Stepping In Water With Socks On Is The Singular Worst Thing To Exist On This Planet

bury me with a couple extra bones to mess with archaeologists

putting it in my will that i want a “poison swamp-themed funeral” and letting my surviving family sort out what the fuck that means

i love how his expression doesn’t even change

hahaha i’m fine

OKAY OKAY new reblog game. put in the tags how long your longest playlist is

reblogging to savee

Your friends often ask how you get your job done, being surrounded by the tall, good-looking men that make up Japan’s volleyball team.

While, yeah, one wink from Atsumu could turn someone to soup and a rare smile from Sakusa could make someone weak in the knees, they weren’t the real distraction.

To you, at least.

No, the real problem was team Japan’s athletic trainer.

Dressed in simple black slacks and a dark polo, Iwaizumi Hajime puts these world class athletes to shame. He’s got this…air about him. Something powerful and commanding, which you suppose is necessary in training Olympians.

(Not to mention he’s got muscles so perfectly toned, they might as well have been sculpted from clay.)

You’ve known Iwaizumi for a little over a year now, your careers in sports medicine often overlapping. He goes to you when his athletes are feeling less than 100%, and you fix them. You, in turn, send healthy or recovered athletes to him so they stay that way.

You’ve corresponded frequently over email and the phone, sure, but now you’re both official staff members for team Japan’s men’s volleyball team. The athletic trainer and the physiotherapist. Now you see him at least four times a week - in person - as the Olympics steadily approach.

In fact, he’d driven you to practice today, picking you up from the clinic and walking into the gymnasium carrying both your bags of equipment.

Because Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t just hotter than a seatbelt buckle on a summer’s day, he’s also nice.

To you, at least.

While he won’t hesitate to bark at men like Ojiro or Ushijima, cut sharp glares at troublemakers like Hoshiumi or Miya, or boss around stubborn types like Kageyama or Sakusa, he’s not like that with you.

When a ball flies anywhere in your general vicinity, he’s there, swatting it away with his clipboard or catching it, whipping it back at whoever’s responsible. When you’re having trouble stuffing your equipment into your bag, he’s holding it shut so you can yank the zipper up. When your water bottle looks like it needs refilling, he’s holding up his empty one (though you swore it was at half a few seconds ago) volunteering to take yours to the fountain.

Worst of all, when it’s loud, he leans closer when you talk to him. Close enough that you can catch a whiff of his cologne, close enough that you can see the flecks of colour in his pretty eyes. He winds a strong arm around you, placing a gentle - respectful - hand on the small of your back to pull you just a little closer.

The warmth of his hand there, the proximity of his face to yours…it never fails to make your heart flutter a little in your chest.

Sure, you’ve currently got your hands all over Bokuto, smoothing kt tape over his thick traps, but you can’t help when your eyes wander to where Iwaizumi is seated, absorbed in the notes on his clipboard.

He just looks so good, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly whenever he moves his pen across the paper, lips pressed into a tight line. He only does that when he’s contemplating something, and you make a note to ask him about it after—

“Why’re you always starin’ at our trainer like that?” Bokuto questions, looking over his shoulder at you. Your face heats up slightly at being called out— you really hadn’t thought you were that obvious. “Do you…like him or something?”

Your hands fall from the athlete’s shoulders as he turns his entire body to look at you now. He doesn’t look or sound like he’s teasing, seeming genuinely curious with his question.

Atsumu, seeming to smell gossip, saunters over with a lopsided grin on his face. “We talkin’ about your obvious crush on Biceps over there?”

“I do not have a crush, Miya,” you lie, absolutely not staring at Iwaizumi’s biceps or admiring the way they strain slightly against his shirt sleeves. “We’re friends. Hajime is my friend.”

Atsumu’s brows raise up behind his bangs as you hand Bokuto his shirt. “Oh, so he’s Hajime, but the two of you are ‘just friends?’”

“Why did you put that in air quotes? It’s true!”

“You still call me Miya, but you’ve touched me more places than any other woman ever! Are you saying Hajime’s touched you in even more places?”

“No! O-of course not!” You sputter, shaking your head. “I don’t like him like that. He’s just too—” You gesture vaguely towards your friend, a frustrated noise slipping past your lips. He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, but like hell you’re going to say that to Miya.

“Too what?” Atsumu prods, grinning widely.

“Too— too tall,” you reason stupidly.

Bokuto just pats your shoulder sympathetically as Atsumu throws his head back, laughing much too loudly. “Too tall? Well, everyone’s the same height in bed.”

“Stop!” You groan, hiding your face behind your hands.

“Miya! Bokuto!” Iwaizumi snaps, a grimace marring those pretty lips of his. “Get your asses over here, water break is over.”

Bokuto and Atsumu exchange a look that says ‘yikes,’ the latter muttering, “Maybe if he gets laid, he’ll go a little easier on us.”

Atsumu flashes you a grin, and you swear your heart stops beating. “Don’t say anything. Atsumu.” You try to plead, but the setter’s already walking away, shooting you a thumbs up. “Atsumu!”

You have the overwhelming urge to melt into the floor. If you weren’t getting paid to take care of them—

You’re forced to look on in horror as Atsumu grips his trainer on the shoulder. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but your stomach drops when he nods his head back towards you.

You pretend to busy yourself, picking up whatever’s closest to you and gagging when it happens to be Bokuto’s forgotten knee pads.

When you look up again, eyes a little watery, your eyes meet Iwaizumi’s.

Hajime’s.

Your hot, very nice friend Hajime. Who carries your bags and smells like expensive cologne. Whose face seems stuck in a permanent grimace, though it always softens into a smile when he picks you up in the afternoon for practice.

Your hot, very nice friend Hajime who smirks a little as Atsumu walks away. Who keeps eye contact with you as he lifts the hem of his shirt to swipe at the sweat on his bottom lip, granting you a peek at the defined ridges of his abs—

Your very hot, very nice friend Hajime who is walking over to you now, holy shit.

“Hey.”

You toss the kneepads away, swiping your hands across your pants and trying your best to fix your hair. “Hi.”

He shifts his weight a little, gaze flickering over your face. Your brows, the slope of your nose, your lips, as if he’s studying you. “You free later today?”

You blink a few times. “I—”

“Great, I’ll pick you up at seven. For dinner.”

You nod and relax a little (barely). Dinner is okay. Dinner is easy. You’ve had dinner with your very hot, very nice friend Hajime before. Maybe you’ll stop by a few street vendors or grab some indulgent fast food.

He nods once, gently touching your arm. “So it’s a date. Wear something nice.”

Wait—

What?

what if, 😳 what if 😳 i reblogged your posts… 💕and you reblogged my posts… 🙈💞 and we were mutuals 👉👈 …but we never have a real conversation because we’re both shy? 😅💜

when the grapes

AWWWWW

bringing your boyfriend to the underworld to meet your 3 headed hell dog #justnicothings

what would you do if you saw jeff bezos in real life?

like to murder him in cold blood

reblog to murder him in cold blood

Taking a brief pause to just say my heart is with the people of Ukraine right now, and I wish all of you well.