Reblogged
Peak soulmates
Reblogged
yearning drunk!husband ushijima wakatoshi.
NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33
It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.
Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.
Still, he always went.
Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.
Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.
Tonight was one of those nights.
They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.
Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.
“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.
“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”
“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”
this is so fucking cute I'm sobbing into my pillow
Reblogged scruus
"I've got a feeling that now my hair's changed, you're going to start braiding it next."
Reblogged
has anyone ever considered timeskip!osamu with a stress baker significant other…im sure someone has…but im considering it heavily rn. | mlist
“whatcha makin’ hon?” osamu’s voice drifts into the kitchen as he walks in. his grey hair’s slightly disheveled and his boxers hang lowly from his hips. coming up behind you, he wraps his arms around your waist and peeks to catch a glimpse of your work.
“nothing, ‘samu,” you mumble, focused on incorporating the dry ingredients into the wet instead of the feeling of your boyfriend’s sturdy chest pushing into your back.
“smells good,” he murmurs sleepily, pressing his lips to your neck, breathing in your scent, “ya need help?”
you shake your head, continuing to stir, “go back to bed, sorry to wake you.”
he purses his lips together, squeezing you a bit tighter, “let me keep ya company. i know yer bakin’ cause yer stressed.”
you mix a little harder, “not true.”
he hums, amused, “cmon, ya only pull out the bakin’ soda at this hour when times ‘re tough.”
it sounds like he’s making fun of you, but his soft tone gives his concern away. his hands rub comforting circles against your sides, and the feeling disarms you for a moment, allowing for him to abruptly grab the whisk from your hand.
you squeak, immediately lunging for the utensil— but osamu’s faster, “give it back!”
“we don’t have to talk ‘bout it right now, but ya gotta let me help ya with this at least,” he murmurs, grabbing the bowl and starting to stir for you, “i’ll finish this part up if ya wanna start makin’ some frostin’.”
he stirs with a practiced expertise, and you feel a surge of affection as you watch him. you smile softly, stress long forgotten, “love you.”
eyes glimmering, he glances at you, “love ya too.”
—a/n: osamu brain dump even tho i fw his brother more
I AM NOW IN MY OSAMU AND IWAIZUMI ERA AND THE ENTIRETY OF TUMBLR WILL KNOW ABOUT IT
Reblogged
ೃ༄ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄? (𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈)
𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀: bokuto koutaro, akaashi keiji, iwaizumi hajime, oikawa tooru & sakusa kiyoomi
𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰: how they pop the question! (hcs + drabbles)
𝗰𝘄: implied fem. reader, mentions of marriage tehehe, mushy corny top romance
𝗮/𝗻: part two yayyyy!!! i wanted to post this earlier in the day but i unfortunately have to be a functioning member of society from time to time blegh. iwa's part is dedicated to my lovely moot @froyaoya who just gets it. sorry for any typos!!! also working on requests from the event still hehehe
(read part 1 here!!!)
𝐁𝐎𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎
» Look at this man, this beautiful blessing of a man, and tell me this is not about to be the showiest proposal ever
» He’s asking you to marry him and he wants EVERYONE to know (in the purest way possible)
» You knew what you were getting yourself into
» Is he nervous? No, maybe, he doesn’t want to think about it, OKAY?!
» Thinks the perfect time is asking you right after MSBY wins at finals, but one of his teammates (because he told them the plan…obviously) is like what are you going to do if we lose???? He almost dies on the spot because he totally forgot that was a possibility whoops
» There’s an easy way around that problem! Just win, duh!
Your heart feels as if it could just beat out of your chest with excitement as the last set ends, MSBY reigning victorious. Mind swimming with unadulterated pride, you’re already halfway down to the court once others begin to flood it, nothing you want more but the man who is currently wading through a crowd in search of you.
For a brief moment, you pause at the sidelines, unable to find him, then remember Bokuto was probably in the midst of one of many interviews or something else much more important than a simple post-game congratulatory hug. Your conjecture is quickly smashed by the call of your name, paired with your boyfriend’s big, shiny beam of pure joy as he opens his arms for you. You let out a huff of laughter, then hurry over, practically launching yourself into his hold.
Listen to Spring Snow by 10cm while reading Akaashi's part y'all, it's heavenly.
(me when goddamnit *wails*)
Reblogged
Hi, I hope you're doing well. I'm writing to you with a heavy heart and an urgent request for help. My family is in a very danger situation due to the ongoing war, and I've launched a GoFundMe campaign to save them. Could you please reblog my campaign post from my profile? Each share could be a lifeline for my family. 🙏 Feel free to share it in any other social media platform if you would like. Our campaign has been verified ⭐️ by operation olive branch, and is entry number 26 on their spreadsheet. Also with ⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249/(212) on their spreadsheet. From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you in advance for all of your support and kindness.
Repost and share everyone!
Reblogged
single dad kita who is so used to licking his finger and swiping the grain of rice off of his daughter's chin that he does it to you one night when you have some on your lip.
you freeze. so does he.
his thumb is still pressed up against your lower lip. you can feel the work-rough pad of it; his spit is slick against your skin. there's heat rising to your cheeks, a supernova burn.
"kita—" you start to say, his name strung out, frazzled with panic.
his thumb slips between your parted lips. you press your tongue against it instinctively; you can taste the salt of him and a hint of the sake you'd been sharing.
kita stares at you, his eyes searching. they're the color of a sunrise, a sweet golden dawn. there's a promise in them.
you press your tongue against his thumb again.
he breathes in through his nose. it's calm. composed. it makes something in you itch.
slowly, carefully, you close your lips around his thumb.
his eyes go dark, the color of whisky. he lets out a soft breath; you only hear the shake because you were listening for it.
a door creaks open.
the both of you go still again.
"daddy?"
it's high and plaintive, an uneasy warble. a little hiccup follows.
kita pulls free of you in an instant. he wipes his thumb against his shirt; you watch as it dampens with your spit.
he's halfway to the hallway when he glances over his shoulder at you. his gaze keeps you in place, a butterfly pinned by its wings.
"stay," he says, simple and firm. "we're not done yet."
My whole husband.
Everyone else can go
And my Kita obsession is back.