School Me, Home Me And Alone Me Are Three Different People. Don't Ask Me To Explain, I Can't.

do you like octopuses 🐙

reblog to give a plushie to the person you reblogged this from

accidentally woke up early

there’s a chance i’ll fall back asleep but in the meantime,

good morning :’)

queen elizabeth slowly turning into willy wonka i see

All you fools are gonna look super dumb when the Queen hobbles out on her walking stick in February, stops in a daze, topples forward and almost falls flat on her face, but at the last second does a forward somersault, jumps back up, and then cheerfully gives a bunch of children a tour of Buckingham Palace, during which she kills them off one by one, in order to choose which one will be the next queen.

sorry yeah, you're actually not allowed in the grocery store anymore. yeah, everyone thought it was super weird when you were rummaging in your wallet for your debit card and it was making everyone super uncomfortable and taking a long time. sorry

when the grapes

kaminari should have a whip or lasso or something like. ones that conduct electricity really good and then he could just grab somebody with his whip/lasso and boom! they’re out

reblogging to savee

Your friends often ask how you get your job done, being surrounded by the tall, good-looking men that make up Japan’s volleyball team.

While, yeah, one wink from Atsumu could turn someone to soup and a rare smile from Sakusa could make someone weak in the knees, they weren’t the real distraction.

To you, at least.

No, the real problem was team Japan’s athletic trainer.

Dressed in simple black slacks and a dark polo, Iwaizumi Hajime puts these world class athletes to shame. He’s got this…air about him. Something powerful and commanding, which you suppose is necessary in training Olympians.

(Not to mention he’s got muscles so perfectly toned, they might as well have been sculpted from clay.)

You’ve known Iwaizumi for a little over a year now, your careers in sports medicine often overlapping. He goes to you when his athletes are feeling less than 100%, and you fix them. You, in turn, send healthy or recovered athletes to him so they stay that way.

You’ve corresponded frequently over email and the phone, sure, but now you’re both official staff members for team Japan’s men’s volleyball team. The athletic trainer and the physiotherapist. Now you see him at least four times a week - in person - as the Olympics steadily approach.

In fact, he’d driven you to practice today, picking you up from the clinic and walking into the gymnasium carrying both your bags of equipment.

Because Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t just hotter than a seatbelt buckle on a summer’s day, he’s also nice.

To you, at least.

While he won’t hesitate to bark at men like Ojiro or Ushijima, cut sharp glares at troublemakers like Hoshiumi or Miya, or boss around stubborn types like Kageyama or Sakusa, he’s not like that with you.

When a ball flies anywhere in your general vicinity, he’s there, swatting it away with his clipboard or catching it, whipping it back at whoever’s responsible. When you’re having trouble stuffing your equipment into your bag, he’s holding it shut so you can yank the zipper up. When your water bottle looks like it needs refilling, he’s holding up his empty one (though you swore it was at half a few seconds ago) volunteering to take yours to the fountain.

Worst of all, when it’s loud, he leans closer when you talk to him. Close enough that you can catch a whiff of his cologne, close enough that you can see the flecks of colour in his pretty eyes. He winds a strong arm around you, placing a gentle - respectful - hand on the small of your back to pull you just a little closer.

The warmth of his hand there, the proximity of his face to yours…it never fails to make your heart flutter a little in your chest.

Sure, you’ve currently got your hands all over Bokuto, smoothing kt tape over his thick traps, but you can’t help when your eyes wander to where Iwaizumi is seated, absorbed in the notes on his clipboard.

He just looks so good, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly whenever he moves his pen across the paper, lips pressed into a tight line. He only does that when he’s contemplating something, and you make a note to ask him about it after—

“Why’re you always starin’ at our trainer like that?” Bokuto questions, looking over his shoulder at you. Your face heats up slightly at being called out— you really hadn’t thought you were that obvious. “Do you…like him or something?”

Your hands fall from the athlete’s shoulders as he turns his entire body to look at you now. He doesn’t look or sound like he’s teasing, seeming genuinely curious with his question.

Atsumu, seeming to smell gossip, saunters over with a lopsided grin on his face. “We talkin’ about your obvious crush on Biceps over there?”

“I do not have a crush, Miya,” you lie, absolutely not staring at Iwaizumi’s biceps or admiring the way they strain slightly against his shirt sleeves. “We’re friends. Hajime is my friend.”

Atsumu’s brows raise up behind his bangs as you hand Bokuto his shirt. “Oh, so he’s Hajime, but the two of you are ‘just friends?’”

“Why did you put that in air quotes? It’s true!”

“You still call me Miya, but you’ve touched me more places than any other woman ever! Are you saying Hajime’s touched you in even more places?”

“No! O-of course not!” You sputter, shaking your head. “I don’t like him like that. He’s just too—” You gesture vaguely towards your friend, a frustrated noise slipping past your lips. He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, but like hell you’re going to say that to Miya.

“Too what?” Atsumu prods, grinning widely.

“Too— too tall,” you reason stupidly.

Bokuto just pats your shoulder sympathetically as Atsumu throws his head back, laughing much too loudly. “Too tall? Well, everyone’s the same height in bed.”

“Stop!” You groan, hiding your face behind your hands.

“Miya! Bokuto!” Iwaizumi snaps, a grimace marring those pretty lips of his. “Get your asses over here, water break is over.”

Bokuto and Atsumu exchange a look that says ‘yikes,’ the latter muttering, “Maybe if he gets laid, he’ll go a little easier on us.”

Atsumu flashes you a grin, and you swear your heart stops beating. “Don’t say anything. Atsumu.” You try to plead, but the setter’s already walking away, shooting you a thumbs up. “Atsumu!”

You have the overwhelming urge to melt into the floor. If you weren’t getting paid to take care of them—

You’re forced to look on in horror as Atsumu grips his trainer on the shoulder. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but your stomach drops when he nods his head back towards you.

You pretend to busy yourself, picking up whatever’s closest to you and gagging when it happens to be Bokuto’s forgotten knee pads.

When you look up again, eyes a little watery, your eyes meet Iwaizumi’s.

Hajime’s.

Your hot, very nice friend Hajime. Who carries your bags and smells like expensive cologne. Whose face seems stuck in a permanent grimace, though it always softens into a smile when he picks you up in the afternoon for practice.

Your hot, very nice friend Hajime who smirks a little as Atsumu walks away. Who keeps eye contact with you as he lifts the hem of his shirt to swipe at the sweat on his bottom lip, granting you a peek at the defined ridges of his abs—

Your very hot, very nice friend Hajime who is walking over to you now, holy shit.

“Hey.”

You toss the kneepads away, swiping your hands across your pants and trying your best to fix your hair. “Hi.”

He shifts his weight a little, gaze flickering over your face. Your brows, the slope of your nose, your lips, as if he’s studying you. “You free later today?”

You blink a few times. “I—”

“Great, I’ll pick you up at seven. For dinner.”

You nod and relax a little (barely). Dinner is okay. Dinner is easy. You’ve had dinner with your very hot, very nice friend Hajime before. Maybe you’ll stop by a few street vendors or grab some indulgent fast food.

He nods once, gently touching your arm. “So it’s a date. Wear something nice.”

Wait—

What?

━"How To Summon A Demon For Dummies"

━Tw: Slight flash warning for the gif separator

Summary:

The supernatural wasnt real. Magic was a cheep party trick; all smoke and mirrors to con people out of their money. Demons were a myth created by parents to scare little kids into eating their vegetables.

That's what (Y/n) thought. Untill they were caught up with a demon of their own, who dead set on getting his way.

━Notes: The beginning of something dark

━Song: "Empty Hallways" By Steve Gabry

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

(Y/n)s fingers hurt.

The fact that someone was leaning over their shoulder munching on some brand name chips didn't make this research any easier.

For the past half hour the free-lance artist had been silently typing away at an old keyboard clogged with food crumbs and flecks of paper. Using their life long friends computer wouldn't normally be their first choice, but seeing as they had stayed longer into the night than planned it looked like (Y/n) didn't have a say in it.

They cringed lightly as Alex swallowed a mouth full of food right next to their ear; presumably to ask a question.

"Remind me exactly why you're using Wikipedia of all places to look up whatever the hell this is." (Y/n) didn't have to look up to know that her muddy blue eyes were staring at what they were typing into the computer.

"It's a commission." They responded shortly. Alex raised an eyebrow waiting for them to go on.

"I got a dm on discord. Someone wants me to do a full body of their oc or whatever and I had to do some research on what species their oc was." (Y/n) continued, clicking on the enter button as they finished their sentence and scanning the results that came up. "No other websites had information on what I was looking for so I turned to Wikipedia."

Alex snorted and backed up. Heading to her messy couch, she flopped on it and snatched the remote.

"Ah yes. Wikipedia. The place where weirdos and crazies hang out. Should be perfect for you." She said all of this in a sardonic voice, pressing some rubber buttons on the remote in her hands to pull up a video. (Y/n) meerly huffed out a slight smile. Playfully flipping them off without looking they retorted.

"Just becuase I became an artist instead of starting a tattoo shop with you doesn't make me a weirdo."

"It was our dream job though (Y/nnnnn)!" Alex whined. They just chuckled and scoured the shitty website more as she surfed the internet.

(Y/n) heard Alex let out a small gasp of excitement as well as say something along the lines of 'he uploaded!' Only after they heard the loud and sadly familliar words 'top of the mornin to ye laddies!' did a groan escape their lips.

"Really Alex? This guy again? All you watch anymore is him. Hell you even drink the coffee he sells, and you hate coffee." With a grumble they added the last part in hopes that their friend would pause the video to argue with them. At least then they could get some work done without the t.v screaming at them from behind. But she meerly shushed them and settled into the stained couch with a giddy grin.

Sighing, they tried to ignore the sounds of a sharp Irish voice from behind and the sound affects of some random video game.

Not but two minutes of listening to that God awful video had passed before they sighed in relief. At least they had found what they were looking for.

"A glitch demon." They read aloud to themself quietly. "An entity that lives and feeds on the internet, often appearing unstable and like its name suggests; a glitch."

As they read more and more, it got less interesting. You could tell this article had been written and edited by someone with less than average vocabulary and it made for a very annoying read. The only part that stuck out was a bolded paragraph in italics, practically begging to be read. Summoning The Entity- was the subtitle that hung over it boldly. That grabbed their attention fairly quick.

The words were forien and complicated to (Y/n)s curious eyes. So much in fact they felt the urge to sound it out as a pathetic attempt to understand it better.

Besides, how real could these things really be.

"Πείτε αυτά τα λόγια και θα ακολουθήσετε. Μόνος σου δεν υπάρχει πλέον δυνατότητα. Παρακολούθησε και ακολουθούσε από οθόνη σε οθόνη. Θα συναντήσεις τη μοίρα σου με μια κραυγή."

It was a strange language. One that they wernt entirely sure was real; not even to mention if they read it right. And while it left them confused, the attention of Alex from behind them had finally been grabbed.

"What are you reading there buddy." She asked with a mix of caution and curiosity. They waved a hand signaling her to come over without taking their eyes off the screen.

"I found what I was looking for." They worked some saliva around in their oddly dry mouth. "The article on glitch demons 'member? Yeah and there was a summoning part. Wanted to see what it sounded like aloud."

Looking away from the screen for the first time in a while to find Alex looking at then with worried eyes, neither adults noticed the glowing white screen fritz out into a green pattern before going back to normal.

The pair proceeded to share a look and have a silent conversation. Alex had always believed in the strange myths that came from the crumpled pages of musty books. (Y/n) was always more of a no nonsense person, dismissing those claims of UFOs and magic as the incoherent ramblings of a crackhead on the street corner.

"It's says here glitch demons, if summoned, can follow someone by electronics kept on one's person (Y/n)."

Alex had turned her attention back to the computer. Reading aloud, their face was set in a grave look that (Y/n) had to resist the urge to roll their eyes at.

"So you're telling me satan's gonna follow me home through me discord." They deadpanned, cutting off their friends words before they could speak again. "Alex you do realize these articles are written by thirteen year olds with an obsession for the paranormal right. This shit is about as real as the ninja turtles you had a crush on in the third grade."

Ignoring the comment made about the fictional vigilantes she had been infatuated with as a child, Alex huffed at (Y/n). She went on a small rant about how this wasn't a laughing manor and that they should be legitimately worried.

(Y/n) managed to calm them down by promising to turn off their phone when they took the bus home that night. It was enough to get her to stop lecturing them, so they took that as a sign to log off the computer and walk to the kitchen.

"Come on. Let's have a drink or two. I think after today we both deserve it."

As the night went on and many glasses were filled to the brim, their phone lay by the computer.

Every once in a while it would glow green.

They woke up with a splitting headache and aching body.

Blinking through an eyeful of crust and bright light, (Y/n) eventually managed to look at their surroundings with a low groan. Everything was sore all over. Like they had jogged twenty miles before getting home last night.

While dirty clothes clung to sweaty skin, they used their elbow to prop their form up on the slightly messy bed. Hair stuck up in every which way as evidence of a good night's sleep.

How exactly did they get home last night? (Y/n) vaugly remembered a lone bus ride home with droopy eyelids and breath that reeked of wiskey. Thanks to their appearance they has gotten their own corner on the bus- no one wanting to sit within three seats of the drunk mess.

Slightly wincing at the memory, they sat up. One thing that stuck around from last night's escapades, besides the clothes on their back, was the aftertaste of hot alcohol in their mouth.

Smacking thier lips together the bleary eyed artist stood up and made a slow beeline out of their room and to the bathroom down the hall. They really had to get out of these clothes.

The shower they indulged themself in didn't take long; nor did the hygienic routine after. Just a simple scrub n brush and they were already strolling back into their room with wet hair feeling ten times better.

While in the shower they had remembered how they neglected to turn off their phone when traveling home last night, but shrugged it off. It was simply to ease Alex's mind anyways, and if she didn't remember the promise what was the harm in ignoring it.

A towel rested upon their barely clothed shoulders when they approached their bed, catching any stray droplets that dared fall from tangled locks. Closing their eyes to ruffle the damp mess of hair, their ears perked up.

It was quiet.

Way too quiet.

(Y/n) brought their movements to a still so they could look around. They hadn't noticed it in their slightly hungover haze, but it seemed that the power was out.

Fans had stopped running their usual white noise, something that hit them hard in the midst of the summers morning. That was the first thing they noticed.

Then it was the black face of their monitor staring back at them.

With a string of small 'shit shit shit shit shit shit's making its way from their lips, they scrambled over to their drawing tablet. As an artist that worked from home doing odd jobs here and there, all of their work was on that goddamn computer. And if they didn't save every last piece of art- well you could kiss that much needed cash goodbye.

After pressing down on the power button hard enough to leave an imprint of the companys logo on their thumb, (Y/n) waited with an anxious demeanor for it to start up.

The feeling that coursed through them after seeing the start up screen beginning to run its usual course was akin to coming up for air in a pool.

If I'm being honest though I think the thing that threw them off was the small green hello that popped up instead of a lockscreen.

(Y/n) blinked once. You could argue it was from the water droplets that were still cascading down their face, but more realistically it was becuase of the five small neon letters looking at them

I think what put them off more was the fact it seemed to be waiting for a response.

With much trepidation, they typed back.

h̷e̴l̵l̸o̵

what's this

n̴o̸ ̴n̷e̸e̴h̷d̸ ̶t̸a̵ ̷b̶e̶ ̷s̴o̸ ̴h̸a̶r̴s̶h̸ ̸d̷o̸l̶l̶

Furrowing their brows together slightly at the weird way of typing, the questioned this unknown stranger about it.

what's with the font

ā̶̹c̸͔̒c̶̡̣̾͂ȩ̸̮̾n̵̟͆t̷̫̲̓

who are you

i̷m̶m̸a̸ ̵b̷i̶t̷ ̵h̷u̶r̵t̴ ̴y̵e̷ ̵d̴o̴n̸'̷ ̸r̴e̷h̵m̷e̶m̴b̸e̸r̷ ̴m̸e̶.̶ ̴y̸a̸ ̶d̵i̸d̵ ̶c̵a̶l̴l̴ ̷f̶e̴r̶ ̷m̴e̶ ̴a̶f̷t̷e̴h̴r̶ ̸a̶l̵l̵ ̷(̵y̸/̶n̸)̷ ̷

how do you know my name

The past few minutes of pure silence was interested by (Y/n) clutching the end of their work desk so hard they heard a shrill creak. Despite audible proof of the strain on the furniture they didn't let up untill the three dots behind 'they are typing' ceased to a hault.

c̶u̸t̶e̷.̴ ̷i̸l̴l̶ ̷c̶a̷t̵c̵h̸ ̴y̸e̷ ̸a̶r̵o̴u̷n̴ ̸l̷a̵s̸s̷.̷ ̸y̴o̸u̴l̴l̶ ̷s̷e̴e̷ ̶m̵e̶h̶ ̶s̵o̶o̵n̸ ̶e̷n̶o̸u̸g̷h̵ ̸

And with that the screen resumed to its normal state. Seconds later the power came back on with it.

Despite the regular noise of their everyday life starting back up again (Y/n) didn't move. They just kept staring wide eyed at their screen as if something was about to jump out of it.

"Well fuck. Maybe those crackheads are right."

Finally done. This took like five hours. You bastards better like it /lh

so prettyyyyy

HAIKYUU!! 「Ani-Art Trading Badge Vol. 2」

I GOT MILF 🙌

Another quiz for if you were a fictional character how would your fandom treat you (if you think your life is too boring to have a fandom just think of yourself as living the domestic!au of some sci-fi or fantasy)

reblog with your results