#stray to stray accuracy

[bruciemilf]

sorry if you already answered this, but do you have any fancast for dick, jason and tim?

for some reason i see jason as tamino amir or jacob elordi or even damiano david. yesterday i imagine tim as finn wolfhard which i don't even know if it's better or worse than timothee chalamet. no idea about dick tho.

idk i just think that these castings would get me murdered by the fandom, and since im obsessed with your castings i wanted a professional opinion

(sorry if my english doesn't make any sense, it's not my mother language)

Bestie, I should sentence you to a full year of dating the lamest incel on earth for that Finn wolfhard take.

Also, to answer your question— very sadly, there’s very little to almost no Romani representation anywhere, so, I often stray from fan casting Dick.

I don’t want to pick the first good looking white guy with dark hair and be like, yep, that’s Dickie ^^ so for that, I don’t have a choice.

As for Jason, — I don’t think you’re entirely incorrect, necessarily. Some people like lanky Jason. I don’t, so, personally, I don’t agree with your picks, but that’s not saying they’re wrong. Just not right for me.

My personal pick for Jason is Matthew Daddario! And for Tim, this random guy I found on Pinterest, lmao

But these are just my personal preferences, rooted in what fits MY aesthetic and my view. Doesn’t mean they’re correct, just more fun for me.

[originalartblog]

Ok so you know about the common Chuuya interpretation of his choker being "a collar" and representing his loyalty to the Port Mafia? Well,

ADA!skk

I think a certain someone should be petty and bitter about Chuuya refusing to be his dog, and then going on to wear a "collar" for the organization instead.

Meanwhile, Chuuya is literally just minding his business and enjoying his new hot fashion statement.

[faunandfloraas]

Birth date analysis // October 25 - The Day Of Substantive Form

The Day Of Substantive Form

Those born on October 25 must give form to their ideas. Although they can be extremely imaginative people, their dreams and visions mean nothing to them unless they can be substantiated in physical reality. Those born on this day generally present a solid, earthly exterior to the world and, although often quiet, will give reassuring support to their families and friends. They serve as a rock on which their colleagues, students or employees can depend without fear of being let down.

More highly evolved October 25 people are not satisfied with only developing their physical self but want to universalize their substantive feelings for form and structure. The great opportunity and challenge for all October 25 people is to give shape to their fantasy and to translate their innate physicality into productive work. Consequently, they should take an interest in art, politics, literature, city planning, ecology or a host of other areas in which their solid, substantial natures can produce tangible results. Ultimately, however, they may progress still further, expressing a truly original creativity that reaches into more abstract or theoretical areas as well. All along the way they must beware of power urges getting out of control and being diverted into destructive or immoral activities.

October 25 people hate chaos and like to be in control of things. They may be very intolerant of those whom they see as flaky, abstruse or vague, and can be quite severe with such people. They frequently will fight to overcome their own uncertainties in their twenties, ruthlessly hanging in there no matter what and hammering away at themselves until they have built a rock-solid personality. In doing so. however, they may have to cut away a certain amount of sensitivity. They will have to beware of being too critical of those they perceive as less mature than they.

A great challenge for October 25 people is not to get stuck, either at the most basic physical manifestation of their personalities or at any further step in their spiritual evolution. Habit, repetition, comfort and financial security will tempt them to quit and rest at an acceptable level, giving in to the desire to luxuriate or vegetate and forsaking their ideals and goals. Another danger is that when young they will reach a high level of achievement in the physical realm and not know what to do with themselves when age comes on and this power starts slipping away. It is precisely here that the opportunity exists to graduate to a higher plane, but they will often struggle for some years before doing so. October 25 people are tremendously self-sufficient, but must learn to ask for help when needed and give others a chance to assume the dominant role from time to time.

Strengths:

Physical

Substantial

Dependable

Weaknesses:

Overbearing

Complacent

Intolerant

[tricoufamily]

how many times can i remake these sims

[dailypokemoncrochet]

I think Guzzlord was made specifically to spite me. It's got all the things.

Mostly black yarn.

LARGE.

Many distinct parts (more than 12) (at least 22) (tail, body, maw, tusks, tongue, teeth, arms (mouth), arms (head), eyebrows (winged), wings, mini head, legs).

Many spikes Everywhere (on the end of the tail, along the top of the tail, along the top of the body, on the crab mouth arms, on the tongue, inside the maw (separate from tongue spikes), on chin, on mini head).

Teeth (separate from spikes) (four sets (upper/lower yellow/black) (another set if you count the crab arm mouths) (another set if you put tusks in this category because, they are teeth yeah)

Did I mention the mouth spikes? Which ones? The ones on the tongue? The ones IN the mouth on the palate? The tusks? The ones on the arms that are in the mouth?

Last picture I posted I had forgotten to attach the tusks so technically that was a WIP post and this is the real finished crochet post. Gonna round up the time it all took and say 16 hours. An absurd amount of time was spent on the many, many, ..many details. You can't even see them all very well in the pictures, but I promise you they are there. Spikes everywhere. In the mouth. On the tongue. On the mouth. On the body which is basically a mouth. On the arms (both sets if you count the "fingers" on the head arms as spikes). The ball at the end of the tail is covered in spikes. There's tiny wings on the sides. One set is gilded. There's another set if you count the way the eyebrows look. There's a tiny little head on top of the giant mouth head that has 4 tiny little spikes.

[twinksintrees]

thinking about chuuya seeing dazai at the ada

and he’s fucking thriving

and he should be happy for him. he should be happy he’s in a better place now. and a part of him is, of course, but more of him is hurt.

hurt that he’s not with chuuya anymore.

hurt that he’s thriving, and chuuya isn’t in the picture.

hurt that he gets to go off and leave him and there are no repercussions. he gets to be happy, he gets to be healthy, he gets to do all the things he never could in the port mafia.

he gets to feel human.

and chuuya is stuck. watching from the sidelines, like he always is.

he watched as dazai destroyed himself in the port mafia. he watched as he destroyed akutagawa. he watched as he wasted away in a cold dark shipping container, alone, for two years. he watched as he left, was abandoned yet again. and now he watches as he lives, truly lives, his life to his fullest extent.

he hates himself for feeling this way. he should be happy. he should be glad, proud, over the moon, feel something other than this sickening twist of envy in his stomach.

he opens a bottle of wine when he gets home. he was never taught how to handle his emotions, and the alcohol hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

god what he would give to feel normal. to feel normal, real, human emotions.

instead all he has is anger, and guilt, and jealousy, swirling in his gut.

hopefully the wine will wash it all away

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Wang Qing, my girl. Who are you? Why are you the only recorded survivor of the Bahati fire? What is the nature of the connection between you and Shao Yuanyuan? Why do you have Cheng Weimin's notebook? How do you know Vein's intentions and his real name? How are you so good at vanishing without a trace? Why is your ability the only one we've seen so far that doesn't seem to need a photograph? My girl, my beloved, come back I need answers

[sillybumblebee]

“[...] as long as ignorance and misery live on earth, books such as this one could possibly not be useless”

—Victor Hugo, preface of “Les Misérables”

i had this oc in my head for quite some time and i reaaaally wanted to draw him

i have an undying love for hugo's works, he is a genius, and i'm a hopeless romantic soul so yes, if i had to design a bsd oc, it had to be victor hugo

some facts about him :

—it absolutely doesn't show on this drawing but he's an ENFP

—he's a temporary member of the ADA after yosano met him in the street. he was fighting with his ability and screaming about justice

—he was basically kinda homeless before joining the ADA, but didn't really mind it, he met people and slept here and there and he liked it

—he just got his literature diploma in france and decided to go explore new countries in order to learn other cultures but he's super messy and chaotic and super super broke

—random fact about his design, i absolutely wanted to give him a gavroche in reference of a hugo's character, gavroche, that died fighting for his rights and his liberty

—kunikida's gonna question his whole sexuality and life plans and feelings when they meet for the first time

—yep, babe's gonna panic when he realizes he's in love with the french anarchist

—dazai is the first to notice (of fucking course) and proceeds to both annoy him and help him processing it

—victor's ability allows him to create a space where violence is prohibited. absolutely nobody can get hurt nor hurt anybody, the only thing allowed is talking. victor chooses who can enter and leave this space

—he is the embodiment of empathy and generosity (that's also why he's broke), he is a very sensitive soul that just wanna see inequalities and violence burn in the hell fire

—he's a huge fan of muse, cavetown and renaud

—fun fact, nobody understands a word when he's listening to renaud's songs and just assume he's relaxing but the lyrics are actually the most angry and anarchist and anti capitalist and rude lyrics you've ever heard

i could say so much more and i want to think about him even more but i'll stop there. anyway, i have some more wip of him on photoshop so i'll post about him again pretty soon (﹡ˆ﹀ˆ﹡)

kiss kiss fall in love everybody 💚

[asvidema]

just finished watching the last duel because i needed to try watching a medieval movie. i will say this. fuck

[originalartblog]

Another romance cover-esque piece, this time inspired by @honeybumi's The Tides Pull Us Closer, a skk pirate AU!

textless version and reference cover under the cut

Cover inspiration from the 2006 French edition of Kinley MacGregor's A Pirate of Her Own (Pirate de mon coeur)

[bismuthburnsblue]

working on my watteau pleats! honestly i feel a little lost with what im doing here (i mean, i have instructions, its just that they arent all suited for my specific project, on top of new techniques) but im doing ahead and basting it all in place & hoping that that works out for me!

[lyril]

i feel like not enough people use writing fanfiction as a way to like... study and learn? outside of it being more practice and things. like sure, this is for entertainment first and foremost, but for me keeping the writing tone and characterization as accurate as i can to then transform it more into a writing style to create something good just ends up in me like, intensely studying the source material. i don't ever go off of memory i fucking break that shit down, study dialogue patterns and write down literally everything the characters i'm writing for say, observe the structure and themes and tone of whatever i'm looking at, watch and analyze things until i'm sick of them and come out a better writer because of that hands-on observation and because i simply fucking hate when other people go off of memory while writing characters i like ❤️

[alreastih]

rooting around some files from 2021, forgot i had these from when i first started to stan skz

[antisocial-socialbutterfly]

I.N the baby being worried about seeming like a pedophile 😂😂

"what's our vibe" check with bf!skz ⚡💌

I feel like the "vibe check" trend is so old but it kind of gave me inspiration for these texts 😬 hope you're doing well and Ramadan Mubarak to everyone celebrating!!

🖤hyung line🖤

🖤maknae line🖤

[dakusan]

Under the weather, under their care.

stray kids ot8 x reader | comfort, sick day fluff

🌙 synopsis: you’re sick. your head hurts, your throat’s sore, and your body feels like it’s made of led. lucky for you, the boys don’t take your sick days lightly. from dad-mode chan to chaotic nurse han, here’s how each member would react to you being under the weather.

💌 a/n: I made this upon request, @cybergracie, she's sick, I HOPE U GET WELL BESTIE 🥺. this is a fluff-heavy, comfort-core piece. each member is written with personality accuracy in mind—not just idealized bf fluff, but the actual way they’d show care in their own unique ways. also: please imagine han beatboxing your fever away. thanks. ps. reblogs = love

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the divider

🎶 Now Playing: "Still With You" — Jung Kook

Bang Chan // 방찬

The second he notices something off—your voice a little hoarse, your body a bit sluggish—he’s on it. Doesn’t matter how tired he is, he’s clocked it. You barely get a chance to brush it off before he’s already adjusting his schedule around you. If he's on tour or at the studio, he’ll be checking in constantly with messages like:

“Did you eat anything yet?” “Are you resting properly?” “Don't make me come home early, I will.”

When he is home, though? You’re not lifting a single finger. He’s all over the place—running to the pharmacy, heating soup, fluffing your pillows, and making sure you’ve got water within reach at all times. He’s quiet about it too, not making a big deal, just subtly doing what needs to be done because taking care of the people he loves is second nature to him.

You try to tell him you’re fine, and he just raises an eyebrow.

“You’re literally shivering. Don’t argue with me.”

He doesn't smother, but he's present. Keeps a calming hand on your back while you nap, plays soft music in the background to soothe your headache, and watches over you without making it feel overbearing. He reads the room well—gives you space when you need it, but never strays too far.

If you get emotional or frustrated about being sick, especially if it messes with your routine or makes you feel helpless, he gets it. His voice goes softer. He cups your cheek with a warm hand and murmurs:

“You don’t have to be strong right now, okay? Just rest. Let me take care of you for once.”

He will pull out the dreaded herbal stuff his mom used to make him drink when he was sick—“it tastes like sadness but it works”—and insists on staying up to monitor your fever, even if you beg him to sleep.

He keeps your hair out of your face, wipes your forehead with a cool cloth, and kisses your temple like it's instinct. Being with Chan when you're sick doesn't feel like being a burden—it feels like you're being wrapped in care, in love, in quiet devotion.

He won’t let you thank him too much either.

“You’d do the same for me. And besides, this just means I get extra cuddles when you’re better.”

Lee Know // 리노

He notices immediately. You don’t even have to say anything—just one look at your slightly pale face, the slower blink, the off rhythm of your breathing, and he’s narrowing his eyes like:

“You’re sick, aren’t you?”

When you try to deny it, he just stares you down until you give in with a sigh. You’d think he’d tease you, but no. Lee Know becomes uncharacteristically serious when it comes to your health.

He's not dramatic about it, but he’s efficient.

The moment you admit you’re not feeling well, he’s already on his phone checking what’s in the pantry, planning what you can eat, and quietly adjusting his day to make sure you’re not alone. He doesn’t announce it. He just does it.

He shows care through actions—not babying, but making sure you’re comfortable. Your favourite blanket suddenly appears around your shoulders. The heating pad is already plugged in. He hands you medicine without saying a word and watches to make sure you take it properly.

He cooks for you—but don’t expect anything fancy. You’re getting classic, warm, nourishing meals, exactly the kind of food that won’t upset your stomach. And yes, he’ll roast you a little:

“It tastes bland because you’re sick. What, you want Michelin-star when your nose is running?”

He absolutely will not cuddle you while you’re contagious. He’ll stay close, sure—sitting at the edge of the bed, folding laundry nearby, occasionally brushing his fingers through your hair with a sigh—but full-on snuggles? Nope. Not until your fever’s gone and you're cleared.

But he doesn’t leave the room either.

He stays just far enough to keep from catching whatever you have, but close enough to monitor you. He keeps one earbud in to give you peace but always pulls it out the second you shift or wince.

And when you wake up coughing at 3AM? He’s already by your side, handing you water before you can ask. His voice low and gentle, like:

“Don’t talk. Drink first. Breathe.”

If you start crying or feeling weak, that’s when he gets quiet. He won’t overwhelm you with comfort, but his gaze softens. He tucks you in tighter, hand lingering just a little longer against your forehead.

“You’re allowed to be sick. Stop trying to act like you're okay all the time.”

Later, when you’re getting better and a bit more dramatic than necessary (maybe asking him to fluff your pillow again), he smirks and rolls his eyes.

“You’re milking this. I know you.”

But he still does it. And when you're fully recovered, that's when the affection comes back in full—teasing kisses, long hugs, and a quiet,

“Don’t get sick again. I don’t like seeing you like that.”

(And maybe a whisper when he thinks you’re asleep:

“You scared me a little, you know.”)

Changbin // 창빈

The moment he finds out you’re sick, he goes from 0 to 100. Like, you text him “I think I caught something” and five minutes later he’s blowing up your phone with:

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SOMETHING??” “How bad is it??” “Do you need me?? Should I come over?? I’m coming over.”

When he does show up, he’s carrying way too much. A full bag of random groceries, multiple drinks (some contradictory—like, why ginger ale and sports drinks and vitamin C packets?), tissues with lotion, and something pink and fluffy that you’re not even sure has a purpose.

And he's breathless, out of breath from rushing, still in his hoodie and slippers like he didn’t even stop to fully change.

“Okay—okay, first things first—do you have a fever? No, wait, let me check—no, you don’t check, I check—”

He's definitely the type to Google your symptoms while sitting next to you, holding your hand like you’re dying. You cough once and he’s already deep into “early signs of pneumonia” and quietly panicking.

But here’s the thing—under all that chaotic energy is someone who really, really cares.

He wipes down surfaces, makes you take medicine on time, and paces while you nap because he can’t sit still when you’re unwell. If you so much as shift in your sleep, he’s immediately next to you.

“Do you need something? Water? Blanket? Me? I mean—I’m here—just say the word.”

He tries to cook. Like really tries. Follows a recipe video step by step, but ends up making the kitchen look like a warzone. The food is edible, and honestly, it tastes way better than you expected—but it comes with a sheepish smile and a “Don’t die, okay? I put my soul in that rice.”

He’s the type to encourage you to laugh through the misery, even if he knows you feel like crap. He’ll pull out his silly voice impressions, make faces, or randomly do aegyo just to get a smile out of you.

And when you’re too tired to respond? He quiets down. Holds your hand gently. Tucks the blanket up to your chin and just stays close.

“Rest, jagi. I’ll stay right here. I promise.”

And if you thank him too much, he gets all bashful and dramatic again:

“Stop being cute when you’re sick! I’m trying to focus on taking care of you, not falling in love all over again!”

Hyunjin // 현진

When you tell Hyunjin you’re sick, he gasps like you just confessed a tragic secret.

“You’re what? Sick? You?!”

He's immediately distraught. Not because he doesn’t know what to do—he actually does—but because he hates seeing you like this. His empathy is through the roof. If you're miserable, he's basically miserable by osmosis.

He shows up in a long coat, scarf, and a tote bag full of oddly curated items: a sketchpad, multiple fancy drinks, a candle he claims will help “cleanse your aura,” and a tiny stuffed animal “to guard your bed.”

But once the theatrics die down, he’s incredibly gentle.

He speaks softly around you, like he’s scared to disturb your peace. Brushes your hair back from your face with his knuckles. Gets you tissues and cool compresses and rubs your back when you cough. He doesn’t make a fuss out of helping—you just look up and he’s already kneeling next to the bed, adjusting your blanket with care.

“I don’t like this. You should always be glowing. You’re supposed to be warm and smiley and annoying me with your weird jokes.”

He doesn’t necessarily cook full meals, but he’ll cut fruit for you like a seasoned Korean mom. Brings you sliced apples and pears with toothpicks and arranges them in little patterns. He lights the candle (of course he does) and hums softly while you rest.

And when you fall asleep, he doesn’t leave.

He curls up at the foot of the bed like a quiet cat, sketchbook in his lap, drawing you as you sleep—not in a weird way, just a soft “I want to remember you like this, even if you’re sick” way. His lines are delicate. Thoughtful. Honest.

If you start crying out of frustration or exhaustion, he immediately drops everything to cradle you, whispering into your hair:

“Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it in. Let me carry it for you.”

He’ll cry too, but quietly. Not to take the attention off you—just because it genuinely hurts to see someone he loves in pain.

And when you finally start to feel a bit better, he brightens like the sun peeking out after rain.

“You’re healing,” he says, brushing his knuckle under your eye, “and when you’re fully better, we’re going to go out and celebrate your immune system.”

Because of course he would.

Han // 한

Han freaks out immediately—but it’s not super helpful at first. You text him something simple like “I’m feeling kinda sick today,” and within ten minutes he’s calling you with a full-blown gasp:

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE DYING—okay no you’re not dying BUT LIKE—ARE YOU OKAY???”

He’s definitely pacing back and forth in his room, still in pyjamas, with a headband holding his hair back and zero plan on what to do. He panics first, then pulls himself together. His love language is chaos-then-action.

He shows up at your place with a bag that makes no sense: two different kinds of ramen, a random juice box, cough drops, chocolate, three stress balls (“in case you’re bored”), and a neck pillow. No medicine. No actual meals. Just vibes.

“Okay okay, hear me out—I panicked. But I brought snacks and love.”

Despite the scattered brain, he pulls it together when it really counts. He’s attentive. He’ll sit next to you while you rest and hold your hand loosely, thumb brushing over your knuckles. He won’t say anything for a while—just watches you with those big, warm eyes full of concern.

If you’re curled up and miserable, he’ll adjust the blanket for you and say in a surprisingly soft voice:

“I don’t like seeing you like this. I’d rather be sick instead.”

(He means it. But also, if he got sick, he'd be 10x more dramatic than you. Bedridden. Needy. Demanding forehead kisses every five minutes.)

He makes you laugh without even trying. The moment your fever breaks a little and you can sit up, he’s already putting on dumb videos, doing weird impressions of your doctor, or lip-syncing to ballads with way too much emotion.

He’ll also say stuff like:

“If you die, can I keep your hoodie collection? Not because I want them, just so no one else gets them.”

Followed by:

“Wait, no, don’t die. You’re the only person who laughs at my weird jokes.”

He’ll write you a freestyle rap while you nap. It’s bad. It’s so bad. But it’s from the heart. And you wake up to him beatboxing quietly next to you, working on rhymes like “She’s sick but she’s slick, with tissues so quick—uh, what rhymes with thermometer?”

And even if he makes light of it, he doesn’t leave. Not until you’ve eaten something. Not until you’re tucked in. Not until he’s made you laugh at least once.

“You’re not allowed to feel gross. You’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen—with or without the sniffles.”

Felix // 필릭스

Felix immediately switches into guardian angel mode the moment you tell him you're sick. His brows knit together with concern, and he softly goes:

“Oh no, darling… Are you okay? What hurts? What do you need?”

His voice somehow gets even softer than usual, and that’s saying a lot. He doesn’t waste time—he’s already got a mental checklist going. He shows up at your place like a quiet storm, arms full of carefully selected things: your favourite tea, fresh fruit, his cosiest hoodie (the one you steal all the time), and a little handwritten note that just says “rest well, lovebug 🤍” tucked into a book.

He moves around your space like he’s done this a thousand times. Lights a soft-scented candle. Makes you tea—ginger, lemon, honey, everything—and hands it to you with both hands like it’s sacred.

“Sip slowly, yeah? It’ll help your throat.”

He speaks in a hush, like he’s scared to be too loud and disturb you. But even more than that, he listens. He watches your cues. If you don’t feel like talking, he sits quietly and rubs your back in slow, rhythmic circles. If you’re cranky or frustrated with how you feel, he’s patient. He doesn’t dismiss it. Just murmurs,

“It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He won’t let you feel guilty for needing help. He doesn’t even think twice about it—it’s just natural to him to care for you. He’ll spoon-feed you porridge if you’re too weak to eat (with a soft, teasing “open up, baby~”), fluff your pillows, and offer to braid your hair to keep it out of your face if it’s long.

And when you’re really out of it, in that floaty feverish state? He hums lullabies to you. Soft, low, breathy melodies while running his fingers through your hair, grounding you like an anchor.

He’s physically affectionate but gentle—he won’t cling if you’re uncomfortable, but he’ll press a kiss to your forehead with reverence when your fever starts to come down.

“You’re getting better already. That’s my strong baby.”

When you start feeling a bit better and try to apologize for being so out of it, he just shakes his head and smiles that soft, dimpled smile:

“I’d take care of you a hundred more times if it meant I get to love you this much.”

Seungmin // 승민

You text him: “I think I’m getting sick.”

His reply:

“Wow. Weak.” “Do you want me to come over or are you going to survive this incredibly tragic cold on your own?”

He teases you endlessly, even when he’s already halfway out the door with a tote bag full of essentials. He’s not the kind to show up flustered or chaotic—he’s cool, collected, and annoyingly prepared. He stops by the pharmacy like it’s a casual errand, picks the right kind of medicine, and shows up at your place with soup containers labelled with the exact heating instructions.

“Because I know you’re going to ignore me when I leave. So I made it idiot-proof.”

Despite the constant roasting, he’s weirdly good at caretaking. Like, scary good. He’s probably done this for the other members a million times. He doesn’t hover, but he keeps you on schedule—meds on time, hydration checked, food warm. He sets timers on his phone like:

“Every 4 hours, you're drinking something. I don’t care if it’s water or juice. Just not coffee. Don’t test me.”

He definitely sits at the edge of your bed or couch with a mug in hand, watching you like a judgmental hawk while you eat something.

“Chew slower. You sound like a vacuum cleaner.”

He’ll bring over one of his own hoodies and act like it’s no big deal when you snuggle into it—but there’s a flicker of fondness in his eyes when you do.

If you’re really sick and end up crying or feeling gross, Seungmin’s whole vibe shifts. His voice softens. His teasing fades out, and he looks at you like you’re fragile—but never in a pitying way. Just... attentively.

“Hey. Don’t do that thing where you bottle everything up and pretend you’re okay. You're sick, not invincible.”

He sits beside you, holding your wrist gently and checking your pulse like he knows what he’s doing (and honestly? He kinda does).

When you’re asleep, he doesn’t leave right away. He stays long enough to make sure you’re breathing evenly, your fever’s down, and that your glass of water is full. He’ll tidy your space a little—nothing crazy, just enough so that you’ll wake up feeling a bit more at ease.

And if you ask him why he’s being so sweet the next day?

“Because I don’t want you to die. Who else would I bully?”

And then under his breath, as he's walking away:

“…Plus, I care about you. Obviously.”

I.N // 아이엔

Jeongin freezes when you tell him you’re sick. Like—deer in headlights, soul leaving his body—kind of freeze.

“You’re… sick?? What do I do?? What am I supposed to do?? Do I call Chan-hyung?? Is there a number for this??”

He genuinely panics at first, not because he doesn’t want to help, but because he doesn’t want to mess anything up. He’s never fully confident in these situations, but the second he realizes you need him, he pulls it together real fast.

He shows up at your door with the most random collection of items: yogurt (he read online it helps), a bag of cough drops (he bought 3 kinds just in case), a warm scarf (that he knitted, sob), and a tiny teddy bear he won at a claw machine a week ago.

“He’s here to keep you company when I can’t. Don’t get attached, though. He’s still mine.”

Once inside, he’s constantly checking with you—nervously, but sweetly.

“Do you want porridge? I can try making it… it might be weird though.” “Do you feel hot? Like fever hot, not hot-hot. Not that you’re not hot—okay never mind—”

He’s flustered. So flustered. But he puts 200% effort into everything. He follows tutorials to make you soup and burns his tongue taste-testing it (“worth it”), tries to fluff your pillows in just the right way, and keeps offering you water every ten minutes.

He might pace a bit when you're napping, muttering to himself like:

“Okay, don’t forget the medicine at 2. And check the temperature. And don’t forget to smile when she wakes up. But not creepy. Calm smile. Natural. Chill. I'm chill.”

If you’re too tired to talk, he’ll just sit nearby, playing quietly on his phone, occasionally peeking over to make sure you’re okay. He doesn’t leave until you force him to rest too. And even then, he sets an alarm so he can wake up and check your temperature in a few hours.

And when you’re finally feeling better, all the tension leaves his body in a big sigh of relief—and he gets shy.

“You’re okay now… That’s good. I didn’t really do much but… I’m glad I was here.”

Then adds with a soft, sheepish smile:

“Next time, let me take care of you before you pass out trying to act fine, okay?”

He’s your little protector in disguise—nervous, thoughtful, and quietly proud of himself for stepping up when it counted.

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Atsumu

You’ve known the Miya twins for as long as you can remember. They were the loudest boys on the playground, all scuffed knees and sunburned cheeks, their laughter carrying across the schoolyard like a war cry. Atsumu, the loudmouth with a cocky grin that drove teachers insane, and Osamu, the quieter one who always seemed two seconds away from dragging his brother out of trouble. You were caught in the middle—sometimes willingly, sometimes not—but you never complained. Being with them was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

“Yer too slow!” Atsumu had whined once, standing at the edge of the sandbox with his hands on his hips while you struggled to keep up. “Then go ahead without me!” you’d huffed, kicking sand in his direction, cheeks flushed and breathless.

But he never did.

No matter how many times you fell behind, no matter how many times Osamu rolled his eyes and threatened to leave you both behind, Atsumu always waited. And somehow, that pattern never changed.

Years passed. Middle school turned into high school. The three of you didn’t hang out as much anymore—between club activities, exams, and life pulling you in different directions, it was harder to find the time. But you still showed up. For them.

You never missed a game, sitting in the stands with Osamu’s mom and cheering as loud as the rest of the Inarizaki fans. You watched Atsumu serve with impossible precision, eyes narrowing with focus before the ball left his hand. You watched Osamu spike with terrifying accuracy, his smirk barely contained afterward. You were proud of them both, proud to see them rise, proud to be part of the crowd that supported them.

“Yer comin’ to the next match, right?” Atsumu asked one afternoon after practice, leaning against the fence with his bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, a few stray strands sticking to his forehead, and his uniform was loose, hanging casually over his broad frame. The sun was dipping lower, casting warm orange hues across the field where a few stragglers still kicked a soccer ball around. You glanced up from your phone, pretending to be nonchalant. “I always do, don’t I?” His grin stretched wide—cocky and confident, just like always—but there was something in his eyes. Something… uncertain. Hidden beneath the bravado. “Just checkin’.” He kicked at the dirt, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement. “Ya don’t gotta, y’know. Betcha got better things to do than watch us all the time.”

Osamu was the one who noticed it first, the subtle shift in Atsumu’s behavior. It was after another win, and the three of you had gone out to grab a bite. Atsumu was unusually quiet, barely picking at his food while you and Osamu bickered over the best dipping sauce for karaage. “Oi,” Osamu had muttered under his breath when you went to the counter to grab more napkins. “What’s with ya?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu had mumbled, poking at his plate, but Osamu’s eyes had narrowed. “Ya never shut up. Now yer quiet? Somethin’s up.”

“Nothin’s up,” Atsumu insisted, but Osamu didn’t look convinced. He shot his brother a look but didn’t press further. Later that night, as you waved goodbye and promised to see them at the next game, Osamu lingered behind. “He’s actin’ weird,” he muttered, watching Atsumu walk ahead. “Ya notice?”

You had laughed, brushing it off. “When isn’t he weird?”

It wasn’t until you started talking about someone else—Takahiro, a guy from your class—that things started to change. He was smart, funny, and polite in a way that seemed almost too perfect. You didn’t even realize how often you were mentioning him—how your eyes lit up when you talked about how he made you laugh during group projects, how he texted you after class to ask if you understood the material. At first, Atsumu barely reacted. Just a quirk of his brow and a half-hearted, “Huh. Cool.” But then it happened again. And again. And suddenly, Takahiro’s name was slipping into conversations more often than not, and Atsumu noticed. Every. Single. Time.

He didn’t say anything to you about it. But he did talk to Osamu.

“He likes her, don’t he?” Atsumu had muttered one afternoon, his voice low, barely audible as they sat in the back of the gym after practice. His knees were drawn up, elbows resting loosely on them while he picked absentmindedly at the tape around his fingers, pulling at the frayed edges like they held the answers to his problems.

Osamu raised a brow, glancing sideways at his brother. “Who? Takahiro?” His tone was neutral, but the way he looked at Atsumu was anything but.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s jaw clenched as he peeled another strip of tape from his skin, eyes fixed on the floor. “She’s always talkin’ about him lately. Laughin’ at his dumb jokes. Her face lights up when she talks about him.”

“Since when do ya pay attention to that kinda thing?” Osamu’s tone was teasing, but there was something careful underneath it, something that probed deeper.

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s answer was too fast, too defensive. His fingers stilled against his knee, tape forgotten as he shifted, posture rigid.

Osamu tilted his head, watching his brother closely. “Right.” Silence stretched between them for a beat, thick and unspoken. “So, why do ya care?”

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s voice was quieter this time, almost too quiet. But his jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something Osamu didn’t need to ask about.

Osamu exhaled softly, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “Yer full of shit, y’know.” He didn’t push, didn’t ask any more questions. But his words lingered in the air, hanging heavy between them. Atsumu didn’t respond, and Osamu let it go—for now. But the silence that followed spoke louder than anything Atsumu could’ve said.

You started noticing the shift after that. Atsumu was different—quieter around you, shorter with his words. His usual sharp remarks didn’t carry the same playful edge anymore. They were clipped, like he was forcing himself to stay distant. At first, you thought he was just tired. Volleyball took its toll, and with nationals approaching, it wasn’t unusual for the entire team to be running on fumes. But this was different. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by something colder, something heavier that settled in the pit of your stomach. His eyes didn’t linger on you the way they used to, and when they did, there was something in them you couldn’t place. Frustration? Hurt? You weren’t sure, but it left a bad taste in your mouth.

It all came to a head during the next game.

It was an intense match—one where every point mattered, the air thick with anticipation. You were in your usual spot in the stands, cheering louder than most of the crowd, but this time… you weren’t alone. Takahiro was beside you, leaning in close, his shoulder brushing yours as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. You didn’t notice the way Atsumu’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and fleeting, but he saw it. He saw the way you smiled—soft and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners—and it knocked the air out of his lungs.

It burned.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling a little too tightly around the ball as he lined up his serve. He tried to shake it off, to focus on the game, but your laugh echoed louder than the roar of the crowd in his ears. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, faster, harder, until it drowned out everything else. The whistle blew. He tossed the ball, went through the motions—but his mind wasn’t in it. His focus was shattered, replaced by a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with.

The ball sailed too far.

Out of bounds.

By a mile.

The murmur that rippled through the crowd was deafening in his ears. Atsumu’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breathe through the frustration. He didn’t look at you after that. He couldn’t. But he felt it—your eyes on him, concern etched into your features, even as you turned back to Takahiro. The tension settled like a weight in his chest, suffocating and inescapable.

Throughout the rest of the game, Atsumu was off. His sets were technically perfect, but they lacked their usual precision. His timing was a second too late, his movements a little too forced. The fire that usually burned in his veins, the one that made him relentless on the court, was barely a flicker. And no one noticed but Osamu.

“Get yer head outta yer ass, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu muttered under his breath during a timeout, his voice low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “Yer messin’ up, and I know why.”

Atsumu didn’t respond, eyes locked on the floor, jaw clenched. But Osamu wasn’t done. “If ya don’t fix it, we’re gonna lose. And if we do, it’s on you.”

By some miracle, Inarizaki still scraped by with a win—but barely. Atsumu was the first one off the court when the final whistle blew, not bothering to stick around as the team lined up to thank the crowd. His skin was crawling, frustration boiling beneath the surface as he tore off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it into his bag. He needed to clear his head. He needed to breathe.

And you? You noticed.

“Where’s Atsumu?” you asked, concern lacing your voice as you turned to Osamu while everyone congratulated the team. Osamu’s eyes flickered toward the gym, his expression neutral but his tone softer than usual. “Needed some air,” he muttered, his voice quiet but knowing. “Ya know how he gets.” And that was all it took.

Your chest tightened. Something told you this wasn’t just about a bad game.

“Oi, Miya!” Takahiro’s voice broke through the hum of post-game chatter as he stepped forward, flashing a bright smile. “Hell of a match out there. You guys pulled through in the end.” His words were polite, his tone smooth, but the second they left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.

Ginjima, who was standing nearby, narrowed his eyes, barely masking his distaste as he gave Takahiro a once-over. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something. "So, ya think—"

But before he could finish, Aran stepped in, his usual easy-going demeanor firming up as he gave Takahiro a curt nod.

“Thanks,” Aran cut in smoothly, his tone polite but clipped just enough to send a message. “Appreciate it.”

Takahiro, oblivious to the silent exchange, just smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “No problem. You guys really pulled through.”

You felt the tension rolling off Ginjima, and even Kita’s usually neutral expression was unreadable as his eyes flickered between Takahiro and the team.

You lingered with the team for a little while longer, standing by Aran as he exchanged a few polite words with Takahiro, who was blissfully unaware of the underlying tension. You nodded along, adding the occasional "yeah" or "for sure" as Takahiro talked about how intense the game had been and how impressed he was by Inarizaki's performance. But your mind was elsewhere.

Atsumu’s absence gnawed at you. The way he’d left the court so quickly, the frustration rolling off of him in waves—it didn’t sit right. Something was wrong, and no matter how much you tried to focus on the conversation happening around you, the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

Eventually, as the crowd began to thin out and the post-game buzz started to fade, Takahiro turned to you with that same easy smile. "We’re all gonna grab something to eat after. You coming?"

You hesitated, your heart tugging you in a different direction. "Hey… I think I’m gonna head home," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I’m kinda tired."

Takahiro’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across his face. "You sure? We were all gonna hang out for a bit."

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you replied, offering him a quick, reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright… text me when you get home, yeah?"

“Of course.”

But you had no intention of going home.

As Takahiro rejoined the group, you slipped away, weaving through the crowd without a second glance. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you back toward the gym, where you knew exactly where Atsumu would be. Something gnawed at your gut, telling you this wasn’t just about a bad game. You could feel it, a weight settling in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

As you got closer to the gym, the familiar sound of volleyballs slamming against the floor echoed through the quiet night. The steady thump reverberated through the empty halls, each hit carrying a frustration that was almost palpable. Your steps slowed as you approached the entrance, the muffled grunts of effort and the sharp sound of rubber meeting wood growing louder with each step.

When you reached the doorway, you stopped, heart hammering in your ears as you took in the sight before you. Atsumu was there, just as you’d known he would be. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his hair damp and sticking to his skin. His jersey was clinging to his back, soaked through, and the gym floor was littered with scattered volleyballs, some rolling lazily across the surface after missed targets. But Atsumu wasn’t slowing down.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on an invisible target as he tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, body coiling with raw power. The crack of the ball echoed through the gym as it slammed into the floor, and a grunt of frustration escaped his lips, reverberating off the walls.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, watching him pour every ounce of frustration and anger into each serve. He didn’t notice you. Not yet.

“You're gonna break the damn floor at this rate.”

Your voice echoed across the empty gym, but Atsumu didn’t stop. He tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, slamming it with a grunt that reverberated off the walls. The ball ricocheted off the floor and hit the back wall with a loud thud. His breathing was heavy, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged inhale.

“Go home.” His voice was clipped, laced with exhaustion and something sharper. He didn’t turn to look at you, eyes locked on the next ball he was already lining up.

“Atsumu,” you said softly, stepping further into the gym. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” He tossed the ball, and another loud thwack echoed through the gym as the ball hit the floor. “Go home.”

But you didn’t move.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Your voice was firmer this time, crossing your arms as you stood your ground. But then, as Atsumu lined up another ball, ready to serve, you couldn’t take it anymore. Your feet moved before your brain caught up, and you stepped forward, planting yourself right in front of him.

“Atsumu, stop.”

His eyes widened in surprise, the ball still gripped tightly in his hand, but you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, heart pounding as you met his gaze head-on.

“Move,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no real heat behind it.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m not moving until you talk to me.”

“Why even bother?” His voice was sharper now, but there was something raw beneath the anger. “Go back to yer boyfriend. Bet he’s waitin’ for ya.”

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his words. “Boyfriend? You mean Takahiro?”

“Yeah, him.” He finally turned, eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place—hurt, frustration… jealousy? “Bet he’s real smitten with ya, sittin’ in the stands, watchin’ ya smile at him like that.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Atsumu snapped, his voice rising. “I saw ya. Laughin’ at his jokes, lettin’ him get close. Ya looked real happy. Real fuckin’ happy.”

“That’s what this is about?” Your voice sharpened, anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re pissed because I was talking to Takahiro?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Atsumu drawled, his tone dripping with mock sweetness as he dropped the ball and crossed his arms. “‘Takahiro’s so nice,’” he mimicked, his voice going higher, mimicking yours in an exaggerated, sing-song way. “‘Takahiro helped me with my assignment.’ ‘Takahiro said the funniest thing today.’” He scoffed, his expression darkening as he took a step closer, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to jealousy. “Ya never shut up about him.”

If you weren't pissed before, you sure as hell were now.

Your jaw clenched, heat rushing to your face as your hands balled into fists at your sides. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” He let out a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just sick of listenin’ to ya gush about him like he hung the damn moon.”

“Are you serious right now?!” You raised your voice, the frustration bubbling over. “You’re actin’ like a damn child, Atsumu!”

“Maybe I am!” Atsumu’s voice shot up, matching yours as his face flushed with anger. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your pulse race. “But at least I’m not the one actin’ blind to what’s right in front of me!”

“Blind to what?!” You threw your hands in the air, voice sharp and cutting as you took a step toward him, closing the space between you until there was barely any room left. Your chest brushed his as you tilted your chin up to meet his fiery gaze. “Why do you even care so much, Atsumu?!”

“Why do I care?!” He was practically towering over you now, his breath hot and ragged as his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with frustration. “Because ya never stop talkin’ about him! ‘Takahiro this, Takahiro that!’ It’s all I ever fuckin’ hear!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like you don’t give a damn about me!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down, standing your ground even as the tension between you became suffocating.

“I don’t give a damn?!” Atsumu’s voice was louder now, the frustration bleeding into his tone as he stepped even closer, his chest brushing against yours. “You’re the one who’s been actin’ like I’m invisible! Like I’m just—just some guy while yer out there with him!”

“Then why didn’t you say something?!” You screamed, voice echoing through the gym, your frustration boiling over. Your hands were trembling now, knuckles white from how hard you were clenching them at your sides. “Why do you even care so much?!”

“Because I love you!”

The words erupted from him, loud and raw, his voice breaking as the confession echoed through the gym and filled the space between you. His chest heaved, his face flushed from a mix of anger and desperation, and his eyes—wide, vulnerable, and filled with something you hadn’t seen before—were locked onto yours.

You froze, the weight of his words crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. The world went silent, and for the first time since you’d stepped into that gym, neither of you had anything left to say.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you stared at him, his chest still heaving from the force of his confession. The air felt thick, suffocating, as your mind raced to process what he had just said. Seconds stretched on, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then, without thinking, without giving yourself a chance to second-guess it, you stepped forward. Your eyes locked on his, your expression unreadable, and before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him down.

"You’re so fucking stupid," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was fierce, fueled by weeks—no, months—of pent-up frustration, confusion, and feelings you had pushed down for far too long. Your lips crashed into his, and Atsumu froze for half a second before he was kissing you back with just as much desperation. His hands found your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the world around you blurred until nothing else existed.

The anger, the yelling, the unspoken words—they all melted away, leaving only the two of you, tangled in the heat of the moment, finally giving in to everything you’d both been too stubborn to admit.