Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i’m your biggest fan, i’ll follow you until you love me!
w/c: 0.8k, obsession, stalking, very self-indulgent
!! do not romanticize this irl, this is strictly only for fiction !!
there is a specific kind of madness that comes with writing men who long for things they cannot have. you’ve built an entire online reputation on it—on the precise, agonizing geometry of a man breaking because a woman won’t look at him.
you just didn’t expect the universe to hand you a live demonstration.
it started with a single username in your inbox, always there within seconds of a new story dropping. tooru_01. at first, it was standard praise, then it became analytical. then it became.. possessive.
now, it’s a fixture of your life.
“you understand it so well,” his latest message reads, sent at three in the morning. “the way he wants her. but you’re too cruel to him, author. if i was the one waiting for you, i’d never let you look away long enough to write these down.”
you lean back against your pillows, the glow of your laptop illuminating the small smile tugging at your lips. anyone would call the police. anyone else would block the account and change their pen name. but you? you’re an architect of obsession, you find it thrilling. a little intoxicating, even, to know you’ve engineered a craving this severe.
the screen blinks, another notification.
“i saw the photo you posted on your blog today. the coffee shop in the district. the blue mug fits you well. i was so tempted to walk in, but i didn’t want to scare you away yet. i promise i’ll be nice, but i don’t think i’ll ever stop tailing you.”
your breath hitches, he was there?
three days later, you’re at a local fan-meet event for independent writers–a small, crowded gallery space filled with the murmur of readers and the scent of paper. you’re sitting behind a small desk, signing a few self-published works, when the air pressure in your vicinity seems to drop.
“so,” a voice purrs, smooth and entirely too confident for a stranger. “the genius behind the heartbreak.”
you look up.
he’s taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and eyes that harbor a terrifyingly focused intensity. he’s wearing a soft cream sweater, looking every bit of the perfect, idealized hero from one of your stories. but there’s a sharp edge to his smile that gives him away.
oikawa.
“you’re smaller than you look in your desk selfies,” oikawa says, tilting his head. he rests his long fingers on the edge of your table, leaning in just enough to crowd your space, effectively cutting off the rest of the room. “but just as pretty.”
“tōru,” you say softly, testing the weight of his name on your tongue.
his eyes widen slightly, a flash of delight washing over his features. a faint flush creeps up his neck, “you remember me. of course you do. we’re made for each other, aren’t we? you write yearning, and i live it.”
“you’re borderline stalking me,” you point out, keeping your voice low, conversational. you don’t pull back. instead, you lean forward, matching his proximity. “most writers would have called security by now.”
oikawa’s smile turns a bit sharper, a bit more desperate. he reaches out, his thumb lighting brushing against the blank zine on your table, his gaze locked entirely on your face. he isn’t even looking at your works now. he’s starving, and you’re the only meal in the room.
“but you aren’t most writers, are you?” oikawa whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “you like it. i can tell by the way your hands aren’t shaking. you like knowing that someone is completely obsessed with you.”
he folds his arms, resting them on the table, looking up at you through his eyelashes. it’s a pleading look, but the intent behind it is heavy, suffocating.
“i’m your biggest fan,” oikawa says, and it sounds less like a compliment and more like an oncoming threat. “i’ll follow you until you love me. until you stop writing about fictional men and start writing about me. i can wait. i’m very good at pursuing things until they’re mine.”
you look at him–at the beautiful, dangerous mess of a man who’s decided you are his entire sun. a normal person would run.
you just click your pen, slide a fresh zine toward him and smile. “well, aren’t you sweet, tōru.”
the sound of his name leaving your lips makes his chest heave, his fingers twitching against the wood. “only for you, my storyweaver.” he hums, eyes dark and entirely consumed by you.
you know full well he’ll never leave your side, whether you know it, or not.
n: i wrote this w my twin @forgottensniper watching, hell yeah :3 ty for watching me crash out while writing.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i’m your biggest fan, i’ll follow you until you love me!
w/c: 0.8k, obsession, stalking, very self-indulgent
!! do not romanticize this irl, this is strictly only for fiction !!
there is a specific kind of madness that comes with writing men who long for things they cannot have. you’ve built an entire online reputation on it—on the precise, agonizing geometry of a man breaking because a woman won’t look at him.
you just didn’t expect the universe to hand you a live demonstration.
it started with a single username in your inbox, always there within seconds of a new story dropping. tooru_01. at first, it was standard praise, then it became analytical. then it became.. possessive.
now, it’s a fixture of your life.
“you understand it so well,” his latest message reads, sent at three in the morning. “the way he wants her. but you’re too cruel to him, author. if i was the one waiting for you, i’d never let you look away long enough to write these down.”
you lean back against your pillows, the glow of your laptop illuminating the small smile tugging at your lips. anyone would call the police. anyone else would block the account and change their pen name. but you? you’re an architect of obsession, you find it thrilling. a little intoxicating, even, to know you’ve engineered a craving this severe.
the screen blinks, another notification.
“i saw the photo you posted on your blog today. the coffee shop in the district. the blue mug fits you well. i was so tempted to walk in, but i didn’t want to scare you away yet. i promise i’ll be nice, but i don’t think i’ll ever stop tailing you.”
your breath hitches, he was there?
three days later, you’re at a local fan-meet event for independent writers–a small, crowded gallery space filled with the murmur of readers and the scent of paper. you’re sitting behind a small desk, signing a few self-published works, when the air pressure in your vicinity seems to drop.
“so,” a voice purrs, smooth and entirely too confident for a stranger. “the genius behind the heartbreak.”
you look up.
he’s taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and eyes that harbor a terrifyingly focused intensity. he’s wearing a soft cream sweater, looking every bit of the perfect, idealized hero from one of your stories. but there’s a sharp edge to his smile that gives him away.
oikawa.
“you’re smaller than you look in your desk selfies,” oikawa says, tilting his head. he rests his long fingers on the edge of your table, leaning in just enough to crowd your space, effectively cutting off the rest of the room. “but just as pretty.”
“tōru,” you say softly, testing the weight of his name on your tongue.
his eyes widen slightly, a flash of delight washing over his features. a faint flush creeps up his neck, “you remember me. of course you do. we’re made for each other, aren’t we? you write yearning, and i live it.”
“you’re borderline stalking me,” you point out, keeping your voice low, conversational. you don’t pull back. instead, you lean forward, matching his proximity. “most writers would have called security by now.”
oikawa’s smile turns a bit sharper, a bit more desperate. he reaches out, his thumb lighting brushing against the blank zine on your table, his gaze locked entirely on your face. he isn’t even looking at your works now. he’s starving, and you’re the only meal in the room.
“but you aren’t most writers, are you?” oikawa whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “you like it. i can tell by the way your hands aren’t shaking. you like knowing that someone is completely obsessed with you.”
he folds his arms, resting them on the table, looking up at you through his eyelashes. it’s a pleading look, but the intent behind it is heavy, suffocating.
“i’m your biggest fan,” oikawa says, and it sounds less like a compliment and more like an oncoming threat. “i’ll follow you until you love me. until you stop writing about fictional men and start writing about me. i can wait. i’m very good at pursuing things until they’re mine.”
you look at him–at the beautiful, dangerous mess of a man who’s decided you are his entire sun. a normal person would run.
you just click your pen, slide a fresh zine toward him and smile. “well, aren’t you sweet, tōru.”
the sound of his name leaving your lips makes his chest heave, his fingers twitching against the wood. “only for you, my storyweaver.” he hums, eyes dark and entirely consumed by you.
you know full well he’ll never leave your side, whether you know it, or not.
n: i wrote this w my twin @forgottensniper watching, hell yeah :3 ty for watching me crash out while writing.
i’m your biggest fan, i’ll follow you until you love me!
w/c: 0.8k, obsession, stalking, very self-indulgent
!! do not romanticize this irl, this is strictly only for fiction !!
there is a specific kind of madness that comes with writing men who long for things they cannot have. you’ve built an entire online reputation on it—on the precise, agonizing geometry of a man breaking because a woman won’t look at him.
you just didn’t expect the universe to hand you a live demonstration.
it started with a single username in your inbox, always there within seconds of a new story dropping. tooru_01. at first, it was standard praise, then it became analytical. then it became.. possessive.
now, it’s a fixture of your life.
“you understand it so well,” his latest message reads, sent at three in the morning. “the way he wants her. but you’re too cruel to him, author. if i was the one waiting for you, i’d never let you look away long enough to write these down.”
you lean back against your pillows, the glow of your laptop illuminating the small smile tugging at your lips. anyone would call the police. anyone else would block the account and change their pen name. but you? you’re an architect of obsession, you find it thrilling. a little intoxicating, even, to know you’ve engineered a craving this severe.
the screen blinks, another notification.
“i saw the photo you posted on your blog today. the coffee shop in the district. the blue mug fits you well. i was so tempted to walk in, but i didn’t want to scare you away yet. i promise i’ll be nice, but i don’t think i’ll ever stop tailing you.”
your breath hitches, he was there?
three days later, you’re at a local fan-meet event for independent writers–a small, crowded gallery space filled with the murmur of readers and the scent of paper. you’re sitting behind a small desk, signing a few self-published works, when the air pressure in your vicinity seems to drop.
“so,” a voice purrs, smooth and entirely too confident for a stranger. “the genius behind the heartbreak.”
you look up.
he’s taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and eyes that harbor a terrifyingly focused intensity. he’s wearing a soft cream sweater, looking every bit of the perfect, idealized hero from one of your stories. but there’s a sharp edge to his smile that gives him away.
oikawa.
“you’re smaller than you look in your desk selfies,” oikawa says, tilting his head. he rests his long fingers on the edge of your table, leaning in just enough to crowd your space, effectively cutting off the rest of the room. “but just as pretty.”
“tōru,” you say softly, testing the weight of his name on your tongue.
his eyes widen slightly, a flash of delight washing over his features. a faint flush creeps up his neck, “you remember me. of course you do. we’re made for each other, aren’t we? you write yearning, and i live it.”
“you’re borderline stalking me,” you point out, keeping your voice low, conversational. you don’t pull back. instead, you lean forward, matching his proximity. “most writers would have called security by now.”
oikawa’s smile turns a bit sharper, a bit more desperate. he reaches out, his thumb lighting brushing against the blank zine on your table, his gaze locked entirely on your face. he isn’t even looking at your works now. he’s starving, and you’re the only meal in the room.
“but you aren’t most writers, are you?” oikawa whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “you like it. i can tell by the way your hands aren’t shaking. you like knowing that someone is completely obsessed with you.”
he folds his arms, resting them on the table, looking up at you through his eyelashes. it’s a pleading look, but the intent behind it is heavy, suffocating.
“i’m your biggest fan,” oikawa says, and it sounds less like a compliment and more like an oncoming threat. “i’ll follow you until you love me. until you stop writing about fictional men and start writing about me. i can wait. i’m very good at pursuing things until they’re mine.”
you look at him–at the beautiful, dangerous mess of a man who’s decided you are his entire sun. a normal person would run.
you just click your pen, slide a fresh zine toward him and smile. “well, aren’t you sweet, tōru.”
the sound of his name leaving your lips makes his chest heave, his fingers twitching against the wood. “only for you, my storyweaver.” he hums, eyes dark and entirely consumed by you.
you know full well he’ll never leave your side, whether you know it, or not.
n: i wrote this w my twin @forgottensniper watching, hell yeah :3 ty for watching me crash out while writing.
i’m your biggest fan, i’ll follow you until you love me!
w/c: 0.8k, obsession, stalking, very self-indulgent
!! do not romanticize this irl, this is strictly only for fiction !!
there is a specific kind of madness that comes with writing men who long for things they cannot have. you’ve built an entire online reputation on it—on the precise, agonizing geometry of a man breaking because a woman won’t look at him.
you just didn’t expect the universe to hand you a live demonstration.
it started with a single username in your inbox, always there within seconds of a new story dropping. tooru_01. at first, it was standard praise, then it became analytical. then it became.. possessive.
now, it’s a fixture of your life.
“you understand it so well,” his latest message reads, sent at three in the morning. “the way he wants her. but you’re too cruel to him, author. if i was the one waiting for you, i’d never let you look away long enough to write these down.”
you lean back against your pillows, the glow of your laptop illuminating the small smile tugging at your lips. anyone would call the police. anyone else would block the account and change their pen name. but you? you’re an architect of obsession, you find it thrilling. a little intoxicating, even, to know you’ve engineered a craving this severe.
the screen blinks, another notification.
“i saw the photo you posted on your blog today. the coffee shop in the district. the blue mug fits you well. i was so tempted to walk in, but i didn’t want to scare you away yet. i promise i’ll be nice, but i don’t think i’ll ever stop tailing you.”
your breath hitches, he was there?
three days later, you’re at a local fan-meet event for independent writers–a small, crowded gallery space filled with the murmur of readers and the scent of paper. you’re sitting behind a small desk, signing a few self-published works, when the air pressure in your vicinity seems to drop.
“so,” a voice purrs, smooth and entirely too confident for a stranger. “the genius behind the heartbreak.”
you look up.
he’s taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and eyes that harbor a terrifyingly focused intensity. he’s wearing a soft cream sweater, looking every bit of the perfect, idealized hero from one of your stories. but there’s a sharp edge to his smile that gives him away.
oikawa.
“you’re smaller than you look in your desk selfies,” oikawa says, tilting his head. he rests his long fingers on the edge of your table, leaning in just enough to crowd your space, effectively cutting off the rest of the room. “but just as pretty.”
“tōru,” you say softly, testing the weight of his name on your tongue.
his eyes widen slightly, a flash of delight washing over his features. a faint flush creeps up his neck, “you remember me. of course you do. we’re made for each other, aren’t we? you write yearning, and i live it.”
“you’re borderline stalking me,” you point out, keeping your voice low, conversational. you don’t pull back. instead, you lean forward, matching his proximity. “most writers would have called security by now.”
oikawa’s smile turns a bit sharper, a bit more desperate. he reaches out, his thumb lighting brushing against the blank zine on your table, his gaze locked entirely on your face. he isn’t even looking at your works now. he’s starving, and you’re the only meal in the room.
“but you aren’t most writers, are you?” oikawa whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “you like it. i can tell by the way your hands aren’t shaking. you like knowing that someone is completely obsessed with you.”
he folds his arms, resting them on the table, looking up at you through his eyelashes. it’s a pleading look, but the intent behind it is heavy, suffocating.
“i’m your biggest fan,” oikawa says, and it sounds less like a compliment and more like an oncoming threat. “i’ll follow you until you love me. until you stop writing about fictional men and start writing about me. i can wait. i’m very good at pursuing things until they’re mine.”
you look at him–at the beautiful, dangerous mess of a man who’s decided you are his entire sun. a normal person would run.
you just click your pen, slide a fresh zine toward him and smile. “well, aren’t you sweet, tōru.”
the sound of his name leaving your lips makes his chest heave, his fingers twitching against the wood. “only for you, my storyweaver.” he hums, eyes dark and entirely consumed by you.
you know full well he’ll never leave your side, whether you know it, or not.
n: i wrote this w my twin @forgottensniper watching, hell yeah :3 ty for watching me crash out while writing.
i’m your biggest fan, i’ll follow you until you love me!
w/c: 0.8k, obsession, stalking, very self-indulgent
!! do not romanticize this irl, this is strictly only for fiction !!
there is a specific kind of madness that comes with writing men who long for things they cannot have. you’ve built an entire online reputation on it—on the precise, agonizing geometry of a man breaking because a woman won’t look at him.
you just didn’t expect the universe to hand you a live demonstration.
it started with a single username in your inbox, always there within seconds of a new story dropping. tooru_01. at first, it was standard praise, then it became analytical. then it became.. possessive.
now, it’s a fixture of your life.
“you understand it so well,” his latest message reads, sent at three in the morning. “the way he wants her. but you’re too cruel to him, author. if i was the one waiting for you, i’d never let you look away long enough to write these down.”
you lean back against your pillows, the glow of your laptop illuminating the small smile tugging at your lips. anyone would call the police. anyone else would block the account and change their pen name. but you? you’re an architect of obsession, you find it thrilling. a little intoxicating, even, to know you’ve engineered a craving this severe.
the screen blinks, another notification.
“i saw the photo you posted on your blog today. the coffee shop in the district. the blue mug fits you well. i was so tempted to walk in, but i didn’t want to scare you away yet. i promise i’ll be nice, but i don’t think i’ll ever stop tailing you.”
your breath hitches, he was there?
three days later, you’re at a local fan-meet event for independent writers–a small, crowded gallery space filled with the murmur of readers and the scent of paper. you’re sitting behind a small desk, signing a few self-published works, when the air pressure in your vicinity seems to drop.
“so,” a voice purrs, smooth and entirely too confident for a stranger. “the genius behind the heartbreak.”
you look up.
he’s taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome, with dark, sweeping hair and eyes that harbor a terrifyingly focused intensity. he’s wearing a soft cream sweater, looking every bit of the perfect, idealized hero from one of your stories. but there’s a sharp edge to his smile that gives him away.
oikawa.
“you’re smaller than you look in your desk selfies,” oikawa says, tilting his head. he rests his long fingers on the edge of your table, leaning in just enough to crowd your space, effectively cutting off the rest of the room. “but just as pretty.”
“tōru,” you say softly, testing the weight of his name on your tongue.
his eyes widen slightly, a flash of delight washing over his features. a faint flush creeps up his neck, “you remember me. of course you do. we’re made for each other, aren’t we? you write yearning, and i live it.”
“you’re borderline stalking me,” you point out, keeping your voice low, conversational. you don’t pull back. instead, you lean forward, matching his proximity. “most writers would have called security by now.”
oikawa’s smile turns a bit sharper, a bit more desperate. he reaches out, his thumb lighting brushing against the blank zine on your table, his gaze locked entirely on your face. he isn’t even looking at your works now. he’s starving, and you’re the only meal in the room.
“but you aren’t most writers, are you?” oikawa whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “you like it. i can tell by the way your hands aren’t shaking. you like knowing that someone is completely obsessed with you.”
he folds his arms, resting them on the table, looking up at you through his eyelashes. it’s a pleading look, but the intent behind it is heavy, suffocating.
“i’m your biggest fan,” oikawa says, and it sounds less like a compliment and more like an oncoming threat. “i’ll follow you until you love me. until you stop writing about fictional men and start writing about me. i can wait. i’m very good at pursuing things until they’re mine.”
you look at him–at the beautiful, dangerous mess of a man who’s decided you are his entire sun. a normal person would run.
you just click your pen, slide a fresh zine toward him and smile. “well, aren’t you sweet, tōru.”
the sound of his name leaving your lips makes his chest heave, his fingers twitching against the wood. “only for you, my storyweaver.” he hums, eyes dark and entirely consumed by you.
you know full well he’ll never leave your side, whether you know it, or not.
n: i wrote this w my twin @forgottensniper watching, hell yeah :3 ty for watching me crash out while writing.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“you said, you hate the crowd, so we had to stay in.”
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 1.7k, subby and needy ushijima :3 ,, wait! series
the professional sports industry really lied to the public because they marketed this six-foot-three powerhouse as a stoic, unbothered titan of discipline when in reality, he had the exact emotional structural integrity of a single marshmallow left out in the blazing july sun the second his apartment door clicked shut.
it was a well-kept secret. a classified, state-level government file. the public saw a stoic, jaw-clenched ace who obliterated volleyballs for a living and looked like he survived entirely on a diet of concrete and raw determination. you, however, saw the version of ushijima wakatoshi that currently sounded like a very large, very pathetic bear trapped under a fallen log through the tiny speaker of your phone.
“the hotel lobby has too many chandeliers,” his voice vibrated against your ear, a low, rumbling frequency that could probably ground an entire fleet of airplanes. “and there are forty-two people in the immediate vicinity of the elevator. i counted. it’s loud. the air smells like synthetic lavender and despair.”
you choked on your iced coffee, leaning back against the pile of laundry you were supposed to be folding but had completely abandoned the moment his specific ringtone blared. “forty-two? that’s a very specific crowd to be glaring at, toshi. did you use your scary captain eyes on them?”
“i did not glare,” he muttered, though the rustle of a hotel bedsheet told you he had finally escaped the dreaded lavender-scented civilian sector and successfully barricaded himself inside his room. “i simply looked in their general direction until they vacated the perimeter. but the volume was unacceptable. i’m currently buried under three separate duvets because the air conditioning has a high-pitched whine that displeases me.”
“oh, the horror,” you cooed, your chest expanding with that familiar, ridiculous warmth that usually accompanied his long-distance check-ins. it was downright criminal how a man whose thighs could literally crush a watermelon looked for praise like a golden retriever waiting by the front door. “my poor, brave athlete. surviving the absolute wilderness of a four-star accommodation in osaka. how ever will you cope?”
a heavy, rumbling sigh echoed over the line. it was a sound that usually made opposing teams shake in their kneepads, but right now, it just sounded incredibly needy. “you’re making fun of me.”
“i’m absolutely making fun of you,” you agreed cheerfully, tracing a pattern on your sweatpants. “but i also miss you. does that balance it out?”
“no,” ushijima said instantly, his tone shifting into something so heavy and dense with devotion it practically had its own gravitational pull. “because if you missed me at the same magnitude that i miss you, the structural foundation of our apartment building would have collapsed by now. i’m currently experiencing a severe deficit of your presence. it’s actively hindering my ability to rest.”
you bit your lip to keep from squealing out loud, your toes curling against the carpet. to prove your point to yourself, you pulled the phone away for a fraction of a second to check the time, your lock screen lighting up to reveal his massive, stoic face staring right back at you. it was a not-so candid photo you’d taken while he was intensely concentrating on translating a recipe for strawberry shortcake. you had set it as your wallpaper specifically so you couldn’t miss him too much even if you tried, considering his severe, handsome features took up every single pixel of your digital existence.
“is that so?” you teased, bringing the phone back to your ear and keeping your voice soft, dropping it into that specific, soothing register that you knew made him instantly compliant. “what exactly does this deficit feel like, wakatoshi?”
“it feels like i’m an uncalibrated machine,” he grumbled, the sound deep and gravelly, right up against the microphone. you could picture him perfectly—lying flat on his back, a massive arm thrown over his eyes, looking utterly defeated by the simple concept of being fifty miles away from you. “my shoulder is tight. the pillows here are too soft; they lack the proper density to support my neck. moreover, you’re not here to put your hands on my face. i require the pressure of your palms to regulate my nervous system.”
“you sound like a giant, grumpy textbook,” you giggled, shifting on the floor. “but go on. tell me what else you need. i’m listening.”
“i need you to tell me that you did not forget my face,” he murmured. it was a ridiculous request. he was on three different billboards in downtown tokyo. but the vulnerable, desperate streak in his voice was so real it made your throat ache.
“i haven’t forgotten your face, you big baby,” you said, your heart doing gymnastics inside your ribs. “how could i? you’re literally my wallpaper, toshi. i see your forehead every time someone sends me a text.”
“that’s an acceptable temporary measure, but insufficient for long-term separation,” he countered seriously.
right on cue, a loud buzz echoed from the front door intercom, followed by the distinct chime of a delivery notification on your phone. you blinked, confused. “wait, did you order something?”
“yes,” ushijima stated, his voice completely devoid of hesitation. “i concluded that you were likely neglecting your nutritional requirements in my absence. i used the door dash application to send you a full meal and a beverage from that café you favor.”
“oh, toshi, that’s so sweet—”
“moreover,” he interrupted, his tone turning incredibly firm, almost bureaucratic in its intensity, “i utilized the special instructions feature. i contacted the delivery courier directly and transferred an additional monetary gratuity to his personal account. i instructed him to find a convenience store, print a high-resolution photograph of my face, and attach it securely to the exterior of the delivery packaging.”
you froze, your jaw dropping. “you... what?”
“i required physical confirmation that you would look at me before you consumed your sustenance,” he explained, entirely deadpan, as if this were a standard tactical play from a coaching manual. “i also explicitly texted the courier and commanded him to leave the items on the welcome mat and vacate the premises immediately without ringing the bell a second time or waiting for you to answer.”
you pressed a hand over your mouth, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. “wakatoshi, why did you tell the poor guy to just leave it and run away?”
the line went dead silent for a beat before his voice dropped into a possessive tone that made your chest tighten with heat. “because i don:t want anyone else seeing you right now. even a delivery courier. your eyes belong exclusively to my image until i’m capable of standing in front of you myself.”
your entire face heated up, a dizzying wave of thrill hitting you so hard your knees felt weak. you scrambled to the front door, unlocking it and swinging it open. sure enough, the hallway was completely empty, almost empty since there’s two insane people called soup and nique doing the six seven emote and running around like headless chickens, but sitting neatly on your welcome mat was a brown paper bag. taped squarely over the staple line was a hastily printed, slightly pixelated a4 sheet of paper featuring ushijima’s official v-league headshot, staring up at you with maximum intensity.
“you.. are unbelievable,” you breathlessly whispered into the receiver, picking up the food and shutting the door with your foot. “the courier probably thinks you’re a mob boss.”
“i’m merely protecting the love of my life,” he murmured, and you could hear him shifting again, likely burying his face deeper into the hotel pillow, completely intoxicated by the domestic control he was exerting from three prefectures away. “the analogy is sound. we are both single-minded in our purpose. mine is to ensure your absolute happiness and to remain within your immediate vicinity for the remainder of my natural life. when i return, i want you to sit on my lap while i read the sports journals. i don’t want to move for seven hours.”
“only seven?” you teased, setting the bag—and his paper face—onto the kitchen counter. “who are you and what have you done with my needy boyfriend?”
“ten,” he corrected immediately, his tone sharp with sudden, desperate urgency. “twelve. however long it takes for my skin to stop feeling cold. i will allow you to choose the duration. i’m entirely at your disposal. if you tell me to sit, i will sit. if you tell me to stay in the apartment forever, i will inform the association that i’m retiring due to an incurable condition.”
“and what condition is that, mr. ace?”
“an inability to exist without my central anchor,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it carried the entire weight of his universe. “you have ruined me for any other environment. the court is merely a place where i expend energy until i’m permitted to return to your side. you’re my home, reader. everything else is just noise.”
your throat tightened, a wave of intense, toe-curling affection washing over you so strongly it made your eyes sting. he was just so completely, utterly yours. there was no pride, no ego, no athletic arrogance—just a giant, heavy-hearted man who had handed you his entire existence on a silver platter and asked for nothing but a quiet room and your hands in his hair.
“i’ll be waiting right by the door on sunday,” you promised, your voice thick with emotion. “i’ll make that stew you like. and we won’t open the blinds for the entire weekend. just you and me.”
“and the hoodie?” he asked, sounding like a hopeful child.
“and the hoodie,” you confirmed. “though you’ll probably rip it off me the second you walk through the door anyway.”
“i will be careful,” he murmured, his breathing finally slowing down into a steady, rhythmic pattern that signaled he was finally drifting off to sleep. “but i’ll be thorough. i love you. more than the next match. more than the crowd.”
“i love you too, toshi. go to sleep.”
“mm. counting the hours,” he mumbled, his voice fading into a low, contented hum before the line finally went quiet, leaving you sitting on the floor, staring at your phone with a ridiculous, breathless grin plastered across your face, your heart completely compromised by a six-foot-three human boulder who was entirely at your disposal.
n: @forgottensniper thank u, twin for giving me the ideas :3 main idea was from @potapotapotatopotato
“you said, you hate the crowd, so we had to stay in.”
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 1.7k, subby and needy ushijima :3 ,, wait! series
the professional sports industry really lied to the public because they marketed this six-foot-three powerhouse as a stoic, unbothered titan of discipline when in reality, he had the exact emotional structural integrity of a single marshmallow left out in the blazing july sun the second his apartment door clicked shut.
it was a well-kept secret. a classified, state-level government file. the public saw a stoic, jaw-clenched ace who obliterated volleyballs for a living and looked like he survived entirely on a diet of concrete and raw determination. you, however, saw the version of ushijima wakatoshi that currently sounded like a very large, very pathetic bear trapped under a fallen log through the tiny speaker of your phone.
“the hotel lobby has too many chandeliers,” his voice vibrated against your ear, a low, rumbling frequency that could probably ground an entire fleet of airplanes. “and there are forty-two people in the immediate vicinity of the elevator. i counted. it’s loud. the air smells like synthetic lavender and despair.”
you choked on your iced coffee, leaning back against the pile of laundry you were supposed to be folding but had completely abandoned the moment his specific ringtone blared. “forty-two? that’s a very specific crowd to be glaring at, toshi. did you use your scary captain eyes on them?”
“i did not glare,” he muttered, though the rustle of a hotel bedsheet told you he had finally escaped the dreaded lavender-scented civilian sector and successfully barricaded himself inside his room. “i simply looked in their general direction until they vacated the perimeter. but the volume was unacceptable. i’m currently buried under three separate duvets because the air conditioning has a high-pitched whine that displeases me.”
“oh, the horror,” you cooed, your chest expanding with that familiar, ridiculous warmth that usually accompanied his long-distance check-ins. it was downright criminal how a man whose thighs could literally crush a watermelon looked for praise like a golden retriever waiting by the front door. “my poor, brave athlete. surviving the absolute wilderness of a four-star accommodation in osaka. how ever will you cope?”
a heavy, rumbling sigh echoed over the line. it was a sound that usually made opposing teams shake in their kneepads, but right now, it just sounded incredibly needy. “you’re making fun of me.”
“i’m absolutely making fun of you,” you agreed cheerfully, tracing a pattern on your sweatpants. “but i also miss you. does that balance it out?”
“no,” ushijima said instantly, his tone shifting into something so heavy and dense with devotion it practically had its own gravitational pull. “because if you missed me at the same magnitude that i miss you, the structural foundation of our apartment building would have collapsed by now. i’m currently experiencing a severe deficit of your presence. it’s actively hindering my ability to rest.”
you bit your lip to keep from squealing out loud, your toes curling against the carpet. to prove your point to yourself, you pulled the phone away for a fraction of a second to check the time, your lock screen lighting up to reveal his massive, stoic face staring right back at you. it was a not-so candid photo you’d taken while he was intensely concentrating on translating a recipe for strawberry shortcake. you had set it as your wallpaper specifically so you couldn’t miss him too much even if you tried, considering his severe, handsome features took up every single pixel of your digital existence.
“is that so?” you teased, bringing the phone back to your ear and keeping your voice soft, dropping it into that specific, soothing register that you knew made him instantly compliant. “what exactly does this deficit feel like, wakatoshi?”
“it feels like i’m an uncalibrated machine,” he grumbled, the sound deep and gravelly, right up against the microphone. you could picture him perfectly—lying flat on his back, a massive arm thrown over his eyes, looking utterly defeated by the simple concept of being fifty miles away from you. “my shoulder is tight. the pillows here are too soft; they lack the proper density to support my neck. moreover, you’re not here to put your hands on my face. i require the pressure of your palms to regulate my nervous system.”
“you sound like a giant, grumpy textbook,” you giggled, shifting on the floor. “but go on. tell me what else you need. i’m listening.”
“i need you to tell me that you did not forget my face,” he murmured. it was a ridiculous request. he was on three different billboards in downtown tokyo. but the vulnerable, desperate streak in his voice was so real it made your throat ache.
“i haven’t forgotten your face, you big baby,” you said, your heart doing gymnastics inside your ribs. “how could i? you’re literally my wallpaper, toshi. i see your forehead every time someone sends me a text.”
“that’s an acceptable temporary measure, but insufficient for long-term separation,” he countered seriously.
right on cue, a loud buzz echoed from the front door intercom, followed by the distinct chime of a delivery notification on your phone. you blinked, confused. “wait, did you order something?”
“yes,” ushijima stated, his voice completely devoid of hesitation. “i concluded that you were likely neglecting your nutritional requirements in my absence. i used the door dash application to send you a full meal and a beverage from that café you favor.”
“oh, toshi, that’s so sweet—”
“moreover,” he interrupted, his tone turning incredibly firm, almost bureaucratic in its intensity, “i utilized the special instructions feature. i contacted the delivery courier directly and transferred an additional monetary gratuity to his personal account. i instructed him to find a convenience store, print a high-resolution photograph of my face, and attach it securely to the exterior of the delivery packaging.”
you froze, your jaw dropping. “you... what?”
“i required physical confirmation that you would look at me before you consumed your sustenance,” he explained, entirely deadpan, as if this were a standard tactical play from a coaching manual. “i also explicitly texted the courier and commanded him to leave the items on the welcome mat and vacate the premises immediately without ringing the bell a second time or waiting for you to answer.”
you pressed a hand over your mouth, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. “wakatoshi, why did you tell the poor guy to just leave it and run away?”
the line went dead silent for a beat before his voice dropped into a possessive tone that made your chest tighten with heat. “because i don:t want anyone else seeing you right now. even a delivery courier. your eyes belong exclusively to my image until i’m capable of standing in front of you myself.”
your entire face heated up, a dizzying wave of thrill hitting you so hard your knees felt weak. you scrambled to the front door, unlocking it and swinging it open. sure enough, the hallway was completely empty, almost empty since there’s two insane people called soup and nique doing the six seven emote and running around like headless chickens, but sitting neatly on your welcome mat was a brown paper bag. taped squarely over the staple line was a hastily printed, slightly pixelated a4 sheet of paper featuring ushijima’s official v-league headshot, staring up at you with maximum intensity.
“you.. are unbelievable,” you breathlessly whispered into the receiver, picking up the food and shutting the door with your foot. “the courier probably thinks you’re a mob boss.”
“i’m merely protecting the love of my life,” he murmured, and you could hear him shifting again, likely burying his face deeper into the hotel pillow, completely intoxicated by the domestic control he was exerting from three prefectures away. “the analogy is sound. we are both single-minded in our purpose. mine is to ensure your absolute happiness and to remain within your immediate vicinity for the remainder of my natural life. when i return, i want you to sit on my lap while i read the sports journals. i don’t want to move for seven hours.”
“only seven?” you teased, setting the bag—and his paper face—onto the kitchen counter. “who are you and what have you done with my needy boyfriend?”
“ten,” he corrected immediately, his tone sharp with sudden, desperate urgency. “twelve. however long it takes for my skin to stop feeling cold. i will allow you to choose the duration. i’m entirely at your disposal. if you tell me to sit, i will sit. if you tell me to stay in the apartment forever, i will inform the association that i’m retiring due to an incurable condition.”
“and what condition is that, mr. ace?”
“an inability to exist without my central anchor,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it carried the entire weight of his universe. “you have ruined me for any other environment. the court is merely a place where i expend energy until i’m permitted to return to your side. you’re my home, reader. everything else is just noise.”
your throat tightened, a wave of intense, toe-curling affection washing over you so strongly it made your eyes sting. he was just so completely, utterly yours. there was no pride, no ego, no athletic arrogance—just a giant, heavy-hearted man who had handed you his entire existence on a silver platter and asked for nothing but a quiet room and your hands in his hair.
“i’ll be waiting right by the door on sunday,” you promised, your voice thick with emotion. “i’ll make that stew you like. and we won’t open the blinds for the entire weekend. just you and me.”
“and the hoodie?” he asked, sounding like a hopeful child.
“and the hoodie,” you confirmed. “though you’ll probably rip it off me the second you walk through the door anyway.”
“i will be careful,” he murmured, his breathing finally slowing down into a steady, rhythmic pattern that signaled he was finally drifting off to sleep. “but i’ll be thorough. i love you. more than the next match. more than the crowd.”
“i love you too, toshi. go to sleep.”
“mm. counting the hours,” he mumbled, his voice fading into a low, contented hum before the line finally went quiet, leaving you sitting on the floor, staring at your phone with a ridiculous, breathless grin plastered across your face, your heart completely compromised by a six-foot-three human boulder who was entirely at your disposal.
n: @forgottensniper thank u, twin for giving me the ideas :3 main idea was from @potapotapotatopotato
“you said, you hate the crowd, so we had to stay in.”
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 1.7k, subby and needy ushijima :3 ,, wait! series
the professional sports industry really lied to the public because they marketed this six-foot-three powerhouse as a stoic, unbothered titan of discipline when in reality, he had the exact emotional structural integrity of a single marshmallow left out in the blazing july sun the second his apartment door clicked shut.
it was a well-kept secret. a classified, state-level government file. the public saw a stoic, jaw-clenched ace who obliterated volleyballs for a living and looked like he survived entirely on a diet of concrete and raw determination. you, however, saw the version of ushijima wakatoshi that currently sounded like a very large, very pathetic bear trapped under a fallen log through the tiny speaker of your phone.
“the hotel lobby has too many chandeliers,” his voice vibrated against your ear, a low, rumbling frequency that could probably ground an entire fleet of airplanes. “and there are forty-two people in the immediate vicinity of the elevator. i counted. it’s loud. the air smells like synthetic lavender and despair.”
you choked on your iced coffee, leaning back against the pile of laundry you were supposed to be folding but had completely abandoned the moment his specific ringtone blared. “forty-two? that’s a very specific crowd to be glaring at, toshi. did you use your scary captain eyes on them?”
“i did not glare,” he muttered, though the rustle of a hotel bedsheet told you he had finally escaped the dreaded lavender-scented civilian sector and successfully barricaded himself inside his room. “i simply looked in their general direction until they vacated the perimeter. but the volume was unacceptable. i’m currently buried under three separate duvets because the air conditioning has a high-pitched whine that displeases me.”
“oh, the horror,” you cooed, your chest expanding with that familiar, ridiculous warmth that usually accompanied his long-distance check-ins. it was downright criminal how a man whose thighs could literally crush a watermelon looked for praise like a golden retriever waiting by the front door. “my poor, brave athlete. surviving the absolute wilderness of a four-star accommodation in osaka. how ever will you cope?”
a heavy, rumbling sigh echoed over the line. it was a sound that usually made opposing teams shake in their kneepads, but right now, it just sounded incredibly needy. “you’re making fun of me.”
“i’m absolutely making fun of you,” you agreed cheerfully, tracing a pattern on your sweatpants. “but i also miss you. does that balance it out?”
“no,” ushijima said instantly, his tone shifting into something so heavy and dense with devotion it practically had its own gravitational pull. “because if you missed me at the same magnitude that i miss you, the structural foundation of our apartment building would have collapsed by now. i’m currently experiencing a severe deficit of your presence. it’s actively hindering my ability to rest.”
you bit your lip to keep from squealing out loud, your toes curling against the carpet. to prove your point to yourself, you pulled the phone away for a fraction of a second to check the time, your lock screen lighting up to reveal his massive, stoic face staring right back at you. it was a not-so candid photo you’d taken while he was intensely concentrating on translating a recipe for strawberry shortcake. you had set it as your wallpaper specifically so you couldn’t miss him too much even if you tried, considering his severe, handsome features took up every single pixel of your digital existence.
“is that so?” you teased, bringing the phone back to your ear and keeping your voice soft, dropping it into that specific, soothing register that you knew made him instantly compliant. “what exactly does this deficit feel like, wakatoshi?”
“it feels like i’m an uncalibrated machine,” he grumbled, the sound deep and gravelly, right up against the microphone. you could picture him perfectly—lying flat on his back, a massive arm thrown over his eyes, looking utterly defeated by the simple concept of being fifty miles away from you. “my shoulder is tight. the pillows here are too soft; they lack the proper density to support my neck. moreover, you’re not here to put your hands on my face. i require the pressure of your palms to regulate my nervous system.”
“you sound like a giant, grumpy textbook,” you giggled, shifting on the floor. “but go on. tell me what else you need. i’m listening.”
“i need you to tell me that you did not forget my face,” he murmured. it was a ridiculous request. he was on three different billboards in downtown tokyo. but the vulnerable, desperate streak in his voice was so real it made your throat ache.
“i haven’t forgotten your face, you big baby,” you said, your heart doing gymnastics inside your ribs. “how could i? you’re literally my wallpaper, toshi. i see your forehead every time someone sends me a text.”
“that’s an acceptable temporary measure, but insufficient for long-term separation,” he countered seriously.
right on cue, a loud buzz echoed from the front door intercom, followed by the distinct chime of a delivery notification on your phone. you blinked, confused. “wait, did you order something?”
“yes,” ushijima stated, his voice completely devoid of hesitation. “i concluded that you were likely neglecting your nutritional requirements in my absence. i used the door dash application to send you a full meal and a beverage from that café you favor.”
“oh, toshi, that’s so sweet—”
“moreover,” he interrupted, his tone turning incredibly firm, almost bureaucratic in its intensity, “i utilized the special instructions feature. i contacted the delivery courier directly and transferred an additional monetary gratuity to his personal account. i instructed him to find a convenience store, print a high-resolution photograph of my face, and attach it securely to the exterior of the delivery packaging.”
you froze, your jaw dropping. “you... what?”
“i required physical confirmation that you would look at me before you consumed your sustenance,” he explained, entirely deadpan, as if this were a standard tactical play from a coaching manual. “i also explicitly texted the courier and commanded him to leave the items on the welcome mat and vacate the premises immediately without ringing the bell a second time or waiting for you to answer.”
you pressed a hand over your mouth, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. “wakatoshi, why did you tell the poor guy to just leave it and run away?”
the line went dead silent for a beat before his voice dropped into a possessive tone that made your chest tighten with heat. “because i don:t want anyone else seeing you right now. even a delivery courier. your eyes belong exclusively to my image until i’m capable of standing in front of you myself.”
your entire face heated up, a dizzying wave of thrill hitting you so hard your knees felt weak. you scrambled to the front door, unlocking it and swinging it open. sure enough, the hallway was completely empty, almost empty since there’s two insane people called soup and nique doing the six seven emote and running around like headless chickens, but sitting neatly on your welcome mat was a brown paper bag. taped squarely over the staple line was a hastily printed, slightly pixelated a4 sheet of paper featuring ushijima’s official v-league headshot, staring up at you with maximum intensity.
“you.. are unbelievable,” you breathlessly whispered into the receiver, picking up the food and shutting the door with your foot. “the courier probably thinks you’re a mob boss.”
“i’m merely protecting the love of my life,” he murmured, and you could hear him shifting again, likely burying his face deeper into the hotel pillow, completely intoxicated by the domestic control he was exerting from three prefectures away. “the analogy is sound. we are both single-minded in our purpose. mine is to ensure your absolute happiness and to remain within your immediate vicinity for the remainder of my natural life. when i return, i want you to sit on my lap while i read the sports journals. i don’t want to move for seven hours.”
“only seven?” you teased, setting the bag—and his paper face—onto the kitchen counter. “who are you and what have you done with my needy boyfriend?”
“ten,” he corrected immediately, his tone sharp with sudden, desperate urgency. “twelve. however long it takes for my skin to stop feeling cold. i will allow you to choose the duration. i’m entirely at your disposal. if you tell me to sit, i will sit. if you tell me to stay in the apartment forever, i will inform the association that i’m retiring due to an incurable condition.”
“and what condition is that, mr. ace?”
“an inability to exist without my central anchor,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it carried the entire weight of his universe. “you have ruined me for any other environment. the court is merely a place where i expend energy until i’m permitted to return to your side. you’re my home, reader. everything else is just noise.”
your throat tightened, a wave of intense, toe-curling affection washing over you so strongly it made your eyes sting. he was just so completely, utterly yours. there was no pride, no ego, no athletic arrogance—just a giant, heavy-hearted man who had handed you his entire existence on a silver platter and asked for nothing but a quiet room and your hands in his hair.
“i’ll be waiting right by the door on sunday,” you promised, your voice thick with emotion. “i’ll make that stew you like. and we won’t open the blinds for the entire weekend. just you and me.”
“and the hoodie?” he asked, sounding like a hopeful child.
“and the hoodie,” you confirmed. “though you’ll probably rip it off me the second you walk through the door anyway.”
“i will be careful,” he murmured, his breathing finally slowing down into a steady, rhythmic pattern that signaled he was finally drifting off to sleep. “but i’ll be thorough. i love you. more than the next match. more than the crowd.”
“i love you too, toshi. go to sleep.”
“mm. counting the hours,” he mumbled, his voice fading into a low, contented hum before the line finally went quiet, leaving you sitting on the floor, staring at your phone with a ridiculous, breathless grin plastered across your face, your heart completely compromised by a six-foot-three human boulder who was entirely at your disposal.
n: @forgottensniper thank u, twin for giving me the ideas :3 main idea was from @potapotapotatopotato
“you said, you hate the crowd, so we had to stay in.”
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 1.7k, subby and needy ushijima :3 ,, wait! series
the professional sports industry really lied to the public because they marketed this six-foot-three powerhouse as a stoic, unbothered titan of discipline when in reality, he had the exact emotional structural integrity of a single marshmallow left out in the blazing july sun the second his apartment door clicked shut.
it was a well-kept secret. a classified, state-level government file. the public saw a stoic, jaw-clenched ace who obliterated volleyballs for a living and looked like he survived entirely on a diet of concrete and raw determination. you, however, saw the version of ushijima wakatoshi that currently sounded like a very large, very pathetic bear trapped under a fallen log through the tiny speaker of your phone.
“the hotel lobby has too many chandeliers,” his voice vibrated against your ear, a low, rumbling frequency that could probably ground an entire fleet of airplanes. “and there are forty-two people in the immediate vicinity of the elevator. i counted. it’s loud. the air smells like synthetic lavender and despair.”
you choked on your iced coffee, leaning back against the pile of laundry you were supposed to be folding but had completely abandoned the moment his specific ringtone blared. “forty-two? that’s a very specific crowd to be glaring at, toshi. did you use your scary captain eyes on them?”
“i did not glare,” he muttered, though the rustle of a hotel bedsheet told you he had finally escaped the dreaded lavender-scented civilian sector and successfully barricaded himself inside his room. “i simply looked in their general direction until they vacated the perimeter. but the volume was unacceptable. i’m currently buried under three separate duvets because the air conditioning has a high-pitched whine that displeases me.”
“oh, the horror,” you cooed, your chest expanding with that familiar, ridiculous warmth that usually accompanied his long-distance check-ins. it was downright criminal how a man whose thighs could literally crush a watermelon looked for praise like a golden retriever waiting by the front door. “my poor, brave athlete. surviving the absolute wilderness of a four-star accommodation in osaka. how ever will you cope?”
a heavy, rumbling sigh echoed over the line. it was a sound that usually made opposing teams shake in their kneepads, but right now, it just sounded incredibly needy. “you’re making fun of me.”
“i’m absolutely making fun of you,” you agreed cheerfully, tracing a pattern on your sweatpants. “but i also miss you. does that balance it out?”
“no,” ushijima said instantly, his tone shifting into something so heavy and dense with devotion it practically had its own gravitational pull. “because if you missed me at the same magnitude that i miss you, the structural foundation of our apartment building would have collapsed by now. i’m currently experiencing a severe deficit of your presence. it’s actively hindering my ability to rest.”
you bit your lip to keep from squealing out loud, your toes curling against the carpet. to prove your point to yourself, you pulled the phone away for a fraction of a second to check the time, your lock screen lighting up to reveal his massive, stoic face staring right back at you. it was a not-so candid photo you’d taken while he was intensely concentrating on translating a recipe for strawberry shortcake. you had set it as your wallpaper specifically so you couldn’t miss him too much even if you tried, considering his severe, handsome features took up every single pixel of your digital existence.
“is that so?” you teased, bringing the phone back to your ear and keeping your voice soft, dropping it into that specific, soothing register that you knew made him instantly compliant. “what exactly does this deficit feel like, wakatoshi?”
“it feels like i’m an uncalibrated machine,” he grumbled, the sound deep and gravelly, right up against the microphone. you could picture him perfectly—lying flat on his back, a massive arm thrown over his eyes, looking utterly defeated by the simple concept of being fifty miles away from you. “my shoulder is tight. the pillows here are too soft; they lack the proper density to support my neck. moreover, you’re not here to put your hands on my face. i require the pressure of your palms to regulate my nervous system.”
“you sound like a giant, grumpy textbook,” you giggled, shifting on the floor. “but go on. tell me what else you need. i’m listening.”
“i need you to tell me that you did not forget my face,” he murmured. it was a ridiculous request. he was on three different billboards in downtown tokyo. but the vulnerable, desperate streak in his voice was so real it made your throat ache.
“i haven’t forgotten your face, you big baby,” you said, your heart doing gymnastics inside your ribs. “how could i? you’re literally my wallpaper, toshi. i see your forehead every time someone sends me a text.”
“that’s an acceptable temporary measure, but insufficient for long-term separation,” he countered seriously.
right on cue, a loud buzz echoed from the front door intercom, followed by the distinct chime of a delivery notification on your phone. you blinked, confused. “wait, did you order something?”
“yes,” ushijima stated, his voice completely devoid of hesitation. “i concluded that you were likely neglecting your nutritional requirements in my absence. i used the door dash application to send you a full meal and a beverage from that café you favor.”
“oh, toshi, that’s so sweet—”
“moreover,” he interrupted, his tone turning incredibly firm, almost bureaucratic in its intensity, “i utilized the special instructions feature. i contacted the delivery courier directly and transferred an additional monetary gratuity to his personal account. i instructed him to find a convenience store, print a high-resolution photograph of my face, and attach it securely to the exterior of the delivery packaging.”
you froze, your jaw dropping. “you... what?”
“i required physical confirmation that you would look at me before you consumed your sustenance,” he explained, entirely deadpan, as if this were a standard tactical play from a coaching manual. “i also explicitly texted the courier and commanded him to leave the items on the welcome mat and vacate the premises immediately without ringing the bell a second time or waiting for you to answer.”
you pressed a hand over your mouth, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. “wakatoshi, why did you tell the poor guy to just leave it and run away?”
the line went dead silent for a beat before his voice dropped into a possessive tone that made your chest tighten with heat. “because i don:t want anyone else seeing you right now. even a delivery courier. your eyes belong exclusively to my image until i’m capable of standing in front of you myself.”
your entire face heated up, a dizzying wave of thrill hitting you so hard your knees felt weak. you scrambled to the front door, unlocking it and swinging it open. sure enough, the hallway was completely empty, almost empty since there’s two insane people called soup and nique doing the six seven emote and running around like headless chickens, but sitting neatly on your welcome mat was a brown paper bag. taped squarely over the staple line was a hastily printed, slightly pixelated a4 sheet of paper featuring ushijima’s official v-league headshot, staring up at you with maximum intensity.
“you.. are unbelievable,” you breathlessly whispered into the receiver, picking up the food and shutting the door with your foot. “the courier probably thinks you’re a mob boss.”
“i’m merely protecting the love of my life,” he murmured, and you could hear him shifting again, likely burying his face deeper into the hotel pillow, completely intoxicated by the domestic control he was exerting from three prefectures away. “the analogy is sound. we are both single-minded in our purpose. mine is to ensure your absolute happiness and to remain within your immediate vicinity for the remainder of my natural life. when i return, i want you to sit on my lap while i read the sports journals. i don’t want to move for seven hours.”
“only seven?” you teased, setting the bag—and his paper face—onto the kitchen counter. “who are you and what have you done with my needy boyfriend?”
“ten,” he corrected immediately, his tone sharp with sudden, desperate urgency. “twelve. however long it takes for my skin to stop feeling cold. i will allow you to choose the duration. i’m entirely at your disposal. if you tell me to sit, i will sit. if you tell me to stay in the apartment forever, i will inform the association that i’m retiring due to an incurable condition.”
“and what condition is that, mr. ace?”
“an inability to exist without my central anchor,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it carried the entire weight of his universe. “you have ruined me for any other environment. the court is merely a place where i expend energy until i’m permitted to return to your side. you’re my home, reader. everything else is just noise.”
your throat tightened, a wave of intense, toe-curling affection washing over you so strongly it made your eyes sting. he was just so completely, utterly yours. there was no pride, no ego, no athletic arrogance—just a giant, heavy-hearted man who had handed you his entire existence on a silver platter and asked for nothing but a quiet room and your hands in his hair.
“i’ll be waiting right by the door on sunday,” you promised, your voice thick with emotion. “i’ll make that stew you like. and we won’t open the blinds for the entire weekend. just you and me.”
“and the hoodie?” he asked, sounding like a hopeful child.
“and the hoodie,” you confirmed. “though you’ll probably rip it off me the second you walk through the door anyway.”
“i will be careful,” he murmured, his breathing finally slowing down into a steady, rhythmic pattern that signaled he was finally drifting off to sleep. “but i’ll be thorough. i love you. more than the next match. more than the crowd.”
“i love you too, toshi. go to sleep.”
“mm. counting the hours,” he mumbled, his voice fading into a low, contented hum before the line finally went quiet, leaving you sitting on the floor, staring at your phone with a ridiculous, breathless grin plastered across your face, your heart completely compromised by a six-foot-three human boulder who was entirely at your disposal.
n: @forgottensniper thank u, twin for giving me the ideas :3 main idea was from @potapotapotatopotato
“you hate it when it’s loud, but you know what else is?”
timeskip!oikawa tōru x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 2k, husband!oikawa ,, wait! series
the human skull was simply not designed to withstand the auditory assault of a late-night infomercial selling a revolutionary, multi-tiered vegetable dicer.
you pressed the heels of your palms against your temples, trying to physically compress your brain back into a manageable shape. the television screen flapped with aggressive neon graphics, casting chaotic blue and yellow hues over your living room, three girls named kat, jello, and mayo we’re doing the six seven emote while the spokesperson practically screamed through the speakers about the unmatched efficiency of stainless steel blades. your head throbbed in perfect, miserable sync with the man and girls’ enthusiastic hand gestures.
beside you, sprawled out like a giant, discarded marionette, was oikawa.
he was supposed to be resting. his knees, currently elevated on a mountain of throw pillows that he had aggressively pillaged from the armchair, were wrapped in ice packs. a heavy, fleece blanket draped over his long torso, and his messy, chocolate-brown hair was sticking up in every imaginable direction—a direct consequence of him running his fingers through it every time a volleyball statistic popped into his head. he looked soft, radiating the kind of post-practice warmth that usually acted as a natural space heater, but he was also entirely oblivious to the fact that the television volume was currently somewhere around a level that could wake the dead.
“tōru,” you groaned, the sound muffled by the sofa cushion you had pulled over your face in a desperate bid for sensory deprivation. “please. the volume. it’s like he’s chopping vegetables inside my ears.”
no response. he was staring at his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he furiously analyzed game footage from a rival team in the argentine league. his eyebrows were knitted together, his lower lip slightly bitten—the exact expression he wore right before he delivered a devastating jump serve that made opposing liberos reconsider their life choices.
“tōru,” you tried again, reaching out a blind hand to swat at his thigh. “turn it down. my head is about to physically detach from my spine and roll away.”
that got him. the mention of your discomfort was like a cheat code that bypassed his hyper-fixation entirely. his head snapped toward you so fast you heard his neck pop. the phone was tossed onto the coffee table without a single shred of respect for its glass screen, landing with a loud clatter that made you wince.
“oh, angel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into that smooth, caramel register he only used when he was thoroughly concerned or plotting something entirely self-indulgent. “is it too loud? why didn’t you say anything sooner? you’re suffering in silence while i’m sitting right here like a fool.”
“i literally just said it twice,” you mumbled into the cushion.
instead of grabbing the remote and clicking the volume down button a few notches, oikawa snatched the plastic device and smashed the power button with an intensity that suggested the television had personally insulted his lineage. the screen went black. the sudden silence that filled the room was so thick you could almost taste it. the loud vegetable man was gone and so are the three insane girls doing the six seven emote, replaced by the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant sound of evening traffic outside the apartment.
you sighed in profound relief, letting your muscles untangle. “thank you. my hero.”
“of course i am,” he murmured.
the couch shifted. at home, oikawa possessed the spatial awareness of a newborn giraffe. the ice packs were kicked to the floor with a wet thud, the fleece blanket was cast aside like old news, and suddenly, there was a very large, very warm, very determined setter crawling across the cushions toward you.
he’s officially migrated over to you. he slithered over the expanse of the sofa until he was hovering directly over you, his long limbs framing your body, trapping you in a cocoon of expensive cologne and laundry detergent.
you peeked out from under the edge of the cushion, blinking up at him.
oikawa was smiling. it wasn’t the polite, plastic smile he gave to the sports reporters or the blinding, theatrical grin he used for the cameras. this was his dangerously pretty, entirely unhinged smile—the one where his eyes crinkled at the corners, full of an affection so heavy it borderline felt like a threat. his gaze was locked onto your face, consuming every detail as if he hadn’t spent the last four hours staring at you anyway.
“you hate it when it’s noisy, huh?” he whispered, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his breath was warm against your skin, sending a ridiculous, electric shiver straight down your arms.
“i hate it when a man screams about blenders at eleven p.m., yes,” you managed to say, though your voice lacked any real bite because his thumb was currently tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing gentleness.
“well,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he spoke, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that resonated right in your chest. “i can think of much better things to fill the quiet with. i’d much rather listen to you.”
your heart performed a dramatic, olympic-level backflip.
he was so bad for your health. it was a well-documented fact that oikawa had the ability to reduce your brain to absolute mush with a single syllable, and he knew it. he used it to his advantage like the tactical genius he was.
before you could formulate a coherent response—because your vocabulary had suddenly shrunk to a handful of vowels—he collapsed his weight onto you. not entirely, of course; he was well aware of his own size and muscle mass, so he braced himself on his forearms, but he buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if you were the only source of oxygen left on the planet.
“tōru,” you wheezed, a small laugh bubbling up despite your headache. “you’re heavy. you’re like a giant, needy weighted blanket.”
“i’m your husband,” he corrected into your skin, his lips moving against your collarbone, sending another wave of heat through your veins. “and i’ve been deprived of your attention for a cumulative total of three hours today because of film study. do you know what that does to a man? i‘m wasting away. look at me. i’m practically skin and bone.”
“you’re entirely made of muscle and milk bread,” you chuckled, your fingers automatically finding their way into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. you began to gently massage his scalp, knowing exactly how much he loved it.
oikawa let out a sound that could only be described as a cross between a sigh and a purr, his entire body going completely slack against yours. he was a menace to society on the volleyball court, a cold-blooded competitor who terrified his opponents, but in this living room, under your hands, he was a puddle of absolute mush. he was so deeply, entirely whipped that it’s embarrassing. if his teammates could see him right now, whimpering because his wife was scratching his head, his athletic reputation would be permanently ruined.
“more,” he mumbled, nudging his face further into your neck, his nose cold against your skin. “right there. you have the best hands in the world. better than mine. and my hands are worth millions of pesos.”
“don’t let your manager hear you say that.”
“i don’t care about him,” oikawa sniffled dramatically, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t even room for air between you. “i only care about you. your head still hurts? let me fix it. i can kiss it better. i’ll kiss every single part of your face until the pain goes away. it’s a scientifically proven medical treatment.”
“i don’t think that’s how neurology works, tōru.”
“it works because i said so.”
he shifted upwards, his dark eyes sparkling with an intensity that made you want to hide under the couch cushions again. he began to fulfill his promise with terrifying enthusiasm. he kissed your forehead, right between your eyebrows where the tension usually gathered. he kissed the bridge of your nose. he kissed your left cheek, then your right, his lips soft and lingering, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
you couldn’t help the giggles that escaped you, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. every time you tried to turn your head, he would follow, relentless and entirely devoted to his self-appointed task.
“tōru, stop, it tickles,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders to try and hold him still.
he paused, his face mere inches from yours, his chest rising and falling against yours. the look in his eyes changed from playful to something so profoundly tender it made your throat feel tight. he looked at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars in the sky just for him to look at. it was a level of adoration that was almost overwhelming, a complete and utter surrender to you.
“you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice dropping all of its usual theatrical bravado. it was genuine. the kind of honesty that always caught you off guard, no matter how many years you spent by his side. “i look at you and i feel like my chest is going to explode. is that normal? can a person actually die from liking someone too much? i think i fell in love with you again.”
“i think it’s clinically impossible, but you’re welcome to try,” you whispered, a soft smile spreading across your lips.
“i’m serious,” he pouted, though his thumb came up to gently stroke your bottom lip. “i think about you when i’m practicing. i think about you when i’m on the plane. i see a nice rock on the side of the road and i think, ‘oh, she would probably like that rock, let me carry it five miles home for her.’ i’m entirely at your mercy.”
“a rock, tōru? really?”
“a very nice, shiny rock,” he insisted, his eyes widening with sincerity. “only the best for you.”
you laughed, the sound rich and full, and the last remnants of your headache seemed to dissolve into the air. you reached up, cupping his face in both of your hands, squishing his cheeks together until his lips puckered out like a fish. he didn’t mind at all; he just stared down at you with sweet compliance, entirely content to be handled however you saw fit.
“you’re incredibly ridiculous,” you told him, your heart swelling to a size that felt entirely unsafe. “but i suppose i’ll keep you around.”
“you have to,” he mumbled through his squished cheeks, his hands sliding down to securely grip your hips. “we signed papers. it’s legally binding. you’re stuck with me forever.”
he leaned down and pressed a proper kiss to your lips then. not the frantic, desperate kisses from earlier, but something slow, deep, and thoroughly intoxicating. he tasted faint like the green tea he’d drank earlier, and the way his mouth moved against yours was so full of a reverence that it made your toes curl inside your socks. his fingers dug slightly into your hips, anchoring you to him, ensuring that you couldn’t move an inch away even if you wanted to.
when he finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, his eyes were slightly heavy, a soft flush creeping up his neck.
“more?” he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual teasing edge, replaced by a soft, genuine plea.
you slid your arms back around his neck, pulling him down toward you once more, completely helpless against the weight of his devotion.
“you can always have more,” you murmured against his lips.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“you hate it when it’s loud, but you know what else is?”
timeskip!oikawa tōru x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 2k, husband!oikawa ,, wait! series
the human skull was simply not designed to withstand the auditory assault of a late-night infomercial selling a revolutionary, multi-tiered vegetable dicer.
you pressed the heels of your palms against your temples, trying to physically compress your brain back into a manageable shape. the television screen flapped with aggressive neon graphics, casting chaotic blue and yellow hues over your living room, three girls named kat, jello, and mayo we’re doing the six seven emote while the spokesperson practically screamed through the speakers about the unmatched efficiency of stainless steel blades. your head throbbed in perfect, miserable sync with the man and girls’ enthusiastic hand gestures.
beside you, sprawled out like a giant, discarded marionette, was oikawa.
he was supposed to be resting. his knees, currently elevated on a mountain of throw pillows that he had aggressively pillaged from the armchair, were wrapped in ice packs. a heavy, fleece blanket draped over his long torso, and his messy, chocolate-brown hair was sticking up in every imaginable direction—a direct consequence of him running his fingers through it every time a volleyball statistic popped into his head. he looked soft, radiating the kind of post-practice warmth that usually acted as a natural space heater, but he was also entirely oblivious to the fact that the television volume was currently somewhere around a level that could wake the dead.
“tōru,” you groaned, the sound muffled by the sofa cushion you had pulled over your face in a desperate bid for sensory deprivation. “please. the volume. it’s like he’s chopping vegetables inside my ears.”
no response. he was staring at his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he furiously analyzed game footage from a rival team in the argentine league. his eyebrows were knitted together, his lower lip slightly bitten—the exact expression he wore right before he delivered a devastating jump serve that made opposing liberos reconsider their life choices.
“tōru,” you tried again, reaching out a blind hand to swat at his thigh. “turn it down. my head is about to physically detach from my spine and roll away.”
that got him. the mention of your discomfort was like a cheat code that bypassed his hyper-fixation entirely. his head snapped toward you so fast you heard his neck pop. the phone was tossed onto the coffee table without a single shred of respect for its glass screen, landing with a loud clatter that made you wince.
“oh, angel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into that smooth, caramel register he only used when he was thoroughly concerned or plotting something entirely self-indulgent. “is it too loud? why didn’t you say anything sooner? you’re suffering in silence while i’m sitting right here like a fool.”
“i literally just said it twice,” you mumbled into the cushion.
instead of grabbing the remote and clicking the volume down button a few notches, oikawa snatched the plastic device and smashed the power button with an intensity that suggested the television had personally insulted his lineage. the screen went black. the sudden silence that filled the room was so thick you could almost taste it. the loud vegetable man was gone and so are the three insane girls doing the six seven emote, replaced by the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant sound of evening traffic outside the apartment.
you sighed in profound relief, letting your muscles untangle. “thank you. my hero.”
“of course i am,” he murmured.
the couch shifted. at home, oikawa possessed the spatial awareness of a newborn giraffe. the ice packs were kicked to the floor with a wet thud, the fleece blanket was cast aside like old news, and suddenly, there was a very large, very warm, very determined setter crawling across the cushions toward you.
he’s officially migrated over to you. he slithered over the expanse of the sofa until he was hovering directly over you, his long limbs framing your body, trapping you in a cocoon of expensive cologne and laundry detergent.
you peeked out from under the edge of the cushion, blinking up at him.
oikawa was smiling. it wasn’t the polite, plastic smile he gave to the sports reporters or the blinding, theatrical grin he used for the cameras. this was his dangerously pretty, entirely unhinged smile—the one where his eyes crinkled at the corners, full of an affection so heavy it borderline felt like a threat. his gaze was locked onto your face, consuming every detail as if he hadn’t spent the last four hours staring at you anyway.
“you hate it when it’s noisy, huh?” he whispered, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his breath was warm against your skin, sending a ridiculous, electric shiver straight down your arms.
“i hate it when a man screams about blenders at eleven p.m., yes,” you managed to say, though your voice lacked any real bite because his thumb was currently tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing gentleness.
“well,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he spoke, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that resonated right in your chest. “i can think of much better things to fill the quiet with. i’d much rather listen to you.”
your heart performed a dramatic, olympic-level backflip.
he was so bad for your health. it was a well-documented fact that oikawa had the ability to reduce your brain to absolute mush with a single syllable, and he knew it. he used it to his advantage like the tactical genius he was.
before you could formulate a coherent response—because your vocabulary had suddenly shrunk to a handful of vowels—he collapsed his weight onto you. not entirely, of course; he was well aware of his own size and muscle mass, so he braced himself on his forearms, but he buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if you were the only source of oxygen left on the planet.
“tōru,” you wheezed, a small laugh bubbling up despite your headache. “you’re heavy. you’re like a giant, needy weighted blanket.”
“i’m your husband,” he corrected into your skin, his lips moving against your collarbone, sending another wave of heat through your veins. “and i’ve been deprived of your attention for a cumulative total of three hours today because of film study. do you know what that does to a man? i‘m wasting away. look at me. i’m practically skin and bone.”
“you’re entirely made of muscle and milk bread,” you chuckled, your fingers automatically finding their way into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. you began to gently massage his scalp, knowing exactly how much he loved it.
oikawa let out a sound that could only be described as a cross between a sigh and a purr, his entire body going completely slack against yours. he was a menace to society on the volleyball court, a cold-blooded competitor who terrified his opponents, but in this living room, under your hands, he was a puddle of absolute mush. he was so deeply, entirely whipped that it’s embarrassing. if his teammates could see him right now, whimpering because his wife was scratching his head, his athletic reputation would be permanently ruined.
“more,” he mumbled, nudging his face further into your neck, his nose cold against your skin. “right there. you have the best hands in the world. better than mine. and my hands are worth millions of pesos.”
“don’t let your manager hear you say that.”
“i don’t care about him,” oikawa sniffled dramatically, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t even room for air between you. “i only care about you. your head still hurts? let me fix it. i can kiss it better. i’ll kiss every single part of your face until the pain goes away. it’s a scientifically proven medical treatment.”
“i don’t think that’s how neurology works, tōru.”
“it works because i said so.”
he shifted upwards, his dark eyes sparkling with an intensity that made you want to hide under the couch cushions again. he began to fulfill his promise with terrifying enthusiasm. he kissed your forehead, right between your eyebrows where the tension usually gathered. he kissed the bridge of your nose. he kissed your left cheek, then your right, his lips soft and lingering, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
you couldn’t help the giggles that escaped you, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. every time you tried to turn your head, he would follow, relentless and entirely devoted to his self-appointed task.
“tōru, stop, it tickles,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders to try and hold him still.
he paused, his face mere inches from yours, his chest rising and falling against yours. the look in his eyes changed from playful to something so profoundly tender it made your throat feel tight. he looked at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars in the sky just for him to look at. it was a level of adoration that was almost overwhelming, a complete and utter surrender to you.
“you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice dropping all of its usual theatrical bravado. it was genuine. the kind of honesty that always caught you off guard, no matter how many years you spent by his side. “i look at you and i feel like my chest is going to explode. is that normal? can a person actually die from liking someone too much? i think i fell in love with you again.”
“i think it’s clinically impossible, but you’re welcome to try,” you whispered, a soft smile spreading across your lips.
“i’m serious,” he pouted, though his thumb came up to gently stroke your bottom lip. “i think about you when i’m practicing. i think about you when i’m on the plane. i see a nice rock on the side of the road and i think, ‘oh, she would probably like that rock, let me carry it five miles home for her.’ i’m entirely at your mercy.”
“a rock, tōru? really?”
“a very nice, shiny rock,” he insisted, his eyes widening with sincerity. “only the best for you.”
you laughed, the sound rich and full, and the last remnants of your headache seemed to dissolve into the air. you reached up, cupping his face in both of your hands, squishing his cheeks together until his lips puckered out like a fish. he didn’t mind at all; he just stared down at you with sweet compliance, entirely content to be handled however you saw fit.
“you’re incredibly ridiculous,” you told him, your heart swelling to a size that felt entirely unsafe. “but i suppose i’ll keep you around.”
“you have to,” he mumbled through his squished cheeks, his hands sliding down to securely grip your hips. “we signed papers. it’s legally binding. you’re stuck with me forever.”
he leaned down and pressed a proper kiss to your lips then. not the frantic, desperate kisses from earlier, but something slow, deep, and thoroughly intoxicating. he tasted faint like the green tea he’d drank earlier, and the way his mouth moved against yours was so full of a reverence that it made your toes curl inside your socks. his fingers dug slightly into your hips, anchoring you to him, ensuring that you couldn’t move an inch away even if you wanted to.
when he finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, his eyes were slightly heavy, a soft flush creeping up his neck.
“more?” he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual teasing edge, replaced by a soft, genuine plea.
you slid your arms back around his neck, pulling him down toward you once more, completely helpless against the weight of his devotion.
“you can always have more,” you murmured against his lips.
“you hate it when it’s loud, but you know what else is?”
timeskip!oikawa tōru x f!reader | 6.7k special
w/c: 2k, husband!oikawa ,, wait! series
the human skull was simply not designed to withstand the auditory assault of a late-night infomercial selling a revolutionary, multi-tiered vegetable dicer.
you pressed the heels of your palms against your temples, trying to physically compress your brain back into a manageable shape. the television screen flapped with aggressive neon graphics, casting chaotic blue and yellow hues over your living room, three girls named kat, jello, and mayo we’re doing the six seven emote while the spokesperson practically screamed through the speakers about the unmatched efficiency of stainless steel blades. your head throbbed in perfect, miserable sync with the man and girls’ enthusiastic hand gestures.
beside you, sprawled out like a giant, discarded marionette, was oikawa.
he was supposed to be resting. his knees, currently elevated on a mountain of throw pillows that he had aggressively pillaged from the armchair, were wrapped in ice packs. a heavy, fleece blanket draped over his long torso, and his messy, chocolate-brown hair was sticking up in every imaginable direction—a direct consequence of him running his fingers through it every time a volleyball statistic popped into his head. he looked soft, radiating the kind of post-practice warmth that usually acted as a natural space heater, but he was also entirely oblivious to the fact that the television volume was currently somewhere around a level that could wake the dead.
“tōru,” you groaned, the sound muffled by the sofa cushion you had pulled over your face in a desperate bid for sensory deprivation. “please. the volume. it’s like he’s chopping vegetables inside my ears.”
no response. he was staring at his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he furiously analyzed game footage from a rival team in the argentine league. his eyebrows were knitted together, his lower lip slightly bitten—the exact expression he wore right before he delivered a devastating jump serve that made opposing liberos reconsider their life choices.
“tōru,” you tried again, reaching out a blind hand to swat at his thigh. “turn it down. my head is about to physically detach from my spine and roll away.”
that got him. the mention of your discomfort was like a cheat code that bypassed his hyper-fixation entirely. his head snapped toward you so fast you heard his neck pop. the phone was tossed onto the coffee table without a single shred of respect for its glass screen, landing with a loud clatter that made you wince.
“oh, angel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into that smooth, caramel register he only used when he was thoroughly concerned or plotting something entirely self-indulgent. “is it too loud? why didn’t you say anything sooner? you’re suffering in silence while i’m sitting right here like a fool.”
“i literally just said it twice,” you mumbled into the cushion.
instead of grabbing the remote and clicking the volume down button a few notches, oikawa snatched the plastic device and smashed the power button with an intensity that suggested the television had personally insulted his lineage. the screen went black. the sudden silence that filled the room was so thick you could almost taste it. the loud vegetable man was gone and so are the three insane girls doing the six seven emote, replaced by the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant sound of evening traffic outside the apartment.
you sighed in profound relief, letting your muscles untangle. “thank you. my hero.”
“of course i am,” he murmured.
the couch shifted. at home, oikawa possessed the spatial awareness of a newborn giraffe. the ice packs were kicked to the floor with a wet thud, the fleece blanket was cast aside like old news, and suddenly, there was a very large, very warm, very determined setter crawling across the cushions toward you.
he’s officially migrated over to you. he slithered over the expanse of the sofa until he was hovering directly over you, his long limbs framing your body, trapping you in a cocoon of expensive cologne and laundry detergent.
you peeked out from under the edge of the cushion, blinking up at him.
oikawa was smiling. it wasn’t the polite, plastic smile he gave to the sports reporters or the blinding, theatrical grin he used for the cameras. this was his dangerously pretty, entirely unhinged smile—the one where his eyes crinkled at the corners, full of an affection so heavy it borderline felt like a threat. his gaze was locked onto your face, consuming every detail as if he hadn’t spent the last four hours staring at you anyway.
“you hate it when it’s noisy, huh?” he whispered, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his breath was warm against your skin, sending a ridiculous, electric shiver straight down your arms.
“i hate it when a man screams about blenders at eleven p.m., yes,” you managed to say, though your voice lacked any real bite because his thumb was currently tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing gentleness.
“well,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he spoke, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that resonated right in your chest. “i can think of much better things to fill the quiet with. i’d much rather listen to you.”
your heart performed a dramatic, olympic-level backflip.
he was so bad for your health. it was a well-documented fact that oikawa had the ability to reduce your brain to absolute mush with a single syllable, and he knew it. he used it to his advantage like the tactical genius he was.
before you could formulate a coherent response—because your vocabulary had suddenly shrunk to a handful of vowels—he collapsed his weight onto you. not entirely, of course; he was well aware of his own size and muscle mass, so he braced himself on his forearms, but he buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if you were the only source of oxygen left on the planet.
“tōru,” you wheezed, a small laugh bubbling up despite your headache. “you’re heavy. you’re like a giant, needy weighted blanket.”
“i’m your husband,” he corrected into your skin, his lips moving against your collarbone, sending another wave of heat through your veins. “and i’ve been deprived of your attention for a cumulative total of three hours today because of film study. do you know what that does to a man? i‘m wasting away. look at me. i’m practically skin and bone.”
“you’re entirely made of muscle and milk bread,” you chuckled, your fingers automatically finding their way into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. you began to gently massage his scalp, knowing exactly how much he loved it.
oikawa let out a sound that could only be described as a cross between a sigh and a purr, his entire body going completely slack against yours. he was a menace to society on the volleyball court, a cold-blooded competitor who terrified his opponents, but in this living room, under your hands, he was a puddle of absolute mush. he was so deeply, entirely whipped that it’s embarrassing. if his teammates could see him right now, whimpering because his wife was scratching his head, his athletic reputation would be permanently ruined.
“more,” he mumbled, nudging his face further into your neck, his nose cold against your skin. “right there. you have the best hands in the world. better than mine. and my hands are worth millions of pesos.”
“don’t let your manager hear you say that.”
“i don’t care about him,” oikawa sniffled dramatically, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t even room for air between you. “i only care about you. your head still hurts? let me fix it. i can kiss it better. i’ll kiss every single part of your face until the pain goes away. it’s a scientifically proven medical treatment.”
“i don’t think that’s how neurology works, tōru.”
“it works because i said so.”
he shifted upwards, his dark eyes sparkling with an intensity that made you want to hide under the couch cushions again. he began to fulfill his promise with terrifying enthusiasm. he kissed your forehead, right between your eyebrows where the tension usually gathered. he kissed the bridge of your nose. he kissed your left cheek, then your right, his lips soft and lingering, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
you couldn’t help the giggles that escaped you, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. every time you tried to turn your head, he would follow, relentless and entirely devoted to his self-appointed task.
“tōru, stop, it tickles,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders to try and hold him still.
he paused, his face mere inches from yours, his chest rising and falling against yours. the look in his eyes changed from playful to something so profoundly tender it made your throat feel tight. he looked at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars in the sky just for him to look at. it was a level of adoration that was almost overwhelming, a complete and utter surrender to you.
“you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice dropping all of its usual theatrical bravado. it was genuine. the kind of honesty that always caught you off guard, no matter how many years you spent by his side. “i look at you and i feel like my chest is going to explode. is that normal? can a person actually die from liking someone too much? i think i fell in love with you again.”
“i think it’s clinically impossible, but you’re welcome to try,” you whispered, a soft smile spreading across your lips.
“i’m serious,” he pouted, though his thumb came up to gently stroke your bottom lip. “i think about you when i’m practicing. i think about you when i’m on the plane. i see a nice rock on the side of the road and i think, ‘oh, she would probably like that rock, let me carry it five miles home for her.’ i’m entirely at your mercy.”
“a rock, tōru? really?”
“a very nice, shiny rock,” he insisted, his eyes widening with sincerity. “only the best for you.”
you laughed, the sound rich and full, and the last remnants of your headache seemed to dissolve into the air. you reached up, cupping his face in both of your hands, squishing his cheeks together until his lips puckered out like a fish. he didn’t mind at all; he just stared down at you with sweet compliance, entirely content to be handled however you saw fit.
“you’re incredibly ridiculous,” you told him, your heart swelling to a size that felt entirely unsafe. “but i suppose i’ll keep you around.”
“you have to,” he mumbled through his squished cheeks, his hands sliding down to securely grip your hips. “we signed papers. it’s legally binding. you’re stuck with me forever.”
he leaned down and pressed a proper kiss to your lips then. not the frantic, desperate kisses from earlier, but something slow, deep, and thoroughly intoxicating. he tasted faint like the green tea he’d drank earlier, and the way his mouth moved against yours was so full of a reverence that it made your toes curl inside your socks. his fingers dug slightly into your hips, anchoring you to him, ensuring that you couldn’t move an inch away even if you wanted to.
when he finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, his eyes were slightly heavy, a soft flush creeping up his neck.
“more?” he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual teasing edge, replaced by a soft, genuine plea.
you slid your arms back around his neck, pulling him down toward you once more, completely helpless against the weight of his devotion.
“you can always have more,” you murmured against his lips.
