it’s a royal parade, calling your name loudly and excitedly: “(name)!!! You look amazing today!!”

Gives you gifts. Constantly. From shiny jewelry to random things that made him think of you, Kalim just keeps giving. “This flower reminded me of your smile!” “These sweets are your favorite, right?” He’s like a love-struck puppy with a billion-dollar budget.

Physical affection central. He hugs you. A lot. If you even breathe near looking tired, his arms are already around you. If you seem upset? He grabs both your hands and looks at you with big, worried eyes. He doesn’t even realize how touchy he’s being until Jamil sighs in the background.

Talks about you constantly. To Jamil, to the other dorm members, to strangers at the market. “Oh, (name) would LOVE this color! Did you know they write poetry? They’re so cool—” And it never stops.

Would confess in a heartbeat… and maybe he already did by accident. He blurts out things like, “I think I love you—wait! I mean, I love hanging out with you! Haha! Unless... you’d want me to say that for real?”

🐍 Jamil Viper

Jamil having a huge crush is… complicated. And exasperating. For him, anyway.

Internally panicking 24/7. Jamil is the king of suppressing feelings, but you short-circuit that system every time you laugh, speak to him, or smile his way. He’s constantly clenching his jaw, muttering to himself under his breath like, “Why are they so... ugh.”

Steals glances like his life depends on it. He’ll act like he’s focused on his work, his food, anything but you—but his eyes always drift toward you. He memorizes how you style your hair, the way you tilt your head when you're curious, your laugh. And if someone else makes you laugh? He clicks his tongue and looks away.

Avoids you to protect his own sanity. He’ll make excuses not to be around you too much because he knows he’s dangerously close to slipping up and actually being vulnerable. His excuse to himself is always something like: “I can’t afford distractions.” But the way he lingers near your favorite spots around campus says otherwise.

Small acts of care, extremely subtle. You forgot your water bottle? Somehow, there’s one on your desk, chilled. You’re late to class? He somehow "happened to be passing by" and "reluctantly" walks you there. But he’ll grumble, “Don’t get used to it.”

Absolutely hates how much he likes you. But he also holds onto every interaction like treasure. When you say his name, he replays it later while pretending he’s not smiling.

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[cherrysgf]

it’s a bad idea, right? - fake bf! steve harrington x fem! reader pt 1

summary: after constant nagging from his parents about trying to find a girlfriend, steve sets up a plan to try and find a girl to pretend to go out with - and he’s got the perfect one in mind.

tw: nothing really, just some cursing

it's been almost eighteen years of living in the hellhole that is considered hawkins, indiana. almost eighteen years of being stuck in the same stupid school with the same stupid people. almost eighteen years of doing whatever the hell it is you're doing with your life.

almost eighteen years of hearing the name 'steve harrington' echoed down the hallways.

he was like, the king of hawkins high. people respected him, hell, they worshipped him. if there was a literal food chain within their school, steve would be the apex predator.

sure, he was hot. like, really hot. anyone with eyes could see that. and sure, he was a real charmer with the ladies. but there was nothing particularly special about him - he was just another popular white guy with good hair and no real distinctive personality.

you had passed by him in the halls, talked to him during class, overheard his (usually successful) attempts at wooing girls. you didn’t know him particularly, but you had crossed paths. it’s not like you guys were friends though.

which is why you were, to put it simply, very confused when you received a note in your locker from steve telling you to meet him by the parking lot at 5th period.

now, you weren’t exactly an expert when it came weird, cryptic locker notes but you knew enough to know this probably wasn’t a good thing, or else he would’ve told you in person like a normal fucking human being.

he was probably just messing with you, you knew that. either another ploy from one of his friends to embarrass someone, or maybe even a plot to get you in his bed.

but no, steve wasn’t like that. he was more of a show off - if he was gonna pull any stunts or whatever, it would be a big public spectacle in a crowded area, somewhere where his narcissistic ass could really be shown off. it wouldn’t be secretive or secluded.

which leads you to the question - what the fuck did this guy want from you?

you’re pretty wary of the guy, but unfortunately, curiosity gets the better of you which is how you find yourself skipping 5th period to head over to the parking lot.

it was a dumb idea going and you knew it. you had a lingering feeling that a bunch of dumb jocks and pretty cheerleaders would jump out behind a car, ready to bully you endlessly because you actually thought that steve harrington wanted to talk to you of all people. maybe they’d even have tomatoes to throw in your face (hey, it’s a possibility!)

which is why you were oddly surprised when you saw steve right by his car, awkwardly pacing and looking unusually frantic.

“um…hey?” u say, as you walk up to steve, seemingly matching his tentative energy.

“oh! hey!” he says, running a hand through his hair, biting down on his very pretty pink lips. “um…i honestly didn’t think you were going to come.”

“yeah. me neither.”

“well, i’m glad you did.” steve chuckles, and since when the hell does the most popular kid in fucking hawkins chuckle?

you nod, honestly cringing at how bad this is going. “so, what did you need exactly?” you ask, not really caring how rude or abrasive you sound. you just really needed to get this shit over with.

“right! of course.” steve says, seemingly unfazed by your attitude. “okay, just promise you’re not gonna totally freak out on me or whatever.”

it’s at this moment you think you might be going deaf - steve’s actually worried about you freaking out? since when the hell does he care what anyone else thinks or feels?

“and…why exactly would i freak out?

“just promise me, okay?”

“um, okay, whatever. i promise.”

“i need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

okay, yep. definitely fucking deaf.

“yeah, sorry, i think i heard you wrong, because i know you didn’t ask me to pretend to date you, so, uh, could you just repeat that for me?” you see steve visibly tense up at your harsh reaction, and for a second you kind of feel bad, but then again, what the actual hell?

“i’m not messing with you. seriously, i need you to pretend to be my girlfriend. just for a little bit.”

you scoff at his pleading tone, the way his voice softens lightly, as if he’s trying to reason with you. which, technically, he is. only he actually sounds like a nice person this time. (which, obviously he isn’t. obviously).

“okay, and first of all, why exactly do you need a fake girlfriend? and why does it have to be me?”

steve sighs, tugging at his hair lightly. “look, it’s just that my dad has been on my back about like, finding a respectable girl and whatever. i mean, he keeps trying to set me up on dates with his coworkers daughters or whatever, and i’m just really not interested. i just need him off my back, okay? that’s all.”

settle down? you think to yourself, scoffing. he’s in fucking high school. what settling down is a 17 year old boy who can’t get higher than a 70 on an english essay going to do?

“alright, but that doesn't answer the question of why me? why not any other of the dozens of eligible girls who would give up their left tit for a date with king steve?” you ask mockingly, obviously not into his little scheme.

“that’s exactly it. i can’t fake being with someone who wants me. this arrangement would only last for a couple of weeks, and that’s not exactly fair to them.”

“oh, right, because you’re so fair.” you respond, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “and let me guess - you want your dad as pissed off as possible and i’m just the person to do that.”

steve sheepishly nods at your statement. it wasn’t exactly a secret, the way you’re boldness and arrogance made you less than an ideal type to bring home from the parents. it’s not that you were rude over say, it’s just that you were, well, very opinionated to say the least. and yeah, you didn’t fuck with people like steve harrington, and you certainly didn’t fuck with people like steve harrington’s parents.

”i mean, not to be rude, but you do have a certain reputation.”

“yeah, no shit.”

“look, can you please just do this for me? please?” he asks, shining those goddamn puppy dog eyes of his at you.

and you consider it for a second. steve seems desperate, like really fucking desperate, and you knew his situation with his dad would have to be pretty bad for him to willingly be seen with you of all people during school hours. you would ask him what’s in it for you, but you knew what the answer was - nothing. there was absolutely nothing you gained from agreeing to this little plot of his. if anything, you’d just get gossiped about and ridiculed even more. and yet….

“it’s stupid, i know, just-”

“fuck it. i’ll be your fake girlfriend.”

steve’s face lights up like a kid in a candy store. “wait, really? you’ll do it?” and without even thinking, steve pulls you into a hug, wrapping arms around your neck and burying his face into your hair, leaving your face shoved into the crook of his neck. and damn, he actually smells really good.

you awkwardly hug him back, before pulling away, ignoring the way his face drops as you do so.

“so, um…call me i guess? you know, to plan this out or whatever?”

he nods quickly. “yeah, yeah, sure. of course. uh, to plan. definitely gotta plan.” he murmurs.

you scribble your number onto a crumpled piece of paper you pulled out of your backpack, the pen shaking just a little in your hand. before letting yourself overthink it, you hand it to his - your fingers brushing his just briefly - then turn to leave before you change your mind,

you head over to the bathroom, hoping for a moment to reset and. you lean over the sink, cupping cold water in your hands and splashing it onto your face, gripping the edges of the porcelain basin and stare at your reflection for a moment too long.

what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

[passionxwrites]

Summer Romance 3

Pairings: ModernAU! Elias “Stack” Moore x BlackOC! (Cymone) x Elijah “Smoke” Moore

Warnings: MDNI, cursing, use of the N-Word, suggestive language, heavy kissing and touching, fingering

Word Count: 5.8K

Masterlist

Cymone

“Girl I can’t believe the way that man laid me low, spread me wide, and ate me up like he didn’t have a whole meal five minutes before!”

Laughter soon filled the room as Cymone and Reana lay in her room while Reana recounted the events of her date with Sammie the night before.

“He had dinner but he wanted you for dessert,” Cymone jokingly added as she passed Reana the expertly rolled blunt they had been smoking. The weed was a courtesy of Duke since he basically forced her to watch his spoiled ass daughter the night before.

“Well bitch I’ll be that then! I ain’t never experienced no shit like that before. Girl I saw stars and not the ones coming through the sunroof. I can’t believe Sammie is such an eater,” Reana exclaimed as she all but vibrated next to Cymone on the king sized bed.

“Damn, I wanna see what that be like,” Cymone responded as her eyes widened while Reana went on to explain the experience. She turned just in time to see Reana sitting there with her lips turned up.

“What?”

“Bitch you can! You got three niggas sniffing after you and you aint giving none of them the time of day. That’s real greedy.”

“What three niggas? Only nigga I kinda had was Rashad and he put a bad taste in my mouth after I saw him leaving Tricia party with Lori. Nigga tried to sneak off like nobody was gone hear that loud ass Hellcat peel out the parking lot,” Cymone spoke as she kissed her teeth. She actually kinda liked Rashad a lil bit but after they danced at the party he had the nerve to ask her if she was gone go home with him. Cymone immediately shut it down and said he would have to take her out first and then he started acting funny. Later she peeped him getting in his car with Lorianne Stevenson, another girl in her class that was known to be loose, and from that moment on she wrote him off.

“Oh shit I forgot about that! Well fuck him cause you still got Mike and Ike fine asses. Shittt that’s better than anything.”

Cymone couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips. Ever since the day they were all over at her place Reana had become determined to always refer to them as some type of duo whether it was twins or not.

“Girl please! Smoke and Stack is not checking for me like that plus they are Duke bestest friends. He done know them niggas since they was all kids.”

“One, Bert and Ernie definitely need that from you and you’re being willfully ignorant about it and that’s fine. Two, what the fuck yo pussy gotta do with Duke? You a grown ass woman sweetie.”

Cymone only rolled her eyes as she took another pull from the blunt. She felt as though Reana was reading a little too much into her interactions with the twins. Sure they flirted with her from time to time, they always found a reason to be in her business, and a reason to touch her……but that didn’t mean they liked her. Right?

“Look girl you can keep on acting like them niggas aint feeling you but I deep down in my gut, I know that at least one of them, if not the both of them, will make that shit known at some point. Them niggas grown grown so I can’t see them staying satisfied with yall lil cats and mice game.”

“It aint no game and aint nothing going on. Plus I ain’t finna talk to two brothers. That’s weird and I’m gone look like a hoe.”

“No bitch what you gone look like is lucky as hell.”

“You just got a answer for every damn thang don’t you.”

“Duhhh, I’m prolific!”

Cymone only continued to sit there in thought as she mulled over the possibility of the twins liking her. Of course any girl would be happy to be the object of either Elias or Elijah’s affections. Both men had a way about them that drew her in. Smoke was always so captivating with his quiet dominance. He could walk into any room and command everyone’s attention without a single word but when he did open his mouth? He had the smoothest way with words and his voice was all deep and rough. It was almost like gravel. His voice had been like that even when he was a teenager and it was probably the main thing Cymone liked about him. Then there was Stack. Although he was about the cockiest nigga alive he was also the easiest to talk to. He had a way of making you feel comfortable before you could even fully notice it yourself. He was a walking safe space for her and his energy was always light and playful even when it didn’t need to be.

Each one of them held a special significance in her heart but did that mean that she wanted to possibly ruin a friendship that had just gotten back on track? And yes she was grown but she was worried about how people would look at it. How would Ganny react? How would Duke react? Shit how the hell would the city of Jackson react? It was easier said than done to just ignore everybody.

Cymone continued to let Reana’s words echo in her mind well after her friend left and night began to fall over the sky. In an effort to think about something else she decided to put a couple bags of candy in her big snack bowl and watch a few episodes of A Different World. Just as she had begun to get comfortable on the couch with her bowl and blanket, Duke burst through the door with his little girl in tow.

Ava Cymone Stanton was born 3 years ago and she was the absolute llight of Duke’s life. If people thought he spoiled Cymone they obviously didn’t see what he would do with Ava. One blink of her big doe eyes and he was doing whatever she asked which made her feel as though everybody was supposed to do it as well. The problem was Cymone was head spoiled girl in charge and Ava wasn’t gone get it as easy with her so they lowkey butted heads like they were the same age.

“Uh uh! I am not watching that lil demon again Devonte!”

“Damn, hello to you too. Calm down, I don't need you to watch her but I do need a favor from my first baby,” he said as he sat down and put Ava in his lap while looking over at Cymone with a fake pout.

“You look like Donkey when he tried to look cute in Shrek. Fix your face,” Cymone retorted as she grimaced over at her cousin.

“You got a smart ass mouth on you and I’m sick of that shit,” Duke shot back as he placed his hands over Ava’s ears so she wouldn’t hear him cussing.

“Whatever ju. What you need me to do?”

“I need you to go to drop this envelope off to Smoke. He need it for the club.”

Well isn’t this fucking great. 1 out of 2 of the niggas I’m trying to avoid.

“Shouldn’t you be dropping off some important shit to him yourself? I’m sure he wouldn’t want me all up in his business.”

“You must be forgetting it’s my business too. Plus that nigga ain’t gone mind. He got a lil crush on you anyway.”

Cymone’s eyes damn near popped out of her head at Duke's last sentence.

“What you say,” she inquired as she almost choked on her every word.

“What? That Smoke like you? Shit I think Stack like you too,” he said calmly as if he was talking about the weather and not his two best friends allegedly having a crush on his cousin. Cymone was literally staring at him as if he had two heads.

“Wh- why you think something like that?”

“I done known them niggas since I was 5. You think I don’t know when they feeling somebody?” Plus I noticed a lil jealousy from em at Tricia party when was dancing with that Richard nigga.”

“His name is Rashad.”

“Whatever the fuck his name is really don’t mean shit to me. I know when they like somebody and they like you so it don’t matter if you drop it off. Now, can you do this for me please? I gotta take Ava to a birthday party in Flowood and I aint got time. I’ll get you whatever you want if you do it.”

Cymone sat there and blew out a deep breath before she reluctantly gave in.

“Fine but I want that light pink Brahmin bag we saw in the mall the other day.”

“Deal! I’ll have that purse to you by tomorrow night. Thank you Punkin Wunkinnn,” he dragged out as he leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead.

“Yeah whatever. Let this be your last favor till July.”

“Yeah aight. See you later, love you kid.”

“Love you too,” she called to his retreating frame as he carried Ava out of the house.

She then turned her head to the manila envelope that was almost taunting her as it lay on the table. She knew it was probably something illegal in the envelope because that’s all Duke's ass was wrapped in and the twins were no saints. It was truly no telling who they had to rob and/or kill out in Chicago to come up on all of that money but it wasn’t none of Cymone’s business so going through that envelope was the last thing on her mind.

All she could think about was having to see Smoke now that all of these thoughts were running through her mind. She was feeling a little raw and exposed and his perceptive ass could see almost anything. She halfway thought he could read her mind sometimes and he had a way of making her nervous as hell. It was them damn eyes. They were dark but not in an intimidating way. No it was in a way like he could see through you and it always felt like she was under a microscope.

“It’s just Smoke Cymone,” she muttered to herself as she shook the racing thoughts from her head and rose from the couch.

She made the journey from the living room to her room upstairs at the end of the hallway so she could refresh herself and find something to wear. If she had to be around his ass she would at least look good.

After washing her face she decided to throw on a thick black headband since her silk press was getting a little old. She walked to her closet and pulled out a pair of True Religion jeans and white tank top. Once she was dressed she slid her feet into a pair of birkenstock slippers and put on a little lip gloss. She grabbed her purse from her vanity chair and made her way downstairs. After she snatched the envelope from the table she started the alarm system for the house and hopped in her truck.

She knew the way to the location of the club because everyone in the city was familiar with that building so it didn’t take her long to pull into the parking lot. From outside she could see that the twins had worked real hard on the place. Gone was the old wooden frame with the chipped paint and in its place was something completely modern. They had somebody repaint the building all black, repaved the parking lot, added some greenery, and put in a new door. She also took notice of the flashy sign on the very front of the building in big gaudy silver letters.

“Club Juke huh? That’s nice,” she said to herself as she parked her truck next to Smoke’s old school candy red Chevy Impala.

The girl closed her eyes for a quick second and said a few encouraging words to herself before she grabbed her things and jumped out the truck to head into the building. Once she got to the building she realized the door was locked but she could Smoke in the distance on his phone. She knocked on the sleek glass door, being careful not to knock too hard but loud enough he could hear her. Noticing she got his attention she waited patiently as he walked to the door and unlocked it to let her in.

He looked down at her with his brows furrowed until he noticed the envelope in her hand and his face relaxed.

“Yeah, imma call you back tomorrow. Have that shit fixed asap,” he spoke as he hung up the phone and stepped to the side so she could enter the building.

“Hey there boss man,” her tone laced with humor as she swayed past him into the building.

“Hey there, trouble. What you doing round my neck of the woods,” he asked as she placed the envelope on top of the bar and turned to face him.

“Duke had something to do with Ava so he asked me to drop this off,” she answered as she swallowed a little hard, already getting caught up in his energy. It was suffocating and she had to take a step back just so she could breathe.

As if he could sense her inner turmoil Smoke stepped completely forward into her space as he looked down at her with a small smirk playing on his face.

“You look good today Sugar.”

Sugar

He always called her that when she was younger. Said it was because he knew she was sweet on the inside but always wanted to look sour on the outside.

“I haven’t heard that name in a minute. Can’t believe you remember that,” she said with a small giggle.

“You’ll always be my Sugar girl,” he said and Cymone felt the air in the room escaping her rapidly. She needed to gain some distance so she cleared her throat and began walking around as if she was taking a look at the inside of the place. She was really running and she prayed he didn’t follow her.

“Y’all really turned this place out man. I don’t even recognize it in here,” she said as she took in the sitting areas, the dance floor, and the spot for the DJ.

“Let me guess Sammie must gone be the DJ,” she said jokingly as she turned expecting him to still be in the same spot by the bar but instead he was right behind her, analyzing her every move.

“Gotta let lil cous share his musical talents with everybody. We gone let him sing on R&B nights,” he spoke as he engulfed her with his every being again.

“Oh, that’s really good for him,” she spoke as she tried to move away again but this time his hand was wrapped around hers before she could move any further.

“Why you running from me?”

Cymone looked at him in faux indifference as if he was overreacting but on the inside the big red alarm was going off in her head. He could always figure her out.

“Boy I am not running from you,” she said as she let out a shaky laugh while slowly trying to pull her hand away. Already taking notice of her game, Smoke removed his hand from hers only to place them both on the section table behind them, effectively trapping her.

Cymone’s breath hitched because now she knew there was nowhere to turn and this man obviously wanted answers. She had also begun to feel like Reana had jinxed her and she made a mental note to cuss her ass out later.

“You always run from me. Every time I take a step at you, you back up and I ain't just talkin bout tonight either,” he spoke as he leaned down so he could really look into her face, into her eyes.

“I don’t know what you talkin bout Elijah. You really on one tonight,” she said as she turned her head so she wouldn’t be making eye contact with him. That soon proved futile because just as soon as she turned her head he was lightly grabbing her face to turn it back to him.

“Eli-,” and just as she began to call his name his lips were on hers. For a second Cymone was frozen in shock as her brain was still trying to catch up but it didn’t take her long to melt into him. Her arms wrapped around his neck and they were kissing passionately as if they were long lost lovers. It started off soft but it quickly progressed into something so feral. She could have sworn she heard his ass growl as he continued to push his body into hers as if they could get any closer.

Cymone had never been kissed like this before and she didn’t want it to end and thankfully he didn’t either. Soon Smoke’s hands were under her ass and he was lifting her up onto the seat as began trailing his kisses from her lips, down her neck, and over the top of her breasts. Cymone let out a small whimper as she felt the room heating up expeditiously. She then grabbed Smoke’s face and brought his lips back to hers already missing how they felt.

Cymone didn’t know how long they had been going at it but it felt like forever. She was breathless but she didn’t want to stop. She was officially lost in all things Smoke and she didn’t plan on coming out but they were soon interrupted by the loud ringing of his phone on the table next to them. The ringing phone was like a cold bucket of water to Cymone and she immediately pulled away as her senses started to come back to her and she remembered where she was and who she was with.

I kissed Smoke. Smoked kissed me.

Smoke walked off to check his phone and Cymone continued to sit on the seat and stare down at the floor as she tried to collect herself. After a few minutes Smoke was done with the call and he was back in her space snatching away her peace yet again.

“Sorry, that was the liquor distributor. Had to take that,” he spoke calmly as his hands rubbed along her outer thighs.

“You’re fine, I know you got business to handle. Um, I should probably go though,” she said as she tried to move his hands so she could get down and hightail her ass the fuck out of there before she did something she had no business.

“There you go tryna run again like I won’t chase you,” Smoke said as he thwarted her plans of getting away yet again.

Cymone rubbed her hands over her face in frustration.

“I’m not running from you Smoke damn!”

“Then why you keep tryna get away from me like I scare you?”

“Cause you do! You got this way about you that draws me in before I can even think and I shouldn’t-,” she started but then stopped herself knowing she was beginning to say too much.

“You shouldn’t what? Shouldn’t like me? Or you shouldn’t like me and my brother?”

Cymone only stared at him as she felt herself getting worked up. She only shook her head as she once again tried to remove his hands from her body which he again blocked her from doing.

“You done always belonged to the both of us, Cymone. Whether you realized that shit or not. From the very moment we met you we had been taking care of you. You special to us. You aint like these regular bitches walkin round Jackson tryna come up on a nigga with some money. You done always been smart, had your own mind, your own goals. You are ours.”

Cymone damn near felt like the air was being snatched out of her lungs. There was no way this could be real. She had to be dreaming right now and she even went as far as to pinch herself so she could wake up.

“You aint dreaming Sugar. I mean this shit with everything in me.”

She finally stared him straight in the eye and saw just how serious he really was. Smoke liked her. Apparently Stack liked her too. Any other girl would have been over the moon but Cymone was scared shitless.

“Elijah please,” she practically begged as she once again moved his hands except this time he relented realizing she needed her space to digest all of this.

He stepped back from out of her space and she quickly made a move to the bar and grabbed her purse to run out of the club but not before glancing back at Smoke to see him staring intently at her as she left. She made it into the comfort of her truck and laid her head on the steering wheel as she took in a few deep breaths.

“What the fuck have you done Cymone,” she let out into the air as she started the truck and made the quick drive home. Once she got there she noticed Ganny’s white Cadillac parked out front and had half a mind to go crawl in her arms but a look at her clock showed it was too late for that and Ganny was definitely asleep. She instead went inside the home and settled on taking her forgotten candy bowl upstairs so she could eat and watch her comfort show in the safety of her bed until she fell asleep.

She woke up the next morning and the memories of the previous night instantly came rushing back and Cymone groaned as soon as she felt her face heat up. The rumors were definitely true about Smoke being an A-1 kisser and she couldn’t help but to wonder if the other things she heard about him were true as well.

Stop it.

Cymone shook her head and pulled herself from her bed deciding she would take a nice soak and play some music to relax her wound up nerves. She moved to her bathroom and began running water in her clawfoot tub and turned on her speaker that was built into her bathroom wall. She elected to play her Vibing playlist knowing she needed a calmer mood to truly rest her nerves. She added some honey and oatmeal bubble bath to water and tested the temperature before stripping from her pajamas and getting into the warm tub.

Before long she gave into the relaxation and eventually fell asleep as she rested her head on her tub pillow as the smooth voice of Masego flooded her ears. After about 30 minutes her eyes slowly opened to the bright sun blooming into her bathroom and she quickly took notice of how much the water had cooled. She made haste in cleansing her body and exiting the tub so she could rub herself down in her vanilla scented Tree Hut body butter. Once she was moisturized she wrapped her body in a towel and grabbed her phone, making her way out of her bathroom and into her room.

“Damn girl. Thought you had drowned in there.”

Cymone yelped with a jump as she placed her eyes on none other than Stack who had made himself entirely too comfortable in her bed. The nigga had taken off his shoes and he was propped up with the remote in his hand as he flipped through channels. Cymone stared at him incredulously with her hand placed on her chest as she tried to calm her quickly beating heart.

“Nigga are you fucking crazy? Did you break into my house?”

“Now I know I’m a criminal but I don’t do break ins baby girl. Ms. Etta let me in on her way to bingo.”

Cymone cursed under her breath. She shoulda woke Ganny up and told her she was into it with the twins so she wouldn’t be all nice and keep letting their overbearing asses in the house.

I literally can’t escape these niggas man.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence on this fine Saturday Elias,” Cymone threw out sarcastically as she crossed the room to her closet so she could put on some clothes. Being in the closet away from him gave her the space to breathe and straighten out her nerves that he had frazzled just from being a few feet away from her. The girl had it bad and they weren’t making it easy on her at all.

After throwing on some gray yoga pants and a loosely fitting cropped t-shirt she placed her feet into her slippers and emerged from the closet with her arms folded. She eyed Stack down expectantly as he absentmindedly scrolled on his phone. He still hadn’t given an explanation as to why he was there.

Dammit. He looks good as usual.

He was dressed in a white t-shirt that hugged his muscular body so good Cymone could weep. He also had on a pair of grey sweatpants and she could see his black cats sitting by her door and he had on his signature gold chain. Him and Smoke were walking sex and Cymone was fighting tooth and nail to keep her legs closed.

“Hello! Why are you here Stack,” the girl shouted as her aggravation began to grow the more he took up space in her room.

Stack slowly looked up from his phone with his eyebrows furrowed as if she had lost her mind.

“Imma let that slide cause I know ya lil ass going through something right now. But don’t get loud with me again babygirl,” he said as he rose from her bed and walked around to stand in front of her.

Cymone cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders as he got closer and she began to smell his cologne. He was taking over her senses and she was slyly looking around to find a way to get some space away from him. She was never one to run away from her problems but this was just too much for her.

“I see you tryna run so let me stop you while you ahead. We need to talk.”

Ever the defiant one Cymone rolled her neck up at him with a quirk of her eyebrows as if she didn’t know what he could possibly be talking about.

“We don’t have anything to talk about Elias,” she said slickly as she found a way to walk around him and sit on her bed. That was a big mistake. She could see the light come on his head and that grin immediately found its way to his face as he stalked over to her and quickly caged her in before she could move. This was feeling like Déjà Vu.

“Oh but we actually have much to discuss Angel. You see Smoke came home and told me about last night and I’m just happy he was the one to break the ice so I can go ahead and finish melting that shit for you.”

“Y’all can’t be serious,” she breathed out shakily as tried to find some semblance of this being a sick joke in his eyes just as she had done with Smoke the night before but all she saw was complete seriousness.

“We are serious Cymone. We want you. What’s so bad about that,” he asked her almost pleadingly.

“Everything is bad about that,” Cymone basically yelled as she found some strength to push him back. Once he was moved she stood up and began pacing her room.

“Y’all are brothers nigga! Imagine how people round here gone be looking at me knowing I’m fooling round with some brothers let alone twin brothers! I’ll be the biggest whore in this town. Way worse than Lori or Tamia! Do y’all not get that,” she asked as she looked at him with her arms spread out.

“You think we give a fuck what these people think out here? Huh! You think that shit supposed to stop how we feel about you? Newsflash baby it ain't! You need to get that through yo thick ass skull and stop worrying about what these lame ass niggas and weak ass hoes gone think man,” he shouted back as he once again walked into her space looking like he wanted to shake some sense into her.

Cymone sat back onto her bed as a million thoughts continued to float through her mind about all of the negative possibilities that could come from her being involved with the twins. She placed her head in her hands and began massaging her temples as she felt a headache nearing which only furthered her agitation. She then felt him as he moved to stand in front of her and lowered himself down onto his knees to be eye level with her. He cautiously placed his hands on hers and removed them from her head before staring into her eyes.

“You ours Cymone. Gone always be ours to care about and protect,” he said softly as he held her hands in his.

“Why me?”

“Why not you? I mean, it’s always been you can’t you see that? Even when we was just friends we would drop whatever we was doing when you called and it’s the same way now. Aint nothing gone change that,” he said as he moved his hands to her cheeks while laying his forehead against hers

Cymone grabbed his hands on her face and began to try to move them and before she could blink he was on her. He smashed his lips onto hers so fervently their teeth clashed against each other but neither one of them missed a beat. Cymone moved her hands from his on her face and placed them around his neck as she had done Smoke last night but this time Stack made the decision to lean up and lay her back so he could place his body on top of hers on the bed.

A part of Cymone knew this was insane but the part of her that wanted to enjoy whatever Stack was willing to give was officially in the driver seat and she wasn’t giving up the keys anytime soon. Once her and Stack were both on the bed she trailed her hands down his back and then lightly ran her nails back up. Stack groaned into her mouth before breaking the kiss to hold himself up on his hands.

“You drive me fucking crazy. All I do is think about you,” he said almost painfully as he stared down at her as if she was his entire world.

“You drive me crazy too,” she finally admitted as her eyes ran over his face and zeroed in on his lips. With her focus on them she grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him down to her for another searing kiss and she soon felt his hands running up and down her sides before his left hand ran across her stomach almost as if he was hesitating. Sensing what he really wanted Cymone pushed him back and rose to her knees on the bed. She made sure she had his eye contact as she removed her crop top and threw it across the room. With her lip placed between her teeth she leaned a little closer to him as she gripped the bottom of his shirt and began pulling it up and off of him with his assistance.

Once they were both topless Stack sat against her headboard and quickly pulled her on top of him to where she was straddling his lap. As soon as she made contact with him her lips were on his and the room felt like a furnace. They were engrossed with each other and the rest of the world ceased to exist. Stack pulled away much to her dismay causing her to whimper in protest.

“Can I,” he asked as his eyes shifted from her face to her chest.

“Yeah,” Cymone almost whispered and without another thought he placed his mouth on her right nipple as his hand began to twirl her left one. Her head was thrown back in pleasure and before long she found herself rocking against him. Sweet Jesus was this man working with a monster.

Another rumor confirmed to be true.

“Elias,” she moaned out as his hand that wasn’t occupied with her nipple slowly began to inch its way to the front of her pants. He pulled his mouth away as he once again looked at her to gauge her reaction as he fully pushed his hands past her yoga pants and underwear. The minute his hand made contact with her bare flesh she gasped and also sent up a thanks to Reana for making sure she got wax a couple days ago.

“You so fucking wet,” he said huskily as he leaned his head into her neck and began sucking on the soft skin. He slowly began to rub on her clit in soft circles causing her moans to fill the room instantly. He stopped his attack on her neck and grabbed her chin with a little force causing her to open her eyes and look down at him.

“You the most beautiful woman I ever met,” he said almost drunkenly as he slowly began to push a finger into her causing her mouth to drop open into an o. Just as he began to stroke her a phone ringing jolted them both out of the lustful haze.

Cymone jumped and quickly located her forgotten phone on her nightstand. From her position she could see it was Ganny calling so she hastily removed herself from Stack so she could answer the phone.

“He- hey Ganny,” she said breathlessly while rubbing her hand down the side of her face.

“Hey Punkin. Why you breathing so hard baby?”

“I was running up the stairs cause I heard my phone ringing from downstairs.”

“Oh well is Stack still at the house,” Cymone’s eyes flickered over to Stack to see him already staring at her with that same look in his eyes and an obvious bulge in his pants. She quickly cleared her throat and turned her attention back to her conversation with her grandma.

“Yes ma’am he’s still here.”

“Good, I’ll be pulling up to the house in about 5 minutes and I need y’all help getting groceries out the car.”

“Yes ma’am,” and with that Cymone hung up the phone and turned her attention back to the beautiful man sitting on her bed.

“Ganny’s gonna be back in 5. She need help getting the groceries out the car,” she said under her breath while pulling on her shirt and fixing up her hair so she could look presentable.

“Okay but this conversation aint over,” he said back as he too put his clothes back on causing Cymone to roll her eyes.

“And the next time Smoke gone be there.”

Fuck.

Note: Heyyyy, I'm a little late so sorry don't kill me. This is my first time writing a spicy scene and I'm so scared with how it turned it out but I wanted to use this to get my feet wet for when it's time to write real smut so yeah. I hope you all enjoy and pleaseeee lmk what you think!! See y'all next time!

Tag List: @angryflowerwitch @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @reci1996 @hoodpr1ncessdiana @cerya @rose-bliss @thickemadame @katezy2x @roughridah0 @5starsirl @woahthatshitfat @sassymemoryelixir

[rosierin]

volleyball shenanigans | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; atsumu just wants to blow off steam, osamu wants a free meal, suna wants to stir the pot, and (y/n)? she just wants to go home.

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The apartment was alive with the sounds of a lazy afternoon. The low whirl of the washing machine hummed in the background, accompanied by the gentle rustling of fabric as freshly laundered clothes were folded and hung up. The faint buzz of a documentary played on the TV, filling the space with a monotone narration, occasionally interrupted by the distant honk of a car outside their open window.

At the laundry rack, (y/n) and Osamu worked in an easy, practiced rhythm. She passed him a shirt, and he clipped it up without looking. She handed him a pair of socks, and he tossed them over the line with minimal effort.

Osamu worked leisurely, half-focused, while (y/n) was a bit more meticulous, straightening out creases before passing him the next item. Every so often, their hands brushed briefly, but neither acknowledged it, too used to their shared routine.

Meanwhile, Atsumu had claimed the couch, stretched out like a king, tossing a volleyball into the air and catching it with practiced ease. He’d been doing mini sets against his fingertips for the past ten minutes, shifting positions every now and then, rolling onto his side, then his back, then propping himself up on his elbow just to keep himself entertained.

Across from him, Suna had made himself comfortable in the armchair, legs stretched out over the armrest, hoodie half pulled over his face. His eyes were locked on the TV, where a true crime documentary played at a low, almost eerie volume.

The narrator’s voice was flat, clinical.

"At approximately 3:42 a.m., the body was discovered in the alleyway—"

Suna tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing as crime scene footage flickered across the screen. His fingers idly tapped against his knee, his only real reaction to the gruesome details being described.

Atsumu suddenly spoke, cutting through the stillness.

"Dunno what it is, but I feel alive today. Like I could take on the world. Know what I mean?"

Suna barely looked away from the screen, too engrossed, nose wrinkling ever-so-slightly at the gory reconstruction of the crime scene.

"When don’t you?" he muttered.

Atsumu sat up, bouncing the volleyball once against his palm. "Nah, I’m serious! I got so much energy, I need to let off some steam. Let’s go to the gym.”

Suna finally peeled his gaze from the TV, glancing over with a slow blink. His expression was idle, half-lidded with disinterest.

"And do what? Run a few laps?"

Atsumu rolled his eyes, catching the ball with a sharp slap against his palm. "No, dumbass. Let’s play some volleyball. Get some light practice in."

Suna’s lips quirked at that. He considered it for a second, then shrugged, stretching his arms over his head.

"I’m down. After I finish this, though."

He then winced as the documentary replayed real-life crime scene footage, a woman’s piercing screams filling the room.

"Jesus Christ..."

Atsumu grimaced, glaring at the TV. "I dunno how ya watch this stuff."

Suna just smirked, unfazed, and went back to watching.

Atsumu chose to ignore the massacre on-screen and instead leaned over the couch, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Oi, ‘Samu, (y/n)! Me and Suna are headin’ to the gym for some v-ball practice. You guys comin’?"

Osamu, still folding a pair of sweatpants, popped his head into the living room.

"Sure, I don’t mind."

Beside him, (y/n) paused, pressing her lips into a thin line as she clipped up the last of the shirts.

"Guys, you know how much I suck at volleyball. I’d hardly call it practice."

Atsumu waved a hand, already dismissing her concerns.

"We don’t expect an Olympic-level game. S’just for fun."

(Y/n) gave him a weak stare, flicking a few droplets off a damp sock.

"I don’t even think I’d class it as high school level..."

Atsumu, grinned, completely undeterred.

"Then it’s just some light cardio! C’mon, get ready. I’ll buy ya dinner afterwards."

Osamu perked up at that, eyes glinting with interest. He turned to (y/n), his voice suddenly way too persuasive.

"C’mon, (y/n), don’t ruin a free meal."

(Y/n) groaned, throwing her head back in exaggerated defeat.

"Fine, I’ll play. But no making fun of me. You know I’m not very good."

She heard Suna's condescending chuckle from the next room.

"No promises."

Atsumu clapped his hands together, triumphant, and bounced off the couch with a 'whoop!'.

He whizzed past (y/n) and Osamu with a grin, earning a quiet laugh from (y/n). She had to admit, his energy was contagious, even if it was exhausting to witness at times.

Osamu shook his head, chuckling as he grabbed the empty laundry basket.

"He’s such a kid, ain’t he?"

(Y/n) smiled fondly, smoothing down a crumpled towel before stacking it neatly.

"I know. He’s so cute, bless him."

Osamu’s movements stilled for a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, he turned toward her with a knowing smirk, one eyebrow arching.

"Yeah?"

(Y/n) froze.

She could practically hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"Oh, hush up. S’not like that."

Osamu chuckled, clearly unconvinced, but he let it go, stuffing the last of the laundry into the basket.

As they finished up, Suna finally stood, stretching his arms overhead with a sigh.

"Let’s go before golden boy dies from pent-up energy."

(Y/n) huffed a laugh.

Atsumu’s voice echoed from his room.

"I heard that!"

The familiar scent of polished wood, faint sweat, and rubber sneakers filled the air as they stepped inside the gym. High ceilings loomed overhead, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, casting a stark glow over the smooth volleyball courts. In the distance, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers and the hollow thump of a bouncing ball echoed from another section of the gym, but otherwise, the place was quiet—just the four of them and an open court.

Bags hit the ground with various levels of enthusiasm. (Y/n) let hers slip from her shoulder with a sigh, while Osamu lazily nudged his toward the bench with his foot. Meanwhile, before she could even straighten up, Atsumu had already bolted.

Practically sprinting onto the court, his sneakers skidded slightly as he came to a halt, already bouncing on his toes, rolling his shoulders, practically vibrating with anticipation. His energy was almost tangible, buzzing in the air as he rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms, stretching like a fighter about to enter the ring.

(Y/n) watched in amusement, arms crossed as she took in the sight. “He's really in his element, huh?"

Osamu, moving nowhere near as quickly, stretched his arms over his head with a yawn, his shoulders popping audibly. "He’s like a dog that ain’t been walked all day."

Suna smirked, his pace unhurried as he wandered toward the court. "Better to let him run it out now than deal with him at home later."

(Y/n) followed them onto the hardwood, watching as Atsumu immediately launched into a full, intense warm-up. His movements were fluid, controlled, every stretch and pivot a reflection of years of training. Suna followed suit, dropping into a deep, effortless stretch, his body moving with the kind of ease that made (y/n) question if he even had bones.

Meanwhile, she just… stood there.

“…What am I supposed to do?” she asked, blinking at them.

Osamu, who had barely moved, shrugged. "I usually just do a couple arm circles and call it a day."

Suna, mid-stretch, tilted his head at him. "That’s why your knees crack every time you stand up."

Osamu shot him a flat look, but before he could fire back, (y/n) squinted at the two professionals. Their stretches looked… excessive. Atsumu had just dropped into an impossibly deep lunge, one arm hooked under his leg, his face set in complete focus.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked, watching him twist slightly to the side. "I mean, it's just practice, right?"

Atsumu didn’t even look up. “Don’t matter. Stretches are important.”

His head turned toward Osamu, eyes narrowing. "’Samu, yer barely movin’! Coach would be appalled."

Osamu let out a dramatic sigh before plopping down onto the floor. "I don’t even play volleyball anymore. I don’t have a coach."

Atsumu, suddenly straightening up like he was about to give a TED Talk on sports performance, pointed at him with conviction. "Today, I am yer coach. Now stretch."

Osamu groaned, throwing himself backward onto the court in defeat. Eventually, after a few seconds of staring at the ceiling, he sat up and begrudgingly pulled his arm across his chest.

Atsumu, satisfied, then turned to (y/n).

"You too."

(Y/n) hesitated, then glanced at Osamu for guidance. He was barely trying. That seemed like a solid approach. Mimicking his movements, she half-heartedly stretched her arm out, rolling her shoulders a little.

…It was not going well.

“God, I’m so stiff,” she groaned, trying to press her arm further but feeling like her body was just not made for this.

Suna, still in a perfectly relaxed stretch, looked over and smirked. "Old lady."

Osamu, now sitting with his legs stretched out, attempting to reach his toes, let out a deep groan. "I ain’t as fit as I used to be."

Atsumu, watching the mess unfolding before him, looked absolutely offended. "Guys, c’mon. Ya both look terrible."

He pushed himself to his feet and marched over to (y/n), who was sat like Osamu, also struggling to lean forward in a simple stretch.

"Yer supposed to get lower," he announced, placing his hands on her shoulders.

(Y/n) barely had time to react before he pushed her forward, forcing her into a deeper stretch.

Instant regret.

“OW—OW—OW—”

She immediately flailed, slapping his hands off her. “STOP, STOP, STOP—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

Atsumu took a step back, hands raised in defence. “What? I was helpin’!”

Suna, now leaning lazily against the net, watched with an amused glint in his eyes. "Alright, that’s enough for now. You’re gonna break her."

(Y/n) shot a heated glare at Atsumu, still rubbing her back. “I told you I don’t do this sports stuff.”

Atsumu, completely unfazed, just shrugged. “Yer not dead. That’s progress.”

Osamu groaned as he rolled onto his feet. “Can we start already? The sooner we finish, the sooner I get my free meal.”

That, apparently, was enough to get Atsumu back on track.

He grabbed a volleyball from the pile and tossed it at (y/n), who—somehow—actually caught it.

"Alright, lemme see ya serve."

(Y/n) stared at the ball in her hands. "...Oh, boy, here we go. Prepare to be blown away."

She took a deep breath, lifted her arm, swung—

—and completely missed.

The ball dropped to the floor with a sad little bounce.

Silence.

Then, (y/n) barked out a laugh, brushing off her shoulder like she was the next big volleyball prodigy.

Suna laughed at her antics. "Guys, I think we found the next Yuji Nishida."

Osamu burst out laughing. Atsumu chuckled despite himself, but he still dragged a hand down his face like he had just witnessed a crime.

With an exhale, he walked over to retrieve the ball before tossing it back to (y/n).

"Okay. New plan. We teach (y/n) how to hold a ball first."

(Y/n) whipped her head toward him. "That sounds awfully condescending."

Suna, barely looking up from where he leaned against the net, scoffed. “It was.”

Atsumu planted his hands on his hips, exhaling sharply through his nose like he was preparing himself for battle. He squared his shoulders, then began pacing in front of (y/n) like a coach about to deliver the ultimate game-changing strategy.

“Alright, listen up,” he announced, pointing at her like a novice soldier. “Clearly, ya got no idea what yer doin’, so we’re startin’ from the basics.”

(Y/n) crossed her arms. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence."

Atsumu ignored her completely. “Hold the ball like this,” he said, palming the volleyball and tossing it up effortlessly. The ball landed back in his hand with a smooth rhythm, perfectly controlled. “Ya gotta make sure yer toss is clean, controlled, right in front of ya—so ya ain’t chasin’ it all over the place like some sorta stray cat.”

(Y/n) grabbed the ball and mimicked his movement, but her toss was wobbly and off-center, the volleyball floating through the air with zero sense of direction. It landed nowhere near her striking hand.

Atsumu blinked.

Suna, watching from the side-lines, let out a low whistle.

Osamu chuckled under his breath, but (y/n) was too focused on Atsumu’s expression—which was slowly morphing from patient teacher to deep, internal suffering in real time.

Atsumu rubbed his temples. “Okay. Again. But better.”

(Y/n) huffed, adjusting her stance before trying again. This time, she threw the ball too high.

Atsumu, quicker than she expected, snatched it out of the air before it could even come back down.

His eyes narrowed. “No. Stop. What was that?”

(Y/n) threw her hands up. “I don’t know! A toss?”

Atsumu inhaled sharply, then exhaled through his nose like a bull trying to contain its rage. He placed the volleyball gently back into her hands.

“One more time,” he said, his voice tight, his patience hanging on by a fraying thread.

(Y/n) pouted. She could tell he was five seconds away from completely losing it.

Atsumu was never known for his patience.

This time, she managed an okay-ish toss, but when she went to swing—

She completely missed the ball. Again.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened. (Y/n) braced herself. Then, he snapped.

"ARE YA EVEN TRYIN’?!"

(Y/n) flinched. “YES?! STOP YELLING AT ME!”

Atsumu threw his hands in the air. “I’M NOT YELLIN’—” He paused, caught himself. Realized he was yelling. He took a deep breath, pressed his fingers to his temples, and lowered his voice.

“I’m just… deeply, deeply concerned.”

(Y/n) crossed her arms, glaring. "You’re a terrible teacher."

Osamu, who had been enjoying the entire trainwreck, finally stepped in, shaking his head. "Yeah, don’t be an ass, ‘Tsumu. She’s tryin’ her best."

(Y/n), sensing an opportunity, pouted, playing up the victim act. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu,” she mimicked, voice full of mock hurt. “Why are you bullying me? I’m just a girl."

Suna, joined in on the pity party, playing up the theatrics. "You’re really gonna yell at the worst player here? Have some tact, 'Tsumu."

Atsumu pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god. Fine. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

(Y/n) turned her nose up with a prim little huff. Then glanced at the blonde twin. "Apology accepted."

Atsumu exhaled sharply. He already regretted agreeing to this.

But after a few more painful attempts, something finally clicked. (Y/n) managed a decent toss, swung her arm properly, and—miraculously—made contact with the ball.

It sailed over the net, wobbly but successful.

"OH MY GOD, SHE DID IT!" Osamu gasped dramatically, hands flying to his head like he had just witnessed a divine miracle.

Suna nodded slowly in approval. “Hallelujah."

(Y/n) held one hand to her chest, pretended to wipe a tear from her eye with the other. “Guys—I’d like to thank my family, my supporters—”

Osamu and Suna snorted, but Atsumu cut her celebration short with a single clap of his hands.

“Alright, that’s enough. We’re movin’ on.”

Finally, with (y/n) just barely competent enough to participate, Atsumu finally deemed her worthy of playing a real game.

He rubbed his hands together, grinning like a menace. "Alright. Time to pick teams. ‘Samu, you take (y/n). Me and Suna’ll go together."

Osamu let out a long, suffering sigh, hands on his hips. "Wow. Stuck with the weakest link. Love that for me."

(Y/n) gawked. “How’s that fair?! You two are going PRO, hello???”

Suna, rolling his shoulders as he got into position, smirked. “Prepare to get dominated.”

(Y/n) let out a dramatic groan, dragging her feet toward Osamu like she was being led to the gallows. She turned to him, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“‘Samu, I’m sorry in advance. Please be more patient than your brother.”

Osamu huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but his smile was easygoing. "Yer all good, (y/n). Let’s just have fun."

(Y/n), feeling slightly reassured, nodded.

From across the court, Atsumu—hands on his knees, practically vibrating with anticipation���called out with a cocky grin.

"Alright, let’s see what ya got, rookies."

(Y/n) inhaled sharply.

This was going to be a disaster.

Game on.

The game started exactly how anyone would expect—with Atsumu and Suna absolutely wiping the floor with them.

Atsumu was everywhere, light on his feet, quick with his reflexes, and—more annoyingly—running his mouth the entire time.

"C’mon, (Y/n), ya gotta move faster than that!"

"‘Samu, I thought ya used to be good at this!"

"You guys suck! You call this a match??"

He was having the time of his life, grinning ear to ear, bouncing on his toes between plays like he was born for this.

Suna was calmer but no less ruthless. His plays were, smooth, calculated and frustratingly effortless. He barely looked like he was trying—he just moved instinctually, flicking the ball into just the right spots like he had a sixth sense for openings. Every spike, every set, perfect placement, no wasted effort.

Osamu, to his credit, wasn’t bad. Once his body shook off the rust, he moved sharper, hit cleaner. His blocks were strong, his sets precise, and every now and then, he even shut Atsumu down at the net, much to his twin’s frustration.

But it didn’t matter.

Because he had (y/n) on his team.

And (y/n)… was a disaster.

She wasn’t completely useless—there was effort, for sure. But her reactions were a half-second too slow, her footwork an uncoordinated mess.

She wanted to contribute, she really did. But—

The ball sailed right past her.

She twisted to follow it—tripped over her own foot—

And hit the ground with a graceless thud.

Atsumu was caught between bursting out laughing or shouting at her lack of athleticism. "I can't even—"

(Y/n) pushed herself up, glaring, her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment and frustration. "Don’t you dare laugh at me!"

Suna, watching the whole thing unfold, jogged over to her to, concealing his grin. "You okay?"

Osamu sighed, rolling his shoulders. "S'all good, (y/n). We’ll get ‘em next time."

Spoiler: they did not get them next time.

The onslaught continued.

After a solid fifteen minutes of absolute destruction, (y/n) was gasping for breath, hands on her knees.

She wasn’t built for this.

"This is abuse," she wheezed.

"This is fun!" Atsumu corrected, barely winded, cheeks flushed with the thrill of the game.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes at him. Sadist.

And then—

The miracle happened.

The ball hurtled toward her like a meteor.

She braced herself. This was it. Her moment.

She swung—

—missed entirely—

—but the ball ricocheted off her foot.

It soared over the net, completely by accident, and landed in Atsumu and Suna’s court.

Atsumu, Suna, and Osamu stared at the ball.

(Y/n) blinked, her jaw going slack with utter disbelief. “...Did I just—?”

Osamu was the first to break.

He broke into loud, infectious laughter, slapping her on the back with such force it nearly knocked her over. “Holy shit, way to go, (Y/n)!”

Suna snorted, shaking his head. "What a fluke."

(Y/n), still processing whatever just happened, pumped a fist in the air anyway. “A point’s a point, baby! Let’s goooo!”

Atsumu scoffed, torn between being offended or impressed.

"Yer tellin’ me… that's how ya score on us?"

(Y/n) grinned, crossing her arms over her chest with pride. “Yup. Suck it."

Half an hour later, the game ended exactly how it was always going to end.

With Atsumu and Suna winning, obviously.

Atsumu ducked under the net and strode over to the losers, hands on his hips. He looked at the duo with a condescending grin— toothy and frankly quite slappable.

“How’s defeat taste, guys?”

(Y/n) blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Hmph. Nothing to be proud of, Miya.”

Osamu stretched his arms over his head, unbothered by their loss like it had been written in the stars.. "Was hardly a surprise, was it?"

Suna nodded solemnly, pulling somewhat of a pained expression. "You can say that again."

(Y/n) threw her hands up. "Guys, I’m literally right here."

Osamu gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder.

Suna, on the other hand, draped an arm over her shoulders with practiced ease, leaning in just enough to feel cocky about it.

“How ’bout me and you this time?” he said, tone casual, but his smirk said otherwise.

(Y/n) tilted her head up at him and smiled—too fondly, too easily.

Behind them, Atsumu froze mid-swipe, towel stalled against his cheek, suddenly forgotten.

His gaze flicked toward Suna’s arm, lingering a second too long.

His jaw clenched—barely. But just enough to notice.

Then, with a heavy roll of his shoulders, he huffed, clearly unimpressed but playing it off.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Me ‘n Samu, then.”

As they headed to their new sides, Osamu shot his twin a sideways look, smirking.

“Yer not jealous, are ya?”

Atsumu scoffed. "What? No. S'just teams."

Osamu chuckled as he got into position. “Whatever ya say, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu’s eye twitched.

The game started again, but this time, something was… off.

Atsumu’s plays were different now—harder, sharper, more aggressive. His serves weren’t just fast; they were shockingly precise, almost cutting, the kind that would leave a stinging echo in your arms if you tried to receive them. And yet, it wasn’t the intensity that stood out.

It was where he was aiming.

Or rather, who he was aiming at.

Because every single one of his serves, his spikes, his attacks—all of them were directed at Suna.

At first, it might’ve been coincidence. A hard serve straight at Suna? Okay, that happens. Another spike in his direction? Fine, sure. But then another. And another.

(Y/n) had barely even touched the ball.

By the fifth or sixth clearly targeted attack, Suna was starting to feel it. His breath came out heavier than before, hands dropping to his knees as he wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. When Atsumu sent yet another bullet-speed serve at him, he barely managed to receive it, hissing slightly at the sting in his arms before finally standing up straight, eyes locking onto his opponent.

“The hell, Atsumu?” he exhaled, stretching out his wrist. “You good?”

Across the court, Atsumu only grinned—a grin that was just a little too sharp, a little too forced, his golden eyes gleaming with something downright sadistic.

“Just playin’ the game,” he said casually, tossing the ball between his hands like he hadn’t just been hunting Suna down.

(Y/n) watched from afar, narrowing her eyes.

Osamu, perched near the side-line with a towel draped over his shoulder, caught onto it immediately, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

(Y/n) folded her arms, stepping forward. “You’re totally targeting him.”

Suna pointed at Atsumu, letting out a dry and breathy laugh. “Exactly. What gives?”

Atsumu only shrugged, playing coy. “Just tryna keep things interesting.”

(Y/n) didn’t buy it for a second. “No, you’re being weird.”

Suna ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, eyeing Atsumu curiously before his expression flattened. “Yeah. Why do I feel like I just pissed you off somehow?”

Osamu chuckled under his breath. "I can think of one reason."

Atsumu shot him a warning look.

And that was when (y/n) saw it—the exact moment Suna put the pieces together. His initial irritation melted away, replaced by something far more dangerous.

Amusement.

A slow, smug smirk curled at the corner of his lips. He let his eyes flicker back to Atsumu, observing him for a second longer before turning his gaze onto (y/n).

“Oh, I get it,” he murmured.

(Y/n) frowned. “Get what?”

Instead of answering, Suna just chuckled to himself, then jerked his head toward him in a silent beckon. She hesitated for a beat, but curiosity won out, and she padded toward him.

The moment she was close enough, Suna leaned down, his palm cupping over his mouth as he whispered something into her ear.

(Y/n) barely had time to process the words before she let out a giggled reaction.

Atsumu snapped.

A ball came flying toward them with way too much force.

Suna, completely unfazed, deflected it effortlessly, then went right back to whispering something else to (y/n), his voice lower, slower, just for effect. She covered her mouth to stifle another laugh.

Atsumu couldn't take his eyes off them.

Suna leaned back, letting his gaze settle on (y/n) with a mischievous glint. She returned it with ease, a silent agreement passing between them.

And that's how the war begun.

At first, they played it cool. Small things. A little extra laughter at each other’s jokes, lingering glances that lasted just a second longer than necessary. Nothing drastic. Nothing overt.

But when they got back into position on the court, the teasing went from subtle to lethal.

Suna propped his hands on his hips, scanning the court before humming in appreciation. “Y’know, (y/n), your form’s actually looking real nice. You’re almost a natural.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “Aw, really? You think?” She let out a dramatic little sigh, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe I should get you to train me instead of Atsumu.”

Atsumu nearly choked on air.

“EXCUSE ME??”

Osamu, standing nearby, turned away immediately to hide his growing smirk.

Atsumu’s scowl deepened, his grip tightening on the ball as he muttered under his breath, “Like he’d know how to train ya properly.”

Suna’s grin widened as he overheard. “Dunno, man. She’s already lookin’ better than you.”

Atsumu spiked the next serve way too hard.

And missed.

(Y/n) gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow. Maybe you should let Rin train you too, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu looked like he wanted to throw her into the net.

And yet, that was only the beginning.

Every time (y/n) and Suna scored a point, they launched into some ridiculous, over-the-top celebratory handshake—the kind that was way too long, obviously improvised, and filled with unnecessary twirls and high-fives.

Suna kept leaning in to whisper things into (y/n)’s ear, his lips just barely brushing against her skin. Each time, she laughed, and each time, Atsumu saw it.

At one point, (y/n) flicked some imaginary dust off Suna’s shirt, her hand lingering against his chest for a touch too long.

Atsumu stiffened.

Osamu could barely contain his laughter despite the murderous vibes radiating off his twin. “Those two are evil."

Then came the final, fatal blow.

Suna was standing behind the net, hands protecting the back of his head as (y/n) prepared to serve. But instead of doing so, she stopped. Pursed her lips, and thoughtfully tapped her chin as if she was appraising fine art.

“Y’know,” she mused, eyes raking over him with exaggerated admiration, “I never realized it before, but your shoulders are really broad."

Suna glanced back at her with a smirk, highly entertained. Then he looked over at Atsumu, relishing his gobsmacked reaction.

How could he not play along?

“Oh? Only just now noticing?”

Atsumu's voice boomed around the gymnasium.

“OH, COME ON—WHAT IS THIS?! ARE WE PLAYIN’ VOLLEYBALL OR GOIN’ ON A DAMN DATE?!”

(Y/n) and Suna turned to each other in perfect sync, as if genuinely considering the question.

Osamu, who had been holding it together by a thread, eventually cracked—bracing himself on his knees as he broke out into a fit of laughter.

Atsumu saw red.

Without thinking, he launched the ball straight at Suna. No mercy.

It shot over the net like a bullet—but Suna didn’t even flinch. He raised one hand and once again deflected Atsumu's attack with ease, sending it right back with a bored flick of his wrist.

“Wow,” he said dryly, his voice flat with mock disappointment. “So aggressive.”

(Y/n) bit her lip, eyes glinting like she was genuinely impressed. She drifted toward him with the kind of deliberate slowness that made Atsumu's blood pressure spike.

Then, with all the flair of a soap opera star, she pressed herself lightly to Suna’s side, trailing a single finger up the front of his shirt.

“Y’know,” she purred, tilting her head to look up at him, “I’ve always had a soft spot for middle blockers.”

Atsumu nearly passed out on the spot.

He stared, slack-jawed, hands twitching at his sides as his brain completely failed to form a rational response.

Osamu was already doubled over nearby, half-giggling and far too distracted by his friends silly antics to actually play the game.

Then, without straightening up, he lifted both hands to his face in mock embarrassment, peeking through his fingers.

“Guys,” he gasped between laughs, “yer almost makin’ me blush.”

Atsumu threw his head back with a tortured groan, dragging both hands down his face.

He hated them.

He hated this game.

He should've invited Bokuto instead.

Between Atsumu’s absolute meltdown and Suna being a total ASSWIPE, (y/n) and Suna somehow won the game.

(Y/n) threw her arms into the air, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “WOO! FINALLY!”

Suna flashed her a lazy grin, lifting his palm for a victorious high five. “Good teamwork.”

Their hands smacked together with a satisfying clap, and for a second, the smugness in the air was palpable.

On the other side of the net, Atsumu stood frozen in disbelief, hands braced on his knees, panting. His bangs clung to his forehead, sweat dripping down his temple. His expression radiated pure betrayal.

“WHAT EVEN WAS THAT?!” he demanded, flinging his arms out. “YA WEREN’T EVEN TAKIN’ IT SERIOUSLY!”

Osamu glanced down at him, failing spectacularly to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess they just had better chemistry.”

Atsumu whipped his head up, glaring in a way that screamed, shut the hell up.

(Y/n) giggled, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder as she sauntered over beside him. “Yeah, don’t be a sore loser, ‘Tsum.”

Suna lurked behind her and leaned into her again with zero shame—shoulder brushing hers, voice casual. “Yeah. Guess we’re just a perfect match."

Atsumu’s blazing stare could have set the whole gym on fire.

“I’m never playin’ with ya again.”

Osamu stretched his arms over his head with a relaxed yawn, the picture of calm. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Maybe next time, we can try teams based on actual skill.”

(Y/n) hummed to herself, mischievous eyes drifting up to meet Suna's before giving a little shrug. “I dunno, I kinda like this setup. Me and Rin just… get each other, y’know?”

Atsumu inhaled deeply, eyes closed, head tilted back back as if praying for patience. His fingers flexed like he was physically restraining himself from strangling Suna.

Then, without another word, he spun on his heel and stomped toward the bench.

“Aight. Practice is over. Let’s head home.”

He yanked his duffel bag off the floor with enough force to rattle the water bottles beside it and aggressively slung it over his shoulder.

Then, without missing a beat—

“Actually, Suna, ya can stay here.”

(Y/n) and Osamu immediately cracked up—their laughter echoing through the gym like a victory bell.

Suna, completely unbothered, just shrugged. “Yeah, nah. I’m comin’. Don’t wanna miss whatever tantrum you're gonna throw at dinner.”

Atsumu let out a loud, theatrical groan and shoved the gym doors open with far more force than necessary. The metal squeaked in protest as he stormed through, and the trio trailed after him, now snickering amongst themselves.

The cool night air swept over them as they stepped outside, cutting through the leftover heat clinging to their skin. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance. The sky had that soft, bluish tint that only came after dusk—quiet and calm, in contrast to the chaos they’d just left behind.

(Y/n) nudged Suna with her elbow, smiling. “That was fun. We make a good team.”

Suna hummed, returning the sentiment. “Mhmm. I'd say so."

Up ahead, Atsumu stomped along like the brat that he was. His duffel bag bounced against his back with every step, his whole body radiating the energy of someone who had suffered a deep and personal injustice. He refused to look back.

Osamu watched him with a grin, then jogged a few steps forward to sling an arm around his brother’s shoulders. He gave him a firm shake, deliberately jostling him.

“Aw, c’mon, ‘Tsumu. What’s wrong with you and me, huh?”

Atsumu didn’t answer.

But the way his shoulders eased, just barely, said enough.

(Y/n), walking behind them with Suna, watched the interaction with a fond smile. Then, on a whim, she looped her arm through Suna’s. With a little tug, she pulled him along as she skipped ahead, her sneakers thudding softly against the pavement.

Before Atsumu could protest, she grabbed his arm too, linking them all together in one warm, swinging chain.

“Aw, don’t be mad, ‘Tsumu,” she cooed, leaning her head against his shoulder with exaggerated sweetness. “You still played amazing. Like, really amazing.”

Atsumu huffed, glancing down at her out of the corner of his eye. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

(Y/n) giggled, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “And, y’know… I think you were the most fun to play against.”

That perked him up a bit.

His steps slowed a fraction. He didn’t say anything right away, but his grip on his duffel loosened, his jaw unclenching. His scowl remained fixed in place—but (y/n) caught the way his lips twitched at the corners.

“…Damn right I was,” he muttered, voice lower now, almost bashful.

Behind them, Osamu snorted. “So easy to please.”

(Y/n) laughed, hugging both boys’ arms tighter. “C’mon, let’s go home. I dunno about you guys, but I’m starving.”

Suna hummed in agreement, casting a side glance at Atsumu. “Yeah. Someone owes us dinner.”

Atsumu groaned but didn’t argue, grumbling something under his breath about betrayal and snakes and whether they even deserved a treat.

But even as he complained, he let (y/n) keep her hold on his arm, allowing himself to be pulled along without resistance.

And if his pout wasn’t quite as deep anymore…

Well.

She wasn’t gonna call him out on it.

[sabrinajenre96]

“Episode one ~Chaos in Scrubs”

Author note: Welcome to the first episode of these series. Enjoy the ride.

Michael Robinavitch x wife doctor reader x their kids.

Warning ⚠️: expect chaos from the Robinavitch's progeny

Main series :

Fridays at The Pitt were notoriously intense, and today was no exception. Dr. Michael Robinavitch, cool and commanding in his navy scrubs, was walking a pair of interns through a complicated case when he caught a glimpse of his wife, Y/N, several feet down the hall. She was juggling a tablet, a coffee she’d reheated twice already, and an intern who clearly regretted questioning her diagnosis.

They hadn’t even seen each other since they clocked in.

Y/N shot him a quick smirk when their eyes met, a silent exchange of “we’ll talk later” passing between them. Both of them were seasoned enough to know there was no “later” until shift change.

Unbeknownst to them, the real emergencies weren’t in The Pitt today—but heading straight for it.

Back home, Spencer was lounging in her favorite princess pajamas while being doted on by Diana, Y/N’s sharp but sweet mother. Diana was mid-lunch prep when the house phone rang—a number she didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” she answered, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Hi, this is Nurse Callahan from Westwood Elementary. I’ve been trying to reach Drs. Robinavitch, but—”

“They’re probably elbow-deep in someone’s chest cavity. This is their mother—well, her mother. What’s going on?”

Sawyer had been the victim of a mean prank after gym class, ending up with a bruised ego, several actual bruises, and what the nurse suspected was a sprained ankle. Alex had tried launching himself off the playground slide to “test a gravity theory” and wasn’t faring much better.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Diana muttered. “Alright. I’m bringing them to the ER.”

“Is Kojo coming?” Spencer asked excitedly, bouncing down the stairs in her unicorn slippers.

“No, honey. Kojo’s napping and unlike the rest of you, he actually understands the value of quiet.”

“Aw, but Kojo helps!” Spencer whined, grabbing a sparkly tiara from the table.

Diana was already lacing up her sneakers. “Kojo is not your emotional support sidekick in a hospital. Let’s go.”

---

By the time they arrived at the ER, Diana had made quite the entrance: one teen limping dramatically, one boy in tears with a crooked arm, and one five-year-old singing loudly while twirling in her tutu.

Dana, one of the nurses, immediately jumped into action, greeting Diana like an old friend. “Rough day?”

“You have no idea,” Diana sighed. “Two patients and one performer.”

Alex was whisked into an exam room with Dr. Langdon while Sawyer was checked out by intern Dr. Mel King, under the watchful eye of Dr. Heather Collins.

Spencer, however, took center stage at the nurse’s station, dramatically pulling on a stethoscope and talking in a deep voice.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Where’s the trauma? Is it the spleen? It’s always the spleen.”

Y/N, who had finally wrapped up with her patient, paused mid-step as she spotted the familiar swirl of curls and glittery shoes standing on a stool. She covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

Michael, finishing his consult, spotted her next.

“Spencer?”

She beamed and pointed dramatically. “Daddy! You didn’t tell me you work in a zoo!”

He scooped her up. “What are you doing here, little menace?”

“Grandma said Sawyer and Alex were broken, so we came to fix them. Also, I’m helping. Everyone likes when I’m the boss.”

He snorted, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “God help us all.”

Together, Michael and Y/N went to check on their kids. Sawyer winced as Mel examined her ankle.

“Twisted. No ballet for two weeks,” Heather confirmed.

Sawyer groaned. “That’s forever.”

“You’ll live,” Y/N said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”

Sawyer leaned into her mother’s hand, already wondering how she was going to accessorize crutches.

In the next room, Alex sat glumly with his arm in a cast.

“You jumped off the top of the slide?” Michael asked, trying to remain calm.

“I wanted to prove a theory.”

“Alex,” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “You're grounded for the next two weekends. No iPad. No cartoons. And you’re doing the dishes.”

Alex sighed dramatically. “I already broke my arm. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

Michael raised a brow. “I’m the dad. I am the punishment.”

---

By the time the shift ended, the couple were back home, Diana finally getting to relax on her own porch with a glass of wine.

Inside, Y/N plated dinner while Michael set the table and tried to keep Spencer from feeding her peas to Kojo, who was now fully alert and ready to catch falling veggies like a pro.

“Spencer…” Michael warned.

“He likes green beans,” she whispered.

“No. He likes you, which is why he’s not snitching.”

After dinner, the kids were tucked in—Sawyer with her crutches leaned nearby, Alex grumbling over the dishes, and Spencer asleep with Kojo curled beside her.

Y/N leaned against the doorway, exhaling as the quiet finally settled.

Michael came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Well,” he said into her hair. “Another normal Friday.”

“Totally peaceful,” she muttered.

Tomorrow, they were off. No surgeries. No rounds. Just pancakes, cartoons, and maybe even sleeping in.

But tonight? It was just them.

[babyscottoncandy]

Scott Street

Steve Harrington,, Stranger Things

Summary: Steve Harrington x Thought-Daughter¡Fem Reader,, childhood bestfriends turned distant when highschool hit. Steve Harrington become "King Steve," popular - a jock - and an asshole. (Y/n) was Hawkins Highschool's odd one out, a girl so sensitive the sight of a bug dying would be bound to make her cry.

TW: Angst,, Mentions o/DV,, Bullying

Based off of the song "Scott Street" by Phoebe Bridgers

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The world didn’t change overnight, but to her, it felt like it did. One day, Steve Harrington was the boy who shared his pudding cup with her at lunch, who knocked on her window when it rained so they could count thunder together. The next, he was gone—still there, in the halls of Hawkins High, but in a way that made her feel lonelier than if he’d moved away entirely.

They used to sit in the grass after school, making stories out of clouds. He’d make her laugh so hard her stomach hurt, and she’d braid wildflowers into his hair. But high school swallowed him whole.

“King Steve,” they called him. She heard it whispered down the corridors, loud and smug. He grew into broad shoulders and better hair and laughter that wasn’t hers anymore. His eyes didn’t meet hers in the hallways, even when they passed close enough for their arms to brush. Sometimes she thought they did—flickers of recognition, of old softness—but they always left too quickly.

She stayed the same. Sensitive, quiet, strange. The girl who cried when she found a crushed ladybug in her locker. The one who still hummed to herself when she was nervous and counted ceiling tiles when the class got too loud. She wasn’t cool, not in the way Steve was. Not in the way Hawkins expected her to be.

She watched him laugh with people who’d never known how he once cried when her cat died. She saw him push someone into a locker once—Steve, her Steve. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed down the ache because she didn’t know him anymore. Maybe he never really knew her either.

He still wore that stupid jean jacket she patched up when they were thirteen.

He still walked like he owned the world, but sometimes his shoulders drooped when he thought no one was looking.

And when she saw him hugging a girl by the bleachers, their bodies pressed close in a way that felt nothing like how they used to hug—fast and warm and so full of trust—it hit her.

They hug now. Not her and Steve. Just Steve and other people. And all she could think about was how loud the thunder was without him.

It was after gym class, the air still thick with sweat and tired laughter, when it happened.

(Y/n) had taken the long way to the cafeteria, hands gripping her worn notebook like it was a shield. Her cardigan sleeves swallowed her fingers. Her hair was wind-tossed, lips chapped from biting them all morning. She had that faraway look again—the one that made people whisper.

Tommy H. was the first to say something. Of course he was.

“Hey, Harrington,” he snorted, elbowing Steve in the ribs. “There’s your girlfriend. Still writing love poems to dead birds or whatever?” Laughter, sharp and mean, echoed through the hall.

Carol chimed in, voice syrupy and cruel. “Remember when she cried during that biology video last year? Literal fetal pigs and she started sobbing like it was Bambi’s mom. Freak.”

Steve chuckled under his breath. Just a little. The kind of laugh that wasn’t real but felt like betrayal anyway.

He didn’t say anything. Not please don’t, not she’s harmless, not hey, shut up. Nothing.

He stood there with his stupid good hair and his silence, not looking at her, not really.

She heard it all. Every word. She always did. Her footsteps slowed, then kept going, stiff and measured like she could out-walk the burn in her chest. Her notebook trembled in her grip, knuckles white. She didn’t cry—not this time. Not in front of them.

But Steve saw her shoulders tense. Saw the way she pulled into herself like a house during a storm.

He looked down at his shoes, then up at his friends, all still laughing like it was nothing.

And he said nothing. Again. Because silence was easier than remembering how she once sewed his Halloween costume when his mom forgot.

Because silence didn’t make him weak, didn’t make him weird, didn’t make him hers.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

But when he went to sleep that night, all he could see was the back of her cardigan vanishing down the hallway—and he hated himself for not running after her.

The sky was dipped in amber, the kind of golden-hour haze that made even Hawkins look soft. (Y/n) walked home in silence, the air cool against her cheeks, her fingers curled into the sleeves of her sweater. Her headphones dangled uselessly around her neck—no music today. Just the sound of her boots on the pavement and the echo of laughter that still rang in her ears.

Their table. Their jokes. Him.

She rounded the corner to her street, the familiar ache settling in her chest like clockwork. Home wasn’t far—just a few more steps past the crooked mailbox and the rusted bike chained to the stop sign.

Then she saw him.

Steve.

He was sitting on the edge of his driveway, back hunched, elbows on his knees, fingers running through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with them. His car sat beside him, gleaming even in the fading light, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at nothing.

Or maybe everything.

She froze for a second, heart thudding louder than the traffic in the distance. He hadn’t seen her yet. His face was different now—unmasked, tired in a way she never saw at school. The fake confidence he wore like armor had slipped. He looked… like the boy who used to knock on her window with a flashlight and a smile.

She kept walking. Didn’t stop. Didn’t wave.

Her house was directly across from his, the porch light flickering as she stepped up onto it. She felt his eyes on her before she closed the door behind her.

But still—nothing. No words. No apology. No hey, remember me?

Just silence between two houses.

Just memories in the cracks of the pavement.

Just her, alone again, with the ghost of who he used to be sitting across the street.

She found him behind the school, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand like he was in a movie. Golden light cut across his face, casting shadows under his eyes. He looked older. Tired. But not sorry.

“Can I help you?” he asked when he noticed her. His voice was flat, guarded.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together.

“I heard you laughing,” she finally said. Her voice was quiet, but it trembled with something sharp. “When they made fun of me today.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. He looked away, exhaled smoke, said nothing.

“I wasn’t even doing anything. Just… existing. And you laughed.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he muttered.

“But you didn’t stop them either,” she snapped, louder now. “You just stood there. Like you always do.”

Steve’s gaze flicked back to her, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “What do you want from me, (Y/n)?”

“I want you to care.” Her voice cracked on the word. “Like you used to.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “That was a long time ago.” She blinked, like that somehow hurt more than anything else.

“So that’s it?” she asked. “You just… changed? He looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “Yeah. I did.”

She stepped forward, her voice shaking but fierce. “No. You didn’t change. You just learned how to pretend better. You turned into someone they would like. Someone who thinks silence is better than kindness.”

He flinched.

“You used to be the one who stood up for people like me,” she said, softer now, more broken. “You used to be my person.” Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

“You didn’t change,” she whispered. “You just stopped being you.”

And with that, she turned and walked away. He didn’t follow. He never did.

The hall was alive with chatter, lockers slamming shut, papers rustling, the occasional shriek of laughter echoing off the walls. Just another day in Hawkins High.

Steve was rummaging through his locker, distracted, hands moving fast as he looked for something—probably a textbook he hadn’t touched all year. And then it happened.

The photo slipped out. It had been tucked inside a forgotten notebook, yellowing at the corners, bent from too many years of being crammed into small spaces.

It fluttered to the floor like a memory falling too fast to catch.

Tommy H. got to it first. He bent down, picked it up, and let out a laugh—loud and obnoxious.

“Yo, Harrington,” he called, holding it up. “What is this?” Carol leaned over his shoulder, snorting. “No way. Is that you with Bug Girl?”

The photo was small, faded—taken sometime in middle school. Steve and (Y/n), maybe twelve years old, sitting cross-legged in a yard that used to feel like the whole world. Her face was lit up with a smile, eyes crinkled with laughter. Steve had his arm around her, his head tilted toward hers like gravity pulled them together.

There was a ladybug crawling on her hand.

“I didn’t know you were such a freak back then, Harrington,” Tommy said, waving the photo around like a trophy. “What, was this your girlfriend or your pet project?”

Someone else laughed. “She looks like she named that bug Steve Jr.” Steve snatched the photo back.

“Shut up,” he said, but it was too soft. Not angry enough. Not anything enough.

The thing about healing is that it doesn’t happen all at once.

(Y/n) didn’t wake up one day and stop flinching when people laughed too loud near her. She didn’t suddenly feel brave walking through the halls of Hawkins High. But eventually—slowly, quietly—she stopped looking for Steve in every corner.

She started smiling again. Just little ones. At first it was at books. Then the sun. Then at him.

His name was Jamie Rivers. He was a senior like her—quiet, a little awkward, the kind of guy who said “excuse me” even when someone else bumped into him. He sat behind her in English and once lent her his pen when hers ran out during a quiz. It wasn’t much. But it felt different.

He didn’t tease her. Didn’t ask why she talked to trees sometimes during lunch, or why she got misty-eyed reading poetry. He just liked her. Genuinely. For who she was, not who she was trying to be.

And she liked him back.

Their first date was to a little diner just outside of town. He picked her up in a beat-up car that smelled like pine and nervous energy. She wore her favorite sweater. He complimented it without laughing. She let him hold her hand halfway through their milkshakes.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t like Steve.

But that was the point.

They started dating. Holding hands in the hallway. Sharing books. Laughing—real, bright, unguarded laughter.

And Steve noticed.

It started with the smallest things.

Steve didn’t even realize how much he noticed her until she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

At first, it was a glance in the hallway—her laugh echoing off the lockers, soft and unrecognizable because it wasn’t being filtered through sadness. He turned his head on instinct, expecting to find her walking alone like always, arms wrapped around herself like a shield.

But she wasn’t alone.

Jamie was there. Walking next to her, leaning just a little too close, his hands stuffed in his pockets like he was trying not to reach for her—but failing. Steve watched her bump his shoulder playfully, watched Jamie grin like he’d just won something.

And maybe he had.

That was the first time Steve felt it—the tightness in his throat. The weird mix of jealousy and guilt that tasted like copper.

Then there was the library. She used to sit alone, her hair a curtain around her notebook, scribbling stories no one else ever saw. But now she sat with Jamie, their heads close together, smiling over a shared paperback. Steve stood at the end of the aisle for too long, pretending to look for something, pretending his stomach didn’t drop when Jamie touched her hand and she didn’t pull away.

And then there was the cafeteria.

It was loud, like always. Everyone was talking over each other, jokes flying, food being swapped and stolen. But Steve wasn’t listening.

He was watching her.

She sat two tables over, knees tucked up under her on the bench, her tray barely touched. Jamie said something, and she laughed, head thrown back, eyes bright.

Not the cautious kind of laugh she used to give him—the quiet kind, like she was always waiting for it to be taken away.

This one was full. Free.

He hated how beautiful it looked on her.

He hated how he didn’t know the joke.

And he hated—really hated—how Jamie leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple, and she just smiled, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve looked away, jaw tight, fingers clenched around his soda can until it crumpled.

“Dude,” Tommy said next to him, oblivious. “What’s your deal?” Steve didn’t answer.

Because how do you explain that you let someone slip away so slowly, you didn’t even notice until she was already someone else’s reason to smile?

He used to be the sun she revolved around. Now she didn’t even glance at his orbit.

Months had passed since Steve first saw her with Jamie, but it still felt fresh. Like every time he saw them together, it was the first time, and it punched him in the gut all over again.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

No, the worst part was how he kept seeing them. Over and over, their hands intertwined, their heads close together, sharing whispers and laughs that he used to be the one to hear. Every time he thought he might be getting used to it, they appeared in the hallway, laughing over something he wasn’t a part of.

She was still the girl he remembered—the girl who loved the quiet hum of rain against windows, who would talk for hours about the stars and the way they were just like people, always disappearing only to return again. But now, she spoke about those things with Jamie. Not him.

And God, how it hurt.

Steve had changed. He had become the guy who ignored his friends’ snickers when they noticed him staring at her. He was “King Steve,” the jock with all the answers—but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He wasn’t fooling himself. He missed her more than he could admit.

The phone rang, its sharp sound cutting through the late-night quiet of Steve’s room. His heart stuttered as he glanced at the clock—past midnight. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be calling at this hour.

When he saw the name flash on the screen, he felt a sudden tightening in his chest. It was (Y/n).

He picked up the receiver quickly, his voice hoarse. “Hello?”

There was a long pause on the other end, just enough to make his nerves spike. Then, he heard her voice—familiar, but something was different. It was faint and off, like she was holding her breath.

“Steve…?” (Y/n)’s voice trembled, and he could feel the unease in every word.

“(Y/n), hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” he asked, sitting up straighter, his heart racing. Something was wrong. He could tell from the tone.

“I… I need you to pick me up,” she said quickly, her words stumbling over each other. “I’m at a party… down by Oak Street. I… I just—I need to leave. It’s bad here, Steve.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll come get you. Where exactly are you?” His voice was urgent, the concern now clear in every syllable.

But then, she hesitated again. A long, shaky breath followed. “It’s nothing, Steve. I… I just fell. I tripped, I guess. It’s really nothing. I’m fine. I… I just want to go home. Please.”

The words hit Steve like a cold punch to the stomach. He could hear the unsteady breath in her voice, the way she was trying to cover it up. Nothing?

It didn’t sound like nothing.

“(Y/n), are you sure?” Steve pressed, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not fine. You don’t sound fine. What happened?”

There was another pause on the line. And in that silence, Steve could practically hear the panic in her trying to cover it up, to hide something she was too scared to say out loud.

“Steve, please…” She sounded almost pleading now, voice cracking at the edges. “I just want to go home. It’s not a big deal. I just… tripped. Please. Just come pick me up. I’ll be fine.”

But Steve wasn’t buying it. Not for a second. There was something wrong—something more than just a “trip.”

He ran his hand through his hair, heart hammering. “(Y/n), I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up.”

“Okay, yeah. I will. I’ll wait.” Her voice was small, far too small. The desperation beneath it was hard to ignore.

“I’m coming. Don’t hang up. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Steve said, his voice sharp now, even as his thoughts swirled in confusion and worry. He wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, but he knew one thing: something wasn’t right.

Before she could say anything else, he hung up. His hands were already shaking as he grabbed his jacket and rushed for the door. Every instinct he had was screaming at him that there was more to the story. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Jamie—her boyfriend, the guy who always seemed to act like he owned her—had something to do with this.

He threw himself into the car, foot heavy on the gas as he sped down the dark streets. The thought of her alone, hiding something, left him cold.

The night air was cool, the faint sound of distant music still lingering as Steve pulled up to the dimly lit house by Oak Street. The party was in full swing, people spilling out onto the lawn, laughing, shouting. He felt his hands tighten around the steering wheel, anxiety twisting in his gut as he cut the engine. He knew something wasn’t right. His mind raced, replaying the conversation over and over. I just tripped.

He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t.

As he stepped out of the car, his eyes scanned the crowd, heart thudding painfully in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the moment he saw her, he knew.

She was rushing toward him, practically stumbling across the gravel driveway, her breath shallow. She looked disoriented, like she had just sprinted from something. Her hair was messy, and there were visible signs of tears on her cheeks. But it was the blood that caught his attention first.

Her nose was bleeding, a dark stain dripping down her chin. Her hands were shaking as she wiped at her face, smearing the blood along her sleeve.

“(Y/n),” Steve said softly, his voice breaking through the shock in his chest as he reached out to steady her. She was too pale, her skin too flushed, and the blood on her face made his stomach turn. “What the hell happened?”

Her eyes darted away from his, unable to meet his gaze. She hesitated for a moment, like she was trying to figure out what to say, what excuse to give.

“I… I tripped,” she said, her voice small, too small. Her hand went up to her nose, trying to stop the flow of blood, but it was clear she was trembling, struggling to hold herself together. “It’s nothing, really. I just… I wasn’t paying attention.”

Steve said nothing. His gaze stayed on her, a quiet pain creeping through his chest as he silently took in her disheveled appearance. The way she couldn’t look him in the eye. The way she was covering up what was clearly more than just a simple fall.

“Let me get you in the car,” he finally said, his voice soft but firm, and he gently took her arm, guiding her toward the passenger seat. She didn’t argue.

The drive back was filled with the hum of the engine and the sound of her unsteady breathing. Neither of them said a word. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy—like an invisible weight pressing down on them. Steve could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t look over, couldn’t look over. He didn’t want to see the lie in her eyes, not when he already knew the truth.

The truth was all around them.

She wasn’t telling him everything, and maybe, in some way, she never would. But Steve didn’t need her to say it. He could see it. The way her shoulders were slumped, the way she was holding herself together with a fragile, shaky resolve.

When they pulled up to her house, Steve didn’t move immediately. He just kept staring at the road, the sound of the engine slowly dying down.

“I’ll… I’ll walk you inside,” he said quietly, though his voice wavered, barely audible.

She didn’t respond at first, just sat there, staring ahead at the front door. After a long moment, she nodded, her movements stiff as she slowly unbuckled her seatbelt. Steve got out of the car and walked around to her side, but she was already halfway up the driveway, not looking back.

He watched her for a second, unsure of what to say, unsure of what he could possibly do. The tension between them hung thick in the air. She was trying so hard to pretend it was just a stupid accident.

And he was trying not to say the words that had already settled in his chest. Instead, he just followed her, walking silently behind her as she opened the door and disappeared inside.

When the door clicked shut behind her, Steve finally stood there alone in the dark, feeling the weight of everything that had gone unsaid. The truth was clear now, but some things, some feelings, couldn’t be fixed with words.

And he couldn’t fix her. Not now. So he turned and walked back to his car, the cold night air biting at his skin, but it did nothing to numb the ache inside him.

He didn’t look back.

The next day was a blur of half-hearted smiles and forced conversations. (Y/n) didn’t show up to school until just before lunch, and when she did, she was walking as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Her steps were slow, careful, like she was avoiding drawing attention to herself. She looked pale—too pale. Her eyes were red, like she hadn’t slept at all, and when she passed the group of students standing by the lockers, she didn’t even try to pretend she was okay. She didn’t even look at anyone.

Steve watched her from the other side of the hallway, leaning against the lockers, pretending to talk to a few of his friends, but his focus was entirely on her. She was barely interacting with anyone. She walked through the crowded halls, her gaze lowered, her face closed off.

Every so often, someone would call out to her—somebody from class, a random acquaintance—but she just kept walking. No response. Not even a glance in their direction.

Steve noticed the small things. Like the way she never once looked at him when she passed, even though she was so close. The way she kept her distance, her shoulders hunched in on themselves, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. She was a ghost of the girl he once knew—quiet, withdrawn, isolated. It was like she was trying to disappear.

It hurt to see her like this. It hurt more than he expected.

He had told himself he’d keep his distance, that he wasn’t going to force his way into her life after everything that happened. But watching her this way, Steve couldn’t help but feel the pull to reach out, to do something. Anything.

But he stayed silent. He had to. She hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t even asked for help.

It had been a long day—one where Steve had spent more time than he liked staring across the school hallways, watching (Y/n) pull further and further into herself. He couldn’t get the image of her blood-streaked face out of his mind, nor the way she tried to hide the truth, how she downplayed it like it was no big deal.

But Steve knew better. He knew exactly what happened. And he wasn’t going to sit back anymore.

The rage that had been bubbling beneath the surface all day finally boiled over as he stepped out of the school building after the final bell rang. His heart was pounding, his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t care what anyone thought or said anymore. He was done standing by.

He knew where Jamie hung out after school.

Steve made his way to the local parking lot, where the older teens often met, some with their cars, others with their friends. His eyes scanned the area, and then he spotted him—Jamie, leaning against his car, laughing with a group of guys. He hadn’t seen Steve yet, and Steve took a deep breath as he crossed the parking lot.

His footsteps were heavy, deliberate.

“Jamie,” Steve’s voice rang out, cutting through the conversation like a knife.

The sound of his name caught Jamie’s attention. He turned, a smirk already forming on his lips, expecting the usual teasing or some snide comment, but he didn’t expect the look on Steve’s face.

Steve’s face was hard, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with fury. He was livid, but it was a quiet kind of anger—one that felt darker than anything Jamie had seen before.

“What the hell do you want, Harrington?” Jamie sneered, but his voice wavered just slightly.

Steve didn’t say a word. Instead, he closed the distance between them in two long strides, his fist connecting with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack.

The force of it knocked Jamie back against his car, and he stumbled, holding his face in shock. His friends stood still, unsure of what to do, eyes wide with surprise. Steve didn’t wait for Jamie to regain his footing. He lunged again, another punch landing right to Jamie’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

“Don’t you ever touch her again,” Steve growled, his voice barely controlled. “You think you can hurt her, treat her like that, and get away with it? You’re wrong.”

Jamie was gasping for air now, his hands scrambling to push Steve off him, but Steve was relentless. He grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up to his level.

“You hit her. You made her feel like this. And you don’t get to act like you’re the victim,” Steve hissed, his chest heaving with each breath.

Jamie’s eyes were wide now, fear creeping into his expression. He’d never seen Steve like this—not the “King Steve” everyone feared, but the version of him who was genuinely enraged, the version who cared about someone more than his reputation.

“You don’t get to make her cry,” Steve said, his voice lower now, full of quiet fury. “You don’t get to make her feel worthless, to make her feel like she’s alone. You’re nothing but a coward, Jamie.”

Jamie opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Steve shoved him hard, sending him sprawling to the ground. He landed with a heavy thud, gasping and clutching at his stomach.

Steve stood over him for a moment, breathing heavily, eyes locked on Jamie’s, waiting for any sign of remorse. But Jamie’s face remained bruised and angry, his pride damaged more than anything.

“Stay away from her, or next time, I won’t stop,” Steve warned, his voice cold as ice. “You’re lucky I’m not doing more damage right now. But I swear to God, if you ever hurt her again, you won’t have a second chance.”

He turned on his heel, walking away from the scene without another word. The group of guys who had been watching stepped back, not daring to say a thing.

As Steve walked to his car, his hands still shaking with adrenaline, the anger slowly began to fade, replaced with the bitter ache of knowing he couldn’t fix everything.

The sun had barely set when Steve pulled into his driveway, the events of the afternoon still lingering in his mind. His knuckles were sore from the confrontation with Jamie, but the adrenaline had worn off, leaving him with a quiet kind of emptiness. He hadn’t expected to feel better after hitting Jamie. He hadn’t even really thought it through. It was just the anger—just the need to protect her.

He parked his car and got out, making his way toward his front door, when something caught his eye. There, on the porch, was a folded piece of paper.

It was small, the handwriting unmistakably familiar. His heart gave a painful little lurch in his chest.

It’s from her.

Without thinking, Steve walked up to the porch, kneeling down to pick up the note. He unfolded it carefully, as if handling something fragile. The words were simple, barely more than a few letters.

“Thank you.”

He stood there for a long moment, holding the note in his hands, feeling the weight of the words sink into his chest.

Thank you.

It was all she could say. It was everything she needed to say, but it didn’t fill the space he felt between them. There was still so much left unsaid, so much that he didn’t know.

But it was enough.

His fingers brushed over the paper, as if trying to absorb the depth of her gratitude, even when she didn’t say it out loud. Even though she hadn’t directly come to him, this—this small, simple note—felt like more than words. It was her way of saying that she saw him, that she understood.

It was a quiet evening when (Y/n) arrived home, her mind still buzzing from the chaos of the day. She had been trying to push away the memory of the party, the bruises she’d hidden beneath layers of makeup, the quiet conversations with friends that no longer seemed to hold the same meaning. She could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her, but she tried not to dwell on it.

As she walked up the path to her porch, something caught her eye. It was a small piece of paper, slightly crumpled, tucked under the edge of the doormat. It was out of place—she hadn’t dropped anything, and no one else ever came by this late. Curiosity piqued, she bent down to pick it up, feeling a flutter in her chest when she saw the familiar handwriting.

Steve.

Her pulse quickened, and she unfolded the note, careful not to tear it. The words were simple, short, but they carried more weight than she expected:

“If you ever need anything, I’m here. Anytime. – Steve”

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she just stood there, staring at the note in her hands. It wasn’t much, just a few words scribbled on paper, but it felt like a quiet admission of everything they never said. He hadn’t come to her with grand gestures or promises, just a reminder that, no matter what, he was there. No conditions. No expectations. Just… anytime.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. She was fine, or at least, she’d been telling herself that for weeks. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. But the note… it made something shift inside of her. Something she didn’t even know was still there.

She stood on her porch for a long moment, clutching the note to her chest, unsure of what to do with it. A part of her wanted to call him, to thank him for even thinking of her. But another part of her—one that had been hurt by the past, by everything left unsaid between them—wondered if it was better to leave things in the past.

In the end, she tucked the note into her pocket and stepped inside, her heart a little heavier, a little more open. She wasn’t ready to face Steve, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, the note was a sign. A sign that, even after all this time, there was still something left worth holding on to.

For now, she’d hold on to the words he’d given her, quiet and simple as they were. And maybe, when the time came, she’d take him up on it. Anytime.

The days after the note passed like molasses—slow, heavy, and strangely silent. (Y/n) didn’t respond, didn’t call, didn’t mention it. But she kept it. Folded carefully in the back of her notebook, slipped between pages of notes and half-sketched doodles, like a secret she wasn’t ready to give up.

At school, things continued on like normal—or at least, they tried to. The crowded hallways were filled with slamming lockers, shrieking laughter, the sharp perfume of hairspray and cologne lingering in the air. People still whispered, still looked at her too long when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. Jamie was nowhere to be seen. His absence made everything feel both better and worse.

And Steve…

He didn’t say anything, didn’t approach her, didn’t push. But sometimes—just sometimes—he looked.

She caught him once between classes, leaning against his locker in that effortlessly careless way he always had. His eyes met hers across the sea of students, and it was like time slowed just enough for her to see it—that flicker of something in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Worry. Or just the memory of something they both tried not to think about.

She looked away first.

But the next day, she was the one who looked.

And it kept happening. In the cafeteria, during passing periods, when he thought she wouldn’t notice—Steve would glance up, and there she’d be. Eyes soft but guarded, like she wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. Like maybe she was remembering the kids they used to be—their laughter in the summer heat, muddy shoes on front porches, bug jars and whispered secrets after dark.

There was nothing romantic about it. Not yet. Just something old and half-forgotten blooming quietly beneath all the noise of teenage cruelty and regret.

They didn’t smile. They didn’t nod. They just looked. And somehow, that was enough.

The bell had rung hours ago. The halls of Hawkins High were long emptied, lockers echoing in the silence like distant ghosts. (Y/n) had stayed behind to finish an overdue project—something about the way her house felt too loud when she was alone lately. She packed her things slowly, the sky already beginning to dip into dusk outside the classroom window, tinged pink and a little lonely.

She didn’t expect to see Steve when she pushed open the side door near the gym.

But there he was—shoulder pressed against the brick wall, hair a little messier than usual, one strap of his backpack slipping down. He looked up at the sound of the door and blinked, clearly just as surprised to see her.

Neither of them said anything. Not at first.

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, gave him a slight nod, and began the walk home. She didn’t expect him to follow. But after a few seconds, she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

He caught up without a word.

The streets were quiet, scattered leaves brushing across the sidewalk in the cool wind. They walked side by side, not close enough to brush arms, but not as far as they might’ve months ago. The silence wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either—it held weight. Like something long unsaid was walking with them.

(Y/n) glanced at him once. He was staring ahead, jaw tight, like he was thinking too hard. She looked away before he noticed.

Halfway down Maple Street, she broke it. “I used to know every thought in your head,” she said softly.

Steve’s step faltered, just for a second. He didn’t look at her, but his voice came low and hoarse. “Yeah. I know.”

She didn’t know what made her say it. Maybe it was the weight of everything unsaid. Maybe it was the quiet hum of twilight that always made things feel more honest. Either way, once it left her mouth, it hung between them like a thread.

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Just the sound of their shoes on pavement, the wind tugging at her sleeves, the smell of cold earth and faraway woodsmoke.

When they reached their street—his house on one side, hers on the other—they both paused at the fork in the sidewalk.

Steve finally looked at her. “I—” he started, then stopped. Shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t think you’d still… y’know. Talk to me.”

She shrugged, but there was something fragile in her smile. “You didn’t.”

And then she crossed the street, her porch light flickering on as she stepped up the stairs. She didn’t look back. But he stood there a while longer, watching the spot where she disappeared behind the front door.

And it wasn’t quite forgiveness. But it wasn’t nothing.

The classroom buzzed with the low drone of tired teenagers and a teacher who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. (Y/n) sat near the back, pen tapping quietly against her notebook, her thoughts miles away. Steve was two rows over—diagonally across—slouched in his seat like his spine had given up entirely.

It wasn’t supposed to be a memorable day. Just another long afternoon.

But then, some kid in the front—loud, attention-seeking—joked about a science experiment from last year. Something dumb involving baking soda and vinegar, and the poor janitor who slipped in the aftermath.

“Explosion of the century,” he said dramatically, “RIP to Mr. Jenkins’ shoes.”

Steve snorted before he could stop himself.

At the same time, (Y/n) groaned and muttered, “We told them not to put the cap back on the bottle.” Their voices overlapped. The words came out too quickly, too easily.

Silence fell.

A few students turned to look. The teacher paused. But Steve’s eyes had already flicked across the room to meet hers.

(Y/n)’s hand froze mid-tap. Her gaze locked with his. His lips were curled in the ghost of a smirk, like he couldn’t believe it either. The same joke. The same memory.

A shared disaster from a lifetime ago—seventh grade science club. The two of them had laughed so hard they nearly got detention. She remembered Steve doubling over, tears in his eyes, saying “Jenkins is gonna sue us.”

She remembered everything. Now it was just quiet again. A little awkward. A little warm. Steve blinked like he was about to say something, but then looked away, hiding behind his hand, suddenly very focused on the peeling edge of his desk.

(Y/n) turned back to her notebook. Her pen didn’t tap anymore. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop thinking about it, either.

Sixth period ended in the same slow drag it always did, chairs scraping against the floor, the clatter of notebooks and tired footsteps. Steve was one of the last to leave—he’d zoned out again halfway through, staring out the window like something out there might matter more than whatever the hell they were learning.

When he finally stood and grabbed his bag, he noticed something folded and wedged between the pages of his open notebook.

Small. Torn paper. No name.

He glanced around. Empty classroom. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the faint scent of old pencils. He unfolded it slowly, calloused fingers handling it more gently than he meant to.

There were only three words. “Still funny, Harrington.”

And next to them, a quick little doodle—a bottle mid-explosion, with a stick figure diving out of the way dramatically. A joke. A memory.

His mouth twitched.

He didn’t need a signature. He knew. The handwriting was too familiar. The humor too pointed. It was her.

Steve stood there for a second longer, staring at the paper like it had caught him off guard. Because it had.

Then, without thinking, he folded it back up and slipped it into the back pocket of his notebook. No hesitation. No smirk. Just… quiet.

He didn’t tell anyone about it. Didn’t throw it out. Didn’t forget.

It became a quiet thing. Subtle. Almost shy.

After her first note—“Still funny, Harrington”—Steve didn’t respond with words. But a few days later, she opened her locker and found a torn scrap of notebook paper taped to the inside.

A doodle. Stick figures. One labeled “YOU” running from a bottle with fizz drawn dramatically in shaky lines. She smiled all the way to English class. That’s how it started.

They didn’t talk about it. Never looked at each other when it happened. But the notes kept coming, passed in silence—hidden under desks, slipped into books, dropped into lockers like little ghosts of who they used to be.

Nothing deep. Nothing too brave.

Just; “Cafeteria pizza still a crime.” “Saw a squirrel today. It reminded me of the one that attacked us in 5th grade. You still owe me a band-aid.” “Science lab smelled like trauma today.”

Sometimes a scribble. Sometimes a single word. Once, a napkin with “emergency use only” written on it, wrapped around a grape Jolly Rancher. She didn’t eat it. She kept it in her bag like it meant something. It wasn’t like they were friends again. Not exactly.

But the notes? They felt like a secret handshake no one else remembered.

It was easier this way. Safer than eye contact. Safer than talking. Safer than the truth. Because it wasn’t about confessions. It was about remembering what it felt like when the world hadn’t gotten in the way.

Steve was driving home from work, the sun beginning to set as he cruised through the familiar streets of Hawkins. The car radio was on low, the hum of static occasionally cutting through the air. He didn’t mind the silence, especially after a long day of dealing with kids at Scoops Ahoy. It was almost peaceful.

Then, a song came on.

The familiar opening chords immediately caught his attention. He almost didn’t recognize it at first, but when the lyrics started, his chest tightened. It was their song. The one they’d blast on the way to school, windows down, singing loudly and terribly. It was one of those tracks that felt like it belonged to a different time, a different version of them. The carefree, innocent version that felt like it would never end.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his breath catching in his throat as the song played out. The memory of her laugh, of the way she used to joke around with him about the lyrics, flooded back all at once. The way they’d get caught in the song, laughing even when they didn’t know all the words. It was simple. It was easy. It was before everything changed.

The song carried on, and Steve’s heart squeezed painfully. He tried to keep his focus on the road, but the weight of it all—the distance, the time that had passed, the things that had gone unsaid—was too much to ignore. He wanted to roll the windows down, turn the volume up, and pretend like they were back there again, just the two of them, driving down this same road, carefree and without a care in the world.

But he couldn’t. He was alone now. She was gone, and all that was left were the memories. He could almost hear her voice in his head, teasing him, singing off-key, and making everything feel lighter, like it was all okay.

As the song reached its end, Steve found himself pulling over to the side of the road, his eyes suddenly wet. He didn’t even notice when the tears started to fall. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, not even sure why it was hitting him this hard. But it was.

He sat there in the stillness of the car, the sound of the song still echoing in his mind long after it had ended on the radio.

He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing now. Was she listening to it too? Did it remind her of him the same way it reminded him of her? Or was she, like him, just trying to move on?

He didn’t know. And that uncertainty was almost harder than the sadness.

The gym was packed, the air thick with excitement, and the scent of cheap cologne and hairspray hung heavily in the atmosphere. The annual Hawkins High School dance was in full swing, the DJ’s blaring music mixing with the chaotic chatter of students, all pressing against each other on the dance floor. Lights flashed, casting streaks of color across the room, as people danced, laughed, and tried to ignore the awkwardness of high school socializing.

Steve had arrived with a group of his friends, and (Y/n) had come with a few of hers. It wasn’t a big deal—just another school event they’d both end up attending. But the noise, the flashing lights, and the way the crowd seemed to pulse with youthful energy made Steve feel distant. He was stuck between the person he used to be and the one he was trying to be now. And (Y/n)? Well, she had always been a reminder of who he used to be, too.

As the night went on, they found themselves drifting closer to each other. Neither of them had planned it. It wasn’t as if they’d meant to meet up, but somehow, in the middle of the chaos, they ended up standing side by side, just a few feet apart. The music blared louder, people crowded past them, but in that moment, the world felt quieter.

For a few seconds, it was like they were the only two people in the room.

Neither of them said anything.

The laughter, the chatter, the pounding bass of the music—they were all far away now. In the space between them, there was a stillness. Neither of them looked directly at the other, but they both knew the other was there. The distance felt like something older than time itself, something deeper than the walls they’d built between them.

The air felt heavy, thick with years of history—shared memories, unspoken words, and too many small things left unsaid. Neither of them moved, both of them unsure of what came next. They didn’t need words. The quiet exchange of notes had been enough for a while. It was their secret, their little world hidden in scribbled messages and silent understanding.

But now, in the middle of the dance, it felt like everything had shifted again.

It had been months—no, years—since they’d shared a space like this. No shouting. No awkward small talk. Just… silence. And in the silence, there was a pull. Something both familiar and foreign.

From the corner of his eye, Steve caught the glimpse of something in (Y/n)’s hand—just the slightest flicker of paper between her fingers, something she was about to tuck away.

Steve found himself walking toward her, almost on instinct, his hand already reaching into his pocket. It was just a small thing—an impulsive gesture—but something about tonight made him feel like he had to do it. He pulled out a sticky note, simple and plain, but enough to say what needed to be said.

When he reached her, he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just handed it to her, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as he did. She looked down at the note, her eyes scanning it quickly.

“You still have the best smile in Hawkins.”

It was a silly thing to say, but it was their thing. Steve had always teased her about it when they were younger, and somehow, it still felt like a part of them. Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile as she read it, and for a second, the whole world seemed to quiet down.

Without a word, (Y/n) reached into her own pocket and pulled out a sticky note of her own. She handed it to him, and Steve took it with the same quiet ease. He unfolded it, reading the words written in her familiar handwriting.

“And you still think you’re funny.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, a soft, genuine chuckle that felt like a weight lifting off his chest. She was right, of course. He wasn’t exactly known for his impeccable humor. But it had always been their thing—her teasing him for his attempts at jokes, him pretending to be offended.

He glanced back at her, his smile soft and real, the same as the one from years ago. No words needed to follow. Their exchange, brief as it was, felt like everything they had lost—and everything they had regained—without either of them needing to say a single thing.

For a moment, the chaos of the dance faded into the background. The notes had always been their language, the quiet bridge between them. It didn’t matter that everything around them had changed; this felt familiar, like coming home to something simple, something that hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

Steve slipped the note into his pocket, the weight of it comforting, almost grounding him in the moment. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. And for once, neither of them felt the need to.

It was the first time in years that Steve had forgotten her birthday. He hated himself for it, but somewhere between the chaos of work, school, and everything else, the date slipped past him unnoticed. When he realized, it was too late to make it right—not that he thought he could, anyway.

But (Y/n) never said a word.

No mention of it. No subtle reminder. Nothing. She simply carried on as she always did—laughing with friends, studying quietly in the library, staying mostly to herself. The way she always did when things hurt but she didn’t want anyone to know.

He saw her, of course. It was impossible not to. But when she passed him in the hallways, there was something colder about her smile. Something… distant. She didn’t seem angry, not at him at least, but the silence between them grew heavier. Steve didn’t ask, didn’t try to explain. He just let the days go by.

Then, a week later, as the last bits of dusk fell over Hawkins, Steve found himself standing on (Y/n)’s front porch. He didn’t really know what had compelled him to do it, but he stood there, feeling the cool air nipping at his skin as he stared at the wrapped cassette in his hands.

It was an old one. He’d dug through the shelves of Melvald’s and found an old cassette tape, a relic from their childhood. He’d spent hours making a playlist. Songs they used to dance to, songs they used to sing in the car, songs that held memories of simpler times when nothing felt as complicated as it did now.

And then, he added one more. A new song. One he couldn’t explain to her in person, one that said everything he couldn’t find the words for.

With one final glance at the door, Steve left the cassette on the porch, tapping it softly against the wooden surface, just where she would find it when she came outside. He didn’t ring the doorbell or knock. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

Then, he turned and walked away, his heart heavy, unsure of what to expect.

The next morning, (Y/n) stepped out onto the porch, the early sunlight casting long shadows on the ground. She had been up early, as usual. But today, there was something different. Something that had caught her attention—something small, tucked against the door.

She crouched down, her fingers brushing the edges of the wrapped cassette, a small note attached to the front.

She knew what it was before she even opened it. A gift from Steve. She hadn’t expected anything from him, but somehow, in a way, she had.

Unwrapping the cassette, she saw the familiar handwriting on the front of the tape:

“For the good old days. And the ones that might come.”

Her fingers traced over the note, and for a moment, she was back there, back to when everything felt easier. The days before the silence, before the walls between them grew so high.

She popped the cassette into her player, and as the first song began to play—one of their old favorites—a flood of memories came rushing back. Laughter. Songs they used to sing together. Quiet walks in the park.

And then the next song came on.

It was new. A song she didn’t recognize, but the lyrics hit her all the same. Every word felt like it was written just for them. The melody was soft, almost haunting, but the words were simple. And raw. Her breath caught in her throat.

She leaned back against the porch, the weight of the words settling into her chest. It was like Steve had finally found the words that had been missing all this time—the words he couldn’t say out loud. He couldn’t explain why he’d forgotten her birthday, or why things had become so complicated. But with the tape, with this song, he had somehow said it all.

She closed her eyes, letting the music fill the quiet morning.

For a moment, everything felt like it was right where it needed to be.

The night of graduation arrived, and the gymnasium was filled with the hum of laughter, music, and chatter. Balloons floated above, banners swayed from the ceiling, and everyone was celebrating the end of high school. But amidst all the noise and excitement, Steve and (Y/n) found themselves on opposite sides of the room, as if the weight of the past few years had made an invisible distance between them.

They didn’t speak much during the ceremony. There were glances exchanged, a fleeting smile here and there, but nothing that felt like it used to. It wasn’t that things were bad between them; it was just that things had changed. They had changed.

The night stretched on, the music pulsing around them as students danced, laughed, and posed for pictures. Steve leaned against the gymnasium wall, nursing a cup of punch, and watched the crowd. He wasn’t really participating, but then again, neither was (Y/n). She was standing near the edge of the dance floor, tucked away with her friends, but not quite a part of the festivities.

He caught her gaze across the room, her eyes meeting his, and for a brief second, everything else faded away. It was just the two of them again.

Without thinking, Steve pushed off the wall and started walking toward her. She didn’t move, but the corners of her mouth curled slightly when she saw him approaching.

The music blared, but in that moment, the world felt quieter, as if they were in their own little bubble. As he reached her, she raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing at her lips.

“Hey,” she said softly, but it wasn’t the usual greeting. There was something more to it, something heavier beneath the surface.

“Hey,” Steve responded, his voice a little quieter than usual. They stood there for a beat, just taking in the moment. It was strange. He wanted to say so much, but the words didn’t come.

And then, just as the silence was beginning to stretch awkwardly, (Y/n)’s eyes flicked toward the table across the room, where the photo booth was set up.

“You know,” she started, her voice carrying the slightest hint of nostalgia, “I can’t believe we’re really done with this place.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his hands in his pockets. “Feels like we were just freshmen.”

They both shared a small, knowing look. It wasn’t just the years that had passed—they both knew how much had changed between them over that time.

There was a slight pause before (Y/n) added, her tone soft but unmistakable, “You remember that day we skipped class to go to Melvald’s? You were convinced you could beat me at that weird game with the spinning discs.”

Steve’s lips curled into a smile, the memory hitting him like a wave. “I almost beat you,” he said with a mock defensiveness. “You just got lucky with that last turn.”

Her laugh was quiet but genuine, the sound so familiar it almost felt like a balm to the tension that had built up between them over the years. For a second, they were twelve again, sitting at Melvald’s after skipping school, arguing over a stupid arcade game. There had been no walls between them back then, no unspoken feelings, no time lost.

And then, almost like it always did, the silence crept in again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, soft. As if the shared moment was enough.

Finally, after a few seconds, (Y/n) reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper—something she’d clearly scribbled on quickly earlier in the night. Without saying anything, she passed it to him.

Steve unfolded the paper and found a tiny doodle of two stick figures. One had a ridiculous amount of hair, clearly representing him, and the other had glasses and a goofy smile. Beneath it, in her messy handwriting, it simply said:

“Still better at the game than you.”

It was an inside joke. One that only the two of them could get. The same thing they used to laugh about years ago, when they were kids.

He chuckled softly, his heart a little lighter than it had been all night. Without thinking, he took out a pen from his pocket and scribbled a reply on the back of the paper.

“You wish. Still can’t beat me.”

When he handed the paper back to her, their fingers brushed, and for the briefest moment, everything felt right again.

She looked down at it, a smile tugging at her lips “I’ll take that as a challenge,” she said quietly, her voice warm.

Steve’s smile lingered, and for the first time that night, he felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

As they stood there, side by side, the noise of the party fading around them, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The exchange, the small shared secret between them, said it all.

For a moment, it was just like it used to be. And maybe that was enough.

It had been a week since the last time

It had been a week since the last time Steve had seen her. The small, fleeting conversation they’d shared outside her house had left him with a strange, gnawing feeling, but he told himself it was nothing. He told himself that things would get easier, that everything was just a phase. After all, they had been friends forever, right?

But today, everything felt different. The air in Hawkins was thick with the hum of summer heat, but Steve couldn’t shake the weight that was hanging in his chest. He hadn’t seen her around. Not since the conversation outside her house. He knew she was still in town—she had to be, right? Her car was still parked in the driveway. So why hadn’t she been at school? Why hadn’t she been out for her usual walks, or in the small café down the street where they used to run into each other every other afternoon?

As he made his way down the street toward his own house, he noticed something strange. The windows to her house were dark—dark in a way they shouldn’t have been. He couldn’t see any movement inside. He glanced at the mailbox and saw it was overflowing, something that had never happened before. She was always so organized. Always so… there.

Confused, Steve made his way up the driveway, not even thinking twice as he stepped onto her porch. He knocked, but the sound felt hollow, empty.

No answer.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob, before slowly letting it fall back to his side. A sense of dread washed over him, something he couldn’t explain. There was a faint rustling noise coming from around the side of the house, and he walked toward it, heart thudding louder with every step.

As he turned the corner, his eyes landed on a scene that made his stomach drop.

There she was—(Y/n)—moving boxes from her house into a car, her back to him. She looked smaller than usual, her movements slow, almost deliberate. She was trying to lift a heavy box and, with a frustrated sigh, she set it down again on the ground. It looked like she was trying to do everything herself.

Steve stood there for a moment, paralyzed by the sight. He should’ve called out to her, should’ve offered to help, but the words wouldn’t come. His feet were rooted to the ground as he watched her carry another box into the car.

And then it hit him.

Her car was packed—completely packed.

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be leaving. Not like this. Not without a word. Not without—

His thoughts were interrupted as (Y/n) straightened up and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and the realization hit both of them at once. She froze, just for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. Then, without a word, she quickly turned her attention back to the box in front of her, hiding her face.

Steve’s heart twisted in his chest.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, his voice coming out more quietly than he meant. “What’s going on?”

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t even acknowledge him at first. She just continued moving boxes, her movements quick, her hands shaking ever so slightly.

“I’m leaving, Steve,” she said finally, her voice tight, her tone flat. “I’m going to college. Out of state. You know… like we talked about.”

It felt like the world around him stopped.

He blinked, trying to understand, trying to piece it all together. But his mind wasn’t processing the words. She was leaving. She was really leaving.

“You… you didn’t say anything,” Steve said, his throat tight. It came out harsher than he intended, and he immediately regretted it. But he couldn’t help it. It felt like everything was unraveling around him.

“I didn’t think I had to,” she replied quietly, her voice barely a whisper. She didn’t even look up as she continued working, shifting things from her porch into the car. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

A wave of frustration washed over him. “Well, you could have told me. You could’ve said something.”

She paused for a brief moment, her shoulders tensing. Then, she exhaled deeply. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. I didn’t think you’d care.”

The words stung. But Steve knew she was right. Somewhere along the way, they’d grown distant, and now here they were—on opposite sides of a divide he couldn’t cross.

“I always care,” he said, though the words felt like they barely scraped the surface.

She didn’t respond to that. She just moved to grab another box.

“Is it really that easy?” he asked, his voice suddenly small. “Just leaving? Just… gone?”

She didn’t look at him, but Steve saw her shoulders stiffen again. “It’s not easy, Steve. But it’s something I have to do.”

His gaze softened. The sight of her trying so hard to hide it, trying to pretend everything was okay, it broke him. He wanted to reach out, to stop her from leaving. To tell her that things didn’t have to be like this, that they could go back to how they used to be. But the words were trapped inside, tangled in the space between them.

Instead, he stood there, helpless.

“I’ll miss you,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

For the first time, she stopped moving, and for a brief second, she just stood there, her head down. He could see her lips trembling as she fought back the tears she wouldn’t let fall. “I’ll miss you too,” she said softly.

As she drove away, the silence between them stretched further than the miles that now separated them, and Steve realized that some goodbyes never get the chance to be said.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

[whowrotethenote]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

A/N // This is another short story in the universe of Biggest Fan. This takes place after Pt 3 All We Do. Everyone can thank this anon 💗

Warnings // Brief angst // Mild smut // Profanity // Age gap // Adultery

Word count // 4.1k

Inspo // Pulled some inspo for the scenes from My Sister’s Keeper. Very good movie—I recommend everybody watch.

Disclaimer // Part Three // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

May 31, 2024

Prom. 

I heard it’s one of those days a girl will remember for the rest of her life. Like her wedding day. Sweet sixteen. Bachelorette party. First baby shower. Graduating high-school. Turning twenty-one or thirty. 

All eyes on her. Sisters, family friends, and cousins, all with a hand in helping her get ready. Soaked in the attention and exhilarating commotion of it all. Looking in the mirror with nowhere to hide. Face all done up, hair laid to perfection, with a long and elegant dress that never seemed perfect enough—all to come to the liberating realization of, ‘damn, I really am one of one.’

Posing every which way for everyone’s camera. 

“Look this way!”

“Smile!”

“Get closer!”

“Okay, now one with Daddy!”

The tears in her mother’s eyes as she admires her handy work from afar. The realization that her babygirl is no longer that—both equally gut-wrenching and rhapsodic. Her father—arms crossed and watching the madness with the same epiphany as mom. 

Riding in the limo feeling like Cinderella with her horse and carriage. Her Prince seated next to  her, who really is nothing more than a glorified accessory. Closest friends from her class surrounding them, passing liquor they weren’t old enough to have back and forth, trying not to spill it on their expensive tuxes and gowns. 

Dancing all night and having to take the heels off you spent weeks deciding on. The bright lights. The music that set the tone for your youth. The drama. Judging Prom King and Prom Queen. Creating moments that’ll grant themselves a single apartment space in your mind, no matter if you want them to or not. Letting your date feel you up back in the limo or one of his friend’s cars—and maybe, just maybe going all the way.

And all the years after—a sparkle forming in her eye as she reminisces on being young, carefree and beautiful. Rushing to pull her phone and scroll through the archives to show off a picture of a girl she didn’t even know anymore.

Prom night. It's one of those nights a girl will never forget. At least that’s what I’ve heard…

The hospital is hosting their annual Prom Night Gala tonight. A celebration for the high-school patients who won’t ever have that traditional night to remember, due to the burden of their body attacking itself from the inside out. 

We allow the younger kids to participate too. My little warrior Jaylen, is my date— a fact I didn’t know until he so proudly announced it this morning during rounding. Poor, Demi. I think he switched up on her last minute. 

All the biggest donors come out if they can. There’s a real DJ. Catered food. If we’re lucky at least one artist who’s actually been on the radio before, comes to perform live. The ballroom on the second floor is made to look like a real high school gym. Vegas Nights. That’s the theme this year. And we did not disappoint.

Billboards. Fake palm trees. Neon lights and sparkling signs. Slot machines. Even a Blackjack and Roulette table set up with dealers. Blown up playing cards and dice on the stage. Showgirls in the most exotic, feather headdresses and sequined costumes. It looks like Las Vegas Boulevard threw up in here. Billie Eilish and Tyla are scheduled to do fifteen minute sets each soon. Not a single expense has been spared.

Kids from every floor accompanied by all the staff who are volunteering for the night, spread amongst the room like ants. Everyone dressed to impress. Floor length gowns, gaudy jewelry, and dark tuxedos.

My current role is simple. Stand by the door and greet all the guests. The champagne colored silk gown with an open back, by a designer I never even heard of—sways elegantly as I abandon my post for just a second to grab something to drink. I shake my head at the bubbling of grape sparkling cider dancing on my tongue in the very misleading champagne flute. It’s not that I was expecting the real thing—but it made me think about Demi telling me she hid some wine in the staff room to help everyone get through the night. 

Fishing through possible escape routes to swiftly snag some of the real thing and return before anyone notices I’m even gone—I’m temporarily thrown off by a familiar boisterous voice from behind me where the entrance is.

“Very nice to see you, again!” I know that voice. Turning in place, my eyes lock on them immediately. Paul Heyman in his usual suit and tie attire, shaking hands with the Steven J Corwin—the hospital’s CEO. 

Beside both prominent men, a shocking presence of the most prominent of them all— the Tribal Chief himself. 

Spheres of light bounce off of his sharp features in the dimly lit room. He’s just perfect. It's impossible not to stare. I’ve seen that face all year round and I find a new attribute to obsess over each time. Tonight, I think it's his ears. As big as they are, they fit him. 

His dark hair shines as usual. Dark grey suit tailored perfectly against his stocky frame. Designer shoes I'm sure, with a plain Jane silver watch to top it all off. Don’t let the lack of jewels fool you. I’m sure the watch is worth ten times the decorations and accommodations of the room we stand in. 

A full breath escapes past my lips after subconsciously holding it. He’s like a UFO. Doesn’t matter how frequent or lack there of, of the sighting—it’s always a spectacle. His presence and absence felt in equally consuming shifts. Magnetic. The most proper way to describe him—Roman or Joe. 

He must feel me. His eyes scan the full room and the closer they shift to me, the quicker my breath picks up and the denser the tornado in my stomach becomes. 

His eyes land on me like bombs. First my face and gradually down the rest of my body and back up.

“Hi,” he mouths. A smile tugging at the corner of his upper lip.

“Hi,” I mouth back.

My head bows, concealing the smile burning my face. Not just from him, but from anyone else walking by that has no access or awareness of our bubble. All the man did was greet you, Lana.

His eyes penetrate my body again. A subtle shake of his head following after, ensuing heat. 

“Wow,” he mouths. In this more than air conditioned room, it begins to feel as hot as it’s been outside the past few weeks. Scorching. Immediate cause for perspiration. 

I want to run to him. Squeeze him. Feel myself fold under the weight of his muscular arms. Kiss him a thousand times and thank him for the gifts, but especially the G Wagon full of roses. I haven’t seen him since Miami. Everyday felt like a month without him. The time spent apart always expands the affection. I needed answers. Not from Paul, but directly from him. I was desperate for them. But standing right here, right now—watching him watch me with no concern for who could be watching us—I don’t care for the why. 

Just a mere hour into the gala and I am suffering in silence. A boiling pot whose water is ready to overflow. His tall frame is a good length on the other side of the room by the stage. Still, the invisible string, the force of a magnet draws me to him no matter what. Like the sun I feel his eyes beaming on me every now and again. 

Billie croons When The Party’s Over into the microphone with the dreamlike beat casting over the room—serenading everyone. Everyone swaying in pairs. Some staff. Parents. The patients. 

I'll only hurt you if you let me

Call me friend, but keep me closer

In a trance, his bold eyes warping me in from across the way, I feel a familiar presence next to me accompanied by vanilla perfume. I look over at Demi who now stands by me, surveying the room in her all black halter neck gown. Stunning as ever. 

“Ghost ward,” she mumbles. I feel her tugging my phone from my hand. It’s then I pick up what she puts down. 

I bunch the silk material in my hand, careful not to step on it and make a beeline to the double doors. Swinging them open, I enter into the hallway. A few of the staff and some parents of the patients linger about. I offer a small smile walking further down the hall to find another door with a steps sign on it. 

Pushing it open, my heels clack against the steps as I anticipate the slam of the door—but it's delayed. Another pair of footsteps follow shortly after. Two more floors. I hike the dress up a little higher. 

Landing on the floor I intend to, I push the door open again with less force than usual as to not alarm anyone. I kick my heels off and tip toe past the security station. Per usual, the greying man who’s always on duty on this floor, that’s mostly empty, is counting sheep. Neck craning, mouth agape, with drool falling out one side. I shake my head.

The further I walk down the hall, the more eerie it becomes. Colder. Less inviting. Hospitals will never fail to throw me off. They just reek of death and despair. 

Nobody ever comes down this ward. Hence the ghost ward. There was a flooring issue when the hospital first expanded some years ago, which prompted the hospital to remove majority of the equipment from the OR’s, seeing as they were declared unfit for procedures.

I don’t look back once. I already know he’s following me. I can feel him. Gentle giant. Intimidating and comforting all at once. He is a walking paradox that keeps me up at night more than I like to admit.

I stop at one room in particular. No significance. All the rooms are empty the same. This one just feels right.

Just as I reach out and grab the handle, a large hand comes over my shoulder, assisting me in opening it. That comforting manly scent robbing my smell. Another hand gripping my hip guiding us in. It's cold and dark. Moonlight streaks from the shut blinds, serving as the only incision to being able to see. 

A subtle push from his hands on my hips, brings us all the way in with literally no end in sight. My hands reach out to find the cold surface of the wall. Only things to be heard are his footsteps on the linoleum floor and our uneven breathing patterns.

Through the chilling air, his warm mouth makes contact with the left side of my neck. I angle it to make room for him, sucking in a sharp breath. Four weeks without his touch was pure torture. I was a fiend taking her first hit. He inhales deep as if he’s trying to create a memory with the smell. 

Open mouth kisses find my shoulder now, as he expertly pulls the thin strap down, coaxing me to follow suit on the right strap. The thin material pools around my hips, exposing my breast to the icy room. He kisses down, starting at my upper back, middle and then the space right above my ass. The hairs of his beard pricking me while he leaves a trail of goosebumps in the wake of his kisses. 

He sinks his teeth down, sending a shocking tingle everywhere that matters. I’m dripping wet. I can feel it.

I’m supposed to be thanking him, but somehow this feels like another gift stacked atop of the others.

Gently, his big hand nudges my hip to turn me around. My eyes bounce over his. Looking for his approval, but all I find is something else. Something deeper—something grander. It covers us like a heated blanket. 

His pointer finger reaches out. On my stomach at first, then up to the side of my ribs where my left boob rests. He comes up further, outlining the shape of my breast. My eyes follow his, which follow the trail of his finger. My nipples pebble harder under the soft touch, excitement brewing, growing more feral with every lingering second. 

Then his hand comes all the way up by my face. He tugs gently at one of the loose curls falling around my face instead of inside the hair clip. It recoils like the metal coil inside a battery holder, hitting my nose, causing us both to release something between a deep breath and a laugh in the small space between us. 

His hand disappears behind me. I feel the relief of my clip being undone as my curls fall down over my shoulders. We stand in silence as I take him in, while he takes in all of his alterations of me. Every second that goes by makes it harder to stand still and not touch him. 

He starts to lean down. My eagerness not allowing me any patience as I close my eyes and lean in the meet him halfway, but theres nothing but air before me. Opening my eyes, he’s right there. So I close them again and lean further—finding nothing but space again. My eyes pop open. I lean more and catch him inching back with a sly smirk. 

I let go. Allowing him to have his way and take control like always. Staying as still and patient as possible until his lips finally brush against mine. Soft as a fluffy blanket fresh out the dryer. His stiff tongue finds its way past my lips. Twirling and sucking every crevice he can find. Mirroring the way he eats at me down below, making my insides sear like I am sweating out a fever. 

My hands grab at his suit jacket, nearly popping the buttons from trying to get it off of him. He’s left in the black tee that was under it—snug and form fitting over his muscles. Exactly how I prefer him. 

My bottom lip gets caught in between his. I moan out for the first time when his head dips to flick my hardened nipples. His vast, wet tongue rolling over one and then sucking like he expects something to come from it. 

A strong hand wraps around me, pulling me up while the other guides a leg around his waist. My back collides with the frigid wall as he leverages me between it and his hard body, while he takes off the shirt. I steal another fervent kiss before it's even all the way off and cop feels of his rigid abs. His body is unbelievable. 

The unbuckling of his belt has my heart pounding out of my chest. He scrunches the dress up higher on my hips before rubbing himself up and down my dripping slit. Thick and heavy. He slides all the way in, driving me up the wall. We both release a sharp breath as my hands cup the sides of his face. Not forgetting to show those big ears some love. 

He had done so good in the foreplay and building up the blocks of anticipation, I nearly cum upon entry. It’s just that damn good. 

He stays right there for a minute. Every time he breathes out, I breathe in and vice versa. He licks into my mouth again. Driving himself in—barely out—then back in again at a steady pace. 

“Mmm,” I groan. Still trapping my expressions with his kiss. I grip his massive shoulders tight. 

“Always so wet for me,” he whispers on my lips. “Fit me so perfectly,” he adds before groaning out. 

I throw my head back against the wall. Growing more delirious with every thrust and every praise that makes it past those plump lips. 

“My prom was nothing like this.”

“Yeah, cause it was eighteen seventy-six,” I counter. I squirm and giggle when I feel a firm finger dig into my side. 

I lay in only a black thong. My head in his lap as he rests his bare back against the wall, with long legs outstretched and crossing at the ankles. Our clothes spread and decorating the floor around us. The tiny window on the door slightly fogging still from the aftereffects of all we’ve done in the small space. 

“All we had was a DJ. Some tables with some bullshit tablecloths. A chip and juice table maybe. I don’t know. Definitely no Billie Eilish. And no craps table—that’s for damn sure.” I laugh. The dealer tables were a bit much. Half of these kids didn’t even follow the rules to Uno—let alone any other card game. I remember one time Demi and I almost had to hem Jaylen up for throwing a draw two over my regular two. “What about you, babygirl? What was prom like?”

An immediate sense of pain internally flushes through me. The kind when a bad memory that you thought of as forgotten is now unlocked and recovered.

I shake my head. “I-I didn’t go. Got all dressed up and…the hospital called. My dad had to go into emergency surgery. The cancer was in his brain and he had a lot of seizures.” The flashbacks come quick and steady. Not even getting a chance to properly wipe off the makeup my mom spent an hour on, that the tears ended up washing away on their own. The deafening silence as we all sat in the waiting room, my dress still on, anticipating to hear something—anything from the nurses or a doctor. "So, yeah I ended up not going. Didn’t even make it into the limo.”

I don't look up. I keep my focus stagnant on my low French tips. I don’t need the look. I already know the one. The pity. Poor Lana. She missed her senior prom because her dad was sick. I don’t need to see him. The pity is all in the heavy silence that follows my mood killing story.

“So… in a way…this is your prom too? Not just the kids?”

I stop messing around with my nails, letting his perspective sink in. 

“I guess so—yeah.”

“So, did I live up to that prom date expectation?”

“I heard that the girl was supposed to give it up after prom.” His deep chuckle serenades the room. “But other than that, I guess you did okay. Even though you stole me from my original date. Jaylen already called dibs. Shame on you.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I think I saw little man feeling on Tyla out there.” 

“Men.” Our amusement dies down and the room is quiet again. A small buzz from the air vent above us. 

“Why a G Wagon?” I cut sharply through the silence finally. 

“You remember that night in the Hamptons? The first time,” he clarifies. “When we left the house.” Boy, I dream about that night. I nod. “You couldn’t stop touching the car. You didn’t have to say it. I could tell.” Something inside me stirs. He watches me even when I think he’s not paying me any mind. “How is it though? It’s driving alright?”

“Mmhm,” I hum. 

“Might have to take me for a ride one of these days,” he proposes. But I know better. Idle hopes that do not cater to our situation. One of these days. Yeah—picture that.

“And the roses?”

One of his shoulders go up. “Just my own personal touch.” My head is in a frenzy, but I’m also on a cloud. I want to bombard him with a thousand questions. All the questions Demi and I raked through the day the truck got delivered. 

What does this mean?

Has he done this before?

Should I keep it?

Whose name is it in?

Do men still offer women they don’t like flowers? A car full of them?

I’m afraid to pop the bubble we sit in with my curiosity. So I let it fly. Take it for what it is in the moment. Always. And just float.

“I didn’t know you were coming. Paul didn’t call.” I relax into the sensation of his fingers kneading my scalp through the thickness of my curls. He’s definitely done this before.

“It was a last minute decision, really. Couldn’t think of a better way to spend my birthday than to give back and make these kids feel as special as they are.”

I gasp. “Someone did just have a birthday last week. Didn’t they?” I angle my neck in a way that I’m able to catch the grin tugging at his lips. 

“That’s right,” he confirms.  

“What are you—like fifty now?”

“Ha ha ha.” He pokes my side again, igniting a tickle.

“What did you do?” I don’t know why every time I spot a wound, I feel the need to pick at it until it’s bleeding out. Why—why would I want to know the details of how he spent his birthday surrounded by family? His wife, his children—his cousins—all the people that mean something. All the people he can see in the light of day and doesn’t have to engage with in darkness. All persons that would turn their nose up at me at first glance. 

“Santorini.” My eyebrow raise. “You ever been out of the country?” He inquires. 

I poke a kiss swollen bottom lip out shaking my head in his lap still. “Only when I was younger. Family trip to Cancun. And I think we went to the Bahamas when I was eight. I don’t really remember any of it. Only seen pictures.”

“Mm,” he hums. He slides his slender fingers in between mine like a completed puzzle. 

“If I had known you were coming, I would’ve gotten you a birthday gift.”

“You would’ve gotten me a gift?”

“Yeah. Why not?” Then I think about it. A man with endless money and access. Exactly what could I give him that he doesn’t already have or can’t obtain himself? A gift is only a gift if its unattainable to the person receiving it…I grab his wrist squinting to read the analog clock's hands in the room absent of any light, save for the moonlight splitting through the blinds. It’s nine forty-eight.

Raising up, I step back into the silk gown, pulling the straps all the way up. He peers up at me with an eyebrow quirking up. “Come on,” I urge. I toss the black tee he had on under his suit jacket into his lap. “You might just get that ride tonight, after all.”

After making Miss Tonia a believer of my sudden nausea turned possible stomach virus, I pull the G Wagon to the first level of the hospital garage just before the parking arm. 

The security in the booth too focused on the mini TV to notice anything going on outside those walls. He comes out still sleek as ever as if he didn’t just fuck me into oblivion. I slide over on the passenger side. 

He shuts the door and secures his seatbelt while adjusting the seat to accommodate his massive frame. “Where are we going?” I lean an elbow on the center console. 

“Panzarotti?” The wrinkles of his brows soften as his face lights up with the joy reminiscent of a child. It makes my heart beat faster. “It's already in the GPS.”

I roll the window down as much as I can without giving anyone a clear shot of who’s in the driver seat. I wave my badge over the monitor and the bar lifts so we can pull off. 

On the extensive I-95, we breeze through the traffic in the fast lane. To my left—the most handsome man holding the steering wheel with one steady hand adorned with his silver watch. To my right—more cars through the tinted window plus the towering greenery on the side of the highway, that just appears as black shadowy figures. 

I get a flashback of taking this same drive in August of last year with the same driver. Only we were so different. Not just as individuals but with one another. The sun was setting. A pinkish hue etched in the sky. Cola by Lana Del Rey played, singing the soundtrack to what had became of my life. 

I roll the window down just like I did that night. The wind loud in my ears—immediately whipping my curls every which way. 

I arch my back over the window, letting my head hang freely in the night air of spring. I haven’t felt like this…well in forever. This feeling is new—foreign. Liberating. Even with all the hurdles and secrets. I’m young and I have everything that I didn’t use to. What a time to be alive.

This is my prom night. A night I’ll never forget, indeed. 

A/N // i switched the idea up a little i hope you still like it anon💗

i know there were some things mentioned in this short that you all haven't seen yet. the unseen days in the Hamptons. the panzerotti insider. all these shorts are coming so i can fill in the gaps for y'all. everything will make sense eventually, i swear.

the next short i post will be about Lana & Jaire. then expect 5 or so more shorts after that. i have to get them out of the way because they shed light on a lot of what’s to come in the next chapter Desires. i think there’s a lot more y’all need to see before i do what i’m about to do in the next chapter…🌚

As always, if you read it or even just a portion, I am forever grateful and appreciative. Feedback is always welcomed. Happy reading💗

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[thezombieprostitute]

Royal Pain

Summary: You talked back to Ransom and now you're getting married to him!

Warnings: Arranged marriage, Bad parents, Fat shaming, Insecure reader. Please let me know if I missed any!

Word Count: ~2k

A/N: Reader is plus sized, female. No other physical descriptors used.

"You've done so well!" you're father beams.

"I... I have?" You'd been expecting a lecture on your bad manners. A reminder that you are supposed to take insults from those of a higher standing with a show of grace.

"Normally I'd consider your actions disgraceful," he admits. "But because of Duke Drysdale's response, and Prince Rogers' rebuke of said response, Dutchess Drysdale has offered us a marriage with her son as an apology!"

Your jaw drops.

"Close your mouth before you draw flies, my dear."

You shake your head to clear your shock. "I'm...to be married. To Duke Drysdale?"

"Yes! And our family will rise in the ranks as a result."

"But he's awful!" you argue. "Ransom publicly humiliated me. He's clearly not going to want this marriage, either."

"Oh nonsense," your father dismisses. "He'll settle into just like you will. Just like your mother and I. Just like his parents. It's how things are done. Now, we've got a week to prepare for the initial courting. Make sure you don't embarrass the family name by sulking about it."

"Yes, father."

"You have got to be shitting me!" Ransom shouts at his mother.

"You made a scene at the King's gala!" Linda objected.

"How was it a scene? It was just banter?!"

"You insulted a woman from a good family and stormed off when she hit back! Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was?! The Prince had to pull you aside! At a public setting!"

"And how is forcing a marriage between us going to help anyone?!"

"It's an apology to her family by bringing them up a level in the social standings. They've already agreed to it on her behalf "

"This is bullshit!"

"I thought it's what you wanted! You wouldn't stop talking about her so I figured she was of interest to you. I'd never heard you talk about anyone as much as you did her!"

"She's going to be an embarrassment! Have you seen her?"

"It's that kind of thinking that got you into this!" Linda yells, exasperation in every word. "It's time you learn that actions have consequences."

"Like you've ever had to deal with consequences," Ransom snorts.

"I've had to deal with your consequences for far too long! How do you think you've been able to get away with half the shit you do?"

Ransom crosses his arms and huffs

"This might be the best thing that could ever happen to you," Linda surmised. "You have your first courting in about a week and you will be on your best behavior and you will not embarrass this family again!"

Ransom sneers and storms out.

The restaurant is much more high class than you like. You're already going to be on edge about your weight because Ransom will be there, you don't need others commenting on your eating habits as well. Sure you stood up to Ransom but you'd had exhaustion and a bit of alcohol to help with that. And a certainty that you'd never have to be around him again. So much for that.

Rather than picking you up from your home, Ransom had agreed to meet you at the restaurant. Your father wanted to protest but you countered it would be easier on all parties for Ransom to have some wins. You're an adult, you can drive yourself.

Besides, it might help sell the the relationship as real. Linda Drysdale was one of the few women to not marry for a title. She fought hard for her father, the late Duke Harlan Thrombey, to pass his title to her instead of one of her brothers. So showing up to the date in your own car might spark some rumors about Linda approving of you. Or that Ransom has some serious mommy issues. Either way, you get a small win.

An arm wraps around yours as you approach the front entrance, startling you.

"Oh, did I scare you, sweetheart?" Ransom asked sarcastically. "That's bad for our image."

"And clearly so are bad manners," you rebut, plastering a fake smile on so no one could see your distaste. "Otherwise there's no way the Dutchess would approve of this union."

Ransom huffs, "yeah, she said something about consequences. I don't know. I wasn't really listening."

"You don't listen to others, yet you expect others to listen to you. Such a jackass." You keep your tone and body language playful only for the sake of the public watching you.

"What was that? I wasn't listening," he smirks.

"Oh, don't be afraid to ask for help remembering how to use silverware. I know your manners are rusty."

"I may be rude but I'm not an idiot," he growls through his own fake smile.

"Then how did you end up with me instead of one of those pretty girls hanging on your arm at the gala?" you ask, batting your eyelashes.

His retort is interrupted by the hostess. She smiles politely but you can see the judgement in her eyes. You're not good enough for him. Well, you don't look good enough for him. She does, so she's clearly better than you.

She leads you to a table that will afford you some privacy. Ransom holds the chair out for you, surprising you.

"Oh, thank you," you smile sincerely for the first time all night.

"Have to put on a good show," he grouses. "Can't have anyone doubting my manners."

"Still, thank you, Ransom."

It could just be the lighting, but you swear you see him blush a little. He takes his seat and opts to hide behind the menu. You take that as a sign he's not up for talking and opt to look over the menu for yourself.

You ask him, "just to make sure, will I also be paying for my own dinner?"

His jaw drops, "why the hell would you do that?"

"I'm just double checking," you retort. "Don't want to be embarrassed by accidentally dining and ditching."

"This is supposed to be a date," he growls.

"One I had to drive myself to," you shrug. "Didn't know if we were going halfsies on anything else."

Your argument is cut off by the waiter arriving. After they take your orders you breathe deep and face your "fiance".

"So---" You stop as Ransom rolls his eyes.

"Do we have to do this? Neither of us wants this, so why are we going along with it?"

"For the same reason we do anything we don't want to: our parents," you shrug.

He huffs at that. "Fair enough. If yours are anything like mine, we're stuck together."

"Yup."

An uncomfortable silence falls over you both, the only interruption in the form of your drinks arriving.

When the server steps away you ask, "when did you start hating me?"

"I didn't hate you until I was told I'd have to marry you. Before that I was simply looking for an easy target. You caught my eye "

"So you were checking me out," you smirk.

His jaw tightens, "that's not what happened."

"No, but considering the press, and how everyone knows about our fight, we have to come up with something. Saying I caught your eye is a good start. Just leave out the part where you felt immediate revulsion at the sight of me "

"If we have to have a story we can go the bullshit route of 'pulling your pigtails' because I didn't know how to express my interest," he sighs in annoyance.

"Good call," you nod. "People will eat that up."

For a second Ransom gives you a confused look before reverting back to his usual haughty facial expression. "Yeah, well, it's a pretty common one."

"Still..." you're met with an icy silence. "Alright, slight change in topic?"

"Do you always talk so much?"

"Only when there's a lot to talk about."

"What is there to say?" he whispers angrily. "We're set up to continue the tradition of unhappy marriages. What do we need to discuss that can't be handled by a public relations agent?"

"Just because the marriage is unhappy doesn't mean we have to be miserable," you shoot back, eyes hard. "We can negotiate some things between us regarding the living situation."

Ransom leans forward. To an outside observer it might look like he's getting a closer look at your eyes. But you can see the hate in his glare. "Separate rooms for when you're on your period or when you finally get pregnant. That way I don't have to deal with your hormonal bullshit."

"I can agree to that," you hit back with a smile. "Though I propose we hold off on an heir. That way we don't have to touch each other."

"You'll never get them to agree to that."

"Prince Rogers will soon be engaged, yes?" Ransom nods in confirmation. "Well if his wife gets knocked up right away, we wouldn't want to look like we're competing by having our own so soon, right? And if she doesn't, well we wouldn't want to be rude and draw attention to her fertility issues, would we?"

Ransom raises an eyebrow. "That's not bad. The problem is, I need sex."

"So get a mistress. Or a side piece."

"If I didn't have to keep my image clean, I would," he says through gritted teeth. "One blip of infidelity gets to my mother, I lose everything."

"Then hire someone?" you suggest. "They get paid to keep quiet, right?"

"I've tried that. Linda keeps too close an eye on the finances."

"Well then I'll guess you'll have to invest in lotion," you roll your eyes. He gives you a mean look and you scoff, "I'm not going to sleep with someone who thinks I look hideous."

Ransom rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "I never said that."

"So commenting on my size was just, what? Complimenting my resourcefulness in finding a designer who caters to plus size women?"

"I didn't..." Ransom scowls, biting his lower lip.

"And your lack of surprise at my relationship status? Was that simply congratulating me on avoiding an unhappy marriage for as long as I did?"

"It wasn't..." Ransom shakes his head.

"Because those ladies you were with certainly seemed to take it the same way I did. Maybe you should learn to communicate more clearly."

Ransom nearly slams his hand on the table, his teeth grinding in frustration, but you don't back away. You meet his rage fueled stare with your own. He's not the first person to look down on you, treat you as lesser, simply because of your figure. You won't bow down him just because he's your future husband.

The contest of wills is interrupted by your food being brought out. You smile and politely thank the server. Even Ransom gives a small nod, grateful for the break in tension.

"It seems like something we can agree on is that we each have a room for ourselves," you start. "A room where we can go and not be bothered by the other." Ransom nods, avoiding looking at you. "Do you know anything about our living situation after the wedding?"

"A smaller manor on my family's property," he states between bites. "Hasn't been used in some time so Linda's got crews looking it over for cleaning and upgrades."

"I'm going to guess we don't get a say in how the place looks?" You focus your gaze on your food. If he won't look at you, you won't look at him.

"I'll see about making sure we can add whatever furniture or decorations we want. But walls, flooring, whatever, that'll be all her."

"That's a relief," you nod. "Can we get a tour before the wedding?"

"I'm sure it can be arranged after it's cleaned up."

"Thank you for that," you nod.

Ransom lets out a heavy sigh, and you break your gaze away from your plate just in time to see traces of that same confused expression from earlier.

Tagging: @alicedopey ; @delicatebarness ; @icefrozendeadlyqueen ; @irishhappiness ; @kmc1989; @lokislady82 ; @peaches1958 ; @ronearoundblindly; @theinheriteddutchess; @thiquefunlover63

[struwberrii]

haikyuu!! at an american highschool ⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ

pt.1 here pt.3 here

these are just some of my silly headcannons on how i think hq characters would act and what stereotypes they would be at an american highschool (as an american highschooler ☝️🤓)

characters: kuroo, kenma, bokuto, akaashi, oikawa, iwaizumi

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

kuroo

literally the biggest nerd but sm girls crush on him

the type of guy you gotta hit your friends with the “hear me out” before you say he’s cute

kind of annoying and cocky about his intelligence but ppl still like him

gets real creative about his insults towards ugly people

wears cringey dad graphic tees bc he has no style

crunchy coughs in class a lil too often….

has the oldest most beat up car on the planet like it’s a safety hazard driving that thing

always smells really weird like cigarettes or something despite not smoking a day in his life

debate club.

his note books have like water stains and the covers are like torn apart and look like they were used as a shield during a war

offers all his friends rides but is such a scary driver

makes fun of ppl “lovingly” but he’s lowkey a bully

jokingly owns a minecraft hoodie he bought from the kids section and it’s SO TIGHT it’s a crime to wear that out with his big self

kenma

wears the same clothes multiple days in a row, he don’t gaf he probably slept in ts too 😭

probably doesn’t really smell bad, just kind of…. moist? marinated?

his hair is probably really greasy sometimes

always brings some type of gaming console to school and plays during lunch and during any free time he has

sneaks his phone when he isn’t supposed to and has never been caught

for some reason he sits with cool people despite NEVER talking during class and never going out of his way to make friends (kuroo forces him to hang out with his friends)

raged at his game super loud in class one time and got so embarrassed he begged his counselor to take him out of that class

his grades are ok for someone who never studies or even really pays attention

some of his teachers have gone entire school years without ever remembering his name

has the best comebacks to everyone, he is not afraid to clock you

bokuto

drives the biggest jeep or like ford bronco ever and is actually a decent driver

his parking is TERRIBLE though and he never bothers to fix it

probably would play football (i’m sorry guys) and is constantly at risk of getting kicked off the team for his grades

akaashi helps him study to stay on the team

genuinely the biggest himbo, a bunch of the girls think he’s adorable but he never gets the hint

posts silly gym selfies on his story

book bag has like 1 notebook in it, maybe a pencil if he’s lucky

teachers secretly love him (but not enough to pass him)

i feel like he’d also try and join the swim team for some reason

i feel like he’d eat burger king for lunch :,(

girls confide in him with their drama even though he gives no helpful feedback or advice and just occasionally gasps and goes “no way”

has the most cracked iphone screen on the planet

akaashi

probably taking like half honors classes or AP (idk how it works i’m not at a regular high school sorry guys </3)

gets school iced coffee for breakfast

takes super good and detailed notes and helps bokuto despite being a lower grade

wears the funkiest outfits but girls still think he’s cute

no girls talk to him though because he’s so quiet

always has at least 1 airpod in

sells pics of his notes

sometimes goes off campus for lunch with bokuto, but refuses to eat burger king

other days he probably has salad for lunch

probably in like orchestra but never carries his instrument in the halls bc he thinks it’s embarrassing

bokuto is loud af cheering him on when they have concerts

also sneaks his phone during class but got caught one time and now he’s kind of too scared to use it

iwaizumi

wears those tight work out shirts to show off his muscles

probably drinks like protein drinks in class

has the biggest water bottle ever like bro drinks a gallon of water every period

has a SUPER old iphone or like an android he refuses to upgrade because it gets the job done

always posting about his gains

probably crashed his car and his bumper is like hanging off his car

in like a weight lifting or body building club and is probably the leader of said club

he and oikawa are a very popular duo

occasionally skips class if he ever just doesn’t feel like going

his notes are so vague and short yet he understands and remembers everything he wrote

his grades are insanely good too

literally only wears sports clothing

uses really good smelling cologne but since he’s so active there’s always a hint of must from all the sweat :,(

oikawa

man hoe

he has been in just about every girls dms at some point

his grades are like, okay? he’s not failing

does stuff for female validation, like ik if he had a cat he’d be posting it on his story constantly and like flexing his hand veins

drives a bmw

if he’s actually in a relationship, he’s super loyal tho

his teachers kinda hate him

still uses snapchat and his snap score is like 500k

has decent fashion but dresses mildly gay at the same time

people constantly make jokes abt him and iwa being gay and he gets so mad (maybe he’s projecting idk)

smells a little like vanilla

he and iwa get in n out for lunch and eat in his car

[yanderenightmare]

Dabi x darling x Hawks

TW: NSFW, noncon, war, soldiers, married reader

AN: kinda inspired by when British Parliament passed the Quartering Act in 1765, and those in the American colonies were required to provide housing for British soldiers, and how they were also expected to provide food, firewood, and even beer.

fem reader

Thinking about old-timey soldiers Hawks and Dabi who knock on your door with their caps in hand, plastic smiles on both their faces when asking for a warm homecooked meal – knowing you can’t refuse by order of the King.

It’s a humble cottage more than it’s a house, but the two men make themselves at home while you slowly stir the stew you’ve whipped up for them – only halfway of your own free will. 

Hawks asks where your husband is, and you point to the love letters displayed on the mantle and tell them he’d been called away seven months ago. 

Dabi then asks if you’ve been lonely…

You try and laugh it off as though it was a charming thing of him to say – but you’ve been feeling apprehensive ever since you opened the door – seeing their hands casually resting on the weapons by their hip as though in silent threat.

You sit with your hands in your lap while they eat. They say they’ve missed the sweetness of a woman like you – that the lads back at base don’t know how to do it the same way. And you know they’re talking about the food, but still… you can’t help but feel they’re insinuating something else.

You scream when they grab you – but it’s not like they expected anything else from a married woman – of course, a good wife would give anyone who isn’t her husband some fight – but like any woman, you’re quickly subdued by the two of them. 

Their smiles are still eerily calm, even as you cry – utterly unmatched by their actions, where they squeeze into all your plush parts with unwarranted strength.

Hawks hugs you from behind, forcing your arms behind your back – his crotch planted firm against your rear, even through all the thick layers of your skirt. 

Dabi is in front of you. He ripped open your blouse in the struggle – now whistling at the pretty sight of your tits while stroking his revolver up the crane of your neck, poking it into your cheek before using it to brush a wisp of hair out of your face – pretty and riddled with tears while you snivel and whimper.

He takes your chin in a strong hand, his tone smooth while he tells you to calm down – as though he's not got his loaded fire weapon aimed at you. His nose brushes yours as he croons at you through a smile – giving your quivering lips a quick peck.

Hawks’ tone is just as suave – playful even, grinning toothily, chuckling out how they just want to thank you for the hospitality as he quickly tugs the wool of your dress up, balling it all around your waist. Petting your cunt through your bloomers with your wrists gripped firm in his other hand, pinned tightly to the small of your back.

Cutlery, plates, and cups crash to the floor when Dabi swipes to clear the table – sending you hips-first against it.

The nose of his gun jabs into your nape, forcing your head down until your cheek smudges the splintery wood.

He doesn’t bother retraining you, letting the threat of his bullets do to all the talking while he unbuckles his belt, letting his uniform drop around his ankles.

He rips a gash in the thin cotton of your bloomers. They look too cute to remove. Not frilly like rich maidens wear, like in those catalogs the men will pass around if not pictures of each other's girlfriends. Yours are worker class, probably sewn by yourself from some old curtains – not meant to be erotic, but made so erotic because of it. 

You’re just a simple farmer’s daughter making your country proud – is what he whispers in your ear when he has two fingers stuffed up your cunt.

It’s obvious you haven’t been fucked in a while – the two digits make you wince and, in turn, make him restless to give you the real thing. He can tell just by the buck of your hips it’s going to feel the same as fucking a virgin.

You’re quickly wet like one, too. Makes it easy for him to slide into your tightness despite your teary whines. 

He lets out a heavy groan when you’ve taken him to the hilt – stays nestled there for a minute – in reverence of the tight, wet warmth he hadn’t felt in a while.

Sure, he and Hawks might have done things on cold, long, lonely nights, but nothing can quite compete with the softness of a woman in his mind.

Those precious ways you tighten up and shake from the stretch, shuffling your thighs when he kneads into your womb – soaking him with wet velvet slick.

His gun goes lazy against your back, though still very much keeping you scared in place as he lolls in and out of you at a languid pace – his chin tipped up with a sigh.

But it’s only initial relief – and once it dies down and the hunger spurs anew – he’s got his lips at your ear and his gun in your mouth – crude things flying off his lips, hips thrusting against you with the same haste of a hound in his rut – saying if he were your husband, he’d never leave your cunt and cooking – that he’d pick being buried six inches deep between your thighs than six feet deep in the dirt – sucking your cheek while telling you not to fret long over your man – how he and Hawks will help you grieve when the love letters stop coming.

The blonde is busy looting the liquor cabinet while Dabi ravages your poor cunt – but he comes back to switch with him once he finds the most expensive bottle.

It was a wedding present you’d been saving, one you’d thought you’d open the day your love would return – but Hawks cares little for the etiquette and swigs it raw from the stem as he retakes his place behind you – bathing his thick shaft with the slick sheen on your inner thighs before pressing himself inside you.

He doesn’t bother to start slow – he’d been kept waiting long enough and goes straight to pounding you deep. Kicking your legs apart – a hand buried in the cake of your ass to steady you whilst the other grips the bottle.

The table is small. Meant for only you and your man – so perfect for bending you over – just intimate enough to allow Dabi to stand at the other end with his cock in your mouth.

The whole thing wobbles against the floor as the two men have their way. 

They deserted from their battalion a long time ago and have both grown pretty tired of house-hopping – and this place seems far enough removed from where anyone would bother looking for them. 

Who knows, maybe they’ll stay until the war is over. 

♡ DABI - TODOROKI TOUYA masterlist ♡ HAWKS - TAKAMI KEIGO masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[eriace]

terms and condition ; rin itoshi

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which y/n fakes a relationship with itoshi rin to dodge her least favorite person—only to discover that rin is related to said person. whoops. turns out, love can come with a few unexpected family ties. ↷ rin itoshi ; blue lock

↳ an order of cappuccino from anonymous in the comeback cafe event !

IT ALL STARTED with one very simple mission: avoid Itoshi Sae at all costs.

Y/n didn’t care if he was a world-class midfielder or if the rest of the planet worshipped the ground he walked on—she couldn’t stand him. The arrogant smirk, the casually cruel remarks, the way he said her name like it was an inconvenience.

So when she spotted him at the crowded soccer gala—headed right toward her with a glass of wine and that telltale “you can’t run from me forever” smile—she panicked.

She grabbed the nearest arm.

Unfortunately, the arm belonged to Itoshi Rin.

“Go with it,” she hissed under her breath, latching onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

Rin blinked down at her, completely stone-faced. “Go with what?”

“We’re dating now. Okay? You’re my boyfriend. You’re obsessed with me. Like, sickeningly. Gross PDA and all.”

His eye twitched. “No.”

“Please.”

“…Fine.”

So that’s how Itoshi Rin found himself stiffly wrapping an arm around her shoulder while she nuzzled into his chest like a clingy koala. Sae passed them, raising an eyebrow. Rin stared back with the emotional range of a houseplant.

Once Sae was out of sight, y/n stepped back with a huff of relief. “Lifesaver. Absolute king. You’ve earned one (1) free iced coffee on me.”

Rin adjusted his jacket, clearly processing the entire interaction like it was a bizarre fever dream. “You seriously hate my brother that much?”

“Your what now.”

“My brother. Sae.”

Silence.

A beat passed.

“I just dry-swallowed air.”

Rin blinked. “…You didn’t know?”

“Do I look like I keep up with soccer family trees?! I thought you just looked similarly punchable—sorry. Not you. Just your face. A little. Oh my god I’m digging.”

He gave her a flat look.

“You’re still holding my hand.”

She yelped and flung it away like it was a grenade.

Despite his usual aloof demeanor, Rin snorted. It was small—barely there—but Y/n caught it.

The fake dating continued.

Mostly because Y/n really didn’t want Sae getting any ideas. And Rin, for some strange reason, agreed to play along. Maybe it was because she always brought him strawberry milk at practice. Or maybe it was because he found her chaotic panic attacks… oddly entertaining.

“You don’t need to glare at him every time,” she whispered one afternoon, watching Rin eye Sae like he was one bad move away from disowning him.

“I’m method acting.”

“You’ve been method acting for two weeks.”

“Do you want this to look real or not?”

It did look real. Too real, sometimes.

Like when she tripped and Rin instinctively grabbed her waist.

Or when she fell asleep on his shoulder on the train and he didn’t move for thirty minutes.

Or when he showed up at her door one night with a muttered, “I thought you forgot lunch again,” and handed her a neatly packed bento.

He was awkward, quiet, and had the emotional range of a rock. But he noticed things. He cared without saying it.

And somewhere along the line, pretending started to feel too comfortable.

It all came crashing down during a gathering.

Sae walked in and muttered something to y/n about Rin “picking a weird one.”

She flipped him off.

Rin blinked. “You flip off my brother a lot.”

“He deserves it. Why, you wanna defend him?”

“No. I think it’s hot.”

“…What.”

“When you’re mad. It’s cute.”

Y/n stared. Rin never said anything that direct unless it was about formations or salad dressing.

“You think I’m cute when I’m threatening your bloodline?”

He shrugged. “Fake boyfriend duties. Remember?”

“Yeah well—” she huffed, cheeks burning. “You’re not so bad yourself, Rin.”

They both stood there, awkward and pink-faced. Like they’d walked into their own trap.

“So… you wanna keep faking?” she mumbled.

Rin looked at her for a long second.

“Not really.”

And just like that, he kissed her.

Soft. Awkward. A little clumsy.

But warm. Real.

The kind of kiss that made y/n forget all about Sae.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[merakiui]

a plot in which skully's portrait is kept in ramshackle. there's more legend and lore to the king of halloween than there are actual facts. you've always been curious about what kind of person he is and what sort of life he lived before he was traveling the world. there's so little documentation on him. it's a shame you'll likely never know the real story, but that's where fantasy can fill in the blanks! skully looks so devious in his portrait—with that sinister smile and extravagant pose. he's a mystery you've tried to solve with very little luck.

every morning on your way out, you pass his portrait in the hall and say the same farewell: "i'm off, mr. skully! i'll see you later!"

ramshackle dorm is no stranger to haunts. you adore the ghosts. they liven up your quiet, run-down dorm whenever they materialize in front of you for a lighthearted spook. sometimes you can sense them when you walk into a cold spot or you hear phantom sounds late at night. sometimes your face or your hands feel cold, and there's a disembodied smooching sound that follows the drop in temperature. it's all just part of ramshackle's paranormal charm.

on halloween morning, you stand in front of skully's portrait and wish him well. this time, though, you stand up to reach his face and press your lips against the canvas. "have a happy halloween, mr. skully. i'll see you later tonight!"

and then you're off to classes with grim. a pair of orange eyes follows your movements until eventually you're out of sight. the door shuts and then ramshackle is quiet.

when the halloween king reaches out, his hand goes through the canvas. he falls out of his frame and lands in a heap of lanky limbs with a thwump. peculiar. this has never happened before. he tries to climb back into his empty portrait, but it's no use. he can't return.

is he truly back in the world again in a corporeal form? :O !!!! oh, how exciting!!!!! there's so much he's wanted to do! he must find you first, though! he's been dying (lol) to meet you in the flesh. :)

[lovejongseob]

Unorganized Jongseob headcanons

- Likes giving you one of his ear buds so you can listen to music together

- Listening to everything he has to say about his interests, even if you don't totally understand it

- Sitting on his lap and playing video games together

- Dress up game king btw

- Jongseob suddenly becoming more awake when you're around

- Applying lip balm or lipstick/gloss on him

- Not including your lips, he likes kissing carefully around your eyes, and on your nose.

- Not including his lips, he likes it when you kiss his jaw, and his forehead the most.

- Always calls you at least once when hes been drinking

- Hardcore survival world with just you two

- Actually probably a few hardcore worlds at this point because I imagine you'd both be a little unfocused while playing together

- Getting into new bands together

- Jongseob lightly biting you to get your attention

- Him also acting shocked when you do it to him

- Thinks glasses are attractive

- Gut feeling tells me at least one person needs to hear that Jongseob thinks taking your meds is attractive as well

- School Au, everyone getting shocked when the perfect student, Jongseob, skips a class to hang out with you. (longer version of this is literally in the drafts rn)

- Mutual cuteness aggression

- Im biased but enemies to lovers with Jongseob 🙏🙏 Just imagine all the pettiness and drama being laced with so much tension. and it wouldn't even be real drama, its only you two taking it that seriously

- Usually let's you take over while cuddling, but if you try to get up hes trapping you with his full body weight

- How comfortable and intimate it feels falling asleep in the same bed, in each other's arms

wanted to make it longer but i passed out twice proof reading. if you think you could play hardcore minecraft w Jongseob without getting distracted by him and dying, you are a liar.

[reader-wandering18]

Yuu professor (2)

At that moment… Yuu wanted to cry.

They weren't tears of joy or sadness, but tears that cursed his fate.

He knew the identity he had usurped was that of a teacher, and therefore he knew he would have students, young people from all over Twisted Wonderland, very proud of their magic.

But that wasn't the problem.

To be honest, he hoped he wouldn't have so many students; it would make his job easier and help him avoid being discovered, since teaching first- and second-year students was one thing, but teaching third-year students was something else entirely.

Teaching third-year students wouldn't be a problem if he didn't have the real heavyweights in his class.

The famous model and actor Vil Schoenheit

The second prince of Sunset Savannah, Leona Kingscholar

Idia Shroud, belonging to "THAT" Shroud family. Lilia Vanrouge, former soldier and guard of the Draconians.

And the future prince of the Valley of Thorns, Malleus Draconia.

Yuu felt like crying when he saw their last names on the list for the first time.

"I worked for some families at least once or three times."

Yuu never used his real name, much less revealed his true face; with each job, a new identity, a new face. He had been very careful in that regard.

Until the train accident.

Now, even though he had another identity, what everyone at that school saw was his true face.

"Sometimes you're not careful enough."

He could only sigh in resignation. Because of that "incident"

in Vil's case, he isn't worried, as he hasn't interacted with anyone in his family.

"Messing with celebrities is very troublesome."

But on the other hand, the Shroud and Kingscholar families were once major contractors.

As for the draconian, he has never worked for them, as it is well known that the dark fairies hate humans because of that war.

His problem wasn't Malleus's family, but the fairies themselves.

A fairy's lifespan is relatively long; if fairies didn't hate humans, they'd be in trouble, since, in their short lives, crossing paths with one could be a big problem.

"Since he can recognize me."

Even if he used a different name, a different face, each person's magical power is distinct, unique. Not all fairies have the affinity to recognize who has magic and who doesn't.

Yuu has never been in contact with the Draconia family or any fairies, so he shouldn't have any problems.

— Lilia Vanrouge

— Present!

Yuu noticed Lilia's smile, though it was an ambiguous one.

— I recommend you stop doing that, Vanrouge.

— Boo! It's very hard to scare the teacher.

He said sadly as he disappeared and reappeared in his seat, though his sadness quickly faded, and he smiled amusedly again.

—Leona Kingscholar

—…….

"He not in my class again."

—Leona Kingscholar? — Crewel asked.

Yuu was in the cafeteria, eating with the other teachers at the tables outside.

Leona Kingscholar

Second son of the King of the Sunset Savannah, a prince in short. His older brother is the current king of his lands because their father is very ill.

"I did a job for his father a while back."

— Don't be mad, Professor Yuu. — he said Trein. — It'll just make your blood sugar go up."

— Ha, isn't it just you, Professor Trein? — Crewell asked sarcastically.

— What did Professor Crewell say?"

— There they go again. — Professor Vargas said with a sigh. — Anyway, Professor Yuu, you should know that Kingscholar is famous for skipping class."

— He's repeating a year. — Sam added. — From what my friends from beyond the grave know, he seems very disinterested in graduating; in class, he's always looking for a place to sleep.

—Really?

—Kingscholar is considered the best in the Ancient Magic class. — Crewle said. — He's smart, a born leader, he admits, though he's lazy. He wastes talent; Ancient Magic isn't something anyone can pass with 100 perfect points."

"Oh, they stopped fighting."

— And why is he repeating a year?

— We don't know.

Yuu could only sigh and continue eating.

— By the way. — Sam said. — How are some of the imps doing? I heard there have been several accidents.

— Many are in the infirmary. — Trein said, petting his cat. — Some had to share a bed because space is running out.

—The Magic shift tournament is coming up, and the students are getting careless. — Vargas said angrily.

Now that Yuu thinks about it, Nightcrow Academy has been losing to the Royal Sword Academy for 99 years.

"Wow, how humiliating!"

Yuu thought as he walked through the hallways.

He was on the third floor, ready for his next third-year class, when in the distance he saw two familiar students.

"Rosehearts and Clover?"

The leader and vice-leader of Heartslabyul.

— I'll be a little late, go practice for the Magic shift Tournament.

— Understood.

— Then I'll leave it to you.

Everything seemed peaceful, until suddenly Riddle…stumbled.

— Riddle!

"!!!!"

Due to their proximity, Clover covered Rosehearts with her body. And they both tumbled down the stairs.

Trey felt a stabbing pain in his ankle, but what he was most concerned about was keeping Riddle from hurting himself.

He closed his eyes and hugged Riddle tightly, waiting for his head to hit the ground… A blow that never came.

— Clover!

Like Riddle, he was floating; he was inches above the ground, and at the top of the stairs was his teacher.

Yuu Cherish

Pointing his staff at them, he could see the glow of his magic emanate and surround them.

Damn, I didn't react in time!

Yuu managed to avoid falling, but he was distracted, not by a fly or anything like that.

It was because in the distance, he spotted another group, a group he hadn't seen until Riddle and Trey fell forward.

They were students easy to recognize by their beastmen features.

That wouldn't seem suspicious at first glance; there could be groups of students anywhere on campus.

However, what was suspicious was the moment they saw him. It was a quick glance, but he managed to see those students smiling at Rosehearts' fall, strangely calm. But upon noticing his presence A TEACHER their expressions quickly changed to surprise, and they all ran away.

He wanted to stop them, but he knew Trey would soon hit his head on the floor, so he did what he had to do as a teacher: protect his student.

He ran with Trey in his arms toward the infirmary, followed by Rosehearts.

— How embarrassing. — Clover said, blushing slightly as her teacher carried her like a princess.

— This isn't the time to think about that, Trey! — Riddle scolded.

As he entered the infirmary, Yuu recalled the teachers' conversation that afternoon.

"How are some of the imps? I heard there have been several accidents."

"Many are in the infirmary. Some had to share a bed because space is scarce." Several students, from all dorms, were in different beds, all due to numerous "accidents."

— That's enough.

Here we are, with one more chapter.

I saw that many of you liked the prologue and the first part. So we'll continue with this thread where Yuu is a teacher.

Sorry for the delay, but let's just say that creating good chapters takes time. I just couldn't find the inspiration. BUT HERE WE ARE!!

Let's see how long it takes me to do the other part. Hehehe

I also want to develop the students' relationships with their teacher. I want it to be something natural, so I'll see how I do it, because love isn't one of my strong points.

Possibly in the following chapters we'll see their OTHER IDENTITIES.

Goodbye

[mimimui]

and it's not like i'm still not over you (hq)

you reminisce about your relationship with your ex lover; however, with fondness

includes: sugawara, kageyama, oikawa, bokuto, akaashi, osamu, atsumu

tags: gn!reader, fluff(?), timeskip, established past relationship, not proofread, probably self-indulgent

a/n: i love writing based on real experiences, and u bet ur pretty butt this one is! + i am obsessed with twilight zone atm and needed an excuse to play it on loop. hope u enjoy <3

koshi sugawara was kind. he had endless patience for your antics, and sometimes even joined in the mischievousness when he felt like it. you were always who he thought of first when he woke up in the mornings. he'd update you constantly throughout the day—text messages, voice notes, selfies—just because he could.

you could tell he'd talk about you to his class, too, because alongside the little trinkets and letters the kids write for him were drawings and stickers for you.

even when you were already separated, he showed up to congratulate you on an achievement personally. he was always one to value promises, especially the ones from your relationship. so, even if he didn't need to, he still came over to celebrate with you. because he promised forever.

tobio kageyama was cute. he, more often than not, stumbled on his words and was awkward around you. he didn't prioritize relationships in high school, so he didn't quite understand the whole gist of it. he still doesn't. but, hell, did he give his best.

he was observant more than romantic. no, he never made reservations at fancy restaurants, but he did bring you to the bistro you mentioned in passing once. he didn't make hearts on the bed with flower petals, but he did always make sure your pillows were fluffy and cold.

he was content with a two, maybe three, seater couch. he liked having scrambled eggs, toast, and some kind of meat everyday for breakfast. he half-assed a lot of things because it was enough to get through the day. but he loved you wholeheartedly.

toru oikawa was bold. he loved showing you off and making others jealous of you. he especially loved talking about you to the press. in every single interview, promotional video, post, you name it—you were hinted at. maybe even mentioned once or twice.

he knew his fans could be a little messy sometimes, but he was oikawa king-of-reassurance toru and always let you know how devoted he was to you. he never let you doubt your relationship with him. not once.

from an observer's point of view, he was the strong one. constantly protecting you, always a hand on you... but in reality, you were his rock. you were the gravity that bounded him to the earth. he was less 'oikawa of ca san juan' and more 'toru of yours.'

kotaro bokuto was the sun. or he could rival it, at least. his brightness never failed to light up a room. he was always your source of comfort, no matter what had brought you discomfort in the first place. he made it his mission to never let you go to sleep unhappy. he never failed at it.

he loved touching you every way he could; a hug, a kiss, a hold. he was obsessed with your skin and how soft it felt to him. though his hands had been calloused over the years of him playing volleyball, his touch was anything but rough. he handled you as if you were the epitomy of fragility.

he was never really careful. he liked living life on the edge. he loved the feeling of thrill and slight fear. he was never scared of messing up because he was confident he wouldn't. but you truly were the exception.

keiji akaashi wasn't real. your entire relationship was a dream. he never let you struggle and always sure you had everything you could possibly need. he said it was because you were annoying when you complained, but you knew otherwise.

he was eccentric. the man you thought composed, quiet, and cool was actually a little weird. whenever you asked for pancakes for breakfast, he never failed to make his favorite pancake art... well, failed as in he always did it. his drawings were quite bad, but they made you laugh. he loved your laugh. he knew they made you happy.

he was chosen to write a newspaper column once. part of it was a recount of the time you fell asleep on the couch because you were waiting for the weather announcement to see if he could stay home the next day. once it was published and printed, he used that newspaper to wrap a bouquet of flowers for you. you think you still have a copy of it somewhere.

osamu miya was funny. there was a never dull moment in your relationship. growing up with an indentical twin, he had a lot of stories to tell. he loved exaggerating a lot of them, and you knew he did, but you never brought it up. you thought his reenactments of them were silly.

he brought you into the restaurant on a busy day once. big mistake. you manned the cash register and it was overwhelming. orders came in faster than osamu could make them. you were forced to close it for a little bit to try and help in the kitchen. it took a while, but you eventually got the orders out. osamu begged for you to massage his hands when you went home that night.

the next time you helped out at the restaurant, you noticed that there was a new item on the menu. it wasn't difficult to spot, really, when it was named—indirectly—after you. osamu never told you about it, so you had some doubts, but after reading 'easy on the heart' in its description, you knew.

atsumu miya was annoying. he loved teasing you and getting on your nerves. he loved seeing the furrow between your brows and the glare you have specially made for him. he did feel bad afterwards, so he made up for it by annoying you with his affections.

he wasn't a shy person. he voiced out all his thoughts, not caring for your judgement. he felt the need to be honest around you. he couldn't stand withholding anything from you. not his friends' secrets nor surprises he was supposed hide. he told you everything with extreme detail. he was quick to reveal everything but slow to explain. you always roll your eyes but listen anyway.

he brought you everywhere with him. he couldn't go a day without seeing you and touching you. overseas trips were especially torturous for him. he called you constantly and left you messages often. your phone buzzed all day everyday until the moment he came home to you. he was bothersome, but he was only ever full of love.

thanks for reading (˶��� ᵕ ᵔ˶)