akaai

the pencil isn’t even touching the paper yet and your heartbeat is already behaving like a malfunctioning washing machine—vibrating, rattling, threatening to fling its screws across the room—because there he is: ushijima wakatoshi, sitting in front of you like some kind of divine sketch-model carved from olympian stone and agricultural devotion.

‘the audacity of him to just exist like that,’ you think, your fingers already twitching, your sketchbook opening with its usual crackle. you’ve drawn him so many times you could probably render him with the lights off, hanging upside down, while skydiving. every line of his jaw is in your muscle memory at this point; his eyelashes probably occupy 70% of your brain capacity; you could write entire essays on the dips and shadows of his collarbones.

“you’re staring,” ushijima says, not accusingly—just a calm statement, as if he’s merely noting that the sky is blue or that volleyball requires teamwork.

you jolt, clutching your pencil like it’s a tiny lifeline. “i’m… observing.”

he nods once, the faintest curl of warmth touching his eyes. “i like when you do.”

you swear the temperature of the room skyrockets by at least twenty degrees. someone could fry an egg on your cheek.

you try to focus on your page. really, you do. but you can’t stop glancing at him—his steady posture, the gentle way he watches you, the patience woven into every breath he takes. he’s so overwhelmingly him that your chest feels like it’s stuffed with glitter and static.

you’ve been sketching him for weeks. months. maybe lifetimes in alternate universes. and you’re not subtle about it—your friends joke that your “ushijima art arc” has lasted longer than most tv show seasons. but he never complains. he sits for you when you ask, unbothered, composed, as if being immortalized by you is the most natural thing in the world.

today is supposed to be like any other drawing session.

except it’s not.

today ushijima brought a backpack.

and that backpack is suspiciously full.

you notice it only when he shifts, the zipper glinting. “what’s that?” you ask.

“my sketchbook,” he replies plainly.

your heart stumbles. “you draw?”

“yes.” he says this as if it’s common knowledge that the powerhouse wing spiker also happens to dabble in fine arts.

you blink. “what do you… draw?”

“things,” he answers, which is unhelpful but also, weirdly, makes your stomach flip.

your pencil trembles. “can i see?”

“yes.”

he reaches into his bag with the same casualness someone might use to hand over a napkin. but when he places the sketchbook in your hands—thick, heavy, edges worn like it’s been opened a thousand times—something tingles down your spine.

because this is not a casual sketchbook.

this is a personal sketchbook.

you look at him for confirmation.

he nods once. “go ahead.”

you open it.

and your brain malfunctions so violently it basically bluescreens.

page one: you. sitting under a tree, headphones on, smiling softly at nothing.

page two: you. leaning over a table to reach your water bottle, strands of hair falling forward.

page three: you. laughing so hard your eyes are squeezed shut.

page four: you. frowning at your math homework.

page five: you. holding an orange, looking at it like you’re about to debate its existence.

page six: you. sleeping during lunch, cheek squished against your arm.

page seven: you. eyes shining in a way you’ve never seen captured before.

and it continues.

every page is you.

not always flattering, not always perfect—sometimes messy hair, sometimes weird angles, sometimes mid-blink—but all impossibly tender, drawn with a sincerity that roots you to your seat.

these aren’t sketches of a casual interest.

these are sketches of someone who looks at you like you’re the axis he rotates around.

you flip another page.

and your breath completely leaves you.

it’s a full-body sketch. detailed. reverent. you’re sitting in the sun, your expression soft, dreamy. it looks like love trapped in graphite.

“ushijima…” your voice cracks.

“yes?” he asks, watching you carefully. he’s steady, but there’s something fragile beneath his tone—like he’s bracing for you to run, or laugh, or fold into dust.

“these are… all me.”

he nods. “i draw what holds my attention.”

your lungs forget their job. “this is—this is a lot. i didn’t even know you liked drawing.”

“i like drawing you,” he says simply.

and that does it.

your soul leaves your body, pirouettes in the air, and re-enters upside down.

he shifts slightly, hands loosely clasped. “you draw me often,” he continues, softer. “i thought… it would be fair.”

you stare at him, your heart doing aerial acrobatics. “fair?”

“yes,” he says. “because you look at me with so much focus. i wanted to show you that i look at you the same way.”

your entire existence melts into a puddle of emotional goo.

he leans in—slowly, always giving you space—and his gaze dips to the sketchbook still open in your hands. “do you not like them?”

“no—I mean yes—I mean i love them—i just—” you press a hand to your face. “i didn’t know you were…”

his head tilts. “were what?”

the words trip out of you, bare and shaking: “so gone for me.”

he doesn’t flinch. “i am.”

you exhale a shaky laugh. “that was very direct.”

“i don’t want to hide it,” he says. “not from you.”

and then he surprises you—really surprises you—by reaching out and gently tracing the corner of the sketchbook with his thumb.

“i draw you because i think about you,” he says, voice warm and low. “i think about you because i care for you. deeply.”

your heart does the emotional equivalent of combusting in confetti.

“wakatoshi,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself from saying his name like it’s both a prayer and a punchline.

“yes?”

“come here,” you murmur.

he does. immediately. like he was waiting for permission to breathe.

you place your palm on his cheek, feeling the warmth of him under your hand, the steady weight of him leaning into your touch like it’s instinct. “you’re…” you laugh softly, overwhelmed. “you’re unbelievable.”

he closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s savoring the sound of your voice. “i want you,” he says quietly. “i want to be near you. i want to know everything you feel. i want to be someone you reach for.”

your throat tightens. “you already are.”

his eyes open—bright, earnest, disarmingly vulnerable. “good,” he murmurs. “because i don’t plan on going anywhere.”

you cup his jaw more firmly. “wakatoshi?”

“yes.”

“kiss me.”

he does.

and it’s devastating.

not rough, not rushed—just full, grounding, steady. like he’s pouring every line he’s ever drawn of you into the shape of his mouth, like he’s memorizing you in a whole new medium.

your fingers curl into his shirt. his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck. he kisses you like you’re something precious and warm and necessary.

when you part, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“you can keep the sketchbook,” he says, voice low.

you laugh, soft and dizzy. “there’s no way i’m keeping this. it’s practically your heart in paper form.”

“then,” he says gently, “share it with me.”

you blink up at him. “share it?”

“yes. you draw me. i draw you. we keep doing that… together.”

your breath catches.

your smile blooms like sunrise. “yeah,” you whisper. “i’d like that.”

and he smiles—tiny but real, his eyes soft enough to bend galaxies.

“good,” he repeats, thumb brushing your cheek. “because i already have more pages waiting.”

and for the first time, you realize something:

maybe you didn’t come here just to draw him.

maybe you came to find the place where you fit between his lines.

and you found it—right here, in his hands, in his sketchbook, in the steady devotion he gives you so easily.

the pencil rolls off your lap.

neither of you reaches for it.

n: i’m finally working on my requests again. i’m still kinda mourning my relationship like a loser 😞

toshi’s taglist

@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @highandalive @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @nivabiva @s1lly-bon @whimsybloom @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @immortalblazethief @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @knkzshx @han0vyc @george-russell-defender @meikstv @burriedfifii @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @horanghaepaws @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @poeticsorcery @windsblow @fiannee @forgottensniper @snowstormsandavalanches @starzlytoetsie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67 @love3shin @thinc0ck @tnteri @estelleythegreat @lilith-dear @whoizmae @little-miss-existencialcrisiz

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

you’re kneeling on the floor beside him, sleeves pushed up, knees touching just barely. he’s repotting a small basil plant, steady hands guiding the roots into fresh soil. the light catches on his forearms, warm and golden.

“it needed more space,” he says, voice low as he works. “the roots were pushing against the pot.”

“so you’re giving it a bigger home,” you murmur.

he pauses for a second — a small hesitation — before nodding.

“yes.”

you watch him work, the careful way he lifts the plant, the way his brows knit just slightly when he focuses. it’s a softness most people never see from him. a gentleness he doesn’t have to perform. it’s just… there, stitched naturally into the quiet of his home.

you brush soil from the edge of the pot, fingertips grazing his knuckles by accident. his hand stills for a moment. then continues, calm as always — but a tiny warmth flickers at the edge of his expression.

“you’re good at this,” you say softly.

“i’ve had practice.” he finishes pressing the soil and looks at you. “you are good at it too.”

you laugh quietly. “i’ve barely done anything.”

“your presence helps,” he says simply.

it’s so honest — so unfiltered — that your breath catches for half a second.

ushijima doesn’t realize what he’s done until your shoulders soften. then he looks down, almost shyly, like he’s not sure if he said something wrong or right.

he reaches for another pot, but when he glances up, his gaze lingers. slow. steady. warm.

“you have…” he tilts his head slightly, studying your face, “dirt on your cheek.”

before you can wipe it, his hand lifts — large, warm, careful — and his thumb brushes your skin. a tiny motion. barely anything.

but he stays there.

his thumb resting just at the edge of your cheekbone. his palm hovering close. his eyes tracing yours with a softness he doesn’t show to anyone else.

your breath stirs between you.

“there,” he murmurs, voice quiet.

he doesn’t pull away.

you don’t move either. the moment stretches — gentle, quiet, fragile in the best way.

“toshi,” you whisper, because it feels right. because he feels close enough to breathe in. “your plants must love you.”

his thumb brushes your cheek again, slower this time.

“i hope so,” he says. “i take care of them.”

“you take care of me too,” you say softly.

he exhales — a slow, warm sound that blends into the quiet room. his hand slides, delicately, from your cheek to the side of your jaw, fingers settling there as though he’s memorizing the shape of you.

he leans in just a little.

not rushed. not dramatic. just… drawn.

you meet him halfway, your nose brushing his, your lips finding his in a soft, steady kiss. gentle. warm. the kind of kiss that feels like a shared secret.

he holds you there a moment, thumb stroking your jaw, his other hand resting lightly on your knee as the plants around you rustle faintly in the warm air.

when he pulls back, it’s barely an inch — just enough to look at you again.

“you’re important to me,” he says quietly. “more than these.”

he means the plants. the home. the routines. the things he cares for so carefully.

your heart catches.

“i know,” you whisper.

he leans in again, forehead touching yours, his breath evening out as if your closeness calms him.

the late afternoon sun pools around you both, warm and soft, settling into the space like it belongs there. like you belong there.

ushijima’s hand stays on your cheek a little longer than necessary.

and in the gentle green light of his living room, you feel the quiet fullness of being cared for — softly, intentionally, in the way he only ever shows you.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Instead you were sitting on your bedroom floor with your back to your shared bed, body hunched over and cradling a screaming little bundle. Both of your faces streaked with tears, looking completely and utterly drained. Wakatoshi guessed that you must’ve been here for hours, desperately pleading for your little one to close her eyes. 

Your voice hitches, tired, helpless eyes looking up to find your husband. “She just won’t stop, I’ve t-tried everything.”

The reddened baby lets out a shrill cry, so high-pitched you're afraid it hurts. 

“I've fed her, changed her, rocked her - everything, Toshi. I’ve even-”

Wakatoshi interrupts silently, sinking down to your height and rubbing a callused thumb against your cheek, smooshing tears into your skin. “It is okay. I am here now to help.” His hair is still damp with sweat - remnants from his late-night training that had him kept way past overtime. And his muscles are aching and sore - wanting no more than to take a hot shower and then cuddle up with his family in bed. 

But he doesn’t, not yet. Because you're here, struggling. Doing your best for his family. 

So instead he scoops the screaming baby from your arms, eyes softening at her red, spent face. 

He stands up and sways, pressing your squirming child to his chest. It seems to settle her a little. Ever so slightly. “You should sleep, I can take care of her now.” Toshi moves to dip a hand under your armpit, gently helping you get up from off the floor. 

You steady your exhausted body upwards, wiggling your arm out of his soft grip in protest. “No, no- but there's still dinner,” Your breaths come shaky and disoriented. “M’ almost done, it just needs like - ten more minutes.” 

Wakatoshi’s lips part. Here you’ve been, wholly exhausted, tending to his shrieking daughter and simultaneously keeping the household upright while also cooking dinner just so he had something hot to come home to?

He is so very grateful, right to the bottom of his heart. But what you need right now is sleep - not to worry about anyone or anything else. He can’t have his beautiful, perfect wife running on empty, can he?

Your husband murmurs your name softly, still rocking your hiccuping child in his arms and pushes you to sit down on the bed cautiously, careful to not upset you while you're in such a fragile state.

Wakatoshi’s fingers ghost your hairline. 

“Toshi…” You lean into his touch, hot, tired tears threatening to fall from your eyes again. “I really tried, I just can’t-”

“You’ve tried enough. And you have done well.” He places a soothing kiss to your temple. It eases your headache. “It is time for you to rest now, I’ll take care of everything else.” 

“But-”

He raises his palm outwards to stop you from speaking. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. I am sorry I was out so late, I should've come home earlier.” 

“S’fine,” You rub your eyes with the back of your weary hand, noticing that your baby’s wet cries have died down to just the occasional little sniffle. 

“It is not fine. I should do better at taking care of you both, just as you do.”

You shrug, eyes darting down to the floor, not knowing where to look instead.

“Thank you for being so strong.” He tips your chin upwards so your eyes meet to his, that comforting, serious stare that you’ve always been able to indulge in. “Now please get into bed, I do not wish for you to miss any more sleep than you already have. 

Your newborn's breathing evens out, settled by the soft thump of Wakatoshi’s heartbeat and your gentle voices pattering back and forth. 

You nod, sniffle a few times, and start peeling back the covers with the help of your husband. “But what if she wakes up again?”

He drapes the heavy covers over your body, dusting stray hairs away from your face. “Then I will deal with it. You need to sleep, or at least rest your eyes.” 

Smiling tiredly with a small frown creased in between your eyebrows, you have no other choice but to listen to him, even if you tried, you don’t think your body would let you get out of bed now.  

You watch Wakatoshi wordlessly as he switches off the bedside lamp and creeps out of the room as stealthily as he's able to. (Which is not very much - he’s a big man.) 

You can’t help but keep your eyes open, body and brain waiting for the sound of the nursery door to open. When you do hear it though, your body instantly relaxes a little. You finally let yourself sink into the covers, pulling the plush blankets up past your face so only your eyes are visible. 

The last memory you have of that night is the low creak of the bed frame as a warm body eases into the covers beside you, strong, steady arms enveloping you in their hold.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀

a/n: ughhh husband Wakatoshi can have my soul, I love him so SO much. More coming soon...? (｡· v ·｡) ?