"You Don't Have To Walk Me Home."

more dad fan art w toji and megumi 🤍

me after any minor inconvenience

#distressed drama queen doing the distressed drama queen dance

megumi hair ???

飛魚

the hunt - frat boy!atsumu/f!reader (haikyuu!) tags: not NSFW but not NOT NSFW if that makes sense, inspired by this art by @/hlxtn, mentions of alcohol, typical frat party debauchery, college!au, greek system!au, reader is in a sorority, atsumu has a lip piercing and is a whore, making out, heavy petting, graphic depictions of graphic depictions, gratuitous headboard knocking, this atsumu makes me want to scream, word count 3k

The brief is simple: a scavenger hunt of sorts. 

It’s just a bit of friendly competition between you and your fellow sorority sisters, not unusual for the chapter president and the upper ranking sisters to orchestrate. At 8:00PM on the dot, everyone received a joint text message with a list of items to retrieve or tasks to complete to earn points—for tasks without a physical trophy, a simple photo as proof would do the trick—and once the clock strikes midnight, the participants who've managed to scavenge the most points would be the winners, and those with the lowest points would face a forfeit.

And finally, throughout the night there would be bonus points come up for grabs in the form of special challenges.

Like the one currently lighting up the screen of your phone. 

(11:00PM) INZ hookup - 100 points for a pledge, 500 points for pres, 250 points for everyone else. (11:00PM) Current ranking: 12/25. 1 hour remaining.

“How far are we from the Iota house?” you ask, leaning forward against the restraint of your seatbelt and gripping the headrest of the drivers seat in front of you.

“A couple blocks,” your friend (and fellow sorority sister) behind the wheel says in confusion, “why?”

You and a few of your closest friends had wandered out that night to amass points together. You were all doing pretty well, but according to the rankings that are sent out every half hour, none of you have even broken the top 10. 

And now there's only an hour left.

“Go there next,” you say decisively. 

“Are you nuts?” another sister smushed into the backseat with you squeaks, “hooking up with an Iota is…”

Practically a death sentence. At least socially. You all know it. 

To call the boys of the INZ frat run-through would be a disservice to the word. Their reputation among the other greeks is NOT one to be trifled with. The boys themselves, beyond being philandering, are more than a little rough around the edges. They’re known for starting fights (and finishing them) and save for their chapter president Kita, and a few standouts among the brothers, they’re not generally considered the shining gold standard of Greek Life. The Iotas are the direct cause of more than a few of the sanctions your university has imposed on the Greek system in recent years, even against Kita's best efforts to keep them in line. 

But still, that many points may just be too gleaming of an opportunity for you to pass up. 

There’s a party in full swing when you pull up to the INZ house, because it's a Friday night so of course there is.

“Do you see anyone else here?” you ask your friends as you step into the fray, raising your voice to be heard over the pulsating music rattling through the house. You’re all wearing shirts with your sorority’s greek letters on them, so any fellow sisters should be easy to spot, though you can’t make any out from where you stand near the door.

“No,” one of your friends says, pressing close to your back to avoid being run over by a few passing partygoers chasing after someone in a hoodie with a quart of rum tucked under his arm. “Hey, are you sure this is a good idea?”

Of course it’s not. But the last time you lost one of these little challenges you were stuck vacuuming the entire sorority house for two months, and you weren’t eager to experience it again. 

“How much time is left?” you ask, pulling your cellphone from your pocket. 

11:12 your screen reads.

“Around 45 minutes,” your friend confirms what you know to be true once you see the time on your screen. Your eyes scan the party, landing on a figure on the edge of the crowd in an INZ hoodie with a red solo cup in his hands.

And a terrible, horrible, perfect idea comes to mind. 

You unlock your phone.

'Claiming this task!' you type as you cross the party, leaving your friends behind. 

The President replies immediately to your claim.

(11:15PM) Which Iota? 

You send your answer without a second thought.

The boy in the INZ hoodie doesn’t see you coming as you sidle up beside him, so when you put a hand on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and crane up on your tiptoes to get close to his ear he stiffens slightly in surprise. 

“Hi,” you say into his ear to be heard over the music blaring through the crowded house, your fingers twisting into the material of his sleeve, “you don’t know me, but I really need a favour.”

And that’s how you end up in Atsumu Miya’s bedroom in the Iota Nu Zeta frat house, standing on he opposite side of the room as he sits perched on the edge of his bed.

“Yer tellin’ me ya want me to pretend to fuck ya?” he asks, a brow quirked under the band of his backwards cap. “All fer some… bet?”

“It’s not a bet,” you correct him (not for the first time), “it’s a scavenger hunt.”

“And I’m the thing yer huntin’?” he's teasing you now, and you know it. 

“It doesn’t have to be you,” you huff, your lips pursing, “and if you’re gonna keep wasting my time I can go ask—“

“Now wait a minute,” he interrupts you before you can even dangle the threat before him, “now that I know yer trying to cheat the system, whose t’say I don’t send a text of my own to that pretty little president of yours and tell her what yer schemin’?” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say, your nose crinkling up in irritation. 

Atsumu grins, and the piercing on his bottom lip catches in the light of the lamp that sits on the table between the two twin XL beds in the tiny, untidy room. You assume he shares it with his twin brother, though you really don’t have much to base that assumption other than the fact you know he has one. The room is a bit neater on the side Atsumu is not sitting on, so you infer that Osamu is also the tidier twin between the two of them. 

“Nah, I wouldn’t,” he laughs, “I kinda like seein’ ya play dirty.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You guys always seem so…” Atsumu goes on, waving his hand in the air vaguely. 

“Rule-abiding?” you offer. 

“Stuck up,” he corrects you. 

He’s not necessarily wrong for thinking it, even if it does irk you. Your sisterhood is one of the more reserved greek chapters on campus—elite even, if you dared to say it. Sure, the scavenger hunt you find yourself partaking in that evening might not seem it, but the fact of the matter is that you guys aren’t inherently morally superior to any of the other greek houses - you’re just better at not getting caught. 

Something that seems utterly beyond the Iota brothers. 

Which is exactly why you need it to be him.

“Are you gonna help me or not?” you finally ask, sighing warily. 

“What’s in it for me?” Atsumu counters your appeal. 

“I’ll give you all my precal notes ahead of the midterm next week.”

Atsumu furrows his brow. “We’re in the same precal class?” he asks. 

Your expression flattens. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” you grit out, “which you might know if you didn’t spend every class napping.”

“Wait…”—he purses his lips, eyes scanning over your face—“we have a midterm next week?” 

You feel something throb palpably behind your eyes. 

“Yes,” you manage to get out even though your jaw is clenched firmly shut. "God you're hopeless."

"Yer awfully rude for someone who's tryin' to use me fer my body," Atsumu says, smirking when he sees the way your expression shifts into one of even further annoyance at his taunt. He leans back on his bed, resting his weight on his elbows. “So, what do I have to do here?”

“Just… take your shirt off and take a picture with me in bed with you,” you say, though it physically pains you to say the words. To have to stoop so low.

He quirks a brow mischievously. “Oh, ’s that all?”

“And keep your hands to yourself,” you tack on pointedly.

Atsumu snorts, lifting his hands in innocence.

“You got it, princess.”

Just as Atsumu shifts his weight forward, and his hand reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his hoodie, your cellphone jingles. 

You reach for it, and see that it’s a message from the sorority president. You unlock the device to reveal the message.

It’s a picture of a door.

The very door you presently find yourself behind.

Another message pops up in the chat.

(11:29) Recruited a bit of backup! You’ve got a little crowd waiting for proof, just to be safe ;)

And then another.

(11:30) Current ranking: 15/25. 30 minutes remaining.

“Fuck,” you mutter, miserable at the turn of events - and your drop in the rankings.

“What’s wrong?” Atsumu asks. 

“There are people out there…” your voice drops quieter, your eyes flickering over to the door on the other side of the room. “Waiting for… proof.”

The information seems to process slowly in Atsumu’s brain, and his eyes widen as the facts click into place. 

“Ohhh…” he trails off. “They want a real show, huh?” 

“Sorry for dragging you into this,” you sigh, “it was stupid, just forget I-“ 

Atsumu catches your wrist in his hand, tugging you forward before you can step away towards the door in defeat. You peer down at him as you stand between his parted thighs, confused.

“I never said I couldn’t give ‘em one.”

Your face flushes.

“Don’t be stu-“

“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says, letting his grip on your wrist fall, “we just gotta get a bit more… creative about it ’s all.”

You chew on the corner of your lip. 

You really hate vacuuming. 

“Alright,” you muster your resolve, offering him your hand for a handshake.

“And ya owe me all your notes right up until the final,” Atsumu tacks on, just before he clasps your hand in his. 

You huff, closing the distance between your palms and taking his hand in a shake. You can’t help but notice how much larger his hand is than yours. 

“Fine, whatever.”

Atsumu is… frighteningly good at putting on a show. 

He turns out the lamp on his bedside table so there’s no light peeking out from the crack under the door, he turns on music like he’s trying (and failing) to drown out any possible noise that might make it out, and he rocks his sturdy bed frame into the wall in a steady, unmistakable rhythm. 

“Hey,” he grunts out on a particularly hard knock of the wooden frame against the wall, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Ya gotta make some noise, y’know. Yer gonna ruin my rep.”

“What do you mean?” you whisper back, still standing frozen just beside the bed, more than a little awkwardly. 

“Y’know, moan or whatever,” he hisses back. 

“I can’t do that!” you snap.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he mutters, and you have half a mind to smack him. But before you have the chance to, a strong arm circles your waist and pulls you down. 

You squeak in fright. “Atsumu!”

He has you pinned underneath his body before you know it, practically nose to nose with him, his hands returning to their place on the headboard to give it another knock against the wall. 

Your eyes have adjusted to the dimness in the room since he turned out the lamp, and you can make out his features even though it’s dark. He’s smirking, that little silver hoop at the edge of his lip caught between his teeth. 

“There ya go,” he snickers, “just like that.”

“You told me you’d keep your hands to yourself,” you mutter lowly.

“Sacrifices must be made,” he shrugs, and gives the headboard another loud, incriminating knock. 

It’s preposterous the situation you find yourself in, pinned underneath Atsumu god damn Miya of all people. Pretending to fuck him. 

How the hell did you end up here?

“Ow,” you complain quietly when a particularly rough knock makes the back of your head hit the headboard. 

“Shit, sorry,” Atsumu mutters. He slides an arm underneath your back. “Here.”

He grunts, flipping the two of you over so you’re straddling his waist and he’s the one against the headboard in his tiny little bed. His baseball cap falls off in the scuffle, leaving the strands of his blonde hair loose. 

“’S that better?” he asks. 

It’s not actually, because this feels a hell of a lot more compromising than it had a second before. 

“Ya just gotta push against the headboard like this,”—he takes your hands in his, guiding them up over his shoulders to grip the wooden bed frame, pressing them back until it knocks into the wall—“see?”

“Okay,” you murmur, still a little dazed from the sudden role reversal, repeating the motion. 

You go slower than he had as you get the hang of it, distracted by how close his face is to yours. How you can feel his breath against your mouth. 

It smells like spearmint gum and cheap beer. 

You lick your lips. 

“This more the pace you like?” Atsumu asks, smiling crookedly as he remarks on the tempo you’ve set, his hands settling on your waist. 

“Watch your hands,” you snap quietly, and his touch retreats as you stretch back as far as you can from him without losing your grip on the headboard. 

“You’re still bein’ pretty quiet,” Atsumu comments. “You really gonna make me do everything?” 

“What do you-“

“Ohhhh, fuck.”

Atsumu’s moan is so loud that it startles you, and you let go of the headboard to slap your hand over his mouth in surprise. He grunts a little as you pitch forward, your palm muffling the sound. 

“You tryin’ to win this thing or not?” he asks you pointedly once you pull your hand away. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, acutely aware of the fact you can feel the slickness of spit on your palm, “you just… surprised me.”

He hums. 

“I’d say we’ve probably sold it at this point anyway,” he says with a little sigh. “As long as we go back out there lookin’ a bit scruffy, no one’ll know.”

You chew on the inside of your mouth as you mull over his words. 

“What?” he asks, noticing your hesitation.

You swallow, reaching up and touching the side of your neck. 

“You should give me a hickey.”

Atsumu’s eyes go as wide as saucers. 

“Yer jokin’.”

You shake your head. “It’s like… incontrovertible proof right? It’s not like I could give myself one.”

His eyes search your face for any sign of deception. 

“Ya don’t seem like the type who’d let someone mark ya.”

“I’m not,” you say, suppressing a shiver as his pointer finger loops under the neckline of your t-shirt, tugging it gently to the side. “You seem like the type to leave marks, though.”

Atsumu leans forward and chuckles, his breath is warm against your throat.

“Yeah, guess I am.”

Atsumu’s mouth is hot as it descends upon your pulse point, lips closing around the skin.

“Oh,” you gasp, your hands tangling in the blonde’s hair without thinking as he sucks at the sensitive part of your neck. His own hands have settled on your waist, and this time you don’t tell him to remove them.

“Atsumu,” you whimper as his teeth scrape over the skin he’s been suckling against, making you dizzy.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your throat, his hands slipping up under the hem of your t-shirt where his fingertips meet skin.

You don’t say anything.

Atsumu flips you over, and this time there’s nothing deceptive about the way the headboard knocks into the wall. 

His hands are still up your shirt, his lips still on your neck, and your legs wrap themselves around his waist as you writhe against his bedsheets. 

“D’ya know why,”—Atsumu interrupts himself to drag his teeth along the edge of your jaw—“I was so shocked we’re in the same class?”

You shake your head minutely, your fingers twisted into the material of his hoodie over his chest. You watch his lips part in a smile, eyes fixed to that little piercing again.

“Because I’ve had a crush on ya since first year,” he murmurs, “and if I’d known ya were there, then I wouldn’t of been nappin’.”

Atsumu kisses you—finally—and you can’t help the sound that slips out of you at the feeling of his lips slotting against yours.

His mouth tastes like spearmint and beer.

His piercing presses gently into your lips as his part against yours, his tongue slipping forward to taste you too.

His hands grab at anything and everything they can reach. 

Somewhere distantly, you feel you’ve played right into his hand. You recognize that you weren’t the only one who had been scheming tonight.

On Atsumu’s floor, your discarded cellphone lights up with yet another missed message. 

(11:45PM) Proof received +250 points

(11:46PM) No idea you had it in you LOL

(12:00AM) Final ranking: 2nd place

You don’t see the texts until much, much later.

trying to become a wine couple with shouto and the two of you sit on the floor in the living room each with a healthily poured glass in hand while you try (and fail) to describe the tasting notes.

"it's very..." you run your tongue over your lips, as though catching the last drop that clings to them might be a breakthrough. "...dry."

shouto swallows another mouthful, his nose twitching a little at the taste—he doesn't seem to like it, but he's trying (mostly for your sake.) he considers your point, and then adds thoughtfully: "i think it's pretty wet actually."

roger

I HAD A DREAM ABOUT KUROO

Hello, I hope you're doing well! My name is Mahmoud Abu Swierh, and I'm a 17-year-old from Gaza. The ongoing war has devastated my city, destroyed my school, and made daily life incredibly challenging. Despite these hardships, I'm determined to continue my education and build a better future. I've been given a chance to study abroad, but I need help to cover the costs of leaving Gaza, as well as living expenses and other essentials abroad once the crossing opens. If you can, please consider donating or sharing, your kindness can truly make a difference. Thank you. https://gofund.me/bd3ccf0b

boost please guys - give this attention !!

i love love LOVE when u guys invoke my name in the tags of ur reblogs. it feels so PERSONAL and FUN. like "i liked this liv" or "what a great fic liv" or "what the fuck is wrong with you liv"

Osamu leaves his phone number on napkins as a way to flirt with you.

You find them everywhere. Anywhere. It’s almost always the same thing- a chicken scratched version of your name, a crudely drawn winky face, and his phone number. If it wasn’t his phone number, it was another silly flirt, cheesy as can be and making your cheeks heat up each and every time you catch it.

who needs the galaxy when the only stars i want are in your eyes?

if i could rearrange the alphabet, id put U and I together

your hand looks heavy… want me to hold it for you?

call me ;}

And you’d be completely smitten with these originally, rolling your eyes and telling him how inappropriate it was leaving little napkins scattered around the back of Onigiri Miya for you.

But you don’t have to. Because you’ve been engaged for seven months by now.

“You don’t have to waste the napkins like this,” you snip playfully, tossing a wad onto the desk he’s occupied at. “You could very easily just text me your silly ass flirts.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, standing up and strutting confidently towards you. “You wound me baby,” he says, pulling you in for an embrace. “Is it a crime to leave little love letters for my little love?” You fake a gag and he rolls his eyes before pulling you in for a hug, “besides, how will everyone know you’re mine if I don’t?”

“I wear a fat rock on my finger every day, we come in together, and I know you’ve given me marks that I’ve been unable to cover- trust me, I think they get it.”

He lets his eyes glaze up and down before settling on your lips again, “well what if I just want you to know I love you? Huh?”

“I come back here, and you tell me,” you offer with another kiss, which he takes happily. “You always tell me.” Your arms snake around his thick neck, fingers playing with the short hairs of his undercut just to hear him shiver. He settles his hands on your waist and gives you a small, playful pout.

“You really don’t like my napkin-flirts?”

“I don’t like you wasting napkins,” you snort. “Gotta leave some for the customers and staff, angel boy.”

He sighs dramatically, “fine. No more flirt napkins.”

“Good,” you say, smiling. In truth, it does seem weird that you’ll start walking into work without crude little napkins flirting with you, but it’s for the best. And it is weird for a few days, even to the point some of your staff asks about the lack of affectionate little notes.

But the strange feeling doesn’t last.

Instead, it upgrades to bright pink sticky notes, littered around the shop in a familiar fashion to the napkins, only now, stuck in place for you to find throughout the restaurant.

And every now and again, all over the house. All over.

But who would’ve known, he was right.

Because you’d be lying if you say you do hate the unprofessional little reminders.