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salsakiyoomi · 1 year

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you knew miya atsumu from highschool.

yes, the miya atsumu, the star hit volleyball player, the one on almost every magazine cover, the one with over a hundred million followers on instagram, the one who's notorious for flirting with his interviewers and having an attitude with an over the top ego yet still managing to quiver under his coach's gaze and putting his arrogance in check.

yes, you knew him.

you knew him as the loud, rowdy kid who never shut up in class, who definitely had an over the top ego and attitude problem back then as well, who also flirted with your friends and even you on some if not all occasions.

god, you hated him.

he was arrogant and ignorant and overall a huge dickehead who needed to be tamed.

this was the light you saw him in up until graduation day, when he came up to you with a smirk plastered on his face and you noticed it, mentally preparing yourself to tell him to fuck off if he was here to flirt with you again.

but he didn't saying anything flirtatious, instead, all he said was, "hey, congratulations on being in the top three, man, it's freakin' awesome."

he was congratulating you for when you took your diploma and the principal announced that you were in second place between all the other graduates.

and after that, miya atsumu left and you never saw him again.

it wasn't until a few years later that you randomly saw his name on a twitter headline that said 'new upcoming volleyball star : miya atsumu is certainly making his way to the frontlines!'

it was obvious that volleyball would be his go-to, he was definitely talented at it, and against your bitter will, you had to admit that even you were awe-strucked when he played on the court.

however, it still was definitely a surprise when you saw his name on headlines, it left you with your mouth hung open in astonishment.

and after that, he was everywhere you went.

on tv, on magazines posing with his teammates, on instagram and twitter, on youtube in 'top ten funniest miya atsumu moments' video compilations — heck, even in a fucking advertisement for a hair conditioner.

you truly couldn't escape him.

by heart, you were a journalist, and so soon came the day where miya atsumu is sitting in front of you, conducting an interview.

well, it isn't him alone, it's him and his teammates — it's loud in the room as all of them talk over eachother, but his eye catches yours and a hint of recognition flashes in them, before a smile spreads on his lips, one that you eventually mirror as if the both of you are sharing some inside joke.

miya atsumu recognizes you.

he recognizes your face and your eyes, he recognizes you smile, and oh how he recognizes your voice that's speaking in a soft, professional tone now, but used to scold him with a harsh and sarcastic tone then.

and so, in the next thirty minute you spent interviewing him and his teammates, miya atsumu's mind kept flashing through the very few memories he had with you in highschool, and most importantly, feelings of an old crush resurfaced now that he's face to face with you.

he's smiling at you, giving you heart eyes, and answering every question that you asked him personally with an almost child-like enthusiasm.

atsumu truly hasn't felt this shy around someone since highschool.

the interview passes quick and everyone scatters soon after and you find yourself standing outside the stadium, with your phone in your hand and waiting for your uber to come.

you think, while miya atsumu still had some of his unmistakable traits such as his attitude and talent to annoy others effortlessly, there's still some traits to him that make you tolerate him a bit more now.

after all, you don't really hate him as much as you did back in highschool.

or it you can even call what you felt towards him back in highschool hate — it was more of a feeling if annoyance really, since he was a nuisance.

"well, well, well, long time no see." a familiar voice plastered with cockiness to it calls out to you, and you turn around to face the blonde.

speak of the devil, you think.

"well, surprised to even see you still remember me, miya." you tease, smirking at him.

"what can i say? it's hard to forget you when you used to call me a 'motherfucking jackass' everyday at school." he shoots back, laughing loudly at the way you turn your face away in embarrassment.

"listen, you used to annoy me alot, okay?" you defend, "and i see that none of that has changed."

he grins at you, and says, "one can only change so little, i see you still have very little tolerance for me."

"as always."

he laughs again, and then his laughter quiets down, but a smile still remains on his lips as he looks at you, his expression timid and his voice almost shy as he says, "haven't seen you in so long, i missed ya."

you think you're imagining it when you see him with a faint pink dusting his cheeks.

now it's your turn to laugh, you aren't necessarily laughing at him, just more so that you're surprised by his sudden statement, and so you reply with, "well, my everyday was kind of dull without you annoying me, so i guess i missed you too."

you can swear that the pink on his cheeks got darker when you said that, but you decide not to say anything of it.

he chuckles and stuffs his hands in his pockets, "well, i'm glad we can finally agree on something." he let's out a long sigh, "who knew fate would bring us back like that? as a hotshot and an interviewer?"

he's being dramatic and cocky again.

you roll your eyes at him, "you think quite highly of yourself, it's sickening."

atsumu grins at you, and you shake your head at him with an unwilling smile on your lips, thinking that maybe his company right now isn't so bad, and that maybe you're actually enjoying talking to him right now.

atsumu asks, "so, are you waiting for someone?"

"my uber, yes."

"well, then i guess you wouldn't mind if i waited with you then." he says, shuffling a bit closer to you — atsumu isn't sure why he's doing this to himself, talking with you knowing how nervous and jittery you get him to be, with his heart pounding fast in his chest and his hands clammy in his pockets and he hasn't felt this way since highschool — but maybe, just maybe he's hoping he could build up enough courage to ask for your number.

"you already are," you remark teasingly, smiling at him.

your phone vibrates in your hand and you check the notification that tell you your uber is almost here.

"it's almost here anyway," you state, and you don't notice how his shoulders suddenly slump down like a disappointed child.

"oh," he says disappointingly, "well, it was nice meeting you again after so long, y/n." he smiles brightly at you.

you state at him for a moment, your mind racing through some thoughts, before you finally decide that : fuck it, you'll just go for it.

"give me your phone." you demand.

he furrows his brows in confusion, "what? why?"

"just give me your phone."

atsumu reluctantly and confusingly pulls his phone out and hands it to you without asking any further questions.

you tap away at his screen for a few seconds before handing his phone back to him — and just then your uber pulls up.

atsumu only catches a glimpse of 'y/n from highschool' saved into his contact list before you're standing on your tippy toes pressing a peck to his cheek and pulling away, smiling and waving at him as you make your way to your ride.

you call out, "call me later, okay?"

atsumu swears his heart went flying with the next gust of wind that blew, and red bloomed on his cheeks as his eyes scanned over your contact name a hundred times, almost as if he couldn't believe it sat in his phone now, and when his mind finally registered it, a giddy, shy smile that he couldn't resist spread to his face.

oh, for sure he'll be calling you later.

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spaghettiwench · 1 year

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Norrie and Lucy both had friendship bracelets they made each other while they had free time on jobs (you know the ones you make at summer camp with all the knots that takes FOREVER to make) Lucy's bracelet has two shades of blue (one light one dark) and purple. Norries is yellow white and green.

They both tied the bracelets onto the others wrist once they were finished. A promise to each other that they were going to last, tight enough that the only way to get it off is to cut it.

Norrie still has hers, fairly beat up in her ghost locked state but still holding on strong.

Lucy on the other hand lost hers on a job one night during her first week in London.

When she realized it was gone she was in the shower after a job. She had locked herself in her room for the next few days, refusing to see anyone, refusing to eat any of the trays Lockwood tried to bring up and the boys had no idea why. No idea until one day months later after the bone glass Lucy walks up to them one morning without a word and ties a poorly knotted bracelet around each of their wrists. George's is orange, red and pink and Lockwoods is teal, grey, and purple. They didn't understand it at first, Lockwood moaned that it clashed with his outfits; and jewelry had always bugged George, he said that it got in the way.

It wasn't until Lockwood caught her making her own in the garden one sunny morning spending hours tying tedious knots one color after the other that he understood. He looked at the bracelet on his right wrist and realized that this scrap of embroidery thread represented a promise. One of persistence, one of patience, one of a future where all that time and love that was put into it was paid back tenfold.

Lockwood never complained about his again after what he saw, and while George still complained about his he resolutely refuses to cut his off.

Lucy wears a new bracelet on her wrist now, four to be exact. They get caught on all the wrong things and take forever to dry after a shower but she refuses to take them off until they break.

one is two shades of blue and purple

one is yellow, green, and white

one is orange, red and pink

and the last is teal grey and purple

#sorry guys the voices won with this one #this came to me in a dream #its 5am #maybe i'll expand on this #idk #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #george karim #george cubbins #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood and lucy #locklye #the empty grave #the hollow boy #the creeping shadow #the screaming staircase #the whispering skull

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chuckyray · 4 months

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#its 5am #whitey tag #house of 1000 corpses #otis driftwood

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mhaynoot · 1 year

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[orv spoilers]

for most of orv, kdj fundamentally believes that he does not deserve love nor that his selfworth was greater than the survival of his companions.

he was forged in boyhood with a mother who hurt him for the sake of her love for him. his foundational years instrumentally shaped his perception on what is love - on what someone who loves does for the one they love, on the one-sided sacrifice of love. his mother's actions were so fundamental on his perception of love that it was forever changed after her sacrifice, becoming the core of who he was as a person. not only that but his mother's sacrifice had also probably been the last act of love he knowingly received for a long, long time until the scenarios began. kdj, a lonely existence who went through school, college and work at arms length away from others, who grew up on books and his protagonist and bore only pain from other human beings, grew up to possess a selfish expression love and the ideal of unconditional self sacrifice. for kdj, love was pain and sacrifice and the person you love will end up hating you.

and, thus, his acts of love become acts of violence towards himself and unknowingly violence towards the bonds he has created with others. his lack of selfworth and selflove, his harmful understanding of love, hurts the companion he leaves behind in sacrifice much like his mother had done to him.

which makes it all the more heartbreaking when, in the war between good and evil, he wants to live. wants to stay. wants to be saved. wants believe in the love of his companions. wants to believe in his own self worth. and so he asks yjh, hsy and jhw to rescue him, reaches his hand out to his loved ones and he finally, finally goes "please save me".

but this all breaks apart. later, when the doors to the train doors open and he is confronted with OD and all the underlying suspicions (self-hatred) he had so far are reaffirmed, everything shatters. any sense of self-love he might of had collapses at the sight of his "sin" and he is broken down into the character he believes himself to be: an unlovable and unforgivable being.

he leaves behind 49% of everything he believes the others love, the best parts of himself, the part he believes they would love only. and what are these parts? his memories together with them, not the one who read wos, not the one who hates tomatoes, not the one who survived on his own, hurt and lonely. the best parts of himself were the ones he had with the others, of their time together. (because who would love whats left in the 51%? they dont even know those parts after all.)

but he's wrong of course. kimcom loves him, loves the idiot who hates tomatoes, who could only live because he read a crappy webnovel, the one with a shitty way of speaking, and had starry eyes that sparkled. they love him. and they wrote all of that love into ORV.

which is why im going insane cause if you want a happy post-epilogue for orv, this only happens because kdj (and in turn the small % in every reader) wants to be saved, wants to be happy, knows that he (and us) deserves to be saved, to live and to be happy to be able to truly, wholeheartedly imagine and want for his story to continue. and kdj has to know that he is loved, entirely.

#i dont know what the fuck im saying #its 5am #orv #kimcom #orv meta #orv themes #love and abandonment #relearning love after a lifetime of pain and sacrifice #kim dokja #being sad over this rat bastard for the thousandth time #orv analysis

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fundashnee-rott · 12 days

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Was Paracelsus gaslight into being a.b.a husband or girlbossed

#guilty gear #ggst #low effort shitpost #ggst a.b.a #a.b.a ggst #a.b.a #guilty gear a.b.a #a.b.a guilty gear #a.b.a x paracelsus #guilty gear paracelsus #paracelsus #paracelsus guilty gear #its 5am #srry

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randomm-person · 4 months

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@pillowspace Sorry to bother, but my internet is working again so I took the chance to get my doodles from the whiteboard!! :D

#it was a weird dream...#my ocs #My y/n that I haven't shared yet #HARRY!!#fnaf daycare attendant #Its 5am #i go sleep now

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artyasumi · 7 months

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Couldn't stop thinking about their comic outfits

IMAGE ID: Ship art of Prince Gumball and Marshall Lee in their outfits from the Fionna and Cake card wars comics. Marshall is floating above him at face level and biting his neck. Prince Gumball has his hand on Marshall's wrist to steady himself. END ID

#gumlee #id say suggestive but like #ehhhh marshalls just like that #yknow what whatever #suggestive #i looove gumballs stupid fanny pack and marshalls he/they look of all time #its 5am #still not super great at IDs but we ball #described #adventure time described #idk

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feelingthedisaster · 2 months

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*andrew minyard is 5 foots tall*

what i should do: google how much 5 foots is in cm

what i did: my school ruler says 15cm is almost 6 inches by what it looks like 2mm (0.2cm), and acording to what i extrapolated from usa movies 12 inches (6x2) is a foot, so a foot would be 30.4 (15.2cm×2) cm, give or take, aka 30cm+0.4 cm, which multiply by five is 30cmx5=150cm and 0.4cmx5=2cm and 150cm+2cm is 152cm so andrew minyard is around 152cm

#its 5am #i havent slept #excuse my rambling #i have a tendency to think about math or fictional characters when i have insomia #and i have extra bc forgot to take my migraine meds #spoiler i didnt slept for more than 4 hours and it wasnt a 4 hours block more than 1 hour wake up 1 hour wake up #aftg #all for the game #andrew minyard #i dont understand the imperial metric system #nora sakavic

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shadowseductress · 6 months

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*aggressively cuddles you*

#intimate #5am #its 5am #aesthetic #dark acedemia #spilled ink #intimacy #romance #varsha

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these-godforsaken-halls · 2 months

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while you sleep I'll build a wall

2k words || read on ao3

quick tags: mumbo & grian centric (no romantic pairings), hurt/comfort, blood and injury, general fear/danger, first aid, hopeful ending; prompt: "bite down on this"

His hands shake. He’s sweating, breaths coming in frantic stutters. This isn’t out of the ordinary for Mumbo. This is, in fact, the usual state of affairs. Mumbo is anxious and the sky is blue and ah, yes, I see the floor here is made out of floor, Grian would say. Grian’s not saying anything like that right now, because he’s half-conscious and bleeding out all over said floor, and all over Mumbo’s nice suit jacket too.

likes and rbs appreciated!! <3

Grian’s not saying anything like that right now, because he’s half-conscious and bleeding out all over said floor, and all over Mumbo’s nice suit jacket too. So. Yeah, no jokes. Not — not really the time for those, right now. Mumbo might’ve joked that he wouldn’t put it past Grian to quip all the way up to his deathbed — in fact he probably has said that before, he’s probably said it more than once — but the notion is, believe it or not, much less funny when Grian is on his actual deathbed.

“Right,” he says to himself, trying to take deep breaths or something — that’s meant to help, right? Stress? It’s supposed to de-stress? — “Right, then, alright — ”

First things first: the bleeding. That’s probably the most immediate threat. Mumbo knows painfully little about first aid on this scale, because where he comes from, people respawn. (There is — there is a setting. On the server. That is set so people wake up after they die, because that’s how things are supposed to work. Mumbo is so — so angry right now, he could swear. He might swear. It’s been a near thing several times now.) He knows that pressure will do it, though, and his jacket’s a lost cause already, if that was something he even cared about anymore — he shucks it easily, fumbling to fold it into something more bandage-like, then presses it to Grian’s midsection. His — his very, very bloody midsection. Mumbo carefully averts his eyes to the worst of the damage. If he loses the last traces of his composure, Grian will definitely die. And Grian dying is not an outcome. It’s just — it isn’t one. He won’t accept it. It’s not going to happen.

The pressure does not help their situation.

Well — Grian’s internal situation, maybe. Probably. It probably helps that one. Keeping blood inside of the body. Yes. But the greater situation, the thing that’s put them both here, alone, tucked into a wood shack in a forest far from home, with a permanent death looming over Grian’s head? That one is not helped by adding pressure to Grian’s wounds, because the pressure makes Grian scream.

“No,” Mumbo says, flinching violently, voice pitching higher, “no, no — Grian, Grian you have to be quiet, mate, please —”

He pulls back, pressure abating. If they’re found like this they’re dead. Mumbo doesn’t know how Grian whisked them both away from the fight — neither of them had a stasis chamber or anything of the sort, and Mumbo’s got a sinking feeling it wasn’t legal in the slightest — but he has a hunch it was a one-and-done kind of thing, pulling on the last dregs of Grian’s strength after sustaining so much damage. Mumbo will have questions later. When Grian is not dying anymore.

There’s so much blood. It’s starting to make him dizzy, the sight and scent of it all.

“M’ sorry,” Grian mutters, startling him a little, “Mumbo, I — I’m sorry, it hurts, I can’t.” There are tears building in his eyes, and the look that he’s fixed Mumbo with — it’s horrible. It’s the worst thing that Mumbo has ever seen. “M’ sorry.”

“No,” Mumbo blurts in response. He’s not sure what all he’s saying no to — the ridiculous apology, certainly — and maybe just everything else? This whole damned situation? Yeah, that sounds about right. “No, you — no. Stop that. I need, I need to — here.” He fumbles for his tie, shaking hands struggling to pull it off without strangling himself. There are worse situations to be dressed in full formal attire; he doesn’t know what he’d be doing without so much spare cloth.

He gets the tie off, and he pauses for a moment to look down at it in his hands — to feel very sick, and very upset at what he’s about to do.

“Just bite down on this,” he says, and he — sort of awkwardly — shoves the tie into Grian’s mouth. (If Scar were here, he would be unbearable right about now. He would make a horrific joke, impossible to un-hear, and then he’d have the audacity to pretend any innuendo was accidental. Gods above, Mumbo misses Scar.) “That should — that should do it. Yeah. I’m — I’m so sorry. Grian, I am so sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Here’s Grian screaming in agony, under Mumbo’s own two hands, and the first thing Mumbo does is gag him . Defensible or not, an apology seems in order.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, a broken-off whisper, and his hands find the bloodied jacket again, and he presses down.

Grian still screams. But it’s muffled this time by the makeshift gag, muffled enough that maybe it’ll go unnoticed, and maybe only Mumbo will hear it. Mumbo definitely hears it, though. There’s no getting around Mumbo hearing it. Grian screams until his voice breaks under the strain, and then he just keeps screaming, strained and rasping — Mumbo works diligently, eyes blurring and hands trembling, forcing himself to focus on the work. Tear into strips, press down, wrap tight, pull spare string from his inventory to keep it fixed in place; it’s not enough fabric for the job, so he ends up sacrificing his shirt as well, repeating and repeating. Tear and wrap and tie, tear and wrap and tie. If the wounds were any deeper, he realizes, none of this would make a difference; they’re fresh out of potions, and Mumbo certainly doesn’t know how to suture anything, and he’d really prefer not to learn how on Grian’s bleeding body. Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that ends well.

So it’s lucky that the gashes are shallow enough to be effectively staunched. An ugly sight through all the blood, but survivable, at least for long enough to get ahold of more gold and nether wart.

Grian screams into the gag, tears streaming down the sides of his face, and Mumbo works until the work is done, tearing and wrapping and tying tight. When it’s done he sits back on his heels, breathing heavily.

He realizes that he’s crying, too.

Grian’s screams taper off into quiet sobbing. He doesn’t move — just lies on the red-stained wooden floor, head turned to the side, arms laid limp at his sides. He twitches and shudders as he cries, and Mumbo — Mumbo really wants to kill something.

He wants to kill people, actually — people with names that he vividly remembers, with player tags that had glowed bright against the night sky as they swung blades across Grian’s stomach, laughing — and maybe he doesn’t want it to stick , but he does want to kill them. Painfully. (He’s not got his middle name for nothing.)

That’s later, though. Right now there’s just this. There is his Grian, shuddering and crying on the floor; there is this slipshod wooden house, hastily thrown up for protection, just a few blocks across in either direction; there is a pair of beds in one corner, a crafting table and furnace in another. Mumbo takes a breath, and he gets back on his feet. Work to be done still. This is far from over.

“Here, mate,” he says gently when he returns to Grian’s side, cooked pork from the furnace in his off-hand. This is when he realizes, belatedly, that he hasn’t removed the gag yet. His heart stutters in his chest, guilt surging up his throat, and he drops to his knees at Grian’s side — ow , that’ll bruise.

He pulls it out slowly, afraid of — of hurting Grian’s jaw somehow, and Grian coughs once it’s gone, heaving in air and hacking, punctuated by weak sobs.

“M’mbo,” he manages between sobs, voice garbled, and Mumbo lurches forward in response, cupping Grian’s face with one hand.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right — right here. It’s alright. I’ve, ah, I’ve got — I’ll give you a minute, and then I’ve got some food. You need to eat something.”

Grian doesn’t respond. He shifts slightly, whimpering with the effort, and rests his head firmly against Mumbo’s knee, and Mumbo’s heart does something terrible and melty-soft and painful.

“I’m here,” he repeats, softer still.

It’s a slow process, but Grian manages to choke a few pork chops down with moderate assistance. That’ll help, Mumbo thinks, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. Now there’s just the matter of getting them both to bed. He — he gives himself a minute, first. He’s not quite ready for that bit yet.

Just — a second. To sit here.

Mumbo is not a weak man by any stretch, but he is downright exhausted. Carrying Grian is one thing; getting him up off the floor without wrecking his own back is another, and doing it gently sounds impossible.

He brushes one hand over Grian’s forehead, thumbing over the skin there, sweeping sandy-brown bangs back. His crying has quieted, but it hasn’t stopped, evident by the wet spot on the knee of Mumbo’s slacks.

“This might hurt,” he says quietly. “I — I know it’s all hurt, so far, really. Just this last bit, then you can sleep. You’re a — a real champ. Getting through all this. You know that? Not dying on me — really appreciate that one. Don’t know what I’d do if you died, to be completely honest with you.”

It’s not completely honest at all. Mumbo knows exactly what he’d do. He doubts he'd survive it, and he doubts it would matter.

He cards a hand through Grian’s hair, soft and slow, and Grian leans into the touch, though he doesn’t respond aloud. Mumbo wonders how awake he is. His eyes are closed, but his brow is furrowed, face far from relaxed, and he’s still whimpering every few seconds.

“Right,” Mumbo says to himself.

There are things he knows about himself now that he didn’t this morning. When he picks Grian up it will probably hurt, and he will probably make hurt sounds, and it will be very awful, but Mumbo will see it through. Not without flinching, but he’ll see it through. And that’s what he does: Grian cries out weakly as he’s moved, and it easily makes the list of the top five worst sounds Mumbo has ever heard, and he definitely does flinch, but he sees it through. He gets Grian to bed, tucks him in and settles in beside him. There’s still a little left to do before sleeping for the night — he pulls out a piece of paper from the stack in his inventory, and he spends a few minutes writing a messy list with a crumb of charcoal from his pocket.

He reads it over a couple of times, coming to grips with its contents, and then sets it aside.

A few more minutes pass, and Mumbo notes with some annoyance that he has not fallen asleep.

“Big day ahead,” he says, mostly to himself. He’s staring at the wood wall opposite the beds. “Good job that you’re asleep, you’ll need all that strength. Not a good job of me at all, being awake. There’ll be lots to do. We’ve got to get supplies for potions — goodness, I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish that, since you’ll definitely be staying here.”

At some point Grian has rolled over and, firmly as before, tucked himself into Mumbo’s side. Mumbo shifts slightly — wincing when it earns a tiny whimper — and settles his arm around Grian’s shoulders. His heart does the soft melty thing again when Grian relaxes further into him. He goes on rambling for a little while longer, until finally he feels the familiar tug of sleep, his eyelids growing heavy.

For a moment he is alright. There is only this room, and Mumbo and Grian inside of it, tucked against each other and under wool covers, the world locked firmly outside of four wood walls. It will be sturdy enough, and they’ll be safe for one night. Everything else will come after that.

Mumbo rests his nose in Grian’s hair, and he lets himself stop thinking about tomorrow.

#MY FEBUWHUMP QUEST CONTINUES #its 5am #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitblr #waffle duo #mumbo jumbo #grian #i decided to post the full text on tumblr this time #see how that does

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