Kai Chisaki Is Hot But He’s A Fucking Cunt And A Child Abusers So I Wish Him Nothing But Death.

im afraid to strap a girl because what if my dick game is atrocious. how do i recover from that emotionally. how

the second kuroo bursts into the kitchen with your son of fourteen months in his arms, you know you’ve won.

"you cheated!" he accuses with a pointed finger, cradling your baby in his other arm.

your smile threatens to spread across your face as you place the last of your katsu in your airfryer, but you manage to school your impression into something blank. "i don’t know what you’re talking about."

“cheater!” he cries, following you to the sink as you wash your hands and place your cutlery away. your baby gurgles as he does.

“still no clue,” you say, playing dumb as you shake your hands and walk into the living room.

"you know what you did!" kuroo trails you all this while, and you can imagine all 189 cm of him irately bobbing around your house.

you try not to laugh, and wrangle your expression into a blank stare as you sit down on your couch, looking up at him. "i do not."

"you taught him to say mama."

it's the look on his face: the squinting eyes, the exaggerated scowl, and the mussed up hair that makes him look ridiculous. you can’t help it—the corner of your mouth twitches.

"you’re smiling!" he explodes, shifting your son into his other arm. "i knew it!"

your son blinks at the noise, looking from his father to you, and he smiles. extending his arms, he reaches for you. “mama!”

“see?!” your husband wails, and you stand up briefly to take your son before sitting back down. “that’s against the rules!”

“what rules?” you say with a roll of your eyes, unable to help your smile any longer, allowing your son to play with your hair. "mama is a perfectly normal thing for a child to say."

"he couldn't even form a single syllable a week ago!" kuroo snaps, "you coached him!"

you giggle, partly because he was right, but also he looked cute stomping to the armchair and sitting down, crossing his arms and pouting. 

you suppress a laugh at his touchiness, but nudge your son. "baby, where’s papa?"

his eyes blink up at you, then he points at your husband. tetsuro glares at the chubby little hand of his traitorous son.

"go give papa a hug," you say, setting him down. he takes wide steps and bends back and forth on his hips before giving up and speed crawling to his father. 

despite kuroo’s pout, he bends over to pick up his son. 

"you can always try again with baby number two," you remind him.

"yeah, yeah," he grumbles, leaning back so your son can settle on his chest. "you’re lucky you're the love of my life and i can set aside my competitiveness for you."

you chuckle. "hey, baby," you call to your son, and the boy looks back at you, his hands on the collar of your husband’s shirt. you see the affection that opens up on tetsuro's face when he looks at his child, and it makes your heart twinge. "say papa."

your son doesn’t falter, offering you a smile. "mama!"

another interesting thing about dabihawk is that

I wonder if you know how they live in Tokyo

gojo saying “oopsie daisy” when his baby girl falls over after her first steps could heal me !!!

like he can see she’s about to cry, bottom lip wobbling and big blue eyes all watery — so he scoops her up real quick and sets on her feet to try again. “oopsie daisy, thats no good.” gojo smiles at her to keep the tears in her eyes at bay. “let’s try again. you’re too quick for your own good, hot shot.”

and she’s like all giggly again, toddling around gojo :((

bae. @avtso

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boost!!

They were , — Yuki was sacred to me .

Good stuff.

can i request Tsukishima Kei having a psychologist s/o? Headcanons or a scenario, whichever is okay! Maybe something like how their relationship would be, with them being very empathetic and understanding and stuff hihi thank you!!!

MY FIRST REQUEST! Here you go sweet anon <3 My interpretation of your lovely idea. "ADMITTANCES" Pairing: Tsukishima x Fem!Reader

Rating/Warnings: T for Teen, this is SOFT BOY HOURS PART 2

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: Your boyfriend isn't the type the open up; your psychology degree pays off, sometimes.

Note: Fluff. Good to know we're all desperate to see salty boys go soft.

“Y’know, you’re awfully quiet for someone who just won a tournament.”

Tsukishima slips on his hoodie, water dripping off his hair from his shower. You watch him shrug from your cozied place on the couch. “They weren’t aggressive enough. I knew we’d get them on the second set.”

You smile at his calculating tone. “And you guys had the better defence,” you say with a wink, and it makes him crack the smile you’d been waiting for all night.

“That, too,” he murmurs. He rubs at his eyes, and moves toward you. You hand him his glasses and he gifts you a kiss on the top of your head in return. He slumps into the couch with a sigh, massaging at his hands. You watch him for a moment before reaching out gently to take his hands into your own, rubbing at his palms and wrists. Tsukishima rests his head on the back of the couch. “Thanks,” he says, closing his eyes.

“Movie or early night?” you ask. He cracks open an eye to peak at you.

“Movie? I might pass out though.”

You flicker the T.V. to life and click on something easy and light for background noise. You continue to rub at his hands, watching the lines of his face soften at your touch. “Can I ask you something?” He hums his assent before you continue. “Are you excited you won?” you ask, after a breath.

He raises his brows at your practised tone, without opening his eyes. “Is this a girlfriend question or a psychology student question?”

“This is a girlfriend question,” you assure, but then, unable to help yourself, you add, “though I am noting your subtle deflection tactic.”

He groans, but you can tell he’s amused. “I’m too tired to be excited.”

You squint your eyes at him. “I just noticed—”

“I’m sure you did,” he interjects, but smirks and turns his head on the back cushions to look at you. “Am I being observed right now?”

“People are always observing people. I just know what to look for,” you say primly, making your boyfriend snort.

Tsukishima plays along. Despite his sore muscles and drooping eyes, he has always enjoyed the mental back and forth with you. “Okay, what are you looking for then?”

You press your lips together in contemplation. Tsukishima’s eyes soften, watching you hesitate. “I dunno. You’re always so hard on yourself after games. You never celebrate, even if you do well.”

“When you have your own office, I probably wouldn’t start a sentence off with ‘I dunno.’” You scowl playfully at his teasing.

“You’re deflecting again.”

“No, I’m flirting with you,” he says pointedly. His mouth is an impassive line but his eyes are glinting. “You should learn the difference before you get clients.”

You roll your eyes to conceal your pleasure at his compliment. “I don’t plan on being flirted with at my office.”

“I don’t think you have control over how pretty you are,” he counters. His voice is neutral, almost bored, but you can see him fighting a smile.

You try to match his tone, but you’re flustered, just a little. He did that to you, unexpectedly often. “When did you become such a smooth talker?”

He shrugs faintly. “I’m not, I’m just deflecting.” He’s smug.

“You—” you break off, with an incredulous grin. “You’re a difficult case, aren’t you?”

He looks at you from over his glasses, like he’s inspecting you. “Well, let’s see, what does it say about you that you’re dating me? You like projects?” He’s pushing your buttons on purpose, playing with you. It makes you stern, which makes Tsukishima grin –a rare flash of his winning smile. In retaliation, you clamber onto his lap. He grabs onto your hips with ease. You wouldn’t have guessed it, when you first started dating Tsukishima, but now you know how much he loves your affection and touch and attention. He rarely shows it, but you can feel it in the way his hands hold you close.

“You trying to turn the tables on me, Kei?” You lean in close to his face.

His touches the tip of you nose with his, eyes fluttering shut briefly. The sweetness of that small gesture disarms you. There’s an openness with him when it’s just the both of you in private. “Just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

You sigh, shaking your head. You take in his face with your eyes. “When was the last time you got excited about something?” you try again.

He lets out a gusty breath. “Last week. When I walked in on you trying on my Frogs jersey,” he answers quickly.

Your face gets hot at the memory. “You’re trying to distract me,” you admonish.

“Does it matter?” he mumbles. “I’m just not excitable.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you say softly. “I think you don’t let yourself get excited about anything because you’re scared you’ll be disappointed. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. And that hurts you.”

He flinches, brows furrowing. You watch him try to hide his reaction to your words but he can’t.

“Sorry. Too much?” you ask, after his silence stretches.

His jaw twitches as he clenches and unclenches it. He’s looking everywhere but your eyes, which is quite a feat considering how close you are. He lets out a short little huff, turning his head from you. He’s annoyed, suddenly, and though the girlfriend in you is sorry to have made him so, the observer in you knows it’s a mark closer to vulnerability than his easy, teasing amusement. You know he can get snippy like this, but then you also know how hard he’s trying to be open to you.

So instead of a barbed counter, he says, “You’re not wrong.” The words are quiet and grudgingly said, but as they leave him so does his irritation. You know it took a lot to say that much. You see the line between his brows smooth at his admittance. You run a gentle hand through his damp hair. Tsukishima lets out a breath again, this time resigned. He gives your earnest, wide-eyed look a sliver of a wry smile. “Happy?”

“Kind of.” You rub a thumb at his temple. “It makes me sad to hear, though.”

He reaches up to hold your wrist loosely. “Don’t be sad. You’re not wrong, but you’re not a hundred percent right, either.” His smile turns sly.

Your brows flicker up at that. “No?”

“There are some things I let myself get excited about,” he says. He tilts his head up and you tilt your head down to catch his waiting lips. “Can I show you?” he asks, when you two part. Maybe he’s deflecting again, maybe he’s flirting, but you know these admittances from him happen in baby steps.

Instead of pushing for more, you let out an amused little sound. “I thought you were so tired.”

“All your psychoanalyzing must have woken me up.” He pulls you in, closer, closer. Closer than you know most anyone gets; that spot in his lap, that perch in his heart. When his gaze flickers to you, you see it, the secret flash of real joy. He’s letting you see it, you realize. He’s showing you this part of himself, a part that’s just for you. When he smiles again, it’s not teasing, or sharp, or wry. Your breath stutters with the sincerity of it.

“Show me,” you breathe, and he lifts you up and up, and carries you into the room you both share, in the home you’ve both made and earned, with each other and within each other.