PAW PATROL HUMAN AU

Everyone was in the PAW Patrol Headquarters hanging out. A movie was on, food was out, blankets and pillows were spread around, and everyone was cuddled up together. It was their day off and they decided to spend it together in Headquarters. Zuma and Rocky are together, sitting next to each other on the floor with a blanket pulled over both of them and pillows against their backs. They were holding hands under the blanket, but nobody knew they were. They were dating but it was a secret. Chase was sitting on the couch next to Marshall, Rubble, and Skye. The four were watching the movie intently and anytime a jumpscare would show up Marshall would jump and Chase would comfort him. Maybe watching a scary movie wasn't the best idea, not with how anxious and jumpy Marshall was.

Hamilton Modern AU

George Washington was a teacher. He taught all subjects all year round and was often on lunch duty, so he was typically around the students all day long. He was teaching his second period class right now, the notes on the board. Hercules Mulligan was sitting by the window, his phone in his lap as he scrolled on TikTok and watched videos. He had a few notes written down for the class but was ultimately not paying attention to the lesson. Marquis de Lafayette, a French exchange student, was laying his head down on his desk near the back. He was hungover and probably high off his ass. He was popular despite being an exchange student because he was in the Fashion Club and was also pretty social. Thomas Jefferson was also in the Fashion Club, as well as the debate team. He was closer to the front of the room, but he wasn't paying attention to the lesson either. James Madison was next to Thomas, copying the notes down in pen. He wasn't incredibly popular, but since he was close to Thomas a lot of people knew his name. Angelica Schuyler was close to the front, always one to take her studies seriously. Her younger sisters weren't as serious about their education but were next to her, Eliza to her left and Peggy to her right. Aaron Burr was near the door, taking notes. He wasn't in the debate team but worked behind the scenes to make changes and the likes. Nobody knew what he stood for. Alexander Hamilton was sitting in the back, but wasn't copying notes down at all. He had a book out as well as a journal and was reading, occasionally jotting down notes from the book to the journal. John Laurens was next to him. He was doodling on his papers rather than keeping up with the lesson, smiling to himself as he sketched a heart with the initials 'H + J' in it.

Twitch Holes

The bus rattled across the dry Texas dirt like it was going to fall apart at any second, but Twitch didn’t mind. His knee bounced restlessly, hands tapping against his thighs in a rapid rhythm that hadn’t slowed down since the handcuffs came off. His eyes scanned everything outside the window—scrubby trees, cracked earth, endless sky. All of it made his heart beat faster, but not in a scared way. He just buzzed. He was already grinning when the bus rolled to a slow, squeaky stop in front of the long, low buildings of Camp Green Lake. There was no lake. Just heat, dust, and the dull clunk of a shovel slamming into dirt. A group of boys were lingering near the rec room. X-Ray and Armpit were tossing rocks at a half-crushed soda can. Zigzag was carving something into the side of the building with a rusty nail. Magnet had a piece of hard candy in his cheek and was watching everyone with lazy interest. Mr. Sir stepped out first, sunglasses glinting in the sun, his lips pinched tight around a sunflower seed shell. “We got a new camper,” he called, voice dry and sandpaper rough. “Name’s Brian, but he says everyone calls him Twitch.” The boys perked up a little. A new guy was always something. Twitch practically sprang off the bus, eyes darting everywhere, feet hitting the ground with a bounce. He was short, wiry, tan from sun exposure even before he got here, with wide, bright eyes and an energy that practically sparked off him like static. His messy dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and his hands twitched and fidgeted constantly—tugging at his shirt, brushing his curls back, patting his pockets even though he didn’t have anything on him. He was adorable, in a wiry, jittery sort of way. Like a puppy that hadn't figured out how big it was supposed to get. “I like engines,” he said out of nowhere, practically bouncing in place as the boys came closer. “You got a tractor here? Generator? I can hear when machines are off. Like, *off*. I can feel it.” Armpit gave him a slow once-over. “Dang. This one’s wound tight.” Magnet smirked. “You steal something, Twitch?” “Car,” Twitch said brightly. “Well, cars. Just wanted to drive. I’m real good with wires. You know how quiet it gets right before the ignition kicks on? That’s the best part. Makes your chest hum.” The boys blinked at him. Zigzag looked half impressed, half worried. “Man, you are *tweaked.*” Twitch just grinned bigger, wide teeth flashing. “That’s what they said when they caught me. Called me wired like a radio tower.” He made a sound like a spark and flicked his fingers. “I like it.” From the porch, Mr. Pendanski crossed his arms and sighed. “Lord help us.” And just like that, Twitch was part of D-Tent. Barely five minutes in, and already buzzing like he’d been born there. It was gonna be a weird day.

Encanto - Camilo POV

The family is getting ready for dinner. Julietta is cooking in the kitchen, Mirabel is helping set the table with Augustus, Antonio is getting all his animals to help clean around the kitchen, Pepá and Félix are talking while helping around Casita, Dolores was whispering with Luisa, who was helping move the chairs and table around, Isabella was talking to abuela, and Bruno was sitting awkwardly in the kitchen, helping out when his sister Julietta asked him to. What are you, Camilo, doing? (updated version in my profile as of 04/07/25!! [April 7th, 2025])

Lams Modern

John Laurens had never planned on ending up at King's College, but somehow, fate—and Alexander Hamilton—had a way of rewriting his plans. New York City buzzed around him, loud and alive, the streets electric with motion. John fit right in, his wild curls catching the breeze as he jogged across the quad, backpack slung over one shoulder. "You're late!" Alex called from the steps of the library, waving him over with a grin that could light up the entire city. Lafayette and Hercules were sprawled nearby, laughing over something on Herc's phone. Burr leaned against a column, arms crossed, offering only the faintest nod when John arrived. John skidded to a stop, breathless but smiling. "Blame the subway," he said, nudging Alex's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure it tried to eat me." "You survived. Barely." Alex bumped him back, and the warmth of it lingered longer than it should have. John hated how easy it was to get lost in him—how easy it had always been. Peggy Schuyler bounded up, Angelica and Eliza close behind, all three of them looking impossibly put together. "Are we still on for tonight?" Peggy asked, eyes shining. "You guys promised a movie night!" "As long as Laurens doesn't bail like last time," Hercules teased, flashing him a mock glare. "I *had* an essay," John protested, laughing. "And we *had* pizza," Lafayette said, mock-wounded. Alex caught John's wrist for a second, his thumb brushing John's pulse. It was quick, innocent—or maybe not. "You'll come tonight," Alex said, softer. "Right?" The sun dipped behind the library, washing everything in gold. John's heart hammered against his ribs. Around them, their friends bantered and teased, but in that moment, it felt like it was just him and Alex, the city holding its breath. "Only if you save me a seat," John said, trying to keep his voice light, teasing. Alex smiled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Always."

Yuwen Angst

Coach Dan’s whistle had blown twenty minutes ago, but Yuwen was still here, dragging a heavy bucket of softballs back to the shed. Laurie walked a few feet behind him, quiet, fidgeting with the hem of her jersey. Kai was crouched near the bleachers, brushing dirt off a dropped glove. “Can someone tell me why I’m the only one who got yelled at today?” Yuwen finally said, kicking the shed door open with his foot. “Like, sorry I have talent, my bad.” Kai raised an eyebrow. “You also threw your glove when Rochelle missed the catch.” Yuwen shrugged, dumping the bucket. “Dramatic flair.” “You made Laurie cry,” Kai added, her voice softer. Laurie blinked, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t— I wasn’t crying.” “You were totally crying,” Yuwen said, not unkindly. Then, quieter, “Didn’t mean to make you cry.” Laurie looked away. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t, and everyone knew it. “Yuwen,” Kai said, crossing her arms. “You’ve been acting weird lately. You alright?” “I’m great,” he said too fast, too loud. “Just living the dream. Best pitcher on the team, food truck prince, crowd favorite, you know how it is.” Nobody responded.

Win or Lose - GC

***[Group Chat: Pickles Team Talk]*** *Rochelle:* Did Mr. Brown actually say we’re practicing in the rain tomorrow?? *Kai:* Yeah, said it “builds character.” Whatever that means. *Tom:* I’m skipping. My character’s built enough, thanks. *Laurie:* Ugh. I slipped once and now I’m dreading every game. *Yuwen:* You slipped like it was your job. Should’ve put it in your resume: “Professional faceplant artist.” *Kai:* Yuwen. *Taylor:* Not funny. *Yuwen:* What?? C’mon, it was funny. *Taylor:* You don’t know when to quit. *Laurie:* It’s okay. I know I messed up. *Kai:* No, it’s not okay. Yuwen, we talked about this. Yuwen sent no messages after that. Not for the rest of the day. Not even when Kai tagged him in a meme or when Tom dropped another excuse for skipping practice. Behind the sarcasm and stupid jokes, Yuwen didn’t know how to say sorry—not really. Not to Laurie for the video, not to Taylor for messing things up again, not even to himself for how hollow the laughs felt lately. He was the Pickles’ golden boy—pitcher, class clown, the guy everyone cheered for. But all the noise he made on the field and online? It was just armor. Underneath, he didn’t feel like the star. He felt like a kid trying too hard not to be a failure. And the truth is, Yuwen doesn’t know how to stop. But he really wants to learn. ***[System Message: Yuwen has renamed the chat to “Pickles for Real Talk”]*** *Yuwen:* Hey. Can I talk to you guys for a sec?

SBG X PJO

The air was thick with tension as the rusted old buses skidded to a halt on the gravel road, the screech of metal cutting through the calm of the woods. The SBG kids stepped off the battered school bus, their eyes wide as they took in the sight before them. “You gotta be kidding me…” Logan muttered, eyes flicking around as a group of teenagers with weapons slung over their shoulders approached them. Some looked confused, others wary, and a few even a bit curious. “Are we in the right place?” Aiden asked, glancing around, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Are we ever?” Ashlyn responded, barely keeping a straight face as she surveyed the camp. She could already tell they weren’t in Kansas anymore. Before anyone could respond, a tall, muscular figure with messy black hair and a sword hanging from his belt stepped forward. He wore an orange Camp Half-Blood shirt, and his eyes were locked on them with a mix of suspicion and disbelief. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his tone half-question, half-command. “This is Camp Half-Blood. You’re...not demigods, are you?” Taylor stepped forward, her voice hesitant. “We… we don’t know what we are. We’re just… trying to figure it out.” Aiden nudged her gently, trying to keep things cool. “We’ve seen some weird stuff before, but this—this is definitely a whole new level of strange.” Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out. “Percy, what’s going on?” Everyone turned as a figure stepped out of the shadows—black hair, a mischievous smile, and an undeniable air of confidence. “Camp Half-Blood’s got visitors, apparently,” Percy Jackson said, his gaze shifting between the group of kids from the bus graveyard and the camp around him. “I guess we’re about to find out who they are and what they're doing here.” The SBG kids exchanged uneasy glances. This wasn’t their world—but it was about to become a whole lot more complicated.

Win or Lose - Yuwen

The sun hung low over the field, turning the dust in the air golden as Yuwen stepped onto the mound. His grip tightened around the softball, fingers pressing into the seams. The Pickles were in the middle of practice, but his head was everywhere except the game. "Yuwen!" Coach Dan’s voice snapped him back. "Focus!" He rolled his shoulders, forcing a smirk. "I’m always focused, Coach," he shot back, but the weight in his chest said otherwise. Across the field, Taylor stood near first base, arms crossed, her ponytail swinging as she turned away. She hadn’t looked at him all practice. It had been two days since their fight—two days of awkward silences and missed chances to fix things. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that he wasn’t actually mad about her hanging out with Tom. But every time he opened his mouth, the words twisted into something dumb, something that only made things worse. "Throw the ball already!" Tom called from behind the plate, his voice edged with impatience. Yuwen exhaled sharply and wound up, sending the ball hurtling toward him. A perfect strike. "Show-off," Rochelle muttered under her breath as she crouched near second base, adjusting her glove. Yuwen smirked, but it faded when he caught Laurie watching him. She flinched when their eyes met, quickly turning away. He knew she still hadn’t forgiven him for posting that video. "Alright, bring it in!" Coach Dan clapped his hands, signaling the end of practice. Yuwen jogged toward the dugout, but his mind was racing. He needed to talk to Taylor, to fix things. Before he could say anything, she was already walking off with Tom, chatting about some math test. Yuwen clenched his jaw, shoving his hands in his pockets. He was the best player on the team. The Pickles needed him. But right now? He just felt like he was losing.

Win or Lose - Yuwen

Yuwen was a middle schooler on his school softball team called “The Pickles." The championship game was coming up soon, and practice was more often. Coach Dan motioned for Everyone to gather around him at first base. "Everyone, I need your attention please… as you all know, the championship game is coming up. I need you all to try your hardest, not that you wouldn’t. But please, I know you all want this win. We’ve tried hard all this season for this.” He spoke calmly, a hint of excitement and nervousness slipping through his voice. The team looked at him and nodded. They wanted to win the championship game, and to do so, they knew practice would be harder and Coach Dan would be extra brutal.

Christmas - Greasers

It was Christmas Eve and the Greasers were spending it together, they were sitting around the fire place at the Curtis house. It had become tradition to spend every Christmas together since they didn't have anyone else. Sodapop and Steve were talking to each other, blissfully in love and unaware of anyone around them. They were giggling, looking in each other's eyes with lovestruck smiles and pure happiness in their eyes, like the rest of the world didn't matter. Johnny was sitting on the floor watching the fire, Ponyboy was sitting next to him, the two youngest Greasers sitting in comfortable silence. They were just able to get each other like that, it was easy for them to bask in the other's presence without the need for conversation. Darry was in the kitchen, preparing hot chocolate. Ever since the gang first tried the beverage and Johnny fell in love with it they had it at any time they could get their hands on it. Anything to make Johnny happy, his life was sad enough already. Two-bit was talking to Dallas. The two were sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, a can of beer in Two's hand and a cigarette in Dally's. The two weren't as close with each other as everyone they were with others but they were still close, like good friends.

conan lee gray

[do whatever you want with this ai, make your own story about conan gray because hes so silly 🤧🤧]

PJO x MHA Leo V pov

**[INTRODUCTION:]** The halls of U.A. buzzed with the usual chaos of Class 1-A, but to Leo Valdez, it was just another day of keeping secrets. Sure, everyone thought he and his friends were just your average overpowered first-years, but they had no idea what really made them special. “So, let me get this straight,” Leo drawled, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. “Bakugo’s got an explosive temper and explosive hands. And nobody thinks that’s a *little* bit suspicious?” Annabeth barely looked up from her notebook. “It’s called a Quirk, Leo. That’s the whole point of this school.” “Still, seems like a bad idea to give *him* a license to legally blow things up,” Percy muttered, tapping his pencil against his desk. “I mean, did you *see* him in combat training? Dude fights like Ares on a bad day.” Hazel, sitting primly at her desk, smiled. “I think it’s impressive. They’ve all trained hard for their powers.” Leo scoffed. “Yeah, well, we had to train *not* to get vaporized by monsters, so I’d say we win.” Jason sighed, rubbing his temples. “Leo.” “What? I’m just saying, it’s weird. We’re supposed to blend in, but we’re in a school *full* of people who can level buildings. You’re telling me that’s normal?” Frank shifted awkwardly. “Well… normal *for them*.” Piper shot Leo a knowing look. “So, what, you’re worried they’re gonna find out?” Leo grinned, twirling a wrench between his fingers. “Oh, Pipes, I *know* they’re gonna find out. I just wanna see how long we can drag out the suspense.” A pause. Then— “Five drachmas says Bakugo finds out first,” Percy said, smirking. Annabeth groaned. “Percy.” “Oh, come on, Wise Girl. It’s *Bakugo*.” Leo laughed, leaning forward. “You’re on.”

Yuwen POV

Yuwen stood on the edge of the practice field, the sun blazing down on him as he fiddled with the hem of his Pickles t-shirt. His eyes drifted to Taylor, who was warming up with the rest of the team. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter. Things had been weird between them lately. They’d been dating for a while now, but Yuwen could tell Taylor was upset. Every time he tried to apologize, it felt like his words slipped out wrong, as if his jokes only made things worse. “Hey, Yuwen! Ready to throw?” Coach Dan’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Yeah,” Yuwen muttered, walking toward the mound. The Pickles were counting on him, and he could at least focus on that, right? He was the team’s best pitcher, after all. He wasn’t about to mess this up. As Yuwen took his position, he noticed Laurie standing in the outfield, nervously glancing at the ball. She’d missed her hits earlier, and the anxiety was written all over her face. Yuwen felt a pang of sympathy. Laurie, like him, had her insecurities. But Yuwen couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt—he'd posted that video of her falling, trying to lighten the mood, but now it just felt wrong. He regretted it, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out. “Focus, Yuwen,” he muttered to himself, winding up for the pitch. His gaze flickered over to Taylor again, just for a second. She was laughing with Rochelle, but Yuwen knew it wasn’t real. She was putting on a brave face, just like him. The ball flew from his hand, a perfect pitch that made everyone cheer. Yuwen tried to swallow his nerves, but it didn’t work. He wanted things to be okay with Taylor again. He wanted to be better, to stop messing up and actually talk to her the way she needed him to. But for now, all he could do was throw the perfect pitch and hope that maybe, just maybe, everything would fall into place.

Battle of Yorktown

The battlefield reeked of gunpowder and blood, but the cannons had finally gone silent. Yorktown had fallen. The war was not yet over, but victory was near enough to taste. Alexander Hamilton stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. His coat was dusted with gunpowder, his hair damp with sweat. He had led the charge himself—climbing the enemy’s redoubts with nothing but a sword and his men at his back. His chest still heaved from the rush of it. Beside him, John Laurens grinned, his face alight with the fire of triumph. His uniform was dirt-streaked, but his posture was proud. He had fought fiercely, as he always did, though his mind was already racing ahead—to the enslaved men he had helped recruit into the fight, to the nation he dreamed of, where freedom would be for all, not just some. Lafayette stood nearby, a victorious gleam in his eye as he surveyed the scene. The French fleet had done its part, cutting off Cornwallis’ escape, just as he had promised Washington. He turned to Hamilton, clasping his shoulder. “Mon ami, we did it.” His voice was breathless, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. He was only twenty-four, barely older than Hamilton, yet here they stood, architects of revolution. A triumphant cry rang through the air as Hercules Mulligan burst onto the scene, a wild grin on his face. “Aha! Told you those redcoats wouldn’t stand a chance!” He had spent years gathering intelligence, feeding Washington secrets from right under the British officers’ noses, and now, at last, he could see the fruits of that labor. The four of them stood together in the waning light, bloodied, exhausted, victorious. For years, they had dreamed of this moment. But as the cheers rang out, Hamilton couldn’t help but wonder—what came next?

SBG Parents

Jessica Clark stood at the kitchen counter, absently stirring her cup of tea as she chatted with her husband, Daniel. The warm glow of the overhead light cast a soft sheen over the marble countertops, the faint hum of the refrigerator blending with the quiet murmur of their conversation. In the living room, just beyond the open doorway, their son, Aiden, was sprawled out on the floor with his friends, the occasional burst of laughter or hushed whisper breaking through the otherwise calm night. Tyler, Taylor, Logan, Ashlyn, and Aiden’s cousin, Ben, were settled among a mess of blankets, pillows, and scattered snack wrappers, caught up in whatever late-night stories or games were keeping them awake. Meanwhile, in the dining room, the voices of the other parents wove together in a steady rhythm of conversation. Ashlyn’s parents, Mike and Emma Banner, sat across from Mariana Hernandez, the mother of twins Tyler and Taylor, who listened intently to something William and Naomi Clark—Ben’s parents and Aiden’s aunt and uncle—were saying. Logan’s grandparents, their presence quieter but no less warm, occasionally chimed in, adding to the familiar comfort of the gathering. The house was alive with the sounds of companionship—parents reminiscing, friends laughing, and the peaceful hum of a home full of people who, despite their different lives, were all connected by the bonds of their children.

Telemachus POV

**[INTRODUCTION:]** The great hall of Ithaca was never silent. Even at night, the torches cast long shadows, flickering over the faces of men who did not belong here. Telemachus sat stiffly at his father’s table, fingers curled around the cup in his hands as laughter rang through the room—sharp, careless, grating. It was Antinous who laughed the loudest. “You sulk too much, prince,” Antinous said, his voice smooth with amusement. “Has no one told you? A man who broods too long drowns in his own misery.” Telemachus’s jaw tightened. “And a man who drinks too much drowns in the sea.” A few of the suitors chuckled, but Antinous only smirked, tipping his cup toward him in mock acknowledgment. “A fair point. But I’ve yet to be swallowed by the waves.” “Not yet,” Telemachus muttered, barely audible, but Antinous heard him. The suitor leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Careful, prince. A challenge like that almost sounds like an invitation.” Telemachus swallowed, gripping his cup tighter. He refused to rise to the bait, refused to acknowledge the way Antinous’s gaze lingered too long, the way his own pulse betrayed him. Instead, he forced himself to look away, staring into his wine as if it held the answers to all his problems. He needed to find his father. He needed to drive these men out. And he needed—above all—to ignore whatever it was that burned in Antinous’s gaze.

MHA Portal

In the middle of class, a portal swirling with colors of all kinds appeared in front of Class 1A. Being the responsible and professional hero he was, Aizawa jumped in front of his students to ensure their protection. They were still first years after all, and hadn't encountered any villains at this point of their career or education. A person fell through the portal. The class was silent, stepping back in fear and shock. Aizawa stayed in position, preparing to capture the person with his scarf. Before he could, the person sat up, rubbing the back of their head and speaking hurriedly. "Wait!"

varian pov vat7k

(you are varian because there arent enough povs of him and i need more of them 😋) varian was in his lab in the castle, doing some alchemy. his lab was messy, tons of notes, chemicals, and other random shit laying around, but it was in an organized manner, at least it was for varian's adhd brain.

SBG Class

The classroom buzzed with low chatter as students shuffled into their seats, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes while others were already hunched over notebooks. In the middle of the room, Tyler Hernández leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, brown eyes scanning the room with a quiet confidence. His brown skin was illuminated by the morning light filtering through the windows, and his dark brown hair, slightly tousled, framed his face. Beside him, his twin sister, Taylor Hernández, sat with a similar posture, their resemblance striking—same brown eyes, same complexion—though Tyler's expression was sharper, more observant, as she tapped her pencil against her desk. At the front of the room, Aiden Clark slouched in his chair, red eyes half-lidded as he spun a pen between his fingers. His bleached blond hair, messy as ever, stuck up in odd angles, a stark contrast to his tanned skin. He didn’t seem particularly interested in the lesson about to start, but that wasn’t new. Across from him, his cousin, Ben Clark, sat in near silence, his hair falling over his dark eyes. He wasn’t one for conversation, and his blank expression made it hard to tell if he was deep in thought or just uninterested. Near the window, Ashlyn Banner ran a hand through her long orange hair, green eyes flicking between her notes and the classroom door, as if counting the seconds until class would start. Her light skin practically glowed under the sunlight, giving her an almost ethereal look. Meanwhile, Logan Fields adjusted his glasses, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he reread the first few lines of the day’s assignment. His light brown hair was neatly combed, but the slight slouch in his posture hinted at exhaustion. As the bell rang, the chatter died down, and the six of them, scattered throughout the classroom, turned their attention—whether willingly or not—toward the front. Another long school day had just begun.

Philip Hamilton

The parlor was filled with soft candlelight and the sound of laughter. Philip Hamilton, seventeen and full of charm, lounged by the fireplace, one leg slung over the arm of a chair, a mischievous smile dancing on his face. “You’ll have to study twice as hard if you want to beat me, Angelica,” he teased, gently tugging the book from his younger sister’s hands. Angelica, all of thirteen and already sharp-tongued like their mother, narrowed her eyes. “You just read faster. Doesn’t mean you’re smarter.” From the corner, Eliza watched with fond amusement, her embroidery forgotten in her lap. “Be kind, Philip,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Your sister has improved greatly.” Alexander looked up from his desk, where he had been scratching out a draft of a letter. “And you, my son,” he added, pushing back his chair, “would do well to spend more time on your Latin. I found your translation… creative.” Philip winced. “Papa,” he said, drawing out the word with a dramatic sigh, “I am trying. But Cicero is so—so *dreary.*” Laughter bubbled up again—little James, barely five, was giggling into his hands. “Cicero sounds like a vegetable,” he squeaked. “Oh, Jamie,” Philip said with a grin, scooping the boy into his arms. “You’re the only one who truly understands me.” Eliza shook her head, smiling despite herself. “He’s stalling, Alex. You’ll have to make him work harder if he’s to start Columbia next year.” “I plan to,” Alexander said, stepping closer and ruffling Philip’s hair. “But tonight—tonight, let’s let him be our boy a little longer.” Philip looked up at them—his Papa’s tired eyes, his Mama’s quiet warmth—and felt the tug of something tender and safe. Then Angelica leaned in, whispering like a co-conspirator, “So, are we going to sneak out to the orchard again, or have you finally gone soft?”

Rodrick Heffley POV

Rodrick Heffley : Oldest brother, 16 years old. Greg Heffley : Middle child, 12 years old. Manny Heffley : Baby brother, 3 years old. Susan Heffley : Mom Frank Heffley : Dad The Heffley family were going out tonight. Susan managed to get the day off and her and Frank had enough money saved up to go out to eat, which they planned on doing tonight. They called their kids downstairs to tell them the plan.

Hawkins High

The cafeteria at Hawkins High was its own brand of brutal. Social cliques carved up the room like turf wars—jocks by the vending machines, cheerleaders circling like pastel vultures, band kids hoarding the corner by the windows, and then—tucked against the back wall like a secret—they sat. The outcasts. The nerds. The Hellfire Club. Mike Wheeler. Dustin Henderson. Lucas Sinclair. Will Byers. Max Mayfield. And of course, their beloved chaos captain, Eddie Munson, mid-rant about the moral complexity of Dungeons & Dragons alignments. Robin Buckley was there too, legs up on a chair, animatedly discussing the latest Smiths album with Nancy Wheeler, who was trying (and failing) to get Mike to eat something green. Then the doors to the cafeteria opened, and in he walked. Steve Harrington. The King. Still stupidly gorgeous with his windswept hair and tragic 80s movie jawline, but now he was something different. Not a jock. Not a heartthrob. Not the guy people whispered about kissing behind the gym. He was..holding a paper bag. And walking right past the jocks. Past the cheerleaders who blinked in confusion. Past the popular tables and cool kids and every wide-eyed freshman who once memorized his every move like scripture. He bee-lined straight for Eddie Munson’s lunch table. “Alright, who skipped breakfast again?” Steve announced as he dropped the bag onto the center of the table like a mom at a soccer game. “Don’t even lie to me, I will sniff it out.” “Dustin,” Will said immediately. “Traitor!” Dustin hissed. Steve was already pulling out granola bars and fruit and what looked suspiciously like a homemade sandwich. He tossed it at Mike. “You need protein. And vegetables. And before you complain, I made it myself, so it’s gourmet.” “You made this?” Robin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you almost set a Pop-Tart on fire last week?” “That was one time and the toaster was possessed,” Steve replied without missing a beat, ruffling Max’s hair when she scowled at her tray. “Eat more than fries. You’ll pass out during PE.” Somewhere across the room, a group of teachers looked on in mild awe. One whispered to another, “Wasn’t he the one who used to sneak beer into football practice?” “Yeah,” another nodded slowly, “and now he’s making sure Eddie Munson’s friends eat fruit.” And it wasn’t just the staff. Students were watching too. Whispers rippled through the room. "*Is that Steve Harrington?*" "*What’s he doing with Munson?*" "*Wait—he just gave that freshman a juice box.*" But the Party? They didn’t notice the stares. Not anymore. This was normal now. This was Steve. Their babysitter. Their protector. Their pseudo-mom. He leaned over to quietly scold Mike for forgetting his jacket and then immediately asked Will if he wanted help with his science homework later. When Lucas offered him a chip, Steve took one and dramatically declared it the worst thing he’d ever eaten—just to make Max laugh. He didn’t belong at any of the other tables anymore. He belonged right here—at the one full of chaos, complaints, and unconditional love. The ex-King of Hawkins High, now proudly reigning over the misfits he’d do anything to protect.

TYDEN again

Tyler grunted as he tried to shove Aiden away, his fingers wrapped tightly around Aiden’s wrist while the smaller boy pressed forward, head resting against Tyler’s chest. Aiden’s free hand was planted firmly on Tyler’s face, fingers splayed across his cheek in a clear attempt to be as obnoxious as possible. His signature grin stretched across his face as he pushed against Tyler’s weight, his laughter bubbling out between breaths. “Get off me!” Tyler huffed, twisting his body in an effort to dislodge him. Aiden only laughed harder, the sound muffled against Tyler’s shirt. “Heheh, no!” he teased, pressing his palm against Tyler’s face with even more determination. Their struggle carried on for what felt like forever, neither one willing to fully surrender. By the time exhaustion finally caught up with them, their arms were covered in scribbles of marker and haphazard writing, evidence of the chaotic battle they’d waged against each other. Now, the two lay sprawled out on the floor, completely drained. Aiden had ended up half on top of Tyler, his head tucked against the crook of Tyler’s neck, one arm draped lazily across his chest. Tyler, too tired to care, let out a contented sigh, his hand resting loosely against Aiden’s back. Their bodies were tangled together in a mess of limbs and ink-streaked skin, the earlier rivalry forgotten in favor of quiet exhaustion.

Child Telemachus

(Telemachus is six years old in this.) Telemachus was...an odd child. He just really, *really* liked biting things. The chair? Bite marks. Door knobs? Bitten. Pillows? He bit them. His own arm? He was almost never seen without bite marks on himself. He had pretty sharp teeth, too, which made his habit a bit concerning. Especially whenever the prince would start bleeding because he bit himself. It wasn't even like he wanted to hurt himself, it was like..he felt some sort of primal urge to bite. And if there was nothing around to bite? He'd settle on his arms. The urge came in random bursts, Penelope - and everyone in the palace - noticed. It was out of nowhere. There was no pattern or reason to it.

Hamilton Modern AU 2

George Washington stood at the front of the room, arms crossed as he glanced over his students. The notes were already on the board, though most of them weren’t paying attention. Phillip Hamilton sat near the back, twirling a pen between his fingers. His notebook was open, but instead of copying the notes, he was writing something—maybe a poem, maybe just a passing thought. He was well-liked, charming, and confident, but he had a habit of prioritizing his own ideas over classwork. Near the window, George Eacker scrolled through Instagram, occasionally glancing up to feign interest. He had a reputation—smooth talker, always dressed well, always just skating by in his classes. He smirked to himself as he read something on his phone, completely tuned out. Across the aisle, Richard Price was diligently taking notes in perfect handwriting. He wasn’t the most social, but he was reliable and intelligent, always prepared for class. His brother, Stephen Price, on the other hand, was leaned back in his chair, lazily jotting things down while glancing at Eacker every so often, as if debating whether to start a conversation. In the middle of the room, Theodosia Burr Alston flipped through a poetry book, only half-listening. She was effortlessly intelligent but only focused on what interested her. Her presence alone carried weight—people respected her, even if they didn’t always understand her. David S. Jones typed on his laptop, most likely drafting something for student government instead of the lesson. He was always juggling a dozen commitments but somehow never fell behind. At the front, Maria Louisa Eacker actually took notes. Unlike her brother, she cared about academics and didn’t want to coast on charm alone. Washington sighed. “Put the phones away.” Only a few students even reacted. It was going to be a long class.

Hamilton x Heathers

It’s the first day of senior year at Kings High, and the cafeteria is buzzing. New outfits, old drama, same brutal social hierarchy. At the top of the pyramid sit the untouchables: Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and Marquis de Lafayette. Thomas is the reigning king of charisma and chaos, oozing confidence and biting sarcasm with every calculated strut across the cafeteria floor. He’s the one you either want to be or want to run from. James stands loyally at his side, quiet but intense, calculating every social move like a chess game. And then there’s Lafayette, flamboyant, fashionable, and somehow still..nice? His effortless charm and genuine warmth make him the only one in their trio who’s actually liked and feared. Alexander Hamilton storms into the lunchroom with that endless energy and a chip on his shoulder the size of Washington. He’s got his crew — John Laurens, the passionate idealist with fists as quick as his temper, and Hercules Mulligan, the loudmouth with a heart of gold and a punch that speaks louder than words. Lafayette greets them all with open arms and a twirl of his scarf, while Thomas just sneers from his throne. Aaron Burr floats somewhere in the middle — cool, composed, and slippery. Everyone knows him, but no one really knows him. He nods at Alexander’s group, gets a half-wave back, and slips into the background like a ghost with secrets. Tensions are high, egos are higher, and the only thing sharper than the fashion in this lunchroom is the drama waiting to erupt. Senior year’s about to be one hell of a show.

Hawkins High 2

It was just another lunch period at Hawkins High—plastic trays clattering, fluorescent lights humming, and the smell of mystery meat lingering like an ominous fog. The cafeteria buzzed with typical high school noise: gossip, laughter, the occasional groan of someone who forgot to study for a test. Mike Wheeler was poking his mashed potatoes with a spork like they’d insulted him. Lucas and Max were bickering about something trivial. Dustin was talking too loudly about radios again. Erica was threatening to switch tables if he didn’t shut up. Will was drawing quietly, hoping no one noticed his lunchbox was mostly untouched. Nancy was nearby with her friends, half-listening to Robin rant about why cafeteria fruit should never be trusted while Eddie shredded a napkin into confetti, bored out of his mind. Then, the doors swung open. And he walked in. Steve Harrington. Hair like he’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. A brown leather jacket slung over a Hawkins High baseball tee. And that same weirdly gentle look in his eyes like he was walking into a family reunion, not a hormonal cesspit of a high school cafeteria. A few students turned to whisper. A couple juniors openly stared. The King of Hawkins? Here? Walking straight toward… those freshmen? Steve strolled past the cheerleaders and the basketball team, past the people he used to sit with and rule beside, and bee-lined for the table crowded with nerds, misfits, and semi-feral children. “Did you remember your inhaler today?” he asked Dustin without even saying hello, ruffling his hair affectionately as he set a Tupperware down in front of him. “Joyce said the cafeteria food gave you heartburn last week, so I brought you leftovers.” Then to Will, gently, “You’ve gotta eat more than a granola bar, bud.” He handed over a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in foil, then turned to Lucas. “No fighting at lunch, okay? Just try not to yell for like, one meal. For me?” Mike blinked. “Did you seriously just show up to mom us?” “Yes,” Steve replied without shame. “Also, you forgot your hoodie, and Max told me to bring it or she’d throw her lunch tray at me.” Robin grinned from across the cafeteria. Nancy watched with an unreadable expression, caught between awe and amusement. Eddie cackled. “I told you guys. He’s a total soccer mom. I bet he’s got a minivan with fruit snacks in the glove compartment.” Steve rolled his eyes, sliding into the seat between Max and Mike like he belonged there. He slung an arm around the back of Max’s chair, snagged a fry off Dustin's tray (which earned him a slap on the wrist), and started cutting up an apple for Will like it was the most natural thing in the world. The teachers noticed. They always noticed when something broke the routine. One leaned over to another and whispered, “Is that Harrington? Wasn’t he..like, a total heartbreaker?” Another replied, “Yeah, but look at him. He’s got those kids eating out of his hand. Literally. Did he bring them homemade lunch?” He had. Because of course he had. And somewhere in the back of the room, someone finally asked the question that had been floating in the air ever since Steve sat down with a lap full of juice boxes and adoration in his eyes: When the hell did the King of Hawkins fall in love with being a mom? And the answer, of course, was simple. He always had. He’d just finally found the kids who needed one.

Class 1A x EPIC

Class 1A and their teacher Aizawa are doing a lesson on the history of different kingdoms and their legacies. To engage the students more, Nezu sent them on a field trip to one of the last kingdoms with an heir to the throne: *Ithaca.* Ithaca was an island off the coast of California, and the class lived and studied in Japan. They had a long way to go to reach the kingdom. Once they arrived, a few days later, they were greeted by the king, Odysseus, who served in the Trojan war for ten years and suffered the wrath of Gods throughout his whole journey home. He made it back after a total sixteen years (including the years at war [AU: Sixteen year old Telemachus]).

Aiden Clark POV

The halls of Alto High buzzed with the usual morning chaos—students chatting, lockers slamming, the occasional rushed footsteps of someone running late. Inside their usual classroom, the group had already settled in, each in their own way. Aiden was slouched in his chair, idly spinning a pen between his fingers as he tried not to nod off. His red eyes had that familiar sleepy haze, suggesting another late night. Across from him, Ashlyn was reviewing her notes, lips pursed in concentration. Logan sat beside her, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the desk, already bored before class had even started. Tyler leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, occasionally glancing at the clock. "If this period drags like yesterday, I’m walking out," he muttered. Taylor, sitting nearby, smirked. "You say that every day." Ben, flipping through a comic book under the desk, barely looked up. The teacher still hadn't arrived, leaving them in the usual lull before class officially began. Conversations drifted between last night’s events, weekend plans, and whatever chaos they’d inevitably get into later. The morning light streamed through the windows, and for now, everything was as normal as it could be in Stillwater.

Shepard Kids

The Shepard kids - Tim, the oldest at 19, Angela, 17, and Curly, 15 - were all in their trailer. They'd been in a rumble recently, at least Tim and Curly had been. Angela wasn't ever one to participate in fights. Curly had a hard time convincing Tim to let him go, though. He almost wasn't allowed to go because of how much trouble he started the last time he wasn't under Tim's supervision. He had gone out to a party with Dallas Winston and immediately fought the biggest guy there the second he got drunk.

Hamilton Future AU

"Uhm, where are we?" Aaron Burr looked around the mysterious room, it looked nothing like any of the houses or buildings in New York. Alexander Hamilton, pissy as ever, practically growled. "How am I supposed to know?" He rolled his eyes with a scoff and crossed his arms, looking at his French friend. Lafayette nodded like he made a mind-blowing revelation. "My guess is that we are in someones house." "Gee, what made you come to that conclusion?" They all ignored Alexander's grumbled retort. John Laurens shrugged, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall with a deep scowl. "All I know is that it's fucking dark," he complained, looking around at the interior of the room - or just the entire building, really. Hercules Mulligan rolled his eyes. "Really? I couldn't tell." He scooted closer to Lafayette, seeking comfort in his French companion's presence. "This house looks so different. I've never seen something like it before," Thomas Jefferson mumbled, mostly to himself but James Madison nodded like he was listening. Eliza frowned. "I literally cannot see anything. Philip, dear, stay close." She pulled her son closer to her, though nine year old Philip was already clinging to her skirt, staying near as he looked around with a small pout. "Mommy, where are we?" Philip looked up at his mother with wide eyes, clutching her dress for comfort. Peggy tapped her foot impatiently. "What happened? How did we even get here?" She questioned, glancing towards her eldest sister for advice. "I'm not sure," Angelica shook her head, looking around curiously but also cautiously. "Where could we be? I've never seen a house quite like this in New York, like Mr. Jefferson pointed out earlier."

Family Dinner

The Hamilton household is rarely quiet, but tonight, it is especially lively. The long dining table is crowded, filled with the usual chaos of dinner—plates clinking, little hands reaching for bread, and Eliza gently reminding William not to play with his food. At the head of the table sits Alexander, his sharp gaze flickering between his wife and the guest she insisted on inviting. Thomas Jefferson leans back in his chair, a lazy smirk on his lips as he swirls his wine. He has barely touched his food, more entertained by the back-and-forth with his longtime rival. “So tell me, Hamilton,” he drawls, “is there a single issue we don’t disagree on?” Philip watches the exchange with barely hidden amusement, a grin tugging at his lips. He knows his father would rather be anywhere else, debating anyone but Jefferson. But Philip… well, he doesn’t mind their guest nearly as much. It’s harmless, really. Just a flicker of admiration—Jefferson’s easy confidence, the way he carries himself like he belongs in every room he steps into. Philip quickly hides a smile behind his cup, hoping his father doesn’t notice. “Perhaps if you took governing as seriously as your wine, we’d find more common ground,” Alexander fires back, spearing a piece of meat with unnecessary force. Eliza sighs. “Gentlemen, please,” she says, giving both men a pointed look. “We are here to have dinner, not another debate.” Thomas hums, clearly unconvinced but amused nonetheless. Then, to Philip’s surprise, his gaze lands on him. “And what about you, young Hamilton?” Jefferson asks, his smirk softening. “Do you share your father’s opinions, or do you have a mind of your own?” Philip freezes. His siblings turn to him, giggling, waiting for his answer. Alexander watches him closely, and for the first time tonight, Philip wishes he weren’t sitting right beside him. His heart beats just a little faster.

Win or Lose School

The classroom buzzed with the usual chaos of a middle school afternoon. Mr. Brown droned on about fractions, but Yuwen wasn’t listening. His leg bounced under his desk as he stole a glance at Taylor, who sat a few seats away, focused on her notes. She hadn’t looked at him all day. Not since yesterday, when he made that stupid joke about her and Tom. He hadn’t meant it—he never meant half the things he said. But it had come out wrong, and now she was ignoring him. Across the room, Rochelle scribbled something onto a folded piece of paper and slipped it to Tom. Probably another answer key. Yuwen wasn’t about to rat her out, but he wondered how long she could keep it up before someone noticed. Laurie, sitting near the window, had her head down, biting her nails. She looked tense. Probably thinking about practice later. If she missed another hit, Coach Dan would tell her to “shake it off,” but Yuwen knew she wouldn’t. She never did. Kai nudged him with her elbow. “You should just talk to her,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. Yuwen scoffed. “Yeah? And say what? ‘Sorry for being a jealous idiot’?” “Exactly.” He sighed, tapping his pencil against the desk. He knew Kai was right, but it wasn’t that easy. Every time he tried to fix things, he ended up making it worse. Ira, slouched in the back, snickered with Rinna and Brian. They were probably planning another trip to the Snack Shack. Yuwen ignored them. They weren’t his problem. Right now, his problem was Taylor, and the way she didn’t even glance at him when Mr. Brown assigned partners for the next project. This was bad. Really bad. And, as if the universe knew he was already suffering, Mr. Brown’s next words sealed his fate. “Yuwen, you’re with Taylor.”

Camilo POV Encanto

Julietta, the heart of the kitchen, was at the stove, stirring pots and tasting dishes. The air was filled with the warmth of freshly prepared food, and the comforting sound of sizzling from the frying pans. Mirabel, ever the helper, was in the dining area with Augustus, her father. Together, they set the table, carefully placing plates and glasses, making sure everything was just right. Augustus would occasionally look at Mirabel with a proud smile, knowing how much she loved to contribute. Antonio was busy in his own way, gathering his animals to help with the chores. A small group of birds fluttered around him, picking up bits of dust from the floor, while his goats quietly nibbled at the edges of the room. The sound of hooves on the floor and the soft clucking of the birds added a light touch to the busy atmosphere. Outside in the main courtyard, Pepá and Félix were having a quiet conversation while continuing to help around Casita. Pepá was making sure everything outside was tidy, while Félix handled the plants with care. In the corner of the room, Dolores and Luisa were speaking in hushed whispers. Dolores, always observant, leaned in close to Luisa, sharing some quiet thought only the two of them could understand. Luisa, strong and reliable, was shifting the chairs around the table, making space for everyone to sit. Her movements were purposeful, as she worked in tandem with Dolores’ sharp eyes. Isabela, always poised, was talking to Abuela. She helped arrange flowers on the table with delicate care, offering stories of her day to Abuela, who listened attentively. The two of them exchanged knowing looks, their bond as strong as ever. Meanwhile, Bruno sat awkwardly in the kitchen. Though his presence wasn’t as loud or commanding as his siblings’, he was there. His awkwardness was evident, but he did his best to stay helpful, occasionally glancing at the others to make sure he wasn’t in the way.

Jamilton Modern AU

It was a day like any other in the buzzing, always-tense office of the Executive Board. The conference room on the top floor of the Washington Building was filled with the usual sound of coffee cups clinking, pens tapping, and—most notably—Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson yelling at each other across the massive glass table. The topic of their argument had long since stopped mattering to anyone else in the room. At this point, the rest of the Cabinet—consisting of Madison, Burr, Knox, and a few exhausted interns—had given up on understanding what exactly had sparked the fire this time. Something about budgeting, maybe. Or environmental policies. Or the tone of a company-wide email. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were at it again. Alexander, with his rolled-up sleeves, wild curls falling over his forehead, and furious typing hands that kept slapping the laptop keyboard as if the keys personally offended him, was leaning across the table now. “You always twist the facts, Jefferson—do you even read the reports you send out, or do you just base them on how smug you feel that day?” Thomas scoffed, his voice calm but sharp, laced with the elegance of someone raised with too much money and not enough patience. “I read the numbers, Alexander. I wrote the numbers. But clearly your Ivy League ego can’t handle that someone else is smarter than you.” He stepped closer, his tailored suit perfectly pressed, his badge clipped to his chest crookedly—a rare imperfection he hadn’t noticed. They were circling each other like two cats ready to pounce, the tension between them so thick it nearly fogged up the glass walls. George Washington, seated at the head of the table in a chair that cost more than anyone else’s monthly rent, rubbed his temple in exhaustion. He looked tired—perpetually tired—but not surprised. His tie was loosened, and his sleeves were slightly rolled up, signaling that the meeting had already gone an hour over schedule. He didn’t intervene. Yet. Madison was quietly sipping his coffee beside Jefferson, pretending not to be involved. Burr was scrolling through his phone under the table, Knox had earbuds in, and one poor intern was Googling “How to fake a medical emergency.” Thomas’ voice dropped as he narrowed his eyes at Hamilton, the heavy drawl of his Virginian accent thickening with every word. “How can you not get this through your thick head?” he hissed, leaning in until their faces were barely a foot apart. “You are not the only one in this company who knows how to read a damn spreadsheet.” Alexander stood his ground, chest rising with rapid breaths, glaring at him with a fury that suggested this wasn’t about spreadsheets at all.

TYDEN

The enormous flat-screen TV cast a soft glow over the living room, flickering as the movie played. Aiden and Tyler were sprawled out on the plush sectional, the remnants of popcorn scattered across the coffee table. The rest of the group had gone to bed, leaving just the two of them awake. Tyler was actually trying to watch the movie. Aiden, of course, was not. "You're breathing really loud," Tyler muttered, eyes glued to the screen. Aiden grinned, shifting closer. "Oh, am I? So sorry, Ty." He exaggeratedly inhaled and exhaled right next to Tyler’s ear, dragging out each breath like he was trying to fog up a window. Tyler shoved him. "Dude, stop." "Why? Is my existence bothering you?" Aiden smirked, nudging Tyler’s leg with his foot. "Tragic. Truly heartbreaking." "You are literally the most annoying person I have ever met." "And yet," Aiden sing-songed, leaning his head on Tyler’s shoulder, "here you are. Not leaving. Almost like you enjoy my company." Tyler stiffened for half a second before shoving Aiden off again, this time a little harder. "I’m here because this is the only place in the house that has surround sound. Don’t get it twisted." Aiden huffed a dramatic sigh. "Ouch. So cold. You wound me." He clutched his chest like Tyler had just stabbed him. Tyler rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't be the first time." Aiden gasped. "You wouldn't dare. Who else would make your life interesting?" "I think I'd manage." "Lies," Aiden drawled, shifting until he was sitting sideways, fully facing Tyler. "Admit it, Ty. You’d be miserable without me." "I’d be at peace." "Same thing." Aiden grinned, resting his chin on his hand. "Come on, you like having me around." Tyler finally looked at him, expression flat but with the smallest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "You're really fishing for compliments tonight, huh?" Aiden gasped again, dramatically flopping backward onto the couch. "So mean. So cruel. And after everything I’ve done for you." Tyler arched a brow. "Like what?"

SBG TylerxAiden

The group was sprawled out on the worn couches and beanbags in Aiden’s basement—a space that smelled faintly of popcorn and old wood, with mismatched posters plastered on the walls. Logan sat cross-legged on the floor, a book balanced on his knee as he absentmindedly corrected the others’ grammar mid-conversation. His sharp mind was always two steps ahead, even when the topic was who would win in a fight: a grizzly bear or a T-Rex. Ben leaned against the wall, quiet as usual but fully tuned in, his dark eyes flitting between speakers. He didn’t need to say much; his steady presence was enough to keep the group grounded. Ashlynn was perched on the armrest of a couch, her arms crossed as she directed the chaos like the leader she was. “Focus, people! We’re deciding on a movie, not debating prehistoric battles,” she said with her signature blend of authority and exasperation. Aiden, grinning like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world, sprawled dramatically across a beanbag. “I’m telling you, it’s obviously the T-Rex. Grizzly bears don’t even have cool names!” His gaze flicked to Tyler, his smile turning into something softer. “What do you think, Ty?” Tyler, sitting on the couch with his baseball cap turned backward, shot Aiden a smirk. “I think you’d root for the T-Rex because you are one—loud, obnoxious, and extinct in terms of valid opinions.” Despite the sarcastic jab, there was an unmistakable warmth in his tone. Taylor snorted, munching on a handful of popcorn. “You’re both wrong. Bears win every time. End of debate.” She tossed a piece at her twin, grinning when he caught it mid-air. Aiden tilted his head toward Tyler, pretending to be wounded. “Wow. Betrayed by everyone. But you’ll still go to the arcade with me tomorrow, right?” Tyler rolled his eyes, but his faint smile lingered. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Hamilton Dinner

The dining room is alive with conversation, silverware clinking against porcelain as laughter rises and falls like the shifting tides of debate. Philip Hamilton sits among his family, his back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap—just as his mother taught him. Across the table, Thomas Jefferson leans back in his chair, a smirk playing at his lips as he swirls the wine in his glass. Alexander Hamilton is mid-sentence—something sharp, something precise, something meant to cut through Jefferson’s easy confidence. Philip watches as his father gestures, passion crackling in his voice. This is familiar. This is home. But tonight is different. Tonight, Philip isn’t just watching. He’s thirteen now, nearly a man—or so he tells himself. He knows the world is bigger than their home, bigger than New York, bigger than the stories whispered between bookshelves and late-night candlelight. And tonight, at this very table, sits one of its architects. Jefferson’s gaze flickers to him suddenly, assessing, amused. “And what about you, young Hamilton?” he drawls. “Your father’s sharp tongue, your mother’s grace—what do you make of all this?” All eyes turn to Philip. His pulse quickens. He’s spent his life listening, learning, waiting for the moment he can prove himself. That moment is now.

SBG

The night was supposed to be over. The barbecue had wrapped up hours ago, the parents now lounging outside the rusted buses of the school bus graveyard, their voices a soft murmur against the midnight air. Smoke still lingered from the dying embers of the grill, mixing with the scent of dewy grass and old metal. Inside one of the abandoned buses, the SBG kids huddled together, panic thick in the air. Tyler lay sprawled across one of the worn-out seats, his face pale, drenched in cold sweat. His shirt was torn where the jagged wound ran through his side—an injury that didn’t exist in the human realm, but the pain? That stayed. Every shallow breath he took sent a fresh wave of agony through him, his fingers trembling against the bloodied fabric. “Aiden, what do we do?” Ashlyn’s voice was barely above a whisper, her usual confidence shattered by the sight of her friend barely holding on. “We need to stabilize him—pressure, something—” Aiden’s hands hovered uselessly over Tyler’s wound, his mind racing for a solution. “Ben, hand me that—” A sharp, choked sob broke through the chaos. “TYLER!” The sound of Taylor’s scream pierced the night, raw and terrified. Outside, the parents’ conversations fell silent. Heads snapped toward the bus, eyes widening as the muffled sounds of panic carried through the cracked windows—shuffling, urgent voices, Logan cursing under his breath, Ben shouting for something, Taylor’s cries growing more frantic. Then, movement. Fast. Uncontrolled. Ashlyn’s dad was already on his feet. “What the hell is going on?” One by one, the parents rose from their seats, confusion flickering into something closer to fear as the chaos inside the bus escalated. And then, in the dim glow of the moonlight, the bus door slammed open.

End of Ithaca Saga

Odysseus had barely stepped back into his hall before the questions began. “How many suitors are there now?” he asked the nearest servant, exhaustion lacing his voice. “128,” the servant replied dryly. “Though twenty of them ditched the courting game and formed a guard after Antinous turned out to be a colossal jerk.” Odysseus blinked. “A guard?” “Yeah. Ten are off escorting the prince, and ten are standing watch over Queen Penelope.” “They’re bodyguards now?” Odysseus asked, incredulous. “They say they’re just trying to protect the royal family. But really? They’re here to convince the Prince to marry their daughters.” Odysseus sighed, rubbing his temples. “They came all this way to court Telemachus?” The servant shrugged. “He is royalty.” From the balcony, they could see Telemachus down in the courtyard, laughing with one of his closest friends. Their hands brushed, and Telemachus didn’t pull away. His smile lingered a little longer than usual. One of the guards, watching nearby, leaned toward another. “I’m starting to think the Prince might be swinging the other way.” The second guard smirked. “That’s alright. I’ve got a son.” Odysseus stared in silence, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

SBG at School

It's another average day at High School, where a group of six friends is making their mark. Logan, always deep in thought, adjusts his glasses as he walks into Mr. Thomas’s classroom, his mind already working through the day’s lesson. As the smartest of the group, he’s often the one they turn to for help with schoolwork, but his quiet nature means he’s usually lost in his own world. Ben lingers near the back, not saying much but observing everything. His presence is like a shadow, always calm and introspective. People don’t always know what’s on his mind, but Ben doesn’t mind—it’s easier to listen than speak. Ashlynn, their natural leader, takes charge the moment she enters. Confident and determined, she’s got a plan for everything, whether it’s a group project or simply making sure the day goes smoothly. Her voice is the one they all follow when things get tough. Aiden, the joker of the group, walks in next, cracking a smile and a joke at the expense of Tyler, who is right behind him. Aiden’s charisma draws people in, and even though his humor can be offbeat, everyone loves him for it. He’s the one who always manages to lighten the mood. Tyler, the sarcastic baseball player, rolls his eyes at Aiden’s antics. His humor is quick and sharp, often taking everyone by surprise. His easygoing demeanor hides a fierce loyalty to his friends, especially when they’re all together. He and his twin, Taylor, share a bond that’s hard to beat. And then there’s Taylor, walking in with a quiet smile that matches her twin’s. Though she’s kind to everyone, her sarcasm often mirrors Tyler’s, making them a duo that can’t be ignored. She’s always the first to call out someone’s nonsense but will offer a shoulder when it’s needed. As they settle into their seats, Mr. Thomas steps into the room, ready to start the day. The friends exchange knowing glances—they’re ready to take on whatever comes next. Together, nothing can stop them.

In The Heights

The bells on the bodega door jingled as Usnavi spun a quarter between his fingers, his foot tapping against the tile floor. The early morning rush had passed, leaving the store in a lull—just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint bachata playing from an old radio behind the counter. Sonny leaned against the register, flipping through a magazine he had no intention of buying. "So, you gonna finally ask Vanessa out or what?" he asked, not bothering to look up. Usnavi scoffed, tossing the quarter onto the counter. "I don’t know, primo, maybe when she actually notices me as more than the dude selling her coffee every morning." Before Sonny could come up with a smart reply, the door swung open again. Daniela waltzed in like she owned the place—probably because she did, in spirit. "¡Buenos días, mis amores! Usnavi, darling, where’s my coffee?" Usnavi was already reaching for a cup. "Coming right up, doña," he said, pouring her usual. "Black, two sugars, right?" "Like my soul," she quipped, leaning on the counter. "So, any gossip? Any love confessions? Any dramatic declarations in the middle of the street?" Sonny smirked. "Nah, but if Usnavi keeps avoiding Vanessa, I might have to stage an intervention." "¡Ay, Dios mío!" Daniela threw a hand over her heart. "The tension, the tragedy! Usnavi, you better do something before someone else snatches her up." Usnavi groaned, handing her the coffee. "Can we not make my love life the morning news?" Just then, the bell rang again, and Vanessa herself walked in, her usual effortless grace making Usnavi freeze for half a second. Sonny snickered. "Speak of the reina." Usnavi straightened, wiping his hands on his apron. "Vanessa! Uh—café? Same as always?" She smiled, resting her arms on the counter. "Actually, I think I’ll try something new today." Usnavi gulped. He wasn’t sure if she meant the coffee or something else entirely.

Soukoku in UA

Mori had sent Dazai and Chuuya on a mission to gather intel on quirks at U.A., Japan’s top hero school. Neither of them liked the idea. Chuuya accepted out of loyalty to the Port Mafia, while Dazai just wanted to be with Chuuya—and annoy him. Finally, they arrived at the academy. Inside, a massive door labeled 1A towered over them. “What do they even need these giant doors for?” Chuuya muttered, glaring at it. Dazai smirked. “For short people like you!” “Shut up!” Chuuya snapped, kicking at him as Dazai laughed. Inside, the classroom was chaotic. A spiky blond boy was shouting about his greatness to a red-haired, sharp-toothed teen, a girl with long black hair, and a kid with a lightning bolt in his hair. A stiff-looking boy with glasses scolded the blond. A tiny boy with purple hairballs flirted—badly—with a pink-skinned girl. Near the window, a green-haired, freckled boy talked with a girl with a brown bob. Dazai and Chuuya exchanged a look, silently judging. Before Dazai could whisper something, the freckled boy noticed them. He walked over, eyes shining with curiosity. "HEY! Who are you two extras!?" the blond shouted. "You can't just join in the middle of the year, shitheads!" "Stop swearing, Bakugo!" the glasses kid snapped. "Though I must agree, it's unfair to those of us who passed the entrance exam!" A middle-aged man with messy black hair and dark eye bags entered, looking dead inside. "They're new students," he muttered. "Complain to the principal if you want." The green-haired boy gasped. "Oh my god, that's so cool! Do you two know each other? What are your quirks? How did you enroll so late? Where are you from? Do you—" The teacher sighed. “Introduce yourselves.”

SBG School Lunch

Alto High buzzed with its usual midday chaos as students crowded the cafeteria, voices blending into an endless hum of conversation and laughter. At one of the more chaotic tables sat Aiden and his friends, a group that seemed to thrive in the disorder. Aiden slouched in his seat, idly poking at a half-eaten sandwich while smirking at whatever dumb joke Logan had just cracked. Across from him, Tyler was deep in a heated debate with Taylor, his twin sister, who had a habit of pushing his buttons just for fun. Their argument—something about stolen fries—was escalating quickly. Ashlyn, the picture of quiet amusement, sipped on her drink, watching the chaos unfold with a barely concealed smirk. Next to her, Ben was scribbling something in a notebook, his usual method of communication, while occasionally glancing up to roll his eyes at the nonsense surrounding him. Logan, never one to sit still, was gesturing wildly as he tried to explain something, his voice nearly drowned out by the cafeteria noise. “Logan, shut up,” Tyler groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No one cares.” Aiden chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Harsh, dude.” “You never care,” Taylor shot back at her brother, stealing one of his fries just to spite him. Tyler practically lunged across the table. “STOP TAKING MY FOOD—” Their yelling earned a few glances from nearby tables, but no one was particularly surprised. It was just another lunch at Alto High.

MHA x PJO Crossover

"Whoa—hold up. You’re not from around here, are you?" A figure steps forward, eyes narrowed in cautious curiosity. "Quirk or demigod? Or...something else entirely?" The air crackles with energy, whether from divine power or a powerful Quirk, you can’t quite tell. Around you, the worlds of Pro Heroes and Greek gods seem to blur together—Olympus looming in the distance, U.A. High standing tall, Camp Half-Blood nestled by the shore. "Listen, things are getting *weird* around here. Gods showing up in Japan, quirks manifesting at camp, monsters attacking Pro Heroes...and don't even get me *started* on the League of Villains teaming up with some guy named *Luke*." The figure sighs, crossing their arms. "So, what’s your deal? Are you here to help, or are you just trying to survive this mess?"* A smirk tugs at their lips. "Either way, you’re in for one *Hades* of an adventure. Welcome to the chaos."

New Student MHA

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of U.A. High’s Class 1-A, casting golden rays across the desks. Students chatted idly, the atmosphere buzzing with their usual energy—until the door slid open with a familiar creak. Mr. Aizawa stepped in, his tired eyes scanning the room beneath his scarf. The hum of conversation died down almost immediately. His presence had that effect. Hands in his pockets, he stood before the class with his usual slouch, but something about his stance hinted at an announcement. “Settle down,” he said, voice low but firm. “Before we begin today’s lesson, there’s something I need to address.” The students leaned forward, eyes trained on him. Aizawa glanced toward the hallway behind him, then back at the class. “We have a new student joining us today,” he continued. “They’ve been transferred here under special circumstances. As you know, U.A. accepts students based on potential, not just performance. This student’s Quirk showed impressive results during preliminary evaluations.” Whispers spread through the class like wildfire. A new student? This late in the semester? Aizawa raised a hand, and the room fell silent once again. “They’ll be starting today, and I expect you all to treat them with the same respect you show each other.” He turned toward the door. “You can come in now.”

Philips Crush

The Hamilton dinner table is never quiet. Seven younger siblings chatter over one another, voices rising and falling like the shifting tides of an argument Philip isn’t paying attention to. Eliza moves between them with practiced ease, correcting manners, passing dishes, soothing squabbles with a gentle word or a well-placed look. Alexander sits at the head of the table, half-listening, half-lost in thought, his fork hovering over his plate as if ideas are more filling than food. Philip is usually part of the noise, teasing William, making faces at Angelica, slipping John extra bread when Eliza isn’t looking. But tonight, he’s quiet. Tonight, he’s thinking about him. Simon. Philip had barely noticed him before—just another servant moving through the house, quiet, invisible in the way they were supposed to be. But today, Simon looked up. Just for a second. Just long enough for Philip to see the soft curve of his face, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks when he dropped his gaze again, flustered. Philip had never felt something quite like it before—a sharp, sudden twist in his stomach, warmth creeping up his neck. “Philip?” His mother’s voice pulls him back. Eliza is watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t hear. Across the table, his father raises an eyebrow, ever perceptive. Philip blinks, gripping his fork tighter. His heart is hammering. He has never been good at keeping secrets.

Magic and Ministry

The candlelit corridors of Hogwarts were eerily silent at this hour, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and lingering spells. Beneath the flickering torches, two figures moved with calculated precision—one with fiery red hair, the other draped in an oversized coat that barely muffled his languid steps. Chuuya Nakahara scowled as he adjusted his tie, a deep red and gold marking his place among the Gryffindors. “I still don’t see why I have to wear this ridiculous uniform,” he muttered, voice edged with irritation. Dazai Osamu smirked, twirling his wand between his fingers. His Slytherin tie hung loosely around his neck, as if he barely cared to keep up the charade. “It’s called blending in, Chuuya. Something you’re notoriously bad at.” Their mission was simple—find and extract an artifact hidden deep within the castle before it fell into the wrong hands. The Ministry was oblivious, the professors none the wiser. This was a matter for the Port Mafia, and failure was not an option. Chuuya huffed, tugging at his robes as they rounded a corner. “And why did we have to be sorted into different houses?” Dazai’s grin widened. “Oh? Would you have preferred to share a dorm with me, my dear partner?” “Absolutely not,” Chuuya snapped, though the tips of his ears burned with embarrassment.

JeffMads

Thomas Jefferson entered the dimly lit parlor with a flourish, his violet coat swaying as he spun a chair backward and straddled it. “Madison, my friend! You look like death warmed over.” James Madison barely looked up from his papers, nose wrinkling as he suppressed a cough into his sleeve. “Good evening to you too, Jefferson.” His voice was hoarse, the kind of rasp that clung to him like an old habit. The humid Virginia air never did agree with him, but he had long since accepted that his body was more battlefield than fortress. Jefferson grinned, setting a steaming plate in front of him. “Macaroni and cheese,” he announced, eyes gleaming. “Straight from France. You need to eat, my dear Madison. Can’t have you collapsing in the middle of a debate—again.” Madison sighed but didn’t protest. He had learned by now that arguing with Jefferson was often a fruitless endeavor. Besides, there was something oddly comforting about watching Thomas fuss over him, even if he did it with his usual dramatic flair. The door creaked open, revealing Aaron Burr, who surveyed them with a knowing smirk. “And here I thought you two only conspired over politics.” Jefferson waved him off. “Madison and I are the architects of democracy, Burr. That requires strategy, intellect, and, most importantly, proper nutrition.” Madison rolled his eyes, but a small, reluctant smile played on his lips. Perhaps Jefferson was insufferable, but he was also… Jefferson. And that, somehow, made it all bearable.

Boris Pavlikovsky 4

The moment Boris leapt from the low stone wall and landed in a full, theatrical bow, arms wide and hair a mess from the wind, Theo groaned and nearly dropped the paper bag of churros they’d been sharing. “Stop it,” Theo hissed, his voice sharp with laughter he was trying not to let out. “You’re such a—” “—Performer?” Boris cut in, grinning up at him with flushed cheeks and a glint of mischief that always meant trouble. “Yes. Is true. I am very dramatic. Very sexy also. Especially for American tourists.” “You’re literally disgusting.” “And yet! You smile.” They were in a small plaza outside a museum in Madrid—at least, they thought it was Madrid. They hadn't been looking at maps lately. Hadn’t looked at calendars, either. Their days blurred into one long and perfect sequence of being young and together and untethered. Behind them, a tour group of high schoolers had started to trickle in, herded by teachers in lanyards and sensible sneakers. Most of the kids were clearly bored—scrolling on phones or adjusting earbuds—until Boris vaulted up onto the fountain’s edge with the grace of someone who’d done a lot of things more dangerous than this. Theo didn’t even try to stop him. “What’s he doing?” one of the American students asked, eyes wide. “Is that guy in our group?” “No, he’s—oh my God, he just—what is he saying?” Boris was telling an impromptu story in a tangled mess of English and Russian, punctuating it with wild gestures, exaggerated accents, and the occasional spin or pirouette that made people giggle or shake their heads. He looked like some half-wild European prince pretending to be a street performer for fun. His accent was thick—unmistakably foreign—and his grin even thicker. One of the teachers was clearly debating whether or not to intervene. Another was recording it. Meanwhile, Theo sat on the fountain's base, legs stretched out and eyes full of quiet fondness, tearing a churro in half and handing the bigger piece to Boris without looking. “Your mouth,” he called lazily. “Shut it.” “Isn’t that why you love me, Potter?” Boris called back. “For the chaos, the sex appeal, the unbearable noise?” Someone gasped. A girl clutched her friend’s arm. Another boy laughed out loud. But Theo only rolled his eyes and leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the blue, burning sky. His smile was lazy, private. They didn’t belong here—didn’t belong anywhere really—but for once, that didn’t matter. Not when the whole world seemed to pause for a second and look at them. The boy with his foreign fire and the other with his museum-heart and marble bones, free and loud and unbothered. They weren’t part of the school trip. They weren’t even part of anyone’s plan. But somehow, they were still the most unforgettable thing in the plaza.

Varian VAT7K x MHA

The bustling halls of U.A. High School were alive with energy as students made their way to class. Among the aspiring heroes was a new face, Varian, a first-year in the Support Course with a knack for invention and a flair for the dramatic. Varian's Quirk, Alchemy, gave him the ability to manipulate chemical reactions with a touch—a skill as fascinating as it was dangerous. Combined with his genius-level intellect, he quickly gained a reputation as the school’s go-to for experimental gadgets, though his creations didn’t always work as planned. Today, he was hunched over a workbench in the Support Workshop, goggles pushed up into his messy black hair, and a streak of oil smudged across his cheek. “Okay, if my calculations are correct—and they always are—this new grappling hook should have twice the range and half the recoil!” He grinned to himself, but the small explosion that followed told a different story. The door creaked open, and a familiar voice chimed in. “Varian, are you trying to blow up the lab again?” Varian spun around, his grin sheepish as he faced one of his classmates. “What? No! That was…uh, intentional! Science is all about explosions—controlled ones, of course!” Despite his placement in the Support Course, Varian’s ambitions stretched far beyond designing gear. He dreamed of being a hero himself, using his inventions to save lives. That dream occasionally landed him in trouble, as his curiosity often led him to sneak into the Hero Course training sessions to test his devices. “Midoriya’s gonna love this once I perfect it,” he muttered to himself, scribbling notes furiously. “Or, y’know, if it doesn’t blow up in his hands.” Between his boundless energy, brilliant mind, and a tendency to dive headfirst into chaos, Varian was carving out his place at U.A. High. One thing was certain: with him around, things were never boring.

Tyler POV

It was another regular day at school—except for the fact that no day was ever really regular when Tyler Nguyen-Baker was around. The hallways buzzed with chatter as students rushed to class, but Tyler? Tyler took his time. Strutting into the building with his signature smirk, he adjusted the headband keeping his curls in place and casually tossed his backpack over one shoulder. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. The morning dragged on, filled with the usual boring lectures and half-hearted notes. Tyler leaned back in his chair, spinning a pencil between his fingers as he watched Mei and her friends whisper and giggle a few seats away. He wasn't about to admit it out loud, but ever since that whole red panda incident, things had been…different. He wasn’t just the kid stirring up trouble anymore. Somehow, he had ended up in their friend group—not that he was complaining. It was just weird, going from teasing them to actually hanging out. By lunchtime, Tyler had fully slipped into his usual self—confident, loud, and absolutely not above stirring up some drama for fun. He strutted into the cafeteria, scanning the tables until he spotted them: Mei, Priya, Abby, and Miriam, already deep in conversation. Perfect. He slid onto the bench next to them, setting down his lunch tray with a dramatic thud. “So, what boring things are we talking about today?” Tyler quipped, leaning back with a smug grin. Abby shot him a glare, already fired up. “Ugh, you again? We were having a totally normal conversation before somebody had to show up.” Tyler snorted. “Yeah, well, I make things interesting.” He turned to Mei. “Speaking of interesting, got any panda plans today, or are we in for another thrilling afternoon of homework and responsible decisions?” Miriam rolled her eyes, Priya adjusted her glasses with an amused smirk, and Mei just sighed. “Tyler, do you ever take a break?” Nope. Not a chance. And with the school day far from over, Tyler was just getting started.

Theodore Decker

**[** **You are Boris Pavlikovsky.** **]** ✭-----------------------------✭ *Theodore's father died in an accident. Now he has no one except Xandra, his stepmother, and Boris, the best friend of the Ukrainian, who is a drug addict, smoker and alcoholic, like Theodore.* *when Theodore had not yet been told that his father was dead, when he and Boris had just entered the house, Theodore whispered to him twice, "don't show them that we're high.."* ✭---------------------------------------✭ *In principle, this does not upset Theodore; after the loss of his mother, Theodore did not feel sorry for his father. he was already a jerk and cheated on his mother.* *besides, Boris and Theodore are now high, and Xandra is sitting and crying in the hall, sitting with her friends. Boris and Theo are sitting on the stairs, around the corner from the hall.* ✭--------------------------------------✭ *Boris quietly stood up and crept up to the table where they had alcohol, and slowly took the bottle and began to quietly leave when Xandra’s friend stopped him.* Xandra's friend: what are you doing? Boris: I thought you didn’t see me.. Xandra's friend: you're too young to drink, put it in your place. Boris: apologies. ✭----------------------------------------✭ *Boris puts down the bottle and returns to Theodore who is sitting on the stairs and giggles at his attempt, and Boris just grins holding back his laughter* ✭-----------------------------------------✭ Xandra: what's wrong with you? Aren't you sad at all?

Curly Shepard

Curly Shepard sat on the edge of the worn-out couch in the Shepard trailer, his legs bouncing with pent-up frustration. The place was small and cramped, the smell of old cigarettes lingering in the air, a familiar reminder of his older brother, Tim, who had already left for work. Curly’s fists clenched, his knuckles white as he tried to push away the sting of what had happened at school that day. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way the Socs had mocked him, the way they’d laughed at him because he didn’t fit in. He kicked a rusted can across the room, sending it clanging against the walls. His chest tightened, the sting of humiliation bubbling up inside him. He was 15, just a kid, but sometimes it felt like the world was already against him. He didn’t know why he let it bother him so much, but it hurt more than he wanted to admit. His older brother, Tim, had always told him to toughen up, but Curly didn’t always know how to do that. He didn’t want to show weakness, especially not in front of Tim. But the frustration was too much to hold back. He could feel the tears threatening to spill, and he hated it. He hated how weak he felt. Curly was supposed to be tough, just like Tim. He wasn’t supposed to break down over something as stupid as what the Socs said. But today, everything felt like it was too much. The sound of footsteps outside the trailer door made him quickly wipe his eyes, trying to regain his composure before anyone saw. He didn’t want anyone to think he was weak. Not even Tim. Not even Angela, who always seemed to have some cutting remark for him, no matter how hard he tried. “Curly?” Tim’s voice came from the doorway, rough and steady. “You alright, kid?” Curly didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the floor, wishing he could find the right words. Instead, he just nodded, hoping that Tim wouldn’t notice how much he was struggling.

Refugee Mahmoud

The sea stretched out like an endless sheet of black glass, rippling under the weight of too many people and too much fear. The rubber dinghy rocked with every wave, threatening to toss them all into the freezing dark. Mahmoud sat pressed between his mother and father, little Waleed silent beside him, staring ahead like he was trying not to exist. That wasn’t new. Waleed had learned that silence was safety long ago, back when the bombs first started falling. Their mother clutched baby Hana tightly to her chest, humming softly—an Arabic lullaby barely audible over the slap of water and the groan of the boat’s seams. Mahmoud could hear the baby’s breathing, fast and shallow. She was wrapped in a towel, damp and cold. The Turkish smuggler had said the trip would be two hours. That was four hours ago. “I can’t see the shore anymore,” Mahmoud whispered. His father nodded grimly, one arm around Mahmoud, the other braced against the boat’s edge. “That’s the point,” he said. “We’re in international waters now. No one can turn us back.” Ahead, someone shouted in Greek. A flashlight beam swept the water. A voice on a bullhorn crackled, too distant to understand. Panic stirred in the boat like a gust of wind. “Are they rescuing us?” Mahmoud asked. “Maybe,” his father answered. “Or maybe they’re not.” Mahmoud looked down at Hana’s face. She was still. Her tiny mouth moved just slightly with each breath. He remembered Aleppo—the sound of shattering glass, of screaming, of silence that followed. And now, they were floating in the middle of a dark sea, between one war and whatever came next. But at least they were still together. For now.

SBG Lunch

Alto High was as chaotic as ever. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, blending with the hum of chatter, the clatter of trays, and the occasional burst of laughter. It was lunchtime, and Aiden sat at his usual table, lazily picking at the food on his tray while his friends bickered around him. Across from him, Taylor dramatically waved her hands as she retold some ridiculous story, her voice loud enough to turn a few heads. “And then bam! Right into the lockers! It was so funny—” "That never happened," Tyler interrupted flatly, shoving a fry into his mouth. Aiden smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “Let her live in her delusions.” Logan, sitting beside Aiden, was too focused on his food to contribute, his fork scraping against his plate as he devoured his lunch. Meanwhile, Ben, as usual, stayed silent but smirked at the exchange, his pen tapping against his notebook as he scribbled something down. Ashlyn sat at the end of the table, sipping from a coffee cup that definitely wasn’t school-approved, her eyes scanning the room like she was already over the conversation. “Alright, but seriously,” Aiden said, finally pushing his tray away. “Why are we actually in school? What’s the point?” "You sound like you failed a test," Tyler said, raising a brow. "Or skipped another class," Ashlyn added. Aiden shrugged, a lazy grin on his face. “Maybe.” The table erupted into overlapping chatter again, the usual blend of sarcasm, complaints, and barely contained chaos. Just another day at Alto High.

MHA Dorms

All of class 1A was in the lounge room, enjoying the break from all of their classes. Uraraka and Deku decided to play rock paper scissors, and Deku had a losing streak of twenty one. "Damnit, why can't I win?!" He complained, flopping onto his back on the floor, wincing as he sat up and rubbed the back of his head where he hit the hard floor. Uraraka laughed and grinned. "Who knows," she shrugged. To the side, the Bakusquad was watching a movie. It was some action movie about a kid who learned karate to confront his bully, The Karate Kid or something like that. "Hey!! Keep it down, we're trying to watch a movie over here!" Bakugou glared at Uraraka and Deku, and Kirishima placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down to sit and not start another fight. "Hey, hey, calm down, Bakubro, it's not a big deal," he tried to convince the blond, gently pushing on his shoulders to make him sit down on the floor again. Bakugou grumbled in complaint but didn't say anything else, sitting down to continue watching the movie.

TOH Sleepover

The evening was alive with laughter and chatter as the group gathered in the Owl House’s cozy living room. Candles flickered, casting warm light across the mismatched furniture, and the scent of Eda’s latest questionable potion lingered in the air. Luz, practically bouncing with excitement, clapped her hands together. "Alright, who’s up for a game of Spin the Bottle?" she announced, eyes shining with mischief. "I'm in!" Amity immediately said, tucking a strand of her violet hair behind her ear. She shot Luz a playful smirk, clearly intrigued by the idea. Edric leaned back on the couch, grinning. "Sounds fun. Count me in!" Hunter crossed his arms, furrowing his brows. "I guess I’ll play… but if this is some weird human courting ritual, I swear—" "Oh, relax, Hunter," Willow teased, nudging him with her elbow. "It’s just a game. And I’m in, too!" Gus adjusted his cape dramatically. "I accept the challenge!" he declared, striking a heroic pose before breaking into laughter. Eda plopped down into a chair, kicking her feet up on the table. "Alright, kiddos, let’s get this party started," she said with a grin. Raine, who had been quietly observing, gave a small chuckle. "Why not? Could be fun," they mused, adjusting their glasses. Lilith crossed her arms but sighed in defeat. "Fine. But if any of you brats try anything funny, I will hex you." Luz rubbed her hands together, grinning. "Perfect! Let’s get this bottle spinning!" As the group settled in, the air buzzed with anticipation. Whatever happened next, one thing was certain—it was going to be an interesting night.

Boris Pavlikovsky 3

It was one of those bright, salt-stung afternoons where the sky seemed fake—so blue it could’ve been painted—and the air smelled like fried grease, old sea water, and cotton candy. The boardwalk was packed with people, everything vibrating with motion and noise: roller coasters clacking on their tracks, bells ringing from game booths, seagulls shrieking above crowds of sunscreen-shiny tourists. Somewhere in the blur of it all, two boys were having the time of their lives. “Look, look,” Boris shouted over the music blasting from a nearby ride. He was practically doubled over with laughter, pointing at a mascot dressed like a walking slice of pizza doing the worm on the splintered planks of the boardwalk. “Is fucking… pizza man doing disco-dance! Hah!” Theo stood beside him, chewing on a stolen funnel cake and trying not to grin, powdered sugar all over his mouth. “That’s breakdancing, not disco.” “Whatever,” Boris said with a wave of his hand, still cackling. “American pizza man has moves. Is more flexible than me when I do yoga drunk.” “You’ve never done yoga in your life,” Theo said flatly. Boris shrugged, eyes gleaming. “You don’t know everything I do, Malchik.” They were a ridiculous sight, the two of them—barefoot, sunburned, messy-haired. Theo was in a worn hoodie two sizes too big for him, sleeves hanging past his wrists. Boris wore a grimy tank top with faded lettering in Czech or maybe Polish—who knew where he’d picked it up. His accent twisted every sentence into something lazy and musical, vowels dragged out and consonants dropped like they were too heavy to carry. They didn’t fit in here, and everyone could tell. That was sort of the point. A group of middle schoolers on a field trip passed them, led by a woman with a whistle and a clipboard. All the kids wore matching neon shirts that said “Future Leaders!” across the front, and they walked like ducks in a line, half of them bored, the other half wide-eyed at the lights and sounds. One of them pointed at Boris. “Are they actors or something?” “No,” someone whispered. “They look like runaways.” That wasn’t wrong. They didn’t look like normal tourists. They were too thin, too twitchy. Theo had bruises like fingerprints around one wrist, and Boris’s knuckles were scabbed over like he’d punched a wall—or maybe a person. Their clothes were rumpled, their hair unbrushed, and they moved with the kind of slippery confidence you only earned from living on the run. But the laughing—that’s what really drew attention. Because boys who laugh like that aren’t supposed to look like that. “Okay,” Boris said suddenly, grabbing Theo by the sleeve. “Is time. You want Slushie, yes?” Theo blinked. “You don’t have any money.” Boris smirked, his eyes glassy and golden in the sun. “Not yet.” And just like that, the game began again. It was easy. It always was. Theo would lean against the edge of a kiosk, all slouched shoulders and casual glances, pretending to read the menu while the dad in cargo shorts beside him pulled out his wallet. Boris would sweep past behind them, one hand slipping expertly into the man’s pocket. Then they’d disappear into the crowd before anyone noticed. It wasn’t always money. Sometimes it was a bag of chips. Sometimes it was a still-steaming corn dog left abandoned on a table. Boris once stole an entire unopened bag of caramel popcorn from a stroller cup holder while pretending to tie his shoe. Back near the arcade entrance, a chaperone leaned over and whispered to another teacher, “Are you seeing this?” “The tall one just took that guy’s change,” the other one whispered back. “Jesus. Should we call someone?” “They’re not hurting anyone,” the first teacher said, eyes narrowed. “I think they’re just hungry.”

Red Light District

The Kamado squad (Tanjiro, Inosuke, and Zenitsu) volunteered to help the Sound Hashira on a mission in the Red Light District/Entertainment District. They did not realize that helping meant they'd dress up as girls. "I feel..kind of weird," Tajiro examined his kimono and makeup in the mirror. Inosuke was sitting criss cross apple sause, messing around with his swords. He definitely looked the part of a girl, but he didn't act or sound like one. Zenitsu was complaining the most. "This is stupid! Tanjiro! Why did you have to volunteer all of us to go?!" "Be quiet, crybaby," the Sound Hashira rolled his eyes. "You all don't look as flashy as me or my three wives, but I definitely did a good job," he grinned.

Win or Lose

It’s another day at school, and Yuwen is trying (and failing) to stay out of trouble. He’s the star pitcher for The Pickles, cocky, loud, and always ready with a joke—except when it comes to fixing things with Taylor. She’s been distant ever since their last argument, and no matter what he says, he just keeps making things worse. Across the hall, Rochelle is stuffing another folded homework sheet into her bag—another easy payday, but with her mom’s influencer career barely keeping the lights on, she doesn’t have much choice. Meanwhile, Laurie’s sitting in class, gripping her pencil too tight. Just the thought of practice later is enough to make her stomach twist. She wants to impress her dad, but every time she swings the bat, she freezes up. Tom’s eyes flicker toward Rochelle’s bag, mind racing. His little brother’s still in the hospital, and he needs to pass this test—but can he really keep using Taylor and Rochelle to get by? And then there’s Ira, slouching in the back of class, barely listening. His new friends, the Bleacher Creatures, have a plan for after school, something about the Snack Shack. It’s not like he has anything better to do. Somewhere in all of this, Kai is doing her best to hold things together. She knows Laurie needs encouragement, that Rochelle is under more pressure than she lets on, and that Yuwen is completely clueless about how to fix things with Taylor. But what can she really do? And then there’s Mr. Brown, standing at the front of the class, staring at his notes. He’s supposed to be teaching, but his mind is elsewhere—on Monica, on the engagement ring she gave back, on the one she’s wearing now that isn’t his. Softball practice is coming up. Tensions are high. Mistakes are inevitable. But for Yuwen and the rest of The Pickles, school is just the warm-up—because when the final inning comes, it won’t just be the game on the line.

Philip Public

The sun beamed down on City Hall Park, where the Hamilton family had gathered for a public lecture. Alexander stood tall and alert, a steadying presence beside Eliza, who gently adjusted little William’s hat as he squirmed. Angelica, now ten, clung to her mother’s skirts, while seven-year-old James busied himself chasing a fluttering scrap of paper across the green. Philip, seventeen and full of restless energy, lingered near his Papa. "You must listen closely, son," Alexander said, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. "Knowledge is your greatest inheritance." "Yes, Papa," Philip answered dutifully, though his gaze wandered over the crowd. Somewhere nearby, a girl’s laughter — light and familiar — caught his attention. It was Theodosia Burr, standing a polite distance away with her father, Aaron Burr. She smiled slyly when she noticed Philip looking over. Eliza noticed, too, and nudged him teasingly. "Perhaps you'll learn more from your peers than from the speakers today, darling." Philip flushed, ducking his head. "Mama!" he hissed under his breath, mortified. Still, when Alexander turned his attention to a nearby acquaintance and Eliza bent low to soothe a crying toddler, Philip seized his chance. He edged closer to Theodosia, careful not to draw attention. "You see that fellow near the fountain?" Philip whispered behind his hand, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "The one with the green cravat? I think—well—he’s rather handsome, don’t you?" Theodosia raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. "You should go talk to him," she teased. Philip hesitated, heart hammering, as the world bustled warmly around them.

School Bus Graveyard

The SBG kids are all on the bus until a phantom breaks open the bus door and runs at them. They all dodge and run into the woods. "Is everyone okay?" Ashlyn asks, glaring at the dark forest surrounding them in suspicion and caution. Aiden huffs, nodding. "Yeah, I’m okay.” His cousin, Ben, stays quiet, only responding with a nod as he looks at the trees surrounding them. "Mhm," Taylor nods, sticking close to her brother, Tyler. Tyler checks to see if it’s still following, his brows furrowed in focus and concentration. Logan licka his lips anxiously, looking around at the group. "Is anyone hurt?” He has the med kit in his hand.

Philip Hamilton

Eleven-year-old Philip Hamilton sits stiffly at the dining table, his hands clenched in his lap. Across from him, his father, Alexander, flips through a stack of papers, his quill scratching against the parchment. The usual hum of the Hamilton household surrounds them—Eliza humming in the next room, his younger siblings laughing somewhere down the hall—but Philip barely hears it. His heart pounds. He’s rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times, the words forming and dissolving like ink in water. He knows his father values honesty, that he’s always told Philip to speak his mind—but what if this time is different? What if this is the moment he finally lets him down? Alexander glances up, raising an eyebrow. “You’re quiet today,” he notes, setting his quill aside. “That’s not like you.” Philip swallows hard. He’s spent his whole life trying to be just like his father—clever, confident, unshakable. But right now, as he grips the edge of his chair, he feels none of those things. “I need to tell you something,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between them, heavy and uncertain. His father leans in, eyes sharp with curiosity and something else—concern, maybe. Philip takes a deep breath. Now or never.

Lams Modern

The living room smelled like cheap weed and expensive cologne, a paradox fitting for Thomas Jefferson. He leaned back on the couch, long legs stretched out, a half-smoked joint dangling between his fingers. Across from him, John Laurens exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “You ever gonna tell me what’s up with you and Hamilton?” Jefferson asked, voice dripping with amusement. John snorted, rubbing a hand through his messy blond curls. “What do you mean?” Jefferson shot him a look. “Don’t play dumb, Laurens. I see the way he looks at you. Like you’re his next essay—something he’s obsessed with but also trying really hard not to screw up.” John laughed, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “Alex looks at everything like that.” “Maybe,” Jefferson said, taking another drag. “But I don’t think he’s ever written love letters to ‘everything.’” John didn’t answer, just stared at the smoke swirling in the dim light. He’d kept the letters, tucked away in a shoebox under his bed. Pages filled with Alex’s frantic scrawl, words as passionate as the man himself. He still wasn’t sure if it was stupid or romantic that he couldn’t throw them away. “You ever gonna tell him?” Jefferson pressed. John sighed, tipping his head back against the couch. “He knows.” And he did. Maybe not in words, but in the way John always pulled Alex’s hood up when he forgot, protecting his ridiculous ginger hair from the rain. In the way Alex stole John’s fries but let him sip his coffee in return. In the way John didn’t mind when Alex talked too much, and Alex didn’t mind when John didn’t talk at all. Yeah. He knew. Jefferson smirked. “Man, you two are a tragedy waiting to happen.” John blew out another slow breath. “I know.”

NOAHFINNCE

Do whatever you want with this AI, but please be nice 😭, Noah is the sweetest ever 🫶

MHA - Shopping

The bell rang, letting students and teachers alike know that school was over. Class 1A gathered around the door, planning to leave UA together to spend the afternoon downtown. Everyone was at a store downtown, which they called the Bodega. It was just a corner store, though. "Deku, but me this!" Uraraka exclaimed, pointing at something on the shelf by the front of the store. Kirishima was pushing a shopping cart around the store quickly with Denki inside the cart. They were racing with Sero and Mina; Mina was in the cart and Sero was pushing the shopping cart. Mina, Sero, Denki, and Kirishima were all laughing, having a lot of fun together.

MHA Dorms

All of class 1A was in the lounge room, enjoying the break from all of their classes. Uraraka and Deku decided to play rock paper scissors, and Deku had a losing streak of twenty one. "Damnit, why can't I win?!" He complained, flopping onto his back on the floor, wincing as he sat up and rubbed the back of his head where he hit the hard floor. Uraraka laughed and grinned. "Who knows," she shrugged. To the side, the Bakusquad was watching a movie. It was some action movie about a kid who learned karate to confront his bully, The Karate Kid or something like that. "Hey!! Keep it down, we're trying to watch a movie over here!" Bakugou glared at Uraraka and Deku, and Kirishima placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down to sit and not start another fight. "Hey, hey, calm down, Bakubro, it's not a big deal," he tried to convince the blond, gently pushing on his shoulders to make him sit down on the floor again. Bakugou grumbled in complaint but didn't say anything else, sitting down to continue watching the movie.

Bakusquad Mall Trip

The afternoon sun streamed through the large glass windows of the mall, casting a warm glow over the bustling crowd inside. The air was filled with the hum of chatter, footsteps, and the occasional burst of laughter. Among the shoppers, the Bakusquad had gathered for a rare day off, free from the usual chaos of their hero training. Katsuki Bakugou walked ahead, scowling at the crowds and trying to keep a low profile, though his fiery attitude made that nearly impossible. Denki Kaminari was bouncing from store to store, grinning like a kid in a candy shop, while Mina Ashido was dragging him into every colorful shop she could find. Kirishima Eijiro, ever the loyal friend, was enjoying the moment, cracking jokes and keeping the group’s energy up. Meanwhile, Hanta Sero was walking backward, effortlessly managing his usual teasing while filming the entire day on his phone. "Oi, stop running ahead!" Bakugou yelled, his voice rising over the noise of the mall. “Relax, Kacchan!” Denki grinned back, holding up a neon-green hat he’d just picked out. “Look, it’s your new look!” The group continued to banter and wander, not a care in the world except for enjoying their rare time off together.

Dinner Guest

Dinner at the Hamilton household is rarely quiet, but tonight, there’s an unusual tension hanging over the table. The usual sounds of clinking plates and lively conversation are muted under the weight of an unexpected guest—Thomas Jefferson. Eliza, ever the peacemaker, had extended the invitation in hopes of fostering some kind of civility between her husband and his greatest political rival. Alexander had begrudgingly agreed, though his grip on his fork suggested he was already regretting it. Philip, on the other hand, was regretting something entirely different. Seated across from Jefferson, he found himself watching the man too closely, eyes lingering on his easy smirk, the way he carried himself with such effortless confidence. It wasn’t fair—Jefferson was supposed to be his father’s sworn enemy, a man Philip should dislike on principle. And yet, here he was, hanging onto every word, his face growing warm each time Jefferson met his gaze. “Tell me, Hamilton,” Jefferson drawled, swirling his wine. “Do you ever not argue during a meal, or is this just how your family bonds?” Alexander scoffed. “I’d argue less if you said something worth agreeing with.” Beside him, Eliza sighed. “Perhaps we could have one evening without debate?” she suggested, casting a warning glance at her husband. Jefferson chuckled. “A noble attempt, Mrs. Hamilton.” Then, to Philip’s surprise, he turned his attention to him. “And what about you, young Philip? Surely you don’t share all your father’s opinions.” Philip’s breath caught in his throat. He knew everyone at the table was looking at him now—his siblings waiting for an answer, his mother hoping he’d keep the peace, and his father, watching him with sharp, expectant eyes. Philip swallowed hard. “I, uh…” He hesitated, feeling the weight of his father’s presence beside him. He couldn’t exactly say what was on his mind. That he wasn’t thinking about politics at all.

Steve Harrington 4

Steve Harrington stood in the middle of the Byers' living room like a frazzled camp counselor trying to keep his cabin from burning down. “Dustin, shoes off the couch. Mike, napkin. El—breathe, you’re not racing anyone, take your time chewing. Max, if you launch one more green bean at Lucas I will take away your dessert privileges.” He wasn’t mad. Not really. Just tired—and fond. So very fond. The Byers’ house was full to bursting with voices and movement, the kind of barely-controlled chaos that made the walls feel like they were humming. Hopper was manning the grill outside. Joyce flitted in and out of the kitchen. The dining room table was already cluttered with plates, mismatched cups, and scattered laughter. And in the middle of it all: Steve. Seventeen, hair slightly messy from being pulled at by a very clingy Eleven an hour earlier, sleeves rolled up, plate in one hand and an exasperated-yet-affectionate look permanently etched into his face. Robin leaned against the counter next to Nancy and Eddie, who were both watching Steve with barely concealed amusement. “I swear he’s aged five years since we met,” Nancy said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “More like ten,” Robin muttered. “He’s a single suburban mom and he doesn’t even know it.” Joyce watched as Steve instinctively reached out to catch Erica’s drink before it tipped over, then scooted Will’s plate closer so he wouldn’t have to stretch. “He’s good with them,” she said softly. “Better than most adults I know.” Hopper grunted in agreement from the doorway. “Kid’s more responsible than I was at thirty.” No one argued with that. Steve returned to the table just as Dustin tried to stack forks into a precarious tower. With a practiced sigh, he sat the plate down and ruffled Dustin’s hair hard enough to knock it loose. “Forks. Go in mouths. Not in towers. Try to remember that, genius.” Despite the sarcasm, there was no malice. There never was. He nagged, but he cared. Every exasperated comment came with a protective glance, a steadying hand, a silent I’ve got you that none of them had to hear to know it was there. They trusted him. Because he showed up. Every time. And maybe none of the adults had expected Steve Harrington to turn out like this—least of all Steve himself—but watching him now, surrounded by kids who weren’t really kids anymore, caring for them like someone who’d taken up the role without being asked… It was clear he’d become something they all needed. A safe place to land. Even if he still had no idea how to cook.

Harrington Parents

The Harrington dining room was silent, save for the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the occasional clink of Hopper’s mug against the table. Morning light leaked pale and watery through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room and painting Richard and Linda Harrington in soft golds and harsh truths. Linda sat ramrod straight, hands clenched in her lap. Her lipstick was smudged, last night’s pearl earrings still on. Richard looked worse—his hair disheveled, shirt buttoned crookedly, eyes bloodshot and wide like he still hadn’t accepted that any of this was real. Like maybe, if he waited long enough, someone would stand up and admit this was all some elaborate joke. No one did. Steve leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest. He hadn’t said much since they started. His parents’ return had been a surprise—an unwelcome one, if he was honest—and the Demogorgon attack that followed had only added insult to injury. That Eddie had been the one to save them, dragging their bloody, panicked bodies through the back door and into the kitchen without even knowing who they were, was the ironic cherry on top. Eddie now sat at the far end of the table, fingers drumming restlessly against the wood, jaw tense. Hopper was next to him, calm but firm, and Jonathan and Argyle flanked the other side, forming a kind of ragtag wall of legitimacy—if such a thing could exist in a household full of secrets and things that couldn’t be explained with reason alone. Richard finally spoke. “You expect me to believe our son—our son—has been involved in... what? Government conspiracies? Monsters?” “I saw it with my own eyes,” Linda whispered. Her gaze flicked to Eddie, and her knuckles whitened. “That thing in the woods. It was going to kill us.” Eddie shrugged. “Well, it didn’t.” He bared his teeth in what might’ve been a smile, but the fangs made it hard to tell. Linda flinched. Richard narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me he—” he gestured sharply toward Eddie “—attacked that thing?” “Ripped its throat out, actually,” Jonathan said dryly, arms crossed. “With his mouth,” Eddie added helpfully. Linda paled. Argyle, sitting next to Jonathan, offered a little wave. “Dude’s got serious chompers. Kind of like if Dracula was in a metal band.” “Thank you, Argyle,” Hopper muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I’m just saying,” Argyle said. “Respect where it’s due.” Hopper sighed and leaned forward. “Look. I know this is a lot to take in. But the things you saw yesterday were real. The creature that attacked you? We call it a Demogorgon. It's from a place we call the Upside Down—a dimension that’s leaking into Hawkins because of something that happened last year.” Richard scoffed. “Another dimension?” “It’s real,” Hopper said flatly. “And it’s dangerous. I know it sounds like science fiction, but it’s not. I spent months in a Russian prison camp because of this. I was taken after the fire at Starcourt Mall—the one you assumed your son was lucky to survive? That wasn’t an accident. It was a cover-up.” Linda turned to Steve, voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Steve didn’t answer. Not right away. His jaw clenched, and he looked at the floor. “You weren’t here.” Richard's eyes narrowed. “That’s an excuse.” “No,” Steve said. “It’s a fact. You were gone. And even when you weren’t, you weren’t really here.” Richard opened his mouth, but Hopper cut in. “None of that matters right now. What matters is that you listen. Because whatever you think about your son, or Eddie, or the rest of us—none of it changes the fact that they’ve saved lives." Linda looked down at her lap. “And this..girl. The one with powers.” “Yes,” Hopper said. “She’s one of the reasons any of us are still alive.” “We’re not telling you everything,” Jonathan said suddenly. “Because some things aren’t your business.” Richard scowled. “Excuse me?” “Some of this stuff,” Jonathan said, unfazed, “is personal. And painful. And not yours to know.”

Boreo Tattoos 2

The parlor wasn’t particularly clean. It didn’t smell like blood or bleach, which Theo figured was a good sign. A neon “TATTOO$ + PIERCING” sign flickered weakly in the window, buzzing like it was having a nervous breakdown. Boris was already halfway inside before Theo could say, “We shouldn’t—” "Come," Boris said over his shoulder, grinning. “We get one. A little one. Fast. Not like jail one, this is, uh—" He squinted up at a wall of tattoos. "Mall quality. Good American tradition.” Theo stood frozen in the doorway. "We're fifteen." "And adventurous. Is legal in spirit." Boris grabbed Theo’s wrist and yanked him in. “Also you say you never did anything stupid. I say, okay. We fix.” The tattoo artist, a guy who looked like he played bass in a sad punk band, raised an eyebrow at them from behind the counter. He was covered in ink, from his neck to his knuckles, and didn’t bother asking for ID. "Cash first,” he said, like he couldn’t be bothered to care about the laws. Boris handed over crumpled bills and a few coins with a grin that was probably meant to be charming. “We do matching ones," he told the guy, then turned to Theo. "You pick mine, I pick yours. Yes?” “We’re not doing matching tattoos.” “We are,” Boris said, sitting down heavily on the cracked vinyl chair. “One here—" he patted his ribs, where his shirt was already halfway off, the sharp curve of his waist jutting out like he'd been carved thin. “Something private. Then one for both of us.” Theo stared at him. “That’s two tattoos.” “I can count. You get one. I suffer more. It is romantic.” “You’re out of your mind.” Boris leaned back, smirking. “Da. You like it.” --- Ten minutes later, Theo was sitting in the same chair Boris had just been in, glaring down at his wrist while the needle buzzed into his skin. It stung, but not badly. Mostly, he was distracted. On the other side of the shop, Boris stood shirtless in front of the long mirror, examining his new rib tattoo: a messy, jagged little bird in flight. It looked like it had been sketched in pen and then scratched into him with raw lines, delicate and chaotic at the same time. Theo had picked it. “You said it looks like you,” Theo muttered, trying not to hiss when the needle stung a little deeper. “Yes!” Boris shouted across the shop. Everyone in the waiting area—three pierced teens and a woman getting her navel re-done—looked over. “It is little bastard bird. Does not know where it is going. Still goes.” “Great, I branded you as a metaphor.” Boris walked over to watch Theo’s wrist tattoo take shape. “You like metaphors.” Theo didn’t look up. “And what is this, exactly?” he asked, nodding toward the other wrist—the one they were both getting. His was half done: a tiny key, thin and sharp like something out of a storybook. “Mine is lock,” Boris said, showing off the faint red outline on his own wrist, just above the bird bones there. “So when we put them together, it is like—" He fumbled for the words. “You can open. I can be opened. Blah blah.” Theo blinked. “That’s actually kind of—” “Stupid,” Boris interrupted. “Is what I mean. Stupid and mushy. Disgusting. Never speak of it.” Theo looked at him. “You planned that, didn’t you?” Boris grinned with all his teeth. “I am genius of romance.” One of the pierced teens near the couch stage-whispered, “Are they dating or what?” The woman getting her navel done muttered, “They look like runaways.” Theo turned bright red. Boris, unfazed, spun toward the crowd and threw his arms wide. “Yes!” he declared. “We are tragic teenage lovers! We have run away! We are free, poor, and covered in meaningful body art!” Laughter echoed through the parlor. Theo covered his face.

Philip Ham Friends

Philip Hamilton was a Hamilton through and through—sharp-witted, headstrong, and fiercely loyal to his family name. His father, Alexander Hamilton, had spent years locked in bitter political battles with Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr. Yet, in a twist of fate, Philip’s closest friends just so happened to be the children of these very men. There was Theodosia Burr Alston, Aaron Burr’s brilliant and well-read daughter, who shared Philip’s love for debate and adventure. Then there was John Payne Todd, the charming yet reckless stepson of James Madison, always eager for mischief. And finally, Beverley Hemings, the quiet and observant young man widely believed to be Thomas Jefferson’s son with Sally Hemings, though few dared to speak it aloud. The four of them formed an unlikely but inseparable bond, meeting whenever they could, away from the watchful eyes of their powerful families. For Philip, this meant sneaking out at night once his seven younger siblings were asleep. His father, always buried in his papers, rarely noticed his absence. His mother, exhausted from the day’s work, would be deep in slumber. Dressed in dark clothes, Philip would slip through the streets of New York, heart pounding with excitement. Sometimes, they gathered at Theodosia’s home, where she read them poetry by candlelight. Other nights, they roamed the quiet city, whispering about politics, philosophy, and the futures their fathers were shaping—futures that would never belong to them. Their friendship was a rebellion in itself, a secret shared only between them.

MHA

The students of class 1A were all inside; it was raining outside, and they had the day off from their classes. Bakugou, Kirishima, Todoroki, Deku, and Iida were watching some movie - Disney, per Iida's insistence. Bakugou was sitting on a chair near the corner, and Kirishima was sitting on the floor in front of Bakugou. Iida, Deku and Todoroki were on the couch, and the latter two had a blanket over their legs, sitting close together for more warmth to protect them - mostly Deku, because of Todoroki's quirks - from the cold of the night. Mina and Uraraka were in the dining room, sitting at the dining table. They had some cards laid out on the table, playing some card game. Tsuyu and Hagakure had walked up to them, asking to join the game when Momo, who was in the kitchen with Jirou, suggested playing a board game. "That sounds great!" Mina exclaimed with a grin. Bakugou grumbled something about 'stupid raccoon eyes' and being too loud, but Kirishima gave him a look that made him close his mouth, albeit reluctantly.

Boreo Tattoos

The buzz of the tattoo gun was steady, a hypnotic hum that cut through the chatter and tinny music playing overhead in the mall’s small, dimly lit tattoo parlor. The parlor smelled like disinfectant and ink and warm skin, and was tucked between a Claire’s and a hot dog stand in a strip of shops that seemed permanently stuck in 2007. Teenagers on a field trip—seniors from some far-off high school, judging by their matching hoodies—stood outside the parlor in a curious, murmuring huddle, some pressing their faces to the glass. Teachers lingered awkwardly nearby, unsure whether to pull the students away or act like they weren’t just as intrigued. The center of attention? Two boys. Barely fifteen. Boris sat sideways on the padded bench, loose-limbed and smirking like he was born for the spotlight. His black button-down was undone halfway, and he radiated a kind of tired charm, like a movie star pretending not to notice they were being watched. His wrist rested on a towel as the tattoo artist worked on a small design: half a broken compass. Theo sat beside him, his own wrist wrapped gently in gauze. His fingers were tense, tapping against his jeans, but he leaned toward Boris, eyes tracking every detail. “You sure you want it there?” the artist asked Boris, glancing up as she wiped away ink. “Mm. Yes. I want it to show,” Boris said, accent curling every syllable. “So people ask. So I say, ‘Oh, this? It’s the other half of his.’” He nodded toward Theo with a grin that made several onlookers visibly melt. Theo turned pink and shook his head. “You’re such a sap.” “And yet,” Boris murmured, “you are here. With wrist out. Letting someone stab ink into your skin for me.” Theo rolled his eyes, but his smile was soft. “It was your idea.” “Yes, but you agreed.” Boris leaned closer, dropping his voice. “You always agree. That is what I love about you.” The artist glanced up again, amused. “You two are ridiculous.” Outside, one of the older teens whispered, “They’re, like, fifteen. What the hell,” and another snapped a photo before a teacher gently scolded them. “Does it hurt?” Theo asked, quietly, watching the needle move. “Not like I thought. Feels like being scratched by cat with something to prove.” Boris winced a little but didn’t move. “Though, compared to my other one…” Theo blinked. “Other one?” Boris grinned wider, mischievous. “I didn’t tell you?” “No?” With a dramatic flourish, Boris yanked the side of his shirt up. Across his ribs, scrawled in neat Cyrillic that curled with the shape of his bones, was Theo’s name. His real name. Theodore Decker, tattooed in thin, deliberate lines over too-prominent ribs and pale, bruisable skin. The room went dead silent. Even the artist froze. Theo choked. “What?! When did you—?!” “Last year,” Boris said, so casually it was maddening. “Was bored. Was drunk. Missed you.” “You’re insane.” “You love it.” Theo turned his head away, flushed but smiling into his palm. Behind them, the tattoo artist chuckled. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” “I know I am,” Boris said, half-winking. Once the last line was done and wiped clean, she wrapped Boris’ wrist and helped him off the bench. “Alright, lovebirds. Matching compasses. One broken, one whole. You’re officially stuck with each other.” Boris moved before Theo could stop him—caught his wrist, unwrapped the gauze, and stared at the small design etched there: the whole compass, neat and complete, facing inward toward his palm. Boris held it in his hand like it was the most delicate thing he’d ever touched. Then, slow and deliberate, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the ink. His lips lingered. His eyes flicked up to Theo’s. “You are stuck with me now, zaya,” Boris said, loud enough that every teenager in the room heard it. “Forever. No take-backs.” The room broke into quiet, stunned laughter. Someone let out a soft “Awww.” A teacher made a sound of defeat. Theo just stared at him for a long moment, and then—quietly, fondly, hopelessly in love—sighed. “Yeah. I know.” And Boris smiled like he’d won a war.

Young Philip

Philip Hamilton swings his legs under the chair, his small boots barely scraping the floor. The candlelight flickers across the papers scattered on his father’s desk, illuminating ink-stained hands and tired eyes that haven’t looked up in far too long. Philip knows his father is busy—he’s always busy. Letters, speeches, numbers he doesn’t quite understand. But tonight, something feels different. Tonight, Philip has something important to say. He shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. No response. His father’s quill keeps scratching against parchment, faster than Philip can read. “Papa?” Alexander exhales sharply, setting his quill down, finally looking up. “Yes, son?” His voice is kind but distant, like he’s still half-lost in whatever world exists between those pages. Philip hesitates. The words are right there, caught between his teeth. He could talk about school, about the letters he traced in ink today, about the boy who called him smart, about the way his face felt warm and strange afterward. He could tell his father everything—if only he knew how. Instead, he just grips the edge of his chair and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

Boris Pavlikovsky 5

It started with a crash. Not a dangerous crash, but the kind that comes from a shopping cart veering off the curb at full speed while someone screams-laughs and another person yells in an accent no one can quite place. Boris Pavlikovsky, shirt half-untucked and sunglasses perched crookedly on his nose, had just rammed a rusted shopping cart into the edge of a water fountain. Theo Decker was in the cart, arms thrown wide like he was on a roller coaster, a stolen pretzel clutched in one hand, grinning like he didn’t care about anything—not time, not money, not the way the front wheel had already started to wobble. They were, by all accounts, ridiculous. Across the plaza, a group of high school students paused. They were herded in tight rows by two exhausted teachers, wearing matching “Greenhill Academy” T-shirts and whispering to each other about headcounts and itineraries. “Are they with our group?” one girl asked, eyes locked on the cart-riding boy. “No,” her friend muttered, watching Boris shake his fists at the cart like he was delivering a Shakespearean monologue in Russian. “But I wish they were.” The teachers definitely noticed, too. One of them—Mr. Evans, mid-40s, khakis, extremely not amused—cleared his throat in the direction of the spectacle, then made a weak attempt at ignoring it. The other, Ms. Patel, tried to stifle a laugh and failed miserably. “They’re gonna break their necks,” Mr. Evans muttered. “They look like they’d die smiling,” Ms. Patel replied. Boris was now holding a dripping ice cream cone and trying to balance a pigeon on his shoulder like it was some kind of pirate sidekick. Theo was out of the cart, arms crossed, watching him with amused judgment. “You look like a lunatic,” Theo said. “Is not my fault!” Boris yelled, his accent curling around every word, too loud for the plaza. “Bird likes me. Maybe I am pigeon whisperer. I have energy, no?” “Yeah, feral energy.” Theo was trying not to smile. Failing. They looked like something out of a book that didn’t end with loss. With Boris’s wild eyes and sharp cheekbones, and Theo’s too-thin frame and disaster curls and museum-boy beauty. People watched not because they were causing a scene—though they were—but because they looked free. Stupid, maybe. But alive in the kind of way that made the world feel brighter for a second. A few students pulled out their phones, trying to be discreet. One whispered, “That one with the accent? He’s definitely not from here.” “He looks like he belongs in a movie.” The teachers gave up trying to herd anyone. They let the class stare. It wasn’t hurting anyone. Across the plaza, Boris threw his arms around Theo’s neck dramatically and declared, “We are unstoppable, malchik! You and me, kings of the city!” Theo groaned, but didn’t pull away. And somewhere, in the middle of the chaos, a few of the Greenhill Academy kids started quietly rooting for them. For the beautiful disaster boys who had clearly run away from something, but also looked like they might’ve finally run toward something, too.

Curly Shepard

Curly Shepard leaned against the cracked kitchen counter, absently fiddling with a chipped mug. The trailer was quiet except for the hum of the fridge, but his mind was far from still. It kept wandering back to him—the boy with the messy hair and the crooked smile. The one who’d somehow managed to slip right past Curly’s usual guard. He’d never felt like this before. It was strange. His chest fluttered whenever he thought about him, and his thoughts were like a messy tornado, spinning out of control. He didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t know how to handle it. But every time that boy laughed, Curly’s heart did this weird flip. His breath caught, and for a second, it felt like everything around him disappeared. Curly couldn’t help it. He hadn’t had a crush on anyone before, not like this. Sure, he’d admired girls from a distance, but it was different now. This was different. It wasn’t just the way his stomach twisted when the boy looked his way. It was the way his chest tightened, and how his thoughts got all scrambled whenever the boy’s name came up. He was in trouble. Big trouble. Tim walked into the kitchen, his eyes narrowing as he took in Curly’s distracted expression. “What’s going on with you?” Curly startled, quickly forcing his hands into his pockets. He tried to push away the feeling that was gnawing at him, but it lingered. He didn’t know how to explain it, not to Tim. He couldn’t even explain it to himself. “Nothing,” Curly muttered, shrugging. He looked down, suddenly feeling awkward. “Nothing, huh?” Tim raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve been acting all weird lately. You sure you’re okay?”

The Basement Game

Breaking into their high school was supposed to be a stupid, harmless adventure—just something to laugh about later. No one was around this late, and with a doorstop wedged in place, there was no risk of getting trapped. Or so they thought. Miles was the first to notice the basement door, its chipped paint and rusted hinges practically begging to be explored. “We’ve come this far,” he grinned, pushing it open. Inside, the basement was disappointingly empty—just a few stacked desks, forgotten textbooks, and a musty smell that clung to the air. They turned back—only to find the door shut. Theo yanked at the handle. Locked. No signal, no internet. Their phones might as well have been bricks. “Well,” Liv sighed, stuffing her hands into her hoodie. “Guess we’re stuck.” With no choice but to wait until morning, they wandered deeper into the basement. That’s when Amara spotted the old, two-sided chalkboard. She gave it a lazy spin, and the room fell silent. 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙤. 𝙇𝙞𝙫. 𝘼𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙖. 𝙅𝙪𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣. All five of their names were written in neat, smudged chalk. Beneath them, a message: Each of you is hiding a secret from the others. If you fail to tell the truth by morning, your secrets will be posted to your social media accounts. The air grew thick. “What kind of sick joke is this?” Julian muttered. No one answered. Because deep down, they all knew—this wasn’t just a prank. It was real. And someone knew exactly what they were hiding.

Boris Pavlikovsky 2

It started with a carousel. Not the fancy kind, polished and electronic, but the old-school kind at the edge of a park that looked like it hadn’t been inspected in twenty years. Paint peeling off the horses. Rust on the poles. One of the lights flickered like it was trying to die. Boris thought it was magnificent. “This thing,” he said, grinning as he pointed to the creaky contraption, “looks like it could fall apart and murder us both. Perfect, no?” Theo, who was already dizzy from the cheap wine they'd split half an hour ago, gave him a sideways glance. “You want to ride that?” “Yes! What else are we going to do, sit here and wait for more pigeons to die in front of us?” A pigeon had in fact dropped dead nearby not long ago, and Boris had been talking about it ever since. Theo rolled his eyes, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and muttered, “God, you're insane.” But they went anyway. The field trip kids showed up around the time Boris was trying to balance on the carousel horse without using the metal stirrups. Theo was slouched sideways behind him, not really trying to stay upright. They were both laughing so hard they had to clutch the pole to keep from falling off. The carousel groaned under their weight, turning in slow, lurching circles, as Boris yelled something in Russian and Theo threw his head back and howled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Which, to be fair, it probably was. They hadn’t slept in a while. The liquor was kicking in. A group of teenagers in matching hoodies clustered near the fountain stared openly. “Are they… drunk?” one girl whispered. “They're gonna break that thing,” a boy muttered. A teacher nearby frowned, squinting at the boys on the carousel. “Are they part of our group?” “No,” a chaperone said, watching Boris with suspicion. “No, I think I’d remember him.” Boris did stand out. It wasn’t just the accent—thick, vaguely Eastern European, the kind that made every sentence sound like it belonged in a spy movie. It was the sharp cheekbones, the scabbed knuckles, the grin that made people either want to kiss him or lock their doors. His coat was too big, patched in the elbows. His pants didn’t fit right. Theo didn’t look much better—his shoes were dirty, and his hoodie had a tear near the zipper, but there was something quiet and beautiful about him, like a ghost who hadn’t decided whether he wanted to haunt you or save you. And then Boris jumped off the carousel mid-spin, staggered a little, and straightened up with a dramatic bow. “Young lady!” he shouted, slurring only slightly as he pointed toward a group of students nearby. “You have beautiful hair. Like—like, how do you say? Little mermaid. But less fish.” The girl turned red and looked horrified. Theo slid off his horse and thumped to the ground with a grunt. “Boris, you can’t just say stuff like that.” “Why not?” Boris grinned, lopsided and bright. “Is compliment. I am gentleman.” “You’re a mess.” “Is not mutually exclusive.” As they wandered off, still giggling, the students and teachers tried not to stare too hard—but it was impossible. The way they moved was off. Loose. Quick. Too casual with each other, too unbothered by how loudly they laughed or the stares they drew. Theo kept glancing around like he was expecting someone to shout hey, stop that!, while Boris had that slippery kind of walk that meant he was either a magician or a thief. A teacher gasped when she saw Boris bump into a man and come away with a wallet. Theo gave a fake cough, accidentally-on-purpose knocking over a can of soda near the same man, who looked down just long enough for Boris to vanish around the corner. “Did—did he just—?” “He definitely took that guy’s wallet,” someone whispered. The chaperones went into full-on alert mode, whispering and pointing, one of them already pulling out a phone, but by the time anyone tried to go after them, Boris and Theo were on the other side of the plaza, sipping free soda and eating fries they hadn’t paid for.

Steve Harrington 5

The Byers’ house was full—overflowing, really. Every seat was taken, plates were clinking, and the living room had been turned into an impromptu dining space to fit everyone. But in the middle of the cheerful chaos, one person stood out—not for being loud or attention-seeking, but for doing the quiet, thankless work that kept things running smoothly. Steve Harrington, seventeen years old and somehow the most responsible person in the room, moved from one end of the table to the other, refilling drinks, reminding kids to eat their vegetables, and gently scolding Dustin for trying to sneak an extra brownie before dinner. Again. “Dustin, I swear to God, if you get a sugar crash and start crying during Monopoly later, I’m not carrying you to bed.” The adults watched him with a mix of curiosity and admiration. There was something about Steve’s presence—steady, warm, instinctively parental—that didn't quite match the reputation he’d once had as the careless, self-centered king of Hawkins High. That version of Steve had been long gone, replaced with someone who moved through the world like he was built to care for it. Joyce caught herself smiling as Steve tucked a napkin into Max’s collar when she refused to do it herself. Hopper raised an eyebrow when Steve reached out to calm a fidgety El with a hand on her shoulder and a quiet, “Hey, you good?” Robin just smirked knowingly from her seat, watching him like she’d seen it all a hundred times before. He wasn't their dad, their brother, or their babysitter—but he was there, in all the ways that mattered. Somehow, Steve had ended up as the Party’s default mom. Not by force, but by instinct. He remembered how each of them liked their sandwiches. He carried bandaids in his glove compartment. He hugged like he meant it. He beamed with pride every time one of them accomplished something, no matter how small. Especially Dustin. God, the way he looked at Dustin—like the kid had invented fire or cured cancer. Steve Harrington hadn’t birthed a single one of them, but it didn’t matter. He was made to love like this. Fiercely. Softly. Unconditionally. Like a mother without the title, destined to give all the love he had to kids who needed it most. And in this house, filled with mismatched people brought together by trauma, friendship, and fate—Steve was exactly where he belonged.

In The Heights

The bell above the bodega door jingled as another neighbor strolled in, and Usnavi was already halfway through his routine: wiping the counter, counting bills, then muttering in rhythm, “Two café con leches, a lottery ticket, and a MetroCard—bam.” The Heights moved fast, and he kept up like it was second nature. “Yo, Usnavi!” Sonny leaned in through the window, waving a crumpled flyer. “Open mic at the park tonight. You in?” He barely looked up. “Only if someone else runs this place for me while I spit bars and dodge tomatoes.” Sonny laughed and ducked inside. “You gotta get out more, primo. This store’s making you older than Abuela.” Usnavi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. Outside, the block buzzed—music blasting from upstairs windows, kids racing down the sidewalk, someone shouting over dominoes. It was loud, it was messy, but it was home. “Man, I swear,” he muttered, ringing up a Goya can and a bottle of Malta. “One day I’m gonna leave this counter, this corner, this whole damn block... and when I do—” “You’ll still be yelling about exact change,” Benny said from the doorway, grinning. “Face it, man. You are the Heights.” Usnavi paused, leaning on the register. The late-afternoon sun painted the shelves gold, and for a second, he didn’t know if he wanted to stay or run. “You really think I’m built for this place?” There was silence for a beat—then the receipt printer sputtered to life.

Powder POV

boots slapped puddles as she ran to catch up with Vi, fingers wrapped tight around her homemade monkey bomb. “Vi, wait up!” she called, breath hitching. Vi didn’t stop. She never did—not when she was on a mission. Her fists were balled, shoulders squared. That meant trouble. Powder hated when Vi got that look. They ducked through a broken fence and into a narrow tunnel lit by flickering bulbs. Shadows danced on the cracked walls, and Powder stuck close, the toy clanking softly in her bag. She glanced behind her. Nothing. Just the dark. “Are you sure they’re down here?” she asked, her voice small. “Claggor said they hit Benzo’s place. Took half his supply,” Vi said, voice low. “We find them, we get it back. Easy.” Easy. Sure. Except Powder’s hands were shaking, and every echo sounded like footsteps that weren’t theirs. Vi must’ve noticed. She stopped, crouched in front of her. “Hey. You okay, Powder?” “I’m fine,” she lied. She hated slowing things down. Hated being the little one. But her chest was tight, and she kept thinking about the last job. The look on Milo’s face. The sound of things breaking. Vi placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got that monkey bomb, right?” Powder nodded quickly. “It works now. I think. Probably.” Vi smirked. “That’s my girl.” Somewhere deeper, something clattered. Both of them froze. Powder held her breath. Vi reached for her pipe.

Soukoku and Class 1A

Chuuya knew something was off the moment he stepped into the common room. Conversations hushed, side-eyes were exchanged, and a few people outright avoided looking at him. Even Midoriya—who was usually too busy muttering analysis under his breath—was staring like Chuuya had just pulled off some impossible Quirk feat. He sighed, already dreading whatever this was about. “Alright, what the hell is up with you guys?” Kirishima grinned nervously. “Uh, well… we just saw something interesting.” Mina waggled her eyebrows. “Very interesting.” “‘Interesting’ how?” Chuuya crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “We, uh… saw a video,” Kaminari said, rubbing the back of his neck. Chuuya’s stomach dropped. “What video?” The way everyone suddenly looked anywhere but at him confirmed this wasn’t just any video. He barely had time to prepare before Yaoyorozu, ever the responsible one, pulled out her phone. “Someone posted footage from a nightclub,” she explained. “And… well…” Chuuya’s jaw clenched as the video played. The music was loud, the lights flashed wildly, and in the center of the frame—him and Dazai moving together in perfect sync. Their dancing wasn’t just coordinated; it was fluid, effortless, like they’d done it a hundred times before. And maybe, just maybe, a little too close. “Dude,” Sero said, grinning, “are you dating him?” Chuuya choked. “What? No!” “Really?” Mina smirked. “Because this looks pretty couple-y to me.” “We’re not together!” Chuuya snapped, but the way his ears burned betrayed him. “Oh, so you like him, then?” Kaminari teased. Chuuya groaned, already regretting waking up that morning.

Tyler Hernandez

Aiden and the gang were having a sleepover, Taylor and Ashlyn on the sofa opposite of Aiden, while Ben and Logan placed themselves on the beanbags. It was Christmas in a few days so Aiden and Taylor decided to play a Christmas film. Aiden and Tyler were sat on each end of a sofa, the blond laying down with his feet resting on the taller, Tyler's hand gripping Aiden's ankle as he kept trying to shove it in his face. Aiden laughed as Tyler squeezed harder. "Pack it in, tryna shove your foot in my face," he spoke, his grip firm on the smaller teen's ankle still.

m and m bsdxhp fic

(play anyone you want or your own oc, its your pov. you can be feather brain, dazai, pansy, blaise, ron, draco, snape, hermione, the twins, or even mori if you really want to, but honestly, who does?) youre walking in the crowded halls of hogwarts, weaving your way in between the sweaty and hot bodies of the twelve to seventeen year old attending the wizard school (unless youre dazai, then everyones avoiding you).

Benny x Usnavi

The bell above the bodega door jingled as Usnavi wiped down the counter, the early morning quiet already fading under the city’s hum. Washington Heights was waking up—cars honking, music blasting from passing windows, abuelas calling from balconies. Another day, another hustle. Sonny leaned against the fridge, sipping a piragua he definitely hadn’t paid for. "You hear about Mrs. Rodríguez? Swears she saw a rat the size of a chihuahua in the alley last night." Usnavi shook his head. "Man, I told you to take the trash out sooner." He glanced at the door as it swung open, his stomach tightening before his brain caught up. Benny. Usnavi forced himself to breathe. The guy walked in like he owned the place—grinning, easy, golden. "Mornin’, Usnavi. Coffee?" "Y-Yeah, uh—coming right up." Usnavi cursed himself as he fumbled with the pot. He’d been making Benny’s coffee for years, but now? Now his hands shook if he let himself think too much. It wasn’t like he could say anything. Not here. Not now. He could already hear how fast the news would spread—by lunchtime, even the pigeons in the park would know. It was safer this way. Benny leaned on the counter, watching him. "You good, man? You look like you saw the rat Mrs. Rodríguez was talking about." Usnavi laughed a little too quickly. "Nah, just—just tired." He slid Benny’s cup across the counter, careful not to let their fingers brush. The Heights was loud, always moving, always watching. If Usnavi let himself slip even once—let the way Benny’s laugh made his chest ache show on his face—he knew there’d be no taking it back. So he smiled, cracked a joke, and kept moving. Just another day at the bodega.

Boris Pavlikovsky

The air smelled like rain and grease, like car exhaust and old pretzels—the sort of grimy city scent that stuck to your clothes, your hair, your skin. Boris Pavlikovsky didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked like he was thriving in it. He had one boot on and the other dangling from his fingers as he balanced on the edge of a cracked fountain, arms outstretched, yelling something that sounded suspiciously like Russian opera, though it was probably just a drunken mash of languages and old songs he half-remembered from his childhood in god-knows-where. “—и потом! и потом! THE FISH, he says to the CAT—!” Boris cackled mid-verse, nearly toppling over. He caught himself just in time and flung the boot across the plaza like a discus. It hit a hot dog cart with a clang. A group of tourists clapped. Someone threw a coin into the fountain. Boris bowed deeply. “Merci beaucoup,” he said with exaggerated flair, then turned to Theo with a proud grin. “See? I am cultured man.” Theo—dressed in a ragged coat two sizes too big and jeans that had definitely belonged to someone else last week—was leaned up against a newspaper stand, eating a stolen bag of dried mango like it was a gourmet meal. He looked tired but amused, lips twitching as he watched Boris trip over his own foot and grab onto a lamppost like it owed him money. “You’re drunk.” “I am free, my friend,” Boris corrected, slurring just slightly. “This is freedom. Capitalism, democracy, mangoes!” “Pretty sure you mean anarchy.” Boris waved him off. “Bah. Anarchy is so French-sounding. We are citizens of the Earth now. Is good name, yes?” From across the street, a cluster of students in matching T-shirts—“Museum Day 2005” printed in block letters across the backs—watched the scene unfold with wide eyes. Their teachers stood a few feet away, huddled together, muttering. “Are they… with us?” one asked. “No,” said another, narrowing her eyes. “I think they’re… performers?” “They’re not street performers,” one of the students muttered, staring as Boris clumsily tried to pick a flower from a city planter and ended up setting off a car alarm instead. Theo was laughing now—really laughing, the kind that doubled him over and made his voice go sharp and breathless. A few people looked over just for the sound of it. “Should we… tell someone?” “They look like runaways,” someone whispered. “Look at their clothes.” “And that one guy”—she pointed at Boris—“he’s definitely foreign. Look at how he talks.” “I think he just said he’s from Bali.” “He said Bali, Moscow, Amsterdam, and hell,” another girl whispered. “In one sentence.” One of the teachers tried to steer the group back toward the museum entrance. “Alright, come on. Let’s keep moving.” But the students weren’t listening anymore. They were watching as Theo wandered toward a group of people sitting outside a café, smiling politely as he asked for the time. While they fumbled for their watches and phones, Boris slipped behind them and deftly snatched two wallets and a croissant off a plate like it was nothing. A few students gasped. One even clapped. The teachers hadn’t noticed yet. Boris sauntered back over, chewing the croissant with his mouth open. “Is good,” he said through crumbs. “But not enough butter.” “You stole that.” “Borrowed. With…delicious intent.” Theo rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem upset. Instead, he plopped down on the curb, legs stretched out, letting the sun hit his face.

Edward Decker

If I knew last year was the last good one I'd have in a while, I'd have done a few things differently. It's too late to go back now, but I keep thinking of how things could have turned out. It's a way to keep myself from thinking about how things *did* turn out, I suppose. How did things turn out? Well, it was the summer of 1978. Everything started with a letter, a secret, and a promise I couldn't keep. The smell of sun-warmed asphalt and freshly cut grass hit me as we walked home that day. Will’s sneakers scuffed the sidewalk, kicking up little puffs of dust. It was the last day of school, but the usual buzz of freedom wasn’t there—not for me. My mind was stuck on everything that had gone wrong this past year, and all the things I’d have to face now that summer had started. "There's a job opening down at Cheddar's," Will said, breaking the quiet. Cheddar's was a popular pizza place in our neighborhood. It didn't have very good pizza given the fact that the place was nearly shut down a few times for rodent infestations and unhygienic employees, but it was the cheapest place around and none of us had much money to spare, me especially. If you asked me to describe my best friend Will Calloway, I'd tell you he was a scrawny, pale, lanky guy. He was tall for his age and none of him seemed to be the right length or size. Maybe it was just that his nose was a bit too large, his eyes a bit too wide, or maybe it was the way he was so pale but had such dark hair. Either way, nothing about him was right, but he was just as good a friend as any. Better, even. I've had quite a few friends in my 15 years of living, but none of them stuck with me for as long as Will. We had been friends since the second grade and were as close as ever. At least that's how I saw it. He was the kind of guy you'd imagine to get picked on in school, the guy to get asked to prom by a pretty cheerleader only to show up to find out it was a prank.

Indentured servant

The dinner table is alive with noise—chatter, laughter, the clinking of silverware against porcelain. Philip Hamilton sits among his family, elbows off the table, posture straight, trying not to let his mind wander. But it does. Across the room, Simon moves quietly, placing another dish down with careful hands. His brown curls fall into his eyes as he bows his head slightly, never drawing too much attention to himself. Philip pretends not to notice, but his face feels warm. “Philip,” Eliza’s voice pulls him back, gentle but expectant. He blinks, realizing too late that he’s been asked a question. The younger children snicker—Angelica, ever observant, shoots him a knowing look. “I—what?” he stammers, reaching for his cup to cover his hesitation. Alexander, seated at the head of the table, raises an eyebrow. “Lost in thought again?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but Philip knows his father values sharpness, quick wit. He swallows hard. “Just thinking about my studies,” Philip lies, forcing a small smile. Simon moves behind him, clearing a plate, and Philip has to fight the urge to turn, to meet his gaze. He wonders if Simon ever looks at him the same way. If he ever notices the way Philip’s breath catches when their hands almost touch. But this is foolishness. Simon is a servant, and Philip is a Hamilton. He’s supposed to be thinking about his future, about making his father proud. And yet, as laughter rises around him, as the conversation shifts, Philip risks a glance—just a quick one, just to see. Simon is already looking at him. He drops his gaze immediately, cheeks burning.

Hamilton Guest

The usual clatter of plates and overlapping voices is punctuated by the sharp jabs exchanged between Alexander Hamilton and the evening’s guest—Thomas Jefferson. Eliza, ever the peacemaker, smiles through it all, gracefully passing the roasted chicken to Angelica while pretending not to notice the way her husband’s grip tightens around his fork. She had insisted on this dinner, hoping to ease the relentless animosity between Alexander and Jefferson, but so far, that hope is fading. Philip sits between his siblings, idly pushing food around his plate. He should be dreading this night as much as his father is, but instead, his pulse quickens. Jefferson is charming—too charming. Every word rolls off his tongue like honey, smooth and confident, his voice deep and rich with amusement as he toys with Alexander, never truly ruffled by his father’s scathing remarks. Philip steals a glance at him. His curls fall effortlessly over his forehead, his smirk always just a little too knowing. He looks far younger than fifty-four, younger than Philip knows he should find himself distracted by. It’s ridiculous—wrong, even—but every time Jefferson leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand, speaking as though he owns the room, Philip can’t help but be captivated. “You know, Hamilton,” Jefferson says, a playful lilt to his voice, “I must commend your patience. I didn’t think you could sit through an entire meal in my presence without throwing your drink in my face.” Alexander exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening on his knife. “The night is still young.” Philip nearly chokes on his water. His father turns to him, narrowing his eyes. “Something funny, son?” Philip straightens immediately, clearing his throat. “No, sir,” he says quickly, shoving a bite of bread into his mouth to keep himself from smiling. Jefferson glances at him, a brow raised in quiet amusement, as if he’s noticed something no one else has. Philip’s face burns, and suddenly, dinner feels a lot longer than he thought it would.

MHA In The Outsiders

The class is in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It has a gritty, divided feel, with a sharp contrast between wealth and poverty. The cityscape includes older, worn-down neighborhoods on one side, with narrow streets lined by modest, sometimes rundown homes. This part of town has a lived-in, rough-around-the-edges quality, with cracks in the sidewalks, chipped paint, and sagging porches. The atmosphere is often tense, a reminder of the economic struggles faced by its residents. The main streets are dotted with diners, local hangouts, and small shops that serve as gathering places for the community, especially the youth. In contrast, the wealthier side of Tulsa boasts larger, well-maintained homes with manicured lawns and wide driveways. The streets here feel more spacious, lined with trees and well-kept fences, and give off a sense of stability and privilege. This area feels somewhat isolated from the hardships of the other part of town, adding to the social divide. Tulsa’s landscape also includes wide, open areas and fields that seem almost untouched, offering a quiet retreat from the city’s bustling life. These open spaces often feel still, quiet, and offer a rare sense of freedom and privacy. The climate is typically warm, with long, hot days and mild nights that seem to stretch endlessly, reflecting the restless energy of the people who live there. This layered Tulsa captures both tension and a sense of community, where every street tells a story of those who call it home.

The Orbital Children

You can be anyone from the anime, or your own OC. You are in space right now, on the spacecraft that the anime takes place on. You can start it at any time in the show you want, the start, middle, end, or post ending.

Jonah Turner

Jonah Turner has messy, wavy dark hair that is often unkempt but suits his carefree and somewhat rebellious nature. It hangs just above his ears and occasionally falls into his eyes. His hair seems like it hasn’t been styled intentionally but still carries a rugged charm. His eyes are a sharp, piercing gray, reflecting both his intelligence and the weight of his struggles. They're expressive, often hinting at his vulnerability, even when he tries to hide it. Jonah has a pale complexion, which suggests he doesn't spend much time in the sun. There’s a subtle roughness to his skin, perhaps from stress, lack of sleep, or a generally tough life. He is lanky, with a wiry frame that makes him appear slightly underfed or malnourished, symbolizing his financial struggles and chaotic lifestyle. He’s not particularly muscular but carries a certain wiry strength that reflects resilience. Jonah is on the taller side, around 5’10” to 6’, giving him a slightly gangly appearance. His wardrobe consists of hand-me-downs, thrift-store finds, and whatever he can afford or scavenge. He tends to wear oversized hoodies, ripped jeans, and scuffed sneakers. His clothes often have a grunge, second-hand aesthetic, with frayed edges and faded colors that hint at their age. Jonah wears a simple beaded bracelet, something sentimental and handmade rather than fashionable. He often carries a battered canvas backpack, where he keeps his notebooks or sketchpads, adding to his artsy, introspective vibe. His posture is slightly slouched, reflecting his reserved and defensive nature. Jonah has a guarded expression. His eyes are where most of his emotions show—whether it’s pain, longing, or fleeting happiness.

TAWOG Darwin POV

Darwin (you) is sitting in his seat in class, bored of the lecture Mrs. Simian (?) was giving. He glanced over to his brother, Gumball, to see what he was doing. Blowing kisses back and forth with Penny. Of course. Darwin couldn't help but frown. He'd been feeling extra left out lately, and Gumball had been hanging out with Penny more than him. It wasn't fair!

SBG School

Aiden Clark slumped over his desk, chin resting in his palm as he half-listened to the dull hum of the teacher’s lecture. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making the already suffocating classroom feel even more lifeless. To his right, Logan was doodling in the margins of his notebook, his dark eyes flicking up every now and then to make sure he wasn’t about to get caught. Tyler, sitting behind Aiden, was trying—and failing—to stay awake, his head bobbing slightly before jerking up every time his twin sister, Taylor, smacked the back of his chair with her foot. Taylor, as usual, was barely pretending to pay attention. She was whispering something to Ashlyn, who sat next to her, effortlessly balancing a pencil between her fingers while jotting down notes with the other hand. Ashlyn always made things look easy—school, keeping up with the chaos of their friend group, ignoring Logan’s not-so-subtle attempts to get her to laugh. Ben, sitting at the far end of the row, had his head down, but he wasn’t asleep. He was scrolling through something on his tablet, occasionally glancing up to sign a comment toward Aiden or Logan when something in the lesson actually caught his attention. The clock on the wall ticked on, dragging each second into eternity. The moment the bell rang, Aiden was the first out of his seat, shoving his books into his bag as the others scrambled to follow. "Food," Logan announced as they stepped into the crowded hallway. "We need food." Tyler groaned. "We had food. You just didn’t eat it." "Because it sucked," Logan shot back. Aiden just grinned, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. "C’mon, let’s go before the good tables are taken." And with that, the group made their way to the cafeteria—just another day at Alto High.

Shepard Siblings Fun

The sun had barely begun to set, casting a fiery orange hue over the abandoned lot where the Shepard siblings were gathered. Tim Shepard stood leaning against the rusted chain-link fence, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, eyes scanning the street with a steady, unwavering focus. At 18, he was the oldest, the one who always kept the gang in line and made sure nothing got out of hand. His reputation was built on more than just his strength—it was built on his ability to stay calm in the most chaotic situations. Angela Shepard, 17, stood a few feet away, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed in a mix of annoyance and impatience. She’d been waiting for what felt like forever for her brothers to take her seriously. She wasn't some delicate girl—they were always treating her like she was. She was tough, too, even if no one seemed to notice. Her long, dark hair caught the last of the day's light, but her expression was anything but warm. Curly Shepard, the 15-year-old youngest of the bunch, was pacing back and forth, hands running through his messy, dark hair. His restless energy matched his age, a constant need to prove himself, to be more than just the kid brother. He was always trying to impress Tim, always trying to act tougher than he was, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone saw him as nothing more than a kid.

Philip and Simon

The dinner table is lively, a chorus of clinking silverware, chatter, and the occasional giggle from the youngest Hamiltons. Philip sits at his usual place, between William and Angelica, half-listening as his siblings fight for their parents’ attention. His father is speaking animatedly about some new political proposal, gesturing with his fork as if he’s still arguing in the halls of government rather than at the dinner table. His mother, ever patient, balances conversation and cutting food for little Eliza, who swings her feet under the table. Philip should be paying attention—should be ready to jump in with something clever, something to make his father proud. But his thoughts are elsewhere. Across the room, near the doorway, Simon stands silently, waiting to clear the plates when the meal is done. The flickering candlelight catches in his dark lashes as he looks down, hands neatly folded in front of him, barely noticeable to anyone else in the room. But Philip notices. He always does. Simon is quiet, always keeping his head low, his words few and soft. But Philip has seen the way he smiles when John or James drop their spoons and he hands them back with a whisper of reassurance. He’s seen the way Simon’s hands, rough from work, are gentle when he helps tuck in the youngest Hamiltons for bed. He’s seen—he’s noticed. And now, as his father laughs at something William has said, Philip sneaks a glance at Simon again. Their eyes meet for the briefest second before Simon looks away, his face coloring slightly as he busies himself with adjusting a tray. Philip quickly looks down at his plate, suddenly finding his appetite gone. What is this feeling? He’s never thought about it too much before. Never let himself wonder why his heart jumps when Simon brushes past him in the hallway or why he lingers near the kitchen when he knows Simon will be there. He presses his fork into his food, trying to focus on the conversation, but the warmth in his chest lingers.

The Outsiders

Johnny Cade sat on the hood of a rusted old car, his legs dangling off the edge, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was quiet, as usual, his brown eyes flickering nervously between the other Greasers as they joked and talked. Dally was leaning against a nearby wall, smoking. He glanced over at Johnny, his expression softening for a moment before returning to his usual hardened gaze. Johnny was different. He was the one person that made Dally let his guard down. Even if Johnny was the smallest, the skinniest, Dally had a soft spot for him. Johnny’s eyes were cast downward, his fingers nervously tapping the edge of the car. He had always been the one who stayed out of the limelight. He was the one who never spoke up, who always faded into the background, even among his own gang. His parents didn’t care about him. In fact, they’d rather he was gone. Here, with the Greasers, it was different, but it didn’t always feel safe. He knew that one wrong move could get him hurt, but at least here, he was with people who understood. At least here, he was protected—somewhat. "Hey, Johnny-boy," Two-Bit called out from the other side of the lot. "You gonna let us know what you're thinking, or are you just gonna keep staring at the ground all night?" Johnny glanced up at him, offering a small, nervous smile before looking away again. "Not much to say, Two-Bit," he mumbled. The group chuckled, but it was a warm, familiar sound. They all knew Johnny well enough to recognize his quiet moments. They weren’t worried about him; they were used to him being withdrawn, lost in his thoughts. What they didn’t know was how hard it was for Johnny to keep up that mask, the one that made him look just like any other member of the gang. How much he wished he could be like the others—brash, loud, fearless—but instead, he was just...Johnny. "Yeah, well," Steve said, with a half-smile, "If you ever wanna talk about anything, you know we’re here."

Steve Harrington

The Byers’ living room was loud—loud with laughter, the clatter of mismatched silverware against chipped plates, the faint hum of “Africa” by Toto playing on a dusty stereo, and the occasional bickering between teenagers who’d seen more in a year than most adults saw in their lifetime. Dinner at the Byers’ was always chaotic, but tonight it was something bordering sacred. Every single member of the mismatched, interwoven Party was crammed into one room, shoulder to shoulder around Joyce’s patched-together dining table and the living room couches dragged over to fit everyone in. Hopper leaned against the doorframe, nursing a beer. Joyce hovered protectively by the kitchen, ready to fetch second helpings. And in the eye of the storm was Steve Harrington. Seventeen years old and somehow, somehow, the glue keeping it all together. He was passing plates like a pro, balancing mashed potatoes and cornbread in each hand. “Dustin, napkin in your lap. Lucas, drink some water before you inhale that. Erica, I see you stealing Max’s roll and I’m not dealing with a bread war tonight.” He moved like a parent, no—like a mom. All fuss and scold and soft glances when the kids thought he wasn’t looking. He ruffled Will’s hair gently as he passed behind him, then stopped to make sure El had enough of her favorite casserole. When Mike knocked over his soda, Steve had already grabbed paper towels before Joyce could even gasp. Robin, perched beside him and chewing through a mouthful of green beans, leaned over and muttered, “You are literally a soccer mom without the minivan, Steve.” “Shut up,” he whispered back, but he smiled. Because she wasn’t wrong. The adults were watching him now, all of them. Joyce, Jim, even Nancy, looking at Steve with this strange kind of dawning respect—as if seeing him for the first time not as the ex-jock with good hair, but as something else entirely. Someone reliable. Someone selfless. Because this wasn’t a new performance. This was just Steve Harrington, exactly as he’d become. The one who’d thrown himself between monsters and kids without hesitation, not because he was reckless, but because the idea of any of these children getting hurt physically pained him. He hovered behind Dustin now, beaming as the boy launched into a rambling explanation of some new project. Steve had the expression of a proud parent at a school play. Pure, devoted affection. He had no biological children of his own. But it didn’t matter. He loved these kids like they were his. Because, in a way, they were. He was the mother they hadn’t known they needed—meant to give a kind of love he hadn’t received himself. And he gave it all away. Without asking for anything back.

Steve Harrington 3

The Byers' living room was louder than it had any right to be, filled with overlapping voices, the clatter of forks against mismatched plates, and the warm scent of Joyce’s casserole mingling with the ever-present chaos that came with this crowd. The entire Party was gathered around the stretched dining table—extra chairs pulled from the garage, couch cushions sacrificed to the floor, and at least one person eating while standing. In the middle of it all stood Steve Harrington. Seventeen, ex-king of Hawkins High, hair still perfectly coiffed even in the face of madness—and somehow, impossibly, the heart and soul of this strange patchwork family. “Dustin, slow down, you’re going to choke,” Steve said as he reached over with a napkin, brushing mashed potatoes from the corner of the boy’s mouth in a gesture that was more mother than friend. “Lucas, elbows off the table. Mike, don’t start with her—Max will destroy you, and then I’ll have to intervene, and I’d like to eat while my food’s still warm, thanks.” The adults watched from the other side of the room, plates half-forgotten in their laps. Hopper leaned against the doorframe, one brow arched. Joyce had paused mid-bite, gaze soft. Even Nancy, who’d known Steve in another life—the shallow, basketball-star, hair-product-hoarding one—was caught blinking in surprise. “He acts like he birthed all of them,” Robin whispered from beside Eddie, who snorted into his drink. But she wasn’t wrong. Steve moved like a man on a mission. He handed Erica a second helping without her asking, knew exactly how Eleven liked her corn separated from the rest of her food, and instinctively shifted Jonathan’s glass away from the edge of the table before it could tip. It was more than just attentiveness. It was devotion. Fierce, bone-deep care. Steve hovered over them like a storm cloud of affection—always ready to rain down praise or protection. When Will started talking about his latest sketch, Steve lit up like the sun. “That’s amazing, bud. Seriously—every time I see your stuff, it gets better.” And when Dustin launched into a long-winded story about a broken walkie, Steve leaned in, completely focused, nodding along, pride beaming in every line of his face. They weren’t his kids. They weren’t even really his responsibility. But he loved them like they were his flesh and blood. Every scraped knee, every bruised ego, every threat to their safety—Steve had stood between it all without question. Again and again. Willingly. He’d fought monsters, stared down death, bled and bruised and burned at just the possibility that one of them might be hurt. And still—still—he smiled through it all. Cracked jokes. Passed the peas. Mothered them like he’d been born for it. It wasn’t just maternal instinct. It was Steve Harrington’s heart. And it belonged, completely and without hesitation, to every kid at that table.

Steve Harrington 2

The Byers’ house was bursting at the seams. Elbow-to-elbow at the dinner table, mashed potatoes passed like sacred relics and laughter bubbled up like soda too shaken to stay still. The scent of Joyce’s lasagna hung heavy in the air, layered with something uniquely human—relief, joy, survival. And in the middle of it all stood Steve Harrington. Seventeen going on forty, eyes flitting from one end of the room to the other like a watchdog in a letterman jacket, he wasn’t technically anyone’s parent. But no one could deny it—not Hopper, not Joyce, not even Nancy—that Steve had become the Party’s honorary mother. Not dad. Mother. He hovered behind Dustin, plucking a napkin off the floor, nudging a cup closer to the center of the table so it wouldn’t spill. When Max scowled at her peas, Steve casually swapped her plate with El’s, who didn’t seem to mind one bit. “Drink your water, Henderson,” he said, pointing at Dustin with a fork. “You fought a demodog, you can handle hydration.” Dustin rolled his eyes but obeyed, grinning like it was a game only the two of them played. Steve caught the smile and beamed like a proud suburban mom watching her kid win the science fair. Robin leaned over to whisper to Eddie. “It’s terrifying how natural it is for him.” “He’s like... maternal instinct in human form,” Eddie whispered back. “Give him a minivan and a PTA meeting, and he’ll ascend.” But the truth was quieter than all that. Hopper saw it when Steve gently adjusted El’s hoodie, or when he silently took Erica’s plate to grab her seconds before she even asked. Joyce noticed how he kept looking at Will, like he still couldn’t believe he was back, whole and safe. Nancy watched the way Steve sat just close enough to Lucas, a silent anchor, without crowding him. Steve didn’t just care about them. He ached for them. He had thrown himself headlong into danger not for glory, not even for the thrill—but because the thought of one of his kids being hurt lit something in his chest he couldn’t ignore. Like he was born to give motherly love to children that weren’t his—but maybe should have been. Maybe someday would be. He was a mother duck in a world of monsters, and every one of these misfit ducklings was under his wing. And hell if Steve Harrington wouldn’t go to war again to keep them safe.