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sero vs. tape dispenser 

tobio loves to see tsukishima suffer canon.

In case you didn’t know, I’m in love with Osamu Miya.

But I’m especially in love with the idea that Osamu Miya can, and does, look good doing absolutely anything. Be it from folding your laundry (seriously, he knows how to fold a bed sheet? God tier.) to tying a tie around his neck for a business meeting, even drying his hair from a shower is an absolute joy to witness him do, and your eyes merely glaze and follow his frame as he performs these tasks with you to only watch.

And boy, do you indeed love to watch him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He snickers, his eyes fixating on yours through the mirror, massive paw carding back his now brushed, albeit still damp hair. You offer him a shrug and a smile, “just you… I’m always looking at you.”

When he bows his head to hide the blush and the smile that wants to spread over his face, he’s interrupted by your dramatic sigh, “can’t help but think how I could do so. Much. Better.”

His eyes, now glimmering with mischief, meet yours back in the mirror, and he gives you a sharp, overdone inhale through his nose before stalking towards you. “Is that right?” He hums, planting himself at the edge of the bed and biting his cheek. “Seven years together and you’ve had to live with that knowledge every day?” Before you can answer, a massive hand darts down to wrap around your ankle and drag you down the bed and have him stood between your legs, ignoring your screams and laughter of protest. “How have you ever lived such a life?”

“Osamu!” You scream, your legs tossing around his waist instinctively while his now free hands lace his fingers between yours before pinning them on either side of your head. You try to tug your arms down, but he’s got them exactly where he wants them, and he’s not letting them go.

“You poor, poor thing, didn’t your friends warn you about that before we got together?” He peppers your neck and ears with bites and kisses to make you squeak and laugh at the ticklish feeling, your heels drumming against his lower back. “S-Stoppit!” You scold as sternly as you can despite your laughter.

“Oh, what, don’t want some absolute ogre so close to you?” He playfully starts to slam his hips upwards to bounce into yours, mimicking an all too familiar action and causing your body to bounce and shift upwards. Each slam of his hips against yours only makes a louder scream tumble past your lips, and your legs tighten around him. The bed creaks under you both, his mock thrusts showing a playful side of ‘Samu you’d always crave.

“O-Sam-u!” You laugh with each jounce of your frame. You finally tug your hands free and shove him back with all your might when he uses one of his newly free hands to skitter over your ribs. “I-I-I’m sorry!” You whine, arching as much as you can against his tickling and thrusting hips.

“For calling me ugly, or for insinuating you could do better?” He says, but his voice holds no annoyance or sadness, instead, it’s mingled with a smile that plants sweet kisses to your jawline once he stops his merciless punishment.

“You’re not ugly,” you sigh happily at the feeling of his lips over your skin, your arms tossing around his neck when you deem him pliant. “I just hate how handsome you are- gotta knock you down a peg once in a while.”

“And that seemed to work awesome for ya.” He snickers against your skin before wrapping his own arms around you, worming them between your body and the mattress to hold you impossibly closer.

“But hey… must be pretty handsome if I was able to score you, babe.”

You smile and scratch lovingly at his undercut, “must be.”

The ceasefire agreement was reached and joy is floating among the Palestinian people

roger

kuroo, you think, has been out here for quite a while now. 

when you left to go meet with your study group—sometime between six-thirty and seven—the snow was just beginning to pile up. it hadn't started sticking to the roads yet, but you could see the vapor slip from the few leaves left on the trees; a symptom of early winter, you suppose. 

now, though, there must be four or five inches out here. the old oak tree that hangs over your building is starting to sag, and the moon seems heavier than it did before, hanging lowly along the glow of street light. 

kuroo is sitting on the steps up to your apartment, looking down at his phone. he has more than a few flakes in his hair, and if it wasn't for the ridge in the snow where he'd pushed it aside to sit, you'd think he'd been out here the whole time. 

"cold?" you ask, shuffling towards him. you can hear the crunch of your feet under you. 

"me? never."

he looks up at you then and, you'll admit, you like seeing him like this. lately, he's been against the whole 'text me before you come over' thing, and you know it's mostly because you don't reply, but, in part, that's so you can see him here. 

his hands are half-tucked under the sleeves of his coat, and there's a stretch of pink from the tops of his cheeks to the tip of his nose. his lips are chapped (you can only assume from being out here so often) and there's a little smile tugging at the sides of his mouth, his tongue poking out from behind his teeth. 

"oh, you want me to leave you out here then? give you a little more time?" you're smug—or, at least you're trying to be, anyway. the more time you spend with kuroo, the worse you are at pretending you don't like him. recently, you've been failing at that more than you'd care to admit. 

"hey, i didn't say that." he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "plus, what's the point of coming all the way over here if i can't see my favorite girl?" 

you shake your head at him, aiming your chin towards the ground. in a strange way, you feel like you're suffocating.

"you mean the cat?" you ask.

and he chuckles, "sure." 

a beat of silence hangs in the air for a second, before you plod your way up the steps, pulling your keys out of your pocket. you can hear kuroo rise behind you, attempting to brush some of the moisture out of his sleeves. 

"y'know," you say, pushing the key into the door. "if you like coming over when i'm not home so much, i could tell the neighbor to let you in." 

his hood rustles; he's shaking his head. 

"where's the fun in that? kinda ruins my whole 'mysterious stranger' act." 

"also kinda ruins the 'guy stalking the apartment complex' act." you swing the door open and make your way up the stairs. "i'm sure everyone is so enthused by the guy sitting on the stairs every friday." 

a laugh, "oh i'm sure. if they report me for loitering promise you'll come bail me out?" 

"depends on how much i like you that day." you can feel the heat of your apartment as you approach the end of the hall. 

"really," he says. "if they took me in right now?" 

"i would think about it." you pause. "maybe." 

"wow." you can hear the rasp in his voice as he drags out the 'o.' "tough crowd." 

your apartment smells like pine and vanilla—the workings of two little wax melters on opposite sides of the rooms. you turned them off before you left (you double and triple-checked), but the scent lingers, itching at your nose as you cross through the door. 

kuroo follows close behind, scaping his shoes off on the mat before slipping them onto the little shoe rack in the corner. his jacket squeaks as he shrugs it off—a sound so distinctly made from the shifting of wet nylon that you barely have to turn around to identify it. 

every time he follows you up here, you find yourself glancing around your apartment—looking for something that could possibly be out of place. something incriminating: three-day-old dishes that you know you already washed; your vibrator, forgotten on the nightstand, even though you remember putting it back in its designated drawer. 

for some reason, you have a tendency to think that the things around your home that make you distinctly human are also the things that would make you distinctly unappealing. you're aware of how silly the thought is, but there you are, quickly looking over at your nightstand as you stick your coat back in the closet. 

"so," you hum, rubbing a bit of the warmth back into your hands. "to what do i owe the pleasure tonight? you here to eat all of my leftovers again?" 

"depends," he says. "you have leftovers to be eaten?" 

"not this time." you make your way to the couch, and he pouts, following behind you. "but if i did, they'd be all yours." 

"aw, you mean it?" you eye him. "i'm honored." 

as much as you hate to admit it, this has sort of become habit. you come home a little later than expected and you find kuroo sitting on your front stoop. you're not exactly sure how any of it started—or, really, how the two of you became friends in the first place—but you ran in the same circles for a while and, eventually, you ended up here. 

"well," he begins, slinging his arm over the back of the couch. "study group?" 

"boring." you nudge your way beneath his shoulder. "practice?"

"thrilling, obviously. greatest two hours of my life, even. i think you could go as far as to—" you eye him again. "same thing as yesterday." 

you chuckle, swatting a hand into his chest. 

there's silence for a moment, something warm pulling through the air of the room. quiet breaths spill from kuroo's lips, and you resign yourself to listening to each one—in, and out. 

he still smells cold; like the heavy, wet snow you have to shovel off of the porch the morning after a blizzard. for every breath, it lessens, bleeding into the heat of the room, but you let the scent linger at the base of your nose. 

you're not sure how much time you've spent taking in pieces of kuroo, but you know it's more than you ever plan to tell. you know his hands take longer to warm up than the rest of him—he chalks it up to bad circulation most of the time, you know that too; he rarely spends a night at home because he doesn't like sitting in silence; he twitches sometimes, when he's nervous, a little flick of his hands; his favorite color is red but sometimes he's drawn to deep blues because he likes the sky better when it's absent of stars—he says there's something enchanting about the abyss. 

he's too dense to know you're in love with him but too smart to think you're not. sometimes you catch him looking at you after you say something in a tone a little too far beyond friendly and you swear that he knows what you mean. sometimes, you think he's going to break the silence, and, sometimes, you think he never will. 

tonight, he swings his head back, eyes lightly shut, slowly sinking into the back of the couch. you can hear the sputter of your vents and the sound of the wind against the windows—snow still trying to fight its way through the glass.  

you're going to ask him to stay the night tonight—you already know it. you're going to wake up to him on the couch tomorrow, with his hair messed up, and his eyes half-lidded, and that stupid look on his face that makes you want to slip your tongue into his mouth. 

you're going to think about that time you slept together last year—once, after a halloween party—and you're going to think about the way the inside of his mouth tasted; you're going to sink your teeth into your lips so hard that you're going to bleed. 

you're going to consider telling him that you love him, that you always have and you think you always will, and then you're going to ask him if he wants coffee instead—hoping the smell of the pot is enough to make your head feel less fuzzy. 

you're going to wait, and hope he says something, even though you'll know he never does. and then, next friday, when you come home to him sitting on your front steps, you're going to do it all again. 

reblogs are always appreciated! ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

reblog to give warm bread to your mutuals

i just chopped it all off.

if you have nice hair, respectfully please don’t stand next to me.

reminder to donate to gazafunds, a project that highlights random crowdfunding campaigns for people trying to evacuate from gaza

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Amajiki Tamaki ❖ S5EP89