#limited characterisation

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Where is Izzy during the lighthouse fuckery in 104?

You’d think he’d be doing Frenchie’s job being as Izzy’s so indispensable. But no, he’s not here:

He’s not with the main group on deck either even though Fang and Ivan are present:

We can’t be entirely sure Izzy isn’t skulking on the maintop with Ed and Stede because normally he’s obsessing over one or the other, but I don’t see him:

Now, earlier Izzy told Ed…

And surely even by Izzy’s standards, the plan can’t be telling Stede to ready the canons. Because that isn’t ‘devising a plan’. That’s firing weaponry willy-nilly at a superior vessel.

But seeing there is now ‘a plan’ which involves an element of fuckery and risk, and might need everyone to pull together, where is Izzy in shoring up his Captain? Where is the camaraderie, the moral support? Where’s this pride Izzy’s been banging on about in working for a ‘brilliant sailor’? Because Ed is being that brilliant sailor right now, and Izzy is nowhere to be seen.

Izzy’s probably sulking in whichever cupboard he usually sleeps in because his thunder’s been stolen, but there’s also a stagecraft reason Izzy’s not present.

The reason Izzy isn’t on screen during the lighthouse fuckery is he isn’t necessary to the moment. He functions as a device not a character. If he isn’t needed to disrupt Ed and Stede’s developing relationship, at least in season one, he doesn’t have any other function. He possibly could’ve skulked in the corner, hands in pockets, but that would’ve sucked the unbridled joy from the moment of success.

Izzy’s role is different to say, Roach, who functions in the show as a character, and offers a very human reaction to events, bringing further depth to the theatrical setting.

But Izzy isn’t a character in the same way. He isn’t developed enough to act even as a background character in season one, reacting to events larger than Ed and Stede, because his role is one-dimensional existing only around Ed and Stede. And though he’s developed a little in season two once the device of antagonist is redundant, he doesn’t have much fizz because there’s really not that much to develop.

[chipperchemical]

assigning a devastating quote to each Life Series member because i want to ruin your day (feel free to suggest alternatives!)

Bdubs - "I love you. It will end." (Anna Belle Kaufman, "Cold Solace")

BigB - "I never expected you to actually finish anything. You were always leaving. I always picture you with a suitcase in your hand." (Margarita Karapanou)

Etho - "What are you doing, you wretch, killing your own son, burning him, it's the same old story, it starts with a lamb and ends with the murder of the person you should love most." (José Saramago, "Cain")

Gem - "God never gave me a single useable passion, but did give me sharp teeth and a strong jaw." (Traci Brimhall, "The Fate of my Seven Husbands")

Scar - "It was then that Sisyphus realised the gods must be gone, that his wings were nothing more than a perception of their absence. He dared to raise his fist to the sky. Nothing, gloriously, happened. Then a different terror overtook him." (Stephen Dunn, "Sisyphus and The Sudden Lightness")

Grian - "You're addicted to loneliness and desperation. It's the strongest emotion you've ever known, so your subconscious tells you that it's your destiny. You will be alone always and then you will die." (Heather Havrilesky, entry for the "Ask Polly" column)

Impulse - "Grieving, grieving, constantly grieving. I mourn what could have been, what will not be, what I can't save." (tumblr user "ojibwa")

Martyn - "Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was always just red." (Kait Rokowski)

Lizzie - "This was always going to happen. She's been dead since the beginning." (Aeschylus, "The Oresteia")

Mumbo - "I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow." (Hélène Cixous, "The Love of the Wolf")

Pearl - "You want to be loved if only to prove it possible: to tell the world that someone saw you as a conquest and came back alive." (Silas Denver Melvin, "Love as an Act of Merciful Conquer")

Ren - "My God, my God, whose performance am I watching? How many people am I? Who am I? What is this space between myself and myself?" (Fernando Pessoa, "The Book of Disquiet")

Skizz - "Better creatures could love you, I know. But now they'll have to get through me." (tumblr user "ihopewestay")

Scott - "She decides God is no good, but he must exist, he must exist so she can hold him accountable." (Ada Limón, "The Echo Sounder")

Joel - "I've always preferred Cain. His angry loneliness, his lack of mother's love, his Christian sarcasm: "Am I my brother's keeper?" asks his brother's murderer. Aren't we indeed the keepers of our dead?" (Valzhyna Mort, "Genesis")

Jimmy - "I won't last. Memory is sweet. Even when it's painful, memory is sweet." (Li-Young Lee, "Mnemonic")

Tango - "Isn't all that rage so ugly? And isn't it mine, still? Good God, isn't it mine?" (Ashe Vernon, "Buried")

Cleo - "God is fucking with my oblivion. If he wanted forgiveness, he shouldn't have given us memory." (Vi Khi Nao, "Fish In Exile")

[mirrorofliterature]

dear codywan writers,

cool ship! please stop making obi-wan uniquely and uncanonically emotionally competent when it comes to cody. he would refuse to even acknowledge his feelings to cody, perhaps even himself, as he is the Perfect Jedi who is Not Allowed to have his feelings

this characterisation annoys me because: that's not obi-wan. also now you've made anakin an asshole for no reason because it could never be obi-wan's fault that their relationship is dysfunctional, could it?

that man would fuck cody.

he would never admit he has Feelings without Growth because he cannot have emotions, ever, without significant character development. sounds like fun!

sincerely,

this is codywan, not codywoobiewan.

[greenleaf4stuff]

Of Convenience 7.2

(all previous parts of "Of Convenience")

Adar x Celebrimbor (silverscars) political marriage AU, 7th snippet, part 2. Celebrimbor finds a project to occupy himself with and makes another friend. He also happens to forget the time in the process. It leads to an unexpectedly intimate moment between the two husbands.

I originally planned to make this a short chapter of Brimby at the forges and Adar’s reaction to that, but then I had a sudden cute idea and well, the chapter grew to the point I needed to split it up (again). Oops? Like always, thank you guys so much for the likes, reblogs and comments, I love you wonderful people. <3 Still blown away by the support – and by the fact I have written this much. What an AU, what an experience! Now, enjoy!

Gurlak hadn’t lied when she told Celebrimbor that her forge wouldn’t be comparable to his elven one, the smith realized in dismay. His smithy had been expertly assembled to suit his needs, constructed by the most gifted builders and with only the finest materials. All this to hopefully bring about something that could, one day, enable him to create wonders which would rival those of his grandfather.

Gurlak’s forge was, in comparison, an oddly-shaped amalgamation of whatever the uruk had been able to get their hands on, with little leeway to consider quality or utility. From the bellows to the tuyere, the forge itself and even the fuels and raw materials used, it was clear that the uruk were reshaping, reusing and improvising much of what they had, and with limited resources in less-than-ideal conditions as well.

And honestly, the elf couldn’t fault them for any of it – as he understood it, the uruk had little natural resources of their own in what was now called Mordor. The area might be rich in charcoal after the eruption of the Orodruin, perhaps, but not much else remained of the fertile former Southlands.

He guessed that this might be how he ended up sidetracked so quickly; he’d started out working on some simple iron nails – which, to his credit, he did finish and which actually served to convince Gurlak that he might indeed not be lying about his smithing skills –, but after that, things had quickly taken a turn to him focusing on other things.

"I think the airflow could be improved upon," he told Gurlak as they stood next to each other, inspecting the tuyere. "Might be because your bellows are made from a patchwork of materials, or because the charcoal you are burning is not of good quality, but the temperature fluctuation makes it harder than neccessary to work with the metal."

She grunted. "Well, we take what we can get. S’not like we can trade for better parts, and the last trees we burned, we had felled during heavy rainfall," a shrug. "Sometimes we even burn wood from furniture and such. It’s what it is."

Celebrimbor felt his face pinch at her words, then turned towards her. His tone was careful. "Would you mind if I...tried to tinker with this?" he pointed at the forge itself, but mostly the aforementioned bellows and the tuyere. "Maybe I’ll be able to mitigate some of the problems."

She glanced at him much the same way as did her, but by now, her gaze was one of curiosity – and, dare he say it, perhaps even respect?

He felt weirdly accomplished to think that it might be.

"Don’t burn yourself – wouldn’t want Adar to have my hide for getting his favorite elf damaged," she replied, and then took obvious delight when Celebrimbor got ready to argue her choice of words, "Looks like you know what you’re doing. I’ll leave you to it. As I said, just don’t get yourself hurt."

"Thank you, Miss-," Celebrimbor tried, but she scowled him into silence.

"None of that ‘mistress’ stuff. Makes me feel weird. The only one here who has a title is Adar – we are all equal, otherwise."

The elf nodded. "Understood. In that case, Celebrimbor is fine for me too," he replied. He turned back to the forge before him, and got ready to work.

"While you’re at it-," Gurlak spoke up again, and her tone made him pause. It sounded far too mischievous for his liking. "Out of curiosity. How is married life with the Lord Father?"

This time, Celebrimbor could not avoid a groan in response to her words. Her resulting laughter seemed loud enough to shake the walls of the shed.

Time, as it so often did when he was in the middle of his work, ended up slipping away from Celebrimbor. He was somewhat aware of it when Glûg, visibly bored out of his mind, came up to him and insisted they’d have to return to the tent now or they’d risk going against Adar’s wishes.

But with how much good progress he was making at improving the forge, it was just too easy to fall back into old habits – he waved the other off and said, "I just have to finish this one thing first, Glûg. You can go and tell him I’ll come back to the tent later, if you’d like. That way he won’t have to worry. You know where I am anyways, and it’s not as if I’m alone, or unarmed for that matter."

He pointed at the variety of weapons in the smithy – a topic that he’d already begun to discuss with Gurlak. While the smith was awed by the ingenuity the uruk possessed when combining swords, axes and various tools to make new weaponry for the soldiers, there were things that could be improved upon in that as well, and she’d been quite content to go over materials and their advantages with him.

There was just so much Celebrimbor could do – from working on the forge itself to helping Gurlak with various projects, the smith was truly giddy about his craft for the first time in what felt like weeks, and he was loathe to stop now that he was allowed to partake in it.

Glûg had tried to argue about the elf not even knowing the way back – to which Gurlak had snarked that she knew the way just fine and could go drop the elf off later – and then finally thrown up his arms with a frustrated, "Fine, then!" and left in a huff.

The smith had no idea how much time had passed since then, only that when all too familiar steps walked up to him, the hour wasn’t exactly midday anymore.

"Glûg tells me you asked him to leave you here," Adar’s smooth voice called out from a little distance away. Celebrimbor couldn’t help but think the uruk was deliberately announcing himself. Which was a good thing, because even so, he startled out of his work and then turned around in confusion to face his husband.

It was still astonishing to see how the other uruk visibly deferred to their leader when he walked among them; some inclined their heads or even bowed in respect, multiple took a step back as he walked up to the smithy, and even Gurlak seemed to stand straighter as she watched him approach.

"Adar," Celebrimbor said, and then realised he’d completely forgotten the uruk and his request for them to meet for supper. He felt himself blanch in shame at the realization. "Oh no, I am so sorry- I missed our meal, did I not?"

The uruk was tilting his head at Celebrimbor, gaze questioning, as he took in the other uruk and the forge, before his sight settled back on the elf. "You did. I was...worried." He seemed to almost be surprised at his own words.

"I- I appreciate that," the smith replied, and definitely was surprised at his own words. Or how sincerely he meant them.

Another look about the smithy from Adar. "What happened? Did someone rope you into a conversation you couldn’t escape from?" His words were mild, questioning instead of accusing. But it was clear Adar was confused by the circumstances of why Celebrimbor had chosen not to come back to the tent.

Celebrimbor was quick to reply, "No, no, your smith has been most kind in answering my questions, in fact – it was I who got far too involved in my work here and forgot about the time. It...happens, sometimes, when I am in the middle of work. My apprentices always-, well it doesn’t matter now. I should have gone with Glûg instead of making you worry. I apologize. It won’t happen again."

It was a bad habit of his, Celebrimbor knew that. Even more so now, when their circumstances were not exactly peaceful, despite the rather successful negotiations so far. He shook his head at himself.

Adar stepped closer towards him. "At least you sent my lieutenant to tell me. Though knowing you were without a guard did not exactly put my mind at ease," the uruk said pointedly. Celebrimbor rubbed the back of his neck and looked ruefully at Adar from beneath his eyelashes.

To his surprise, his husband dropped the issue. "So you’ve discovered our forges, hm? What do you think – grandson of Feanor? Not much like your great forges in Eregion, I’d presume?"

"Yeah, Gurlak suspected much the same thing," Celebrimbor couldn’t help but remark, glancing sideways at the uruk smith who seemed undecided between trying to inch away from her leader and the elf to leave them to their business, and remaining rooted to the spot to watch how things would unfold.

"I think your people did well with what means they have, but there are still plenty of ways to better the conditions that haven’t been made use of yet. Gurlak has actually been kind enough to let try my hand at some things."

A moment of silence, and then Adar hummed. "You are aware that this would give the uruk an advantage, if the greatest living elven smith helped them with their craft?" Celebrimbor could hear Gurlak suck in a breath at that. He guessed he ought to speak to her again, once he had made sure to reassure his husband.

"I mean- Eregion is technically your city just as much as mine due to our marriage, so technically, your army is mine as well," Celebrimbor started, but made sure that his tone was humorous. "Mirth aside, I know you care about your children. And we are hoping for this to be a long-lasting alliance so yes, of course I’d want for them to have a chance to improve their craft. It’s going to benefit everyone, isn’t it?"

Which was, he supposed, what it came down to – trying to right some of his wrongs and make things better, to give them a fighting chance against the evil that had taken hold of Eregion. He wasn’t a fighter, he couldn’t hope to kill Sauron on his own, but he could help the people who did.

The smith had seen Adar look at him with a vaguely mystified expression more than once now, but it still sent a thrill through him whenever it happened. He supposed it made sense; the uruk as a whole hadn’t gotten a lot of aid from the other races over the centuries, so perhaps this was just a natural reaction to finally getting it. Which was a rather depressing thought, all things considered.

Celebrimbor would do his best to change that.

Finally, Adar nodded and cleared his throat as he looked around the forge once more – it almost seemed as if he was uncomfortable, though the elf hoped he was just reading the other’s reaction incorrectly, before his eyes settled back on Celebrimbor.

The uruk jutted his chin out at the smith. "You have something on your face, by the way."

"Oh, I do?" Confused, Celebrimbor reached up and rubbed his fingers over his cheek, only to remove them and realise that his hands were still covered in soot and he’d likely smeared more of it onto his face now. "I- oh bother, that isn’t-"

"Here," Adar said and suddenly, he was standing directly in front of Celebrimbor, close enough that the elf could marvel at the length of his eyelashes. "Let me-"

They’d gotten more comfortable touching one another without asking for permission each time; handing each other dishes during meals, hands next to each other pointing at something on a map. And so Adar didn’t ask and Celebrimbor didn’t move when the uruk reached up, and tried to draw the edge of his sleeve over the elf’s cheek to wipe off the black smudges.

His gaze was wholly fixed on the spot, but Celebrimbor felt his breath still in his lungs and couldn’t look away from the uruk’s face. The way he looked as he performed his task in concentration was arresting. Celebrimbor had never noticed the blue-green color of his eyes before, and found himself searching his mind for gemstones that would fit their shade.

After a moment, Adar pursed his lips, and then held the back of Celebrimbor’s head with his gauntleted hand as he released his sleeve and began to smooth his thumb over the smith’s cheek instead.

Both the feel of the gauntlet in his hair and the touch of Adar’s thumb on his face made the smith fight to not suck in a breath lest Adar would stop what he was doing, and instead continued to hold very, very still as let his eyes drink in the other’s face.

Even with the scars, the pale skin, Celebrimbor could admit Adar was quite beaut-

Wait.

This time, Celebrimbor did suck in a breath.

Adar’s eyes snapped up to the smith’s, and then widened slightly as they stared at each other.

But they did not move. Both remained, motionless, staring into one another's eyes.

Celebrimbor felt warm all over, the way he’d done when Adar had asked after his wellbeing, when he’d saved him from Damrod, when they’d been wed and k-

‘Aquamarine,‘ the smith thought, faintly. ‘His eyes look like aquamarine.‘

His attention couldn’t seem to settle between Adar’s thumb on his cheek and the way he was watching him.

There was an embarrassed coughing sound from the side, and Celebrimbor looked over to see Glûg stand close to the shed, stepping from foot to foot while visibly, tensely uncomfortable.

Slowly, Adar stepped back from Celebrimbor and removed his hand – though not without one last swipe of his thumb. "There, I think it’s gone now," he said. His voice came out rougher than the elf had expected. It almost made him shiver.

And then Adar had turned to Glûg, taking the warmth of his touch with him, and Celebrimbor felt himself deflate where he stood. "What is it, Glûg?"

"Galadriel has returned to the camp, Lord Father. Says she has brought word from the king – looks like he wants to come in for talks himself next time."

Celebrimbor felt his eyes snap open wide in surprise at Glûg’s words, just as Adar said, "These are indeed unexpected, if welcome news."

He turned to Celebrimbor, and beckoned him over. "We should go and greet her, see what else she has to report. Will you come along, too?"

Celebrimbor quickly looked at Gurlak, who made a shooing gesture. Her face was going through some weird motions that made it look as if she was doing her damnest to fight down a wide grin. The smith turned back to Adar and nodded with a smile. "Of course. Maybe we can still have a meal together, after?"

There was the faintest quirk of a smile on Adar’s lips. "If it would please you."

‘Yes,‘ Celebrimbor thought as he walked to his husband’s side and the two began to walk back to their tent together, Glûg in tow. ‘I think it would please me very much indeed.‘

[amethystina]

Hey! That ask you answered about protective Yo Han reminded me of this gem from the script book. I don't know if you're interested in anything script-related, but in case you are, here it is. A slightly different way the scene in E3 was supposed to go, when Yo Han came to the factory and attacked the man who put a bomb in the painting. (Also, 'forced' means 'Yo Han', all translators use this word instead of his name for some reason).

Personally, I loved the "do you know who you hurt?", the madness "increasingly" filling Yo Han's eyes, and him glaring at K when he asked if this was about Ga On. I'm amazed that he got so protective of him so quickly, it's just E3. To think of what he'd do post-canon... thank God (and you, of course!) for your amazing story. I can't tell you how much I'm waiting for everything you're going to bring down on us.

Hope you're doing better!

I haven't gone out of my way to look for the script, no, but I do read the little snippets I might run into on Tumblr and such. So I'm not NOT interested? But also too lazy to go look for it xD

And, tbh, I don't want to accidentally mistake something that was written in the script — but then taken out — as something that actually happened in canon. I have a really good memory but I don't always remember WHERE I read/saw/heard a specific fact so there's a chance I might mistake it as a part of canon even if it's not x'D

But, all that said, I am FASCINATED by this new information, not going to lie. I think that the increasing madness was still captured pretty well in the final version, but the "Do you know who you hurt?" Oh yes, I'm into that. Because while it COULD still just mean that Yo Han is referring to himself, I like that it leaves room for speculation. Very nice.

Though, at the same time, I feel like I have to be a responsible person and point out that, most likely, the reason why Yo Han reacts so violently as early as episode 3 is probably because of Isaac, not Ga On. Like, at that point, I think Yo Han is still struggling a bit with separating the two. Not that he ever mistakes them for each other, obviously, but it's probably a little disorienting until he gets to know Ga On better and can see all the differences more clearly. So it wouldn't surprise me if some of that protectiveness is because Ga On looks like Isaac, at least this early. It brings back very bad memories, and all.

But post-canon? That protectiveness would be for Ga On only. And, as always, Yo Han would hold nothing back.

And we will be exploring that a bit in Who Holds the Devil, yes. Not quite on the level of "I'm going to bring the entire country to its knees," but hopefully still enough to satisfy everyone's need for protective Yo Han ;)

Thank you so much for sending me this! I hope you have a wonderful evening 💜

[teen-comics]

My x men hot take that will get me killed is we’ve never had a good dark pheonix saga adaptation because it was never good to begin with

but I can rewrite it and make it great please marvel I can do it please

[muninnhuginn]

feeling so normal about li bing and qiu qingzhi btw

[babysizedfics]

Babysizedfics Masterpost

Please do not reblog this post! Last edit: Jan 2025

(Old LABD/ts agere masterpost)

This blog will feature cute agere fics and concepts, depending on what my current hyperfixation is!

Current fandom: Hermitcraft

Littles: Grian, Etho, Gem CGs: Impulse, Skizz, Scar (only to Grian) Babysitters: All the littles, Joel, Pearl, [Lizzie, Jimmy]

please feel free to request stuff with any of the little/cg tags I have on here :)

Fics:

Healing Hands and Home

8k | AO3 | Tumblr emotional hurt/comfort sick fic little grian, babysitter joel, babysitter lizzie, cg impulse

Gem's Baby Hair Salon

2.5k | AO3 | Tumblr fluffy sibling bonding ft. baby etho little gem, little etho, babysitter gem

Spaghetti Bolognese and Tattletales

3k | AO3 | Tumblr silly childish argument with humour and fluff little etho, little grian, little gem, babysitter joel

...

sign-offs taken by anons:

J / 💚 / 🐝 / 🤟 / 🤍 / V / 🌙 / 😸 / <3 / 🐇 / 👑 / 🦑 / a friend / 🦋 / 🌸 / indent / ❤️ /  🦦 / 🎃 / ☔️ / 👒 / 🧸 / 🐛 / :) / bunny / 🐍 / 🍁 / 🧪 / 🐁 / ender / 🐘 / 🖤 / 💜🦇 / 👑🦇 / 🤎 / 🌟 / ⛄️ / 🥺 / jailor / 🍼 / moo / 🧁 / ranboo / opossum sys / 🧊 / 🌌 / citrus system / mellohi / 🌱 / moth / 💎 / zee / 🪶 / 🥨 / 🐞 / 🩵

[purgatory-is-life]

Mechtober prompt 27/day 27-space

brian angst go brrrr

@mechtober-2024

Lost, Alone, and Cold - Reality666Rift999 - The Mechanisms (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

tw; dissociation, mentioned/implied death, mentioned/implied isolation, hallucinations kinda, i think that's it actually?? surprisingly not as heavy as one might expect it is a lighter fic than some of the past few

---

Brian was cold.

Was he always so cold? He must be.

It was so cold out here.

He tried to scream, he thinks, at first. Tried to yell and cry and ask for help.

It was so cold.

The Cold seemed to silence his screams, no words or sounds escaping, just the meager air left in his lungs being pulled and replaced with Nothingness. He’d long since learned not to try to scream or to cry out, there was no one around to hear.

Brian was so cold.

Admittedly, he hadn’t even known how he’d survived this long. He should be dead several times over by now, by suffocation, by frostbite, there were many things that should have killed him.

And yet he was alive.

He thinks he’s finally fading, though.

He’s so cold.

Light was far, but he thinks, maybe if he can reach it, he’ll be warm again.

His chest hurt, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the lack of air to breathe or the burn marring his chest.

It was so cold he could barely feel it.

It was so cold it burnt, like he was on fire but there was no warmth to it.

He was so cold.

Brian thinks he’s crying, but he can’t be sure. Maybe he’s bleeding. Does he have blood left to bleed? He thought it was all frozen so long ago.

What did he do to get lost, like this? To be sent out into this all-encompassing cold?

Why did he deserve to die?

He can’t remember anymore, it’s just cold.

He’s so cold.

At least the stars and lights he could see were pretty.

Warm hands placed themselves on his shoulders, and suddenly he was a little bit warmer.

He leaned into the touch, hoping to absorb as much warmth as possible, hoping that the warmth wouldn’t get sucked up by the Cold around him. He just wanted to be Warm.

“Hey Brian,” he knew that voice, Brian thought–at least the voice knew Brian–but he couldn’t place the name of it. “Bri, are you with me?”

Brian couldn’t answer, just leaned in further to the Warmth. The Warmth at least seemed to get the message, encircling him in a hug. Something–someone?–was breathing against him.

“I think you need a break, love,” the Warmth said. Who called him dearheart? He should know who called him such a kind nickname with that amount of tenderness. But the Cold was still making it hard to think. He couldn’t remember what the Warmth’s name was. He hoped they weren’t mad, he didn’t want to be alone and cold again. “You seem a bit out of it. I think this is the worst it’s ever gotten…”

Brian wanted to ask how the voice could cut through the Cold, could speak despite the Void absorbing any and every sound.

He was so cold, but at least now there was a little bit of warmth.

“Brian? Do you think you can try to respond in some way? Just so I know you can hear me, at least.”

Brian leaned into the warmth in response. He didn’t think he could move much more or speak. The Cold would take his words. He did try to lift his hand, though, at least. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. The Warmth hummed in response, grabbing the hand that he’d tried to lift up. Their hand was calloused and rough, but familiar and comforting.

“Okay, that’s good. I’m gonna take that as you responding. Do you want to take a break? I’m sure Aurora can handle herself for a little while. Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no.”

Brian didn’t know what that meant, and didn’t squeeze the Warmth’s hand. He managed to try to make a small noise, something that he hoped intoned a bit of confusion, but the Cold absorbed it like he feared. He wasn’t sure if the Voice heard him at all.

There was a moment of silence, and the Warmth’s grip on him tightened. It was so nice. “Brian?”

He squeezed once.

“Do you know where you are?”

He hesitated before responding. He was in the Void of space, where else would he be? He’d never been anywhere else. He’d never be anywhere else.

He was so cold.

“You’re on the starship Aurora,” the Voice started, “in the cockpit. We were on our way towards Yggdrasil. You were flying us to Yggdrasil.”

Aurora. That was a familiar name. It was warm, bright like the blinking lights off in the distance. He knew that name. Why did he know that name? It wasn’t the Voice’s name. What was the Warmths name? They had to have a name.

The name ‘Yggdrasil’, though, was cold and left him shivering and trying to curl up. He knew that name too, for some reason, but it was piercing cold and he wished the Warmth was larger so he could seek more shelter in their embrace.

“Brian?”

He squeezed their hand again.

“You know you’re on the Aurora, right?”

That’s what the Warmth had said before, but Brian wasn’t sure. How could he be anywhere that wasn’t the Cold?

Brian decided to squeeze their hand twice. It was wrong to lie.

“Do you trust me when I tell you that that’s where you are?”

He squeezed once, hesitated, then squeezed two more times. He knew they weren’t lying, they were just as bad at lying as he was, but he still held doubt.

The Warmth sighed, the vibrations starting up again.

The Voice could hear him, before, he thinks. Through the Cold. So, he tried to do something unfathomable. The Cold would take the words, surely, but he had to try. “I’m cold,” he mumbled. The Warmth squeezed him.

“I bet, Bri… I–… We should get you somewhere warm. And somewhere bright. You will  have to walk a bit, though, dear. I’m not tall or strong enough to carry you, and I– I think most of the others are asleep? At least Raph is.”

Brian squeezed the warmths’ hand again. He wasn’t sure if he could walk, there wasn’t anything resembling solid ground in the Cold.

“Okay. How’re your joints today? Where’s your cane?”

Brian attempted that questioning noise, again. It seemed that the Cold couldn’t take the sounds so long as it was the Voice listening.

This Voice was good with noise, after all. Better with music, but not as good as Mari. No one was as good as Marius at Music.

There was rustling and the warmth withdrew slightly, which he only responded to by curling further into himself. He didn’t want to be cold again, now that he knew what it was like to be Warm again. He started humming, a song he had known for a long time. Maybe it would warm him up again.

There was a man, both good and true…

All alone and a-lowly…

Branded a Witch for what he could do…

Lost in the Cosmos, lonely…

“I’ve found it, Brian,” the Voice said, warmth returning. They placed something in his hand, something cool, something that felt like carefully polished wood. He flinched, at the coldness, but the warmth held his hand. “You’re okay, dear. It’s just your cane, to help you walk. I’m gonna brace you too, okay?”

Brian attempted to nod. His neck felt stiff and cold, but he didn’t have any other easy way of communication at that moment.

“Okay. We’re gonna stand up now. Lean on me and your cane, it’ll help.” The Warmth’s grip tightened around his back and shoulders, and started to stand. Brian still doubted that there was floor to stand on, but he trusted the Warmth (what was their name he should know their name) and followed their lead in standing.

He still felt floaty, and the cane in his hand was doing most of the heavy lifting in keeping him upright, but he was surprised to find that there was something solid underneath his claws. Something cold and metallic, but something nonetheless. The floor under him vibrated–purring, he suddenly remembered. That’s what she was doing. She was concerned about him.

“Hm? What is it, Aurora?” The Voice asked, and Brian leaned more on them. He hoped they were fine with that, he wasn’t sure the Cold wouldn’t steal him away again if he didn’t stay close to the Warmth. “Aurora, you don’t have to– okay. I know you don’t like people in the Engine Room though… Yeah. Yeah it probably would.” There was angry hissing and creaking, timed with the vibrating metal he was standing on. Brian wrapped his tail around the Warmth, for just a bit of added security. “Okay, okay! To the Engine Room then. Lead the way, Aurora.”

The Warmth led him down, down, down, towards something that was bright like the stars and just as warm. Something that reminded him of the Voice (he should really know their name, why couldn’t he think of it?) but it was also different. Something her own. Something distinctly Aurora. They hummed something under their breath, something familiar. Gassed last night, and gassed the night before… Gonna be gassed tonight, if we’re never gassed no more…

Brian hummed along, but eventually the song he was humming drifted off to something different. That familiar song–

They took him and threw him into the sky

All alone and a-lowly…

Whence he came, and where he would die…

Lost in the cosmos lonely…

The Warmth stopped, and the place they entered seemed to be warm enough to burn away the Cold. He was still cold, and he still wasn’t sure that he wasn’t in the Void, but it was Warm here. The metal floor creaked and groaned. Aurora was trying to say something.

“Hm?” Brian tried. He wished he could talk to her like Nastya could. The Warmth led him further into the Heat around them.

“C’mon, dearheart. We’re going to stay down here for a while, alright?”

Brian nodded, letting the Voice lead the way. The Warmth sat down, laying Brian down on top of them, setting Brian’s cane to the side for him and grabbing his hand.

“Better?” Brian squeezed the Warmth’s hand once. His tail was still wrapped tightly around them. “That’s good. Close your eyes, okay, love? I’m going to sing something.”

Brian nodded, complying and closing his eyes. The Warmth began running a hand through his hair quietly, before finally starting to sing.

“Oh my loves, raise a glass, to those we leave behind

We may end up dead, with a bullet in the head

But if we’re not returning from this damn fool quest,

Then tonight let’s drown our sorrows down with whiskey…”

He knew this song, he’d helped write it. Usually Marius would sing this part…

Brian felt himself relaxing, felt exhaustion seep into his bones (did he have bones anymore? Or was it something else that made his skeletal structure? Did he even need an internal support system, being made of metal now?). The Voice (he almost had their name again, he could almost find it in the recesses of his mind somewhere) continued to sing, playing all the parts in Blood and Whiskey, and Aurora hummed and purred underneath them, her own warmth fighting off the Cold. As the Voice sung quietly, Brian let himself drift gently into sleep, content that Aurora and the Warmth wouldn’t let him fall into that omnipresent Cold again.

When he woke up, restarted, whatever it was his body did, he was in Aurora’s engine room. She had kept it closed off, since Nastya went out, hoping to keep the warmth in for whenever she returned–even if Nastya didn’t love her the same way anymore, she still deserved some place warm to rest–but she’d let him in because of how Cold he was.

He’d have to do something for her, in return.

Based on the low, quiet creaking, she was asleep. So he’d have to do something helpful when she was awake.

Snoring above him, though, was Tim. His Warmth, a light in the darkness, the lovely Gunpowder Tim. Their eyes were wide open, but the soft snoring indicated they were asleep as well. Brian squeezed their hand. How could he have forgotten their name? He must’ve been more out of it than he thought.

Gunpowder startled, and blinked a few times.

“Are you awake, love?” Brian asked quietly. His voice sounded weird, but it was better than not hearing it at all.

“Mm– yeah… You weren’t awake long?” Tim mumbled. They reached up and rubbed their eyes.

“Not at all,” Brian replied. “Maybe a minute, honestly. Pronouns?”

“‘M too tired to think about that right now… Whatever’s fine…” Tim looked down at him, eyes soft. “You feeling better, dearheart?”

“Yes, much better. I don’t know what happened, one moment I was fine and then…”

“Don’t stress too much, okay? It happens. Just… A really bad flashback, from what I could tell. Don’t quote me on that, though. It’s too early to think.”

“I think it’s late, actually,” Brian grinned slightly, “since Aurora’s asleep and all.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Brian chuckled, and Gunpowder rolled their eyes in response. “Do you think we can stay for a little longer? I think I’d like to go back to sleep for a while.”

“It’s probably fine. Aurora can always kick us out later.” Tim yawned, and cuddled up closer to Brian, moving so they were laying next to him instead of with his head in their lap. “You’re warm and comfy, anyway.”

“I could say the same thing to you, darling.”

“Mhm…” Tim closed their eyes, and pretty soon their breathing evened out. Brian pulled them closer, and closed his own eyes. He could stay like this forever.

[worstloki]

Thor: hi guys thank you for streaming in to my hammer reveal! Today I’ll be unpacking a little guy I like to call Mjölnir *starts unzipping pants*

[nulltune]

i'm Naut a gamer and they're changing it for the remake but honestly fate/extra's gameplay is really fitting for hakuno's character! it's all about finding out who your opponent is, understanding them and predicting their patterns based on that and countering it. i think this is why fate extra materials say she has "amazing detective skills and inference ability" – specifically about the how she figures out the heroic spirits' identities but i think this should fit too. though on the other hand, i imagine she'd be stuck if there's not enough information to analyse.

for my portrayal, i want this trait of hers to rlly play into part with how she interacts with others too >:3c she's a good judge of character (though very idealistic and prone to giving others a chance or the benefit of the doubt) but takes her time to get more information and get to know them. from that, she can get a better understanding of just what is needed by the situation/person and fulfill that.

i feel like you already see this in canon too! she's pretty good at figuring out people and how they'd react, and filling in the blanks from what she knows about them.

AND PLSS THEYRE SO FUNNY SVSNAVXJ

+ this dialogue option where you have to convince jinako to help you out and the correct option has hakuno appealing to jinako's,, tastes (🗿)

SO you'll usually see things like her going with the flow and doing things based on what the others want/need rather than herself, mostly because she doesn't know what she wants herself and is trying to figure out this way.

it's important because foxtail makes it a point that your choices is what shapes who you are. hakuno even admits to "going with the flow" and "following what everyone says" in and has her important turning point when she chooses her own path. good character development!! which i think can be best exemplified in this dialogue option from true route:

where the right answer isn't solely doing what hakuno thinks sakura wants, but also taking what hakuno herself thinks into consideration. it seems like a small thing but it's such good development for my girl /sobs

i alao wanna mention how hakuno highly introspective (though to the point of overthinking actually) and can easily understand parts of others that they don't explicitly show or tell or even admit to themselves. and how her best dynamics are the ones that also explore her character and taps into her emotions and feelings and how it relates to the other! like julius for example:

Just like Julius, the protagonist worked their way up from the bottom. So when they met the protagonist could immediately and clearly see through Julius, and this pissed Julius off to no end.

it's not just hakuno understands that julius is weak, but it's how hakuno understands what it's like to be weak. she understands what's it like to be deemed inferior and useless, and to try your hardest to prove yourself. not just an observation of the other person as a character and making informed guesses based on that, which is how i think hakuno navigates her usual interactions; but with a connection with them as a person that would also require hakuno to consider her own self and how she relates to the other person, which is great development for her!

so basically- not just understanding others intellectually, but truly understanding them from the heart,, 🥹

it's not to say that having something in common is required to have a bond though, ofc! the point is that it's necessary for hakuno consider herself too. as more of a character who interacts with the world and others rather than a self-insert who's just viewing things as an audience surrogate y'know </3

like this moment, where hakuno doesn't just pick up on bb acting different, but has her own thoughts and feelings about it (even if she doesn't really understand it):

[not-poignant]

As a corollary to an ask you received about a week ago, regarding the concept of a 'disaster sub' - do you think there's any such thing as a 'disaster dom', in the sense of someone who subsumes their dominant nature to the detriment of themselves and/or the people around them? I've been toying with the idea, but it's hard to envision how it'd look; after all, it's a lot more difficult to enact harm upon someone from the position of (relative) submission I'd imagine such a person would assume.

There would absolutely be disaster!doms, I think, though I personally have mostly zero interest in writing them.

There are actually a lot of reasons someone might end up domming while suppressing their submissive nature as a character (or a person), and that includes things like:

You've hurt someone before and can't reconcile that with the fact that you're human. So you decide to submit as 'penance' or something similar, in order to stay in the scene, but never really enjoy yourself, which is not great for you or your partners.

You're ashamed about liking hurting people, or the degree to which you like it, and think submission is less 'evil' overall. You think the vulnerability in submitting is safer and less toxic than an assumed inherent toxicity in the vulnerability of hurting someone in a contained space.

And like 'ashamed of liking hurting people' could be compounded if you say, have a traumatic background and know others capable of hurting people just because, without consent. Or could be compounded by having encounters with these people while submitting, and becoming more entrenched in a dangerous mindset.

And then there's just the fact that like, while it's got nothing to do with hurting others and therefore there's nothing 'disaster' about it, a lot of folks just don't realise they're tops or doms (or switches) until they go into the scene as subs and bottoms and find out.

As for enacting harm, it's not likely to be physical damage but there are definitely ways forcing yourself to be submissive when you don't really enjoy it can harm other people, such as:

Sets relationships off from a place of miscommunication and lying if the partner doesn't know, which is a bad foundation for any relationship.

If a submissive isn't transparent/authentic about how they feel in a scene, sadists / doms / tops can push them in dangerous ways not realising how close they are to triggers, limits, or simply assuming that the sub really really enjoys something they hate, which damages any interpersonal relationship, because the trust will continue to disintegrate and honestly, it's a pretty profound betrayal from the sub's side (there's literally lists of 'submissive red flags' and this is actually one of them).

If you believe sadism for example is inherently evil, or that there's something wrong with wanting to dom people, while seeking out those people, you're automatically starting from a place of dehumanisation. I think we can agree that's harmful.

If you're punishing yourself in a scene without your partner's knowledge, you are violating their consent, and betraying them. (It's also a form of disrespect re: controlling and manipulating the scene without the other's knowledge).

Tbh, some of these scenarios can happen even if the sub is naturally submissive, and they do ruin relationships. I've explored the last point to a limited degree in like... Eversion, where Hank calls 'red' on Connor because Connor is trying to take control of a scene by forcing a punishment, which makes Hank withdraw formal punishments for good. It's also been explored in Game Theory, where Augus admits he's tired of being used/weaponised re: Gwyn's guilt, and I think it even happens in The Ice Plague re: Eran and Mosk.

It doesn't have to be physical harm to destroy a relationship. But frankly, any sub or bottom who isn't willing to communicate authentically can certainly put themselves in positions of receiving physical harm, and imho, that's a terrible thing to do a partner who is there in good faith.

But yeah, there's lots of ways this could play out, anon! Again, this comes down to human psychology. You start in places around shame, embarrassment, or trauma, and then the toxicity tends to naturally unfold from there. If you go back to the drawing board re: what motivates folks to do things that might be manipulative, harmful, or hurtful, and nix out 'because I simply want to be an asshat' - what you often have behind that is deep seated self-esteem issues, shame, guilt, a sense of maybe grief or anger etc. And folks who lie because of feeling ashamed, are just naturally going to be hurting others in situations like this.

[deus-ex-mona]

[mytumblogforgames]

Missing expectations by 50% lol. It's almost like making a fourth game in a franchise (and only direct sequel) without leveraging and relying on the franchise material that came before it leaves an audience feeling extraordinarily....meh. Why would I recommend this to someone who knows the world, and the older games, and wants that same experience of building a setting? On the other hand though, why would I recommend to someone new that they get involved in a franchise that has just decided to abandon all the previous material? Aside from the extreme disappointment they'd feel getting back to 4 after playing the others (if they even get the itch from the game itself, which could be a long shot considering it gives you no incentive for curiosity and would be relying on the strength of the setting itself, which is admittedly huge!!! and why the result we got here is so damn disappointing...), we all now know that Nothing Matters. What incentive is there to continue? What will they get next? Another excruciatingly limiting title that parades itself around as a "role playing" game while actually offering only a painfully narrow character with virtually no branching choices, and has little to no reactivity?

If I wanna watch a movie while I play my videogames, I'll play a quantic dreams title, thanks. Rug pulling an RPG is crazy lol. We can TELL when it's a lie, we're literally playing the game. Love to see a "she would not fucking say that" and it's my own player character lmao. And the rated M game is fun little jaunt where we all say "thank you for saying that," never have real interparty conflict (or really, any high stakes at all), can't express ourselves in any way other than Valid and Supportive, spend a not insignificant amount of dialogue ensuring we all know our pirates are good ethical hero folks, don't ever even get to sympathize with the villain because this is a rated M game and it very serious and not at all a Disney movie, and oh, you'll never guess this, but the rated M game is completely sexless -- we just blink at each other in three different convos before we go 😟😳🥹 I love you!!! My hero!! Like it isn't about the sex itself, it's about the willingness to be, idk, gross or uncomfortable etc (and in this case pacing lol). This game feels like it's hiding things preemptively so as to avoid causing "offense" like it's...pearl clutchy to me, in a way, or at least, trying to ensure that pearl clutcher is the most comfortable they can possibly be. And like I'm sorry but idc about them, this isn't about them, this is dragon age lol. Rated M for Misinformation smdh...

[seiwas]

omg i reached the tag limit i’m so sorry op ! but i must !! share !! just how much this fic !!! made me Feel Things !!!!!!

(cont from tag) <- so that line is so witty i snorted while reading it 😭 & this one too: “If looks could kill, Atsumu would’ve been dropped dead ten minutes ago.”

there are so many close calls too!! with how everyone’s dropping hints and implying everything 🤧 they’re really so idiots in love 😭 & atsumu is so whipped and he knows it but isn’t saying it and it’s driving me insane !!!

and !!!! the many passes atsumu gives !! bc he thinks thats what he’s supposed to do !!! the right thing to do !!! give reader space 🤧 but it rlly just prolongs everything 😭 u kept the tension and held it so well 😭😭

“he knows, underneath all the teasing and the bickering and the irritated eyerolls, is your pinky and his, intertwined.” <- i love this line too 😭😭

how atsumu takes care of them when they’re drunk 🤧 & he’s so loverboy w how he’s acting but he still needs aran to lay it down 😭😭 & when reader touches his face !! it’s so tender !! i love that moment 🥺

“The top of the world may be nice, but it is nothing compared to being on the ground next to you.” <- i rlly squealed out loud when i read this 😭

the dancing in the kitchen!! their sticking their tongues out!! their entire dynamic!! i love it so much!! there’s so much comfort and knowing and loving in it 🥺 and they r so goofy and silly w each other it’s so cute 🥺

the tension in the bathroom scene omg i felt siCK 😭 i love how u delved into atsumu’s thought process 😭 the panic !! the fear !!

“(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?)” <- this bit omfg 😭😭 i ached!!! tbh everything u put in the parentheses were just 👌🏼😖 had to stop myself from reading to gather myself omg 😭

“Three words are whispered into the dead of night, and the world tilts on its axis.” <- this and the parallel to one at the end !!! i love it so much 😭

and this “because when Atsumu is upset, it becomes everyone else’s problem.” is so true 😭

and this: “There’s no point being here without you.” my face rlly went 🥺

& the way my heart !!! rlly squeezed !! when reader opened the door to find atsumu there 🥺 and all they did was go on like they weren’t fighting bc the care is still there !!!! 😭 and i’m just aaaaaah

i’m sorry i rlly said so much ant this but i love it so much !!! and u wrote it so so so well op 🥺 i love the way you write !! and tell a story !! and i love the dialogues u come up with and the little details that u slip in that make everything so much richer !!! felt 1000x deeper !! & u’re so talented op!! for writing smth like this 😭 definitely one of my fave atsumu fics to date 😭 thank u so much for writing this aaaaaaahhh!!!

miya atsumu and the chronic lovesick disease

❛ 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!!! ➞ warnings | 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.

[bikerboyfriend]

Even though I really wanted to get Cyberpunk 2077 I was devastated that you can't romance Johnny 😥

I mean u cant officially but u can bond with him and get him to like and essentially care for you and then take pics w him like this and call it a day :)