#orders~

✨SHIPPING UPDATE✨

i love u moreee !!! here u go ♡

[domesticity, holding hands, hand kink, implied smut (post-sex pillow talk)]

-

give you my wild, give you a child

Shoyo is in bed, setting sun peeking slightly through closed curtains, his husband's hands - beautiful, wonderful hands, romantic hands, hands that took him past the moon mere moments ago - lying delicately on his ass, head in his neck. He's nude - he doesn't care where his clothes have gone, stripped hours ago for the desperate need for proximity - and so is Tobio, the fresh bitemarks on his biceps starting to bruise.

Love binds them in this moment. Lust, the frenzy, brought them here, and love keeps them here, not paramours but partners; "til death do we part, my sunshine".

Shoyo feels that wanton hand trail up his waist, to his shoulder blades, to his cheek. Tobio looks so delicately at him, long fingers on smile lines, adoration in his stare.

"I love you," he murmurs, and it's almost romantic, between the sweat and the saliva and the slick.

Shoyo reaches for him, grasping at his hand, holding his palm like a sacred artifact. They lie there, regaining their breath, holding eachother and intertwining fingers, duvet discarded. They are marble statues, post-sex monuments, lewd tapestries.

"I love you too."

Tobio looks down, past his own straight nose and pointed chin.

"Have you ever-" he stumbles, to this day still struggling with sincerity, "-thought about kids?"

Smiling, Shoyo doesn't recoil, but bathes in the idea.

"I'd like that."

"Teaching them volleyball and- and you could make their bento-"

"Why would I have to make the bento, asshole? I wanna teach them to spike!"

Tobio looks grumpy, an old familiar glare that's lost its poison.

"Our kids will be setters, dumbass! And you're a better cook than me! Don't be stupid!"

"I'm not being stupid! You're a better cook than me, idiot!"

They bicker, a tradition of sorts. Hands never leave hands, noses never part, and words continue to pummel without ever causing pain. Their old habits have evolved, but will never leave them.

"And they'd HAVE to be spikers, mean-yama! You can't have a whole team of setters!"

"Fine! We'll have six kids, enough for a team, and I'll teach the setter!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

 Shoyo begins to laugh. How poetic - from arguments as children, which position was better, which was cooler, which got more time with the ball - now to arguments as adults, hand in beloved hand, about children, which position would be better, cooler, get more time with the ball.

History repeats itself in the most romantic of ways.

ay mijo of course, coming right up~

[domesticity, post-timeskip, sensory overload (autistic kageyama)]

-

untouchable

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Thundering footfalls. Rain hammers the roof. Cheers are like shockwaves.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Out of breath. Sweat on skin. Lights that flash.

Beat-beat-beat.

Squeak. Smirk. Squish.

Beatbeatbeat.

Run.

He runs to his dorm,

patience thin like bed linen, 

each breath is a curse. 

Push through paparazzi, through beaded doorways, clench teeth because it stops the urge to scream. Tobio feels his tongue in his mouth and the gymnasium lights and the stench of sweat and the roars of crowds - panting and talking and loud and bright and harsh and it's all so much, too much, standing over him and pushing him to the floor.

He slumps to the ground. His dorm lights punched off, his teeth grinding together, his clothes removed and thrown on the floor just so he doesn't have to feel them anymore.

It's not the first time this has happened - when every sensation becomes his enemy, his perceptiveness his downfall - it used to happen a lot in Kitagawa, when Oikawa's voice got scratchy and the loneliness began to burn. He knows this overstimulation like the veins in his hands, remembers this overload like it's fated. He only wishes he could stop it.

There are light sounds behind him, ginger footsteps, someone who cares too much to be brash.

Oh, Shoyo…

Something lands in Tobio's hand - hard, smooth plastic, designed to be twisted and pulled into something resembling relief. It's grey, a colour dull enough to soothe him, and it tangles into snakes and pretzel knots.

"Thank you," he'd say, if he knew how to speak; his tongue refuses to move, uncomfortable in his mouth. His wordlessness sizzles him. Shoyo knows what he means to say.

How long he sits there, easing himself out of his overwhelmed state, out of his environmental thunderstorm, is unknown. But, loyal as a dog, faithful as religion, Shoyo stays.

He doesn't press - he doesn't talk, does not malleate, does not push his lover further into his state. He simply waits - this, as all things, will pass, and Tobio will want gentle hands in his hair when it does.

Loving Tobio is poetry, a haiku, iambic pentameter; always there will be a rhyme that doesn't fit or a jarring syllable, but Shoyo loves Tobio because of it.

u got it! ur order coming right up~

[greek mythology references, non-explicit smut, sunlight/shadow parallels]

-

the way you move is like a full-on rainstorm

Tobio is a storm, lightning and thunder, dark knotted clouds and rain twisting together leaving fingerprint bruises on Shoyo's throat. Like the crackle of an earthquake, the howl of gale wind, he moans into Shoyo's skin, leaving bite marks and saliva on his collarbones.

Tobio is tearing trees down, tearing Shoyo's clothes off, desperate to get at flesh and quench the tempest in his gut. He rips cloth from shoulder, lycra from thighs. He devotes everything he has - his cyclone, his blizzard - to his husband, entertaining their burning need, their clashing weather, the sunlight dappled with needy claws.

He pushes his husband to the wall, crashing his waves against Shoyo's, overwhelming him with a tsunami of attention, his thirst a force of nature.

Shoyo is just as hungry, his sunbeam fingernails scratching at shoulder blades, pulling at hair, pushing himself further toward his lover, getting as close as he can.

Together, they are contrasting winds, hot and cold; a tornado, twisting, burning, wanting. They crave eachother, as the sea craves the shore. They forget any semblance of humanity; for now, they are a typhoon, devastating cities, anemoi controlling the gusts of howling wind. For now they are aurai, destroying buildings, wreaking havoc, needing eachother as though they were starving.

i love u so much give me a name and i will give u a corpse

[kageyama-centric, simping, domesticity, sun metaphors]

-

summer sun for you forever

Ra, Huītzilōpōchtli, Helios; culture after culture, age after age, through the ruins of empires and the births of nations, people have always worshipped the sun. They worshipped solar flares, the giver of daylight and life, worshipped the people who represented our most vital star.

Tobio, a man of modernity, in concrete cities and neon lights, is no exception.

Older than time, the sun is - it is older than life, than air, here long before us, and it will be here long after we are gone. The sun is as close as can be to eternal, incomprehensibly old and yet, in its scheme, marvellously young, a figure of fate and folklore. The sun, our sun, is as natural to humanity as waking, as breathing, as loving. Truly there is no version of life, of Tobio's life, without it.

Tobio flicks on the kettle, watching the horizon through one of the windows of his Roman flat. Shoyo, his sun, his Ra his Huītzilōpōchtli his Helios, is thousands of miles away. 4 hours behind, he eats takeout in his own living room, and he pines.

Tobio worships the gifts of the sun like no other, as he drinks his herbal tea, preparing for a night of troubled rest.

How long? he thinks - how long until the sun spirit, the love of his life, the bringer of his dawn, is in his arms again?

Indeed, how long. His husband is on the phone, rays coming through the speaker, the roar of Tobio's star stifled by the distance.

"I love you," he murmurs into the night, to the sun that's doomed to set. "You are my everything," he continues, to the sun that is destined to rise again, every morning.