☁️ A Snug Spud ☁️

in wich... the members react to you "ignoring their texts"

pairing/genre: cortis x reader, smau, crack, pet names (bab, pretty, baby, sweets, bub), lowk cortis over reacting

main m.list

edwards martin

chao james

kim juhoon

eom seonghyeon

ahn keonho

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 doing the „if i was a fart would you hold me in or let me go?“ on them

this is so unserious i‘m dying😭

────୨ৎ────

martin:

james:

juhoon:

seonghyeon:

keonho:

I’d tag your acc in my bio ❤️

hi there! thank you so much 🥰 so I tried to get as close to those colors as possible, but it was hard to get some of them to be exactly the same shades. I am so sorry for the delay on these! I really appreciate your patience, and I hope you can still use them ♥️

Please credit @pixopix, likes and reblogs are appreciated!

— in which martin exposes the instagram stories he posted to catch your attention before bagging you.

— based on this ask!

( nonidol!martin x reader )

james ver. ✶ cortis masterlist

note 𖦹 dedicated to the lovely @sevvycoer who sent in the request !!!!!!

credit not needed. recoloring welcomed. feel free to edit as you need!

credit not needed. recoloring welcomed. feel free to edit as you need!

where he peels you an orange and feeds you a slice.

♡ For all your favorite (emotionally-constipated) pro athletes.

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆

You didn’t usually stop for videos like these.

Most of the time, you scrolled past them: overexposed couples doing challenges, sweet voiceovers layered over romantic theories that felt too curated, too perfect. 

But this one had caught you. Maybe it was the quiet tone, the simplicity. 

Or maybe it was just that the couch was warm, the apartment smelled faintly like his shampoo, and your heart was a little softer than usual.

So you didn’t scroll away.

The video was simple: “If he peels an orange for you without complaining, he loves you.”

You watched quietly as a girl explained that if someone peels an orange for you—unprompted, or even when asked—it means they love you because peeling oranges is annoying, messy, sticky. And people only do it for someone they really care about.

You watched it twice. The first time, thoughtful. The second time, your chest ached in a warm, slow way. 

Then you peeked over the top of your screen, eyes drifting toward the kitchen where he stood, fresh from a workout, hair damp at the nape of his neck, lazily sipping water like he hadn’t just run ten kilometers. 

The bowl of oranges on the counter caught your eye.

You hesitantly padded over and softly called out his name. 

He looked over with a quiet grunt—his usual hm, baby—that meant you had his attention.

You held up one of the oranges, almost sheepishly. “Can you… peel this for me?”

He blinked. “You can’t peel it yourself?”

You immediately regretted asking. “N-No—I mean, I can, I just… I saw this thing, and…”

You trailed off, your voice getting smaller, ashamed. 

But he didn’t press. He never did with you.

He set his water down without a word and walked over, gently plucking the orange from your hands. You watched him with wide eyes as he dug his thumb in and started peeling, long fingers curling around the fruit—slow, methodical, and entirely effortless. The peel comes off in one clean strip, juice clinging to his fingertips.

You bit your lip, trying to hide your flustered smile.

When he finished, he broke it into perfect wedges and pushed them toward you on a folded paper towel, eyes flicking up to yours.

“There.”

You stared at the fruit, then at him, heart fluttering.

“T-Thank you,” you whispered.

He stared at you for a second too long before picking up a slice, eyes still locked on yours.

“Open,” he said simply.

You blinked, lips parting in surprise. He didn’t usually do things like this, but something in his voice, gentle but firm, made you obey before you could even think to hesitate.

Your mouth opened just slightly, and he brought the slice to your lips with an ease that made your breath catch. He was close now, closer than before, the citrus slice bright between his fingers.

His free hand lingered at your jaw, fingers brushing against your cheek so softly it was barely a touch. He cupped your face, warm and steady, and used his thumb to press the orange gently past your lips.

You bit down, tasting the sweet burst of the fruit, then felt the pad of his thumb, featherlight, brushing the juice that had slipped at the corner of your mouth.

He didn’t pull away.

His fingers shifted, tracing the edge of your bottom lip like he was committing the shape of you to memory. His touch was careful, unhurried, like touching you was something he wanted to savor. 

You blinked up at him, mouth still full, lips sticky with sweetness. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like he might hear it.

His voice dropped, low and quiet.

“You’ve got something here,” he said, thumb ghosting over the spot again.

You swallowed the fruit, your breath shaky. “You did that on purpose.”

His mouth quirked up, barely. “Maybe.”

His hand fell slowly, fingers deliberately brushing down your jaw like he didn’t want to let go just yet. “You’re too easy to fluster.”

“And you’re too—too…”

He kissed your forehead, a lingering press of the lips that utterly ruined your train of thought.

“Mm. Too what, pretty?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your whole face was burning.

He smirked, just a little. But there was a softness in his eyes, a kind of quiet affection that made you want to melt into him like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you—past your shyness, your messy thoughts, and straight to the softest parts of you that only he seemed to touch without hurting.

This was different.

This was more.

You think there should be a new theory: “If he peels an orange for you without complaining… and feeds you the slice himself, his fingers brushing your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world… he’s already yours… because there’s no doubt he'd peel you oranges for the rest of his life.”

This quiet, blunt, infuriatingly gentle boy who never said much, but always did the most—

Ah yes, sleepwalking. A funny but undeniably terrifying way to emotionally damage your favorite volleyball boys at 3AM.

You don't mean to cause psychological distress. You’re just trying to live your best unconscious life. Unfortunately, that includes:

Bargaining with rats,

Whispering cryptic prophecies,

Performing rituals in bathtubs, and

Declaring things like “The chicken coup has begun” with the gravity of a war general.

Is it a dream? A warning? A threat? No one knows—not even you.

But one thing’s for sure: They’ll never sleep peacefully again.

AKAASHI KEIJI

It was 3:47 a.m.

Akaashi blinked awake to the buzz of the refrigerator humming louder than it had any right to. The glow under the bedroom door looked like a horror movie setup. Your side of the bed? Empty.

Which was never, ever good.

He sat up slowly, his instincts as sharp as a seasoned libero's. No thuds. No screams. Just... soft muttering.

He padded down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.

There you were. Eyes half-closed, mumbling nonsense to the refrigerator.

Inside the fridge?

The cat.

Akaashi stared.

The cat stared.

You, serene as a monk mid-exorcism, reached in to gently pat the cat’s head like it was a cherished casserole. “He’s the secret ingredient,” you murmured lovingly, as if that explained anything.

Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Of course he is,” he whispered to himself, already accepting that this was his life now.

The cat gave him a look. The kind of look that said, You’re supposed to be the sane one here. Do something.

With a sigh that came from the depths of a boyfriend who’s seen too much, Akaashi scooped the shivering furball out of the fridge. The cat immediately clung to his chest like a baby koala. With his other arm, Akaashi gently reached out and took your hand.

“Come on, secret chef,” he said softly, guiding you away from your midnight masterpiece. “Let’s get you and your ‘ingredient’ back to bed.”

You went along willingly, still half-asleep, head resting on his shoulder as you muttered something about “adding cinnamon.”

Akaashi didn’t even ask.

He tucked you in first, the cat next, and then slid in beside both of you with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from being deeply in love with a chaos goblin.

As you snuggled closer, Akaashi stared at the ceiling.

“I deserve an award,” he muttered.

The cat meowed in agreement.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

It was 3:02 a.m.

The apartment was silent. Peaceful, even.

Until—

“Koutarou.”

His eyes snapped open. He sat up like a meerkat sensing danger. “...Y/N?”

You were curled up under the blanket, eyes shut, completely still—except your mouth, which just whispered:

“I ate the evidence.”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

But you were already quiet again. Breathing evenly. Asleep.

Dead asleep.

Koutarou stared at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at you.

He felt a chill.

“What evidence?” he whispered. “What did you eat?”

You looked so calm. So peaceful. As if you hadn't just confessed to a federal crime in your sleep.

He slowly got out of bed and tiptoed into the kitchen like a detective in his own home. The fridge door was closed. The counters were clean. Nothing suspicious.

Or maybe too clean.

The trash can? Empty.

His eyes widened.

Did you clean the scene?!

He shuffled back to the bedroom like a man walking toward his doom. You were still there, all curled up and cozy, like you didn’t just say something that would ruin him in court.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, mentally cycling through every possible interpretation.

Did you eat his protein bars? His leftover pizza? The last KitKat?

Did you kill a man?

Why did you sound so proud?

He laid back down slowly, eyes open, staring into the void.

You scooted closer in your sleep and mumbled, “Mmm. Crunchy.”

He stopped breathing.

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, you yawned and stretched like a cute, innocent little cloud.

"Morning, Kou," you said sweetly.

He blinked at you, dead-eyed, whispering: “...what did you eat.”

You: “Huh?”

He: “...What did you EAT.”

You: “??? Toast?”

He watched you take a bite of breakfast like it might be someone’s finger.

And yet… he still kissed your forehead.

Because love is terrifying.

KUROO TETSURO

It was 2:41 a.m.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of blankets. Kuroo was mid-dream—something about taxes turning into volleyballs—when he felt a presence.

His eyes fluttered open.

You were standing at the foot of the bed.

Staring at him.

In the dark.

He sat up immediately, already seconds from punching a demon. “Babe? Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer.

You leaned in slowly—unnervingly—and whispered:

“The ducks are watching.”

Then turned around.

And walked out of the room.

Kuroo sat there, frozen, mouth slightly open, soul halfway to another dimension.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“THE WHAT IS WHAT?”

He scrambled out of bed and peeked down the hallway to see you peacefully crawling back into bed on the couch like nothing happened.

You were out cold. Blissfully unconscious.

Kuroo stood there in his boxers, heart pounding like he just got tackled by a flock of birds with a vendetta.

He looked around.

No ducks.

But he didn’t trust it.

The next night, he installed a nightlight.

The night after that, he placed a rubber duck on the windowsill just to test your reaction. You said nothing—but stared at it for a little too long.

Now?

Now he sleeps with one eye open.

Just in case.

Because maybe the ducks are watching.

And maybe, just maybe… you’re their prophet.

KENMA KOZUME

It was 3:19 a.m.

Kenma had just paused his game. The glow from his Switch lit up his face as he dragged himself toward the kitchen for a drink, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

He wasn’t expecting to see you already standing there. In front of the fridge. Silent.

The door was open. Cold light spilling across the tiles.

You stared inside like it had insulted your bloodline.

Kenma blinked. “...Babe?”

You tilted your head. Whispered, "It's not a portal today. Lame."

Kenma froze, holding the juice carton like it was suddenly cursed.

“The hell does it usually lead to?” he muttered.

Still facing the fridge, you sighed dramatically, like a tired traveler returning from war. “Regret,” you said solemnly.

Then you shut the fridge and walked away.

Kenma just stood there.

Alone.

With the fridge.

And the regret.

He slowly backed away, returned to the bedroom, and found you already face-planted into the bed, limbs tangled like nothing happened.

He lay down next to you carefully, staring at the ceiling.

What did you see in there? Was it the expired yogurt? The leftover fast food? His search history?

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

And the next morning, when you yawned and casually opened the fridge, he watched you like it was a boss battle.

"Hey," he asked quietly, not looking away, "is it… is it a portal now?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered, sipping his juice with caution. “Just checking.”

KYOTANI KENTARO

It was 1:56 a.m.

Kyōtani was already half-awake, lying on his side, arm lazily draped over you. The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that made everything feel heavier. His eyes were just starting to close again when—

You turned to face him.

Eyes barely open.

And whispered, slow and serious:

“I’ve hidden the body where they’ll never find it.”

...

His entire soul left his body.

“What.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just sighed… and rolled over.

And immediately fell asleep.

Kyōtani sat up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. “The what?!” he hissed into the silence, heart racing.

You snored.

He stared at you, mind spiraling into hell.

Was this a joke? A dream? A code? Did he just become an accomplice by proximity? He’d watched enough crime shows to know how this ends.

He checked the closet. The bathroom. The hallway. Under the bed.

Nothing.

Which only made it worse.

Because now the question was: where?

You, meanwhile, were blissfully unconscious, curled up like a harmless little gremlin, breathing softly as if you hadn’t just dropped a psychological nuke into his life.

He sat on the edge of the bed, muttering under his breath. “I didn’t hear anything. I saw nothing. We don’t even own a shovel.”

The next morning, you stretched and yawned, rubbing your eyes like sunshine itself.

Kyōtani stared at you over his coffee.

You blinked. “...Why are you looking at me like that?”

He paused. Considered. Then said:

"...Just making sure you’re real.”

You smiled.

He didn’t sleep for three nights.

Just in case.

OIKAWA TOORU

It was a quiet night in the Miyagi apartment.

Too quiet.

Oikawa had just finished his skincare routine and was about to crawl into bed next to you, humming softly and adjusting his silk eye mask, when it happened.

A thud.

Then— SPLAT.

He flinched and turned toward the sound.

A cupcake.

Smeared on the wall.

Like a pastry-based crime scene.

And you? Standing beside the bed, arm still mid-throw, eyes closed.

Then, in a low, haunted voice that echoed through his soul, you whispered:

"It's too late, Carol."

...

Oikawa’s jaw dropped.

You got back into bed like nothing happened.

He stared at the cupcake. Then at you. Then back at the cupcake.

There. Was. No. Carol.

He didn’t know a Carol. He’s never met a Carol. He doesn’t even like the name Carol. It sounded… threatening now.

He slowly pulled the eye mask up, face pale.

“What did Carol do?” he whispered to himself.

You snored.

Oikawa backed into the hallway and whispered into his phone flashlight camera like he was in a horror documentary.

“It’s been 7 minutes since the incident. Subject Y/N has returned to sleep. Carol remains unidentified. The cupcake is… dead.”

The next morning, you woke up chipper and confused as to why there was chocolate frosting on the wall and your boyfriend was sipping tea like a Victorian widow.

“Did… something happen?”

He didn’t answer. Just muttered: "We are never baking cupcakes again."

Tooru now double-locks the pantry at night. And flinches every time someone says “C” words.

Carol, whoever you are… he hopes you never come back.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

1:03 a.m. Peace. Silence. The soft hum of the aircon.

Iwaizumi Hajime was dozing off, his breathing steady, arm wrapped loosely around you.

And then you whispered, barely audible:

"Hajime..."

He stirred. “Mm?”

You shifted, lips near his ear, and mumbled like a general delivering final orders:

"The chicken coup has begun. Tell Gerald to start phase two."

...

He blinked.

“...Huh?”

But you were already gone.

Not dead, no. Just deep in sleep. Face smushed into the pillow. Dead to the world, but not, apparently, to the ongoing uprising in the poultry community.

Iwaizumi sat up slowly, like if he moved too fast, the chickens would hear him.

He stared into the darkness.

"Gerald... who the hell is Gerald."

Was Gerald a chicken? Was he Gerald? Did you plant something?

He got out of bed, checking every window, fridge, and closet like a man preparing for an oddly specific war.

When he returned, you were cuddled in the blanket fortress, completely unbothered.

Iwaizumi whispered into the void: "Why would you say that to me."

The next morning, he brought it up over coffee like a man trying to casually discuss a national emergency.

“Hey... um... last night you said something about a chicken coup? And phase two?”

You blinked. “I what?”

“And Gerald. Don’t forget Gerald.”

You laughed. “That’s unhinged. I must’ve been dreaming.”

“Yeah, well. Now I can’t go near a rotisserie without wondering if I’ve made enemies.”

Iwaizumi now triple-checks chicken coop memes for signs of coded rebellion.

He doesn’t know who Gerald is. But he fears he’ll know when it’s too late.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

It was nearing 2 a.m.

Kageyama had just gotten comfortable, duvet pulled up to his chin, the room quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.

And then—

CREEEAK.

He opened one eye. You were standing.

In front of his closet.

You opened it slowly. Looked inside with the gravity of a priest opening a tomb.

Then whispered, completely monotone:

“This is where I keep my alter ego… Brenda.”

...

He blinked. “Huh?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared into the dark closet.

And added:

“Brenda wears red lipstick and commits tax fraud.”

You shut the door. Got back in bed. And slept peacefully.

Kageyama, however, did not.

He turned slowly to stare at the closet like it personally insulted his family. His entire body froze, unsure whether to scream, pray, or text someone for help.

“Brenda?!” he hissed, trying not to wake you.

He opened the closet cautiously, half-expecting a mannequin in heels or a woman in a red power suit whispering, “You owe me everything.”

But there was only… clothes.

And yet. It didn’t feel right anymore.

Kageyama now sleeps with a volleyball in one hand and a slipper ready to throw in the other. He also googled “how to remove lipstick stains from dreams” and “can closets hold alternate personalities legally.”

The next morning, you stretch, yawn, and ask why he looks like he didn’t sleep.

He says nothing.

Just side-eyes the closet.

And mutters:

“…Brenda.”

SUGAWARA KOUSHI

It was 1:47 a.m.

Sugawara had just drifted off, snuggled under the warm blankets with dreams of mochi and domestic peace. Everything was perfect. Still. Serene.

Until the TV clicked on.

He blinked awake to a soft gray glow filling the room. Static. Pure white noise hissing like a snake in the dark.

And you?

You were standing directly in front of the screen. Barefoot. Eyes closed.

Sugawara sat up slowly. “...Babe?”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. You just leaned in a little closer, hands relaxed at your sides, and whispered:

“This is how they talk to me.”

...

He screamed. Internally. Like a church boy in a horror movie.

You turned around, eyes still closed, and shuffled back to bed without another word. The TV kept hissing behind you.

Sugawara stared in utter terror.

He grabbed the remote. Nothing. He tried the power button. Nothing. He unplugged it. The screen flickered—finally—off.

He stared at the outlet like it had personally offended him. Then grabbed a bundle of sage from the kitchen drawer (emergency vibes only) and lit it like his life depended on it.

Twice.

The next morning, you woke up refreshed.

“Oh wow, I feel great!” “Yeah,” Sugawara said, looking deeply unwell. “Did you… dream of anything?”

You squinted. “Hmm. Something about… a static broadcast? Weird, right?”

He paled. His mug trembled.

You sipped your tea cheerfully.

Sugawara burned sage again when you weren’t looking.

He has since installed a child lock on the TV.

And prays nightly for “Them” to pick a different channel.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

1:26 a.m. He was up scrolling, glasses low on his nose, earbuds in. Everything was normal.

Then he felt it. Movement.

You.

Shuffling out of bed like a gremlin in a trance.

He pulled one earbud out. “...You good?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you walked up to him, eyes half-lidded but direct—too direct. You slowly… silently… handed him a single white sock.

And whispered:

“If it moves, run.”

...

He stared at the sock in his hand. Then stared at you. Then back at the sock.

You had already turned and zombie-walked back into bed. Out cold.

Tsukishima, alone in the dark now, holding a cursed sock like it was the Horcrux of Satan, muttered:

“…What the actual f—”

He sat there for a good minute, debating every life choice that led him to this moment.

Then he cautiously set the sock on the floor and backed away like it might sprout legs.

The sock did not move. Yet.

He stared at it for five full minutes, just in case. By 2 a.m., he’d burned it in the sink with kitchen tongs and muttered curses under his breath.

Next morning:

“Kei, have you seen my other sock?”

“No. It's dead. Forget about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You tilted your head. “You’re acting weird.”

He stared at you. Then at your feet. Then at the floor where the sock once was.

He doesn’t sleep well anymore.

To this day, he avoids the laundry basket like it's cursed. Because what if the sock wasn’t alone?

What if that was just phase one.

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI

Yamaguchi had just reached peak comfort—blankets tucked just right, your leg draped over his, the room perfectly quiet.

Then— You snorted in your sleep. Sat up like a possessed doll. Eyes opened just enough to be terrifying.

And in the creepiest half-asleep voice imaginable, you said:

“He knows we switched the baby.”

...

He blinked.

“...I’m sorry—what?”

You flopped back down without another word. Snored. Like nothing happened.

He lay there stiff as a board, heart pounding.

“Switched the… baby?!”

What baby?

WHO IS "HE"?

Did you two kidnap a child in your sleep? Was it metaphorical?? Is this a code???

He lay awake for the next hour, eyes darting around the room like someone was going to bust through the door with a warrant and a diaper bag.

At 4:27 a.m., he was on Google:

“Sleep talking criminal confessions”

“Can dreams be used as evidence”

“How to unswitch a baby you don’t remember switching”

Next morning:

You stretch. Smile. “Morning, Tads!”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. Cautiously.

Finally:

“...What baby.”

You: “Huh?”

“Last night. You said—‘he knows we switched the baby.’ WHO IS HE. WHAT BABY.”

You blink. “That’s horrifying. I don’t even remember dreaming.”

He just nods slowly.

You sip your coffee like a totally normal person.

He stares at the baby doll on the shelf.

It’s looking at him. He swears it is.

He now sleeps with a night light and checks behind the couch before going to bed.

Just in case.

Because what if it wasn’t a dream?

What if “he” really knows.

HINATA SHOYO

It was 2:47 a.m.

Hinata was dreaming about volleyball and mochi. The night was peaceful. Moonlight spilled gently across the room.

Then, out of nowhere—

You opened your eyes. Sat upright. And in a voice that did not belong to you—deep, rasped, echoing like it had crawled out of a well—you said:

“The bones… are in the closet.”

...

Hinata blinked. “HUH???”

You laid back down. Eyes shut. Completely still.

He froze.

"...Bones?" he whispered.

He looked at the closet.

The closet looked back.

Slowly… cautiously… Hinata climbed out of bed, crept over like he was in a horror film, hand shaking as he reached for the doorknob.

He opened it.

.

.

.

A cockroach ran out.

He screamed. Tripped over a shoe. Fell flat on his back.

The closet swung open wider. Nothing else inside. No bones. No monsters. Just clothes… and shame.

You snored peacefully behind him like nothing had happened.

Hinata stared at the ceiling in silent betrayal. He’d been set up. By YOU. By fate. By the roach.

The next morning:

“You okay? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I saw things, [Y/N]. Things you can't un-see.”

You blinked. “Oh. Maybe it was the bug. I dreamed about bugs last night.”

Hinata just nodded slowly.

He now closes the closet with tape every night.

And occasionally whispers back:

“The bones are gone. But the trauma remains.”

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

It was 1:13 a.m. Goshiki had to pee.

Simple mission. In. Out. Maybe brush his teeth, maybe not—who’s to say? The world was quiet, the moonlight soft, his socks comfy.

But as he passed the bathroom, he heard something. A whisper.

A low, reverent, slightly sing-song whisper:

“…Soup time.”

He paused.

He turned.

And there you were.

Sitting in the bathtub.

No water. Lights off. Just you. In your pajamas. Holding a rubber duck gently like it was an infant. Cradling it. Whispering sweet, terrifying nonsense to it.

“Soup time…”

Goshiki stared. You didn’t blink. You didn’t look up.

He backed away.

Step. By. Step.

Closed the door. Slowly. Like in a horror movie.

He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until 4 a.m., whispering:

“Not my business. Not my duck. Not my soup.”

The next day:

“[Y/N]… were you… in the tub last night?”

You: “Huh? No. Why?”

He just nods. “Right. Me neither.”

He still hasn’t brushed his teeth in that bathroom.

The duck remains. Somehow closer to the drain every morning.

He swears it’s watching him.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

It was 3:33 a.m.

Ushijima slept like a man who trusted gravity and his eight hours.

Until—

You suddenly shot upright in bed. Eyes wide. Moonlight framing you like the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Then, in a voice he did not recognize— Elegant. Crisp. British.

You said:

“The theatre calls… and I must answer.”

Then collapsed.

Limply. Tragically. Like a haunted widow whose fiancé just perished in a horse-and-carriage accident.

Ushijima stared at you, heart pounding.

Silence.

He blinked.

“…Since when do you have a British accent?” he whispered to no one.

No response.

You were already back in dreamland, drooling peacefully into your pillow like none of that just happened.

Ushijima sat there for a full minute. Processing. Possibly glitching.

“…Was that... Shakespeare? Who’s calling you? Where are you going? What theatre??”

No answers. Just the quiet hum of betrayal.

The next morning:

“Do you—do theatre?” he asked over breakfast, like he was afraid of the answer.

You, chewing cereal: “What? No. Why?”

He paused. Stirred his coffee. Quietly mumbled:

“…You lied with accent.”

You: “Huh???”

He just nodded to himself, deeply disturbed. You, apparently, had layers.

And one of them was British.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

It was 2:16 a.m.

Shirabu was halfway through cramming for an exam when he heard the fridge open.

He figured it was you. Midnight snacking. Normal.

Until—

He peeked into the kitchen and saw you standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in cold light, cradling a cucumber like it was sacred.

Then you hissed, voice low and gravelly:

“This one’s got the code.”

He froze.

“…What?”

You turned, eyes glassy, face serious.

And walked away—back to bed—still holding the cucumber.

Shirabu stared after you. Then walked to the fridge, curious, confused, low-key concerned for both your sanity and his.

That’s when he saw it.

On the cucumber. Right under the sticker.

A barcode.

That’s it.

Just a plain old, grocery store barcode.

Shirabu stood there for a second. Processing.

Then sighed the heaviest sigh of his life.

He didn't even bother asking questions.

The next morning, he handed you a slice of toast and muttered:

“You need to stop watching spy thrillers before bed.”

You blinked at him. “I didn’t?”

He stared. Then slowly pulled the cucumber out of the fridge.

You: “Why is that in a Ziploc bag??”

Him: “For containment.”

You: “...Of what??”

Shirabu just bit his toast and walked away.

He's not sure what worries him more: the fact that you sleepwalk… Or the fact that you did it with such conviction.

MIYA OSAMU

It started with missing onigiri.

At first, Osamu thought maybe he just forgot he ate them. Or maybe Atsumu dropped by and did what Atsumu does best—steal without remorse.

But when it kept happening, he got suspicious.

So one night, he waited. Lights off. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on the kitchen.

And right on cue—there you were. Barefoot. Half-asleep. Eyes unfocused. Floating toward the fridge like a snack-seeking phantom.

He watched in horror as you unzipped a bag of rice crackers, whispered, “It’s okay now,” and stuffed two in your pockets before munching on a third.

The next morning, Osamu confronted you, holding up the empty snack bag like a lawyer in court.

“You wanna explain this?”

You blinked at him, groggy. Then sighed, like he was the unreasonable one.

“They were hungry.”

“…They who?”

You glanced at the floor.

Then at the air vent.

And said nothing.

Osamu turned slowly to the vent.

Paused.

“…No. No way.”

You just sipped your coffee, dead silent, looking like someone who’s seen things. Things that crawl. Things that whisper.

He didn’t sleep that night.

He bought an air vent cover the next day. The snacks now live in a locked cabinet. He doesn’t question it anymore.

But sometimes, when it’s really quiet, He swears he hears a crunch.

KITA SHINSUKE

Kita was a light sleeper.

He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him—maybe the creaking floorboards, maybe the distant thump of... jazz hands?

He peeked into the hallway and stopped dead.

There you were. Spinning slowly. Barefoot. Arms raised like a ballerina summoning a weather god.

And whispering, with complete, bone-deep conviction:

“This is how the rats taught me to summon rain.”

You did a final pirouette. Then clapped twice.

Kita blinked.

You turned toward him, eyes closed, nodded solemnly, and walked straight back to bed like nothing happened.

He stood in the hallway for a long moment, lips parted, socks cold.

“…The rats?” he muttered.

It rained the next day.

Not a drizzle. A downpour.

Thunder. Flood warnings. A rogue frog on the porch.

Kita stared out the window, hand gripping his mug like it might float away.

You? You ate cereal like normal.

Not a single mention of rodents. Of rituals. Of rain.

He didn’t ask.

He couldn’t ask.

Because if you answered, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever sleep again.

MIYA ATSUMU

Atsumu had just drifted off when he felt the bed shift.

You sat up—slow, stiff—like something out of a ghost documentary.

Then, in a voice that didn’t even sound like yours, you muttered:

“If I vanish… check under the floorboards.”

Then flopped right back down and started snoring.

Atsumu blinked at the ceiling, eyes wide, frozen. He didn’t breathe for a solid minute.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

The next morning, you acted completely normal.

Too normal. Smiling. Stretching. Asking if he wanted toast.

He didn’t mention it.

But he remembered.

Night two, he tossed and turned.

By night three, he had a flashlight and a crowbar.

By night four, he was in the floorboards.

There was nothing there. No hidden passage. No secret note. No you-shaped hole.

Just dust, a broken pencil, and the faint scent of panic sweat.

He’s stopped sleeping.

Every time the clock hits 3:33AM, he holds his breath.

Because what if this time, you sit up and finish the sentence?

SUNA RINTARO

It was 2:12AM.

Suna got up for water.

He didn’t expect to find you kneeling in the kitchen, arm stretched dramatically toward the base of the cabinet.

In your hand: one single, perfectly balanced Ritz cracker.

Whispered, reverent:

“For the council.”

Suna blinked. Didn’t move.

Three rats emerged from the shadows like they were summoned. Took the cracker.

You gave a solemn nod, murmured, “The pact is sealed,” and shuffled back to bed.

No further explanation. No context. Just rat business.

Suna stared at the empty floor for a long moment.

Then turned around and walked away.

“Not my business,” he muttered.

He hasn’t brought it up. He won’t.

But deep down, he wonders—

What if you're on the council, too?

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

It was 1:47AM.

Kiyoomi was half-awake, scrolling through news articles about bacteria for fun (as one does), when you rolled over and mumbled into the darkness:

“I gave the rats my brain. I don’t need it anymore.”

Silence.

Then your breathing evened out, like you’d just shared your grocery list.

Kiyoomi sat there for a full minute, blinking slowly.

“…Makes sense,” he whispered into the void.

The next morning, you poured juice into a bowl instead of a glass.

Then stared at a spoon like it betrayed you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded. Respectfully. Acceptingly.

Because clearly, the rats had taken over.

And honestly?

“What did you have for dinner?” 

Your words come out slightly slurred by the alcohol running through your veins and the fellow clubbers chattering around you. 

Ushijima looks down at the dishes he’s currently washing then back to where his phone rests on the counter.

“The leftover grilled fish from yesterday, steamed tofu with some soy sauce, and miso soup with egg.” 

“Oh!” you exclaim, voice staticy from your spiked volume and speakerphone. “That sounds good. Was it good?” 

“Yes. Are you having fun with your friends?” 

You giggle and he smiles a little, now turning back to the dishes. He listens to you ramble as he scrubs and rinses, humming acknowledgements as appropriate. 

“How about you, Toshi? Did’ja eat dinner yet?” 

Ushijima is familiar with your habit of asking the same questions over and over when you’re tipsy. He’s often the primary victim. 

Unphased, he responds. “Yes.” 

“What did you have?” 

“Fish, tofu, and soup.” 

“Ooooh sounds healthy. Did you count your macros and calories? Meet your protein goals?” 

The last dish is placed on the drying rack. He considers drying the dishes since it’s an easy, mindless task that would allow him to continue talking to you. He grabs a dish towel. 

“Yes. Where are your friends?” 

“Oh, here and there. Bathroom? Dunno…” 

He stays on the line as he hears you yell your friends’ names, having a full, only somewhat incoherent conversation with them, having seemingly forgotten him on the line. 

He listens to you make plans for one more drink, decline an invite to the next bar, and wonder aloud where you could flag a taxi. 

“Want me to come pick you up?” he asks. 

“Nope! I just flagged a taxi. On my way home!” 

“Okay. Be safe. See you soon, love.” 

“Wait Toshi! I wanna keep talking to you.” 

“Okay, what about?” 

“Hmmm… Oh! What did you have for dinner?” 

Ushijima Wakatoshi does not like to repeat himself.