whisperofwonder

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Each of the genin teams’ WORST D-rank missions:

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one more

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Another little thing for Shoyofest on twt!! For today’s prompt: stargazing ✨

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Yacchan hair salon!

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I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

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favorite senpai.

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ushisaku

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After school🍃

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Sunshine family 🥺☀️

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“It’s raining, let’s go back”

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Young crows🐦‍⬛

Inspired by this photo, but decided to give them alternative jersey color🧡

Close ups

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Kidnapper: I have one of your children. Sugawara: Which one I have three. Kidnapper: The loud, annoying, rowdy one who never shuts up. Sugawara: Which one I have three.

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Glad you're here – Kyotani x reader wc 651 – gn!reader

Kyotani never had anyone cheer him on for a game since he joined the Sendai Frogs. Tsukishima’s friends and brother would be there every other game, despite his ungrateful attitude, and Koganegawa had a lot of family and friends come see him, so he pretty much always had someone. Meanwhile, Kyotani would just busy himself with warming up and keep his eyes on the floor or the net, brushing off any comfort his teammates might try to provide.

You and Kyotani had not been dating for very long. It had grown from something shy to something sweet, but you were both new to the whole open affection thing and preferred dates in the safety of your homes. It’s not that you didn’t go out at all, you’d been to the cinema just the other day, and that morning you’d grabbed a coffee together before he had to go to work.

Still, he never asked you to go to his games. Just the thought of asking for it made him grumble in fluster, worried it was too much to ask for or somehow a weird thing to want.

Who openly admits they want someone to cheer for them, and them only?

You were none the wiser of his mental struggles and decided to surprise him by showing up to his game.

Kyotani warmed up as usual, but there was this odd feeling like he was being watched. It shouldn’t be odd, he was in the middle of a volleyball court and they were about to start, lots of people could be looking at him, but this was different. His heart was beating faster, and he slowly turned around, eyes searching the stands.

And he found you almost immediately.

Because he didn’t know you were coming and couldn’t give you his jersey, you wore a frog-themed bucket hat. The neon green kind with eyes sticking out at the top. Their merch could be quite expensive, so you made your own sign with his name on it and lots of doodles around it, making it stand out. With a happy but unsure smile, you gave him a subtle wave, thinking that he might not want to make a big deal of it.

Kyotani took a long, deep breath and slowly let it out, before the biggest smile you’d seen on him yet took over his face. He held up his arm, knitting his fist and giving you a signal that he’d fight bravely.

You returned the gesture with a giggle that melted into the loud cheers from the rest of the crowd, but Kyotani knew the sound well enough that his mind provided the vocals.

Kyotani hadn’t played this hard in a long time. The commentators couldn’t keep his name out of their mouths, and all the cameras kept panning to him. Everyone questioned what got him so fired up until the whistle blew for their break. As if on command, Kyotani sprinted right in your direction, jumping over the divider and jogging up the stairs to your row. He had an urge to hug you, but stopped himself at the last second and ended up just staring at you and trying to catch his breath.

With a gleeful chuckle, you opened your arms, urging him to lean down and capture you in a sweaty hug. Koganegawa was making some loud comment somewhere in the distance, but Kyotani couldn’t care less, even knowing the cameras might have caught the vulnerable moment. He was just so happy to see you were there for him.

After indulging in the hug for as long as he could allow himself, but not nearly long enough, he stood back up with flushed cheeks and rubbed the top of your hat. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You pushed his hand away playfully and lifted the hat back up so you could look at him, stars in your eyes. “Me too.”

masterlist

requested by @knoxing-around for don't forget me<3

thamk @cottonlemonade for helping me adjust the ending<3

[whisperofwonder]

i like when his smile is drawn like this : >

[whisperofwonder]

Pregnancy: Sakusa

You’ve tried the pillows. The pregnancy belt. The heat pad. You’ve leaned forward, leaned back, sat on the edge of the couch with your feet planted just right like the blogs say. You’ve even tried that ridiculous looking yoga ball that Kuroo swore helped his sister. Nothing works. Not really.

Your lower back has become a constant, pulsing drumbeat of dull pain, like your spine itself is growing resentful. The weight of your belly pulls forward like an anchor strapped to your hips, and every time you shift, you swear you can hear your vertebrae protesting. There’s no sweet spot anymore, just a rotation of tolerable positions. You grit your teeth through them, muttering curses under your breath.

You’re laid sideways on the couch now, a pillow stuffed between your knees, one arm tucked under your bump, the other flopped over your eyes like you’re shielding yourself from the end of the world. It’s not even late. The sun’s still up, golden light filtering through the blinds. You just couldn’t take being vertical anymore.

This is the part no one talks about. Not the cute baby kicks, not the weird cravings or the glow everyone swears you have. It’s this—sore, swollen, and tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Even breathing feels like it takes effort.

And through it all, Sakusa is there.

He’s been steady. Quietly doting. Not the type to coo over baby socks or rub your feet with oil while humming lullabies, but the kind of man who starts carrying hand sanitizer in your favorite scent just in case you need it. The kind who keeps snacks in the car, reminds you to hydrate without making it sound like a chore, who started going to prenatal appointments not because you asked, but because he wanted to understand everything. Who reads parenting books with sticky tabs and highlights and pretends he didn’t.

He’s not loud about it. He doesn’t post bump photos or narrate your journey in grand poetic terms. But he’s shown up every day in ways that matter. Never once flinching when you sobbed over dropped pickles or had a breakdown in the baby aisle because you couldn’t decide between two swaddle patterns. He holds the pieces when you feel like you’re falling apart. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

You hear the front door click open, then the quiet hush of it swinging closed. You don’t move. Just listen to the familiar sound of Sakusa’s footsteps coming in—soft, always measured, always deliberate. No keys clatter. He always puts them in the bowl on the shelf. No shoes squeaking either; he wipes them, every time. You know it’s him without having to look.

He pauses in the entryway, no doubt clocking the mess of your position. Then, his voice—calm and even, with that velvety weight that always makes your heart twitch even when you're annoyed.

“Back again?”

“Mmh,” you hum noncommittally, eyes still covered. “Felt like someone took a crowbar to my spine. So I gave up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You imagine him there, eyes scanning you—your hunched shoulders, the tension in your jaw, the deep set crease between your brows. He’s not the type to hover. Not the type to fuss, at least not where you can see it. But you know him well enough by now. If he could physically fight your discomfort, he would’ve by now. With gloves on.

You feel the couch dip near your legs. Then the rustle of a bag being set down.

“I read about something,” he says slowly.

You lower your arm just enough to peek at him. He’s still in his work clothes—jacket slung over the armrest, sleeves rolled neatly past his elbows, forearms bare. His mask is off, stashed away now that he’s home. You catch the faintest crease of worry between his brows, like he’s weighing the next words carefully.

“Can I try?” he asks.

You blink, too tired to be curious. “Whatever. Go for it.”

He tilts his head. “You have to stand up first.”

You lower your arm further to shoot him a flat look. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You huff, but he’s already sliding a hand beneath your arm. Gently, steadily, he helps you sit up, then rise to your feet with the kind of efficiency that speaks to practice. He’s been doing this for weeks now—helping you in and out of bed, out of the car, off the floor when you insisted you could pick something up by yourself.

“I swear to god, if this is another stretch video where I end up looking like a tipped cow—”

“It’s not.”

“Because if I fall, I'm taking you down with me.”

“Duly noted.”

Once you’re upright, he steps behind you. You feel the warmth of him, close and focused. One of his hands briefly trails up your spine in a slow, soothing pass—a single stroke meant to coax your muscles into releasing some of their stubborn tension.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice low and steady, his breath brushing the shell of your ear.

Then his hands brush your hips and slide slowly beneath the swell of your belly. One palm anchors, the other adjusts. It’s deliberate, the kind of precise contact that could only come from research and repeat watching. Then—he lifts.

Just an inch. Maybe two. But it’s enough.

The relief is instant.

Your lower back uncoils like a spring released from tension. That hot, grinding ache that’s lived there for weeks just… lessens. Not gone entirely, but dulled. Blurred. Like someone finally turned the pressure dial down from an eleven to a manageable hum.

You let out a sound you weren’t expecting—a breath that shudders out of you with more feeling than you meant to show. Like your whole body’s been waiting for this and didn’t know how to ask.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s… holy shit.”

You hear him exhale, and the barest hint of a smile follows in his voice.

“Guess it works.”

You nod, or try to. “What even—how’d you think of that?”

“There’s a forum,” he says. “A bunch of people were talking about it. Said lifting the weight can take pressure off the sacroiliac joint. Sounded reasonable.”

Of course it did. It’s so— him. Reading about biomechanics like it’s no big deal. Quietly researching ways to ease your pain without saying a word. You picture him in bed at night, phone dimmed, scrolling through medical threads while you snored beside him.

You lean back slightly, weight shifting into his hold like you’re trusting it—trusting him—with more than just the curve of your belly. His hands adjust to steady you.

Then you feel him begin to lower your bump back down.

“I didn’t say you could stop yet,” you murmur, voice hushed and wry.

His hands still immediately.

There's a pause, not because he's unsure—but because he’s listening. Because when it comes to you, Sakusa never rushes.

You feel his thumbs move slightly, drawing slow circles near your hips as he steadies the lift again, as if to say, I’ve got you.

"Should’ve tried this ages ago," you mumble.

You’re still basking in the quiet relief of his hold. Your back doesn’t feel like it's screaming anymore, and for the first time in hours, your body feels like it belongs to you again—like maybe you're not just a vessel walking around with sore feet and too many hormones.

He shifts slightly, adjusting the lift with a faint grunt.

"He’s heavy," Sakusa murmurs. There’s no complaint in his voice—just quiet awe.

You smile faintly, placing a hand over his. "That’s your fault."

"My fault?"

"You’re six-three, with legs like telephone poles. What did you think was gonna happen?"

He huffs a soft, amused breath behind you. "Could still be your fault. Maybe you manifested it."

You snort. "Yeah, I manifested a linebacker. Great job, me."

"He’s not even here yet and I already feel outnumbered," he mutters.

You squeeze his hand. "Don’t worry. He’ll probably inherit your poker face. You two can be brooding and beautiful together."

A beat. Then, so quiet it barely makes it to your ears:

"He’s going to be perfect."

You close your eyes, feeling everything swell in your chest all at once.

"He already is."

And there’s something so simple, so steadfast in the way he says it that you have to bite your lip against the warm rush crawling up your chest.

You rest your hand over his where it cups your belly. "Kiyoomi?"

"Mm."

"I love you."

His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. You hear the breath he draws, steady as ever.

"I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."

And just like that, in the stillness of your living room, with the soft glow of daylight bleeding through the windows and his arms supporting you from behind, you feel the kind of full-body peace that no prenatal yoga class has ever given you.

You don’t move. Neither does he. Because for now, this is enough.