mymelody58

[mymelody58]

Did you think you were in control? || Luka x Reader

AU: Actor!Luka x Actress!Reader

Summary: ou've always loved your job, but you never imagined having such a tedious partner. He tests your patience, but in the end, you confront him.

Word count: 1,3K

Warnings: nothing(?) maybe some suggestive words or actions.

author's note: I love Luka, I mean, LOOK AT HIM, he is so handsome.

One way or another, Luka always found a way to get under your skin. It didn’t matter the place, the situation, or how many times you silently swore that today you wouldn’t fall for his games; he always found the perfect way to make you lose your patience.

From the very first day you were assigned as co-stars in that big sci-fi production, you knew your work life was about to get complicated. Luka wasn’t just handsome and charming; he had that kind of presence that filled the room whether you liked it or not. And for some reason, he seemed determined to focus all that annoying and seductive energy on you.

Every time you rehearsed or filmed a scene together, the story repeated itself. Luka never missed an opportunity to get closer than necessary, invading your personal space with a casualness that could only be intentional. He knew perfectly well how uncomfortable it made you, and yet—or maybe because of that—he did it constantly.

And when it wasn’t about proximity, it was the takes. Luka had the habit of making you repeat scenes unnecessarily. You could deliver a flawless performance, but he would “accidentally” forget a line or improvise something off-script, forcing a redo. And the worst part was he always did it with an innocent smile and that sly look that clearly said, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Then there were his compliments. Some were almost sweet, the kind that could be mistaken for kindness if they weren’t said so brazenly. But most… were provocations with an unmistakably loaded undertone. Suggestive praise, double entendre remarks, whispers in your ear when no one was watching. He knew you got furious, and he also knew that blush you tried so hard to hide said it all.

Luka was, in short, an unbearable, shameless, and downright insufferable partner. But there was one thing you couldn’t deny: he was an excellent actor. He delivered exactly what was needed in front of the camera, had charisma, presence, and an innate ability to captivate the audience. That’s why, no matter how annoying he was behind the scenes, no one dared to reprimand him. Everyone adored him.

That morning, you had a promotional photo shoot. Since your characters in the movie were a couple, the theme couldn’t be anything else: romance.

Just thinking about it put you in a bad mood.

From the moment you arrived on set, you felt the weight of what was coming. The soft lighting, the intimate atmosphere, the bedroom set... everything was prepared to capture “warm and natural” moments between you. For you, that meant being way too close to Luka for way too long.

And he, of course, seemed to be enjoying it from the very first second.

You hated every suggested pose, every damn inch that brought you closer to him. You hated his muffled laughs when you pretended not to be uncomfortable. You hated his hands landing exactly where you didn’t want them. And you hated even more that your body reacted to it all.

“Alright, alright! Next pose!” the photographer exclaimed cheerfully as the crew adjusted the lights, lowered the intensity, and shifted the camera angles.

You already knew what was coming. And from the way Luka moved forward without hesitation, he did too.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the main prop on set, and without asking permission—as usual—wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you towards him effortlessly.

You weren’t expecting it. Your hands instinctively went to his shoulders to keep your balance, and before you knew it, you were sitting on his lap, facing him, your knees resting on the mattress, one on each side of his waist.

Too close. Too intimate. Too Luka.

His triumphant smile, that cocky expression so typical of him, only made a vein pop on your forehead. You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your composure… though you knew the slight heat rising on your cheeks already gave you away.

“Come on, don’t make that face,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for you to feel his breath against the skin of your neck. “We’re supposed to be a couple for these photos, right? You should at least look a little happy to be this close to me.”

“Get away,” you snapped in a dry tone. “You’re way too close.”

Luka let out a soft, clearly mocking laugh. And, of course, instead of pulling away, he tightened his grip on your waist.

“Your heart is racing a thousand miles an hour… is that why you want me away?” He looked straight into your eyes, his pupils gleaming with mischief. When he saw your frown, his smile widened with obvious satisfaction.

“It’s not like that!” you retorted, though you weren’t even sure if you were saying it for him… or for yourself.

“Mmm…” he murmured in a low voice before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

Your body tensed immediately at the soft brush of his lips against your skin. That gentle, almost imperceptible touch sent a shiver down your spine.

You hated that he could make you tremble like that.

“You’re crossing the line,” you whispered, low but sharp. “Move your face away. You’re disgusting.”

You tried to push him gently, careful not to cause a scene in the middle of the set where technicians were still adjusting lights and the photographer was reviewing shots. But Luka stayed put, holding onto you like his life depended on it.

“You’re trembling,” he said playfully, eyes closed.

“Get off.”

Your words were barely a whisper but carried all the anger you could muster. Then you felt it.

A light kiss on your neck.

That was it. You’d had enough.

Without thinking, you grabbed his hair, holding it firmly at the nape of his neck, and pulled his head back. Luka gasped in surprise at your sudden firmness. You leaned close to his ear, close enough that only he could hear.

“Stop. Playing.” Your voice was low, firm, and passive-aggressive. “I’m not your toy, Luka. You’re not going to keep mocking me. You’re crossing the line, and believe me… I can ruin you if I want. Do you understand?”

Luka didn’t need to see you to know you were dead serious. The change in your tone, the tremor in your grip, the complete absence of blush… all that was enough.

His hands, which had been steady on your waist, now barely held the fabric of your white shirt. And, for the first time, it seemed like he was the one trembling.

“Oh, I love it! That perfect pose, hold it a little longer!” the photographer exclaimed excitedly, still snapping shots, unaware that the stance you had taken was filled with rage.

But neither you nor Luka were paying attention anymore.

You slowly lifted your head and looked him in the eyes. His expression had completely changed: lips pressed together, eyebrows slightly raised, pupils dilated. He was surprised. Disoriented. Vulnerable.

“Do you know what the problem with playing too much is?” you murmured, still with that venomous control in your voice. “Sometimes the game blows up in your face. So don’t keep tempting fate… because it might run out.”

Right then, the photographer signaled the session was over.

You released his hair and stood up, not glancing at him once more. You walked straight to your manager, who congratulated you and immediately started briefing you on the next activity on your schedule.

You were convinced you’d shocked him. That you’d scared him off and that he would finally stop bothering you.

But you were wrong.

Luka stayed sitting on the bed, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on you as you walked away.

He had never seen you like that before. You’d never confronted him with such confidence, with such control. And for some damn reason… that excited him.

The firm grip on his hair, your aggressive voice in his ear, your eyes full of rage… Luka felt something in his chest he couldn’t control.

His heart was racing like crazy.

And now, more than ever, he wanted to provoke you again.

Just to see you like that once more.

[mymelody58]

BEAUTIFUL WRITING WTF

ⓘ 01. THE WAY THAT YOU SEE YOURSELF

⤷ ANGST ﹫ timeskip!kenma kozume x fem!reader ﹫ established relationship ﹫ be ready to cry :)

-> part.2

⚠︎ cyber bullying, emotional distress (reader), mental health struggles, eating disorders (throwing up), heavy themes, strong emotions, cursing, heavy insults, you’re gonna cry .ᐟ.ᐟ

You still remember the stream like it was yesterday.

Kenma had pulled you gently into frame, eyes soft beneath the warm glow of the LED lights in his setup. He smiled, shy but proud.

“This is my girlfriend,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck with that same familiar awkwardness. “Be nice to her.”

At the time, it had felt like a dream. You were glowing with love and disbelief. Kenma—your Kenma—was introducing you to millions of his fans. Your face was warm with the thought, your heart thudding loud in your ears. You’d looked at him, smiled nervously, and waved to the camera.

The chat had exploded.

He’d chuckled.

“Okay, okay. We’ll play now,” he’d said, dismissing the tsunami of reactions with a lighthearted grin.

He didn’t see it.

Not what came after.

It started small.

A comment here and there on your Instagram posts. A DM.

“Who the hell are you?”

“She’s not even cute lol.”

You’d laughed it off at first. But they didn’t stop. They didn’t forget. You were no longer just “some girl.” You were Kenma’s girlfriend. And to them, that meant you were someone to tear apart.

The hate grew like rot beneath the surface.

“You don’t deserve him.”

“Pig.”

“Go kill yourself.”

And it wasn’t just the words. It was the way they dissected you. Your smile. Your clothes. Your hair. Your body. Every post you made was swarmed. Every picture was analyzed, compared to some ideal they had crafted for the man you loved.

Kenma didn’t know.

He didn’t see.

Because it wasn’t on his streams. It wasn’t in his mentions.

It was you. Your phone. Your DMs. Your world that was growing darker.

You told yourself not to care. You told yourself they were just kids, strangers, faceless names with too much time.

But at night, in bed, you scrolled.

Your fingers trembled.

Your stomach turned.

And eventually, you changed.

You stopped posting pictures of yourself. You started dressing differently—trying to look more like the girls they praised in his fan edits. You painted your face carefully, calculatingly. You skipped meals. Told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

Kenma would smile at you, kiss your temple. He had no idea.

He still looked at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. And so you acted. Played the part. You’d hold his hand tighter in public just to make yourself believe it. Laugh a little louder. Smile a little harder.

But the truth was, you were drowning. Quietly. Alone.

Sometimes you’d cry in the shower, biting your knuckles to muffle the sound. Other times you’d stare at your reflection, confused.

Who was this girl?

Where was the one who used to sing in the kitchen, who used to smile without checking a mirror first?

She was gone.

Buried beneath thousands of hateful words. Words from people who had never met you. Who didn’t know that Kenma loved how you always brought him tea without asking, or how you stayed quiet when he streamed, or how you understood when he needed silence. They didn’t know how he reached for you in his sleep. How he whispered “I love you” even when half-awake.

They didn’t want to know.

And now, you didn’t even want to look at yourself.

The worst part wasn’t even the hate.

It was pretending.

You didn’t want Kenma to worry. He worked so hard. He was building something beautiful—his own world—and you were supposed to be the lucky one invited in. You didn’t want to be the crack in the foundation.

So you smiled. Always smiled.

It was the beginning of the end.

But Kenma wasn’t stupid.

He just didn’t know what he was looking at.

But he knew you were not okay.

It had started subtly—like hairline cracks in glass. Imperceptible at first, something most people would walk past without noticing. But he wasn’t most people. And you weren’t just someone.

You were you.

The you who used to giggle half-asleep when he snuck behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. The you who wore his hoodies and danced barefoot in the kitchen. The you who told him you hated pineapple on pizza with the passion of a full-blown warrior.

That you hadn’t disappeared. Not all at once. That would have been easier.

No—she faded. Quietly.

At first, he thought you were just tired. You’d yawn more, sleep in. He’d offer to cancel a stream to spend the day together and you’d insist you were fine, just wanted to rest. It made sense. You were busy too. Life was heavy sometimes.

But then… other things began to happen.

He remembered the vase.

It was a plain thing, honestly—ugly, even. Some cheap, tacky glass piece his fans had gifted him years ago. He only kept it because he felt guilty throwing it away. You had knocked it off the shelf by accident while dusting and it shattered into a million pieces on the hardwood floor.

You stood there frozen for half a second—and then you crumpled.

You had cried. Not sniffled. Sobbed.

Ten minutes. Ten long, gutting minutes. He had rushed over, confused, concerned, arms wrapped around you as you kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—God, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry—”

Kenma didn’t care about the vase.

He’d told you that again and again, even while he held you, smoothing your hair. But you kept apologizing, kept shaking, like you were trying to make yourself disappear.

And when your tears stopped, you wiped your face and told him it was “just hormones,” laughed a little like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t scared the hell out of him.

Like you weren’t breaking in front of him.

That was the first moment he realized something was wrong. Not just off. Wrong.

After that, he watched more closely.

Your smiles weren’t quite the same. Too quick. Too bright. They didn’t reach your eyes the way they used to. Sometimes, you’d smile before he even finished a sentence, like you were anticipating it. Like a reflex. A cover.

And when he streamed, you’d avoid the camera.

You used to love popping in—bringing him snacks, waving at the chat, kissing his cheek to make him blush. It was your little routine. He never asked you to do it. You wanted to.

Now? You barely entered the room when he was live. And when you did, it was only to leave something silently on his desk and slip away. He noticed the way your eyes flicked toward the screen, and the way your shoulders tightened like you were bracing for something. He just didn’t know what.

He should have asked.

He should have insisted.

But you kept saying you were okay. So he believed you.

Because he wanted to.

Still… the signs piled up.

The nights were the worst. You started waking up at strange hours, always with an excuse. Your footsteps down the hall. The bathroom door closing softly. Water running. Toilet flushing.

Then the silence.

He followed once. Quietly. Listened outside the door.

He heard it.

You throwing up. Gagging. Then coughing and breathing like you were trying to steady yourself. You ran the faucet again—he guessed to drown out the sound.

When you came back to bed, he was still awake. You’d crawled in beside him like nothing happened.

“Sick again?” he asked, gentle.

“Mhm,” you hummed, turning your back to him. “Must’ve been the sushi.”

You said it so easily. So casually. Like it hadn’t happened the night before. And the night before that. Like he was imagining the pattern.

He reached out, touched your back softly. “Maybe we should go to the doctor…”

“No need,” you interrupted. “I’m fine. Probably just a bug.”

Kenma stared at the ceiling long after you fell asleep.

You weren’t fine.

You hadn’t been fine in weeks. Maybe months. But every time he reached out, you retreated. Laughed it off. Shrugged him away. And he—idiot that he was—let you.

Because he was scared. Scared of pushing you too hard. Scared of being wrong. Scared that if he said the wrong thing, whatever this was would get worse.

But it was already getting worse.

You barely ate at dinner. You never asked him to take pictures with you anymore. You didn’t talk about your day unless he pulled it out of you word by word. And the way you looked at yourself in the mirror—he noticed that too. The pause. The silence. The frown.

You’d stopped singing.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he missed your voice.

One night, you stood in the bathroom in nothing but your underwear, brushing your hair out in the mirror. Kenma leaned against the doorway, watching you.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly.

You didn’t even look up. “Thanks.”

Not “thank you”. Not “you too.”

Just thanks. Flat. Distant.

It made his chest ache.

And still, when he reached for you, you leaned into him. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. You let him love you like he always did.

But you didn’t love you. And he could feel that now.

You were fading in his arms.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed.

He didn’t know how long he could do this—watch you disappear and pretend not to notice. But he also didn’t know what to do. He’d never been good with emotions, with people. He was the one who stayed quiet in the back while others took the spotlight.

But now the spotlight was killing you.

And you wouldn’t let him turn it off.

The scariest part?

He didn’t know what would happen first.

That you’d finally tell him what was going on.

Or that one day, he’d wake up—and you’d be gone.

Not in the physical sense. No. But gone in the way that mattered most.

And that terrified him more than anything.

—

Kenma couldn’t sleep.

Again.

You were curled up beside him in the dark, your breathing light and even. From the outside, it looked peaceful. But Kenma knew better now. He knew it was an illusion—just like the smiles you gave him, just like the way you said “I’m fine” when you were clearly not.

He stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

He was angry. Not at you—never at you. But at himself. At the silence. At how long he had let this go on. He’d noticed the signs, all of them, and he still hadn’t done anything.

He didn’t want to confront you. Not if it meant making you retreat even further.

But tonight, the helplessness had crawled so deep into his chest it felt like it was eating him alive.

He had to know.

He needed to see it.

Whatever it was that had hollowed you out like this.

So, with trembling hands and guilt tightening his throat, he turned slowly toward your sleeping figure, careful not to wake you. Your phone rested on your bedside table, screen dim, innocuous. Innocent.

But it wasn’t.

He picked it up.

Every second of it felt wrong. He hated going through your things. Hated the invasion of it. But god, he loved you too much to care. He’d break a thousand promises if it meant saving you.

He unlocked the screen with your fingerprint—you had given it to him months ago, jokingly, so he could queue music while you cooked.

He never thought he’d use it like this.

He checked your texts. Nothing out of the ordinary. DMs on Twitter—mostly muted. Barely any responses. You didn’t talk to anyone.

Then he opened Instagram.

And the world collapsed beneath him.

Your inbox was full. Not with friends. Not with kind words.

But with poison.

“Slut.”

“Pig.”

“Who paid you to pretend to be with him?”

“Why are you still alive?”

“Lmao she thinks she’s his type? Has she seen herself?”

“You’re ruining his brand.”

“You don’t deserve him. You’re dirt.”

It was endless.

Message after message, comment after comment, posts and story replies, group DMs you’d been added to just so they could tear you apart.

Kenma stared at the screen. Scrolling. Scrolling. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Your followers had tripled since he introduced you on stream a year ago. But it wasn’t love. It was a target they wanted. Someone to ruin.

And they had.

You hadn’t just changed.

You were being destroyed.

And he hadn’t fucking seen it.

His fingers were trembling, the screen a blur of hate and cruelty. He felt sick. He wanted to scream.

And then—he didn’t want to scream.

He wanted them to hear him.

To see what they had done.

Without thinking, without a plan, without even wiping his eyes, Kenma stormed into his streaming room. He sat down, headset on. Pressed “Start Broadcast.” It was past 2am. No notification. No schedule.

And yet… within minutes, the chat lit up.

“Wtf??”

“Is he okay?”

“Emergency stream??”

“Kodzuken??”

He didn’t speak at first.

He stared into the camera, eyes red, expression unreadable. His hands were folded on the desk. His jaw clenched.

The silence stretched. The comments piled in.

And then, finally—he spoke.

Voice cold. Low. Razor sharp.

“I wasn’t planning on streaming tonight. I wasn’t planning on talking at all. But I just found out what some of you have been doing.”

The chat slowed.

A pause. Confusion.

“To her.”

A single sentence.

And the shift in tone was immediate.

“You know who I mean. You all know.”

He didn’t blink.

“You looked me in the eye while tearing her apart behind my back. You called yourselves fans. You said you supported me. But what you actually did… was destroy the one person I care about more than anything in this world.”

His voice broke slightly—but only for a second. He cleared his throat.

“She didn’t tell me. I had to find out by going through her phone while she was asleep. You did that to her. You made her hide it. You made her feel ashamed of being with me. Of existing.”

The chat was chaos. Apologies. Excuses. Confusion.

He ignored them all.

“I saw everything. Every message. Every comment. Every threat. Every time you told her to kill herself. Every time you called her a pig. Every time you said she was dragging me down.”

“Let me be very clear.”

He leaned in.

“You didn’t just hurt her. You hurt me. You stole her smile. You took away her laugh. The woman I love—the only person who ever made me feel like more than a screen name—you broke her. And I let you.”

He exhaled, shaking.

“So this isn’t a brand. This isn’t a game. This is my life. And if you think for one second I’d ever forgive you for what you’ve done, for what you’ve taken from her—from us—you’re not a fan. You’re a parasite.”

He paused again. The chat had slowed. Silent. Some still begged forgiveness. Others left.

“She was happy before you. She was whole. Now she cries in secret. Now she throws up in the middle of the night and tells me it’s nothing. And I believed her. I fucking believed her.”

He sat back, face pale, knuckles white.

“I’m not playing anymore. You either support both of us, or you don’t support me at all. Ever again. No more middle ground. No more pretending you didn’t know. No more looking away while she drowns.”

“You killed her spirit.”

Another pause. He looked down. Voice quieter.

“And I’m not sure I’ll ever get her back.”

Then he looked into the camera one last time.

“Stream’s over.”

Click.

Silence.

Kenma sat there, headset off, chest heaving. The tears finally fell—slow, quiet. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his hoodie.

He didn’t care about the fallout. About the fans he just lost. About the hate he might get now.

None of it mattered.

Because you were in the next room, sleeping through it all, unaware of the war he just declared on your behalf.

Unaware that he had finally seen what they had done.

Unaware that he was done watching you disappear.

And now—he would burn the whole world before letting it happen again.

[mymelody58]

One of the best writings ever perhaps??

───𝘊𝘜𝘗𝘐𝘋───ハイキュー!!

Tsukishima Kei(ハイキュー!!)x fem!reader

𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

"I'm sorry, but only one manager is allowed on the bench," one of the organizers stopped you, stepping in your way just as you were about to follow Ukai and the rest of the team.

"What?" you asked, frowning in disbelief as you came to a halt. You turned your head toward Yachi, who had also stayed by your side, clearly just as confused.

"But we..." you began to say, indignation rising in your voice as you tried to take another step.

"Tournament rules," the man replied, unbothered, with the calmness of someone who had repeated the same thing far too many times that day.

You held back a sharp retort and exhaled in frustration. It was ridiculous. You had been by the team’s side throughout training—preparing water bottles, organizing schedules, taking notes. And now, at the most important moment, they were asking you to stay on the sidelines.

You felt Yachi’s hand gently rest on your shoulder. When you turned around, you found her smiling—small, a little tense, but determined.

"It’s okay! Come on, we can still cheer for the team from the stands. Let’s go!" Yachi exclaimed with forced enthusiasm, trying to lift both your spirits.

Before you could respond, she took your hand firmly and led you through the crowd that was starting to settle into the bleachers. Despite the disappointment still weighing on your chest, her warm gesture managed to draw a faint smile from you.

The buzz inside the gym grew louder with every step. Voices, cheers, and footsteps echoed across the polished floor as you searched for a good spot. Finally, you stopped at a raised corner with a perfect view of the court. From there, you could see the Karasuno team gathered by the bench, getting ready. Ukai was speaking seriously, Daichi nodded, and the others stretched in silence, tense and focused.

You were surprised to see the former coach Ukai had come to watch the match as well. He stood next to someone he seemed to know, not far from where you were. Shoyo had mentioned him before, saying he was a rather strict man, but had been key in helping him improve his blocks.

You turned when two boys, younger than you, looked at you and Yachi curiously.

"Are you from Karasuno too?"

The boy tilted his head slightly, confused.

"What are you doing up here?"

"O-only one manager is allowed on the bench," Hitoka answered nervously. You nodded to confirm her words and turned your gaze back to the court, your brows knitting slightly as the tension in the air settled in around you.

But your worries faded the moment Karasuno scored the first point. A clean, precise play that lit up the crowd’s excitement and allowed you to breathe a little easier. It looked like they were off to a solid start, and against this team, the odds of victory seemed promising. You could allow yourself to enjoy the game without so much tension.

"Nice one, Kei!" you shouted enthusiastically, raising your voice above the noise in the gym just after Tsukishima executed a flawless block against Ohgiminami’s attacker.

You bounced lightly with excitement, clapping your hands in front of your chest. Pride swelled in your chest, swept up by the energy of the moment, while Yachi laughed beside you, sharing your elation.

Down below, Tsukishima didn’t turn around, but you caught the slight tension in his shoulders, as if he had heard your voice among all the others. A small smile tugged at your lips as you let yourself get carried away by the match.

It was a clean victory. Fairly easy, if you were being honest with yourself. Harsh as it might sound, there wasn’t much to highlight from Ohgiminami’s team: their formation was standard, predictable, and their blocks lacked the aggression or precision you were used to seeing in more competitive teams. They did a decent job within their capabilities, of course, but the contrast with Karasuno’s dynamic was obvious.

-------------------

It was shocking to see the next opponent step onto the court. You had heard the guys whispering about a particularly tall player on Kakugawa’s team, but like many times before, you assumed they were exaggerating. That wasn’t the case. The moment you saw him walk past you, you realized they had been serious: that player didn’t just stand out among his teammates — he looked like a tower in a sea of rooftops.

A volleyball player might have technical limitations, but height —especially when positioned near the net— is an undeniable advantage. And this number nine had plenty of it.

“I didn’t think Kakugawa’s number nine was actually that tall…” you thought as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, barely turning your head so as not to be too obvious.

“There’s not that much of a difference,” you murmured more to yourself than to anyone else. You were 1.66 meters tall; he was around 2.01. Only — you told yourself — 35 centimeters. Technically, there were players in Karasuno with whom you also shared a considerable height gap, though maybe not such an overwhelming one.

“He’s not that tall,” you finally said, crossing your arms and pretending to be more confident than you actually felt.

Hinata, who stood beside you, looked at you with wide eyes, as if he had just heard the greatest sports blasphemy of his life.

“Not that tall!?” he repeated in disbelief. “Are you blind?”

“No,” you replied casually, a small smile on your lips. “He seems tall because we’re short. But for someone over 1.70, the difference doesn’t seem that dramatic,” you explained calmly, convinced of your point of view. “Right, Asahi-senpai?”

You turned your head slightly toward the senior, waiting for his support. However, Asahi remained silent for a moment, staring at the Kakugawa player as if he had seen a walking tower. His expression said it all: not even he, with his solid build and respectable height, seemed comfortable in the presence of the towering opponent.

“Uhm… well…” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck with clear discomfort. “To be honest, he is kind of intimidating…”

Hinata nodded vigorously, as if he had just won a crucial argument.

Even if that player was two meters tall, he was still a rookie compared to the experience and cohesion of Karasuno’s starting lineup. While he did cause some trouble during the first set—blocking effectively and using his height smartly—the team managed to regain their footing. It was at a key moment that Kageyama and Hinata executed that quick attack they had perfected in practice. That move reignited the team’s spirit, and for the final point, Hinata managed to break through the giant’s block with a precise spike, securing their victory.

After the initial excitement and the shared cheers with the team, you offered to help Kiyoko and Yachi gather the water bottles, towels, and other items from the bench. Once everything was in order, you joined the others in the exit hallway. The group was making their way down the stairs at a relaxed pace, trading jokes and still riding the high of their win.

That was when a sudden shout startled you, making you lift your eyes from the handheld console in your hands.

“Ah! I forgot my lunch!” Hinata shouted, coming to an abrupt stop.

Everyone turned with puzzled expressions, just in time to see him spin around and dash back toward the court.

The instinct to keep walking while looking up almost got you in trouble. You slightly tripped on the edge of one of the steps at the exit, losing your balance. Before you could fall—or even drop the console—a firm hand grabbed you by the strap of your bag, stopping you in your tracks.

“Be more careful,” Tsukishima murmured, still holding onto the strap with two hooked fingers.

“Thanks…” you whispered with a faint blush, quietly adjusting your bag.

The ride back was calm, almost peaceful. The gentle sway of the bus, combined with the barely audible murmur of scattered conversations, created an almost drowsy atmosphere. Some were sound asleep, their heads leaning against the windows or the seats. Others, like you, preferred to get lost in the dim glow of a handheld console as the nighttime scenery slowly passed by outside the window.

Hinata, exhausted from the match, quickly gave in to sleep. He rested his head on your shoulder without hesitation, mumbling something unintelligible before falling still. You didn’t push him away. You simply adjusted your posture a bit so he’d be more comfortable and went back to your game, alternating between the screen and watching the sky grow completely dark.

When you finally arrived back at school, everyone got off the bus slowly, dragging their bags and yawning without shame. You said goodbye to each of them with a soft smile, wishing the players a good rest and thanking Kiyoko and Yachi for all their help.

“See you tomorrow,” you said with a small wave, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you prepared to walk home.

“I’m walking with you,” Tsukishima announced, not asking for permission as he slung his backpack over one shoulder, avoiding your gaze.

You didn’t argue. You simply nodded, and the two of you walked in silence for a couple of blocks, wrapped in the quiet of the night. The sound of your synchronized footsteps was the only thing filling the air for a few minutes.

“The weather’s starting to change,” you commented, your eyes on the clear sky. “In a few days, it’ll probably start to feel colder.”

Tsukishima let out a soft hum of agreement. He wasn’t the talkative type, but he never cut you off when you spoke. In fact, you’d come to notice that he always listened, even when he pretended not to.

“I’ve been thinking… I have some math exercises due next week,” you continued, not entirely sure why you were bringing it up now. “And honestly, I don’t get any of it. I think I’m starting to tank that class.”

“It’s not that hard,” he said simply, his tone calm and even. “I could help you… if you want.”

You turned to look at him, a little surprised by the offer. Tsukishima kept his gaze straight ahead, hands still in his pockets, as if he hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary.

“Really?” you asked, a small smile forming on your lips.

“I mean, if you’re going to fail, that would be a problem for the team,” he added indifferently, though the slight flush on his ears betrayed his detached tone.

“Right… for the team’s sake,” you joked softly, suppressing a laugh.

When you reached your house, you climbed the few steps up to the porch and turned naturally to say goodbye. But as you stood by the door, you noticed Tsukishima hadn’t moved. He was still there, standing on the sidewalk, as if waiting for something. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was fixed on you.

Then, with sudden resolve, you crossed the small distance between you, stood on your tiptoes, and kissed him. It was a brief, tender, and slightly awkward kiss—but full of meaning. You felt his body tense at first, surprised, before slowly relaxing.

When you pulled back, he looked down at you slightly. He didn’t smile, as expected, but there was a new brightness in his eyes.

“See you tomorrow,” you said quietly, finally opening the door.

“Bring your math notebook,” was all he said before turning and walking away down the sidewalk.

[mymelody58]

───𝘊𝘜𝘗𝘐𝘋───ハイキュー!!

Haikyuu(ハイキュー!!)x fem!reader

Word count: 4919

𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

Hinata’s eyes sparkled as he looked around the residence where the team would be staying before the match. “Oh, is this where we’ll be staying?” he asked, his voice brimming with excitement as he inspected every corner of the place. “It’s my first training camp! This is going to be so much fun.”

Off to the side, Tsukishima crossed his arms and sighed, looking at Hinata with a mix of exasperation and disdain. “Oh, great. A whole day surrounded by this bunch of airheads… what’s so fun about that?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his usual sarcastic attitude.

“Tsukishima, you idiot!” Tanaka exclaimed, stepping forward.

Nishinoya backed him up with equal energy. “Kiyoko’s less than 500 meters away! How can you be so insensitive?” His expression was pure drama, as if the distance from Kiyoko physically pained him.

You shook your head with a smile, already used to the boys’ antics. Without wasting any more time, you headed to the room assigned to you. Sliding the door open, you were surprised by the spacious interior; it seemed ready to accommodate several people. While you would have enjoyed sharing it with someone like Kiyoko, you knew the young manager would head home since she lived nearby.

With a sigh of relief, you dropped your bag on the floor and started checking if you had everything you needed for the night. Pajamas? Check. Toothbrush and personal care kit? Check. Clean clothes and skincare products? Check. Satisfied that you had packed all the essentials for a peaceful night, you prepared for what would be a solo sleepover.

You got up, ready for dinner. Spotting Hinata and Kageyama sitting together, you decided to join them, though you quickly realized it wasn’t the best choice: both were devouring their food as if it were their first and last meal. Between smiles and incredulous glances, you carefully guarded your plate, mindful of your teammates' voracious appetites.

Even though you had been in Japan for years, you were still selective about some local dishes. Still, you ventured to take a generous spoonful of curry, offering a polite “Itadakimasu” before starting.

It wasn’t long before Hinata, with a hopeful look, pointed at the pieces of kakuni on your plate. “Y/N, are you going to eat that?” he asked, his eyes shining with a mix of enthusiasm and longing.

Smiling, you slid your plate toward him. “No, Shoyo-kun, go ahead.”

“Thanks, Y/N! You’re the best,” he said enthusiastically, savoring the kakuni you had shared.

Midway through the meal, Nishinoya leaned closer to both of you, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Hey, I’ve always wondered something, and if I don’t ask now, I think I’ll lose my mind.” He paused dramatically, capturing everyone’s attention. “Are you two dating or something? I mean, you’re always together... like, all the time.”

Both you and Hinata froze for a moment, exchanging a surprised glance before responding in unison: “Not at all!”

Shoyo laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulders playfully. “We’re best friends,” he explained with a carefree grin. “To me, Y/N is like a sister.”

“And to me, Shoyo is like a little brother,” you added, returning his smile. The familiarity and camaraderie in your words made the boys around you laugh, settling the matter.

“Little brother? Why little? We’re the same age!” Hinata protested, frowning comically while the others struggled to hide their smiles.

“Because I’m taller than you, obviously,” you replied with a triumphant grin, crossing your arms to emphasize your point.

Hinata looked at you with a defiant expression, stretching as much as he could in his seat. "Only by a couple of centimeters," he muttered, though his voice betrayed a hint of frustration, which made the boys laugh even harder.

"A couple? I’d say it’s more than that," you replied with an amused smile, raising your hand to emphasize the difference. "Come on, why don’t you try saying ‘big sister’?”

“I’m not saying that,” Hinata protested, frowning and looking away, crossing his arms in a show of stubbornness.

After dinner and a refreshing shower, you slipped into your comfy green Pochacco pajamas and started your nightly skincare routine, following the tips your mom had given you. Sitting on the floor, you opened one of the face masks you had brought, opting for the strawberry one this time. Taking out the small spatula that came with the package, you began carefully applying it to your face.

You hadn’t gotten far when the door burst open. “Excuse me!” Hinata exclaimed as he walked in like it was his own room, closely followed by Nishinoya. Without a second thought, they settled down next to you.

“What are you doing?” Hinata asked, his curiosity evident.

“Just relaxing a bit,” you replied, holding a small mirror as you applied the mask to your face. Then, with an amused smile, you offered, “Want to try?”

“Why not?” the redhead agreed, amused, as he pushed his messy bangs back with a couple of hair clips.

“I want to try too!” Nishinoya chimed in enthusiastically. Before you knew it, what had started as a solo routine turned into an impromptu group spa session. Tanaka and Asahi joined in on the fun, intrigued by the idea of trying the masks. Now, holding the lemon mask in your hand, you were carefully applying it to Asahi’s face as he shared, with a touch of guilt, how he had accidentally scared a first-year student earlier that day and how bad he felt about it.

Meanwhile, Hinata, Tanaka, and Nishinoya had moved to the other side of the room, apparently focused on your PSP, trying to beat the level you had left unfinished. You could hear their murmurs and exclamations every time one of them made a mistake in the game.

Tsukishima and Yamaguchi were walking down the hall after their showers. Tsukishima, with his usual air of indifference, wiped the steam off his glasses, adjusting them slightly in an attempt to restore a clear view. When they passed by your room and saw the door slightly ajar, with murmurs and laughter spilling into the hallway, both stopped, intrigued.

“What the hell…?” Tsukishima whispered, glancing inside with a mix of surprise and exasperation at the scene unfolding. From the doorway, they could see Hinata, Tanaka, and Nishinoya engrossed in your PSP in one corner, while you sat on the floor, carefully applying a lemon mask to Asahi’s face, who looked more relaxed than either of them had ever seen him.

Noticing their presence, you gestured for them to come in. “Tsukishima, Yamaguchi! Want to try?” you asked with an amused smile as you finished applying the mask on Asahi.

Before Tsukishima could respond with his usual sarcasm, Yamaguchi had already stepped forward. “Sure,” he replied enthusiastically, moving to where you were. With complete confidence, he settled on the floor and rested his head on your lap, relaxed and ready to be pampered. He chose the strawberry mask, and you began applying it to his face with gentle movements, enjoying the calm of the moment.

Tsukishima let out a barely audible murmur. “Traitor…” he said under his breath, though his words lacked their usual bite. Without much else, he moved closer and sat beside you, crossing his arms and giving you a look of patient resignation, as if waiting for you to finish.

“This is so relaxing,” Yamaguchi commented, enjoying the soft strawberry scent of the mask on his face. When you finished, he sat up and joined the others, who were still struggling to beat the video game level, fully immersed in the challenge.

With an amused smile, you turned to Tsukishima, showing him the remaining mask options. “Alright, which one do you want?” you asked, holding up the two for him to see.

He simply shrugged. Without much hesitation, you picked the lemon one. “Then it’ll be this one,” you said decisively, opening the container.

Without a word, Tsukishima shifted slightly and rested his head on your lap. “Make it quick. This is ridiculous,” he muttered with his typical indifference. But deep down, you knew that if he were really uncomfortable, he wouldn’t have agreed so easily. As you began applying the mask, you felt his hair, still damp from the shower, slightly soaking your clothes.

When your hands brushed his face to remove his glasses, Tsukishima tensed for just a moment—almost imperceptibly. To anyone else, his posture would still seem indifferent, but in that moment, he was grappling with thoughts he would never allow to surface. Ever since the day he met you, something about you had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite decipher. He remembered that second encounter—when you accidentally hit him in the face with a ball—and how it made him see you differently. And when you approached to check if he was okay, cheeks flushed and voice filled with apologies, he had been intrigued. He couldn’t explain what caught his attention; maybe it was your unusual accent when you spoke Japanese or the spontaneous expressions in your native language that you let slip into conversations. There was something genuine and refreshing about it.

But perhaps what surprised him most was how wholeheartedly you threw yourself into supporting them. Despite their chaotic practices, mistakes, and failures, there you were, cheering them on with fervor. Shouting words of encouragement that sometimes seemed almost ridiculous but somehow managed to energize and uplift them. And, though he’d never admit it out loud, there was something charming about your jokes—those corny ones you told when you sat next to him, not caring if they weren’t funny, simply enjoying the moment.

There was also the way your intelligence caught him off guard, like when you helped Hinata with his homework during breaks. He couldn’t deny that he saw you differently, in a way that clashed with his usual attitude.

It was the little things, the unconscious details that made you stand out. The way you furrowed your brow when something didn’t sit right with you or when you didn’t understand something—a look that became even more evident when you reviewed sheet music in the gym during breaks. Often, he watched you from afar, observing in silence. Your presence seemed to have its own rhythm; you always smelled nice, dressed gracefully, and to him, you looked more than good. However, whenever he started thinking about all of this, his mind would quickly rein itself in, reminding him that he shouldn’t think of you that way—especially in a moment like this.

Suddenly, the snap of fingers in front of his face pulled him out of his trance. “Earth to Tsukki,” he heard your voice, clear and amused. He opened his eyes and saw you raising an eyebrow, his glasses perched on your face, making you look funny. His gaze met yours, and for a brief instant, he couldn’t help but smile—if only on the inside.

"Man, you’re really blind," you said playfully, noticing how strong the lenses were.

Tsukishima looked at you with a mix of frustration and resignation, quickly extending his hand to try to grab his glasses back. "Give me that," he said seriously, but you, quick as ever, moved away before he could reach them. He was lucky the mask covered the slight blush on his cheeks, which didn’t escape your notice.

"'Give me that,'" you mimicked, copying his tone and posture, which only made him huff in annoyance.

"I don’t sound like that," he complained, still trying to retrieve his glasses, but you moved deftly to keep them out of his reach, enjoying the slight discomfort you seemed to cause him. Tsukishima’s nearsightedness didn’t help him much in this situation, and when he tried to distract you by smearing a bit of the mask onto the bridge of your nose, you paused to clean it off. He took advantage of the moment, grabbing his glasses back with a small victorious smirk.

"How annoying," you muttered, rubbing your nose to remove the excess cream, only to hear a triumphant cheer from the other side of the room.

"We did it!" Hinata and Yamaguchi shouted in unison, celebrating as they finally cleared the level you’d been stuck on. Their excitement filled the room, and Tsukishima, clearly irritated by the noise, let out an exasperated sigh.

"So loud," he commented, his tone as sharp as always.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Daichi appeared, looking surprised and slightly annoyed. "Hey, it’s late! What are you all still doing up?" he said firmly. Taking in the scene before him, he frowned in disbelief. "What… what is this? Go wash that stuff off your faces and get to bed. Now."

With a collective sigh, everyone began getting up and reluctantly leaving the room, some grumbling about the captain’s order while others simply muttered their goodnights, resigned to Daichi’s reprimand.

You grumbled softly under your breath as you walked at a slow pace, trailing far behind the group of boys. "Damn… This is what I get for showing up early," you muttered, casting a frustrated glance at the figures running ahead. Ukai’s training sessions were notorious for being grueling, but you’d never thought you’d find yourself caught up in one.

"Come with us, you never exercise, not even in PE," the redhead had said with that boundless energy of his that sometimes got on your nerves. Stupid carrot head, you thought with a mix of irritation and resignation.

Unlike the rest, who were already running at a steady pace, you chose not to rush. Instead of trying to keep up, you preferred to stroll leisurely, enjoying the cool morning air and the quiet streets stretching out before you.

"Hinata, don’t yell for no reason; you’re just going to tire yourself out faster," Daichi warned, his tone firm but patient. Hinata, however, ignored the advice, picking up his pace to try and overtake Kageyama.

"Hey, where are you going?" Daichi exclaimed again as the redhead suddenly veered off course with all his impulsiveness.

You sighed at the commotion, finally catching up to the group, who had stopped by the side of the road for a break. Despite the curious glances sent your way, you didn’t stop. You simply kept walking with the same calm as before, unwavering in your stride.

"Wait, where are you going now?" Daichi asked, raising an eyebrow at your indifference to the team’s pause.

"To find him," you replied without slowing down, adjusting your high ponytail and brushing away the strands of hair that had begun sticking to the back of your neck from the heat. "Let’s just get this over with. It’s too hot to drag this out any longer."

You continued walking, your pace steady and determined. As you turned a corner, your gaze landed on Shoyo, who seemed engrossed in an animated conversation with another boy.

"Shoyo!" you called firmly as you approached. He quickly turned at the sound of your voice, an innocent smile lighting up his face. However, your attention soon shifted to the young man standing beside him.

He was dressed in a red tracksuit, probably his school uniform, and though his posture was relaxed, there was something in his gaze that unsettled you. His sharp, feline eyes rested on you for a moment, calmly analyzing before returning to the phone in his hands. He was reserved, that much was clear, but there was something intriguing about his demeanor. For a moment, he reminded you of Nayuta, though with a more masculine version of her serene expression—except for the blonde hair that set him apart.

"Oh, there you are!" Shoyo exclaimed, interrupting your thoughts with his usual energy, bouncing toward you like he was celebrating a victory. "This is Kozume Kenma; he’s a second-year in high school and, well… he’s lost," he explained, casually pointing at the blonde boy.

"I-I’m Y/N Y/LN," you introduced yourself, bowing slightly with more nervousness than you would’ve liked to show. Why are you stuttering? For god’s sake, he’s just a cute guy, you scolded yourself internally, feeling a slight warmth on your cheeks.

Kenma barely nodded in response, murmuring something that sounded vaguely like "nice to meet you" without looking up from his phone. His lack of interaction didn’t bother you; instead, it piqued your curiosity about his quiet and reserved personality.

"Did you know Kenma plays volleyball too?" Hinata chimed in enthusiastically. Hearing that, your eyes drifted to the athletic shoes poking out of the bag next to the blonde boy. They were of good quality, evidently worn but well cared for.

"He’s a setter, but not like ours," Shoyo continued, referring to Kageyama.

"Thank God," you muttered under your breath, just loud enough to pass as a casual remark. The thought of dealing with another Kageyama sounded exhausting.

Kenma glanced up for just a second. "What about you? What position do you play?" he asked, raising his voice just enough for you to hear him clearly.

"She’s our coach’s assistant," Hinata answered before you could even open your mouth. You shot him a sidelong glance, mildly annoyed, but decided not to correct him.

While Hinata continued chatting with Kenma, you stayed silent, merely observing. You noted how effortlessly Shoyo filled any empty space with his contagious energy. Before the redhead could ask the boy about his school, a deep voice rang out from down the street, cutting through the moment.

"Kenma!" called a tall guy with black hair styled in an unusually striking way. His presence dominated the space, his tone a blend of authority and familiarity.

"Kuro," Kenma responded with his characteristic calm. Without hurry, he stood and walked toward his companion.

"Bye," Kenma murmured as he left. You felt a pang of disappointment watching him go so quickly. "See you, Shoyo, Y/N," he added, his tone slightly warmer.

Your eyes met his in that final moment. And just when you thought there wouldn’t be any further interaction, Kenma did something unexpected: he threw you a quick wink, so subtle you might have missed it if you hadn’t kept eye contact. A sudden warmth rose to your cheeks, and before you could process it, he was already walking away with Kuro, as if nothing had happened.

The air, which had felt cool and relaxing earlier, now seemed uncomfortably warm. “Someone hold me…” you muttered under your breath, stunned by what had just occurred. The sense of discomfort and confusion was almost tangible.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Hinata asked, noticing your bewildered state. His eyes sparkled with concern as he observed you curiously. “You’re red. It’s because of the sun, isn’t it?”

Hinata, in his typical fashion, placed a hand on your forehead to shield you from the direct sunlight, trying to protect you with his innocent gesture. However, something in his expression shifted when his gaze followed the direction Kenma and Kuro had taken. His eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, it seemed like something had just “clicked” in his mind.

“No… no, no, no way…” he mumbled to himself, as if trying to process an impossible thought. Then, he looked at you, bewildered, noticing you were still silent and your face was still flushed.

“No… it can’t be!” Hinata repeated, his face a mix of confusion and barely hidden curiosity. “Come on, you just met him, and you already… you?” he tried to continue, but you cut him off, placing a hand over his mouth to silence him before he could say more.

“Stop talking,” you said firmly, trying to regain your composure. Straightening up, you stared at Hinata. “Not a word about this, okay?” The seriousness in your tone made it clear this wasn’t the time for jokes.

Hinata looked at you with an amused expression, and you knew you couldn’t trust him to keep this secret. His face was far too mischievous, as if the whole thing was just a game to him.

“Understood?” you insisted, pressing your hand more firmly against his face, hoping he’d finally get the message.

Instead of answering directly, Hinata did something completely unexpected—he licked your palm, as if he couldn’t care less about what you were asking. The gesture left you utterly stunned and, if you were honest, a little grossed out.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting!” you scolded, pulling your hand away quickly and shaking it with a look of disdain.

The familiar voice of Sugawara interrupted you both at that moment. “Hey, guys!” he called out, making you and Hinata turn toward him. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry,” Hinata apologized with a sheepish smile, not seeming too bothered. “I ran off and got lost.”

“It’s fine,” Sugawara replied, brushing off the incident. “Come on, we need to head back.” With that, the group began walking back to the gym, their conversation resuming its usual flow.

It wasn’t long before Hinata sidled up to you, murmuring a question. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?” But before you could respond, he darted away when he caught the murderous glare you shot at him—a clear warning that you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Girls are so weird,” Hinata muttered under his breath, seemingly to himself, glancing at you with a mix of curiosity and mild fear.

Finally, the long-awaited day of the match against Nekoma had arrived. Both teams were lined up in front of the entrance to the gym, ready to enter the venue where the match would take place. The rows were neat, with Karasuno players on one side and Nekoma players on the other.

Your gaze swept across the opposing lineup, and that’s when you saw him: Kenma, the reserved guy you had met not long ago, now dressed in the red and black uniform of Nekoma. To your surprise, he was playing as the setter for the opposing team. Wow, so he's their setter. Cool, I’ll get to see him play, you thought, feeling an odd excitement at the prospect of watching him in action.

"Kenma!" Hinata called before he could enter the gym, excitement clear in his voice. "You're on Nekoma?" he asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"Ah, yeah," Kenma replied with his usual calm.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Hinata puffed his cheeks, clearly annoyed that he hadn’t known this detail earlier.

"Because you didn’t ask..." Kenma looked away, his answer as simple as ever, though no less effective.

Hinata furrowed his brows, as if trying to process his teammate's logic. "But you said we’d see each other! How could you not tell me something like that?" he insisted, still confused.

Kenma glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, a slight glint of amusement in his gaze. "Your shirt said 'Karasuno High.' It was pretty obvious," he concluded indifferently, leaving Hinata without a comeback.

Before the conversation could continue, a tall and intimidating-looking guy appeared behind Kenma, drawing the attention of both you and Hinata. His expression was serious, and his posture radiated a kind of passive threat.

"Hey," he said in a deep voice, addressing you and Hinata directly. "What do you want with our setter?" His tone aimed to be intimidating, but to you, it was nothing more than a half-hearted attempt.

Hinata, almost instinctively, took a step back and hid behind you, leaving you to handle the situation.

"It’s none of your business," you replied calmly, crossing your arms while maintaining eye contact with the guy. Your voice, though relaxed, carried an edge of challenge. "And who are you?" you added, raising an eyebrow, making it clear that his attitude didn’t impress you.

Before the other guy could respond, Tanaka's voice rang out behind you, full of energy and attitude. "And what do you want from our first-years?" he spat, stepping forward to position himself in front of you with a challenging stance. You glanced at him, feeling a twinge of exasperation. This is ridiculous, you thought, crossing your arms while trying to maintain composure.

As Tanaka and the tall guy began an exchange of words that seemed to escalate quickly, something else caught your attention. A soft "hello" was heard next to you, immediately capturing your interest. When you turned, you found Kenma, who was staring with unusual concentration at the screen of your PSP. On the device, the startup menu of God of War: Ghost of Sparta glowed with its characteristic dark and rustic tones.

Kenma kept his gaze fixed on the screen as you held the console in your hands, his interest clear despite his serene expression. "Do you like it?" he asked in his calm tone, which somehow made your heart beat a little faster.

"Yeah, although... I’m still on level 5," you confessed, lowering your voice slightly as if admitting it were some kind of weakness. "It’s harder than I expected."

Kenma nodded, moving a little closer to get a better look at the screen, his golden eyes analyzing every detail. "Yeah, God of War can be tough if you’re not used to the combos. This one, in particular, has some interesting mechanics, but also a couple of frustrating enemies. Have you faced the Giant Scorpion yet?"

Your face lit up with a mix of excitement and nervousness. "No! I haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’ve heard it’s pretty tough. I’m trying to improve my combos... but I always end up pressing buttons randomly when I get nervous," you admitted, letting out a small nervous laugh as you brushed a lock of hair from your face.

Kenma made a small gesture that seemed like an attempt at a smile. "That happens at first. But if you focus on blocking and dodging at the right moment, the fights get easier. Have you tried using the Spartan Rage? It’s good for clearing out hordes."

You shook your head, embarrassed. "No... I think I forgot how to activate it. The tutorial went too fast, and I didn’t want to go back and check."

Kenma looked at you, surprisingly patient. "It’s L1 and R1 at the same time. Try it next time you’re surrounded by enemies." Then, his eyes returned to the screen, but his closeness made you increasingly aware of every little movement.

"Ah... thanks," you managed to say, feeling ridiculously nervous by his attention. It’s just a guy, calm down, you repeated to yourself, even though your hands started to sweat slightly as you held the console.

"If you want, I can help you with that level," Kenma offered, completely casually, as if it were no big deal. But for you, that simple suggestion made your mind go blank for a moment. Help you? Play together?

"R-really?" you stammered, heat rising to your cheeks. "I mean... if it’s not a bother."

Both of you were so absorbed in your conversation that you didn’t notice the four Karasuno guys watching from a few steps behind. Kageyama had approached Hinata, who seemed to be following the interaction with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"What’s going on?" asked the black-haired boy, frowning.

Hinata, with his usual enthusiasm, leaned toward him and whispered something in his ear. Kageyama furrowed his brow even more, confused. "What about her?" he asked aloud, causing the other two—Yamaguchi and Tsukishima—to step closer.

"Shh, lower your voice," Hinata insisted, whispering. "Look!"

Following his indication, Kageyama turned his gaze toward you and Kenma, who were still absorbed in your conversation. He seemed to understand what Hinata was implying, although his reaction was more of a shrug.

The scene didn’t go unnoticed by Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, who had also approached out of curiosity. Hinata, always the first to spread rumors, whispered the same thing to both of them. Yamaguchi covered his mouth to hold back a nervous laugh, but Tsukishima didn’t react immediately. His gaze darkened as he watched the interaction between you and Kenma, the slight flush on your face, and the calm with which the Nekoma blond stayed by your side.

"Ridiculous," Tsukishima muttered, adjusting his glasses with a sharp motion before stepping forward toward you.

"Hey, Y/N," he said, his voice laced with false calm, "I think Coach Ukai is looking for you." He placed a hand on your shoulder, guiding you forward while looking at you with an almost challenging intensity. "He might need your help."

You couldn’t help but let a hint of doubt show in your eyes. It didn’t sound convincing, but still, the pressure of his hand on your shoulder pushed you to take a few steps forward. "Really?" you asked, your tone revealing more skepticism than certainty.

Tsukishima, however, didn’t seem to be shaken. "Yeah," he responded with a calculated softness, though his expression wasn’t entirely honest. "You know how he is. Better go before he gets in a bad mood."

With a resigned sigh, you finally decided to follow him, stealing one last glance at Kenma before he walked away without saying a word.

[mymelody58]

POSSIBLY THE BEST SERIES I’VE EVER READ OH MY DAYS THIS WAS SO GOOD

⭒࿐COLLIDE - epilogue

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 - 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐄

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝐏𝐓. 𝟑 : 𝐖𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐃.

← 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡. 𝟸 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 →

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: After watching them lose and bloom, shatter and survive, fate exhales—and answers the question that has haunted every stage, every verse, every sleepless night: will it finally loosen its grip and let them have what was always theirs? Maybe it doesn’t tie things clean. Maybe the red string coils into knots, frays with time, tangles itself around distance and silence and years that almost swallowed them whole. But it never breaks. And now—at last—it pulls tight. Not to strangle, but to lead. This is not the end. This is what happens when stars remember where they belong—and finally, collide 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 16,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: JUST READ BABE. JUST READ. TRUST. AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

For the full experience, I recommend clicking on the songs linked to Spotify as you read!

But now, take my hand—let’s walk into the end of this story together <3

Two weeks.

That’s all that remained before Ellie Williams stepped back into the spotlight.

Not for an interview. Not for an apology.

For a stage. For a reckoning. For her.

She wasn’t coming back with headlines or handshakes. She was coming back the only way Ellie Williams ever knew how—burning. No warning, no press run, no apology tour. Just a guitar in her hands and one hundred thousand people at Michigan Stadium.

The same stage you opened your tour.

But now, it was her turn.

People flew in from every corner of the world. Slept in tents outside the gates. Painted her name on their cheeks like war paint. Wore her lyrics on their jackets like armor. Some hadn’t heard her voice since the Louder Than Fate tour, when she was still burning and hadn’t yet turned to ash. Others had never heard her live at all—just in headphones, in bedrooms, through car radios. Some came because they loved her. Others because they missed her. But most came because they needed to see her.

Needed to know if she was still real, still standing, still capable of singing through the wreckage she crawled out of.

Ellie got the offer from the label just days after she dropped the album.

She could’ve said no. She could’ve let the legacy speak for itself. But she didn’t.

Because she was hungry again.

Hungry for the stage, for the sweat, the sound, the roar of something louder than memory and pain. Hungry for the sting of light in her eyes, for the weight of the guitar against her chest, for the noise that could drown out everything she used to be.

Hungry to prove to the world—and herself—that she could step back into the spotlight that once shattered her and not just survive it, but reclaim it.

And the moment it was announced, the news spread like gospel.

Ellie Williams. Live. One night only.

It sold out in seconds.

The world was watching—eyes glued to screens, hearts clenched in anticipation, waiting to witness history.

But when the day finally came, none of them knew what she felt backstage.

She was sitting in front of a vanity mirror that didn’t feel like hers. Harsh yellow lights beat down on her face. The reflection staring back at her looked familiar in the way a childhood home does after a hurricane. Same bones, different air.

Her hair was pulled back into a low bun—not styled, just practical. She wore a white ribbed tank that clung to her shoulders, old jeans and a leather belt that still held the shape of her past, and those battered boots she’d once played entire tours in.

Her tattoos looked darker somehow, more defined, every line sharpened. Her face was clearer, stripped of eyeliner and pretense, scattered with freckles the world hadn’t seen in years.

She didn’t look older. Or younger. Just… still. Like everything that once raged inside her had burned to the ground—and something stronger had chosen to stay behind.

And for a moment—one long, breathless, soul-splitting moment—Ellie didn’t think she could do it.

She then stood beneath the humming lights of the corridor, the roar of one hundred thousand people pulsing through the concrete like a second heartbeat, and felt the weight of her own body like it was something foreign. Her chest was tight. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her mouth was dry, like even her voice had curled away from her in fear. 

There were no rails to cling to. No coke to jolt her heart into rhythm, no pills to anchor her breath, no needles to blur the sharp edges. No easy lie to armor herself with, no persona to slip into like a stage costume, no mask to make the trembling feel like performance. No Jesse cracking jokes beside her. No Dina tugging her sleeve, telling her to breathe. 

No you waiting in the wings to kiss her good luck, to squeeze her hand and tell her she was born for this. No soft smile to ground her. No voice whispering in her ear that she could do it, that she’d be okay, that she was already more than enough.

Just her. Raw and unfiltered. Barefaced. Bare-souled. Skin-to-bone vulnerable. Walking willingly into the same blaze that once swallowed her whole, but this time with no promise she'd come out the other side.

She felt the full, awful presence of her own unmedicated nerves. Her unedited grief. Her unmuted past. She didn’t know if her knees would carry her forward or buckle beneath the weight. She didn’t know if her voice would hold, or if it would crack and betray her in front of everyone. 

She had never felt smaller. Never felt more real. Never felt more alive.

But then—Joel appeared.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t ask if she needed anything.

He just walked in.

The same way he had stepped into that hotel suite three years ago, when she was dying beneath taped-up curtains and cold bathroom tiles, when the air reeked of confinement and something worse, when her hands shook for a million different reasons and her soul felt like a ghost trapped somewhere deep in her chest, pounding to get out. 

And now, in this dressing room, on the edge of everything she’d become, he stood the same way, like time had folded in on itself to remind her: you are not alone this time, either.

He stood behind her in the mirror, silent and solid, a figure made of earth and time. That familiar weight in his shoulders—the kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself, but holds up the roof when everything else comes crashing down. 

He wore denim. Flannel. His boots were dusted from the road. His hair was streaked with more grey than she remembered. 

But his eyes—his eyes were steady. Unmoving. They had been holding still for years, just waiting for her to look up.

“…Y’know,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges, worn like gravel and truth, “first time I saw you hold a guitar, you were what—six?”

Ellie blinked, almost smiled. “Five.”

“Five.” He nodded. “Right. And your hands were so damn small I thought you were gonna snap the neck clean off just tryin’ to tune it.”

A breath escaped her. It was half a laugh, half a sob. That sound she only made around him. It meant she remembered, too.

“But you didn’t,” he went on. “You figured it out. I taught you how to play, sure—but you taught yourself how to make it sing. You took wood and wire and turned it into something unforgettable. And that something made you the greatest.”

He then stepped forward, slow and sure, and rested his hands on her shoulders. He looked at her like she was made of light and grit and second chances.

“I know you’re scared,” he said. “Hell, if it were me, I’d be scared too. But what’s in you, kiddo… that don’t get killed by fear. It don’t quit when it hurts. You’ve already walked through hell and came out the other side, and you’re still standing. Still breathing. Still singing.”

She looked down, breath catching, throat tight.

His hand moved to her cheek—rough thumb brushing just beneath her eye, the way only a father could touch someone and make them feel safer by standing still.

“You’re not what broke you,” he said quietly. “You’re what survived it. And you don’t gotta go up there alone—not ever again.”

He held out his hand.

She took it.

And in their in-ears, a voice crackled to life: Showtime in five seconds.

She closed her eyes. Breathed once. Twice.

The stadium lights dimmed.

A single spotlight cut through the dark like a blade through velvet.

And two silhouettes stepped into it. Side by side. Unshaken. Unafraid.

Ready.

The crowd saw Joel first—and the sound that erupted wasn’t a cheer. It was a detonation.

A seismic, full-body scream that tore out of a hundred thousand throats at once, rising from the depths of Michigan Stadium like the earth itself was howling. People weren’t just applauding. They were sobbing. Collapsing. Grabbing strangers. Shaking.

Joel Miller’s return to the stage after a decade was already legendary on it's own.

But then Ellie stepped into the light.

And the world broke open.

The noise became inhuman. It was the loudest thing she’d ever heard, even with her in-ear monitor trying to block it out. A sound so raw it blurred into static—like every heart in the stadium had burst at once. People dropped to their knees. Clutched their chests. Stared like they’d seen God materialize in front of them.

Because in a way, they had.

Not the myth. Not the scandal. Not the ghost they’d whispered about for three years in every corner of the earth.

Just Ellie fucking Williams.

Stripped of costume and spectacle. Her jaw set. Her eyes full. Her spine straight. Boots grounded on the edge that once shattered her. Her first acoustic guitar strapped across her chest like a shield made of memory.

And when the noise dimmed by the smallest fraction—her voice came through.

A voice that had once disappeared into silence now rose like a phoenix from ash.

“I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger…”

The way it moved through the stadium felt ancient. It came from something bigger than music.

Then Joel’s voice slipped into the harmony like it had always belonged there, effortless, worn in, achingly right.

The way their voices braided together felt less like a performance and more like a memory being rewritten in real time. 

And the crowd felt it. You could see it in the way people started crying and didn’t stop. Not polite tears, not glossy-eyed admiration, but full, collapsed sobs. As if hearing something they didn’t know they’d been starving for. Fathers held daughters like lifelines. Lovers clutched hands, some of them sobbing into each other’s shoulders. Fans leaned on strangers, weeping like confessionals. 

Because it wasn’t just Ellie up there. And it wasn’t just Joel. It was both of them, together—alive. Not as the fractured pieces of the people they used to be, but as something whole and rebuilt.

They stood side by side, boots grounded. Their playing wasn’t polished, and it didn’t need to be. It was raw and imperfect and so incredible it can barely be described. 

The scrape of strings, the breath between verses, the unfiltered ache in their voices—it all bled into something more honest than perfection could ever offer.

And somehow, that stripped-down moment, with no band behind them and no noise to hide inside, was more powerful than any anthem ever could’ve been.

When the final note rang out, it didn’t end with applause. It ended with stillness. The kind that makes you feel like the world has stopped spinning. For a heartbeat, it was silent enough to hear the breath of the person beside you. 

And then the sobbing started again—quieter now, reverent, as if no one wanted to break what had just happened.

Ellie turned to look at Joel.

Joel was already looking at Ellie.

And in that look, she saw something she had never seen before. Not the complicated, unspoken weight of a father who didn’t know how to hold a daughter made of fire.  She saw pride. Pure, earned, bone-deep pride. It didn’t need to be said aloud to be known.

And Joel saw her, too. Not the haunted. Not the addict. Not the one who ran. Not just the artist who rose from her own ashes, turning them into songs that brought the world to its knees—all over again.

But the daughter he thought he’d lost forever, standing beside him with her chin lifted and her voice unshaking. The saw the woman who clawed her way back from the dead.

The song ended, but something far more important ended with it.

The wound Joel had left in Ellie—the old, unspoken fracture of absence and disappointment—closed. Quietly. Completely. 

And the one Ellie left in Joel—the guilt, the helplessness, the deep, clawing ache of a man who feared he’d failed—finally softened into something like peace.

There were no apologies spoken.

Only a father and daughter, once torn apart by silence, who found each other again in the only language they never forgot how to speak—music.

The days had passed like mist through your fingers—formless, slow, devoid of shape or meaning, as if time itself had been grieving with you. Since the moment you pressed play on Ellie’s album, something inside you had cracked so quietly it didn’t even echo. Just a shattering, inward. A collapse you didn’t notice until you were already buried beneath it.

You moved through your days like a version of yourself caught between radio static and a memory—doing what you were supposed to do, but never quite arriving.

On stage, you sang the notes like a ghost of yourself. You moved the way you always had—fluid, rehearsed, divine—but something underneath had ruptured all over again. You smiled when the cameras were on, told stories on late-night couches with perfectly timed laughs. But every step offstage felt like unraveling. Every green room felt like a tomb.

And after, you went home, to this apartment high above the city. No press. No afterparties. The kitchen untouched. The bedroom too big. The pillows still smelling faintly like lavender and someone you didn’t name anymore.

You didn’t answer Abby. Not when she sent a long paragraph apology, somewhere between remorse and confusion. Not when she called three times in a row. And not when she finally gave up subtlety and said, “We can try again. If you want.”

You didn’t even open it.

Not because you wanted to be cruel. Not because you didn’t appreciate the softness you’d been offered, or the effort it took to stay at your side while you were halfway somewhere else. But because the truth had already bloomed inside your chest like a bruise you couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t Abby. It was never Abby. And no amount of stability or warm hands could quiet the voice you heard again.

Because that voice—her voice—had broken through the silence of your carefully reconstructed life like a blade. And in that moment, with every lyric, with every breath she sang into the dark, you knew.

Your heart had never moved on. Your soul had never made the journey. You had been surviving, yes. But you hadn’t really lived since her.

And in the aftermath of that album—raw, confessional, impossible to misinterpret—you finally let yourself accept what you’d been running from in the quietest, most painful kind of surrender.

That maybe you were destined to haunted by the ghost of Ellie Williams forever.

A shadow stitched into your ribcage. A presence that time could blur but never erase. A love that refused to die, even when you begged it to.

You’d walked into the studio the next morning after hearing it with your makeup already done and a smile pinned so tightly to your lips you were sure it would scar. Not even your stylist said a word. Not the lighting guy. Not your publicist, who usually couldn’t shut up about viral angles and fan engagement. You were handled like something breakable, a crystal vase perched too close to the edge of a windowsill. Everyone knew. No one dared to name it.

You got through the first hour of recording. Barely. Your voice cracked once, then again, and again—until it was no longer convincing. You stepped out mid-take, blamed it on exhaustion, waved off concern with a perfectly practiced flick of the wrist. My voice is shot, you said, and they nodded.

You didn’t check headlines. Couldn’t. The internet was drenched in her name—suffocating in it. Every push notification felt like a gut punch. Every flick of your thumb opened a trap. Ellie Williams Breaks Her Silence. Ellie’s New Album: A Love Letter or a Confession? “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”: A Song No One Was Ready For.

Your inbox overflowed. Interview requests. Podcast pitches. Brand deals—each one clawing for your reaction. All of them starved to know what you thought, desperate for a paparazzi shot of you crying. If they could catch you unraveling in real time, they’d rake in the numbers.

You hadn’t posted since.

You couldn’t care less about engagement, PR, or damage control. You hadn’t even posted the breakup statement with Abby—it still sat in your drafts, unsent and untouched.

Because knowing the media, of course they’d link it to Ellie’s return.

The worst part? They’d be completely right.

So now, you were in the penthouse.

In a second, you swore the whole place inhaled with you. The walls themselves paused, the air tensed, the silence had shape and sound and a pulse. Moonlight spilled across the hardwood in a long, silver exhale. You didn’t know what was coming. Only that something was.

You were lying in bed minutes later, barely breathing, when your phone lit up.

Rachel.

Your body didn’t jolt or freeze. It just… stilled. Like it recognized this moment before your brain did. You blinked, slow. Blank ceiling. Heavy air. You didn’t move. Didn’t answer right away. Just watched the screen light up with the name of the only person who might understand, the one who had always been there on the edge of everything, never pushing, always waiting.

You could have let it ring. You almost did. Let it vanish into missed call silence, another unopened door you couldn’t walk through.

But something deep inside you twitched—sharp and certain. A low, humming knowing that said respond.

So you reached quietly on the fifth ring, dragging the phone to your ear like it weighed your entire life.

“What.”

Your voice was flat, but your pulse had already spiked.

“RUN TO YOUR TV. First channel you can find—national, local, WHATEVER—just turn it on. RIGHT NOW. GO—”

Rachel’s breath was erratic on the other end, like she was sprinting through adrenaline.

“What? Rachel, what’s going on?” you sat up, “Why? What happened?”

“I—I can’t—OH MY GOD—JUST DO IT!” she half-laughed, half-screamed. “YOU’RE GONNA DIE. GO. NOW.”

Your heart lurched in your chest like it had been yanked by a string. Then raced.

Something electric ignited then—wild, primal, terrifying—the kind of feeling that didn’t come with warning. The kind of feeling that only meant one thing: Her.

You bolted barefoot across the hardwood, phone clutched in one hand, the other fumbling wildly for the remote. It was like your body already knew what your mind couldn’t yet process.

You clicked the remote on with trembling fingers.

The screen blinked to life.

One second of black.

And then—

Michigan Stadium.

Night sky overhead.

Lights flooding the stage.

And there.

There she was.

The one you thought you’d never see again.

Ellie.

You dropped the phone. It hit the floor hard. You heard Rachel screaming through the speaker, but her voice was a distant echo, swallowed by the roar in your ears.

Because she was there.

You stumbled back like the image itself had struck you in the chest. The air left your lungs all at once, sharp and violent, like you’d been punched by a ghost. Your knees caught the edge of the couch and buckled, and you sank down without grace or thought, eyes locked to the screen, unblinking, unmoving, undone.

Ellie stood in the center of Michigan Stadium like the world had tilted just to make room for her. White ribbed tank. Old jeans. Those battered black boots you once tripped over in the hallway of a hotel room you both refused to leave. Her hair was pulled back, out of her face. Her tattoos sat dark beneath the lights, inked relics of a war she survived. Her guitar rested across her chest like it belonged to her ribcage.

But it wasn’t the outfit. It wasn’t the set. It wasn’t the crowd.

It was her.

She looked radiant.

Not in a polished, made-for-press kind of way. Not only because she was already perfect. But because she looked holy. There was a quiet power in her posture, a stillness that rang louder than any scream. The kind of beauty that had nothing to prove. Her skin glowed under the lights, untouched by highlighter or stage makeup. Her arms were fuller now. Her face softer. Her body no longer carved by tension, but by healing. There was more weight to her, more color, more breath.

She looked more beautiful than your memory had dared to keep.

Changed in all the ways time demands, but still, so unmistakably her.

Because under it all, that Ellie the world and you fell in love with remained—that wild, impossible gravity only she had ever carried. The quiet danger curled beneath her stillness. The glint in her eye that dared every soul to look away. That fire in her blood, reckless and unrelenting, that burned you down and still made you crawl back, aching to be scorched again. It was the way she held a room without even speaking. The way her presence felt like prophecy.

No matter how much she changed—no matter how much softer, fuller, steadier she became—that raw, untamed pulse inside her still called to you like it always had.

But this woman, this Ellie, was alive in a way that made your throat close. Not because the pain was gone, but because she had walked through it. Burned, broke, and rebuilt every shattered piece.

You could feel it, pouring off of her in waves. This sacred knowing that she had faced death in all its quiet forms and chosen, somehow, to live.

And then—

Joel.

You pressed a hand to your mouth as the tears came fast—silent, unrelenting. They streamed down your face like they’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had. You weren’t only crying because it was beautiful. You were crying because it was real.

Because for the first time, you saw Ellie not just standing—but held.

The stadium around them was thunder, rising like a hurricane of disbelief and devotion. People wept. People screamed. People collapsed into each other in the stands.

Ellie’s voice was raw silk; Joel’s was gravel and time. Their voices braided together, weathered and warm. The song lifted into the night like smoke from an old fire. The commentators were speechless. And you—

You were wrecked.

The tears came freely now, tracing slow, aching paths down your cheeks, slipping over the curve of your jaw, soaking into the collar of your shirt. You folded over your knees, one hand clutching the center of your chest like you could physically hold your heart together, the other trembling in your lap.

And through the storm of breathless, silent sobs, you whispered—thank you.

Again and again. You thanked whatever had listened. The stars. God. Fate. The wind. That unnamed force that had heard you in your quietest agony and, at last, answered back.

It didn’t matter that she never called, not anymore. Didn’t matter that her name never lit up your phone, that she hadn’t texted or knocked your door or whispered your name back into the silence.

Because Joel was beside her. And he wasn’t hiding either. Not from her, not from you, not from the past that had nearly torn them apart. 

Because you knew, even without needing to be told, he had been with her this whole time. You could see it in the way she looked steadier. She had finally let someone love her without pushing them away.

And you knew why.

Because you had made that call.

You never got a thank you. You never needed one.

This—this moment, this breath, this proof of life—was enough.

Every night you cried for her. Every scream into your pillow. Every time you shouted into the dark, begging the universe not to take her from you.

All of it had been worth it. The pain. The silence. The years. The songs you wrote just to survive.

Because she was there, glowing. Standing with her chin held high, the stage catching her in that impossible kind of light. A light she wore like truth. No longer flinching at the crowd. No longer hiding from the name that came before her. No longer hiding from her own name.

And you sat there, tears streaming, broken open, watching from thousands of miles away. And your heart—after three long years of beating wrong—finally remembered the rhythm it was made for. 

The moment Wayfaring Stranger ended and that final chord rang out—slow and aching and holy—the stadium held its breath. The sound hung in the air like a ghost refusing to leave. Ellie stood still for a second, her head bowed, breath heaving gently in her chest.

Then she turned to Joel.

In unspoken sync, they each reached for their guitars, slinging them over their shoulders with practiced ease. The weight settled against their backs, familiar and grounding, old promises they never dared to break.

And then, without a word, they stepped forward and wrapped their arms around each other.

It was real hug—reverent, both arms around his shoulders like she was closing a loop neither of them ever truly believed would close. He held her back just as tightly, eyes shut, face buried in her shoulder like he was anchoring himself to her heartbeat. 

The crowd erupted. Not just in applause, but in something deeper. Gratitude. Relief. As if they had waited years not just for her return, but for this. For the proof that some stories do find their way back.

Ellie pulled away first, her smile faint but real. She stepped towards the mic and the light found her eyes—glassier than before, brighter than they had ever been.

“Everyone,” she said, breath catching on the word, voice rough from the weight of the moment, “A round of applause for Joel Miller. My dad.”

The response was thunder. The crowd roared like it was gospel, a wave of noise so massive it nearly lifted the stadium off its foundations. Joel shifted under it, awkward and quiet, rubbing the back of his neck like the sound might crawl down his spine. It had been over a decade since he’d stood this close to a stage, even longer since the roar of a crowd had been meant for anything he touched.

It hit him like muscle memory and whiplash at once—how the sound swelled in your chest before it ever reached your ears, how it made your ribs rattle, how it made your past feel like it never really left.

He gave a half-nod, like a man trying to stay small and humble beneath worship.

Ellie turned and looked at him—and the tenderness in her gaze made something in your own chest twist, ache, break. She held up a hand, waiting for the noise to dim, her fingers steady.

“In the past,” she said, “I was afraid I’d never be enough to step out from under his shadow. I thought I had to run from it. Outgrow it. Beat it.”

She glanced at Joel again, that crooked half-smile of hers spreading like sunrise.

“But now I get it. He’s not a shadow. He’s not a name I have to live up to. He’s my father. And I’m grateful every single day for who he is—for the fact that he’s still here. And for the fact that he still believed in me… even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

Joel stepped forward slowly, clearing his throat as he leaned toward the mic. The stadium went quiet. As if everyone knew this moment wasn’t to be missed.

“Ellie. My daughter,” he began, and even those words felt like a benediction, a prayer finally spoken out loud. “The one who made it out. And is still standin'.”

He paused. The lights caught the tears in his eyes. His voice cracked, just a little.

“The strongest and most brilliant person I’ve ever met… and ever will meet. I couldn’t possibly be prouder of her.”

He exhaled, eyes wet, the pride in him so loud it didn’t even need music.

"Everyone—a round of applause for Ellie Williams.”

The crowd didn’t cheer. They roared—with the force of something seismic, soul-deep.

Joel took a step back from the mic, gave a short wave, and began to turn. His role complete, the chapter closed.

But she blinked, tilted her head, and leaned into her mic.

“Ellie Miller.”

The crowd gasped, then rose again—like they hadn’t just been hit with the most personal, quiet bombshell of the night.

Joel froze mid-step. Slowly turned. Squinted at her with an exaggerated dad face so full of mock-scandal and affection it drew laughter through tears across the entire stadium.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” he said, feigning offense. “Changing your stage name without tellin' me?”

Ellie shrugged, expression sly and soft all at once.

“Figured I earned it.”

And then—Joel laughed. Really laughed. A deep, unfiltered sound.

He didn’t say another word. He just stepped back to her and hugged her again.

This time, longer. This time, tighter. This time, with every apology they had never said, every word they’d both gone without, every year lost that now didn’t matter anymore.

Ellie leaned into it, buried her face in his shoulder. Her mouth moved against his shirt, barely audible over the applause.

“I love you, Dad.”

And Joel, without pause, without blinking, held her closer still.

“I love you too, kiddo.”

And after the crowd finally settled, when Joel let her go and stepped backstage, someone from the wings came forward and placed it in her hands.

Her guitar.

The black Les Paul. The same one she’d played since the beginning—since cramped clubs and broken strings and dive bars that smelled like vodka and regret. It had followed her through every tour, every groupie, every breakdown, every rebirth. It had always been there, waiting.

But tonight, as she curled her fingers around the neck, it felt different.

It didn’t sit in her hands like a weapon anymore. It didn’t tremble like it was afraid of her. It rested there like it belonged.

Ellie adjusted the strap slowly, her movements precise. She stepped forward, boots echoing against the stage, and stopped just behind the mic. Her eyes swept across the crowd—one hundred thousand held breaths—and then back to the band behind her.

She nodded once. They nodded back.

Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You.

And when she started playing, everyone understood. This wasn’t a comeback. It wasn’t a redemption arc.

This was a resurrection.

Ellie had always carried something inside her—molten and unnamable, twisting in her chest like starlight caught in barbed wire. It wasn’t polish. It wasn’t performance. It was presence. That rare fire no one could teach and no label could manufacture.

And now, she didn’t just glow, she burned. She lit up that stage like she’d been born with a crowd already roaring for her. But the truth was, she didn’t need one.

Because Ellie had that thing. That impossible, untouchable thing artists spend their whole lives chasing.

She had always been her own spotlight.

And tonight, she only needed four things: a mic, a guitar, her voice and you.

From your penthouse window, even LA pulsed with the sound of her. The echo of her voice bled through televisions, car radios, rooftop speakers. A storm rolling in from the horizon, crawling towards your shore with one specific purpose.

But it wasn’t until the broadcast returned, the camera cutting back to her face—those unmistakable green eyes locked and unflinching, burning straight through the screen—that you felt it in your bones.

She had one hundred thousand people screaming her lyrics into the sky like scripture. Fans sobbing, collapsing, gripping each other like they were witnessing something divine only she could summon. The moment felt too big for sound, too holy for explanation.

But Ellie didn’t want their eyes on her. Not really.

She only wanted one specific pair.

Yours.

She stared into the camera like it was a portal, like if she looked hard enough, deep enough, it might carry her back to you. Might pull you through space and silence and time.

And somehow, it did.

Because you were there.

Watching.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. You were on the floor now—knees pulled tight to your chest, forehead resting against the crook of your arm, trying to stay anchored as your whole body threatened to come undone. Your mouth open, tears flowing. Your heart thudded against your ribs in perfect time with every chord she struck, every note she gave away striking like a bullet.

Because they were yours.

She wasn’t just singing the songs—she was ripping them out of herself. Tearing them from some raw, unspoken place deep within, where grief and longing and love had grown too vast to stay hidden any longer.

These were songs that had your name buried between the syllables, hidden in the breath between verses, stitched into final notes that lingered just a second too long.

Her voice wasn’t polished. It wasn’t pristine. It was a wound, sharp and aching and raw. A voice that bled. A voice that sliced the air open and somehow managed to stitch it closed again in the same breath.

She didn’t perform. She confessed.

Every lyric was a letter she never sent. Every chord was a memory she couldn’t bear to forget. Every time her fingers moved across the guitar, it felt like prayer.

And the crowd, the cameras, the stadium, the roar of one hundred thousand, none of it mattered.

Because she only cared about you.

She didn’t care where you were—whether you were alone in some quiet corner of the world, laughing with friends, tangled up in Rachel’s orbit, or with...Abby. All she wanted was to reach you.

But God, please not with Abby.

She didn’t care how the sound found you—through the static of a car radio, from the corner speaker of a bar you didn’t mean to walk into, or echoing faintly from someone else’s phone across the room. She just needed her voice to brush against your world, land somewhere near you ears and slip in your chest.

And she didn’t care how you saw her—on a screen, in the blur of clip gone viral, in a reflection that caught you off guard, made you look twice, made you remember. She just needed you to look long enough to recognize her, not as a star on stage, but her.

The girl who had loved you. Who still did.

Because what she was doing now wasn’t just for the world. Wasn't just for herself. It was for you.

She stared into the camera like it was a window she could reach through. Like maybe the songs would travel across the signal, across the air, and find the only heart they were meant for. The melody a key sliding into the lock of your chest.

And it did.

Sitting on the floor of your living room, lips parted, eyes blurred with tears, arms wrapped around yourself like you might fall apart if you didn’t hold tight—it did.

The way she looked into the lens when she sang the bridge of Iris—like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, and the only thing keeping her from falling was the thought of you. The way her voice cracked—just barely, but undeniably—on the second verse of Not, like the memory lodged in her throat finally fought its way out. The extra, aching strum before the outro of Twilight, a pause that wasn’t in the studio version, but lived only in this performance.

And then there was Black—that velvet, bruised wail of a song, the way she leaned into it like confession, like penance. The way Lilac Wine and Grace made her close her eyes, guitar cradled to her chest like a heartbeat, the melody unspooling as if it had been fermenting inside her for years. And in Francesca, when the lights dimmed and turned into a cold blue-purple haze, she looked up—not at the crowd, not at the band, but straight into the camera. Straight through it. Into the silence where you lived.

And the cameras caught her in it—that impossibly magnetic, sharp-browed and sharp-tongued beauty. The defiance in her jaw. The crease that lived between her eyes like a scar she never tried to erase. The green of her gaze, luminous even under the relentless blaze of stadium lights, cutting through like it had been sharpened for you.

She played, sang, and performed like she was starting a war and making peace in the same breath—every note a battle cry, every word a surrender.

Backstage, someone whispered, "She’s a fucking legend."

Another voice, awed: "This is history in the making."

Someone else, "She’s not human."

And maybe they were right.

Maybe she never was human, at least not in the way the rest of humans were.

Because Ellie on that stage wasn’t the girl who vanished three years ago, shaking and hollow, disappearing into a silence so deep it swallowed her. She wasn't the daughter of. She wasn't the ex-frontwoman of the Fireflies. She wasn’t the heartbreak you wrote an entire album about. She wasn’t even just the girl you loved.

Standing at the center of the biggest stadium in the country, with her Les Paul slung low against her hip, sweat glistening down the line of her throat, breath catching from the weight of her own voice, she was all of them at once.

She looked out into the dark, into the crowd, into the camera, and didn’t flinch.

She reached.

And somehow—so impossibly—you reached back.

And when the lights dimmed again, it felt like the air had been sucked from the world.

No music. Just a breathless, crushing stillness—like the universe was holding something behind its teeth. The stadium buzzed in the dark, bodies charged with static, hearts beating out of sync, phones lifted like trembling offerings.

But the band was gone. The monitors had gone dark.

And Ellie was nowhere in sight.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. It was hard to tell. Time had folded into itself.

Then—movement.

Far stage left, barely illuminated, a silhouette appeared.

At first, it was just shape and shadow. The camera didn’t zoom. The lights didn’t rise. No cues. Just the slow reveal of a presence.

The stadium held its collective breath.

It was her.

You could tell by the weight of her walk—the deliberate thunder of boots hitting the stage like war drums. A now clean black tank clung to her shoulders, her jeans darker, still stiff from the quick change backstage. The Les Paul still strapped across her body like shield. Her stance was familiar, yet different. She wasn’t reemerging.

She was summoning something.

And then—

A second figure stepped into the low light beside her.

A woman. Lean. Curly hair catching the stage glow like a halo of fire. A bass hung low across her hips, hands already poised, one foot forward, like she’d never stopped playing. Like the time apart had only sharpened her.

The audience froze.

Then—A third figure appeared in the back.

A man. Seated. Shadowed. Hands spinning a pair of drumsticks like magic, like memory. His shoulders wide, head bowed as if in prayer, coiled with precision.

The crowd didn’t scream. Couldn’t.

Because no one dared to speak into what was happening.

The Fireflies.

The screen finally zoomed in, not all at once, but slowly. Like even the broadcast crew understood they were capturing something mythical. A resurrection not just of a band, but of legends.

Ellie stepped up to the microphone, backlit by fire and myth, sweat still shining across her collarbone, guitar strapped tight like her ribs might break without it.

The crowd still hadn’t broken their silence. They waited. Breathless.

Then her voice came—low, serrated, full of that old venom, aged like the finest wine.

She leaned into the mic, the corners of her mouth lifting between a smirk and a warning.

“Guess what, fuckers—turns out fire doesn’t die. It just waits.”

The crowd erupted.

A scream so violent it shook the camera feed, sent tremors through the floorboards, nearly knocked people to their knees. It wasn’t just cheering. It was release. It was reverence.

Because the impossible had just happened.

Screams tore through the stadium so loud, seismic sensors in three counties thought it was an earthquake. Security guards were crying. A paramedic fainted. One hundred people passed out instantly. At least five breakups and one proposal happened mid-scream. The cameras struggled to focus through the chaos. Hands reached towards the stage like the second coming had arrived.

If Ellie thought she’d already heard the loudest sound of the night—this made it feel like a whisper.

And just like that, she ripped the first note from her guitar like it had been waiting three years to scream.

Her voice cut through the sound system like a beast unleashed. 

“WE'RE BACK FROM THE DEAD!”

And behind her, Jesse slammed into the drums with a grin so wild it made three thousand headlines the next day.

Dina’s bass rumbled in, low and unrelenting, the kind of sound you felt in your ribs before you heard it.

In those hidden weeks in New York, Ellie, without warning, showed up at Jesse’s door.

No text. No heads-up. Just a knock, long past midnight.

He opened it, groggy and confused, rubbing sleep from his eyes—and froze.

Dina was on the couch behind him. She stood. They stared at Ellie like they'd seen a ghost.

Five full seconds passed. No one spoke.

Then—just like that—they broke.

They collapsed into each other in the hallway, tears wetting shoulders, hands clutching sleeves like they might disappear again if they didn’t hold tight enough. There were no apologies. No screaming matches. No grand speeches. Just the kind of crying that sounds like relief. The kind that only happens when someone you thought might lose forever walks through your door.

They didn’t try to fix everything all at once. They didn’t need to.

Instead, they talked.

For hours. Cross-legged on the floor. Curled up on the couch with knees tucked into their chests like kids. They passed a joint back and forth, laughed until they couldn’t breathe, ate chips from the bag. They talked about nothing. About everything. The silence between them softened into something like trust again.

At some point, Ellie played The Shape of What I Lost on Jesse’s living room speakers.

None of them moved while it played. No one spoke when it ended.

Five full minutes of silence.

And then Dina looked up, eyes glassy but clear, and said,

“So… when are we getting the band back together?”

It was never a maybe.

It was always a yes.

They planned it like a heist. In secret. No press. No leaks. No teams. Just the three of them in borrowed rehearsal spaces, writing new arrangements with old muscle memory and fresh scars. They rebuilt everything from the bones—new sound, new fire, same soul. Rehearsing like their lives depended on it.

Because maybe they did.

They started with a Fireflies version of Black Vultures. They stripped it raw, loaded it with grit, sharpened every verse until it sounded like vengeance. It was thunder. It was blood. It was the kind of opening track that let the world know—this wasn’t nostalgia. This was now.

Then came Back from the Dead.

Their first new song in years.

Written together. One night. In the middle of that too-small studio with too-warm beer and half-empty notebooks, Ellie had looked up from her guitar, her voice hoarse, and said, “This isn’t about being back. It’s about surviving it.”

And now—here they were.

After Ellie strummed one of the most powerful, soul-baring solos of her entire career—fingers blistering, guitar wailing—the final verse rang out into the night. It didn’t just echo through the stadium. It resounded across the entire city, flooding rooftops, trembling windows, bleeding into alleyways and high-rises and hearts that had been waiting for their return.

Black Vultures came.

They weren't just performing it. They were reinventing it.

The Fireflies version was heavier. Filthier. Sharper. It was blood-slick and golden, packed with harmonies and breakdowns and that wild, reckless chemistry that only the three of them could create.

Jesse’s drum kit pounded like an earthquake. Dina’s bassline and backing vocals hit like a fist through glass. And Ellie—center stage, mouth on the mic, eyes burning like flames in hell—howled.

Her voice was louder now, stronger than it had ever been, even in her prime. She sang like she wanted the whole universe to know:

The Fireflies weren’t just back.

They had never sounded better.

The bridge crashed in like a wave of fire, and Ellie dropped to her knees at the edge of the stage, her guitar howling beneath her fingers like it had waited years for this exact moment.

And with auburn strands plastered to her face, sweat slicking her arms, voice burning from the inside out—

She screamed the bridge.

She didn’t just sing it—she hurled it from her chest like it had been clawing at her ribs for years. The sound tore through the stadium, ripped through amplifiers, cracked across the sky like thunder made of bone.

Louder than anything she’d ever screamed before.

Louder than pain. Louder than addiction. Louder than guilt.

“I’M STILL ALIVE.” (2:46)

Her voice broke—sharp, guttural, glorious—and for a split second, it sounded like her soul was breaking with it.

Because she was still alive.

Against all odds. Against every headline. Against everything that tried to kill her.

And the world shook around her like it understood.

And you?

You were mess of sound—crying, laughing, screaming—all at once. Your hands clutched your chest like you were afraid your heart might actually tear itself free. You shook your head like you couldn't believe what you were witnessing, because how the hell could your body contain that much awe, that much history, all crashing back to life in front of you?

The Fireflies.

Your brain couldn’t make sense of it, but your soul did. Your soul was already on its knees.

And when the last guttural notes of Black Vultures shattered into silence, there was no formal send-off. No staged goodbye. No polished encore.

Just darkness.

Just three shadows—collapsing into each other, disappearing as one.

A constellation folding inward. Stars returning to the sky.

People didn’t clap. They screamed. They sobbed. They shouted things they couldn’t put into words. Strangers held each other. Generations wept side by side.

And the Fireflies stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a hug so tight, so chaotic, it looked like a home they had built out of each other. Ellie’s arms around Jesse and Dina. Their heads pressed together. Faces red with sweat and tears.

Nothing had ever broke them—not distance, not silence, not time.

They had found each other.

The image was already going viral. Captured from a thousand shaking phones. Every corner of the internet was drowning in real-time sobbing posts, reaction videos, screen recordings, blurry zoom-ins of that one perfect second.

Dina stepped forward, snatched the mic with shaking fingers, and through laughter and tears, said what everyone had been praying to hear for three years:

“THE FIREFLIES ARE FUCKING BACK!”

The stadium erupted like a match to gasoline.

Jesse stumbled forward next, still breathless, drenched in adrenaline, drumsticks half tucked into his back pocket.

“Y’all thought we were done?” He grabbed the mic from Dina and grinned. “Nah. The hiatus is OVER. Burned. Buried. Signed, sealed, fuckin’ obliterated. Lock your doors, hide your stages.”

Dina laughed, wiping her face, tugging Ellie between them. “And your girlfriends.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “Especially your girlfriends.”

Ellie, standing in the center, boots planted, face flushed, soaked in sweat and disbelief, waited until the crowd went quiet again, hanging on every breath.

She looked at Jesse. Then Dina. Then at the crowd. Her voice low, serrated, sure: “We’re the Fireflies. We're back.”

Ellie’s grin was feral. Her eyes gleamed.

“And we’re never fucking leaving again.”

And in that moment, three people who nearly didn’t survive it—did. Together. Loudly. Permanently.

And the Fireflies walked off together—shoulders touching, arms around each other’s backs, bathed in gold, glowing with something larger than life. A moment carved into music history like it had been written in blood.

Immortal.

But Ellie didn’t follow them.

She stayed.

The band had returned, melting into the shadows.

Ellie walked to the very edge of the stage. Not with power. Not with purpose. Just quietly. Like the weight in her bones had finally stilled. The stadium lights softened to a single warm glow that haloed around her like dusk.

She held only her acoustic now—no distortion pedals, no echo, no fire. Just six strings and silence.

The crowd fell into an eerie, reverent stillness.

And then—

She looked up.

Right into the camera.

Her face was calm, but her jaw was tight. You could see the pulse in her throat. The muscle flickering in her cheek. Her eyes—God, those eyes—shone like green of forests on fire.

She exhaled slowly.

And the chords of Lover, You Should’ve Come Over started ringing out behind her.

“I... I wasn’t gonna say anything,” she said, her voice low—frayed at the edges like old denim, worn from being bitten back too many times.“I thought the songs would do it for me. That they’d be enough. That maybe if I screamed it into a chorus, someone would understand what I meant.”

She paused, eyes flicking out over the sea of lights, breath catching like the words were scraping their way up her throat.

“But—fuck it. If I never get to say this again, I need to say it now.”

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the guitar like she was anchoring herself, grounding against the tremble in her chest. Her shoulders lifted, then sank.

“This was the first song I wrote after everything. And I wasn’t even gonna play it tonight. I was scared it would ruin me.”

She swallowed. Blinked hard. Her voice dropped to something raw, unvarnished.

“But not playing it… felt like lying.”

A hush swept over the stadium like fog. Even the air seemed to stop moving.

“I wrote it for someone who saved my life. Not by pulling me out of a fire. Not with some grand gesture. Just… by being herself. By existing. By letting me love her.”

She blinked hard. Her gaze didn’t leave the camera.

“I don’t know if she’s watching. I don’t know if she hates me. I don’t know if she ever wants to see my face again. But if she is… if you are out there, I need you to hear this.”

She leaned forward, the mic catching every breath, every break. 

“I will love you until the day I die. Always.” 

Her voice trembled on the last word.

“In every lifetime. In every version of me. In every fucking universe where I come back right or I don’t fall apart or I don’t ruin it. I have never stopped—not for one goddamn second.”

The crowd didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“I don’t need you to forgive me. I don’t need you to call. I don’t even need you to come back. I just needed you to know it.”

Her lips parted, trembling.

“I hope you’re happy. I really, really do. Even if it’s not with me. I hope they treat you the way you always deserved. I hope they see you the way I did.”

She drew in one last breath, as if steadying the part of herself she’d just cracked wide open.

“And I’m proud of you. For surviving. For growing. For still being here. Even if I was never meant to stay… you were always meant to be loved right.”

She then adjusted the mic, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the stand. She strummed once—gentle, unsure. Then again. 

And she began to sing.

No introduction. No theatrics.

Just her voice, bare and hoarse and open, stripped down. It stretched out across the cavernous hush of the stadium and threaded itself through satellites and static and signals, leaking into living rooms and bedrooms and car radios and headphones like smoke under a door. Her voice crawled into the cracks of the world. It didn’t ask for permission. It just filled the silence, turned it into something alive.

You didn’t cry at first. You couldn’t. Your body didn’t know how to respond to all of it.

You sat motionless, bones locked, eyes burning. Her face took up the screen and everything ceased to exist. The city below you vanished. The walls melted. The clock stopped.

All that remained was that voice—fractured but somehow steady—and the impossible way it made you feel like she was in the room.

Her eyes didn’t flicker from the camera, and for a moment you weren’t watching a broadcast. You were reliving it—every version of her you ever loved staring back at you, woven into this one moment.

And something inside you cracked. Just a hairline fracture, somewhere deep in your chest. But it spread—slow and certain, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to give way.

Then the tears came. Hot, blurred, relentless. You didn’t even feel them at first. Only realized when her face on the screen shimmered at the edges and dissolved into color and light.

You found yourself crawling closer to the TV, like a child chasing a ghost. Your hands touched the glass when her face appeared again, fingertips pressed to the image like they could somehow reach her. As if maybe—just maybe—she’d feel it. As if you could hold her the way you once did.

And the song wasn’t a performance. It was an undoing. Her voice stumbled, broke open mid-line, trembled in places where it roared minutes before. But she kept going. You could hear the exact breath where she almost couldn’t. You could feel how much it cost her. How much she meant it. Every note sounded torn from scar tissue and sewn together with your name.

You could hear the devotion behind it. The guilt. The grief. The quiet, impossible hope.

She wasn’t asking for forgiveness. She wasn’t trying to rewrite the past.

She was offering you what remained.

And you let it wash over you. Let it dig its hands into the wreckage of your heart and do what only she could ever do—make something beautiful out of it.

Because this—this was what it looked like to crawl back from the grave of who you used to be and still reach for the same hand.

One tear slid down her cheek during the final chorus. She didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t flinch. Just let it fall.

She didn’t know where you were, or who you were with. But she sang to you anyway, and her voice was still yours. Still filled with the shape of you, the shape of what she lost. Still aching with all the things she never got to say.

She sang like she could tear the world apart just to rebuild it in the shape of your silhouette. 

And you just watched the woman who once destroyed you sing herself back into your hands.

When the lights dimmed for the last time, there were no pyrotechnics. No encore. No choreographed goodbye.

Only Ellie. Alone at the center of the world. Her chest still rising like she hadn’t come down yet. Her guitar silent. Her body shaking. Her voice lingering in the air like it didn’t want to leave. Her hands hung loose at her sides, like she had given everything. 

Because she had.

The crowd—one hundred thousand strong—stood frozen. Reverence had swallowed them whole. They had just watched someone confess in a language more powerful than apology.

Ellie stepped forward.

Her face was flushed. Her lips parted. Her eyes glassy. Her voice was rough now, worn down from thirty songs delivered like confessions, like penance, like a prayer with no promise of an answer. She leaned into the mic.

And when she spoke, she didn’t pretend. She didn’t perform. She just told the truth.

“I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

The words landed with a hush, like snowfall.

“Three years ago, I walked off a stage and I didn’t know if I’d ever walk back onto one. I didn’t know if I’d ever sing again. Or write again. Or even want to.”

She paused. The crowd didn’t make a sound.

“I disappeared because I hit the lowest point in my life. I became someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I didn’t want to be. And instead of asking for help, I—”

She inhaled, steadying herself.

“I numbed it. I ran. I used.”

The silence deepened. All those years of rumors, headlines, speculation. And she was saying it now, for the first time. Out loud. Unafraid.

“I was an addict.”

Gasps, yes. Tears, yes. But not judgment. 

“And I’m not saying that because I want sympathy, or because my PR team finally let me say it. I’m saying it because I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to be ashamed of something I survived.”

Her voice cracked beautifully.

“I’m not proud of my past. But I’m proud of what I made out of it. I’m proud that I made it here. That I’m clean and still here.”

The stadium roared, not in chaos, but in agreement. Applause like thunder, cheers like an exhale the world had been holding for three years.

“And I don’t give a fuck what the media says about it. I don’t care what the headlines are tomorrow, if they call me ‘broken’ or ‘damaged’ or ‘a scandal.’ I’m alive. And that’s enough.”

She gripped the mic stand—not to steady herself, but to ground the moment. 

“And if you’re listening to me right now—” she began, her voice quiet but unshaking, “—if you’re where I was… if you feel like you’re drowning, if your hands are shaking, if you’ve convinced yourself it’s too late—it’s not.”

She scanned the crowd. She wasn’t looking for applause. She was looking for the people who needed to hear it.

“I swear to you, it’s never too late. I thought I was beyond saving. And then someone made a call. And I lived.” Her voice caught. She closed her eyes, breathed through it. “If I made it out, so can you. And I will keep saying that until my voice gives out.”

The stadium had gone quiet again. Every word she said felt like it mattered more than anything they’d heard in years.

“Every single cent from this concert is going to addiction centers across the country. Because people saved me. And now, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to return that favor.”

She paused. Swallowed hard. Her lips curled, just faintly, into something like awe.

“Thank you, Michigan. I will never forget this.”

And then—without spectacle, without sound to carry her away—Ellie stepped back from the mic.

The silence that followed held its breath. It was the kind of silence that happens after birth, after death, after the truth has been spoken out loud for the first time. No one cheered. No one screamed. It was reverent.. A hush draped over one hundred thousand hearts, like the world itself needed a moment to process what had just passed through it.

Joel Miller came back.

The Fireflies came back.

Ellie came back.

She had cracked her chest open and stitched a cathedral out of light and sound. She had unburied herself with her voice and her guitar—splintered, guttural, alive, carrying the weight of every unsaid thing.

It became the kind of night people would name their children after. The kind of night that would live forever in documentaries and tattoos and the back corners of minds that knew they had witnessed something unrepeatable.

The night the girl the world thought it had lost opened her mouth and dragged the sky back into color, like she’d never stopped painting it with her music.

And the second she stepped out of the spotlight, Rolling Stone pressed send on a headline. No debate. No discussion. The entire world already knew in their bones.

The Queen of Rock Has Risen.

Backstage, the light was dimmer, but somehow still glowing. The kind of golden warmth that comes after miracles.

The noise of the crowd—the screaming, the applause, the frenzy—felt a thousand miles away. Her legs were trembling beneath her, but she walked anyway. She didn’t feel triumphant.

She felt hollowed and filled all at once.

Jesse was already there.

He instantly pulled her into a hug like gravity had brought him forward and his body didn’t know how to do anything else. His arms were tight around her, his chin pressed into her shoulder, and it took half a breath before she melted into it—arms around his ribs, forehead buried in his neck, shaking.

“I missed you, bro,” he murmured.

“I missed you too,” she croaked, already crying.

Dina crashed into them next, wrapping around both of them with that reckless kind of love only she knew how to give. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time, kissing Ellie’s temple, whispering, “We came back. You came back.”

Joel stood off to the side for a moment, letting them have it. Watching them like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Then he walked forward, slow and steady, and wrapped his arms around all three of them like he was pulling the broken pieces of the universe into one.

It was the kind of hug people spend lifetimes waiting for.

They cried, all four of them. Jesse muttering, “You’re a legend, you hear me?” Dina swearing through tears, “You just rewrote history, oh my fucking god Ellie—” Joel whispering, “You did good, kiddo. You did so good.”

It wasn’t just an embrace. It was a reckoning. A forgiveness. A coming home.

Eventually, Dina pulled back first. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her black jacket and looked at Ellie with a spark in her eye. “Okay. Everyone’s waiting. The press is foaming at the mouth.”

Jesse nodded, still grinning. “A thousand celebrities are waiting just to breathe the same air as you. You should probably change your shirt.”

Ellie let out a laugh that felt like it had taken three years to reach the surface.

“I’ll be out in a second,” she said softly.

Dina paused, searched her face, then nodded. “We’ll be at the end of the hallway. Take your time.”

And they left.

The crew, the band, the stagehands, the roar of one hundred thousand people still vibrating through the concrete—it all drifted away, like the echo of a dream.

Leaving just her.

Joel.

And the silence behind the storm.

Ellie sat down slowly, her movements heavy with the weight of what she’d just done. The Les Paul still hung across her like a cross she hadn’t yet set down. Her fingers trembled in her lap, twitching with phantom chords. The adrenaline was still thick in her bloodstream, but the ache in her chest was different. Older. Deeper. Familiar.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watched her for a long moment—not as a legend, not as a miracle, but as his kid.

And then, gently—so gently it almost broke her—he spoke.

“You still something feel like something's missin'."

It wasn’t a question.

It was the truth. A soft, unshakable bell rung into the space between them.

Ellie didn’t answer.

What could she say? That she had screamed her love into thirty songs and one stadium and still felt it tearing through her ribcage like wildfire? That every note had been a plea she couldn’t say aloud? That the only moment she almost lost her footing was the one where she swore she could feel you watching, even from halfway across the world?

Didn’t have to.

Joel moved towards her and sat down—carefully, like a man approaching a wild animal he knew well enough to fear. 

Ellie stared at her hands. The calluses on her fingertips. The faint tremor that hadn’t stopped. Her jaw flexed. She blinked hard.

“I thought maybe the music and saying those things out loud would be enough.”

Joel tilted his head, eyes never leaving her. “Was it?”

“No,” she said. Voice cracking. “Not even close.”

He looked at her for a long, quiet moment.

“Then why didn’t you reach for her?”

Ellie’s jaw tightened. Her voice, when it came, was so small it barely sounded like her.

“She’s with someone else, Dad. I already said it. She moved on.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t move.

“She deserves to live her life.” she whispered, throat thick. “ I already took too much of it. I already hurt her enough. I don’t get to ask for anything more.”

Joel exhaled through his nose.

His voice came slower than usual—like he was peeling something loose from a part of himself that had long been sealed shut.

“You know…” he began, quiet. Measured. “I never told you this. Not until I knew you were truly ready to hear it.”

Ellie didn’t move, but her eyes, dulled and distant from everything she’d left on that stage, flicked up just enough to meet his.

“That night,” he said. “When I found you—”

His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and kept going.

“When I said someone called me… that someone begged me to come. Said they didn’t know where you were, only that you were close to the edge…”

His gaze finally lifted, locked onto hers. Nothing in it but the weight of truth. No buffer. No armor.

“It was her.”

Ellie didn’t react. Not at first. But she could feel the shift in her body, her breath leaving like a bullet had torn through it.

“She called me,” Joel continued. “Sobbing. Could barely get the words out. She told me everything that happened between you. Said she’d tried everything. Said she couldn’t reach you, couldn’t save you… and if she didn’t tell someone who could, she’d never forgive herself.”

Ellie’s breath left her body like it had been shot out of her. Her shoulders caved inward, like a second wave had hit—and this time she hadn’t braced.

“She didn’t just save you once,” Joel said, voice shaking. “She saved you twice. She called me, and you’re alive because of it.”

Ellie’s lips parted. But nothing came out. Her face contorted—silent, cracking open. One tear fell. Then another. Her hands, limp in her lap, trembled as she tried to hold herself still.

“That girl…” Joel said, softer now. So soft, like the words were breakable. “That girl still loves you, Ellie.”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t care where she is, or how much time has passed, or who the hell she’s with. It’s written all over her. And it’s written all over you.”

He reached for her hand. Held it. Gentle, but firm.

“That kind of love,” he said, “isn’t normal. It’s bone-deep. You two—whether you’re together or not, whether the world likes it or not—you’re soulmates, Ellie. And I know that word gets thrown around, but I mean it. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.”

Ellie shook her head, barely, but he tightened his grip—not to argue, but to anchor.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I’m not telling you to beg, or fall at her feet or throw yourself into some story that already broke you. I’m just telling you this—”

“You owe it to both of you to reach out. To find out if there's still something waiting on the other side of all that silence.”

Ellie sat in it. The weight. The unbearable truth of it all.

Then—barely audible, like a child trying not to cry—she said:

“…What if she doesn’t want to hear from me?”

Joel smiled.

Not wide. Not triumphant. That other kind of smile. The sad, knowing kind.

“Then at least you’ll know,” he said gently. “At least you’ll know you tried. And that’s more than most people ever get to say.”

He brushed his thumb once across the back of her hand.

“You already came back from the dead tonight, kiddo. You stood in front of the whole world and told the truth. That was the hard part. One more step?”

His eyes softened.

“It won’t kill you.”

Ellie let out a sound—a half-laugh, half-sob, ragged and real. Her hand went to her face, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.

She looked down. Then back at him.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Okay.”

And in that small, broken, brave words—fate shifted.

Joel stood, squeezing her shoulder. 

Ellie didn’t wait another second.

The minute he left the room, her body moved before her brain could catch up, before fear could creep in, before she could second guess the string that had already gripped her by the throat and yanked. She didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Didn’t let herself feel anything but urgency—pure, breathless, blood-hot urgency.

She stripped the sweat-drenched black tank from her chest with shaking hands, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Reached for the nearest thing that felt like armor and found it—a grey hoodie at the back of a chair, long abandoned, still smelling faintly of woodsmoke and rosemary and something safe.

Her fingers trembled as she zipped it up all the way to her collarbone. She didn’t tie her boots. Her legs were already moving before the zipper clicked shut.

She skipped the afterparty. Skipped the press. Skipped the team waiting backstage with champagne and glittering tears and a thousand wide-eyed congratulations and documentary cameras itching to catch her.

She had somewhere else to be.

No one could stop her, and no one tried. There was something in her face—hollowed out and bright, wild-eyed and burning—that told them all: this wasn’t about them.

She passed Joel in the hallway. He was waiting there, leaned against the wall like he’d known she’d come flying past. He didn’t ask where she was going. Didn’t need to. Their eyes met for a second, and the entire weight of everything passed between them.

He nodded once. Slow. Certain.

“Go get your girl.”

Out of the venue. Into the car. The night air hit her like a second wind—cold against her skin, slicing straight into her lungs. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely book the flight on her phone, her thumb smashing the screen like she could break through it.

Private. Direct. L.A.

At the airport, people recognized her. Of course they did. It was her night. The world was still reeling from her resurrection. Her name was everywhere, her voice still echoing off satellite feeds and breathless news anchors trying to define the undefinable.

But she wasn’t theirs. Not anymore.

She walked through security like a ghost. Like a girl in a dream she refused to wake up from. The guards didn’t stop her. Didn’t dare.

She boarded the jet like it might fall out of the sky but she didn’t care. Sat by the window with her hoodie pulled tight over her hair, hands clenched in her lap like if she let go of herself, she’d come undone.

She didn’t know what she was going to say. Didn’t know what you’d say. Didn’t know what she’d find.

She didn’t need a map. Or a message. Or a pin drop on a location app. She didn’t need confirmation. Didn’t need a green dot under your name or a picture posted or a text from someone who might’ve known.

She felt it.

The way she had always felt you—quietly, fiercely, impossibly—like gravity. Like a thread humming between her ribs, always pulling taut when you got too far away. The same strange, unshakable force that had made you crash into each other in the first place.

Ellie could feel you in her teeth.

She couldn’t explain it. There was no logic to it. She didn’t believe in fate. But something ancient inside her did. Some part of her that had been waiting since the beginning. Since that night that was supposed to mean nothing and ended up meaning everything.

She didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know what you were doing. If you were asleep. Awake. Alone.

She just knew—

It was pulling her for a reason.

And across the country, you were mid-breath. Mid-cry. Somewhere between shaking and unraveling, curled in on yourself in the corner of your living room, your face wet from the tidal wreckage Ellie had sent crashing through your chest. Her voice had faded, but the echo hadn’t. You were still hearing her in your bloodstream.

Then—something hit you.

Not thought. Not reason. Not logic.

A pull.

You sat up so fast your neck cracked. The air in the room shifted. It felt like pressure building in your ears before a storm. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t name it, couldn’t pin it to anything real. But it gripped you by the spine and yanked.

And without thinking—without blinking—you opened your laptop.

Your fingers moved faster than your mind.

Private. Direct. Michigan.

No planning. No second-guessing. You didn’t care if it was reckless. You didn’t care what time it was. You just booked it.

You were already moving. Already on your feet. Already grabbing the suitcase from the back of your closet, tossing in the essentials—half-folded, half-thrown, hands trembling with sudden and strong urgency. You didn’t care what you wore. You didn’t care what would happen. All you knew was that you had to see her.

Not through a screen. Not from the crowd of a hundred thousand people. Not in a song.

You needed her.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The waiting. The wandering. The silence. The unbearable thought that she still believed you were with someone else. That she thought you’d moved on. That she thought you didn’t love her anymore.

You couldn’t let her keep believing that.

Not when every cell in your body had been screaming her name for years.

You paced your apartment barefoot, floor cool beneath your soles, heartbeat louder than your footsteps. The windows glowed with the soft pulse of the L.A. skyline—silent, unmoving, unaware. But something in the air had shifted. It felt charged. Unnatural.

Your chest buzzed with electricity. With instinct. With truth.

You didn’t know what would happen when you saw her. 

You only knew that you would step off that plane because the earth owed you something holy. The universe owed you an answer. The girl who used to kiss your shoulder while the sun rose still lived somewhere in the body of the woman who’d just sung her soul back to you.

You would find her.

And you would tell her everything.

That you never stopped loving her. That you tried to. That you wanted to. That you failed, gloriously and repeatedly. That loving her was the most alive you had ever felt. That breathing without her had felt like holding your head underwater. That even when you were in other arms, your heart was still bleeding in her hands.

And above you—somewhere between coasts, between midnight and morning—Ellie Williams was flying through the sky in the opposite direction.

Back to the city she swore she’d never return to. Back to the girl she hadn’t dared to call. With hope clutched in her fists and need bleeding like a pulse in her chest.

The city was still wrapped in silence, the kind that only lives between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m.—when night hasn’t fully gone and morning hasn’t fully arrived. The streets were washed in blue light. The horizon glowed like a secret waiting to be revealed.

She stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the building like it had been waiting for her.

Same glass. Same frame. Same quiet ache sitting behind every window like the memory of you.

She hadn’t slept. Her eyes burned. Her limbs ached. But none of it mattered.

There was something—something—that had pulled her across the country like a thread made of gravity and hope. A blind, relentless force that told her she had to be here, and she had to be here now.

She walked toward the door like she was stepping into the ocean.

And somehow—after all these years, after everything she’d done to forget—her hands remembered everything.

The code to your private elevator. Four digits. Punched in without hesitation. Muscle memory forged in a different lifetime. The screen blinked green, and the hum of the mechanism stirred like an old song. The doors slid closed behind her, and suddenly she was rising—slow, steady, silent.

Each floor ticked by like a pulse.

20.

21.

22.

She didn’t breathe the entire way up.

Her heart had been loud for hours, but now, in the stillness of the ascent, it quieted. Like it, too, was waiting. Like it knew the next breath might change everything.

Outside, your SUV was already idling on the curb.

Inside your penthouse, your suitcase sat zipped by the door. Passport tucked into the side pocket. Phone in your hand. Charger in your bag. You were dressed. Ready. 

Ellie found herself standing in front of your door like she had been summoned by the ache in your chest.

She hadn’t knocked yet.

Her fingers were frozen mid-air, inches from the surface. Her eyes traced the curve of the wood. The faint scuff mark near the bottom corner—she put it there once, with the toe of her boot accidentally.

She stared at it like it might open up and swallow her whole.

Her other hand was clenched at her side, white-knuckled. She’d spent the entire flight and ride up rehearsing what she’d say, but now couldn't remember a single thing.

You reached for the handle, breath shallow, some mix of fear and instinct surging through your veins like storm water. You didn’t know what you were expecting—maybe a delayed flight, maybe a burst of courage, maybe nothing.

And then—

You opened it.

Just as her hand was about to knock.

There you were.

And there she was.

Ellie's hair was still knotted in a messy bun, cheeks flushed from wind and disbelief, breath hitching in her chest like she hadn’t stopped running since the stage lights dimmed. The hoodie you once stole—faded gray, fraying at the cuffs—hung from her shoulders like a flag she didn’t know she’d still carry. Her sleeves were shoved up to her palms, hands trembling faintly. 

She looked different and exactly the same—like time had passed through her, not around her. Her jaw had sharpened, her shoulders squared, but her eyes—those wild, unholy green eyes—still held the same storm that ruined you the first time. Beautiful in a way that knocked the breath out of your chest. 

And you—

Suitcase behind you, coat halfway off your shoulder, lips parted in a breathless, disbelieving oh—stood like the earth had just cracked open and revealed something holy inside it. There was more grace in your shoulders now. More armor in your spine. You looked stronger. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. 

Your hands still shook from the moment you decided you couldn’t live one more second without seeing her again. You were halfway out the door to chase her across the country—and there she was.

Like fate had been watching both of you run in opposite directions and decided it was finally enough. 

And suddenly, the entire world narrowed to the space between your bodies.

Her hand was still hovering in the air, just inches from the door. 

Your fingers were still on the handle, knuckles white.

In one impossible second, everything aligned.

One divine collision.

The only sound was the pounding of your hearts—wild, breathless, almost violent. As if they might tear out of your chests, racing to reunite before your bodies had the stepped closer.

You opened your mouths, as if words might tumble out, but none came.

Just breath. Just silence. Just awe.

Just you standing in front of her. Just her standing in front of you.

Because what started in that club—that single, electric night, a hookup meant to burn fast and disappear—became the axis your whole world tilted on. It should’ve ended there, a forgettable blur of sweat and strobe lights. But it didn’t. It spiraled. It bloomed into something reckless and unplanned. A fake relationship born of convenience, publicity, and chaos.

And what started as a lie—a shared performance for the cameras, for your teams, for the world—became a love so blistering, so consuming, it remade both of you. A love neither of you could name without trembling. A love that burned in silence. That bruised in secret. That shattered you from the inside out and still, remained the purest thing you had ever felt.

And now here you were.

Three years of silence. Three years of wreckage. Three years of bleeding into microphones, of screaming each other’s names into the void and pretending not to hear the echo. Of becoming ghosts in each other’s lives, but never quite exorcising the love. Of dreams that ended in a jolt, in a sob, in a name bitten back before waking. Of lyrics more honest than phone calls, more vulnerable than voicemails. Of entire confessions wrapped in agony and mailed to the stars because it was the only place that felt far enough, safe enough, to hold them.

You both had your own catastrophes—different storms, same devastation. You broke in private, rebuilt in silence. You clawed your way out of grief with nothing but your fingernails and rage. You both carried the weight of what you lost like it was sacred.

And somehow, you both healed. Slowly. Ugly. Miraculously. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But enough to stand again.

You both died and were born again—more than once. You had grown out of your fears.

You walked through fire barefoot, bleeding and blistered, and survived.

And now you were standing at the doorway of a home you thought you’d never return to.

Each other.

You looked at her and saw every version of her at once.

The girl who loved you like it was the last thing she would ever do. The one who broke your heart. The one who tried to die. The one who didn’t.

She looked at you and saw every version of you at once.

The girl who held her in that green room like her hands could stop time. The one who screamed at her in songs that set the world on fire. The one who still waited—through heartbreak, through silence, through everything.

You had found yourselves—even if you had to lose each other to do it.

And the only thing that hadn’t changed, the one thing that never even flinched—

Was the love.

And now, it stepped into the hallway between you and wrapped its arms around your chests, breathed back into your lungs, and said: “You found each other again.”

You stepped forward.

And she did too.

At the exact same moment.

Like you’d rehearsed it in a dream.

And your bodies collided with a gentleness so raw, so wide open, it knocked the breath out of you.

Her arms went around your waist, yours around her neck, and it wasn’t a hug—it was a memory. A heartbeat. A return.

You buried your face into the crook of her shoulder, nose brushing the fabric—faint lavender and something uniquely Ellie: warmth, sweat, a hint of old smoke, guitar strings, rain. She smelled the same. She smelled like you remembered. She smelled like love. Her face pressed against your neck, breath shaky, lashes damp against your skin. You felt her exhale and it sounded like something sacred breaking.

And then—

A sound she thought was lost forever, echoing now like a miracle she didn’t dare hope for.

Ellie giggled.

Just a little. Disbelieving. Like she was overwhelmed, like her body didn’t know if it should cry or laugh or both. It made your eyes sting harder.

You made a choked little noise in return, part sob, part joy, part something you didn’t know how to name. Your fingers dug into the back of her hoodie like if you didn’t hold tight enough, she might vanish again.

She squeezed you back just as fiercely. Her hands fisting into the back of your coat. Her whole body was shaking. You felt it in your ribs. Her grief. Her awe. Her relief.

There were no words. There didn’t need to be.

Only the echo of your breathing. The trembling of your hands.

You only melted into each other like this was the only place you’d ever belonged.

In that hallway, as the sun bled over the skyline and the city below began to wake, you held each other for so long, time dissolved.

You weren’t in the doorway. You weren’t in the penthouse. You weren’t in LA or Michigan or Earth at all.

You were somewhere else entirely, suspended in a place made of heartbeats and fingertips, breaths and silence, forgiveness and love. You held each other like gravity had reversed, like if you let go, the sky itself might fall apart.

After what felt like hours and seconds at the same time, Ellie pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands rose to cup your face, thumbs softly tracing your cheekbones as if she was trying to relearn a face she had seen a thousand times in her dreams. Her eyes were red-rimmed, shining like the first break of dawn, fierce and gentle all at once.

The sun had risen, painting gold and rose across her face, illuminating every freckle, every scar, every tear-stained line.

“I came here for you,”

She whispered, her voice shaking.

“I—I couldn’t celebrate, I couldn’t wait another minute, another second. I couldn’t breathe until I found you.”

Your breath caught, tangled itself in your chest as you smiled softly, almost disbelieving.

“Ellie, I was about to leave for the airport. I had a flight booked to Michigan,”

You whispered, your forehead tipping forward to rest against hers. 

“I couldn’t wait either. I was going to find you, no matter what it took.”

She laughed softly, a beautiful, broken sound. Her eyes widened a fraction in disbelief, her thumbs tracing your face, afraid to stop touching you.

“Of course you were,” she breathed, shaking her head. “Of course you fucking were.”

She swallowed hard, blinking fast, and you saw a shadow cross her face.

She took a breath, then softly—painfully—began, 

“I—I know you’re with someone else—”

But before she could finish, you brought your hands to her face, gently cupping her cheeks and tilting her gaze back up to you.

Your voice was clear, sure, gentle, as you interrupted:

“Not anymore.”

Her breath caught sharply, lips parting in surprise.

You stepped even closer, chest to chest, heart to heart, and let your thumbs stroke softly along the edge of her jaw. 

“Ellie, it’s a long story, but… the short version is—I never loved anyone or anything that wasn’t you. Not once. Not even for a second.”

She stilled, breath hitching audibly. Her eyes widened slightly, disbelief and relief flooding her gaze like light chasing out darkness. “You—”

“I never stopped loving you. I couldn’t.” you said fiercely, your voice shaking now, your throat raw with emotion, your hearts laid bare between you. 

“You were always there. Every song. Every breath. Every heartbeat. It’s always been you, and only you.”

Ellie’s expression shattered beautifully. 

Her chest rose and fell quickly, her hands trembling slightly as they cradled your face, her gaze melting deeper into yours. Tears spilled freely down her face as she pressed her forehead to yours, holding you desperately close. 

“You're the reason I’m breathing right now.” she whispered, voice breaking. 

“The reason I woke up, the reason I tried again. You’re my everything—everything good about me is because of you. I never stopped loving you, I never even tried to stop.”

You smiled softly, your tears mixing with hers, your breaths warm and shared in the narrow space between your mouths. 

“Ellie, I know,” you said gently, so sure, so steady it almost broke you both.

“I promised you always, and I kept it. I held onto that promise every second we were apart. Even when it hurt like hell. Even when I thought you were gone forever. I still loved you—always.”

She nodded softly, pressing her forehead deeper against yours, her voice dropping to a whisper, a confession, a prayer. “When I promised you always, I meant it. I always did. And I still do.”

You drew back, just enough to look clearly into her eyes. Just enough to see the girl you met in a dim-lit club, who wore a cocky smile and bruises like badges, who took your heart away and never gave it back.

Just enough to see the woman who survived it all—who fought addiction, fame, silence, grief, and still came back to you.

The woman you never stopped loving.

“Then kiss me.” 

You whispered, your voice so quiet, so vulnerable, that it was almost lost in the air between you.

And then, with all the gentle bravery of someone stepping into daylight after a lifetime of darkness, she leaned in. Impossibly gently, she closed the distance like it was holy ground.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parted softly in anticipation, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

And then—finally—

Your lips met hers.

And it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was fate and destiny and that invisible thread everyone spoke of, wrapping tightly around your souls, binding you back together. 

Her mouth tasted like tears and truth and the same undeniable hunger that had brought you together that first night. Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulled her closer, needing more. Her hands went south and tightened around your waist, gripping you like you were the only thing left holding her to the earth.

It was desperate, yet gentle.

Furious, yet forgiving.

You kissed like you were breathing each other’s air. Like you were finally letting yourselves live again.

Ellie’s hands held you tightly, securely. It was a reunion of your broken pieces, a reclaiming of everything you lost, a quiet vow that said: never again.

Because what had always held you both together wasn’t fate, or luck, or even destiny.

It was simply love—wild, endless, patient, fierce love. The kind that rewrote stars and healed wounds and bridged chasms so wide the world had called them impossible.

A love that refused to let go, that waited patiently.

And as you finally broke apart, just enough to rest your foreheads together, chests rising and falling in rhythm, Ellie whispered softly, voice thick with love and relief and awe and a small and sweet smile curling the edges of her mouth.

“I’m never letting go again,” 

You smiled softly, pecking her lips and holding her even tighter, knowing you were exactly where you belonged, exactly where you'd always meant to be.

“Good,” you whispered back. “Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

The world outside your door began to wake fully now, sunrise bleeding through the window, bathing both of you in gold.

Unaware it had just witnessed a miracle—two souls, once lost, finally finding their way back home.

And there, in the doorway, you kissed her again.

The end and the beginning. The hush after the storm’s last scream. The first note after a symphony of silence.

A moment that bent time—where everything broken came back to life.

The impossible reunion of two hearts that never truly said goodbye—only paused, mid-sentence, until the universe was ready to let them finish the song.

Time, once the cruel god of your story, has softened. 

It no longer roars through your chapters like a thief, no longer dares to take. It lingers now, lacing your hours with light. It lives in the steam curling from mugs at sunrise, in the shadow of windchimes flickering across your porch, in the breath that passes between when neither of you are saying a word, but everything is understood.

It moves slow now. Gentle. Forgiving.

There are still stages, but now balanced with the lull of domestic quiet. 

Ellie still sings. Still performs. Still fills stadiums like they were built just for her. But not to prove anything Not for the charts, not for the noise, not because the world is watching. She does it because the stage is the only place where her soul stretches out its arms and exhales. Where the fire inside her flickers steady, not wild. Where she can be everything at once—loud and soft, broken and healed, gone and home.

And you still fill stadiums too. Still write songs that echo down city blocks and through the hearts of strangers. Still pile up golden awards. But it’s different now. Less frantic. Less like bleeding. More like breathing. More like living with the wound instead of trying to cauterize it.

What once felt like survival now feels like grace.

But now, both of your music live in quieter places too. In the kitchen, where her low, rasping hum drifts through morning light as she makes you coffee, barefoot and half-asleep. In the bathtub, where your voice softens, half-lost beneath the rhythm of water, singing just for her.

Somewhere along the road, after the world gave you every crown and award, after your names were stitched into history with gold thread, you realized the only place you ever wanted to be legendary was in each other’s eyes.

And you are. 

Even when your bodies ache and your hair has changed and your voices go softer by evening. You look at each other and see the full truth. Every version. Every bruise, every resurrection. You both see a girl who wrote an album to survive. The one who stood in front of thousands and broke herself open just to be seen. Who wouldn’t let go. Who stayed. Who held grief in one hand and love in the other and refused to put either down. You both see all of it. You always have.

You don’t talk much about those years anymore. The dark ones. The bloody ones. The ones where you vanished from earth and from each other in different directions and came back new. 

But sometimes, when the night is quiet and the dishes are put away and the cat has found its usual place curled at the end of the bed—you sit with your backs against the headboard, and you remember. You talk about the club. The pretending. The songs. The silence. And you press your hands together, and you say thank you. Not to each other.

But to whatever thread in the universe refused to snap.

And you both remember the day you stood—beneath a sky that felt too small to hold the weight of what you were about to vow—and promised. Not perfection. But to choose each other. Loudly. Publicly. Eternally. Again. Again. And again.

The event of the decade. Cameras lined the coast, desperate for a glimpse. Celebrities and icons flew in from every corner of the world, but none of them mattered. You wore white. She wore black. She cried the second she saw you—before you’d even made it to the altar. You kissed her before the officiant could finish the words. And when the crowd threw roses into the air like prayers, Ellie looked at you like she always had.

Like you were the only person the universe had ever made. Like all the noise, all the years, all the fire had only ever been a road back to you.

Dina, Jesse, and Rachel wept like widows—shoulders shaking, faces buried in trembling hands. Even Joel couldn’t hold it in. Especially Joel. He cried the hardest, in a way only fathers understand.

And now, years later, you still look down at your hand all the time—at the ring that catches the light like it was carved from stardust itself. A massive diamond nestled in platinum like it belongs in a museum, but the band worn smooth from years of sleeping with her hand curled in yours. 

And then, there’s Melody.

Born in the late hours of a stormless night, in that suspended breath between yesterday and tomorrow, she arrived—howling and perfect and wrapped in light. And Ellie was there, holding your hand—the one she’d slipped the ring onto beneath a sky full of stars, the same hand she hadn’t let go of once that night. Her fingers trembled. Her cheeks were damp with awe. And when the doctor whispered she’s here, Ellie looked at you like the world had cracked wide open all over again—only this time, it wasn’t just you standing in the light. It was you. And her. And the little life you wished for together.

A new beginning, wrapped in warmth and wonder, weeping softly between you.

Her name chosen into the hush like it had always been waiting—on your tongue, in her bones. She came into the world with a freckled face and eyes the same shade of green that made you write entire albums, that made you bleed onstage, that made you believe in fate. Her hair was yours—soft, wild, unbrushable—and when she sings, which she does constantly, you swear it’s your own voice coming back to you, bright and velvety like she’s sharing a secret in the most intimate way.

She doesn’t walk. She bursts. She doesn’t ask. She declares. She runs through the house like it belongs to her—because it does. She fills every room before her feet even cross the threshold. Her laugh shakes the walls. Her tantrums are operatic. She stomps when she wants something, yells for both of you like the universe itself should answer. She has Ellie’s recklessness, your fire, and the defiant tilt of a girl born of storm and song. She performs in the living room with a wooden spoon as a guitar and insists on an encore every night before bed.

The little princess of the queen of rock and the queen of pop came into the world like she already knew who she was: the daughter of two legends. Born not just into a family, but into music royalty. Into myth. And not in the headline sense—not in the Rolling Stone profiles or the Grammy speeches—but in the real way. In the spilled coffee on sheet music. In the quiet harmonies hummed over pancakes. In the fierce, unwavering love that has become the pulse of her home.

Born of the greatest love story the industry ever knew. One written not just in verses and hooks, but in survival. In forgiveness. In the choosing—over and over—of each other. Her mothers burned the world down and built it back again just for each other. They laid the foundation in heartache and climbed out of the rubble hand in hand. 

Now she runs barefoot through hallways lined with platinum records and crayon drawings, her voice echoing between trophies and guitars, her tiny shoes lost somewhere under the couch where your first demo still sleeps. She sings lyrics that were written years before she was even imagined. She wears your old Supernova tour shirts like royal capes. She calls Ellie Mama and you Mommy, and her favorite place is between the two of you—wrapped in the kind of adoration most people spend their lives dreaming about, a love she’ll never have to search for.

Because she was born into music. Into magic. Into something rare and real and unspeakably beautiful. She was born into love that didn't just survive the fire. It composed a symphony from the ashes.

You are not at war anymore.

You have lived. You have stayed. You have kept the promises that mattered. 

And every day since that door opened, since you stood face to face and didn’t have to say a word, you have loved each other without apology or pause.

Because this is what the end of a love story looks like when it refuses to end.

And when you close your eyes and breathe, you feel it everywhere—in the warmth between the sheets, in the quiet laughter down the hall, in the pulse beneath your skin.

This is the life you bled for.

This is what it looks like when people don’t just survive, but bloom.

This is what it means to collide,

and never let go.

← 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡. 𝟸 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 →

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag  @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaiii2 @nramv @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo @l0velylace @look-me @adoringanakin @daughterofthemoons-stuff @st4r-b3rries @liasxeatt @desiretolive @rios-st4rs @miajooz @hotpinkskitties

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Goosebumps. Just… goosebumps. I don’t even know what to say.

This story holds a piece of my soul—one I gave willingly, one I’ll never get back. Collide has been more than a fic to me. It’s been a home, a storm, a love letter, a scream into the void. And now it’s done.

And I’m mourning in the corner like the most dramatic widow you’ve ever seen.

Thank you—for reading, for screaming, for holding Ellie and the reader the way I did. Thank you for feeling with me.

They loved each other like the world was ending.

And maybe, somehow, that’s exactly how it had to begin.

THANK YOU, FOREVER.

♡

[mymelody58]

Maybe Ronin with a reader who is dealing with their ex who is trying to get back together with them and won’t take no for an answer? Reader doesn’t tell Ronin at first but eventually he finds out anyways? Just a random idea I came up with, no worries if it’s not up your alley!

Exes & Orchids

Ronin Beaufort x Reader

2.6k words

You and your ex broke up a few months ago, just before you met Ronin if you had to estimate. The break up was bad; you left them due to their rather violent behaviour towards you and even your cat. They argued with you and would scream and hit you. Hell, on your way out, they even slapped you and scolded you for “daring to leave the only person who will ever love you”. They were a real twat and you were relieved to finally be rid of them.

More recently, however, you've found solace and love in a new place. You've found it with Ronin. The weird serial killer who likes to fuck with you on a server full of killers. The man who sought you out for his own entertainment. He's now also become your entertainment and the object of your affections. It seems he's found the same in you.

The two of you had semi-recently gotten together, having met in purgatory and not separated since. It'd been about a month since then, yet somehow the man had convinced you to live with him only a week after finally meeting in person. How funny is that? It's a wonder no one's killed you prior, I mean, moving in with a known killer a week after debating killing him? You're crazy. You're his crazy.

At the moment you're at home by yourself. Ronin had left a few hours ago; on a mission to get groceries, but likely distracted with something of less importance. You've gotten used to it by now. It's cute how he notices everything and just has to find out more. It's kind of annoying too.

Ronin had noticed your recent change in behaviour. How you've been on edge, kinda prickly about everything. Every time there's a knock at the door he notices your slight flinch, how you glare at the door as if it were going to eat you alive. He noticed your abrasive behaviour in regards to his affection, often pushing him away rather than accepting his love.

When he questioned you on this, you assured him it's not his fault. It was clear he didn't believe you; however he knew he couldn't pry the truth from your lips, so he dropped it. He left in a huff after that, insisting he just wanted to shower. You've grown to understand by that he means he wants to be alone to think, so you left him to it.

Maybe you should tell him about your ex? Not that he doesn't know about the low quality relationship you'd been in prior to having met him, but he doesn't know that your ex has been practically stalking you as of late. Ever since you made a post about being with Ronin, just a simple little post, a picture of you kissing his cheek; ever since then your ex has been very interested in your doings.

They've liked all your posts and been spamming you with texts about wanting to apologize and try to be friends. You know them well enough to know it's all bullshit. They're just upset you've moved on. They tried desperately to leave a cut so deep it could never scar; yet their efforts proved futile. Once you'd met Ronin it was like finally going to the hospital and getting the wound cauterized. The damage is still there, it's still a scar, one not easy to ignore, but it's healed and healthy. You have Ronin to thank for that.

You suddenly hear a knock at the front door. Yet another thing your ex had been doing recently, leaving gifts for you. They must run up, knock, then hide, because you never seem to catch them in the act. You don't know how they managed to find Ronin’s house, but it isn't as if they hadn't done this to you while you were together.

They've always been a stalker. A total creep. You were into it when you'd first met them. Someone totally obsessed? They'll never leave me? Sign me up. Alas, it's not like what the stories tell. It's not romantic at all. It's disturbing, traumatic and downright gross at times.

You'd found them in your house, uninvited, many times. Seen them going through your cupboards, sock door, and even using your shower. One time, when at their house, you'd found pictures of yourself sleeping pinned to their wall. It was horrific the things you'd seen them do. Obsession isn't nearly as attractive as you once thought it was.

Love however? That will always have your heart. When you first met Ronin on the server; he was annoying, seemed like just some other creep, especially when he talked of knowing where you live and things of the like. He managed to prove you wrong though. He respected all your boundaries and in the end kept you safe. When you agreed to meet in purgatory, you already knew he was the one.

You hesitantly stand up, making your way cautiously over to the door. Just in case something dangerous is there, you've begun opening the door in a way Ronin has stated is “strange”. You don't think it's too bad, just… careful? No- it's weird, but if he knew what was going on he'd understand. Maybe he'd answer the door for you? Track down you ex and end them? Is that too much- open the door bro-

You stand over to the side of the door, behind the side that would swing in when the door is opened. You gently turn the nob, opening the door slowly. You peek around the side of your wooden shield and search for the new object at your doorstep. It's a bouquet of flowers. White orchids. The exact flower you ex used to keep on their dining room table. Yikes. That's… awesome.

You hesitantly kick the flowers away with your foot, knocking them off the front steps into the dirt. You feel slightly bad, the flowers hadn't done anything to you. Your ex had though, meaning these flowers can't be trusted. You then slam the front door closed and thoroughly check that it's definitely locked before leaving it. You return to your place on the couch and resume your aimless internet scrolling.

~~~~~~

Ronin soon returns with groceries and mail and… a bouquet of white orchids. What is with everyone and white orchids? He sets down the bags of groceries and walks over to you. He leans over the side of the couch, single letter and bouquet in his hands.

“Hey, Darlin’~ what's with the dirt flowers out front?” He holds the orchids up to your face.

You grimace, “Seems to me they aren't out front anymore…”

He hums, “Seems they aren't.” He thinks for a moment, “What's with the flowers, hon?” He speaks a bit more sternly, suspecting there's more to the situation than just random orchids.

You sigh, “Ronin. They're meant to be in the dirt. Leave them there.” You give him the stern demand, not leaving space for refusal.

Ronin nods at this, “Alright, Darlin’, in the dirt they shall go… I do have to ask though, is there a reason you hate white orchids so much?”

You shoot him a sharp glare, “Quit catching onto shit I don't want you catching onto.”

He chuckles softly. “Not happenin’, love. What's going on? You've been acting off for a while, not that we've been together all that long, but, I didn't think you'd be the type to push away my affection. You can tell me if I'm being too much, Darlin’. Don't want things ending when they're just beginning.”

“I… don't wanna talk about it, Ronin.” You dismiss his concerns.

“Y/N. I'm being fuckin’ serious. What's wrong? I can't make things better if you don't tell me what the fuckin’ problem is. I'm worried about you and you're giving me nothing here. Please, just throw me a bone on the problem, or maybe the solution, if you have one.” He desperately begs you, his voice cracking with concern. You see his eyes water slightly. You've really got him stressed out.

He pleads, “At least tell me why you aren't tellin’ me things, Darlin’. Please, at least give me that..?” He's sunken to his knees behind the couch, only his arms and face resting on the back of the couch, just off to the side of you. He looks so worried and upset; like a cat you've stepped on the tail of then yelled at for being under your feet, as if they weren't just trying to show you affection.

You can't take that look on his face any long and concede. “Fine. ‘Guess I can at least give you that much.” You huff out, not making eye contact with him. “I don't wanna tell you… because I wanna believe this is something I can handle on my own. I don't wanna feel weak asking you for help. I know how stupid that is, it's not weak to ask for help… but… I don't know what's wrong with me!” You throw your arms up, annoyed with your own avoidance of asking for assistance when you're in too deep. You know better, yet you aren't being better.

Ronin tosses the Orchids to the floor and leaves the letter resting on the back of the couch. He then stands up and walks around the couch so he's now in front of you. He squats down in front of you, putting himself lower than you in hopes it'll make you feel more comfortable, more in control of whatever is going on. He rests a hand on one of your knees and puts his other hand to your chin; lightly grabbing your attention before pulling it away, only to gently grab one of your hands and squeeze it.

“Darlin’, tell me what's wrong. Even of you don't want me fixin’ it for you, sometimes it can help get your thoughts straight to verbalize them. I'm here. You're safe. You'll always be safe when I'm around. Please talk to me.” He gives her a patient look, worry still evident in his soft eyes.

You squeeze his hand back, finally allowing your eyes to lock with his, “My ex has been bothering me…” You wait a second, anticipating some reaction. All he gives is a soft nod; silently telling you it's okay to continue, he won't speak until you're done. You squeeze his hand again as a thanks.

“They've been stalking me again… maybe it never stopped? I don't know- I don't want to think about that. Anyway, they've been leaving me things… like… white orchids… and stuff… um… yeah. They're making me really uncomfortable and putting me on edge, so, y'know- um. That's all I've got. Eheh…” You nervously spit out what's been going on in short form. His focus is entirely on you. He's hanging onto every word that leaves your mouth.

Once he knows you don't have anything else to say he speaks up, “What do you want to do about it?” It's a simple question, yet you didn't have an answer. They may have harmed you in the past, but you don't enjoy the idea of causing anyone pain. Yet you wish he'd face some consequence for his actions.

“I- I don't know. I don't know, Ronin. I don't.” You meagerly whimper out in response. You receive a soft nod from him before he replies, “Would you like me to handle it for you?” You nod before quickly following up, “But don't kill them, okay? That seems like a bit much.” Ronin gives you a disappointed look, but agrees not to kill them.

Ronin changes his position slightly, moving himself to be placed between your legs. He gently rests his head against one of your thighs, “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better right now, Darlin’?” He softly questions, pressing light kisses to the tight his head is resting on.

You giggling lightly and run your fingers through his messy hair, “This is more than enough, Ronin.”

He leans into your touch slightly, “Nothing is enough for you. I can always give you more.” He gently moves your hand from his head, bringing it to his lips and pressing a few soft kisses to it. You blush, but don't make any sign for him to stop.

~~~~~~

Later while you're asleep in bed, Ronin is hard at work trying to figure out what to do about your shifty ex.

First, he starts with the basics, those flowers they left. He burns them. He doesn't even think twice before those white orchids go up in flames.

Next, the letter. After hearing what had been going on he decided to read the letter himself before giving it to you. It was a love letter from your ex. He decided against reminding you of its existence. This also went into the fire.

Lastly, the root of the problem, your ex.

He knows you told him not to kill them, but it just seems like such an easy solution to the problem. How could he not? He could just not tell you he killed them. You don't have to know. It's totally fine.

Before burning the litter he had checked where it was sent from. He then followed the address to your ex’s place of residence.

When he arrives he bangs on the door. Three hard bangs.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Exactly like what he's going to do to their head. He's gonna bash it in. That should stop them from ever bothering you again.

Soon your ex answers the door; still in their pajamas, likely due to the late hour. They look confused as to why Ronin is there. They know who he is, they've stalked your posts enough to know he's your boyfriend. The question still lingers though, why is he at their home.

They soon find out when Ronin pushes them back in through their door and swiftly slams it shit behind him, not even giving them the chance to question him. They rush to find a weapon or maybe their phone, Ronin didn't care. All he cared about was ending them.

He quickly grabs them, pushing them to the floor. “I'll make sure you never bother my Darlin’ again.”

Bang.

“This wouldn't be happening if you'd just left them alone.”

Bang.

“It's all your fault.”

Bang.

“I hope hell isn't kind to you.”

Seeing that they're definitely dead; their head bashed in, blood covering most surrounding objects, he makes his leave.

He rushes back home to you… and to the fire he needs to put out. Hoping all is well and you're still asleep.

When he returns to the house he sees his fire is still going. He gets a bucket of water and quickly doused the fire, putting it out with ease. He then returns inside the house, quietly grabbing some clean pajamas and sneaking into the washroom to clean up.

~~~~~~

Once out of the shower he dries himself and puts on his pajamas. They're the matching ones he'd bought with you. Pink and fluffy with rainbows on them. How silly. How cute.

He silently walks into your shared bedroom, laying down on the bed beside you. He turns to look at your sleeping form, drooling slightly in a deep slumber. He smiles softly at you, brushing some hair out of your face. He holds your face gently in one hand, brushing his thumb across your cheek. He then quickly runs his fingers through your hair before pulling you close.

Your face is now pressed against his chest, your face a little squished and oh so adorable to him. He plays with your hair a little more before drawing small patterns on your back and arms. He lovingly kisses your forehead.

“‘Night, Darlin’. You're safe now, right here, in my arms.” He whispers softly against your forehead, finally closing his eyes and joining you in your peaceful sleep.

[mymelody58]

We need more of tgswiiwagaa

AAA MITSUKI X READER WHOS LIKE REALLY NICE AND SWEET AND STUFF BUT IS ACTUALLY REALLY TOUCHY AND CLINGY!!! And like loves kissing and being affectionate (not freaky trust)

YESYESYES GAAAH I have no idea if you wanted hcs or not but I'm gonna do hcs-

-ˋˏshᥱ ᥣooks jυst ᥣιkᥱ ᥲ drᥱᥲmˊˎ-

┆Mitsuki x Clingy! reader

-ˋˏWarnings┆none!ˎˊ-

-------------------

Reader is gender neutral but afab! I AM SOSOSO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG ANON :((( Aya is just Mitsuki's bestie in this but it's not important! Reader is refered to as pretty! Reader isn't the toxic kind of clingy just very touchy and affectionate :3 Mitsuki is a bit shy. May be OOC...

Not proofread cuz I suck :(

-♯ mі𝗍sᥙkі k᥆gᥲ

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ Don't get her wrong- Mitsuki LOVES how affectionate you are but she's a bit nervous about being public about it. Ahe doesn't mind hand hding but hugs and kisses in public turn her unusually red. She gets used to it after a bit though!

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ Her favorite thing to do is just stay at either of your houses and cuddle all day. These count as dates by the way! So don't ask her to take you on a date after 3 days in a row of you guys cuddling all day! Just kidding! She doesn't mind :3

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ Absolutely loves being drowned in your kisses. Just those fun little moments where you kiss all over her face. They make her face flush and get her all giggly like a highschool girl-.. wait a minute..

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ Loves when beg to match outfits with her or when you ask to wear some of her clothes if you have a different style! She loves showing you off, (not in like a 'ooo look at my trophy wife lozers) it makes her feel so cool having someone so pretty on her arm as a rock girlie.

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ She got the idea from your outfit matching but if she gets you to like any songs or bands, she asks to get you matching keychains of your favorite songs or albums from the band(s).

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ She loves just resting her head on your chest when you guys cuddle up BUT ONLY IF YOU'RE OKAY WITH IT OFC cause y'all are teens n sometimes it hurts 🥀

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ Likes it- no scratch that- loves it when you ask her to make a song about you or your relationship because it reminds her of how supportive you are of her passion for music.

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ She feels like a freak but she loves telling people you guys are dating when someone mistakes you for friends. It feels like such a win for her. You're like.. a gift from the Gods to her she honestly cannot wrap her head around how on gods green earth she pulled you and got you to cling to her so tightly.

⋆ ˚🪻 ⁀➴ ꒰ Very big on carrying you if she can in private tho. She loves just lifting you up bridal style and carrying you around like a damsel. She can tell you love it too. Also just a little thingy I stole from my ocs but she likes playing and fidgeting with your ring finger <333

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are appreciated! -🪻

[mymelody58]

Yes yes and yes

𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬

🏐 — hinata shoyo x f!reader

— synopsis: he always had a lot of energy. the boy made out of literal sunshine. but he also knew how to made your knees weak and made butterflies flutter around your stomach

— warning: timeskip!hinata being SUCH A FLIRT (art not mine)

— a/n: now i know hinata would be such a dork when he's older when it comes to girls but lord this FANART i am like melting HNGH

hinata was a ray of sunshine; everyone knew that.

you felt like you'd burn if you get too close to him, your fingertips feeling that gratifying burn when you graze his soft, tan skin. he always managed to bring a smile on your always frowning face, always made you laugh when you felt like crying.

in your eyes, hinata was the kindest man you knew who always had an amicable energy in his veins. that serotonin in your veins, the adrenaline rush in your brain. the one that made your heart pound.

so seeing him tower over you, cheeks flushed, breath of sweet vodka, eyes drooping in some kind of flirtatious approach with his hand beside your head, pressing against the rough texture of a brick wall, you feel butterflies prodding at your knees to weaken them.

his eyes— usually full of exultation, are now heavy with amorous vigor. the corner of his lip is twitched upwards, his other hand using his thumb to graze the skin of your chin, tracing up to rub the moist skin of your bottom lip.

"you..." he murmurs, eyes glancing between your lips to your eyes. you can't help but keep your lips parted, head tilted upwards to look ay him. this feeling is foreign, this sight is bizarre. "do you know how beautiful you are?"

there's a shaky sigh that leaves your lips at that question, your head tilted upwards to look into his eyes. "thank you...?"

"you have no idea what you do to me, sweetheart," he chuckles, his eyelashes fluttering, his voice deep. hinata wasn't lightweight; a few sip of vodka felt like drinking water to him, but you're beginning to wonder what it is that gave him the courage to speak to you like this.

your hands wrap loosely around his wrist, the other on his chest. you feel the hard muscle tense beneath your fingertips. "what do you mean?" you ask, breathless.

"you drive me crazy," he smiles, his bottom lip catching between his lips. "you and your voice, your laugh, your smile, those gorgeous fucking eyes,"

his hand that was on your chin cups your face, his thumb on your cheek, tilting your head upwards so that your lips were directly parallel against his. there's a small sound emitting from the back of your throat that just made him a little smug.

"so, so beautiful," his eyes trace the features of your face, like mapping and placing a pushpin on the parts he loved the best (he loved your entire face). "so gorgeous. fucking stunning."

"shoyo,"

"i want you," he inches closer, nose nudging against yours. "you're everything that i need."

then his lips hover over yours dangerously, like he's tiptoing the edge of a cliff, experimenting the way the skin of his lips graze yours. you want to melt into him, get your fingers lost in his hair, get lost in him.

"can i kiss you?" he almost sounds taunting, like he knows you want him to kiss you. "pretty please, angel?"

"yes," you breathe out, the hand on his wrist coming up to grip his hair. "please."

his lips taste of alcohol, sweet alcohol and him— full of fervor, hunger, desire to take over you, sweet yearning. his tongue wastes no time to graze the bottom of your lip and slip it inside your mouth.

heavy breaths. his body inches closer to yours and locks his legs between yours, the hand against the wall wrapping around your waist to push you against his chest, his mouth moving against yours in harmony.

"shoyo," you murmur against his hot mouth. hinata smiles.

"yeah?"

"nothing," you laugh, rubbing your hand against his chest. "just wanted to say your name."

hinata moves the hand on your cheek to the back of your head, gripping your hair lightly. "i love it when you say my name."

HNMGH reblogs and feedback are appreciated!

[mymelody58]

THE OLYMPIC TEAM WRITINGS ARE SO FUNNY

a/n; this is so silly and super long but made me laugh haha i hope you enjoy too

a momager and her silly olympic team.

big, strong olympic babies. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

It was supposed to be a simple procedure.

Just a quick blood draw—routine anti-doping protocol for the Olympic committee.

Simple, clean, quick.

In, out, done.

But you should’ve known better.

Because you were managing Team Japan, which meant logic and peace left the chat the second you walked into the small medical room with the group of oversized children and two very tired authority figures.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

“Can’t we just pee in a cup or somethin’?!” Atsumu whined, clutching his arm like it had already been severed. “Why does it gotta be blood?”

The nurse blinked at him, void of any emotion, and calmly replied, "You'll pee in the cup after your blood is drawn."

"WAIT—we gotta do BOTH?!"

"Well shit... I don't even have any pee left in me."

"Should I chug some water now?"

You glanced sheepishly over your clipboard as the nurse rolled her eyes for the fifth time.

“Iwaizumi," she sighed. “You said they were professionals.”

Iwaizumi, standing beside you with his arms crossed and murder in his eyes, growled lowly. "How about everyone sit the fuck down—they are. They’re just being idiots.”

“IT’S A NEEDLE, IWA.” Bokuto wailed from his seat, gripping the armrest like it might save him. “LIKE A PIERCING METAL STABBER. RIGHT INTO MY VEINS!”

“It’s like ten inches long,” Hinata whispered in horror, eyeing the straight needle like it might leap into his skin. “Why is it so long? Does it even need to be that long?!”

“I feel faint,” Atsumu muttered, already lying dramatically across two chairs. “If I die, tell ma I love her. Not 'Samu though.”

Suna eyed Atsumu with a slow grin before pulling his phone out. "Say hi to Osamu. I'm gonna show him what a wimp you are—"

"NO—THE FUCK YOU AREN'T—"

Aran slapped the back of Atsumu's head before he got a chance to lunge at Suna. "How about both of you cut it out before I call your guys' worst nightmare."

"Who?"

"Kita."

"Oh."

"ARAN—I thought you were my friend—"

"Mm, no. Not when you're acting like that."

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

“ALRIGHT, who’s up first?”

The nurse's voice cut through the chaos in the room, loud but monotone, like she was already done with Team Japan not even two minutes in.

As she prepped a set of vials and associated straight needles, Sakusa stood immediately, calm as ever. “I’ll go.”

“SEE?” Iwaizumi barked from behind you. “Like a normal adult. Thank you, Sakusa.”

Hinata whispered something in awe.

“He takes the flu vaccine every year,” Komori whispered back like it was a bedtime story.

Sakusa made a face at Komori under his mask, eyes squinting. "Did you all not take your flu vaccine?"

“I did,” Ushijima raised his hands, a twitch of a smile gracing his lips.

“I was busy,” Atsumu offered.

“Busy doing what?” Sakusa snapped. “Scrolling through food TikTok?!”

"I mean... I was doing that," Suna shrugged.

You placed a gentle hand on Sakusa’s arm, trying to soothe him. “Hey, it’s okay—”

“No, it’s not okay,” Sakusa said darkly. “I’m surrounded by disease-ridden volleyball toddlers.”

He let out a sigh of disappointment before he sat down, pushed up his sleeve, and barely blinked as the needle slid into his arm.

“I don’t like watching this,” Atsumu muttered.

“Then don’t watch it,” you replied, not even turning around as you helped the nurse line up the next tubes. “You’re all professional athletes. You face blocks going 100 kilometers an hour. A needle should not be this scary.”

“That’s different,” Kageyama mumbled.

“How?” you deadpanned.

“Blocks don’t stab you.”

You snorted and glanced over your shoulder just in time to see Hinata clutching Komori’s arm like he was about to face a death sentence.

“You’re not even next, Hinata,” Komori whispered, patting his head.

“Yet!”

“Alright, all done,” the nurse smiled at Sakusa.

He stood up, rolled down his sleeve, and dusted off his hands like he’d just finished a perfectly timed serve.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

“Who's next?”

Suna stepped forward next, hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

You raised a brow. “Didn’t expect you to be so brave.”

“I have a tattoo,” he said dryly. “Needles and I have an understanding.”

That earned a round of complaints.

“Wait, Suna goes next?!” Atsumu pointed at him, offended. “Just ‘cause he has a tattoo doesn’t mean he’s not scared!”

Suna lifted his shirt slightly to flash a bit of ink on his ribcage. “Wanna see if I flinch?”

You and the nurse both rolled your eyes.

"Put your shirt down. You're gonna cause a PR scandal again, Suna," Aran said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re such a show-off,” you murmured, but there was a smile tugging at your lips.

While Suna got his blood drawn (and, true to his word, didn’t flinch at all), Bokuto started pacing like he was about to give a TED Talk titled How I Conquered Fear (Just Kidding).

“I’ve never fainted,” Bokuto said, puffing out his chest. “But like, what if today is the day? What if my blood just—whoosh—rushes out too fast?”

“Bo,” you sighed, “that’s…not how blood draws work.”

“But what if it is?” he wailed.

“It’s not!” Iwaizumi groaned.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

Coach, who had entered five minutes ago and said absolutely nothing, was now quietly combusting in the corner.

Aran leaned in to whisper in your ear. "Coach is this close to losing it, isn't he?"

"Think he's already lost it," you laughed. "You all better be prepared for the special punishment drill tomorrow."

Everyone went dead silent.

"Wait... what drill?"

"I kind of like that drill," Ushijima murmured, nodding his head. "Helps me stretch my back."

"The hell are you talking about—"

"It's a back drill?!"

"IWA—tell us—"

"You'll see tomorrow."

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

“KOMORI,” the nurse called, cutting the stress in the air.

Komori tensed so hard you thought he might vibrate through the wall.

“I need someone to hold my hand,” he whispered. “Like I really really really do!”

You exchanged a glance with Iwaizumi, who looked about two seconds from purposely walking into traffic. Then, resigned, you stepped up and reached out.

Komori grabbed your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I’m sweating,” he whimpered. “I’m so sweaty.”

“It’s okay,” you soothed, holding in your laughter. “You’re fine.”

Kageyama stared at the exchange like he was memorizing every second of it.

Atsumu leaned over to whisper, “Bet Tobio's plannin' to fake a heart attack next, so he can skip."

“I can hear you,” Kageyama hissed.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

When it was finally Bokuto’s turn, he saluted you like a fallen soldier. “Tell Akaashi… I did my best.”

“You’re not dying, Bokuto.”

He nodded solemnly. “Yet.”

As the blood draw began, he yelped once—then looked shocked.

“…That’s it?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You made it.”

“OH SHIT—I’M A SURVIVOR,” he shouted.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

Hinata was next, and to his credit, he tried to play it cool.

“I’m ready,” he said, chest puffed out.

You raised a brow. “Need a hand?”

“…Yes.”

You held it.

He didn’t cry, but his lips did wobble. And he squeezed so hard you were sure you lost circulation.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

When it was Atsumu’s turn, he slumped into the chair like a man defeated.

“I just think,” he started dramatically, “that if I pass out and ya don’t pamper me, it’s gonna hurt more emotionally than physically.”

“You’re not gonna pass out,” you said.

He stared at the needle. “…I might.”

“You won’t.”

“I could.”

“You won’t, 'Tsumu.”

He pouted. “But will I get pampering just in case?”

“No,” Iwaizumi snapped. “You’ll get an ice pack and your dignity, if you’re lucky.”

He definitely flinched when the needle went in. You absolutely teased him about it.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

A hushed awe fell over the room as Ushijima quietly stepped up for his turn.

No panic. No whining. No flailing. Just… silence.

Even the nurse blinked at him.

“…Wow,” she muttered. “This one might actually be normal.”

Ushijima sat with perfect posture, expression blank as ever, arm outstretched.

“I don't understand the fear of needles,” he said calmly, watching the nurse swab his skin. “They are quite small. Less painful than a hard block.”

You leaned over to brush a strand of hair that had flopped over his forehead.

"I'm proud of you," you murmured, soft and sincere.

"OH—he gets a I'm proud of you and I DON'T?!"

"SHUT UP, MIYA!"

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

You nudged Aran. "Your turn, superstar."

“Alright, alright,” he said, rolling his sleeves up and taking a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with. I got this. I’m cool.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Aran smirked. “I’m not like those guys. Needles? Pssh.”

One minute later…

“I’M SORRY, BUT I MIGHT DIE.”

Aran was gripping your hand like it was his lifeline, leaning back in the chair as the nurse tried to steady his arm.

“Just breathe,” you coaxed, trying not to laugh. “You said you were cool.”

“I was cool until that pointy thing of evil came out of nowhere!” he hissed.

“It’s a tiny straight needle,” the nurse deadpanned.

“I don’t care if it’s gold-plated! That pointy stabber's evil!”

Suna chuckled from his chair, legs crossed, blood already drawn, bandage stylishly in place. “Tough guy act didn’t last long, huh, Aran?”

“You hush,” Aran snapped.

Suna leaned back with a smug grin. “Still not scared of needles."

“Wanna say that again in front of Kita when we're back in Hyogo, Mister-I-have-a-tattoo-and-I'm-so-great?”

Suna opened his mouth—probably to say something horrifyingly smug—only to be cut off by Iwaizumi’s death glare.

“ENOUGH. If one more of you calls it the pointy stabber, I’m dragging you outside for suicide sprints right now.

Everyone immediately shut up.

Except Atsumu, who whispered to Bokuto, “Do ya think if I faint, I’ll get more sympathy points?”

“You’ll get buried,” Iwaizumi snapped, without turning around.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

Last up was Kageyama.

“Do I get something if I don’t flinch?” he asked suddenly, looking at you.

You blinked. “…Like what?”

“I dunno. A frozen yogurt treat?”

“…Fine. No flinch, no fuss, and I’ll make the fancy honey and blueberry one later.”

He turned to the nurse, expression dead serious. “I’m ready.”

He didn’t flinch. You were kind of proud.

Then he turned to Atsumu and whispered, “Enjoy your dignity. I’m getting yogurt.”

“SHUT UP,” Atsumu barked.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

When the chaos finally ended, you stepped out into the hallway with Iwaizumi and Coach.

Iwaizumi looked like he’d aged ten years.

Coach ran a hand down his face. “They spike balls for a living.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi said through gritted teeth.

You, somehow still chipper, smiled. “They’re just scared of the little things.”

Coach looked at you. “What aren’t they scared of?”

You didn't have an answer.

Then the nurse strolled past, hands clutching the biohazard bags ready to be sent to the testing center, and murmured, “God help Japan.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐

[mymelody58]

Good Cop, Bad Cop

Parenting with various Haikyuu men - sometimes you're the good cop, sometimes you're the bad cop.

Featuring: Ushijima Wakatoshi x reader, Oikawa Tooru x reader, Tsukishima Kei x reader (okay, you're both kind of the bad cop in this one), Hinata Shouyou x reader

(Reader is referred to as Mom in Tsukishima's, the rest are gender neutral)

Ushijima Wakatoshi

You've just gotten home from the grocery store, and are attempting to put the groceries away while simultaneously preventing an all-out fist fight in the middle of the kitchen over the box of applesauce pouches. It's just the kind of day it's been.

Another shriek splits the air, and you massage your aching temples wearily. Normally, your son and daughter get along pretty well, but today is one of those days when neither of them is in a very good mood, and they've been taking it out on each other all day. Refereeing has become exhausting, and the headache pounding in your skull isn't making things any easier. The sound of the door latch has never been more welcome.

"What is all the yelling about?" The sound of your husband's deep voice immediately silences the squabble, your two children suddenly blinking up at him with the box still clutched between them. Oh, you are so jealous of this ability Wakatoshi has. "Applesauce?" He asks incredulously, plucking the box from their fingers and looking down at them with a frown.

"Sorry, Dad," They chorus meekly.

"Why don't you go to your rooms?" He suggests, in a voice that doesn't invite any arguments. "Start thinking about your actions today, because we'll be having a discussion about it later." They glance at each other before silently turning to do as they're told.

You sigh at the sound of their bedroom doors closing. "Tough day?" Wakatoshi asks, voice turning soft in a way that's only ever reserved for you and the kids. He cups your cheek in his hand, and you nod against it, leaning into his touch.

"Just what I said in the text," You murmur, referring to the exasperated message you'd sent him earlier that afternoon. "They've been at each other's throats all day. I wish I could manage them like you do."

"You do just fine," He runs his hand down your arm comfortingly. "I know they respect you and love you very much."

You nod again, though you're struggling to believe it right at the moment. "I just don't have your gift," You shrug, managing a small smile now that he's home and doing this with you.

"That's why we're a team," He says matter of factly, finally drawing you to him and pressing a tender kiss to your lips. "I'll get you some pain pills for that headache. After they kick in, we'll have a talk with them together."

"Thank you," You say softly, leaning in for one more kiss. You truly can't imagine doing this with anyone else.

Oikawa Tooru

You've just finished cutting the second apple and put the slices on the plate when your husband dances into the kitchen, your daughters bobbing behind.

"Okay," He sticks his head in the freezer, rummaging around a bit before pulling something out. "Who wants fudge ripple?" He holds up the carton of ice cream as your daughters bounce on their toes.

"Me! Me!" They wave their hands excitedly.

"Tooru," You say his name quietly, gesturing to the apples you'd just finished plating. "We're having apples for a snack tonight," You announce more loudly, plucking the box from your husband's fingers and tucking it back in the freezer.

"But Daddy said we could have ice cream!" The oldest pouts, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Did he?" You ask lightly, quirking an eyebrow at your husband, who shrugs sheepishly. "Did you happen to tell him that we had ice cream this afternoon after we went to the park?"

Suddenly very interested in her toes, she murmurs, "No."

"Oops," He says quietly, shrugging and mouthing a sorry over the tops of their heads. You shake your head with a sigh.

"Sounds like we're having apples tonight, my loves," He says quickly, corralling them to the table to have a seat as you set down the plate of apples. "Why don't you tell me about what kind of ice cream you got this afternoon?" They sulk, but by the time they're tucked in bed, the incident seems mostly forgotten.

"Sorry about the ice cream thing," He apologizes after you've tucked yourself on the couch next to him. "They're sneaky!"

"They certainly are," You huff a soft chuckle, "I wonder where they got it from?" You muse, elbowing him gently in the side.

"Hey," He pouts, a mirror of your girls' pouting faces from earlier. "I won't be tricked next time." He slides an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"We'll see about that," You murmur, knowing your daughters too well to be convinced, but too comfortable pressed against Tooru to care.

Tsukishima Kei

"It's just not fair!" Your son huffs, stomping louder than necessary through the kitchen. "You said Kaito could come over this afternoon, but now all of a sudden he can't?" He's glaring at you across the room.

"I said he could come over if you cleaned your room," You correct, "And you obviously haven't."

"What if I clean it now? Really quick?" He begs, "Then I don't have to tell him you lied to me."

You open your mouth, trying to formulate a response to that twisted logic, when Kei's office door opens.

"No," He says firmly, and your son turns to him, but can't get a word in before he continues. "Kaito is not coming over today, especially after the way you just spoke to your mother. I know you're smarter than that."

"But-" He says weakly, snapping his mouth shut when your husband's lips press into a thin line.

"I know you're not talking back to me as well." He says icily. "First, apologize to Mom. Then you can go clean your room from top to bottom. I want to hear the vacuum running."

Your son nods slowly. "Okay." He turns dutifully and looks at you. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Thank you," You accept his apology with a nod, and that quickly he's off to his room. You close your eyes for a few moments, trying to quiet your exasperation.

"Sorry I butted in," Kei speaks from beside you though you hadn't heard him move across the room. "I just couldn't stop myself after what he said." His hand goes to the back of your neck, gently massaging the tense muscles there.

"It's fine," You sigh, "It was kind of getting away from me," You admit with a wry smile.

"Sometimes I wonder if this some sort of punishment for what an asshole I was as a kid," He says with a smile pulling at his lips, and you can't help the laughter that bubbles out.

"Well, I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, because I was a perfect angel," You reply smugly, pressing in to kiss him before he can argue.

Hinata Shouyou

You've been hearing slightly suspicious sounds for the last few minutes, but a sudden crash is finally enough to make you put down the shirt you're folding and follow the sound, dreading what you'll find.

"It didn't break!" Your daughter is saying, setting one of the lamps back up on the end table. A volleyball rolls to a stop at your feet, and you look from it to your daughter and your husband.

"Please tell me this isn't what it looks like," You say in a measured voice, "Because it looks like you were playing volleyball in my house." It's hard to say which of them looks more frightened.

"We weren't playing volleyball!" She pipes up nervously, "Dad was just showing me how to dig a spike like the one Bokuto-san made in yesterday's match."

"Oh?" You turn to your husband, who looks like he'd willingly jump in a hole if it were to open up in the floor. "Shouyou," Your voice is still even, which seems to make him squirm even more. "Can you tell me why, for even a moment, that seemed like something to do in the living room?"

"I, uh, didn't think about it?" He releases a nervous chuckle. "It wasn't her idea at all, I swear. It was all me." He valiantly takes the blame.

"My darling," You turn your attention to your daughter, "You should know better than to listen to your dad sometimes." You sigh. "Just take this back to the garage, okay?" She grabs the ball and dashes away, glad to be free from your disproving glare.

"I'm really, really sorry, baby!" Your husband immediately gushes, "I know it was stupid! It was, but she asked about it and I was just so excited to show her, I didn't think about it." You're trying hard, but it's almost impossible not to soften at the anguished look on his face.

"Feels like I have two kids sometimes," You can't help a small smile as you step toward him, letting him take your hands.

"I'm really sorry," He repeats, genuinely. "It won't happen again. Volleyballs belong outside," He repeats what has become your mantra.

"Very good," You smile a little wider, unable to resist pressing a small kiss to his lips.

[mymelody58]

call me back? 𖦹 ˚.

————————— 𐔌⋆🍊 ̟ ˚ !! 𐦯 —————————

in which you get in a heated fight with the haikyuu boys, and it takes longer to reconcile than usual.

you didn't need to see his message appear on your screen. especially not after waking up.

after going days without speaking and feeling better, you were able to stop thinking about him so much. but now that he was reaching out, you felt as though all of your effort was gone.

he mentioned something along the lines of wanting to meet up and talk. you really couldn't look at it for too long or you might lose what little sanity you had.

this was the worst fight you’ve had in your relationship, and you didn’t know what to do. you knew you couldn’t be mad forever, but some things said did hurt, and you could admit you said things you shouldn’t have too.

you screamed into your pillow, and you didn’t know if it was from dread or something else you didn’t want to recognize. that you missed him more than you wanted to.

immediately you grabbed your phone and texted the group chat to ask if you should text him back fast or wait because you were not sane enough to handle this situation.

you, of course, ended up giving in after 2 minutes, which you didn’t even finish asking your friends. even if you tried not to give in, you knew you loved him too much for that.

(he would’ve seen you or sent a text earlier, but he didn’t know if you were still mad. he was tweaking because you were non verbal.)

suna, osamu, sakusa, kenma, tsukishima & kageyama.

the last thing you expected to happen today was to see him standing in front of your door. you felt horrible for him because he was so wet from the rain, but you were hesitant.

"what brings you here?" despite your best efforts to appear cold, your eyes betrayed you as you glanced at him. "not even going to invite me in?" when you glared at him, his attempt at a smile turned wary.

"i didn't ask you to come here.” he didn't like it when you crossed your arms. you felt so distant.

"i just had to see you. to talk. i really miss you, and i wasn't expecting for the fight to go to this.” with a sigh, you decided that it would be best to have that discussion inside.

he entered when you stepped aside. "come, i’ll get you some dry clothes and a towel." he agreed, and he followed you to your room to get one of the hundreds of sweatshirts and shirts he stored in your dresser.

shortly after, he changed and came back with the towel in his hair. he gave you a hug when your back was to him. “i’m really, really sorry. i promise i’ll do anything to make this better..” he kept rambling, and you knew you couldn’t be mad forever.

kuroo, iwaizumi, terushima, daisho, akaashi & semi.

he tried to be nonchalant about the whole situation. like it didn’t bother him at all. (he in fact did care. just in denial) that was until he realized it wasn’t one of those times where you’d fight and after a few hours you would talk it out after you’ve both cooled off.

nope, he was going insane. he tried calling you and texting you, but you weren’t answering. it was really messing with him and with his performance in whatever he was up to.

he’d stalk your socials sometimes to see if you were up to anything, but you weren’t giving him anything to stalk. now he was just getting worried. usually you would repost on tiktok or post on your spam, but nothing. just radio silence.

that was until a miracle happened. your mutual friends had decided on a night out and invited you both. that was his chance.

when he saw you, he tried not to run to you and shower you with kisses like he usually did. but at this point he was getting desperate.

being the hopeless man he is, he had to talk to you. to fix this and never fight with you again and shut up whenever you want him to.

let’s just say he almost got on his knees and begged for forgiveness because he couldn’t last another second without you by his side. (in a way that didn’t seem too desperate, of course.)

atsumu, oikawa, bokuto, tendo, futakuchi & koganegawa

they don’t fight with you. they get told to shut up, and they do. they get told to sit down, and they sit. (they just love you a lot)

tanaka, nishinoya, hinata, lev & yamamoto

————————— 𐔌⋆🍊 ̟ ˚ !! 𐦯 —————————

this was for funsies, might not be too accurate. hope you enjoyed either way. <3

[mymelody58]

“DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT YOU!”

HAIKYUU + ACCIDENTALLY HURTING YOU. ft. hinata shoyo, kuroo tetsurou, & tsukishima kei x f!reader

filled request : “Since you said you write for haikyuu, can you imagine how sweet those tall (Hinata is tall in spirit) and strong green flag boys would be all very sorry and remourseful for harming their baby in accident? I think even Tsukishima (my fave asshole) would try to make it up even if it wasnt that serious.”

note : added kuroo ^ ^ <33 thank u for sending this in nonnie !!!

TSUKISHIMA KEI.

You don’t know when the brilliant idea of jump-scaring Tsukishima Kei first popped into your mind. Maybe it was because he’s been egging you on lately, resting a heavy arm on your head, then on your shoulders— snickering when you start huffing and puffing about how “You’re not a damn armrest.”

Cute- to him, probably. But today would be your turn to mess with him, show him a little taste of his own medicine, or something like that. You just think it’d be funny to hear him scream for once.

You’re as quiet as can be when you tiptoe behind him from where he’s pouring himself a bowl of cereal, your fluffiest socks already on to ensure maximum silence with the extra cushioning. All it would take was one singular hug around his middle— and then you’d squeeze, force the scream right out of his body.

You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing now, each soft breath making your heart race a little faster, and you’re suddenly reminded of just how big your boyfriend is. You have to glance upwards to check how he’s doing, and you confirm the fact that he’s indeed.. still focused on perfecting his cereal to milk ratio.

Too much to notice you right behind him, at least.

It all happened too quickly for either of you to have reacted differently. You’re pouncing forward, arms reaching to circle around his waist, and you just barely register the sound of a loud gasp before there’s an impact directly to your nose, your body recoiling back as your vision flashes white.

“F-fuck!” You wince, staggering a couple steps back before you crouch down, hands flying to your nose to clutch it tightly as soon as the throbbing pain sets in.

“What the hell?” He sputters, eyes flickering from his elbow to your face a couple times before he’s rushing to crouch beside you. His hands are awkwardly hovering over your body as he tries to get a better look at you. “What were you doing there? Let me see.”

“Kei,” you sniffle, letting him pry your hands away from your face with a pained hiccup, “Was just gonna scare you….ouch…”

“You’re an idiot,” he snaps, but his eyes are full of worry when he leans in to examine your face. His finger comes to gently trace over your nose, other hand tilting your head up. “..At least it’s not bleeding.”

“Mhm,” you give him a nod, “..So did i get you?”

His eyes narrow at you, but he shifts, leaning forward and nodding for you to climb onto his back. “Idiot,” he’s grumbling to himself, “Do you even have to ask?”

The way you pout at the nickname has his eyes softening ever so slightly before he’s tearing his gaze away from you. “Get on already. There’s enough cereal for both of us.”

“Hm? But you only got one spoon,” you wrap your arms around him, letting him lift you up onto his back.

“And?”

KUROO TETSUROU.

“Look at this one,” Kuroo laughs, tightening the arm around your frame to pull you closer against his side. “He looks like Garfield, doesn’t he? What a neat cat.”

“Mhm,” you hum, nuzzling your nose into his chest as you scroll through your own socials. It was a routine the two of you had, to scroll absentmindedly while tangled in each other’s limbs until someone falls asleep first— except Kuroo’s been laughing uncontrollably for the last ten minutes.

You shoot him a nervous glare each time his phone threatens to slip from his grasp, the scare he gives you always accompanied with an “Oops! That was close.”

“Tetsu…” you warn when he suddenly jolts again, frantically adjusting his grip with a shaky chuckle. Your head was right below his phone, after all. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he smiles, free hand rubbing your head. “I’d never let it fall on you.”

“You’d better not..” your voice trails off into a sleepy mumble, and you switch your phone off, letting it plop onto the mattress as you wrap your arms tightly around his middle. “I’m starting to feel a lil tired..”

“Hmm? I’ll be joining you soon, sleepy girl,” he soothes, hand moving to rub your upper back as you melt into his touch. “Ah! That Garfield-looking cat is back,” he gasps, followed by a hushed whisper when you stir, “Oops. Inside voice, inside voice… hm? What’s this?”

You start to fidget, awkwardly adjusting your position against his side when he suddenly falls eerily silent. maybe too silent. You count the seconds of silence— ten seconds, then fifteen. You perk up a bit, one eye opening to check on your boyfriend, but he’s suddenly jerking back and yelping the moment after, phone slipping from his hands and landing right on your head with a loud thud. “Ah-!”

“Oh— sorry, sorry!” His large hand is covering your head instantly, the other tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “Didn’t mean to drop that on you. Just scared the living daylights out of me. That garfield, damned jumpscare… you okay?”

You glare at him, but it doesn’t come off threatening with the tears filling your eyes. “Tetsu…” you growl, and he flinches. “I know, I know! I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling you closer to pepper kisses over the top of your head. “I told you…” you pout, “I’m gonna get a bump on my head now.”

His lips tug into a sheepish smile at the thought of a lump forming on your head. “That’s my bad…”

“You’re laughing!”

“I’m not!” He protests, his hands rising up in defensive as you angrily puff your cheeks out. “Nope. No way. This is no time for laughing.”

He pulls you into a hug, chuckling as you weakly push at his chest with a whine. “There, there. You can be mad at me all you want. I deserve it.”

“Although, I think you’d be cute with a bump on your head too.”

HINATA SHOYO.

If you ask him, Hinata would still swear on everything that his intention back then was nothing more than to squish you in a suffocating bear hug. He definitely did not mean to knock you onto the floor your very first day back from vacation or anything like that.

You just looked so pretty waiting for him at the airport, soft smile tugging at your lips as you checked on his location through your phone one last time before tucking it away into your pocket. The way you shifted between your toes and the balls of your feet was just so cute, too cute that he couldn’t help but start running towards you, arms stretching out to give you the biggest hug of your life.

His eyes were slammed shut the moment he leapt towards you, so he didn’t catch the way your mouth fell open in a gasp or the way your eyes widened as your weight suddenly shifted backwards. “S-Shoyo?!”

The sound of your voice has his eyes shooting open, a surprised “E-eh?” coming out when he realizes the two of you are falling— and fast. He’s barely able to snake a hand underneath your head before the two of you crash onto the floor with a loud thud.

“Ouch— oops,” he grumbles, eyes slowly blinking open as he shifts onto his elbow. There’s a sigh of relief from him when he sees that your fall was at least partially cushioned by his hand, and you seem unhurt with the way you’re blinking up at the passerby before shying away from their gaze when you realize they’d stopped to stare at the two of you sprawled out on the floor.

“Sorry— are you okay?” Hinata’s looming over you now, carefully setting your head on his lap. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

“N-no…” you mumble, eyes narrowing into a glare as he freezes in place. “Shoyo,” your voice falls to a whisper, “They’re all looking at us now. really closely too…”

“What?” Hinata laughs, “Shy again?”

You tear your gaze to the side, cheek puffing out a bit. “A little…”

“Want me to carry you?”

your eyes widen. “H-huh?”

“Mhm,” he’s smiling brightly, arms snaking around your body to lift you up in bridal style as you yelp, scrambling to hold onto your bag, “I gotcha. Let’s go home now!”

“..Shoyo!” Your cheeks burn when you notice the onlookers now giving you a soft smile— and the elderly couple behind them are exchanging looks before they’re whispering something to each other- you recognize it as an ‘aww’ by the way their lips move.

“This is more embarrassing!”

“Hm, is it?” He looks confused by your shyness, but his hands are tightening around you anyways, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry! I’ll get us back fast.”

[mymelody58]

a/n; thank you, everyone, for reading and the sweet comments! i don't have a vision for this series haha, just whatever comes up in my life that could also fit with the boys' too (and to practice 'crack' level writing that makes me giggle after a long day). this one reminds me of miss kiyoko (mrs. tanaka) heheh

a momager and her silly olympic team vibes.

missing shoes, olympics version. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

~~~~~

The court gleamed under the intense, crystalline lights of the stadium—polished floors practically reflective. Poland’s flag fluttered proudly in one section of the stands while Japan’s dominated the other side, both held high by unwavering pride. As cameras flashed, announcers murmured into headsets, and fans filled every seat clad in national colors, the air buzzed with electric anticipation.

It was also the kind of anticipation that made the team focused as they stretched and bounced in their warmups.

Sakusa was bending his ultra-flexible wrists with ease. Suna was twisting his torso so far to the left that it nearly gave Iwaizumi a heart attack. And Ushijima led by example, doing his routine stretches with slow but methodical precision.

Everything was perfect. No pre-game stress—

“I LOST MY SHOES!”

Silence. Everyone turned to look at Hinata, who was frozen mid-panic-squat with just socks on and visibly vibrating with stress.

“I had them! Shit, I swear! I put them next to my bag and now they’re gone!”

He was rummaging through his duffle, pulling all sorts of random things out—protein bars, milk packets, electrolytes, a container of nicely peeled oranges (from you, by the way), and... a banana. Just the peel, no banana.

Suna stared blankly at him like he was witnessing a live disaster, one that he desperately wanted to post online (just to cause more chaos for Japan's PR team). His hands were already darting out toward his duffle to grab his phone.

Atsumu and Bokuto looked like they were ready to explode from laughter.

"Bro. What? How do you lose your shoes at the Olympics?"

"Shit—I don't know!"

"Are you sure you put them next to your bag?"

“I don't know!” Hinata was full-on wailing now. “Maybe someone took them?!”

"I mean... Poland's middle blocker is looking kinda suspicious over there."

"Look at his size compared to this stupid shrimp, Bo."

"Also, why would anyone want his crusty-ass shoes—?"

"CRUSTY-ASS—?!"

“OR MAYBE,” Atsumu called from the bench, cutting off Hinata's yell, “ya just forgot them. Again. Like when ya were startin' out with us in MSBY. Meian made ya do, like, twenty laps."

"You know, he also lost his shoes during Nationals," Kageyama quipped while doing a butterfly stretch. "I remember this trauma.”

"It was MISPLACED, smartass—"

Komori covered a snort with his towel. Bokuto looked absolutely thrilled. “Well, this is just like Nationals then!”

“No, it’s not!” Sakusa hissed. “That was just a metropolitan gym. This is the Olympics!”

Ushijima blinked, now sucking on a yogurt packet. “Did you not pack a spare?”

“WHO THE FUCK PACKS SPARE SHOES?”

(Ushijima did. He didn't just pack one extra pair, no. He packed two. Both pairs were even nicely labeled in permanent marker. But, of course, you couldn't tell that to Hinata, or he'd combust).

And who else?

You. You did.

You were standing at the bench, already halfway through the team’s emergency supply bag—breath held and heart pounding because of course Hinata would lose his shoes again, and of course you’d be ready.

Because even now, especially now, you knew him.

To the world, he was a 5'8 glory of a man—tan, muscular, kind, and indefinitely loyal... also proficient in Portuguese.

But to you, he was Hinata—your (man-child) sunshine. The boy who forgot to eat lunch if you didn't nag him a little. The boy who was terrible at written English even though he could use the language. The boy who needed a little extra comfort after a particularly intensive drill from Iwaizumi or a harsh scolding from Coach.

“There we go,” you whispered, yanking out a clean, pristine pair of new volleyball shoes. “I knew you’d do this again.”

Same color, same accent. White with red, bright and fiery.

Hinata gasped, turning to you like sunflower to sun.

“YOU’RE MY HERO, SWEETS!”

You nearly collided into him as he ran toward you, arms stretched wide. You held the shoes out. “Here, put these on. Quick. Don’t pull the laces too tight.”

You quickly glanced down at your watch before looking up again and locking eyes with Iwaizumi. "Ten more minutes until game time, so you'd better hurry, Sho."

He blinked at the shoes, then at you, then back again—smile soft and a little wobbly.

“You… you had them ready?”

You flushed under the bright lights. “Well—yeah. I mean. I remembered that time in Tokyo, and you looked so sad, and—”

“I LOVE YOU,” he declared dramatically, clutching the shoes to his chest.

Immediately, from the bench area—

Sakusa groaned.

Komori sighed.

Kageyama glared.

Suna muttered, “Wow.”

Atsumu was nearly on the verge of tears. “Why does he get all the love for a mistake HE made?! Can I fake a shoeless crisis? Will you cradle my career-saving feet too?”

Bokuto practically bounced. “What if I lose my jersey? Will you tackle me with a new one? Please?!”

You didn’t get a chance to answer, because Hinata had already plopped onto the bench beside you, tugging the shoes on like his life depended on it.

“Did I ruin everything?” he asked, voice quieter, sheepish now.

You knelt beside him, fixing the tongue of his left shoe, smoothing his sock into place. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve worked too hard to let one silly thing shake you.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes. “I believe in you, Sunshine.”

From behind the bench, Iwaizumi—clipboard in hand, eyes narrowed—muttered, “Okay. That’s the third time she’s called him sunshine this week. I’m keeping track now.”

Ushijima nodded solemnly. “He receives more sunlight than the rest of us.”

“You all get sunlight,” you giggled, rising with a blush. “He just loses his shoes more often.”

Komori deadpanned, “We’ll start misplacing things immediately.”

Suna casually unzipped his Team Japan jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Oops. Lost it. Help me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, biting back a smile.

“And yet,” he smirked, “you like us ridiculous.”

Atsumu leaned over the bench, grinning stupidly in your face. “When do I get the special ‘I believe in you’ treatment, huh?”

Bokuto chimed in, wide-eyed glassy and lips pouty. “Can you at least pretend I’m your favorite once? Just for morale?”

You laughed and indulged in Bo just this once, hands leaning up to fix the tips of his droopy hair that had lost all their spike and spunk. "I did a three-way video call with you and Akaashi. I think that counts—"

Iwaizumi stepped in, blowing the whistle. “Warm-ups. Now. Five minutes. Everyone who’s not Hinata, stop acting like you're in middle school. Everyone who is Hinata—tie your damn laces.”

"IWA—we were having a moment!" Bokuto cried out.

"Next moment's mine, right?" Atsumu whispered in your ear, slinging his arms around you.

You laughed and pulled him off with a soft pat to his back. "Maybe if you get six aces."

Atsumu smirked, all dangerous and flirty. "Watch me, sweetheart."

You shook your head, a hint of a smile twitching on your lips, and they scattered back onto the court like overgrown toddlers. Except one—Hinata lingered by your side, tugging gently at your sleeve.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Really.”

His hand found yours, intertwining your pinkies for just a second—like he'd done many times in high school. Only this time, it felt special—like a shared secret between the two of you.

You smiled, heart full and fluttering. “Just win, yeah?”

He nodded, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of your head. “For you, always.”

On the court, eight jealous men all glared in perfect sync.

"God—what kind of flirting did he learn in Brazil?"

"You wanna learn too?"

"Sure do."

[mymelody58]

Husbandry: Hinata

🌸HAPPY MOTHERS DAY🌸

--

You woke to the faint sound of whispering just outside the bedroom door.

More like stage-whispering — the kind of exaggerated hush only little kids thought was stealthy. Paper crinkling. The unmistakable squeak of sneakers on the hallway tile. A heavy tray shifting in nervous hands. Then—

“Wait, don’t open the door yet, I forgot my card!” “But I wanna go first—” “No pushing! The juice is gonna spill again—!” “Shhh!! Mama’s sleeping!” “You’re yelling.” “You’re yelling!”

You couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at your lips as you lay still, eyes closed, pretending to sleep for their sake. The hallway fell into temporary silence — the plotting kind — and then, finally, the door creaked open with excruciating slowness.

Footsteps padded in.

You opened your eyes just in time to see one of the kids peeking over the edge of the bed, their messy curls haloed in the morning sun pouring through the curtains.

“Hi Mama,” they whispered, wide-eyed and delighted. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

A second pair of eyes popped up beside the first, their grin missing a front tooth. “We made you breakfast!”

And behind them—Shōyō. Taller now, broader in the shoulders and lean with the kind of strength built from years of training, yet still unmistakably him. His copper hair was slightly tousled from the morning rush, the ends brushing just below his ears, and his cheeks were sun-kissed, always a little pink from running around with the kids. He held the tray carefully in both hands, arms steady, the veins in his forearms faintly visible under golden skin. His shirt clung to his frame, soft and worn with time, and his mouth tugged up into that sheepish, dimpled smile he always wore when trying not to laugh at the chaos he’d somehow greenlit.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he said softly, stepping forward to set the tray in your lap. “I didn’t let them use the stove this time, promise.”

You blinked down at the tray. Pancakes — three of them, each cut into a slightly different lopsided heart. There were rainbow sprinkles scattered across the top and syrup pooled in the corners of the plate like it was trying to escape. Two strawberries, one already missing a bite. And orange juice, somehow pulpy and fizzy at the same time, in a pink plastic cup with a bendy straw.

But the best part — the part that made your throat catch — were the cards.

Two of them, folded construction paper and glitter glue, held proudly in your kids’ hands. One was covered in misshapen flowers and the words "I LOVE MAMA!!!" in three different crayon colors. The other just had a scribbled drawing of you with sparkly hair and wings, labeled “Fairy Mama” with an arrow.

You held out your hands and they immediately crawled onto the bed, sandwiching you in their warm, wiggly affection. One of them tried to feed you a bite of pancake with their fingers. You accepted it without complaint, letting them giggle as syrup stuck to your lips.

“Did you two help Papa with all this?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Uh-huh!” one beamed. “I made the juice!”

“And I put extra sprinkles because that’s your favorite!” the other said proudly.

Shōyō settled at the edge of the bed, watching the three of you with soft eyes. His hair was slightly damp — evidence of a quick morning rinse — and he still smelled faintly of the lemon-scented dish soap you always bought. He wore one of his old MSBY shirts, faded from too many washes, clinging slightly to his frame.

“I tried to get them to wait until you were fully awake,” he said, brushing a hand over your ankle beneath the blanket. “But they were very sure they’d explode if they didn’t surprise you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “You too, mama.”

Another bite of pancake was offered and taken. A strawberry was pressed to your cheek like a sacred offering. And finally, one of the kids tilted their head, hopeful and tentative.

“Do you like it?”

You looked around at all of it — the tray, the sticky fingers, the bent paper cards covered in glitter and pride — and felt your chest warm like the sun had cracked you open from the inside.

“I love it,” you said sincerely. “I love you.”

They beamed. A set of sticky arms flung around your neck. The other planted a syrupy kiss on your cheek.

Shōyō chuckled softly. “Alright, alright — let Mama eat her food, yeah?”

“But I—”

“Go play,” he said, ruffling their hair as he stood. “Auntie Natsu’s coming to pick you up soon.”

There were a few grumbles, but they complied. One more round of quick kisses and tight squeezes, and they scampered off — dragging glitter, crumbs, and laughter behind them like a comet’s tail.

Shōyō turned back to you once the room had quieted. He leaned against the bedpost, watching you with that look again — part reverence, part mischief.

“Natsu’s coming in an hour or so,” he said. “Figured you could use a break.”

You glanced at the tray in your lap. “Peace and quiet?”

“Or,” he said, grinning, “I could go with them and give you the house to yourself…”

He took a step closer, voice lowering just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Or I could stay here. With you. Keep the kids out of your hair, make you feel good—really good—for the rest of the morning.”

You arched a brow. “Shōyō.”

His voice dropped, all teasing. “What? I’m just saying — I’m very versatile.”

Your heart flipped.

Before you could respond, he stepped forward and reached into the back pocket of his sweatpants, pulling something small and neatly wrapped in brown paper. “Also,” he said, voice gentling, “this is from me.”

You blinked, surprised. He placed the package in your hand — light, but clearly something solid tucked inside. When you unfolded it, your breath caught.

It was a delicate bracelet — a fine gold chain with a small, charm-like pendant at the center. A tiny sun, etched with the faintest smiling face.

“It reminded me of you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The kids are the whole sky, but you’re what keeps everything bright.”

You looked up at him, eyes stinging just a little. “Sho...”

He leaned down to help clasp it around your wrist, his fingers brushing yours. You set the tray aside without thinking, reaching to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a hug — warm and full and content.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, sweet and lingering.

When you pulled back, he was grinning.

“Your lips are all sticky,” he murmured, laughing softly.

“You kissed me anyway,” you said.

“I’ll always kiss you,” he replied simply.

Outside, the kids shrieked with laughter as something toppled in the hallway.

And inside — the world narrowed to the warmth in your chest, the gift at your wrist, the cooling pancakes on the nightstand, and the man who’d built this chaos with you, morning by syrupy morning.

And you wouldn’t change a thing.

[mymelody58]

COVE WITH A SUIT??? OH MY DAYSSAA

um... just a normal drawing of cove in a suit

[mymelody58]

When you know, you know - Kenma Kozume x Reader

for @liquidcatt for the Milestone Event Week 4

“I always knew that Kenma could only love someone mesmerizing enough to catch his interest,” Tetsurou starts his speech with an almost feral grin, chuckling when Kenma’s response is to rest his head on your shoulder, groaning about the awful speech they’re surely about to hear.

“And how mesmerizing you could be we found out on the very first day the two of you met, when Kenma was so entranced by your beauty he stepped into a puddle, slipped and fell to his knees right in front of you.”

Kenma’s groaning turns pained as you giggle at the memory.

It had made your first day at school so much sweeter, especially when Kenma blinked upt at you with golden eyes, blushing profusely as he found you looking back down at him.

“Of course, Kenma wouldn’t be Kenma, if he didn’t vehemently deny any sort of attachment or attraction toward you, but everyone could see it. Even Lev, who at that time couldn’t notice the ball if it was right in front of him, right Lev?”

Tetsurou turns the mic toward Lev who blinks back, happy to be included.

“He always blushed when you were around,” he remembers before realising he’d just been insulted. “Hey!”

“But of course, Kenma wasn’t the only one with telling… well, tells.” Tetsurou chuckles over his own lame joke, turning the mic toward one of your friends who’s grinning up at Kenma’s best man.

“She used to hide behind me whenever Kenma looked in our direction because, and I quote, he was too cute to look at!”

“So we all knew that there was something great in the making, but, as high school students often are, we were impatient,” Tetsurou concludes, prancing back to your table. “So we set you up on a blind date!”

You coo at the memory of Kenma’s stiff posture in the restaurant booth, his anxiety almost bleeding out of every pore as you fiddled your fingers right in front of him.

It could have been awkward and in a way, it was, but his sincerity when he finally directed his words to you, his promise to make sure you wouldn’t be bothered again by his friends if this was too much for you, really sealed the deal for you.

And Tetsurou knows, because he tells them, your friends and family, who know at least part of the story, if not all of it, your co-workers whose eyes turn big at Tetsurou’s speech.

Kenma’s face is warm against your shoulder, but he’s peeking up at you, the curve of his smile so dear and familiar to you, you could recognize it by touch alone.

“I love you,” he whispers, as the crowd laughs around you at one of Tetsurou’s jokes, his hand squeezing yours under the table. “Thank you for marrying me.”

-

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[mymelody58]

UM CUTEST THING I’VE EVER READ

COMFORTABLE SILENCE. — final part.

🫧 SUMMARY; — kozume kenma and gn!reader finally get their shit together!

🫧 WARNINGS; — it's fluff!!!

🫧 WORD COUNT; — 2613.

🫧 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — sorry it took me a while to get this out!! now i'm very much in the mood to write angst hurt/no comfort kenma :3

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | final pt.

“maaa, where have you been, kenma?” 

kuroo tetsurou sounded almost annoyed, though the colour of concern was bleeding strong through his voice, suspicion not far behind. 

kozume kenma kept to his word. always. if he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t give any promises to begin with.

so when he said he was going to be there for practice, and then didn’t turn up, logically and only naturally, kuroo had to conclude that kenma was seized by an ailment, “it’s been 21 minutes and 23 seconds, and not like i’m keeping count, but— holy shit! kenma, are you alright?!”

kenma usually thought that kuroo tetsurou was quite the drama queen, enjoying riling up people in more ways than one. usually, he also didn’t mind it, perfectly capable of ignoring kuroo’s taunts, especially if they were directed at others, or lazily retorting back with smart-assed comments to dampen his best friend, when they were aimed at him (which only worked sometimes at best). 

usually.

but today of all days, now of all times, when kenma’s mind couldn’t stop replaying the words that had passed your lips, and his mind’s eye kept seeing you look up at him with shy hope in your eyes, cheeks already in flames, lips burning from where he had mustered up the courage to kiss you back — now, kenma really hoped kuroo would quit his shenanigans, because kenma feared that now was when he was most susceptible to it.

“i’m,” he breathed out and hoped his face would calm down by the time he reached his teammates, “fine.”

“you don’t look fine to me. come here, are you getting a fever?” kuroo slapped his too-big-hand onto kenma’s face to feel his temperature. concentration swam in his eyes as he mushed kenma’s nose underneath his fingers, even though kuroo only needed to check his forehead at most. 

an inkling of annoyance started to shape up within the blonde’s chest and kenma slapped kuroo’s hand away, muffled voice objecting but it was drowned out by the others on his team. 

all of lev’s 194 cm shrieked in response to kuroo’s conjecture, “fever?! but we haven’t been able to spike some balls!”

“hold on, you moronic titan, we’re not done yet. where are you going?!” yaku was quick to grab a hold of lev’s shirt, pulling him back, effectively almost choking him. lev inhaled deeply, hysterically, before —

“but yakkunnnn— wait, wai— mphmpf. wait, h-hold on, i wasn’t read—nghn!” 

“you always gotta be ready at any speed the ball will come hurtling at you!”

another yell back, hands raised to protect his head, “not when it’s purposefully aimed at my face!!”

kenma sighed and pushed past kuroo, though his black-haired friend’s eyes followed him, glinting in the artificial gymnasium light, suspicion heavy. he could see that the gears were turning, giving kenma a look from head to toe, fingers rubbing his jaw, deep in thought. 

“let’s just get this over with,” kenma mumbled to himself, though kuroo’s brows furrowed even more in thought, a quiet “curious.” escaping him. 

throughout the drills and the team practice, kuroo kept observing his friend: the way his mind was barely around to use in plays, the way his reaction time waned with every movement of the clock nearing evening. not only that, even the way he didn’t immediately try to collapse whenever there was a break — something happened, he decided. and he wouldn’t be a good friend if he didn’t at least try to inquire.

kenma felt each instance of kuroo’s staring when his best friend thought nobody was watching, and the way the hair on his neck stood up at the intense glowering, it was hard to ignore. there was another short break incoming, though kenma’s thoughts had already started wandering before any pause could be called, golden eyes trained on the clock, anticipating the end of the club. it had been a long time since he felt this incredibly nervous. 

sweaty hands that he had to wipe on his shorts, heart racing so hard he almost felt dizzy from the adrenaline, a dry throat rivalling the moments of dehydration during summer. it wasn’t like he had cause to feel anxious about anything, not when you had taken the initiative and told him you liked him, not when he had tangible proof that it might not all have been a fabrication in his head. 

but god, he was sweating, and it wasn’t because of volleyball. 

“you keep looking at the clock, kenma.”

kuroo settled next to kenma as they rotated, not looking at him, focused on the opposite players in front of the net, hands poised hovering, ready to block out a possible attack. 

kenma shrugged, though the reminder had him peel his tongue off the roof of his mouth with more effort than normally, “yeah.”

a short glance from the captain of nekoma high’s volleyball club; his gaze scrutinising, looking over his friend again, like a detective on a mission, ready to unravel all his thoughts. 

kenma returned his gaze with a blank face, carefully schooling his features.

“where were you earlier?” the second inquiry came right as the serve was called out, so kenma used the opportunity of having to concentrate to evade kuroo again, eyes following the ball closely, jumping when needed, setting over to the other side of the court, not missing the narrowed eyes of his best friend when he came down from the block. 

point for captain’s team.

“damn it, kenma, i will uncover this even if it kills me!!” kuroo exploded suddenly, his pointer finger all up in kenma’s face after a long look, “you’re a lousy actor and you’re not allowed to get away with it. you just wait. even if it’s the last thing i’ll dedicate to doing in my life!”

“not finding a baddie and marrying her?”

“you’re right, tora,” kuroo nodded to yamamoto, before fixing his blonde friend with another promising look, “kenma! spit it out! i don’t want to die maidenless!!”

“stop wiggling your fingers like that. you look like a perv,” was the only unenthusiastic response to kuroo’s antics.

all throughout tidying up the gymnasium, kenma felt like he was dirtying things up more than actually cleaning them. his sports clothes did nothing to keep his hands dry after having used them so many times to get rid of the proof of the anxiety spiking in his chest.

kuroo had stopped being persistent; his eyes only flitting over kenma’s form once in a while, watchful, and despite the big talk about trying to uncover anything, he left his friend to his own devices. 

if a bit of prying got kuroo nowhere, then there was a chance he needed to change his approach. a part of kenma felt relief at the stop in pushing, the hair-raising call to attention lessening. another part felt the already existing nervousness in his chest brew a little stronger, because he knew his friend and knew what it meant when there was a break in his picking of fights. 

stepping out of the gymnasium, the sounds of his teammates fooling around faded away, slinking into the background in the same seamless way his heart picked up its pace. a thrum he could barely escape, blood rushing through his ears and heating up his skin. 

you were beautiful on a normal day when nothing was awaiting you and when expectations were unmet, but you were breathtaking when you were waiting for him, looking down because you couldn’t meet his eyes, the pink stealing itself away on your face, a certain uncertainty in your step as you rocked back and forth.

faintly, he heard his teammates pique in curiosity at the presence of somebody near the gymnasium premises, so late after school had already finished, but kenma parted from them without a glance and a goodbye. 

like a group of clucking hens they were lead away, one tripping over the other to catch a glance, and kuroo tetsurou their shepherd with enough situational awareness to understand that it was none of their business and with all the more annoying squint of his eyes and the cocky smile splitting his face, ready to tease his friend over it in the next couple days.

kenma’s steps were slow and heavy. he wasn’t very good at confrontations, if it even ever came to that, so he had to drag his legs, willing his muscles to work with and for him. and even though you could hear the shuffle of his street shoes on the ground, you purposefully didn’t look up. it made it easier to approach you, made it easier to stare at you unabashedly, should have made it easier to think of what to say, but when he stood in front of you, the tip of his toes pressing down inside his shoes, he found himself without words once again.

he wondered if he was ever going to be able to breathe when you were around.

the breeze didn’t lessen over the hours, still as soft though with a touch more cold than during the day, when the sun had the chance to wrap you in her embrace. 

“about what i said,” you started but then paused when you noticed that you didn’t know what to say either, eyes still plastered to his legs, watching his shoes squirm in front of you.

“i don’t remember,” he murmured, voice soft and stubborn, words clear and deceiving. you knew he had heard you hours ago when you confessed, when the traitorous words had slipped your lips in a moment of adrenaline, yet he stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the slight bobbing of his throat the only thing you could see out of the periphery of your eyes. 

you couldn’t help it. the fact that you knew he was not telling the truth made you exhale quietly, most of the adrenaline pushed out of your chest with force, a nervous smile ready to take over your features, and you settled into the familiarity of a cushion well worn, of a seat on his couch that had always been your spot amongst the many ones he occupied, a back and forth you were an expert in, “you’re lying.”

this time you did glance up at him, catching the way he tilted his head to look to the side, blonde strands of his hair slightly brushing his jaw at the movement. his eyes looked at anything but you, bullheaded in his nature, lips pursing at the call out, “i’m not.”

“yeah, you are.”

the piercing golden eyes of his cast away from you, still stubborn, still insisting, “am not. i don’t remember.”

“okay,” you agreed, a tiny step closer to him than before.

he sent you a tentative glance, the same way a hesitant kitten would, eyeing a risk up, seeing whether it was worth going for, but when his gaze met yours, he looked away and his brows twitched. you continued, a tease hidden in your words, “if you don’t remember, then i guess i don’t have to worry about it anymore, either.”

you could see the workings in his jaw, the expression on his face was fleeting, the slight annoyance at having his plans foiled, the almost interested perk up at the change in strategy, too fast to catch if you weren’t so versed in memorising the fluttering his facial muscles couldn’t hide. 

“i guess —,” he responded, the words tumbling over his lips slowly, gold raking over you in an inquisitive manner, “— it’s not important then.”

your heart skipped a beat at the insinuation, at the intensity in his eyes as he fixed his look on you, deliberately taking a few seconds to show you the opposite — that it was important to him. all the same, the unsure undertone swinging in his soft tenor requested you to challenge him on that belief, to disagree with him, even in his performative deception. 

he hated losing but would rather be beaten in this instance.

the wind cooled the red on your cheeks as you gave in, “shame. i suppose you don’t want a reminder then, if you don’t care to know.”

his jaw moved forward imperceptibly, teeth set together, hands pulled out from their pockets, grasping the air. the offer laid heavily on his tongue when he opened his mouth slightly, breathing out; the knot of nerves lodged in his throat bobbing around a dry swallow. then, echoing, “i suppose.”

before you could reply, he narrowed his eyes into a sheepish glance, voice resembling a grumble; the eager twitch of his ears peeking out from between the blonde curtain was not lost on you, “though, a recap wouldn’t hurt.”

hooves. you felt hooves thundering in your chest, out of breath and so very tight. another shuffle of your feet to bring you a little closer, head leaning in, the anticipation crawled over you slowly, but there were his eyes; the sharp watchfulness trained on you, noticing your every movement, absorbing each moment hanging between you.

“kenma.”

he didn’t look away, barely reacted; if you squinted, you could see the vibration of his throat, “hm?”

“close your eyes.”

his pupils darted from your mouth to take in your whole face, “why?”

your tongue wetted your dry lips and his exhale felt too hot, eyes catching that movement, too. you wished your voice was stronger, “because. you make me nervous.”

in lieu of replying, he hid the gold from you and the weight on your shoulders lessened. his senses were sharp and his imagination endless, so you knew he was envisioning how you looked when the ground crunched under your feet as you stepped forward, how close you had to be to feel the warmth of your body, to smell your light scent, to hear your quiet breathing so close to his mouth. 

he didn’t need to see to know. 

(though, he would have preferred watching.)

but kenma was patient, when he wanted to be. when there was reason to. when the ghost of your lips hovered over his own, patiently waiting their yielding to pressure, then: flesh compliant to the hesitant movement, the softness, the taste, the swipe of a curious, tentative tongue only for it to dissolve into urgency the second he responded in like. 

kenma stole kisses from you, one after the other, his chest hurting when he breathed, hands too clammy as they touched your neck. your fingers couldn’t stop exploring either, digging deeply into his scalp, strands of his hair caught between your hands.

parting, a slight gasp, breathing the same air, “do you remember now?”

“i refuse,” he shut you up with another pull of your head towards his, words muffled against the pillows of your lips, “you know, i don’t skip any scenes.”

he had opened his eyes even though you told him to keep them closed, but through the thicket of his lashes, he memorised this scene from up-close — the curve of your cheek, your eyebrows, the half-lidded shy glance you sent his way, the taste of you, the caress of your wet tongue, his nose bumping against yours, your body close to his.

kenma didn’t kiss very often, but he had a taste for it now. seemed like he just needed to forget things more often. 

a murmur so soft-spoken and quiet, you almost missed it: “i like you lots, too.”

“i knew you were lying.”

“eh? i didn’t say anything.”

“yeah, you did,” your fingers slipped between his.

his breath hitched slightly, almost unnoticeable, “didn’t.”

a tentative squeeze, “did.”

“didn’t.”

“did.”

“didn’t,” he squeezed back, sure in his response, pulse warm and heavy in your hand.