FUCK U BITCHES FOR SHOWING ME THE BLLK NEW CHAPTER LEAK ON TT IM DELETING TT I HATE THIS SHIT I HATE

whenever I like your self ship posts, please imagine me holding up pompoms and yelling "YEAH!!!!" every time.

oliver x iris!!

what’s a small ritual you guys do every day / night! like something you HAVE to do or it lowkey doesn’t have to be a daily thing just a ritual between the both of you that happens from time to time

i’ll give you a happy one and then a more so sad one LMAO.

happy: Every morning before he leaves for practice he makes my coffee in exchange for 5 pecks on his lips and a small make out session.

sad: Everytime he cheated (i beat him for it trust.) He’ll end up sleeping on the couch but somehow ends up cuddling next to me in the morning (not that i complain.)

∿ when grit meets grace ⤸ ╱ ❛ lilies ❜

♬⋆.˚ starry cat, up above / why do you glow? do you know? / when you left, you made a / hole the size of a moon inside my heart.

ꫂ ၴႅၴ content warnings; flirting. smoking. maybe some self depreciation? short, sweet. -> word count: 727.

@alcyneus @ayatakanosstuff @mayyhaps @s6rine @dearru @sahrberrii @anxiousyutsuki

“wrong. run it again.”

they’ve been at this for over an hour. hinata approached keishin before practice, phone in hand, with hopes of trying a new quick. it had taken keishin less than 30 seconds to know that it would be hard. hard, but not impossible. everyone looks tired–tsukishima’s attitude is growing worse by the second, nishinoya is getting more frustrated, hell, even asahi is getting a little upset. it’s no one’s fault in particular, but he knows they’re blaming hinata and kageyama.

“jesus, dude,” tanaka pants, hands on his knees. he’s staring right at keishin, brows furrowed. “we’ve been doing this for, like, an hour. can we get a break or something?”

the man thinks for a moment. if they stop now, they’ll lose the momentum. “no,” he says, maybe a little too bluntly. “do it again.” he crosses his arms over his chest and waits. they reset to their respective positions and keishin brings the whistle to his mouth and blows. their movements are sluggish, tired, defeated. the ball gets to kageyama and he sets it, but hinata is so tired that he can’t jump as high as he normally can. he misses the ball by mere inches and groans reverberate through the gym.

“sorry, guys,” hinata mumbles, draggin a hand down his face.

keishin looks to his left, where takeda is standing with a pinched face, and he sighs. he turns back to the team and waves his hand dismissively. “okay, take a break. ten minutes, that’s it.” he doesn’t stay to hear the complaints. instead, he walks out of the gym, sticks a cigarette in his mouth, and lights it. nicotine floods his veins and his stress dissipates. he’s only there for a couple seconds when something catches his eye.

you.

you’re carrying baskets full of flowers, struggling to balance them all. ten minutes his ass. he stomps his cigarette out and walks over to your car, hands in his pockets. “need some help with that?”

you flinch and nearly drop one of the baskets. “oh! ukai! hey, it’s funny seeing you here. um, yes, i could use some help if you’re offering.” you laugh and, once again, ukai feels weak in the knees. he chalks it up to his injury. you hand him one of the baskets and sigh heavily, grateful that you’re no longer straining. “ah, thank you so much. what, uh, what are you doing here? you’re not stalking me, are you?”

he nearly chokes on his own spit. “what?” it takes him longer than it should to realize you’re joking. “oh, hah, no i, um, coach the boys volleyball team here.”

your eyes seemingly light up. “no way! that’s so awesome! i used to play volleyball when i was in high school. i wasn’t very good, though.” you hum, reminiscing. “did you play?” when he nods, you smile. “were you any good?”

he exhales, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “nope,” he says quickly. he doesn’t need to tell you his sob story just yet. “what are you doing here? and with all these flowers?”

“oh, i’m donating to the greenhouse club! i saw a facebook post saying they were looking for flowers and seeds–stuff like that.” you shift the box to your other hip. “i figured it would be good business, y’know? donate and then people know i have a flower shop?” you begin to walk, but stop and turn to him. “um, do you know where the greenhouse is?”

he scoffs out a laugh and nods, walking the opposite direction you were going. “and what happens when this doesn’t get you the business you want?” he doesn’t mean to say it, but he’s a pessimist, he can’t help it.

you hum, looking down at the ground where your feet walk in sync. “i don’t know,” you whisper. suddenly, keishin regrets even making a comment about it. “i suppose i’ll . . . apply at your convenience store and hope you give me a chance?”

he looks down at you and almost flinches at the wide smile on your face. you two stop just before the greenhouse, turned towards each other. “i’ll think about,” he says, smirking slightly.

you smile and laugh, pushing the door open with your hip. “thanks for helping me, ukai. i really appreciate it.”

he swallows hard and nods. “yeah, sure. it was no problem, really.”

like and i’ll be in ur asks when i wake up

gimme a minute. i’ll cook it up rn LMAO

so Who is gonna make a bodyguard!iwaizumi x a lowkey spoiled!reader who’s father is like idk a businessman i’ve got no clue but💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 pls hmu 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 thank u 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

atsumu + venom [spider-man 3]

i have the best jjk fic idea ever….

@dearru oh i’m crying…

It’s hard to argue with Suguru.

Not like it is with Satoru, who fights loud, two tempers crashing, both of you saying things you don’t mean but at least saying something. At least with Satoru, everything’s out in the open. Honest. Even when it hurts.

Suguru is different.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t combat your words. He just... tightens. Folds inward. Smiles a little too tightly, makes your coffee just the way you like it, overplans your days to “help.” He does everything for you, but never with you. He says he wants peace. Harmony. Love. At first, it felt like being cherished. Now it feels like you’re being caged. Never actually tells you what’s wrong. He’ll go passive-aggressive, clean the entire kitchen in silence, disappear into his thoughts for hours while insisting he’s fine. He’ll bottle everything up until you’re the only one spilling over. Until you look like the one who’s too much.

You try to bring it up - you try. That you feel smothered. That he never talks to you. That his silence makes you feel like you're the only one bleeding while he stands there pretending he’s not even scratched.

But he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look at you. Just sits there, staring at the floor, leg bouncing, fists tight on his lap like it physically pains him to have this conversation. You hate raising your voice. But you feel like you’re screaming into a void.

And when you finally slam the bedroom door shut, frames rattling, it’s not because you’re angry. It’s because he stopped trying. He stopped meeting you halfway. Stopped seeing you.

He doesn’t follow, just sits there, biting back the tears. Biting down the words he wants to say but doesn’t know how. “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please tell me how to fix this.” But nothing comes out.

Because if he lets the fire out, he’s afraid there’ll be nothing left.

Hours later, when the house is dark and your breathing’s turned soft in the guest room, he creeps in. Picks you up carefully, warm palms slipping underneath you. Carries you back to your shared bed. You stir, but don’t wake, and he thinks maybe that’s a blessing.

Pulls you close, tucks you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he’s trying to glue the pieces back together without you noticing. Then, quietly, he cries. Doesn’t sob. Doesn’t shake the bed. Just lets the tears roll down his cheeks, one by one, into your hair. His fingers curl tightly into your shirt. His chest rises and falls with the kind of grief he’s never spoken aloud.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, again and again, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I make it so hard to love me. I’m sorry I keep breaking things. I don’t know how to stop.”

You don’t move. Maybe you’re still asleep. Maybe you’re pretending.

He doesn’t mean to cry. He’s so careful, always so careful, with you, with the house, with the weight of everything he carries but never speaks about. But when he lays you down in the bed, when you shift just slightly and curl instinctively toward him even in sleep, something in him buckles. Brushes the hair from your face with trembling fingers. The pad of his thumb drags gently beneath your eye, wiping away the last of your tears, but his own are already falling.

His broad shoulders start to shake, just barely, like he’s trying to hold even his grief in check. A soft, broken breath leaves him, one he bites down on so hard it sounds more like a choke than a sob.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” he whispers, voice raw. “I don’t know how to stop ruining it.” Closing his eyes, pressing his face into the curve of your neck. Tries to breathe you in like you’re still his. Like he hasn’t already pushed you too far.

“I just wanted to make it perfect. I thought if I could just... if I could make everything perfect, then maybe you'd stay. That nothing would go wrong.”

He swallows another sob, muffles it into your skin. Every apology he didn’t say earlier pours out in pieces now, scattered and soft and full of everything he buried beneath that calm mask.

“I’m sorry I don’t know how to talk. I’m sorry I make you feel small. I just - ” his voice breaks again, “ - I was so scared. I’m always scared.”

He thinks you’re asleep. Thinks you don't feel the way his strong body trembles. Doesn’t know you’re awake now, barely breathing, listening to the truth he only speaks in quiet moments. You realize he’s not trying to control you out of malice.

He’s just a man surrounded by love, who never actually learned how to love.

confession. i make extra blogs with usernames that i think r cool just incase i ever want to change my user 😇😇