#self proclaimed boy genius

[crawlerrr]

First art collab! Right is mine and Left is by @Maybewigglin on... every other social media other than this one!

[fushisagi]

miya atsumu and the chronic lovesick disease

୨୧ ━━ ❛ what am i to you, atsumu? ❜

word count ⋆ 12.6k (12,607) genre ⋆ fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, college au ━ gn!reader

the question comes to him one autumn night, surrounded by his friends and the chilly november breeze, asked by, who he assumes to be, just another nobody looking for money: what is it that you desire most, boy? the psychic asks, her saccharine smile forgotten when he looks into the crystal ball and all he ends up seeing is you. alternatively: miya atsumu is not in love. what the hell? who would ever suggest something like that?

warnings ⋆ alcohol consumption, mutual pining, denial of feelings!!! lots of it!! and with this denial comes some stupid decisions!!! author’s note ⋆ ive actually like never been to the psychic before so if its inaccurate im so sorry ..... it’s not really a big part of the plot though so hopefully u can overlook it 😭

o. Desire

This is a scam, is Atsumu’s first thought when he takes a seat inside the tent and finds himself face-to-face with a crystal ball.

People like this are dangerous — his twin brother never lets anyone forget it. They take advantage of an individual’s fear of the unknown and they make money off it. It’s genius, because even the strongest people can become weak to something as mundane as self-proclaimed clairvoyants setting base near a college campus.

Atsumu supposes he’s no exception. Even if Bokuto was the one who forced him to do this in the first place.

“Hello,” the woman greets, her hair pinned into a tight bun. “You’re here for a reading?”

“Sure,” Atsumu huffs, shivering when the cold breeze sneaks into the tent. He really should’ve worn a thicker jacket.

When he looks up from the table, the woman gives him a smile. It’s analytical, as if all he needed to do was sit down for her to know everything about him. He fidgets in his seat, growing more uncomfortable under her gaze.

“So,” she says, clasping her hands together and resting them on the table. “What is it that you desire most, boy?”

 “I’m sorry?”

“Your greatest desire,” she repeats patiently.

Atsumu blinks before tilting his head. “Um, I’m not—”

“I’m sure you know,” she says. “Is it strength? Power? Love?”

All colour drains from Atsumu’s face. The psychic smiles wickedly.

Atsumu thinks this may be the end of him. He never liked it when people acted like they knew more about his intentions than he did, and it only took mere minutes before the woman figured him out.

His hand twitches. He would feel a lot better if you were here—

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue, “bingo.”

i. Strength

After a borderline homicidal game of rock, paper, scissors, Sakusa lands himself a new roommate.

Move-in day comes two weeks later and Atsumu sits in the lobby of the building, waiting for your car to pull into the parking lot.

He notes the time — it’s five minutes past 8:30, making you more than half an hour late — before grumbling under his breath and continuing to scroll through his feed. When Instagram notifies him that he’s all caught up, he exits the app and opens Twitter in hopes that something will be able to entertain him until you show up. He likes some tweets, retweets a few more, and terrorizes Suna before he grows bored at the lack of anything interesting on his timeline.

Another glance at the time. He scowls. It’s only been two minutes.

Atsumu debates asking Sakusa if he knows what’s happened to you. When he opens their message thread, he raises an eyebrow at how unbelievably one-sided their conversations are, but he decides that’s a problem for another day. Your absence is more important to Atsumu than Sakusa’s terrible conversational skills ever will be.

(He’ll bother Sakusa about it later).

He’s about to send a long string of emojis when an incredulous voice reaches his ears.

“Tsumu?”

He looks up and immediately pockets his phone with a grin. “You’re late.”

You adjust the box of donuts in your hands and squint at him as if his smile is as blinding as the sun. “I slept through my alarm. What the hell are you doing here?”

Atsumu gestures to his outfit. “What does it look like?”

You stare blankly.

“Seriously?” he scoffs. “I told you last night I’d help you move in. How’d you forget? Am I that forgettable? You wound me, I—”

“Shut up,” you say, shifting your weight. Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the sticker on the box, and he tries his best not to frown when he notices you’ve written Sakusa’s name in calligraphy with a heart at the end. “Of course I remember you offering to help because I spent my entire night telling you it was fine.”

“You expect me to believe that you can bring all your shit in by yourself? You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Thank you, Tsumu, I can always count on you to make me feel like I’ve been shot by Cupid’s arrow,” you quip, brushing past him to get to the elevator, and as if it’s second nature, he follows. “I can’t believe people walk around campus calling you sweet.”

“I never said you looked bad,” he says. “I think the dried drool on your chin is pretty cute, actually.”

“Whatever,” you hurriedly wipe your face. “Speaking of bad, what on Earth are you wearing?”

Atsumu knows full well you’re not complimenting him, but he decides to treat your comment as if you have. He beams, picking at the sweatpants you eye with disgust before walking into the elevator with you.

“It’s my mover outfit!”

“Your mover outfit,” you deadpan. “Disregarding whatever that means — those sweatpants are baggier than Kenma’s eyebags. And they do nothing for your ass.”

He smirks. “You were checking out my ass?”

You avoid eye contact, feigning indifference, but Atsumu’s known you for too long and immediately recognizes your fluster by the way you tug at the hem of your clothing.

“No,” you deny curtly, straightening your posture when the elevator doors open to show Sakusa’s floor. “It’s just hard not to notice when those sweats are ridiculously baggy. Seriously, are you trying to put something in there? I could fit a month’s worth of groceries in those.”

You’re walking swiftly, eager to get to your new apartment and end the conversation. The both of you are well aware that Atsumu’s more than capable of catching up with you, but he hangs back, preferring to watch you babble while he trails behind.

You clutch the donuts closer to your body as words tumble out of your mouth — a list of things that could fit in his sweats, including two jugs of milk and a family size pack of chips — and Atsumu can’t stop the lopsided smile from appearing on his face.

“Maybe a carton of eggs, too,” he suggests.

“Oh, I wouldn’t trust you with eggs,” you say sharply.

“Why not?”

“Are you really asking me that? Last month I lent you my blanket and you gave it back to me with a hole in it.”

“For the last time,” Atsumu begins, quickening so he’s side-by-side with you, “that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”

“…Alright.”

“Y/N,” he whines. “I’m serious! None of that was on me — I even bought you a new blanket! Would Samu have done that? I don’t think so—”

“Actually—”

“The point is,” Atsumu interrupts, throwing you a glare before continuing, “blame Samu. Whenever something bad happens, blame him. That’s what I always do.”

“Spoken like a true, responsible individual.”

“Hey!” he protests. “I’m responsible!”

You open your mouth to deny his claims, but the pout he plasters over his face is enough for you to give in. Too tired to give him something as golden as a verbal agreement, you opt for changing the subject. “Do you think Sakusa will like the donuts?”

Atsumu frowns. “Why does it matter? They’re donuts.”

You grow annoyed at his impertinence. “I want him to like me, you moron.”

His expression sours further. “He’s your friend.”

“And I won a game of rock, paper, scissors, so now I’m his roommate,” you remark. “There’s a difference between being friends with someone and living with them. I mean, would you want to live with Bokuto?”

Atsumu’s answer is swift. “Hell no.”

“Exactly,” you say, “I need us to get along.”

You stop in front of a door and begin searching your pockets for your key. There’s a pinch between your eyebrows, the box trembles as you struggle to balance it with one hand, and your clothes are a mess, but underneath the fluorescent light of the hallway, Atsumu can’t help but think you almost look angelic.

He shakes the thought away, squashes it beneath his foot until the remnants of it have been absorbed by the carpet.

“The last time I saw you this nervous was when you asked out that barista,” he muses.

You dig your hand into the breast pocket of your shirt and huff when you find nothing. “What are you implying?”

Atsumu stares pointedly at the sticker on the box. Your face morphs into one of horror.

“Are you dense?”

“Calligraphy, Y/N. I’ve never seen you write calligraphy in my entire life.”

“I was trying something out!”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

You smack him on the shoulder. “I was being thoughtful,” you grunt, softening when Atsumu winces and rubs the spot where you hit him. “He’s my friend, and that’s all he ever will be.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Your eyes leave him for a millisecond, flickering to somewhere else on his face before returning his gaze once more. “Of course,” you say softly, “Besides, I—”

The door swings open.

“You’re loud,” Sakusa deadpans in the doorway. His eyes travel down to the donuts. “Are those for me?”

You hand them over to him. “Yeah, I didn’t know what you liked, so they’re all assorted.”

Sakusa hums in thanks before tilting his head at Atsumu. “Why’re you here?”

“To help them move in,” Atsumu grins, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it. “I know you’re going to the drycleaners, and I couldn’t let Y/N do this all by themselves.”

Sakusa shrugs and turns to go further into the apartment. “Sounds good to me. I’d rather not have to press those nasty elevator buttons multiple times just so I can come down and get your stuff,” he gives you the best apologetic look he can muster. “Have fun, though.”

Before you can go on a tangent about how Sakusa should be more welcoming, Atsumu pipes up, “Yeah, don’t worry! ‘S all in good hands,” he nudges you with his elbow. “Right? Your stuff can’t be that heavy.”

Atsumu, not for the first time and certainly not the last, stands corrected.

Not only is your stuff heavy, but there’s much more than he expected.

With each trip down to the parking lot, his muscles grow strained, and he feels the fatigue threaten to droop his eyelids shut. But, in the corner of his eyes, he sees your persistence to get this over and done with, and Atsumu decides it won’t hurt to push through.

His complaining and wailing can wait until later.

After you place the last box into your new bedroom, you turn to him while wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly.

He goes to tease you, to say that you owe him now, that you’ll be indebted to him for life.

But what comes out of his mouth instead is: “‘Course. Call me whenever you want, and I’ll be there.”

Atsumu calls it a housewarming gift. Sakusa says there is hardly anything warming about it.

It referring to the group of boys gathered in the living room — your friends on good days, the bane of your existence on all the others — with their limbs strewn about and their soda cans sitting too close to the edge of the coffee table. It’s an odd sight for Sakusa to have this many people over on a Thursday night, but Atsumu insisted, and he caught Sakusa on a good day when he asked if he could hold a movie night at the apartment to celebrate your new accommodations.

You’re sure Sakusa regrets it now. He sits in his armchair with a permanent scowl, swatting Hinata away when the boy reaches to fix the crease between Sakusa’s brows. If looks could kill, Atsumu would’ve been dropped dead ten minutes ago.

He covers his fear with a grin, but out of the corner of his mouth, he says to you, “Help me.”

You snicker. “You’re on your own, dude.”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

“What? But Bokuto calls you that, too!”

“Yeah, but it’s Bokuto.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that.”

Atsumu only tsks, forcibly ending the conversation by suggesting to the room that they should all play a game to decide who’ll prepare all the popcorn. A chorus of agreements is what he gets in response, along with someone complaining about how he should be spared due to his gruelling volleyball practice, and another person expressing his sympathies for the future loser.

Atsumu prepares the ladder game, and after he’s done, he looks at everyone with fiery hot intensity, an expression similar to one he wears during a match. “Remember,” he declares, “whoever loses can’t complain.”

Luck isn’t on his side tonight.

“What the hell!” he screeches once the reality of his defeat settles in.

Osamu, far too smug for Atsumu’s liking, quips, “I thought you said no complaining.”

The noise that leaves Atsumu’s mouth is something akin to a pathetic but animalistic growl. He goes to protest, even raising his hand to list off reasons why he’s been wronged — someone must’ve cheated, or maybe everyone in this room has a ruthless vendetta against him — but just as the words are about to leave his lips, his eyes land on you.

You challenge him to complain with a look, and he suddenly gets a much better idea.

“Y/N,” he says sweetly, growing pleased at your uneasiness. “As the host of this housewarming party, it’s only fair that you help me, too.”

“What?” you squawk, leaning forward as if you’ve misheard him. “But you were the one who suggested doing all of this! How is it now on me to help—”

“Well, he wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t for you,” Sakusa muses.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you taking his side? What happened to roommate solidarity?”

“You just made that up,” Sakusa replies. “Besides, this thing will go by faster if two people prepare the popcorn, and I don’t think Miya wants anyone else other than you.”

Atsumu shifts uncomfortably at the implication, and he involuntarily commits your surprised expression to memory.

(When he goes to sleep later that night, your surprise is all he sees against the darkness of his eyelids).

“Other than me—?”

“To make the popcorn,” Sakusa drawls matter-of-factly.

You blink. “Right.” You look at Atsumu, and he shrugs dumbly, unsure of how else to react to your sudden change in behaviour.

To him, you have always been easy to read, but right now, he’s not entirely sure if there’s a word for the expression on your face. He yearns to press a hand to your cheek to melt the malaise away, to be rid of it forever so he can see you smiling again.

Something in his chest twists.

“Right!” you repeat, more loudly this time, and startling the rest of your friends. You slap your hands on your lap before standing and grabbing Atsumu’s wrist to pull him away. “I guess I’m helping you make popcorn. You owe me one, Miya.”

Your skin is warmer than usual, threatening to burn him until your fingerprints are marked onto his skin.

(Behind him, Suna stage-whispers, “You are so whipped, Y/N.”)

Your touch disappears the moment you’ve both crossed the threshold into the kitchenette. Atsumu flexes his hand, trying to get rid of an urge in his veins he can’t quite explain.

“Hey,” you say casually, back turned to him as you dig through the cabinets for the popcorn packets. “Did you finish that essay for literature class?”

Atsumu awkwardly clears his throat and begins playing with the settings on the microwave. “The paper?”

“Yes, the paper,” you say. “The one I told you to start two weeks ago so you wouldn’t end up sending a half-assed essay two minutes before the deadline?”

“Why are you talking like you think I didn’t start it yet?”

“Because I know you, Tsumu,” you reply, shutting the cabinet with your elbow and ungracefully dropping the packets onto the counter beside him. “And I lost faith in your ability to listen to me a long time ago.”

“How rude. I always listen to you,” he sticks his nose in the air like a scorned, evil, cartoon antagonist, “I just don’t take all your suggestions. There’s a difference.”

“You make my life so much harder,” you huff, inputting a minute-thirty into the microwave. “I honestly think I lose ten years of my lifespan whenever you tell me you’ve gotten yourself into another dilemma.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m sure you only lose, like, three at most.”

“No, it’s definitely ten,” you say. “You worry me too much, Miya.”

The smile on Atsumu’s face, previously smug and confident, softens.

“Seriously, though,” you continue, jabbing a finger into his sternum. “The paper? It’s due tonight.”

He flicks your nose, snorting when you pull a face. “I sent it in this morning.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey! Don’t act so shocked!”

“Well, this is, like, the first time you’ve ever done something even remotely responsible, so—”

“I thought we both agreed I’m a generally responsible person.”

Your silence is enough of a response.

Atsumu gasps just as the microwave beeps, allowing you to ignore his stunned expression in order to begin preparing another bag of kernels.

“Give me one reason—”

“The blanket—”

“—that isn’t the blanket,” he says sourly. “That doesn’t count. I told you that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”

“Do you want a list? Because I have one.”

“Are you serious or are you just fucking with me?”

“Osamu and I have a Google Doc.”

Another gasp. You roll your eyes.

“Now you’re in kahoots with my brother? What’s next? Planning my downfall with Suna?”

“I’m sure he’s fine doing that himself without my help.”

He whines, stomping his foot when you only stare back in amusement. “Don’t be so unrepentant, Y/N!”

You dump the contents of the hot popcorn bags into a large bowl for everyone to share. “Unrepentant? Was that the word on your word-of-the-day calendar?”

“Shut up. You know only Kuroo has lame stuff like that,” Atsumu grumbles, throwing the last popcorn packet into the faulty brick of power you and Sakusa call a microwave. “I used it in my essay. Thesauruses are a godsend. It really came in handy when I was writing about the flower symbolism in the book. Y’know what’s even better, though? SparkNotes.”

You tilt your head, studying Atsumu with furrowed eyebrows. “Huh.”

“What d’you mean huh?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently. “I just didn’t think you’d choose that essay topic, that’s all.”

“It was the easiest one,” he states. You hum in agreement, but he can sense you falling into a state of pondering before it even happens, so he lightly pokes your shoulder in hopes it’ll be enough to keep you from drifting too far from his reach. “Why, what did you think I picked?”

He can tell you’re debating what to tell him, letting a few seconds pass before you give in. “I thought you’d do the one that centred more around…” you trail off, clenching and unclenching your jaw, “the love aspect of it all.”

He blinks. “Why?”

Childishly, you retort, “Why not?”

Atsumu licks his lips. “Well, you’re always telling me to write what I know. And I may not know a whole lot about flowers, but I know more about those than, y’know, love.”

Something passes over your face, the same thing he saw when Sakusa said something — implied something — in the living room. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “I’ve had relationships, sure, but none that made me feel anything like— like that.”

You drum your fingers against the bowl. “None at all?”

“None at all.”

You click your tongue and stare at the microwave. Its buzz has become more prominent in your silence, a mocking hum hanging over the air as you contemplate and Atsumu stares, waiting impatiently for a word to slip past your lips.

But there’s nothing. Instead, the microwave beeps again, indicating that the last of the popcorn is ready.

“That’s good to know,” you say lightly. At least, that’s what you attempt, but you sound different, like a parasite has found solace in your vocal cords and fiddled with everything Atsumu’s familiar with.

“It is?”

“Yeah,” you nod, handing the bowl over to him. Popcorn threatens to spill but Atsumu can’t bring himself to care. “Hey, be careful. What, is it too heavy? Are you too weak to carry it?”

“It’s popcorn,” Atsumu rasps.

You eye him oddly, as if he’s the one whose behaviour should be examined under a microscope. “Don’t spill it everywhere. Sakusa’ll get pissed, and we’re already pushing it with this movie night thing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Of course,” you agree. “But if you need me—”

“I know,” he interjects.

Simple promises are often uttered during private moments between you and Atsumu — an oath to be there for the other, to stand by their side no matter what. The words soothe him when they’re said aloud; he knows, underneath all the teasing and the bickering and the irritated eyerolls, is your pinky and his, intertwined.

And despite the voice in his head taunting him about a secret he’s unaware of, he allows the promise to enchant him.

I’ll be there for you.

“Do you need help?”

Atsumu grunts, adjusting your arm around his neck as he opens the car door. “No, I’m fine.”

“Thanks for picking them up,” Aran says, voice loud above the frat house’s music, “I know you were tired from practice, but—”

“It’s fine. I probably would’ve killed you if you didn’t call me, anyway.”

“Osamu said you’d say that.”

Atsumu expertly brushes off the statement, gently ushering you into the passenger’s seat and putting your seatbelt on with gentle fingers. Behind him, Aran watches the movements with thoughtful eyes and a quirk of his eyebrows.

“The last time they got this drunk was at the fall festival last year,” he muses. “For your sake, I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hm?”

“For your sake,” Atsumu echoes, turning to face Aran once the door’s been shut and he’s made sure you’re sleeping soundlessly with your head resting against the cold window. Atsumu stands pin-straight, his posture contrasting the way Aran stands opposite him, relaxed with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “What’s that mean?”

Aran laughs, like he’s unsure if this is a serious question. “Well, I mean… they’re always asking for you whenever they get drunk like this.”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“That’s why you got here in record time, right?” Off Atsumu’s questioning gaze, Aran continues, “I called you five minutes ago, and your place is a fifteen-minute drive away. And you’re not in your pajamas, even though you said you’d change into them the moment you got home.”

“I was in the area,” Atsumu says weakly.

“Doing what?”

“Getting dinner.”

“Why didn’t you just get something delivered to your apartment?”

“Is it illegal to want to pick up the food myself?”

Aran raises his hands up in defence. “No, it’s not, but it’s also not illegal to say you knew this would happen,” he shrugs. “You knew they’d need you Atsumu, so you came. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Before Atsumu can force a response from his throat, Aran has already slipped back into the party, leaving Atsumu alone on the street. With an annoyed huff, he stomps to the driver’s side, muttering irked questions under his breath about what Aran could possibly mean. He opens the door with more aggression than necessary, only softening when he sees you stir underneath the jacket he’s draped over you to keep you warm.

He unlocks his phone when he feels a buzz in his pocket.

[00:30] Atsumu: are you still awake?

[00:48] Sakusa: Yes. Why?

Atsumu knows that your apartment’s farther from here than his, and he’s sure that by the time he arrives, Sakusa won’t answer the door because he’ll grow tired of Atsumu’s lack of response and go to bed.

The decision is made when he takes a right instead of a left, when he pulls into a parking lot that isn’t yours, when he carries your body up the stairwell and into his bed with ease.

Everything else comes as routine. He tucks the blanket under your chin, moves the glass of water so it’s too far for you to accidentally knock over in the morning, and leaves a change of clothes at the foot of the bed.

Atsumu likes routine. He likes the predictability of it all.

A groggy voice stops him from leaving the room.

“Tsumu?”

“Hey,” he whispers, crouching so he’s eye-level with you. “I hope you don’t mind I brought you back here.”

You blink sleepily at him, too inebriated and fatigued to acknowledge his words. “You’re a really good person, y’know,” you say languidly.

He smiles, amused. “Really?”

“Yeah. Thank you for picking me up.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs.

“It’s not.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been fine without me. Omi could’ve picked you up, couldn’t he? Samu could’ve, too.”

“I know, but you’re the one who always does,” you respond, nuzzling further into the pillow. “You’ve—you’ve helped me a lot.”

You shakily reach a hand to his face, playing with the strands of hair that fall to his forehead. He relaxes, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of your featherlike touch against his cool skin.

“You’ve brightened up my life, I think,” your voice is muffled, but it rings in Atsumu’s ears clear as day, almost as loud as his quickening heart rate. “I appreciate you a lot more than you know.”

ii. Power

He watches with bated breath as the ball cuts through the air while gravity begins to pull Hinata back to Earth. Everything unfolds in slow motion; everything has faded into white noise.

With a slam, the volleyball connects with the ground, and it’s only when he’s pulled into a hug does the reverie shatter. Like being hauled out from underwater, the roars of the crowd flood his ears as Bokuto begins jumping on the balls of his feet and Hinata comes rushing over to them with a triumphant shout.

On the other side of Bokuto, Sakusa smiles, rolling his eyes fondly when Hinata and Bokuto begin making post-game plans to celebrate their victory. Atsumu, on the other hand, is uncharacteristically silent as he searches the bleachers with a cloudy look in his eyes.

He’s snapped out of it once again when Bokuto tugs on his wrist so they can go and listen to what their coach has to say.

Atsumu isn’t a stranger to winning — he used to get drunk on this sort of stuff, the exhilarating rush that shot through his veins after every successful game. He basks in the crowd’s excitement and admiration, because to be fawned over is the closest to love he’s ever been (if he could even call it that), but once the adrenaline cuts him off and he’s left alone in the locker room, it all fizzles out.

Something’s missing at the end of all this. Usually, the void in his chest is insignificant enough for him to brush off. However, today is different.

It’s abnormal for the power of the win to dwindle into nothingness only minutes after the game ends, but the blue moon has risen tonight, and now everything feels weird. The cheers aren’t enough to keep him from searching the gymnasium for a familiar face, and he itches to get to his phone in the locker room when he can’t find who he’s looking for.

“Why do you look like we’ve lost?” Bokuto asks. “C’mon, man! Smile! We just won! Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course I am,” Atsumu grunts.

(But…)

But.

The adrenaline shoots through him again when a voice he knows all too well catches his attention over the noise.

“Hey!” you rush towards them, dishevelled. “Before you get mad, I know I missed the game, I took a nap and slept through it, fuck, I am never going to stay up late playing Fortnite with you again, Tsumu, you’ve ruined my sleep schedule, but—” you huff, trying to catch your breath as you hand Atsumu a bag, “I’m sorry that I didn’t come. Congrats on winning, I heard the shouts from down the street.”

Atsumu smiles and peers into the bag. “What is this?”

“Mochi,” you answer. “A celebratory gift for my favourite setter.”

“I’m the only setter you know.”

“Which is why you’re my favourite.”

Atsumu snorts but hugs the bag to his chest, like it’s his most prized possession and he’d drag it along to the grave with him. “Thank you.”

If someone were to ask Atsumu if he liked the pedestal he’s put on after a match, he’d say yes. Of course he does. He quite likes it on top of the world.

But you match his joyful smile with one of your own and Atsumu finds himself rethinking his answer. “Anytime.”

The top of the world may be nice, but it is nothing compared to being on the ground next to you.

“You know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Would you relax?” Sakusa snarls. “You’re in charge of us for a day. Get your head out of your ass.”

On the floor, Hinata lays like a starfish as he stares up at the ceiling, cheeks tainted a bright pink hue. “I think power’s gotten to your head.”

Atsumu waves him off. “I think this is the best practice we’ve ever had.”

Their captain had to run out five minutes into practice — relationship problems is what he grumbled to Atsumu before leaving him in charge without a second thought, much to the rest of the team’s dismay.

“I hope you’re never put it in charge again,” Bokuto complains before downing the rest of his water.

“Don’t be dramatic—”

“Do you know how gruelling this practice must be for Hinata to be tired?”

“Give us a break,” Hinata pleads, shifting his position so he’s on his knees. “Please. I’ll buy you lunch for the rest of the month if you end our suffering.”

Atsumu pretends to ponder the offer and grows more amused as Hinata begins to twitch nervously. “Okay, fine,” he relents.

Hinata cries with glee, hugging Atsumu’s legs before pushing himself off the floor and rushing out of the gymnasium — whether it’s to refill his water bottle or hide until he’s found, Atsumu may never know. With a snort, Atsumu grabs his own bottle amongst the rest on the bench, promising Bokuto absentmindedly that he’ll go easy on them for the rest of the day.

“I want to have at least a little energy left for the party at Kuroo’s tonight,” Bokuto adds, his smile widening when Atsumu nods in agreement. “See, I knew you’d get it!”

Sakusa takes a seat on the bench. “Are you going to the party, Miya?”

“Yeah, Y/N’s forcing me to come with,” Atsumu says. “How about you?”

Bokuto answers for him. “I’m making him come!” he exclaims. “You’ll have so much fun, Omi, you don’t have to worry.”

Sakusa deadpans, “I’m only staying for five minutes.”

Bokuto waves off his iciness with a flippant hand. “I’ll convince you to stay longer.”

“I really doubt that.”

“Don’t underestimate me!” Bokuto huffs. He turns away from Sakusa before he can continue to argue and focusses on Atsumu. “It’s good that you’re coming too, Tsum-Tsum! Maybe you can finally meet the guy Y/N’s going on a date with.”

Atsumu halts, hand tightening around his bottle. “What?”

“Some guy from their Psychology class asked them out a few days ago,” Bokuto says obliviously. “I think it was the night you picked them up? I don’t know. I think he was nice, though. Y/N probably already told you about it.”

You didn’t.

Atsumu forces a grin on his face. “Right, they did.”

Sakusa studies his expression with pinched eyebrows.

Atsumu’s cheeks hurt for the rest of practice, a consequence of the cheerful façade he’s plastered, but the pain subsides — if only for a moment — when he sees you outside the gymnasium, carrying your favourite boba drink in one hand, and his favourite in the other.

“Hey!” you greet, handing him the drink. “How was practice?”

“Awful,” Hinata mopes with a pout. “Your boyfriend here was running it like the navy.”

You frown. Atsumu blanches. “My boyfriend…?”

“Yeah!” Hinata slaps Atsumu on the back. “Him.”

All colour drains from your face. Your grip on your cup loosens for a split second before tightening it again in panic. You look from Hinata, the picture of innocence, to Atsumu, who only stares back, just as bewildered.

Hinata seems to take the hint as his eyes flicker between the two of you in confusion. “Sorry, I… I overheard Bokuto saying you were going on a date with someone, so I assumed—”

“Date?” you interrupt frantically, arms flapping to deny the words that have recklessly tumbled from Hinata’s mouth. “With who— with Atsumu? He’s not— we’re not— I’m not— we’re—”

“We’re friends,” Atsumu finishes, saving you from your stammering. You look at him gratefully, and he can only offer a weak smile in return. “I don’t know why you’d think we’re dating, Shoyo.”

“Sorry—”

“They’re going on a date with someone else.”

You narrow your eyes. “What do you—?”

“Oh, hey,” Sakusa says as he walks out of the doors. He tugs on the string of his mask to make sure it’s secure before nodding at you. “Did you stop by the grocery store yet?”

Atsumu’s words are long forgotten when realization engulfs your figure at the speed of light. “Oh, no! I took a nap and—”

“You really need to fix your sleep schedule.”

“I’ll have you know I slept four hours last night.”

“…That’s not a good thing.”

“It’s an hour more than usual.”

The genuine concern is evident in Sakusa’s eyes before he rubs his temples with a sigh. “Okay, whatever. Let’s go to the store before we head home, I need to buy more protein powder.”

“Ay, ay, captain.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You snicker then turn to Atsumu with a smile he’d move mountains for. “I’ll see you later, Tsumu?”

“Yeah, sure,” he murmurs. “Don’t take too long to get ready.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, patting his cheek. “Thanks for agreeing to drive me there and back.”

He finds himself involuntarily leaning into your touch. “Don’t mention it.”

Your touch lingers for a second too long before you salute him in goodbye and rush to follow Sakusa to your car. Atsumu watches as your figure gets smaller and smaller, a smile on his face as you glance over your shoulder and stick your tongue out when you catch him staring.

He flips you off and makes sure to stick his tongue out, too, in hopes that it’ll make you laugh loud enough for him to hear.

(He doesn’t notice the mischievous glint in Sakusa’s eyes, nor does he catch his name slipping past Sakusa’s lips).

(But he does notice you tilt your head, lost in thought, before you look at him again, attempting to figure him out despite the distance.

He thinks nothing of it).

Just after his 9am lecture, someone asks Atsumu out on a date.

She’s nice and easy on the eyes; a little timid, but he supposes that’s just the affect he has on people. Big man on campus is what he’s always referred to as, until they realize that he’s nothing if not a goofball off-court. Still, the girl — Miwa is what she said her name was — doesn’t know that yet, so Atsumu gives her the benefit of the doubt.

And he says yes.

At 11:00, the whole team has caught wind of his evening plans, and Sakusa texts him to tell him he’s an idiot. Atsumu frowns, asks why, but Sakusa doesn’t reply.

At 6:00, an hour before his date, he shows up on your doorstep with a bag of clothes and a tie loose around his neck. His left pant leg is tucked into his sock and the other is haphazardly cuffed; his hair is all over the place, sticking up at the back as the result of a hair-gel disaster.

You stare at him with pinched eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got a date,” he explains frantically. “I need your help.”

You hesitantly let him in.

At 6:15 is when the argument occurs. The reason why is something Atsumu can’t recall, only that it was something so small and insignificant that the argument shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. He thinks you may have been in a bad mood before he even arrived, but that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t talked to him in the past five hours.

Oh, right. And the power goes out at 6:45.

He texts Miwa to cancel, promising to reschedule on a day where they won’t be talking to each other in the dark, but his phone dies before he gets a response. With a shrug, he tosses it onto the coffee table and makes a mental note to charge it as soon as the power comes back on, knowing full well that he’ll forget the reminder the second he makes it.

He should feel more guilty about the fact that he cares more about your absence than his postponed date.

Atsumu stares at your door for far too long before deciding that he’ll apologize to you — for what, he doesn’t know, but apologize first, ask questions later is his motto — once you’ve left your room. He’ll grovel and get on his knees and even humiliate himself if he has to, as long as it gets you to talk to him again, because God knows he’ll never survive this outage by himself.

(Also, you’re his best friend, and — Atsumu has never told anybody this — the last time you gave him the silent treatment, his chest physically hurt from not speaking to you that he vowed to never anger you again).

It’s 11:35, and you still haven’t left your room.

For the past few hours, you’ve been watching Netflix without headphones to torture a bored Atsumu, but the noises stopped about ten minutes ago, meaning your phone must’ve died too, so it’s only a matter of time before you leave your room in hopes of finding something to do.

Atsumu’s almost giddy at the thought.

At 11:50, he makes his move.

He hears the creaking of your door and your socked feet softly padding in the hallway. Atsumu’s always tried going to sleep early so he can hit the gym before it gets too busy the next morning, so you must’ve waited the latest you could bear with the assumption that he had fallen asleep on the couch.

Atsumu tiptoes to the end of the hallway, teeth bright compared to the darkness of the apartment, and his grin only widens when you finally see him.

You blink before scoffing, brushing past him to enter the kitchenette.

“Y/N,” he says, attempting to be stern but it comes off as a whine in his desperation. “Look at me.” You spare him a glance. Atsumu deems that’s good enough. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

He watches you open a cupboard and fill your glass with water. The seconds that pass by are agonizingly slow and Atsumu shifts uncomfortably when the silence drags on.

Finally, you look at him, unamused, and say, “What exactly are you sorry for?”

He purses his lips in thought. “Uh…”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to make your way back to your room.

“Wait! Wait,” Atsumu shouts, rushing over to block the exit. His eyes dart all over the kitchen in hopes the walls will have the answer to your question. You tap your foot impatiently, and it’s only when you go to open your mouth to tell him to move that he blurts out, “I’m sorry for eating the rest of your chocolate cake.”

You look at him incredulously. “That was you?”

“Yeah, I— wait, you’re not mad about that?”

“I am now!” you huff, using an arm to try and shove him out of the way, but he catches your wrist.

“Then I don’t get it!” he groans. “What did I do?”

You give him a once-over. “Well, what didn’t you do?”

“This is about the outfit?”

“You’ve cuffed your slacks, Tsumu. They’re cuffed. No sane person cuffs their slacks.”

He struggles to wrap his head around your response. “You’re mad,” he repeats, then gestures to his outfit confusedly, “about what I’m wearing.”

You seem to realize just how ridiculous it sounds uttered out loud, because you pout. “Not just that.”

“Then what else?”

You stumble over your words before you coherently state, “You’re going on a date.”

He frowns. “Yes.”

“You’re going on a date,” you say again when it’s obvious he’s not catching on to what you mean. When all Atsumu can manage is a perplexed sound, you add frustratedly, “You’re going on a date, which I don’t understand, since Sakusa told me that I didn’t need to worry anymore, but I guess he’s wrong because you came here asking for my help with looking nice on your night out with Miwa and—”

“Wait,” Atsumu interrupts, still puzzled. “What did Sakusa tell you?”

“He told me not to worry.”

“Worry about what?”

That snaps you out of it.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. Then, you cross your arms over your chest, muttering out a response with feigned nonchalance, “Whatever.”

Atsumu protests, “Hey, I—”

“Where were you even going to take her?” you swiftly change the subject, and Atsumu decides that he’ll let it go — that’s what he’s been doing for a while, anyway, and another day really couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Dancing,” he says.

“Dancing?”

“Yes,” he responds, relaxing at the sight of your amusement. “I searched up unique date ideas and Google told me to take her dancing.”

“You should’ve just taken her to dinner,” you say. “Because you can’t dance.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“You were born with two left feet.”

“Quit lying, you’re only saying that because you’re mad at me.”

“I’m only telling you the truth!”

“I’m a good dancer!”

“You really aren’t. I thought that was established two weeks ago when we were playing Just Dance and you knocked over Aran’s vase.”

“That says nothing about my ability to—”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stretching his hand out for you to take.

You look at his palm and back up at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Not in any way, shape, or form.”

“We don’t even have music—”

“I’ll sing,” he shakes his hand. “C’mon, hurry up, my arm’s getting tired.”

Without a second thought, you interlace your fingers with his as he whisks you around the kitchen, his laugh loud when you yelp at his fast movements. He places his other hand on the small of your back to keep you from slipping on the tile as he leans to whisper into your ear.

“Any song requests?”

“None. You’re an awful singer,” you retort, bristling at the warmth of his breath.

“So, what are you saying? You’d rather waltz in silence?”

“Yes. And I wouldn’t even call this waltzing. We’re just sliding around the kitchen.”

“We’re waltzing,” Atsumu says firmly, daring you to argue. You only sigh, letting him pull you closer as you two clumsily move around the room. He sings your favourite song despite your insistence for him not to, humming the parts he doesn’t know and doing his best to hit every note.

You laugh into his chest, and he makes sure the sound is trapped in his ribcage so he’ll never have to go a day without it.

When the song reaches its end, you place your head on his shoulder, your breath piercing through his blazer and skin. “I’m sorry that I got mad at you,” you whisper despite the quiet, as if making your voice any louder will shatter the atmosphere. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“It’s not, but thanks for trying to make me feel better,” you say timidly. “I guess I just got my hopes up.”

Atsumu tries to get the information out of you again, the very thing that’s been bothering you — and, as a result, him — for weeks. “About what?”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Nothing,” you answer, and if you notice just how much his posture deflates then you say nothing of it. “Can we stay like this for a little while?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand. “We can stay for as long as you want.”

iii. Love

“You’re gonna get it in my eye!”

“Then stay still!”

“Just promise not to poke me.”

“I’ve already promised five times.”

“Then promise again!”

“Tsumu—” you sigh, slumping your shoulders as you meet his defiant gaze. “I promise I won’t get anything into your eyes or your mouth or your nostrils. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes. “For some reason that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

You groan. “We’ve been over this millions of times—”

“Sue me for thinking you’re still mad at me.”

“I told you—”

“Sakusa got into my head,” he explains for the umpteenth time that evening, “he keeps on saying I’ve done something wrong, but he won’t tell me what, and he keeps looking at me as if I’ve committed a felony. His face keeps me up at night, it’s the reason why I’ve had so many nightmares recently—”

“Sakusa’s being a nuisance. Trust me, you haven’t done anything wrong,” you assure, your voice echoing off the walls of your tiny bathroom. “You have nothing to worry about, so stop acting like I’m trying to kill you with this face mask.”

He stares pointedly at the tub sitting next to you on the sink. “It’s scarily green,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Like, it’s Hulk-green. Nothing should be that green.”

“If you’re implying it’s poisonous, it’s not.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you grumble, spreading the mask across his cheeks, ignoring his murmured whines about how cold it feels on his skin. “You weren’t acting like this last time.”

“You were using a different face mask last time,” he rebuts. “I liked the other one better than this one.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I go to the store,” you hum. “Maybe I’ll even take you with me, so you can choose the face mask. It’ll save me from your complaining in the future.”

“You love my complaining,” he replies quickly. “But I really should. I’d make your grocery trips so much more fun.”

“You’d get us kick out.”

“Would not!” Atsumu scoffs when you don’t even bother to hide your unconvinced mien and places his hands on either side of the marble countertop, trapping you against him and the sink. “I’ll prove it this weekend.”

You shake your head. “I’m not going this weekend. The fall festival is on Saturday, remember? I’m holding off spending money this week so I can buy a ton of cotton candy without feeling guilty.”

“Really?” he snorts. “You’re not gonna get wasted this year?”

“Definitely not. Last year was a nightmare.”

“You don’t even remember what happened.”

“Exactly,” you say, smoothing out the mask. “And you’re always taking care of me when I’m drunk, it makes me feel bad.”

Despite his proximity, you don’t seem to feel the intensity of his stare. His demeanour has softened in the past five minutes, smiling warmly at the pinch between your brows and the way your lips have twisted into a focussed frown.

This has happened countless times before — on all the other self-care nights, Atsumu finds himself in the four walls of your bathroom, free to admire you all he wants without the company of his friends and their teasing remarks. Though he’d never admit it, he prefers the quiet, because here, the both of you aren’t brushing off comments made about your relationship; here, it’s just you and him, pressed against the bathroom sink, worries left behind on the other side of the door.

Here, it’s so peaceful that Atsumu believes, for a few short moments, that everything will be okay.

“Don’t feel bad,” he says breathily, dreading the moment when you finish and he’s forced to pull away. “I like taking care of you.”

“You’re required to do it because we’re friends.”

“No, I like doing it,” he says again, ingraining the statement into your brain so it’ll stay there forever. “You don’t see me letting Bokuto or Hinata — hell, even Suna, stay over at my apartment and sleep in my bed.”

You pause your movements, eyes flickering to his. “What does that make me then?”

“Huh?”

“Bokuto, Hinata, and Suna are your friends, but you don’t pick them up from parties and let them say the night at your place.”

“Well, that’s cause I can’t be bothered most of the time, since they’re usually going to on-campus parties and my place is so far from—”

“But you picked me up a few nights ago,” you interrupt, and Atsumu is drawn to the determination in your irises more than he wants to admit. “And a couple weeks ago too, I think. You’ve been picking me up before I even moved in with Sakusa, and my old place was thirty minutes away.”

“What are you saying, Y/N?”

“What am I to you, Atsumu?”

He grips the countertop so tightly his knuckles are as white as the marble. His heart drums against his ribcage, so loud in the cavity of his chest that he wonders if you can hear it too.

“You’re my friend.”

“Like Bokuto? Or Hinata, or Su—?”

“No, of course not,” he scoffs. Comparing yourself to them is absurd. “It’s diff— you’re different.”

“Different how?”

Suddenly, everything feels stuffy. Tension floods the room until he’s neck-deep in it and drowning, all while you stare up at him, awaiting an answer.

“I—”

Someone knocks loudly on the door.

“Hey!” Bokuto. “Is someone in here?”

You don’t answer. The ball is in Atsumu’s court.

There’s an answer that lingers in his mind, one that he wants to give you despite the risk that it could destroy everything he’s ever known. But as his hesitation grows, the ring buoy that is Bokuto’s voice becomes more tempting — something to save him from this situation where he’s flailing in hope and what-ifs. Something to save him from your want and his dread and all the other sharp objects that could slice your friendship in two.

(Aren’t you the one who’s always saying he should be more responsible?

Doing this is the most responsible thing he could do, isn’t it?)

“We’ll be right out,” he responds, and just as he replies, you pull away from him in defeat.

Everything in his body tightens.

You turn to wash your hands. Through the mirror, he can see you blink rapidly and clench your jaw.

When he finally goes to exit, Bokuto stands impatiently on the other side. His eyebrows rise when he spots the hairband keeping Atsumu’s blond strands out of his face.

“That’s cute,” Bokuto coos, poking at the heart that sticks out from the material.

“Thanks,” Atsumu says, adjusting the band and letting his fingers brush against the plush heart. “It’s Y/N’s.”

The sun had set a long time ago.

In its absence is the moon, its light barely sufficient to lead you and Atsumu home — home being his apartment, but you’ve been there so much it might as well be your own. It’s alright, though, he thinks; your arm is interlinked with his, and that’s all he’ll ever need to guide him.

Your hips bump his as you both walk down the sidewalk, the air a melody of your laughs as he retells a childhood story about him and Osamu. You fail to refrain the teasing comments that fall from your lips about how he’s always been a troublemaker, long before you ever met him.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he’d said a couple minutes ago. “Since I’m your favourite and everything.”

You smile, and every time you do so, the more he believes that the bathroom incident has been forgotten.

But Atsumu’s not stupid. He senses your discomfort — it’s miniscule, but it’s there, and deep down he knows it’s all because of what happened last night.

Every Tuesday, you wait for his evening lecture to finish before you both walk back to his place to watch a movie. Some nights you leave before the clock strikes ten, most nights you stay over. It’s a routine that’s been implemented since he first met you, and never once has it ever felt tense.

Atsumu itches to fix it.

“Hey,” he pipes up, hoping to avoid any uncomfortable lulls in conversation. “You never told me how your date went.”

“My date?”

“Yeah. Bokuto says some guy from your Psychology class asked you out.”

“What?”

“At the party.”

You crinkle your nose in thought before a light bulb goes off in your head. “Are you talking about Kuroo?”

Atsumu’s eyes may as well bulge out of the sockets with how much they’ve widened. “Kuroo asked you out?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. But he didn’t mean it. He only did it to get someone to stop bothering him.”

Atsumu frowns. “Then why did Bokuto say—?”

“Bokuto was drunk,” you snicker. “Plus, you know how much of a lightweight he is, and Hinata just kept on giving him drinks, so you can imagine how that went.”

“Not good, probably.”

“Nope,” you say. “Just imagine everything that could’ve gone wrong then double it.”

“Did he puke on Akaashi?”

“Yeah, and on Kuroo too.”

“See, that’s why I never let him stay the night.”

Your smile wavers and he pinches himself for saying anything in the first place.

“That’s probably the only good idea you’ve ever had,” you eventually say, but your voice is weaker than you intend it to be.

Atsumu can’t find the energy to argue.

He allows himself to be pulled down the street, your footsteps hasty compared to how he tries to drag his feet along the cement. Atsumu assumes you want to get this night over with, to spend only an hour — maybe two — with him before bidding goodbye, and the thought causes an ugly feeling to root itself into the pit of his stomach.

The wind whistles in warning. He should’ve expected something like this.

All good things come to an end is something he’s heard far too many times to count, but Atsumu is nothing if not an optimist, and even so, he never thought a saying such as that could ever apply to his friendship with you. Despite the hardships, the two of you have always pulled through.

But the clouds begin to drift over the moon, hindering its light, and his stomach churns at what’s to come.

Your voice, disguised as a remedy to soothe his unease, carries him forward. “Listen, I think I’ll head home after the movie.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight, y’know?”

“You can sleep in mine,” he suggests, his tone bordering on a plea. You always sleep in mine. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“It’s okay, Tsumu,” you reply. “You’re probably tired of seeing me all the time, anyway.”

“I’m not,” he insists.

You give him a tight smile in response.

Atsumu’s always believed he was good with words. His voice has failed him before, sure, and it’s not like it’s a secret that sometimes his carelessness lands him in undesirable situations, but he’s usually so quick on his feet. He knows what to say, and if he doesn’t, he can crank up the charm until everyone in the vicinity begins to suffocate on his charisma.

Miya Atsumu is rarely ever speechless.

But then you started acting different, and suddenly he couldn’t decipher your expressions or predict your every move. You would dance with him in the kitchen and tenderly apply skincare products on his face, but no matter how much he pulled you close, you would drift further away. You’d open up before brushing everything off as if he had nothing to worry about.

It's like you haven’t been paying attention at all. If it involved you, Atsumu would always worry.

The question slips out of his mouth too quickly for him to control. “Are you ever gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“What?”

He stops walking, and as a result, so do you. “Something’s been bothering you,” he says hoarsely. “And I was waiting it out because I thought you’d tell me, but… I feel like you never will.”

You lick your lips — to stall, he thinks, but doing so only spares you a second. “Do you have any guesses?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not an idiot,” you sigh. “You must have some idea.”

(And, perhaps, maybe a small part of him does. You’re his best friend, and he is yours, and you each earned that title by knowing the other like the moon knows the stars, like the stars know the sky, like the sky knows the sun.

He knows, you know he does. But this is irresponsible. It threatens everything).

“I don’t,” he lies.

“Atsumu,” you exhale, as if he’s entangled in your system, “do you really need me to say it?”

He doesn’t answer. You continue, anyway.

Three words are whispered into the dead of night, and the world tilts on its axis.

This was never part of the routine.

“Maybe I should just go home,” you murmur when he doesn’t speak. His fingers twitch, screaming at him to reach out for you as soon as you pull away. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Y/N—”

“Just let me go,” you say — you beg. “Please.”

His body screams, his nerves flare, but the messenger between his spinal cord and his brain fails to relay the message that he should do everything in his power to prevent you from leaving.

“Okay,” he responds. His voice sounds like it hasn’t been in use for years, tainted with defeat.

You turn to leave, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Atsumu doesn’t follow.

Atsumu’s moody, he has been for a while, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to realize it’s because of you.

Or, more specifically, the absence of you.

You’ve been spending more time by yourself than you have been with anyone else, cooped up in the safety of your bedroom and listening to — according to Sakusa — music that ranges from soft, heartbroken ballads, to hardcore fuck-you anthems. The lack of your presence is strange; you’ve always been a constant in Atsumu’s life, and to live without it leaves a lingering emptiness in his chest.

He'll catch glimpses of you sometimes on campus, and he feels, what he assumes to be, the same emotion people feel when they claim they’ve spotted Bigfoot.

For a moment, everything feels a little more bearable.

But then you disappear, leaving sorrow in your wake, and reality washes over him like an ice-cold bucket of water.

His moping is how he ends up tagging along with Bokuto and Hinata at the fall festival, trailing after them like an upset puppy while they frolic down the streets, gawking at all the stands and taste-testing every snack they come across. The plan was to have them cheer him up, to make him smile even if it’s only for a second, because when Atsumu is upset, it becomes everyone else’s problem.

Hinata offers him some funnel cake and Atsumu absentmindedly murmurs about how it’s your favourite. They all buy friendship bracelets and Atsumu buys one for you too because he knows how much you’d want one. They all clamber onto the carousel and Atsumu wonders if you’d fall off if you rode the horse.

Bokuto and Hinata get tired of it all eventually.

“He’s hopeless,” Bokuto cries when they reunite with Suna and Osamu. “He won’t stop whining.”

Atsumu opts for standing on his toes to look over the crowd in hopes of finding you instead of replying to his friend. His eyes drift first to the ring toss, then to the man selling cotton candy, then to the spinning teacups.

Nothing.

Osamu says something that finally catches his brother’s attention. “Well, Y/N’s not coming,” he waves his phone in the air, which is open on his message thread with you. “Said they were busy.”

Hinata huffs. “They’re only saying that cause Tsumu’s here.”

Bokuto slaps his arm. “Shoyo!”

“What? It’s true!” he exclaims defensively. “You know how they’re always on top of their assignments, I doubt they’re doing anything but watching TV and—”

“Yeah, but still, don’t say that! Isn’t Tsum-Tsum heartbroken enough?”

“I am not heartbroken,” Atsumu snarls.

Suna gives him a look. “Well…”

“I’m not!” he flails, frantically gesturing to himself to show that he’s perfectly fine. “I mean, yeah, am I a little upset? Yes. But heartbroken? You guys are just saying anything at this point, like—”

Osamu interrupts him before he can continue rambling and digging himself into a bigger hole. “What did you even do, anyway?”

The Miya twins are notorious on campus for their bickering, but Atsumu thought that in this situation, at least his own brother would be on his side. “What makes you think this is all my fault?”

Osamu raises an eyebrow, mocking and patronizing. “Well, for one—”

“If anything,” Atsumu continues, hurriedly cutting him off, “I should be the one avoiding them. Not that I’d want to, I’d never want to, obviously, but if we were getting technical then they should be the one worrying about me and not the other way around.”

Hinata speaks, mouth full of the last of his funnel cake. “Who says they don’t worry about you?”

“I— wait, what?”

“They’re always asking me and Shoyo about how you’re doing,” Bokuto chirps. “How screwed up could things be that you won’t talk to each other?”

Atsumu inhales, and he feels the world begin to collapse into him. Unsure of what to say, unsure of what to think, unsure if it’s fair of him to reach for his phone and hope you’ll answer his calls. He knows why the two of you have found yourselves here, standing on opposite sides of a field of regret and hurt. He knows, that in his attempt to dodge change, he blew something up in the process.

Suna tilts his head in question. “Atsumu. What happened?”

Atsumu exhales. “They told me that—” the words lodge themselves in his throat, unwilling to leave.

But they all understand.

“Huh,” Suna hums. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”

“What did you reply with?” Osamu asks.

Atsumu prepares himself for their rage. “Nothing.”

He’s met with silence. Then, incredulously, Suna asks, “Are you stupid?”

Osamu answers for him. “Chronically so.”

Atsumu doesn’t have the heart to respond to the jab, and the severity of the situation significantly increases.

Hinata bites the inside of his cheek in thought. “I think he’s broken.”

Bokuto leans forward to study Atsumu’s expression as much as he can before the latter waves him off. With a frown, Bokuto steps back and looks around the grounds, hoping to find something that’ll cheer Atsumu up and make tonight not a complete bust.

A tent, flashy and sparkly and enchanting, lures him in.

Osamu looks like he’s about to say something, but before he can utter a word, Bokuto tugs on Atsumu’s sleeve and drags him to the tent, ignoring his protests. “I have an idea,” he says reassuringly, but it does nothing to calm his friend. “Trust me on this.”

Atsumu snatches his arm back and rubs it as if Bokuto’s harmed him. He cranes his neck around to look at the sign just outside the tent, and scowls at the pink and yellow doodles on the chalkboard.

“This is a psychic.”

Bokuto nods vigorously. “Yes.”

“Your idea of cheering me up is having me scammed?”

Bokuto pouts. “You love stuff like this.”

He’s not wrong. If it were any other day, this place would be Atsumu’s first stop. He’d be the one begging people to join him despite the fact that he knows the consequences involve a dent in his bank account, but today, predictions of his future are the last thing on his mind. Today, convincing people to get their fortune read is the least of his desires, because you aren’t trying to convince people with him.

There’s no point being here without you.

Atsumu moves to get out of line.

“Hey, dude,” Bokuto whines and holds onto his arm to keep him in place. “Just give it a try. It can’t hurt, can it?”

“Boku—”

“It’ll be fun!” he says cheerily. “Maybe it’ll give you some insight on how to apologize to Y/N.”

Atsumu wants nothing more than to move — to leave — but Bokuto mastered the art of the puppy dog eyes long before he could talk, and the moment he flashes them Atsumu realizes he has no other choice but to stay.

When he steps into the tent, the atmosphere changes.

He tugs on the sleeves of his windbreaker when the autumn air threatens to pierce his skin, and reluctantly sits down on the chair across from the psychic. She eyes his every move, trying to figure out what type of customer he might be — someone who’s just doing this for fun, or someone who’s going through a rough patch, or someone who needs a stranger to light the path they need to walk down.

Atsumu fidgets in his seat.

“You’re here for a reading?”

A shrug and feigned indifference are what she receives as an answer. “Sure.”

His mask of nonchalance begins to slip when the reading starts, growing restless as he checks the time on his watch and calculating the probability of you still being awake. He glances over his shoulder, praying to whichever deity who’ll listen that Bokuto will come in and drag him out once he’s realized that this is the last thing Atsumu wants.

You are not here, and his body stings whenever the reminder worms its way into his mind.

His uneasiness must amuse the psychic, because when he finally looks back at her, she’s grinning, knotting his stomach in worry.

She asks him a dreadful question, made of nuts and bolts and things that rub salt in the wound of his heart.

What is it that you desire most, boy?

Atsumu freezes, plastering a confused smile on his face. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sure you know. Is it strength?”

Definitely not, Atsumu wants to say. He’s more than capable enough to lift heavy boxes, he doesn’t have to take multiple trips to move things from point A to point B, he doesn’t struggle carrying his friends’ slump and inebriated bodies into a bed.

Atsumu is strong. He’s proved it during his frequent trips to the gym and by winning arm-wrestling contests. He wears the trait like a badge of honour, a reminder.

He does not need any more physical strength.

He checks his watch and wonders if you’ve brushed your teeth and dragged yourself to bed.

The psychic pushes. “Power?”

Atsumu briefly shakes his head, a movement so miniscule it’s a surprise the woman catches it.

It used to be such a thrill, the popularity that came with his volleyball reign. He used to ride that horse and sit in that throne with pride, he let the excitement course through him and, for a while, let himself believe the squeals that came with victory was interchangeable with love.

But power does not compare. He was foolish to believe nothing could beat the rush that came with the admiration — the shouts of his name in the bleachers, the ever-growing follower count, the people confessing their infatuation whenever they caught him alone.

They do not know who he is underneath the volleyball uniform. They don’t know that he likes to go to the diner after games and order a strawberry milkshake, or that his bottom drawer is filled to the brim with spare clothes for you, or that his favourite nights are spent with you applying a face mask to his skin.

They will never know him as much as you do.

The psychic leans forward. “Love?”

Atsumu clenches his jaw. Yes, would be the short answer, but to say that without an explanation would mean to lie, and he’s never been a good liar. Because Atsumu’s always been loved — not by the crowds or the student body — but by his friends, his family, you.

You gave your heart to him, and he noticed too late that the bleeding organ resided in the palm of his hand, cracked and yearning and brave. And after he realized this, he selfishly craved for more, even though he knew it scared him. He has been in relationships before, but none of them crossed the threshold of what truly mattered — the intimate conversations, the dances in the kitchen at midnight, the confessions murmured under the duvet.

So, perhaps, yes, Atsumu desires love, but the one thing he supposes he wants more is courage.

The psychic smiles. “Ah. Bingo. So—”

“Miya.”

Atsumu whips his head around to find Sakusa standing at the entrance, skillfully ignoring the protests behind him to get in line and wait his turn. Sakusa raises an eyebrow at the situation Atsumu’s found himself in, but saves him from his judgement to state, “Bokuto told me you were in here.”

“Excuse me,” the woman chirps. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“If you think a scam is what’ll solve your problems, then you’re stupider than I thought,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu sighs. “You came here just to tell me that?”

“Well, yeah,” Sakusa shrugs. “There’s a simpler solution to all of this.”

“Okay, well—”

“Talk to them,” Sakusa interrupts, exhausted. “Before they give up.”

Atsumu kisses his teeth, changing his position in his chair so he’s fully facing Sakusa. “Since when were you the type to give advice?”

Sakusa ignores his retort with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes.

“I have never seen you cower before, Miya,” Sakusa says, and the words are like needles on his skin. “Don’t let the first time you do so be now.”

Atsumu inhales shakily. “I don’t—”

“They got Hinge a few days ago,” Sakusa deadpans. Atsumu stiffens. “Don’t lose to some hack they found on a dating app.”

Atsumu looks from his friend to the clairvoyant before flashing her a sheepish smile and shooting clumsily out of his chair. The words that tumble from his mouth are barely coherent, and the last thing he hears before he exits the tent is Sakusa mumbling moron under his breath.

The journey from the festival to your apartment is a blur. He vaguely recalls running past his friends and returning their questioning shouts with a wave of his hand and getting angry at least two cars who cut him on the road, before he ends up in front of your door, nose tinged red from the cold.

His knocks are insistent.

“I’m coming, God, be patient,” he hears you say before you open the door to see him, and your annoyance is wiped away in seconds.

“Hi,” he says, out of breath from running up three flights of stairs after he got impatient waiting for the elevator. His eyes land on the blanket you’ve wrapped over your shoulders, and his lips quirk up at the familiar pattern. “Didn’t I get you that?”

You tug on the material defensively. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “And what the hell are you wearing? Did you not look at the weather before you left the house? It’s freezing outside, you idiot, you should be wearing a thicker jacket. And your face is so red! And your hands! They’re gonna get all dry if you don’t wear gloves! How many times do I have to tell you to dress for the weather otherwise you’ll get sick and…”

Atsumu rasps, “And?”

You gulp, taking a step back to distance yourself. “And you shouldn’t be here,” you say, sending a knife to his chest. “I thought you were at the festival.”

“That’s why you didn’t come,” he concludes. “Because I was there.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” you snap. “I told you I loved you and you looked at me like I was crazy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Whatever,” you bark. “My point still stands. You shouldn’t be here.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Eight letters are whispered into the darkness of the entryway, and the world is thrown off-balance.

“I love you,” he says, surprising himself with just how easy the words escape after he lets them, “and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your lips part in surprise. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats. “And I should’ve told you sooner, but I— I was scared—”

“Then why are you telling me now?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Love conquers all, I guess. My fear included.”

“You came all the way here to tell me that?”

He risks a step towards you and his heart flutters when you don’t move away. “I ran out of a psychic’s tent, too.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he murmurs. “That’s not important right now.”

“It sounds pretty important, I mean, you mentioned it and everything.”

“It’s not.”

“What exactly is more important than that?”

“Your forgiveness, actually.”

You huff. “Believe it or not, forgiveness doesn’t come so easily, Atsumu.”

“Can I kiss you, then?” he questions innocently, placing a hand against your cheek. “Will you take that as an apology?”

You still, licking your lips as you try to maintain your defiant stance. “…That won’t work every time you make me mad, you know.”

He tries his best not to smirk. “Is that a yes?”

“I hate you.”

He lets his lips hover over yours, and he’s not sure if the loud heartbeat ringing in his ears is his or yours (or maybe a mixture of both). “Is that yes?” he asks again, searching your eyes for any signs of discomfort.

Your eyes flicker to his mouth and then you mumble, “Yes.”

Atsumu pinches himself before capturing his lips with yours, eager and desperate, to kiss you with enough pent-up want and need to cause you to stumble. He’s gentle in the way he cradles your face, as if the world has found itself in his hands, still beautiful despite how much he’s hurt it.

He’ll make up for hurting you later, but for now he’ll allow himself to be selfish.

I love you, he whispers into your mouth, and you capture the confession with your own and let it live in your beating heart.

I love you, he whispers into your neck as you both stumble into the kitchen, making sure to tattoo the words into your skin so you’ll never forget.

“I love you,” he whispers one last time as the blanket covers you both and he’s sure you’ve lulled to sleep with your ear against his chest and his thumb drawing hearts on your shoulder, “so, so much.”

Slumber takes over you both, blanketing your smiling figures with hope and love.

© fushisagi, 2023. do not translate or plagiarize my works.

[heartscara]

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ⊹. ♡˚

𐂯 𓈒 ˙ ˖ Being a genius is hard. For you have alot stored in your brain yet still not notice your friends romantic hints.

ᨳ ໒ ིྀ ֹ> ꭷ < ა࣪ ‌ ꢆ ◝✩ ꒰ chigiri hyoma x genius male reader !!̲ ✎ … just fluff ノ very very oblivious reader ノpre-blue lock chigiri ノhe!him pronouns and masculine(?) terms are referred to reader. ꒱

“Have you ever noticed chigiri-san well awfully close to you?”

You looked at your friend with a raised brow, confused on what he meant. “Aren’t friends supposed to be close?” you asked, tilting your head. They only sigh at this as they look at you in a stern manner, “like, he’s really really close to you, like super close.”

“So?” You said in a questioning tone, “look I won’t get your point if you don’t straight up tell me here,” you said cutting to the chase as they scratch the back of their head, “fine,” they said admitting defeat, “don’t you think chigiri has been in love with you and he’s hinting at you for I don’t know how long?”

You gave them an amused chuckle, “funny,” you said in a matter of fact but then you were met by their silence as they looked at you with deadpan eyes, “your serious?”

“yeah,”

They nodded, confusion hitting you like a rock. “How did you make these assumptions?” you asked curious why ready to debunk every claim they could give you. “For a self proclaimed genius you're pretty oblivious,” You furrowed your brows as a pout formed its way to your lips, you were clearly irritated at their teasing remark. Glaring at them they flinched at the sharp glare you gave them as they raised their hands as if they’ve given up.

“Got it, got it, I’ll tell you, well—“

“He seems to care for you, way more than the others nor his friends,”

Recalling the incident the very first day in class, there you came inside the classroom in a disheveled state of course they didn’t care but wow were they surprised to see a student looking quite well… something.

Though what caught their attention was a pinkette walking up to them, “Did you stay up all night again? You do know I’ve told you to stop doing that,” he starts to nag the disheveled boy as said boy pouted. The pinked haired boy took the liberty to straighten his uniform as he fixed his hair, “sleep is merely a little obstacle after all science is—“ but he was cut off by the boy pinching his cheeks quite hard.

“ouch! ouch! ouch!” He whined in pain as the pink haired boy looked at him in a deadpan manner. “If you stay up all night again you're gonna face this every morning,” letting go of his cheeks, the boy looked at him. As he looked down ashamed, the boy looked at the pinkette in front of him, “fine, got it,” he grumbled.

The pinkette smiled at him looking proud.

“That's because as childhood friends it's natural for us to look out for each other—“ though you were cut off, “SHUSH SHUSH I STILL HAVE SOME MORE!”

“he always prefers to be with you any chances he gets,”

They recalled another distant memory but this time they were close with you, y/n l/n a self proclaimed genius who is actually well… a genius, “Okay I’ll be putting you to pairs for this assignment.”

The teacher claimed as she puts everyone to pair, “chigiri hyoma with nanami takenaka,” looking at the pinkette they somehow could feel the disappointment oozing from him. “Y/n l/n with ayato hayashi,” their names were called.

Looking at y/n he said, “looks like we're gonna be partners,” though the genius only nodded at this not caring what he said, only yawning as they tried to fall asleep in class. This amazed them solely because wow they don’t care what the teachers might do to him, then again his marks are way higher than everyone literally.

“Sensei,” a familiar voice caught his attention as he saw Chigiri raise his hands to the teacher. Standing up, he asked the teacher, “can I change partners?” This made the teacher sigh as they shake their heads, “no you can’t chigiri-san anymore question regarding the activity?”

They were met by silence.

“I’m guessing none, you may all have your lunch.”

Thus they start what they usually do in lunch, placing their tables close to each other as they talk about some random topic but this time though chigiri seems to be oozing quite an annoyed aura as he just sits next to y/n. They raised a brow at this, confused why— though now he feels his annoyed gaze at him making sweatdrop.

‘what the hell did I do wrong this time,’

“He’s just clingy—“ you were cut off again by Ayato slamming their table as they gave you another reason, “NO NO NO LISTEN!!”

“you two are awfully touchy,”

Y/n could only look at his phone with a furrowed brow feeling quite irritated as he yet again lost another game. Chigiri only looked as his chin was placed on the boy's neck, his hands around his waist as the boy sat on his lap. “Tsk, this damn game,” the boy grumbled as he started again, chigiri could only chuckled. Amused that he was irritated.

“Hmm…” humming as he looked at the game he observed as he yet again lost, “maybe start going there first?” he suggested as y/n did instead of encountering another loss he won. This made the boy smile at him as he looked at Chigiri, “thanks” He thanked the boy with a small smile as he gave him a quick peck on the head.

“I’ve been doing that since we were kids, it’s normal here,” This made Ayato sigh. Well you were stubborn to admit it and because of this he gives up. “ugh… I bet you're in love with him because of how much you deny it,” they grumbled.

This made you well flustered. Coming up with such a conclusion you could only look away feeling quite embarrassed, “coming up with such a conclusion like that is idiotic.” They only nodded along with this annoyed at how much you are in denial, “yeah, yeah.”

The end of the day came within a blink of an eye. The thought that chigiri may have feelings for you eating you alive each passing second in school as you do what you two usually do. Now walking home with him your hands held each other, intertwined fingers sharing warmth to each other.

The walk was silent as usual. Though the silence felt awkward, not the usual comfort you felt every walk home with him. It’s now just the unburning awkwardness you felt. “Hey… chi-chan,” you called him out by his nickname.

The nickname you gave him since childhood, it was a cute one but he didn’t quite like it at first but grew used to being called it by you. “Do you love me?” you asked him. Eyes meeting him, his eyes widened as he smiled at you as if he was waiting for you to ask that question in a long time.

“Took you long enough, idiot,”

[reidsaurora]

hellohello i'd like to order a confetti cupcake with luke alvez and a hint of a "oh shit are we really doing this" kind of relationship/date whatever thank youuu

this is the cutest ever, i'm so happy with how it turned out! hope you enjoy 🫶🏻

"The Mistletoe Mishap" ~ L. Alvez

pairing: luke alvez x gn!reader

summary: "you'd be surprised just how seriously the bau took their christmas in july celebrations."

word count: 922

warnings: a couple swear words, mentions of food, a lil splash of sexual humor at the end, i think that's it!

genre: festive fluff ❤️✨️

extra notes: the icon in the collage is by @delicatejareau (edited to fit the theme of the collage a lil better) and the dividers below are by @anlian-aishang!

beta read by: @dungeons-are-too-cold (thank you, love!)

birthday bash | masterlist | ask box

🧁 Confetti Cupcakes - send me a character + concept/trope/au and i'll write you a blurb!

You'd be surprised just how seriously the BAU took their Christmas in July celebrations.

What started as Penelope bringing Christmas cookies to the office one day turned into watching Elf during their lunch hour, Secret Santa exchanges, and weekly contests to see who could show up in the ugliest Christmas sweater (Spencer was winning so far with his sweater made completely out of tinsel).

However, the one unfortunate part of Christmas in July was the mistletoe hanging over every. single. doorframe.

Sure, mistletoe in the workplace was awkward enough as it was, but it certainly didn't help that there was one person you absolutely couldn't get caught under it with.

You and Luke had been dating for a few months by this point and, thus far, you'd successfully kept it under wraps. But every time one of you stopped in a doorway, your heart began to beat so hard, you thought it would bang its way out of your chest.

Usually, you two found a way to keep enough distance that it would be almost impossible to pass under the mistletoe at the same time. But today? The last day of your Christmas in July celebration? Of course it would be the day you didn't.

You and Luke were the last two to show up at the round table room for lunch and a movie, which you'd gathered was Frosty the Snowman when you heard the familiar theme song upon walking in.

Your shoulder brushed something hard as you entered the room, and for some reason, you just knew it wasn't going to end well when you looked up and made eye contact with whoever else was under the mistletoe with you.

You attempted to make a run for your seat, but a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks. "Now, Y/N, you know the rules of mistletoe," Penelope reminded you from her seat. You should've known there wasn't a way out of this, not when Penelope Garcia, self-proclaimed President of the 'Christmas In July Club', was around.

The rules of mistletoe varied a little in the workplace, at least. Some people went for high-fives while others went for hugs. Emily had even gone as far as kissing Tara on the cheek one day, but no one dared to kiss anyone on the mouth yet. So, really, there was no reason to panic, right?

Still, you froze in place, your fight or flight mode clearly not having kicked in yet. Instead, your eyes met Luke's with a look that said, 'please save me,' your hands gripping your lunch bag for some form of stability.

Your chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm, your heart beating hard against your sternum. "Are we really gonna do this?" you silently mouthed up at him, your whole body on the verge of something close to a panic attack.

"Come on, you guys," Rossi teased, "If Boy Genius can high-five people under the mistletoe, you can too."

Chuckles erupted from your coworkers, but not from you nor Luke. Instead, Luke looked down at you, his tongue jutting out to wet his lips, and somehow, as simple a gesture as it was, the soft eye contact was enough to bring you out of your state of panic. You knew that whatever happened, whether he kissed you or not, and whether or not this kiss led to your secret being exposed, Luke had this, had you.

In one swift motion, he had both his hands planted on either side of your face. "Fuck it," he whispered, barely giving you a second to process the words before his lips were on yours.

His familiar scent fell around you like your own protective bubble as he kissed you, his hold on your face absolutely intoxicating. The taste of his morning coffee burned through you, your stomach doing a loop-de-loop at the sensation.

You knew as soon as he pulled away that all eyes would be on the both of you, but you didn't expect half of their jaws to be on the floor.

"Damn," Emily said, flabbergasted. "Is everyone around here getting laid except for me?"

Penelope was the next to speak, which was quite surprising, considering it looked as though her jaw was out of commission not three seconds prior. "Who knew Newbie could canoodle like that?"

Your face flushed as crimson as the sweater your colleague wore. "Penelope," you scolded her, your hands bringing your lunch bag in front of your face, covering the blush that had taken over.

Luke was having none of that, pulling the lunch bag away from your cheeks. "Y/N sure knows," he smirked before leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.

The blonde all but jumped out of her chair. "Is this a thing? How come no one told me about the thing? Why am I always the last to know about a thing?"

Luke tossed an arm around your shoulders, providing you with a sense of calm and comfort as you thought about your next words. "Technically," you started, "you're all the first to find out about the thing."

"Except Roxy," Luke corrected. "She pretty much knew it was a thing before it actually was a thing."

Next thing you knew, the girls were pulling you over to one side of the room, practically begging for details. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Spencer sharing a fist bump with Luke, a smile overtaking your face.

Oh, how they got on your nerves, but oh how, you loved the BAU.

-> taglist: @1234-angelika @drayshadow @alexxavicry @nomajdetective @cordyandbilliehavemyheart @darkloverfox @sammyrenae68 @cherrycandle @asgardprincess97 @gh0stgurl @randomwriter1021 @eddieharrington @danielle143 @esposadomd @reidselle @dungeons-are-too-cold @louderfortheback @reidsbookclub @cwritesforfun @cynbx @juismissing @captainchris-pike @lukeclvez

[imagining-in-the-margins]

A Curious Pair (S.R.)

Summary: Emily and JJ find a curious piece of clothing in the women’s locker room. Spencer thinks he might know who it belongs to.

A/N: Just a funny little blurb about Spencer being a know-it-all, to his detriment. Shoutout to @foxy-eva for always being my muse and helping my indecisive self. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Fluff/Comedy (Rated PG-13) Content Warning: Underwear, embarrassment, minor allusions to sexual activity Word Count: 900

MASTERLIST

In Spencer’s experience, there was almost never anything good happening when a group of women begin giggling. This was particularly true when they stood only a few feet from his seat, and he could hear every word they said.

“I’m not faulting her for leaving them there, I’m just wondering why the hell you’re wearing that to the FBI fitness complex,” Emily said in what no sane man could ever describe as a ‘whisper,’ “I mean, can you think of a less attractive place to be desired? Honestly.”

JJ, with her trademark sweet smile, shook her head in disapproval.

“Oh, Emily. Jealousy is not a good look on you.”

The frantic repressed energy and incredulity leapt from somewhere deep in Emily, but this time she managed to keep her voice hushed.

“Of course I’m jealous of her, JJ! I’ve got five stacks of paperwork on my desk and you’re telling me there are a pair of young hotshot agents having fun?”

“The audacity,” JJ drawled sarcastically.

Before Emily could defend her position, however, the two scandalized team members turned to three.

“Whoa there, Prentiss. I’m sensing some hostility,” he said with a soft chuckle and a reassuring hand on her shoulder. As always, his presence brought with it a calming, lighthearted nature that touched every person in the room.

Including the boy genius seated a few feet away who really, really didn’t want to talk about a pair of pretty panties.

The astute, observant profiler that he was, Derek immediately picked up on the doom and gloom cloud hovering over his best friend’s head and was quick to make it worse.

With a devilish smirk and eyes never wandering from Spencer, he called, “Judging by how red pretty boy’s face is, it seems like I’ve stumbled upon something fun.”

JJ brought her fingers to her lips to muffle both her giggles and the words as she explained under her breath, “It’s just something we found… in the women’s locker room.”

Spencer’s ears started to burn red, but the others wouldn’t know why. They wouldn’t understand the source of his reddened face wasn’t just an inappropriate conversation about a coworker’s underwear.

No, Spencer’s cheeks, ears, and neck were red and his leg was bouncing because his mind was racing with memories. Memories of you, him, and an empty office. Memories of muffled moans leaking from maintenance closets.

Spencer was not worried or embarrassed. He was just a little… tense, at the thought of a woman — a very particular woman — changing out of sweat drenched lace.

“Oh? What kind of thing?” Derek jeered, already knowing the answer, “Describe it to me. I bet I can find who they belong to.”

“Purple,” JJ said so quickly it was like she had been dying to explain.

“More like lavender,” Emily corrected.

“And lace!”

“—with very little fabric!”

Then, like the climax of the most tense orchestral symphony, JJ and Emily spoke almost in unison, “and in the center there was this little ribbon bow — with a gem in the middle.”

Derek feigned thought for a moment, but in doing so, he missed the light bulb switching on in Spencer’s eyes. As Derek ran through a long list of names, Spencer had already come up with the answer.

Spencer knew the owner of that curious pair. And if he knew one thing for certain, he knew that Derek definitely did not.

That had been true, too. It was obvious from the smug shrug Derek gave before he settled, “Those sound like Stacy to me.”

That wrong answered, proclaimed so confidently and with such condescension, triggered something in Spencer’s mind. He would never know if it had been out of anger, jealousy, his strong sense of justice, or just the pleasure he got from being right… but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

“They’re (y/n)’s,” Spencer corrected.

The whole bullpen fell silent. Or at least, it felt that way to him. In fact, it seemed like every law of physics ceased working at the exact same time. Thermodynamics betrayed him as his red face turned white in a split second. His heart, which had been beating faster than ever, felt as though it had come to a sudden stop.

“Say what, pretty boy?” Derek asked, his tone now matching the same incredulity of the women when this whole debacle had first begun.

Spencer couldn’t speak. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but for all his genius, he couldn’t come up with anything.

He didn’t need to, either. Because before anyone else spoke, you waltzed through the door with a defeated whine.

“You won’t believe what just happened to me,” you cried, oblivious, “it was humiliating.”

No one said a word. The team turned to you, and Spencer turned back to his work as if nothing had ever happened (albeit looking like death had a grip on him).

“You know what, baby girl, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Derek laughed before turning back to his friend, “whatever it was, I think pretty boy’s got you beat.”

Spencer glanced over to the women who had since returned to their hushed whispers and giggling, now with your enthusiastic gesturing alongside them.

Derek, however, closed the gap between the bona fide genius and the group. As he passed behind Spencer, he placed a small pat on his shoulder.

“Seems like you were right,” he conceded.

“Yes,” Spencer whispered through a smile, “I was.”

(Tell me what you thought about this piece here!)

P.S. Did you know Tumblr might be hiding some of my posts from you? Learn how to change this setting here so you can enjoy my more scandalous works (if you want), including my most recent one, which can be found here.

[starrystormwritings]

Kiss With a Fist

Kiss With a Fist

Master List <3 Request List <3 Marauders Master List

Sirius Black x Reader

A/n: I know I promised a Taylor Swift song fic for Sirius but I couldn't pick a song so instead this (especially the start) is inspired by Kiss With a Fist by Florence and the Machine instead even though the lyrics aren't actually used, just wanted to actually post something tbh.

Summary: You've always hated Sirius Black, so being stuck in detention with him is the worst possible scenario.

Warnings: Badly written arguments, swearing, drinking, weed, no smut but making out, once again bad writing lol, female pronouns but undescribed Hogwarts house.

Word Count: 2787

(NOT MT GIF)

"I can't believe you right now." I said with a huff, wiping down the walls of the potion classroom that were stained pink because of none other than the dark haired boy who was scrubbing the floor next to me.

"Oh pipe down L/n I saw you laughing." He chuckled to himself confidently causing me to flick some water from my hand onto him.

The self proclaimed genius had unfortunately been partnered with me for our potions assignment this afternoon and as easy as a wiggenweld potion normally is to brew Sirius thought it was be funny too add a handful of stolen ingredients to the cauldron whilst my back was turned. Resulting in a large explosion of a pink foam that now stained half of the classroom.

Of course Slughorn didn't believe I had nothing to do with it, but luckily enough he thought one detention of cleaning up the mess the muggle way would be enough punishment.

"I did not laugh, I should be in the library right now but instead I'm stuck in here with you cleaning a mess I didn't even cause!" I scrubbed the walls harder with frustration as I spoke, his cockiness was getting to me.

"Merlin it's not that big of a deal! It was funny!" He rolled his eyes at me as I gave him a look of disbelief.

Of course he still managed to look effortless whilst cleaning floors, his long hair had been scraped back into a bun, bits of hair falling out to frame his face and neck, occasionally dropping in front of his eyes. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and both of our robes and ties had been thrown over a chair to keep them out of the way.

The cocky smile finally dropped from his face as he threw the sponge onto the floor in frustration "These stains are never going to come out without magic, nothings happening! How have you gotten rid of so much of it already?"

I scoffed at him for what felt like the hundredth time that day before stepping down from the step ladder I was on to work on a bit of the wall lower down.

"You have to actually put it a bit of effort, actually scrub it rather than doing a half assed job, like always." Sirius had always irked me since we started at Hogwarts, his careless attitude and lack of effort always bugged me. He could so easily be top of our classes if he tried but instead he just goofed off whilst some of us have to put in actual effort.

"Hey what's your problem with me, your good enough friends with Remus and Peter why do you seem to hate me so much?"

I could hear that he had stood up but instead of turning around to face him I just continued to clean the wall.

"Probably because you're a posh prat who doesn't care about his actions and how they affect other people."

He just laughed at me which pissed me off more, causing me to grip the sponge in my hand so hard the bubbles started running down my arm rather than the wall.

"What's so funny?" I asked whilst spinning around to face him, his slouched posture and casual lean against the table behind him causing me to clench my jaw.

"You. I'm sorry we can't all be perfect like you but at least I've got some personality."

It was my turn to laugh now as I crossed my arms, shaking my head at him.

"Oh I have no personality? Because the bad boy with a dark mysterious past that he hides behind jokes and his hair is so original?"

"You don't know anything about my dark mysterious past. At least I'm willing to have fun rather than just hiding in the library all day, there's a reason only one of us has friends." He dropped his rag on the floor, obviously having enough of cleaning now and just enjoying annoying me.

"You don't have friends, you have James and a group of adoring fans who wouldn't like you if they didn't find you hot. And not all of us have the luxury of having fun, I can't get through my exams with a charming smile unlike some people."

"Aw, you think my smiles charming." He sat up now, his height made him tower over me which just seemed to piss me off more.

"No I think you're a spoiled git who's had everything handed to him in life and refuses to see that the world doesn't revolve around him. I'd rather jump off the astronomy tower than spend another second with you and I can't wait for the day when you find out that flashing a smile won't get you out of everything!"

I didn't even realise I'd been marching towards him till my finger jabbed directly into his chest.

He scowled down at me, gripping my wrist with his hand to take it off him.

"And I think that you're a stuck up princess who needs to realise that until you get that stick out of your ass you're going to be miserable for the rest of your life!"

I looked up at him angrily, my hands were shaking with how furious I was and my skin felt like it was burning from where his hand was still holding my wrist.

He mirrored the look on my face before glancing down at my lips for a brief second, before I could comprehend what was happening he lent down and pushed his lips to mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss, or loving in the slightest. It was harsh and spiteful, his teeth clashed against mine as his hand came up to hold my jaw, backing me up against the bit of wall I had just cleaned.

I dropped the sponge I was holding and let my hand grip onto his hair, covering it in the bubbles that were still running down my arm.

I scrambled to pull him closer to me by his neck as his hand let go of my wrist and instead moved to the bottom of my skirt as he let in to deepen the kiss.

"Sirius? You in the mate?" The familiar voice of James Potter called from the doorway of the room, luckily out of view from where we were.

We both jumped away from each other, turning around to make it look like I was heavily interested in the cleaning again.

I quickly yanked my skirt back down as Sirius attempted to fix his hair and straighten his shirt before the Potter boy had turned the corner.

"Yeah Slughorn has us on clean up duty." He says whilst clearing his throat and chuckling a little.

"Yeah Mary told us what you did thought we'd come give you guys a hand so you might still make it to dinner." Remus said as he approached as well, picking up a rag from the table and heading over to help me.

~~~

I stared at the little piece of parchment in my hand, biting the inside of my cheek as I thought out my options.

Me and Sirius hadn't spoken since the afternoon in potions, luckily with the help of James, Remus and Peter we had finished up in less than an hour and I quickly rushed out and had been avoiding the marauders like the plague since.

Remus had just caught me in the library and handed me the invite that I was now inspecting.

'The marauders invite you to the party of the century (bring your own Fire Whiskey or Witches Brew)'

The piece of parchment was enchanted to have little moving images of fireworks and music notes dancing around the page and the Gryffindoor common room password was printed small on the bottom for anyone who wasn't already in the house.

The Gryffindor parties had become like legend in the school over the past two years, but I had still yet to go to one and now that Christmas break was fast approaching and there was no exams for a while it might be nice to let loose a little.

Luckily I knew exactly where to go to for fire whisky and some less approved plants that were grown in the back of the greenhouse.

~~~

After talking to some Ravenclaw friends who sold me the fire whisky I'd decided I might as well go to the party.

Worse case scenario it sucks and it's awkward and I go to bed early.

Best case scenario I have a great time and get drunk and possibly make a good memory or two.

I'd spent longer than I'd like to admit on getting ready and after a nervous dinner I'd met with Lily Evans to go to the party together.

"I'm so glad you're coming this time! I know as a prefect I shouldn't be really letting this happen but there always so fun, just try and avoid being one of the ones put into detention afterwards, luckily James usually volunteers to take the fall. Of course he's then followed by Sirius, Remus and Peter but usually once they get in trouble the rest of us get let off easily."

She said whilst beaming, her crush on James Potter was hardly subtle anymore.

"Yeah I'm glad I'm going as well, better than spending all night in my dorm, nice to see everyone out side of class and the library."

"You work to hard sometimes you know? You a talented witch Y/n you can take a break now and then."

She uttered the password to the fat lady and our conversation was cut off by the loud music of David Bowie that was playing over an enchanted speaker. Lily smiled as she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the common room and towards Mary and Marline.

After some talking, dancing and drinking the girls dispersed over the room to talk to other friends leaving me sat on the window sill with my glass of fire whisky, very buzzed.

"Is this seat taken?" A boy I recognised from Herbology asked with a smile.

I shook my head and moved up to make space for the Hufflepuff boy to slot himself in next to me.

"I don't know if we've met properly, I'm Michael we've got Herbology together."

I nodded with a smile as I looked at him for a second. He was cute. He was obviously nervous and blushing and he'd clearly been running his hands through his curly light brown hair since it looked more messy and out of place than the rest of him.

"Yeah I know, I'm Y/n. Having fun?"

"Yeah I am thank you, it's a great atmosphere in here and I just didn't want to leave such a pretty girl like you sat over here all by yourself." He chuckled lightly to himself as he looked away, unable to hold eye contact with me.

He chucked differently to Sirius, instead of sounding confident and self assured it was more shy and sweet. He didn't look anything like Sirius either, Michael was cute with pink cheeks and fluffy hair. Sirius was hot with a cocky personality and looked as if he was carved out of stone.

Micheal continued to chat my ear off with Herbology facts and compliments but he could never seem to build up the confidence to look me in the eyes.

I couldn't help but let my eyes wander across the room as I smiled at the sight of my friends dancing stupidly to an ABBA song that was making Remus pretend to plug his ears.

As I looked over to the other side of the room I finally spot Sirius who was leaning against the wall with a cup in his hand staring directly at me.

I quickly looked away back at Micheal but not before noticing Sirius stand up from the wall and head towards me.

"Yeah so that's why without Herbology potions would be completely useless, so basically half of the magical abilities we have would be completely worthless without-"

"Mind if I borrow her for a second?" Sirius says from behind my shoulder, causing me to take a big sip from my cup.

"Oh uh yeah of course, I'll see you in class." Micheal said to me with a big smile, finally meeting my eyes before scurrying off into the crowd.

"Wanna get some fresh air for a second?" Sirius asked, offering his hand to help me up.

"Why would I go anywhere with you?"

"Because I'll talk to you about something other than just Herbology." He said with a laugh.

I looked up at him for a second debating my options, maybe it's the whiskey or the fact that he was genuinely smiling at me but I took his hand and followed him out to the courtyard.

We walked in a comfortable silence, both of us finishing our drinks before he picked a bench to sit on.

December would be here soon and it was obvious by the fact that I could see my breath in front of me.

He wordlessly shook off his jacket and handed it to me.

I just looked at him dumbfounded for a second before he sighed and shook his head.

"Your shivering idiot. See I don't only think of myself, just put the damn jacket on."

I looked at him for another second before sliding my arms through the jacket and pulling it closer to me, it smelt like sandalwood, cigarettes and mint.

"You smoke?" He asked while taking the blunt from behind his ear and lighting it with the end of his wand.

"Sometimes." I said and he chuckled before inhaling and passing it over to me.

"So why'd you ask me to come out here?" I put the blunt in between my lips before inhaling, letting the smoke warm my throat and lungs before tilting my head back against the wall and exhaling, I looked over at him to see him already staring at me and gesturing for me to give the blunt back.

"Maybe I'm drunk but I wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah you're definitely drunk."

He laughed and shook his head, taking another hit.

"What you said the other days been bothering me."

I quirked an eyebrow at him, "My words had an effect of the all mighty Sirius Black? Oh my." We both laughed as I lent over to take the blunt from his fingers and bring it to my lips again.

"Yeah your words, along with other things. Do people really think that of me? That I'm just a privileged twat with a confidence program?" He lent back against the wall, using his fingers to comb through his hair.

"You want to know the truth?" I asked with a small smile, a mix of booze and weed making me more confident than I should be.

He nodded, taking the blunt from my hand.

"I was jealous, and annoyed. You're just amazing at everything so easily and I feel like I have to work so hard. And you just waltz in with your effortless smile and pretty face and everything just comes to you."

He laughed again and turned to look at me, taking a last long inhale before stubbing out the blunt onto the floor.

"It's not effortless, you don't know half of it."

"I'd like to."

He lent over to move some hair from my face and tuck it gently behind my ear, letting his hand linger for a second.

"Maybe you will. I don't think your stuck up by the way, I think your brilliant. You drive Remus mad because of your grades which is saying something."

It was my turn to laugh now, "yeah I wish."

"No really you do. I'm sorry for what I did in potions by the way."

"It's fine it didn't take long to clean."

"No not that. The other thing I did in potions." He bit his lip for a second and I could've sworn he wasn't sat that close to me before.

"Oh that? It's fine it's not like I pushed you away." I awkwardly looked forward towards the view in front of us, suddenly very interested in the frozen spiderwebs in the corner.

"Would you care if I did it again? Just out of curiosity." I looked over at him to see that famous Sirius Black smile.

I laughed a little and allowed myself to move closer to him.

"Well there's only one way for you to find out isn't there?"

He laughed again, his finger tracing the bottom of my jaw softly.

He looked at me for a second before leaning in to push his lips against mine again.

There was less rush this time, his touch was softer and gentle. Maybe it was the taste of whiskey and weed coming from him but it was intoxicating.

He pulled away for a second, resting his forehead against mine.

"You called my face pretty." He whispered with a breathless laugh.

"Well you called me brilliant."

He shrugged for a second before I pulled him against me again, tangling my hand into his hair with a smile.

[yoon-kooks]

better than sex | myg | 1

🍑Pairing: Yoongi x Producer!Reader

🍑Genre: fluff, smut, studio!au

🍑Summary: As Min Yoongi’s studio neighbor and self-proclaimed nemesis, you’ve always seen him as someone who knew how to maintain a clean, well-put-together image without any careless slip-ups. But after nearly walking in on him with a hand around his cock, you gain a new perspective that leads to steamy fantasies in your bedroom and much-needed inspiration in the studio for Bangtan’s next album. A week before track submissions are due, you give Yoongi a taste of the dirty demo, and now the selfish bastard wants to claim it for his own solo album. In exchange, he offers to help you produce another Bangtan track by the end of the week. Your only condition is for this track to be better than the sexual fantasies that inspired its predecessor.

🍑Word Count: 4.7k

🍊Parts: 1 ◆ 2

🍑Warnings: yoongi touches boobs, masturbation (m/f), a lot more smut to come in future chapters

🍑A/N: this fic started as a shower thought🚿

As a songwriter and producer, you’re expected to create something out of nothing. You’re expected to turn a blank canvas into the next big hit—something unique, something that would never exist without you. But the thing is, nothing is truly ever spawned out of thin air. Like superheroes who save the world, every song has its own origin story.

This, of course, includes the final track you’ve been working on for Bangtan’s next album. As with many of your best tracks, inspiration hit you while you were showering at one in the morning. Sometimes the inspiration is a reflection of how good or bad your day went. Sometimes it’s sparked by the fruity dessert you just devoured, or the heated breakup you witnessed on your walk home. But not this one.

This one was lust. More specifically, it was the lust you felt after entering Genius Lab with pure intentions and leaving with the vivid mental image of Min Yoongi jerking off in his studio. You hadn’t caught him outright with his hand around his cock, but you certainly walked in before he had time to hide the evidence. You’d always thought him to be a man who never slips up, never shows any sign of weakness. 

But boy did he slip up.

One week ago

“Hey Piano Guy, can I borrow you for a sec?” You knock on the studio door next to yours. “I have a melody in my head right now, and I think it’d sound kinda sick on the piano.”

After 30 seconds, there’s still no response. You could always work it out on the piano by yourself, but it’s a lot easier with an extra set of hands. And besides, you don’t hate the idea of spending time with the handsome boy.

“Yoongi, please. Before I forget how it goes. My memory is fading, please.” Just as you raise your fist to pound on his door some more, it swings open. Yoongi leans against the doorframe with a hand in his pocket. The first thing he does is pinch down on the hem of your sleeve, coaxing you to lower your fist out of his face. You don’t think too much about how his forehead and cheeks are looking extra dewy today. He smells like his usual cedarwood cologne, so you don’t suppose he just finished working out, either.

“Isn’t it too early for you to be picking fights with me?” His voice is low and calm, almost like he’d just woken up. On most days, you probably would fight him—he’s the enemy, after all. Not like an actual enemy, though. Just someone who goes along with your banter and gives you something to look forward to at work. Unfortunately, there’s no time for his teasing when there’s a billion-dollar melody on the line.

“I’m not picking a fight with you.” As you correct him, you do a mental calculation of the space between Yoongi’s body and the opposite side of the doorframe. A tight fit, but it might be just enough room to weasel your way in. “I’m enlisting your help for a potential song idea.” 

He must’ve caught a glimpse of that mischievous sparkle in your eye because he’s quick to put his arm up across the entrance. “Don’t even think about it.” 

You frown, but it doesn’t last long. With a playful grin and fluttery eyelashes, you say, “C’mon, this could be the hook that wins Bangtan a Grammy.”

You notice his fingers slowly slipping against the doorframe. The ends of his lips curve upward ever so slightly. This barricade is coming down whether he likes it or not.

Yoongi looks behind him, combs his fingers through his hair, and lets out a sigh. “You need me? Like right now?”

It’s hard to tell if he’s genuinely trying to shoo you away or if he just wants you to admit that you enjoy being around him. Usually, it’s the latter. But he does seem a bit off today.

“I mean, I could ask Namjoon—”

“Five minutes,” Yoongi cuts you off, dragging you with him into his lair and mumbling to himself about “the things he does for you” and how “you act like you can’t figure it out yourself on the guitar.” You take a seat at the piano bench and pull the boy down right beside you. He supposedly only has a handful of minutes to spare in his busy schedule, and yet here he is, taking his sweet time warming up with some scales.

Either he doesn’t trust Namjoon’s piano skills, or someone’s a little jealous.

For as many times as you’ve watched Yoongi at the piano, it never gets old. His long fingers stroke each key so gracefully, yet with purpose. It takes way more than a few years of dedication and a genuine love of the instrument to be at his level. It’s mesmerizing.

“So what’s this Grammy award-winning banger you speak of?” he asks, creating his own piano version of Yet To Come. Oh right, the banger. How did it go again?

You search every inch of your brain, but instead of recalling the melody you felt so confident in, all you find are Yoongi’s piano covers of Bangtan songs. Well this is awkward.

“It… kind of disappeared from my memory,” you say in a hushed voice, still staring down at the keys. In your defense, Yoongi was a huge distraction with those dexterous piano fingers.

He stops mid-measure and shakes his head at you. “Tsk, tsk, Y/N.” Rather than annoyed, he’s amused. “So were you just using that as an excuse to infiltrate Genius Lab or what?”

You roll your eyes. Yoongi always acts like his studio is some sort of sacred chamber only accessible to those he deems worthy. Maybe you should set up your own high-tech security system for your studio so that you don’t get 20 weekly visits from him like an alley cat coming back for more table scraps.

“Bold assumption, but I only came here with the purest of intentions.” With a hmph, you slide your ass off the bench. Instead of heading for the door, you wander over to the side of his studio with all of the fancy producer equipment. You make yourself comfortable and spin around in his big cushy chair. It’s still radiating leftover heat from Yoongi’s own ass cheeks. “Were you in the middle of something just before I got here?”

The boy strides over, waiting for you to have your back to his desk. He steadies the chair with a strong hand so that you’re facing him and can’t spin around anymore. “That’s confidential information.”

“This chair is still warm, so you were obviously sitting here working on something. You might as well fess up.” You hug your knees to your chest and peer up at him with wonder. “Is it your solo album?”

He doesn’t answer you right away. It’s a yes-or-no question. There shouldn’t be anything to think about. Eventually, though, he shakes his head.

You try not to frown so he doesn’t see your disappointment. Ever since D-2, you’ve been patiently waiting for a solo album from him. Because you’d love to snag a spot on it as one of the producers he collaborates with. But Yoongi doesn’t need to know that right now.

“Can you at least give me a hint, then?” You hop out of the chair, scurry around the boy, and examine his desk. Not much is on it aside from his computer, a few MIDI controllers, and a black bottle of cologne. You wiggle the mouse around to wake the computer up, but the screen remains dark. “Seriously? You turned your computer off so I wouldn’t be able to snoop? Is that why it took you a decade to answer the door?”

“We all know how nosy you are. Like a curious kitten.” His voice comes from right behind you. With the clicks of several buttons, the computer screen flashes on, and he types his password in faster than you can decode it. He takes control of the mouse, but you don’t move out of the way. You can feel just how close his body is to yours, and the cedarwood is starting to drown your mind in mildly dangerous thoughts.

As Yoongi looks through his files for a track that’s “safe enough to show you,” your eyes lock onto the fancy black bottle of that intoxicating cologne. It looks expensive, sleek, and something you’d want to get your paws on. 

You scan the bottle for a brand, a name for the scent—anything that will help you get ahold of what’s on Yoongi’s body. But all you find on the front side of the bottle is a simple product description: Personal Moisturizer.

That’s definitely not cologne. 

You quickly turn back to the computer screen. An unfinished hip-hop track you’ve never heard before is playing in the background. You don’t even know when Yoongi pressed play. All you know is that you can’t exactly focus on music right now.

You’ve been in Yoongi’s studio plenty of times, and you’ve never seen this bottle sitting so casually on his desk like that. Probably because it’s normally stored away where curious kittens would never check. If it’s still lying around out in the open, then… 

Oh god. You’re so fucking oblivious.

No wonder he was trying to shoo you away. No wonder he looked like he’d just gone through an intense workout. No wonder his chair was still warm but his computer wasn’t on. He wasn’t in the middle of work when you knocked on the door. Min Yoongi was in the middle of jerking off, and you just entered his studio without a single clue.

Oh no. You can’t unsee it. It’s too vivid—the image of him panting, slumped in the same chair you were spinning around in like an idiot, hand around his hard wet cock. The long fingers that danced across the piano keys so elegantly were the same violent set of fingers that stroked him into a fervorous state where every ounce of his stoic demeanor had come undone. If his computer wasn’t on with porn plastered across the screen, you wonder who or what he was getting off to. 

A tiny, tiny part of you hopes it was you on his mind.

The funny thing is, you’ve never once even thought about him like that. Sure, the two of you have some flirty banter going on, but to you, he’s always been the kind of guy who’s more focused on his music than his sex life. And to be honest, it never actually occurred to you that Yoongi did in fact have a sex life. With that small bit of information, you feel like you’ve gained a whole new perspective. This is why they say curiosity killed the cat. It completely shattered the perfect, well-put-together image you had had of him all this time.

You’ll never see Min Yoongi the same way ever again.

When you return home that night, you aren’t thinking about the company meeting you have tomorrow morning, or what you should pack for lunch, or the award-winning melody that vanished into the abyss along with the rest of your rational thoughts.

You plop your body onto your bed and let yourself think of Yoongi. It’s probably a big mistake, but you can’t help it. 

He’s incredibly handsome, you’ve always thought so. And you admire the work he puts into each and every one of his tracks. Likewise, you know he respects you the same. After all, he lets you into his sacred studio more than anyone else. He couldn’t say no to you, even with a whole ass bottle of lube still out in the open.

The image of him with his fingers gripping tightly around his swollen cock haunts your mind once more. His head is thrown back, sweat running down his neck, and he’s out of breath. You want to know how he sounds when he’s overwhelmed with pleasure, when he’s lost all control. His voice is already so raspy, so low, and so goddamn hot. You want him to call you kitten again, but maybe without the “curious” part attached to it. Anything to hear his bedroom voice. A single moan from him might be enough to set you off. 

You unbutton your shorts and slip your fingers beneath the lace of your underwear. To your surprise, you’re already soaked in these erotic fantasies you never thought you’d be having about your studio neighbor. You’ve known the guy for two years, and it’s only now that you’re lusting after him? How did you have that much self-control for so long?

A gasp escapes your throat as you rub around your center. You squirm to your own touch as you apply more pressure and speed. Harder, faster. You love it, but it’s familiar and predictable, and it’s been a while since you’ve been pleasured by someone else’s hands. Your body aches for those long veiny fingers to play with you like a piano.

As the pleasure builds, you wonder how far Yoongi had gotten before you rudely interrupted him. It’d feel pretty shitty to be so close yet denied of it all because you decided to knock on his door right at that moment. If you had known what was truly going on behind that door, would you have still chosen music over lust? Or would you have thrown that Grammy away to learn what Min Yoongi tastes like when he’s overtaken by his deepest desires? 

In the end, it doesn’t really matter because you came out of his studio with neither.

After a rather underwhelming orgasm, you roll off your bed and drag your feet into the bathroom for a hot shower. 

You know you should stop while you’re still ahead. Fantasies need to remain fantasies and nothing more. Sex between you and Yoongi isn’t going to happen. It’s not worth sacrificing the music you need to be making with him instead of love. You hate that you were considering it for even a second.

But your irrational desires need an outlet.

As hot water trickles down your body, the steam clouds your thoughts. And in the haze, you long for something new and different. Now that you know what you know, you wish Yoongi would show you that other side of himself, the side he keeps hidden behind those studio doors. 

You want it so bad.

And that’s when it hits you.

It’s been a week since you visited Yoongi in his studio on that fateful morning. You’ve been hard at work, piecing together the final track for Bangtan’s album. The demo is nearly complete, and you’re actually super satisfied with how it’s turning out. The vibe is sensual, full of temptation, and far dirtier than any other track with your name on it. 

It only makes sense that the file name for this track is “sex.wav,” which will of course be changed before anyone else sees it. You’ve always had a bad habit of naming your track files based on the first thing that comes to mind, and it really shows where your head has been at this week.

Even Jimin, who helped you record the demo, asked if there was some sort of recent breakthrough in your sex life. When you told him no, he winked and said, “Yoongi is single, you know.” Sometimes you regret confiding in Jimin about your desire to make it onto Yoongi’s solo album because now he’s under the impression that you have some sort of crush on the rapper.

For the record, you don’t have feelings for Yoongi. It’d just be nice to fuck him once, get it out of your system, and the two of you will probably be back to the usual harmless banter that keeps you going every day.

You have to admit, though, your sexual urges came through when you needed them most. After losing the precious (and very wholesome) brain cells containing that award-winning melody, you were in desperate need of a new idea to go off of for that final track. Thanks to the hot and bothered part of your brain, you became super inspired and productive. 

For once in your music career, you’re actually a whole week ahead of schedule instead of just barely meeting deadlines at midnight. With the sex.wav demo near completion, you’ll have this week to relax and take time for yourself.

Thank you, Min Yoongi.

“Y/N, can I come in?” Speaking of the devil, Yoongi pops his head in the doorway. It’s his third visit to your studio this week, and it’s only Monday.

“Come, come,” you say, gesturing for him to hurry on in. You’re confident he’ll vibe with the track, and you’re excited to hear what he has to say about it.

“Jimin told me you guys finished recording the demo,” he says over your shoulder. He places a hand on top of your chair and leans his weight against it like he owns the place.

“We did.” You sit up tall in your chair with a healthy glow and hand the boy some headphones. “I might still go back and tweak a few things, but it’s pretty much done.”

You stare up at him shamelessly as he focuses all of his attention on your demo. Yoongi is the type of guy who doesn’t react or say much on his first listen. He’ll always listen with an open mind and give you his honest opinion once he’s had time to take it all in. That’s why he’s always one of the first people you show your work to.

When the demo ends, he doesn’t hit replay. Instead, he hangs the headphones around his neck and stares at your computer screen, deep in thought. You start to think he hated it so much that he can’t even give it a second listen and he’s trying to find the right words to tell you.

“Why did you name the file sex.wav?” Ah shit, he wasn’t supposed to see that. No one was.

“It’s sexy, isn’t it?” you say softly, starting to shrink in your chair. He still hasn’t said whether he likes it or not.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He drums his fingertips against your desk. You wonder if those fingers have touched any cock lately. “It’s different from your usual stuff.”

You just blink at him, unsure of how to react. Good different or bad different?

“Good different,” he clarifies, as if he’s read your mind. He’s still not giving you much to go off of, though. And you’re starting to get impatient.

Yoongi looks at you, opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it. You’ve never seen the boy so speechless.

“What?” you ask. If he doesn’t spit it out right now, you’re going to lose it.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Please.” It’s hard to read his straight face, but something’s definitely on his mind. You need to know what’s bothering him.

“Who inspired it?” he asks. Not what. Who. This must be his not-so-subtle way of asking who you’ve been sleeping with. It’s none of his business, really. And he knows it. That’s why he was so hesitant to ask in the first place.

“Are you sure you want to hear about all the guys I’ve had sex with?” You casually raise an eyebrow at him and watch closely for a reaction. Maybe it’ll make him jealous.

“It’s about all the sex you’ve ever had?” He looks like he’s not fully convinced. No, it’s actually about the sex you haven’t had. The good kind. The wild kind. The kind that ends with you all tangled in the sheets with Min Yoongi. But you can’t tell him that.

“I’m just fucking with you. I wish I could say I’ve had good enough sex to inspire this track.” You take a jab at yourself, but you really hope you aren’t coming across as lonely or needy for a man. 

Yoongi’s face relaxes a little more, still drumming those fingers against your desk. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

He doesn’t elaborate on that, nor do you ask him to.

“Can I have it?” he asks out of nowhere. Have what? Sex with you? “On my solo album?”

Oh.

“You want this track on your album?” Is the boy really tempting you with something you’ve waited so long for? Of course you want to scream yes, but… “You’d really steal from Bangtan to claim it as your own?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I sound like a selfish asshole,” he pouts. Since when did Min Yoongi ever pout? You’ve never seen this side of him either. It’s fascinating.

You bite your lip. “Yoongi, I’d be down, but the deadline is approaching and I’m going to be one track short if I give you this one.” 

“When’s the deadline?”

“Next Monday.”

The boy pulls out his phone and flicks his thumb across the screen. If you had to guess, he’s checking his schedule.

“I’ll help you produce another one for Bangtan,” he says so casually and confidently.

“Are you sure you’ll have time for that?” You don’t know Yoongi’s full schedule off the top of your head, but you do recall Jimin mentioning this week would be hectic for the group.

“I’ll make time.” All he does is shrug. “I should be free after 10 on most nights. Sunday, I can be in the studio by 6AM—”

“Yoongi.” You stop him before he can say anything else outrageous. Not that you’re being any more rational. You’re about to kiss your much-deserved week of freedom goodbye all for this boy with a pouty lip. “I’ll see what I can do, and you can pitch in. But please don’t overwork yourself for this.” You point at the screen, at the track he wants so badly.

He nods. “Thanks, Y/N.”

You want to ask Yoongi what he’ll give you in return for doing him this favor, but you aren’t really interested in anything from him aside from his company. And maybe sex. 

Instead, you ask, “May I ask why you want this track so badly?”

“Because I like it.” He pulls the headphones off his neck and hangs them around yours. There’s no way he fell in love with the track after listening to it only once. That’s unheard of for him. There must be another reason. “Oh, and I also heard you wanted a spot on my solo album.”

You’re going to kill Park Jimin.

“Right,” you say, spinning your chair around so that Yoongi can’t see the nasty texts you’re sending to his friend.

Y/N💅 [8:23PM] “fuck you park jimin”

Y/N💅 [8:23PM] “i thought we agreed not to tell my nemesis that id like to be on his solo album”

Jimin🍡 [8:24PM] “Yoongi’s your nemesis?”

Jimin🍡 [8:24PM] “I thought you had a raging boner for him🍆”

Y/N💅 [8:24PM] “i hate you btw”

“You have a raging boner for me?” You hear a mix of shock, amusement, and arrogance over your shoulder. But mostly arrogance. You lock your phone screen even though it’s already too late. You’ve been caught. Evidently, you aren’t the only nosy one here.

You swing your head around, practically nose to nose with your nemesis. He can probably feel the heat radiating from your cheeks. But you don’t back off. Instead, you glare. “Neither you nor Jimin know what you’re talking about.”

“I guess only you know then, Y/N.” Yoongi doesn’t back away either. He eyes your lips the way you eye a strawberry popsicle on the hottest day of the year. You make a conscious effort to not let your eyes do the same. You don’t need to be reminded of how perfectly plush his lips must feel against everything they touch.

But if he wants to play this game with you, you’ll play along. And you won’t lose.

You lean in closer and graze your cheek against his. In a hushed voice, you say, “Do you want to know who really inspired that track?”

He nods against your skin. Your lips tickle his ear.

“I was visiting a friend last week, and I left his place with a new perspective. I thought, maybe this guy wasn’t just the grumpy asshole workaholic I knew him to be. Maybe he’d been hiding this dirty, sexed-up side of himself the whole time.” You pause for dramatic effect. “Do you want to know why I thought this?”

He nods again.

“You forgot to hide your personal moisturizer before I walked into your studio.” You finally lean back to see the look on his face. His pupils are huge, his lips are parted, but he doesn’t necessarily look embarrassed for someone who was practically caught with his hands in his pants.

In fact, the more time he spends thinking about it, the more he realizes what your story says about you. “So what you’re saying is that you do in fact have a raging boner for me and I was your inspiration for that sex track? I’m honored.”

You hate that he’s such a good listener who knows how to dissect every word you say.

“Would y’all quit saying I have a raging boner?” You roll your eyes, but it does feel oddly satisfying when Yoongi and Jimin treat you like one of the guys.

“What should I call it then?” Yoongi chuckles. He doesn’t do it often, but you like it when he laughs. “Horny eyes? Unfulfilled sexual desires? A wet p—”

You get up and give him a light shove against the desk. He’s still got a smirk on his face as you pin him there. “Call it a severe distaste for your bullshit,” you say sweetly with a handful of his shirt in your fist. 

A strong hand cups your chin. He leans in close enough for you to smell the minty lip balm you always see him applying. You want to taste it. “Admit it,” he says, “You like my bullshit.”

You feel each of his words against your lips. By the time he reached “bullshit,” you’d already pressed your lips into his. He doesn’t fight it. You taste the mint, then his tongue.

His hands start to wander along your curves. He finds the bare skin between your crop top and high-waisted shorts and works his way up your ribs. You hope he can’t feel the goosebumps when his thumbs sneak into your bra and flirt with the sides of your breasts. You just want him to keep exploring and familiarizing himself with your body. 

In the next moment, he has you pinned in with your ass on top of the desk. In front of you is not the grumpy idol boy you’ve maintained a clean, professional relationship with for the past two years. The Yoongi standing here between your thighs is an irresistible temptation. He’s your fantasy turned reality. And maybe he wants you as much as you want him. 

But before you can loop your limbs around him and lasso him in for more, he steps back and points his thumb at the door. “I have to get back to my studio.”

No, he doesn’t. He’s just playing hard to get. And you hate him for it.

“To work or to jerk off?” you call out as he walks further and further away from you.

“Work, of course,” he sings. You don’t believe him. He’s a liar and a tease. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Y/N. To work on the new track.”

You almost forgot about that replacement track. After all, Yoongi’s hands and lips were pretty big distractions that you once again fell victim to. But regardless of the hold he thinks he has on you now, you still want to establish strict criteria for the song you’ll be working on with him. Only one thing comes to your flustered mind.

“Wait, Yoongi.” You wait for him to turn back around in the doorway. There’s still a hint of a smile lingering on his face. He probably thinks you’re calling him back for some more studio mischief. Too bad he’s wrong. “I have one condition for that new track.”

“Go on.”

“It has to be better than the sex track I’m giving you for your solo album.” You kick your legs back and forth—the same legs that could’ve been squeezing Yoongi’s waist in a heated makeout session right about now. “Way better.”

You won’t accept anything less from the man.

“So it has to be better than your cute little erotic fantasies of me?” Yoongi puts a hand up. Then he’s gone. “Shouldn’t be an issue.”

[egoistars]

ACE FORGOT YOUR BIRTHDAY LMFAO twst

ace trappola, self proclaimed genius, child prodigy, magician, seer, schizophrenic? realized he forgot your birthday and vows to make it up to you

warnings: swearing, kms jokes, unserious angst, ace

ace trappola was going to kill himself.

he woke up in a cold sweat, wide awake and panting as panic was running through his veins on high speed, stabbing his flesh at every breath. deuce slept soundly in the bed opposite of his, snoring without a care in the world. the vision of you crying in bed, wailing about celebrating your birthday all alone replayed in his mind over and over again, each time like a bullet to his heart.

"how can you be this relaxed?" ace angrily thought as he marched up to his roommate's bed like a toddler telling his parents that he "frew up". but this was no vomit incident or potty accident. no, ace trappola was a big boy now who had to take responsibility and make sure his friends did as well.

"deuce spade," ace boomed into the blue-haired boy with pronoun's ear. he did not move. deuce drooled a little in response actually which pissed the redhead off even more. he took the shoulders of his roommate and began shaking him so fast and hard a stripper's ass was shivering in fear.

"what the-"

"deucey we have a problem," ace wasted no time explaining the issue. "prefect's birthday was yesterday and we forgot about it."

"WHAT?! why didn't they tell us?" deuce cried, his mouth comically wide open.

"i don't know, okay?! but we gotta make it up to them!"

now normally, ace wouldn't give a shit. oops, he would think, and move on with his day. but no, you were special. against all scientific odds, ace trappola developed an embarrassingly fat crush on you and when accidentally spilling it to epel one time, the country boy told him it was "cringe" and he knew epel was right.

but it's okay! ace was pretty confident in himself. i mean, the boy could pull anyone he wanted! he was delusional enough to believe that he was a master of rizz. that man popped out of the womb reciting all laws of quantum rizzics. that heart on his face? it proved it. however, now that ace forgot about your birthday, his chances of dating you were pretty much imaginary by now. all you were going to do was get a rizztraining order against him.

"what should we do?" deuce worriedly asked ace, "should we get trey to bake them a cake and call everyone up?"

ace huffed a deep breath of determination, ready to make things right.

"deuce, get ortho and help trey with the cake and meet me outside of ramshackle as soon as possible. i'll get sebek, epel, and jack so we can get gifts for prefect."

"i got this, bro."

"i knew i could count on you, bro."

the pair dabbed each other up like the disgusting, smelly teenage boys they were and ran out of their dorm.

。。。

the sun was starting to rise and the gang of first years gathered outside of ramshakle dormitory, swallowing their shame and exhaustion. as ace double, triple, quadruple checked everything, epel kept on yawning every 30 seconds, jack was uncomfortably adjusting the party hat between his beast ears, and sebek was vocally quiet for once as he was enamored by human party favors.

"alright gang, once they open the door, sebek blow the party favor because no one wants to hear you sing-"

sebek angrily tooted, hitting ace in the face with paper.

"-deuce show them the cake, and the rest of us will sing happy birthday and take turns giving them presents, got it?"

a chorus of "yes" said in various voices and volumes responded to ace's question. the boy knocked three times on the old, wooden door with a gloved hand and proceeded to nervously wait.

a low creaking brought forth your face into view.

"...why the fuck are you guys here so early?"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PREFECT!" your friends screamed into your ear ( sebek could only toot ).

before anyone could start singing, the confusion in your face shut them all up.

"uh, my birthday is in three months. are you guys okay?"

deuce dropped the cake. epel started screaming profanities, ortho started crying, sebek sadly tooted, jack was tired, ace trappola was going to fucking kill himself if his friends didn't kill him first.

[boobpancakes]

"Play dead, the Strauds are around."

This is the start of a story that should have been rearing it's ugly end. Vladislaus Straud has been alive for too long--far too long--and was hoping for a future where he would get a stake in the chest. Luckily enough, the world's deities have proven time and time again that they hate him on a deeply personal level. There is no rest for the wicked.

Cue a light rapping on his door one evening, and the faces of two rather unamused and apathetic teenagers staring at him as if he was a wad of chewed-up gum that got stuck to their shoes.

"Hello, father," the girl drawls, not even bothering to glance his way.

"Hi," is all the boy grunts out.

Vlad is struck with shock, a feeling he thought he would never meet again, and he regards the children with hostility, "I don't have children."

But the resemblance is uncanny, and the two children stop disregarding him long enough to look at him in a mix of shock and disgust.

"Why would I ever joke about that. Have you looked at yourself?"

- Meet the Straud Family -

Vladislaus Straud - Evil, Loner, Music Lover - The most despised villain in all the lands, and apparent illegitimate father. Now tasked with the well-being of two teenagers, can our favorite ne'er-do-well survive the burden of adolesence?

Violeta Straud - High Maintenance, Materialistic - The older twin (by 38 minutes) and the self-proclaimed "personality" of the two. Violeta rejects the part of herself that is a vampire and longs only to live the life of a normal teenage girl. She sates her need for blood by chewing on anyone who tries to pick fights with her brother.

Vincent Straud - Gloomy, Kleptomaniac - The younger twin (with no complex surely) and the self-proclaimed "genius" of the two. Vincent happens to adore the supernatural aspects of his vampirism, and uses his enhanced senses to rob people he hates blind. Has begun sleeping in caskets to channel his "inner undead," as he says.

[caseylicious]

Hello! I love your rottmnt work!! I just finished binge reading them!

Is it alright if I request a rise!Donnie x Shy! Mad Scientist reader?

Like April introduces her “normal” friend and Donnie is shook (and in love) when reader starts talking complex science out of nowhere.

Thank you so much!!

"In The Name of SCIENCE!"

Summary: April introduces her "normal" friend to Donnie. How will he deal with his feelings finding out that the reader is a "Mad Scientist?"

Character: Donnie

Reader: GENDER NEUTRAL (not specified in request.)

Relationship: CRUSH (Not specified in request)

Warnings: THE MOST WHOLESOME PIECE IVE EVER WRITTEN IS ABOUT TO BE SHOWN. TAKE CAUTION...

Words: 2158

A/N: Sir/Miss, I am in LOVE with your request!! It sounds so cute already, and I am so excited to just type this. Thank you for reading my work! You're so sweet.

As always! Please, Enjoy 💐

[ If you have any constructive criticism or corrections for any of my English do let me know! :) ]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 💐

"April, are you really sure...?" You tilted your hooded head to her, with a hushed voice. Your (maybe only) friend, April; placed her attention onto you. She smiled, wrapping her arm around your shoulder. "Yeah! Y/N, don't worry! My boy Donnie is one of the smartest people I know! You'll get along just fine." You nodded hesitantly, not sure of what's to come as you both began to walk out of your school.

A few weeks ago, you became friends with the one addresses herself as, "April O' Neil." You as an individual tend to fall side to more of the "Weird" part of society. Not seeing any interest in cheerleading or Volleyball. You didn't feel right in those "categories." Which made you sort of a "creep" in your high school. And you genuinely didn't blame them. You couldn't imagine yourself wearing tight dresses which expose skin; it was ridiculous! What if you were in a situation in which you had to run away due to an outside threat? What would that unnecessary tight dress do for you? Other than exposing more skin to be harmed, it was an idiot move.

Which was why you chose to be practical. You attempted to share your ideas with others... but they just didn't see your ideas normal. They doubted that you could even reach such goals. They were just... impossible. You proved yourself and them wrong; and you so bad wanted to rant to people about your inventions. But nobody wanted to listen, you were just too weird.

It didn't really affect your mood that much. It's not like you thought badly of yourself. Heavens no, you knew your self worth. You could do things others just couldn't. You enjoyed most of your time alone in school, but sometimes... it just gets lonely.

You felt lonely, and that ate you up immensely. That was until you met April. She asked you about the app you created on your phone, which surprised you. Somebody asking about your creation? Your own baby? You answered shyly and she was amazed. You remembered the situation perfectly due to your "photographic" memory.

"Wow Y/N! That's actually helpful to society!" She leaned over from her chair to look into your phone. It was customized to your aesthetic. She was exactly 5 inches away from you. She was wearing an eyeshadow which contained ingredients which wouldn't harm the planet nor animals, and you could tell she was chewing on a mint for half of the class.

You had to think for a quick second on what to say, You were a genius. Obviously, but you knew your shy aspects would get in the way of a basic fast: "Thank you." You came to a conclusion just nodding your head.

Which... now leads you here. During those weeks of becoming "strangers, acquaintance, to inner circle." She asked you to meet some of her other friends, and it freaked you out a lot. April was one of the only people that seemed to tolerate your hyper fixations and rants about your lover, science. You weren't afraid of her proclaimed "friends." No. You were afraid of embarrassing her in front of her them. You didn't want to be the reason why her reputation decreases because of your weirdness. However, you did want to make her happy by participating, and you did.

You were dressed in a "normal-looking" attire and brushed your hair to the point where it didn't poof up like the many times of experimentation you did. Your hands tinkering with each other, you looked confusedly at the sewer manhole you and April stood in front of. "..Errm, April you understand this is a manhole, yes?" She chuckled, "Y/N! I'm not that dumb y'know? Pfft... This is where my friends live."

You were confused to her logic as her carefree face changed to a firm look. A look of maturity and seriousness, she faced you. "Y/N, you have to promise me whatever you see down there. That you won't freak out nor tell people about them." What was she talking about? You wouldn't freak out- you've done things that freaked out people to a degree where they questioned if you were mentally ill. "April.. you know I've done weird. I don't really see how your friends will freak me out." She looked at you, almost as if she was looking for your soul. Your will to live. "And... you're sure?"

You take a deep breathe, nodding with confirmation. "Yes, I am sure." Her face relaxed as you both ascended down the manhole.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 💐

💜 Donnie

Raph has awoken all his brothers in the lair, due to the text April sent a couple days ago. She was going to introduce them to one of her own friends. Leo himself was excited to show off his skills to another person other than his brothers and April, Raph was excited to meet another person which was friends with April, and Mikey in general was excited to meet you... it was Donnie who was a bit doubtful.

Donnie was an unique individual, it didn't make him less of a person. It was just he saw the world differently. He saw logic while others may see emotions and feelings. He was aware of this and was still learning on how to react to things with a bit more empathy... but he really couldn't due to his low empathy. He decided that he was going to be a respectful person as April gave you a tour around the lair.

"Okay boys, you all know the drill right?" His older brother held some empty pizza boxes, cleaning up. Mikey nodded as he placed away his crayons. "Yep! Oooo!! I just can't wait to meet April's new friend!" A chuckle escaped Leo as he organized each of his Jupiter Jim comics. He glanced towards the turtle which only sat on the bean bag and scrolled on his phone. "Donnie, you plan on cleaning the lair?"

He smirked, "Oh, what you don't see Leo... I came up with a mechanic which would clean the lab for me! So while you three do simple activities like that, I chose to be practical." Leo groaned rolling his eyes, "You didn't plan on making a bot which could do that job for us?" Leo stood up, stretching down. "It could've be.. real practical for like- y'know. us?" Donnie frowned to Leo's poor memory.

"Last time I created an invention that did simple chores for you, each of you decided to tinker with it." He wasn't wrong, though.. he did make the bot be biased and favor him out of the other brothers. And be almost a body guard for him... but we don't talk about that.

Leo frowned, "well. You created the thing to be all biased over you!" Donnie gasped. "Scoff! Well if it weren't for you touching Shelldon, he would've killed me. Replacing me as your "new brother."

"Yeahh, but we saved your life didn't we?" Leo grinned mischievously, leaning over on one of the handle of his blades. "Oh yeahh! We did!" Donnie grumbled to himself, "Yes... you all did. Even so- still your fault." Before the conversation could continue, they all heard Raph shout- "THEY'RE ALMOST HERE!" And they all, except Donnie scrambled to get everybody tidied up.

- - - - - - - - - -

April's voice echoed down the hole, "We're almost there Y/N!" You nodded as you stepped down each step. Your gloves kept you from slipping, though you wondered how many times April had to step down the manhole to not fall down. You tried imagining what people April chose to hang out with. They probably were cool...

You were snapped out of your imagination when your foot reached a flat surface. You got off the ladder with April and you could see an orange-yellowish light. You hesitated for a second. This was it, the moment that every "lonely" person had to face. Meeting with people that you don't even know about for the first time ever. April was a couple steps ahead of you. "C'mon Y/N! They're right here!" You quickly nodded, running over. And that's when you came face-to-face with something you've never seen before.

Were they... turtles? Mutant? Your shoulders were tense as you stared at each one of them. A common response for.. most people. "Y/N, this is Raph..." She directed to the large red turtle. He waved towards you with a toothy grin. "Nice meeting ya!" You nodded shyly. "This is Leo..." The blue bandana-turtle brought out his hand towards you. "Nice meeting one of Aprils' friends." You nodded again shyly, shaking his hand. "This is-" Mikey jumped towards you, making you step back a couple steps. "Michelangelo! But call me Mikey!" His grin was so bright that you had to blink a couple times to see again. "And finally, this is..."

Your eyes climbed up to meet with the purple turtles'. "Greetings, I am Donatello. But please refer me as Donnie." He stood in a way that somehow made you relax. There was something about him you just didn't know, but relate too. Quickly getting yourself out of your thoughts, you introduced yourself. "H- hello... I am Y/N L/N... It's nice meeting all of you." Your voice squeaked a little and you covered your mouth embarrassed. Donnie assumed that you didn't understand science to your "regular" looking attire. Genuinely, he assumes everybody around him doesn't understand science and engineering the way he does.

After a few awkward stares, April chose to give you a tour. You found out that Leo's room was decorated in merchandise of Jupiter Jim, a show which almost each of the brothers cherished. You also noticed that his room seemed to be one of the "best" ones you've seen in a sewer. But let's be honest, have you ever gone into a sewer with a actual rooms? You've done a decent job at staying "normal" around them all. You didn't suddenly say a comment on their interests nor did you suddenly say random facts. Finally, you came upon Donnie's lab. Before you and April could even enter, The taller purple turtle had to set some ground rules.

"Do not attempt to touch anything. Do not try stealing any of my equipment, because I will know- and do not-" April sighed, "Yeah, yeah D. We get it!" You felt April nudge you a bit. She seemed to "know" that you'd get along with him immediately. He was the first familiar name he heard when you were walking with her.

The doors opened, as smoke exited the room. A dramatic entrance; exquisite. April walked in with Donnie. You walked in last hearing a loud slam of the lab doors. You breathed in some of the smoke, causing you to cough all of it out. When you cleaned out your lungs you were surprised to see inventions that you didn't know someone could make. You made an audible gasp walking towards the metal. Donnie stepped forwards quickly. "Hey- what did I just say-"

You probably spoke too soon, because your "norm" bubble all of sudden popped. You just knew so much about the material, how could you not share?

"Is this titanium?! Where did you get it? Oh my goodness- did you create it? No- no.. You couldn't have you'd need-"

"ilmenite, leucoxene, and rutile!" He said the words you were about to say. The turtle you noted as distant seemed to know what you were talking about. "P- precisely! You do know grabbing yourself some uranium could help create some radioactive equipment, right?" He nodded to your claim, because you were precisely correct! April smirked, watching you both infodump one another on the science and engineering behind his inventions.

"The titanium in your shell can get damaged in high-temperature situations you know that right? Exactly above 400 degrees Celsius... and- what tools did you use to sand it? I've tried a normal sanding board, but that didn't work!" "Ah- well, I used a technique of a sanding board and some Aluminum Oxide. They both help remove the rough surface." You grinned widely, explaining to him on your projects. How you were going to attempt to create a network of wires that would help society in a way, that you didn't know yet. But would figure out along the way. He ranted to you about his experiments and successful and failed projects. You bounced ideas on each other. You both didn't pay attention to April suddenly leaving the room to chat with the others.

"Well.. you could've placed a firewall system on Shelldon." You twirled your hair finally feeling like yourself.

He sighed, "You're right... I should've placed one even while he was charging."

He never expected someone like yourself to know all of this information. Your knowledge just made his heart just act a bit funny. Funny enough, just for him to fall in love with you.

[kawaiiwritingcomputer]

Hello✨ May i request a Headcanons for Yandere Genos & Garou? Thank you very much!

🍄: hi hi! Absolutely!!!! i love Garou so much >< i hope you liked these! i’m still trying to get use to writing :3

Yandere Genos Headcanons:

Genos is intelligent and calculative

I just also believe him to be a delusional yandere who just wants to keep you safe

It doesn’t matter what you refer to him as either. He just knows that you’re his and he’s yours.

Genos is always watching over you. He used some of Child Genius’s tech to give to Dr. Kuseno to have access to watch you all the time

He’s watches you all the time and you’re unaware of it

whether you find it overwhelming or charming doesn’t matter to him! he’s always going to be be your side

if you didn’t accept him as yours and still tried “seeing” other people. it’s not like you’d get the chance. Nobody wants to upset Demon Cyborg™️

nobody even understands why it’s such a big deal! and that can be more frustrating if you’re resisting him. You have the perfect “boyfriend” what more could you want?

Him constantly being around you. Pressure from the public who doesn’t understand he’s a stalker!

You do slowly accept your fate with him

Even though it was unsettling at first, having food be cooked for you all the time was slowly becoming a perk. How did he get in? it doesn’t matter (he has a copy)

Genos understands human relationships concepts and does his best accordingly. but his little yandere bug just messes with him sometimes

His grips gets a little too tight if somebody else is talking to you too long but he’ll softly let go if you say ouch

again your safety matters, so he never wants to harm you

It’s a good thing you didn’t force him to have to hurt you. It’s a good thing you accepted him early on

Yandere Garou Headcanons:

The hottest and coldest mf to have as your yandere

You can feel when he’s near just by the piercing gaze of his. You can’t see him but he sees you and you know it

You can’t escape him either

He comes and goes as he pleases with the “soft” reminder that you’re his

You helped him once not realizing who he was

ever since he decided you were his to keep and his keeper as well

You would try to report him but with him always being gone and no evidence of destruction, you’re waved off as boy who cried wolf

Now that nobody’s gonna help you. Garou feels inclined to do whatever

He’s not sleeping on the couch. He’s sleepin in your bed. (he’s gentleman and gives space while sleeping but you both always wake up in each others arms, much to your “displeasure”)

He’s a leech. doesn’t do anything around the house! what a bum

But when you do warm up to him, those nice little hugs from the behind and weird awkward compliments are a little charming

if he wasn’t a self proclaimed hero killer

it’s best to get use to him. Neither of you are leaving this “relationship” if ever.

[nitrozem]

I need a break before I play but here we have...

Fritz Watson - Self proclaimed mad genius, ended up getting abducted by aliens and well...you can guess the rest Marie Watson - Fritz's alien daughter, just a happy little green babe (I just named her after Marie Curie essentially) Sparky - Just a good boy

[sgiandubh]

Jottings: Season 7, Episode 5. Dinna fash, we'll sort it out

The proof is in the pudding: we don't really need to see J&C/S&C all the time on screen, to know an episode is still consistently good, in an overall unexpectedly great season, so far.

Side note: just how hypnotic Bear McCreary's Dance of the Druids must be, to immediately cut all ties to the real world, as you settle on the couch, larva style, with your ice cream (yes! again! B&J's Karamel Sutra Core - more appropriate for last week, but nobody's perfect)?

It would seem this time speed gave precedence to density and even gravitas, because neither war, nor self-assertiveness are jokes. The main theme of the mysteriously named Singapore seems to be the obvious cause and effect relationship between prejudice and miscommunication, or even lack thereof. It doesn't really matter if the year is 1777 or 1979: men will be men, women will be women and idiots will be idiots, regardless of gender or nationality. Tonight, for instance, an accomplished French idiot, which is ironic and a tad unfair to watch, seconds after Bastille Day (this comes from a place of deep love, familiarity and appreciation). But almost all of them will face authoritarian idiocy in this episode: I will let you discover (remember: nothing but minimal spoilers).

Still embarrassed for SS, whose vital signs seem to be on display only when she is a) crying and b) pissed off because of someone or something. For the pub scene with the gang of morons from the plant, she could have borrowed a wealth of JAMMF's expression tricks (for which S is the absolute ace) and I suspect she tried but, yet again, failed to persuade: the only thing that she seems remotely acquainted with is the smirk. And I will not insist on the torturous rendering of maternal love or domestic bliss. I feel merciful tonight and sometimes mercy is just about the same as oblivion (not a word about that vanishing panties scene, do you hear me?). Maybe this is also why RR still seems more relaxed, but perhaps also totally resigned about a situation that must be dealt and be done with a stiff upper lip, for the cause.

Product placement alert, with the Barbour wax jackets and shirts (long time client, here) prominently featured at Lallybroch. Nothing magic. This is a long-term partnership, maybe also S's contribution. Yes, Mordor, that peasant did it again!

A propos of the plant inspection, the tunnel scene sent powerful The Man in the High Castle vibes, from the set to the running through well, something, for lack of a better word. For those who have not seen this excellent series, here's a good Droughtlander plan. It's all about Jude Law and the Japanese guy; and also Philip K. Dick, one of my beloved science-fiction writers, truly a genius.

Spoiler: "You can thank that rotten stew". Ohai, Vandervaart, sweet summer child. Too fleeting a presence on my screen, yet you nailed your scene with Rachel Hunter, which I proclaim my favorite of this episode. The scenery helps, that pre-dawn murky, metallic light is perfect and you found the right balance between disgust, horror, an adrenaline high, fear, uncertainty and yes, unspoken (maybe even unconscious) attraction. Also, a masterful use of voice, pitch and breathing techniques - what's not to like?

A close second but enthusiastic kudos for Young Ian. John Bell is wonderful in his scene with C. which, again, gave me life imitates art vibes. And even more moving is the dense moment with the Cherokee/Scottish son, for I believe that endearing boy with a Fraser smile is Young Ian's.

These jottings are unable and unwilling to ignore S, very busy shaping Jamie's hero stature in short, effective appearances. Something we will probably see in full force next week, when I shall be out of town and not watching. Still, rejoice: the Jottings will be making it a double in two weeks.

[devilsrecreation]

Okay Nikki, you’ve made a fair amount of TLG oc’s. You do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT need to make more. ESPECIALLY not next gen oc’s. It’s not necessary. You understand? NO MORE—

…..I made more TLG oc’s.

Pua’s mate: Kuimba (singing, to sing)-A singer in the Pridelands and easily the kindest, prettiest, most loved crocodile in Pua’s float, and that’s what made her perfect in his eyes. The heart and soul of the float, she was able to open everyone’s minds when they were subjects to change. Because of her love of singing, she could do so at any given moment and the rest just allowed it because they loved her that much. Although she wasn’t a complete idiot (she was ditzy tho lol), Tamka gets his stupidity from her

-She died when Tamka was very young. Thankfully, he was old enough to remember her and carry memories of their time together

Piga’s mate: Ungwana (gentle)-If Piga had a soft spot for someone before Kiburi, it was her. Living up to her name, everything about her was gentle. Her gaze, the way she handled things, her voice…especially that voice. Never raised it or anything. She’s kind of has a way with bad boys, which is how she won Piga’s affections. Kiburi doesn’t have too many memories of her, but Piga sure does

-She also died during Scar’s reign, specifically the time when the float finally moved on with the other animals. It was extra rough for them, seeing how there were so many mouths to feed. Quite a few of the members starved to death, Ungwana included. She always put others needs in front of her own

Kinywa (mouth;mouthy)-Nduli’s mom and the sassiest in the float. She kinda had that wine aunt energy and says whatever the hell she wants. Nduli gets the sass and some of his temper from her, not to mention he was kind of a mama’s boy when not following Kiburi around

-How she died: Alright, so the Dry Season is difficult for practically all the animals in the Pridelands. But it’s especially the hardest on crocodiles, as they tend to get more moody and make worse decisions than other animals. This happened with Kinywa. She was unfortunate enough to get woken up during the Dry Season (no one knows what caused it, as she was the only one to wake up) and decided it was a good idea to try to hunt a rhino calf, causing its parent to get involved and….well, I don’t think I need to explain who won….or lived.

Next gen outlanders: (WITH VERY BRIEF PERSONALITIES)

Janja and Jasiri’s kids-Shida (troublemaker) and Hatima (destiny, fate)

Shida-Shida is the older sibling. A hyperactive little troublemaker who enjoys pranking his fellow Outlanders just for fun.

Hatima-The younger sibling and the more mature of the two. Being a girl and based on how hyena clans work, she is destined to be the next leader. Problem is, she doesn’t know if she really wants to lead the Outlands in the first place. She would rather figure out her own destiny

Chungu and Aibu’s kid-Huangaza (sparkle); she’s the most extroverted, yet ditziest of the bunch. Total hippie personality-wise. She just wants to make friends and chill

Cheezi and Nguvu’s kid-adopt a wild dog pup named Igizo (play); a playful, fun-loving pup who just wants to have a good time and never takes anything seriously. He treats everything as if it’s a game

Nne and Madoa’s kid-Hila (cunning);the sarcastic, cocky friend who always has an answer for everything. He likes to show off his smarts and frequently calls himself a genius.

Kiburi and Hukumu’s kids (one of them, at least)-Piga; the rebellious, self-proclaimed “tough guy” who doesn’t take anyone’s shit. Doesn’t last long with his parents though, as they usually tell him off (He’ll only listen to Hukumu, as she scares him a bit lol)

(One of) Tamka and Erevu’s kids-Kutojali (indifference); The one who’s been done with everybody’s shit since the day he hatched. Like Erevu, he often looks on the logical side and is usually embarrassed by his dad

(One of) Nduli and Kuamua’s kids-Shauri (rascal); The most clumsy, but rambunctious croc you have ever met and Shida’s best friend. Her “genius” ideas often get the two into trouble cuz of how she acts before she thinks, leading to uh….interesting situations

Outlanders whose kids live in the Pridelands:

Kenge and Maji-unnamed children

Shupavu and Njano-Ushari. Yup! They named one of their kids after him! The definition of chaotic neutral. He’s a little shit who says and does whatever he wants, not really caring about the consequences…at first. He’ll still back down when there’s an actual threat. The best way to describe him is the song “One Jump Ahead” from Aladdin. That’s his antics in a nutshell.

-Ushari was the only one the skinks actually picked a name for. Njano accidentally blurted it out loud enough for him to hear and it stuck

-Ushari (as in the cobra) is in charge of watching over the kid and he’s even taken him under his wing

-His catchphrase, like his dad, is “Trust me!”

-However, I’m also thinking of the name Mpangaji (mischief-maker) since the name is a bit more fitting and less confusing lol idk

[trash1129]

FLY HIGH | Profiles #2: #Savewonwoo

Woozi: Pride of Ravenclaw. Literal genius (Both creatively and academically). Witty af. Lowkey grumpy. Tends to be a logical thinker but sometimes his emotions get the best of him. Not good w/ expressing his emotions. Kind of emotional constipated. Stressed ™

S.coups: Gryffindor. Head boy. Extremely dependable. One of the few that are EXTREMELY close to Jihoon. Always puts his friends first. Tries to play peace keeper within the group. Jeonghan’s self proclaimed “enemy”

The8: Slytherin. Has the most judgmental side eye imaginable. Surprisingly super ambitious. Seeker on the Slytherin quidditch team. Best fashion in the school hands-down. Lovingly bullies everyone. Gives great advice.

Wonwoo: Ravenclaw. Often helps Jihoon w/ internal struggles. Quiet but extremely observant. Another smarty pants. Great listener. Has a lot of simps but doesn’t know why (he’s literally beautiful). Someone save him from the others.

Jeonghan: Slytherin. Devil in disguise. Definition of cunning. Brings a needed chaos to the friend group. Beautiful and knows it. Huge team player. Somehow head boy of Slytherin. Big ol’ cheater. Likes to cause issues for Seungcheol.

Joshua: Captain of Hufflepuff quidditch team. Seeker. Boy next door type. Respectful. Kind of sassy ngl. Gave up on stopping Jeonghan and joined him instead. Works hard for himself and his friends. Someone wife this man up.

DK: Hufflepuff. Smile so bright it’ll blind you. Friends w/ literally EVERYONE. Dedicated. Mood maker of the friend group. LOUD pt2. Nicest person alive, dear god. Sensitive pt2. Someone save him from the others as well plz.

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[five-rivers]

Cryptid Crawl!

@currentlylurking

AO3

[Video starts, showing a young person with dyed pink and blue hair sitting in front of a poster with the words ‘Cryptid Crawl!’ superimposed on a world globe.  The letters are colored with a pink and blue camo pattern reminiscent of the person’s hair.  In the background of the poster are numerous cartoonish glaring eyes.]

Welcome back cryptid crawlers to the latest entry in our cryptid crawl across the continental US!  Tonight, we visit the small town of Amity Park, Illinois.  Now, experienced cryptozoologists might recognize that name as the self-proclaimed Most Haunted Town in America.  But we aren’t here for the ghosts.  Amity Park has much more to offer than just spooky stories - no offense to our fellow paranormal investigators.  

I’m talking about the Amity Park Phantom.

Now, you might be going what?  Crawly, a Phantom?  That’s a ghost!  But I will remind you all of the Fiskerton Phantom, which is very much not a ghost and is very much a living creature.  

Of course, that doesn’t mean that the Amity Park Phantom is the same kind of creature as the Fiskerton Phantom.  In fact, descriptions of the creatures are very different.  The Fiskerton Phantom is described as a large, dark-furred cat-like or bear-like animal with pointed ears.  The Amity Park Phantom, meanwhile, is somewhat smaller than an adult human.  Still big, for an animal, but not that big.  Its color, meanwhile, is patchy, but sort of reminiscent of a tuxedo cat, if you know what I mean.  But the most eye-catching part of the Amity Park Phantom is definitely the eyes.  They’re big.  They’re bright.  They’re green.  And they glow.  Lemme show you.  

[The video shifts so that the right half the screen is taken up by a blurry photograph.  Most of the photo is of a city park, but towards the edge of the park is a black and white humanoid figure.  The figure’s face is obscured by a pair of bright green lights.]

Now, we all know the typical explanations mainstreamers and cryptid deniers put out.  Alien big cats, native cats with unusual coloration, owls.  I mean, you know how I feel about people saying Mothman is just an owl.  I mean, come on, man.  That’s crazy.  

Back on topic.  

Unlike most cryptids, the Amity Park Phantom is incredibly well documented.  

[The right half of the screen cycles through several more photographs of the same black and white figure.]

Seriously, the only reason it’s still a cryptid and not, like, getting someone on the cover of Genius magazine for discovering a new species - look, an enby like myself can dream, right?  I’m hot enough to be on a magazine! - is because all the picture are blurry.  Which I posit is because of its crazy traffic light eyes.  Also, it’s crazy fast and can fly.  

Yep.  This boy, girl, or other can fly.  Not sure how.  No visible wings - not that we can see with how blurry pictures of it already are, anyway.  But fly it does.  There are lots of pics and videos of it flying. 

The Amity Park Phantom also has one other thing going for it that other cryptids don’t get:  Official government recognition.  

Yeah, I’m not kidding you.  The City of Amity Park’s official, serious government position is that the Phantom exists, and not just as a tourist draw.  Which is, like, mind-blowing.  Most places don’t even recognize Bigfoot.  Mothman doesn’t even have this level of recognition, and Mothman has a statue!

You know the one I’m talking about.  

[The picture on the right changes to show an image of the Point Pleasant, Virginia Mothman statue, and then a close up of the statue’s butt.  It then returns to showing images of the Amity Park Phantom.]

Here’s the rub.  The reason the Phantom is still defined as a cryptid and not a real, living organism.  Amity Park might recognize that the Phantom exists, but… they think it’s a ghost.

But that’s not true.  Sorry, ghost hunters, we’re usually on the same side, but in this case, you’re wrong.  Just gotta tell it like I see it.

Let’s face the facts.  

One, the Phantom is not geographically bound.  Not to Amity Park itself - take a look at these pictures of it, or a similar creature, in Wisconsin.  

Two, the Phantom has been photographed and even videoed hanging around restaurants and begging for food, even to the point of flying through the drive-through and getting chased away by this really badass girl - seriously, she climbed out of the drive-through window and chased him off with a broom.  Girl, if you’re seeing this and you’re single, look me up.  

[Video is briefly replaced by a three-second clip of a young black woman in a ‘Nasty Burger’ employee uniform climbing out of a drive through window and chasing the Amity Park Phantom with a push broom.]

Not ghost behavior.  

Three, no matter how many sad dead children you dig up, none of them, not one of them matches Phantom’s appearance or behavior.  None.  Like, look at this man.  

[Photo montage stops on a slightly less blurry than usual picture of the Amity Park Phantom.]

His head is white.  That’s white hair.   Fur.  Whatever.  Oh, god, now they’ve got me doing it.  Yikes.  But you know what’s even more yikes?  Trying to use real tragedies to prop up a demonstrably false claim on the internet.  

Finally, and I think most damningly, is that you can get pictures of this guy.  I have never seen nor heard of a ghost getting photographed this reliably.  

Now, can I understand why people might think the Phantom is a ghost?  Sure.  He’s this funny glowy guy who can fly, and there are some reports that he’s got this active camouflage that would be so cool if it was real, because it sounds almost like invisibility.  Finding an organism that can do that would be a big support to crytozoologists everywhere.  Plus, it fits Amity Park’s schtick.  The whole ‘Most Haunted Town’ thing.

But there’s another reason for Amity Parkers to be so insistent that the Phantom is a ghost.  You see, they actually get funding for ‘ghost attacks.’  Yes, I know, it’s weird. On the other hand, they don’t give out funding for wild animal attacks.  Well, wait, I don’t actually know that, crap–

[Video cuts, jumping back to the blue-and-pink haired person.]

Okay, yeah, there’s some money for it, but it’s not ghost attack money.  God.  Anyway.  The ghost attack money– I can hardly say that with a straight face.  Wow.  It’s obviously only for ghost attacks, so.  Gotta have a ghost.  I am not making this up.  It’s on their website!  

Now, how much of this ghost attack damage is actually because of the Phantom… eh, that’s hard to tell.  Beyond the obvious obfuscation, no one’s ever been seriously injured by Phantom.  There’s this fun video someone photoshopped of it robbing a bank, though!  No idea why anyone would do that, but, you know.  It’s the internet.  They got the eye color wrong, though, maybe on purpose, so that’s something.  I’ll be putting the link to that video down below if any of you need a laugh.  

You might have noticed that this video is nearing its end, but don’t worry, this is not the last you’ll hear of the Amity Park Phantom.  Next week, I will be going to Amity Park, Illinois!  Personally!  If you live around there, you might just see me.  

On the other hand, that’s all for this week before I crawl back into my Cryptid Cave - I should really get that trademarked some day - so!  Don’t forget to like and subscribe if you haven’t already.  My patreon, ko-fi, and socials are listed below.  I need money, so don’t be shy.  If you have any cryptid stories, photography, or art, don’t be a cryptid yourself, make yourself known and send them in.  This week’s contributors are listed in the video credits.  See you next week!

[Video briefly goes black.  A list of usernames begins to scroll by, faster than possible to read.  Video ends.]