your boyfriend, ushijima wakatoshi, is an absolute unit of a man ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
and he doesn't even realize!
cw: none! pure fluff, art by Freaka_LoonyZ
He has this habit of appearing in your house after dinner, hair wild from the wind and jacket half off when you open the door for him. The first times he did it, he used to text you beforehand, a short message that sounded more like a warning than a simple "Can I come over?" and before you could answer, he's already knocking at your door. Now he just appears unannounced, usually around 9 p.m, you've thought about giving him a spare key so you don't have to get up every time he's there, but that probably will freak him out.
After you open the door with a lazy smile, he bows his head a little as a greeting, always asking you if he may step inside. Then it's always the same routine, he takes off his shoes, jacket and t-shirt and follows you to your bed without saying a word. Sometimes he searches for your hand to guide him through your apartment, sometimes he doesn't.
You lay in bed first, getting comfortable under the sheets and then it's Ushijima's time to accommodate himself next to you. His cuddling positions also vary, today, he decided to fully drop himself on top of you like a dead weight.
"Hi," he mutters, hiding his face on your neck.
"Hi, baby. How was your day?" you ask him softly, threading your nails in his soft hair.
"Mmm." Good. After more than a year of dating, you perfectly understand the translations of whatever syllables he mutters when he's tired.
You smile into his hair, leaving a kiss on top of his head. He squirmed a little, pressing his hands in your sides, which means that he's blushing now and he's not lifting his head until the redness of his face is gone.
"Did you miss me today?" you say, trying to hide the smile on your face as you keep playing with the short hairs at his neck.
"Mhm." Yes.
"I missed you too, you didn't text me all day." You tug on his hair, knowing damn well that it doesn't hurt him at all, but it's enough to tease him.
"Sorry," he mumbles, leaving a soft kiss behind your ear as an apology like he always does when he messes something up with you.
You giggle, scratching his back. "I wasn't angry, Toshi, jus' joking."
"Oh." You didn't even realize he was tense until he relaxes again, letting his whole weight press over your body.
Some minutes pass, you ask him soft questions and he intertwines his hand with yours at some point, he mumbles something so you keep scratching his back. It's all so calm and simple, and suddenly, you start to be uncomfortable.
The problem with your boyfriend is that he's huge. He knows he's tall but he doesn't know that he's strong as well, that he takes up space. Right now, his feet are dangling off the bed while he's fully on top of you, restricting your breathing. You think about a way of telling him to not get him pouty.
"Toshi," you whisper after kissing his temple again, now you have him flustered there's no way he's going to get sad. "You're crushing me."
"No." And he buries himself deeper into your neck, if that's possible.
Oh, great!
"Baby, you are. You're heavy," you say slowly, pushing lightly with one of your hands because he has the other locked with his forever.
"I'm not heavy."
You blink, biting down a laugh. Is he gaslighting you on accident? You shift under him again, but it's like trying to move a breathing wall. His chest presses so solidly against yours that each breath you take feels smaller than the last.
"Toshi," you try once more, keeping your tone light and sweet, fingers still tangled in his hair. "Baby, I can't breathe properly. You're gonna turn me into a pancake."
He makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat, in complete denial that he is that heavy, and nuzzles closer. His hand squeezes yours a little tighter, thumb brushing circles over your skin. It's so gentle it almost makes you forget how heavy he actually is.
You smile softly against his temple, pressing another kiss there. "If you don't move a tiny bit, I'm gonna die of drowning right here in my own bed."
That does it.
Ushijima goes completely still for a second, the words take a moment to sink in, then he lifts his head just enough for you to catch the wide-eyed look on his face. His cheeks are still faintly pink from earlier, but now there's a flash of real worry there. Without another word, he pushes himself up with those strong arms, careful not to jostle you too much, and rolls all the way to the very edge of the bed.
The sudden rush of cool air on your chest makes you inhale deep and you can't help the quiet laugh that bubbles up. He's lying there on his side now, as far away as he can get without falling off, one arm hanging awkwardly off the mattress. His hair is even messier than when he arrived, sticking up in every direction and he won't quite meet your eyes.
"Sorry," he mutters, it sounds so small coming from someone his size. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Your heart melts right there. You turn toward him, reaching out to tug gently at his wrist until he scoots just a little closer. Not enough to crush you again, but close enough that you can trace your fingers along his jaw.
"Come back here," you whisper, soft as a secret. "You didn't hurt me. I just needed some air, that's all. You're my favorite weighted blanket, even if you're too good at it sometimes."
He finally glances at you, the awkward furrow between his brows softening. Slowly, letting him test the waters, he shifts back toward the middle of the bed. His hand finds yours again and he carefully brings it up to press a shy kiss to your knuckles.
You pull him in until your noses brush. "I love you, you know that, right?"
"Mm," he hums, the sound vibrating between you. His free hand comes up to rest lightly on your waist, thumb stroking the edge of your shirt. "Me too."
a/n: don't ask me why but he was such a complicated character to figure out. thank you @fancy-possum for helping me with this<33
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one of the perks of being the manager for the shiratorizawa boys’ volleyball team is that aside from handling important matches, schedules, and deadlines, you also have access to all their keys.
the keys to the locker room, for instance. you make sure to collect the keys from the captain, ushijima, promptly after their practice ends, the thumping of the ball and the shouts of the players serving as background noise while you idly scroll through instagram or read a manga on your phone.
one of the other perks is that since practice often ends late, ushijima always offers to stay behind until you lock up the gymnasium and the locker room and walk you home. it’s dark, he tells you, and your house is right next to his, and he’s been walking you home since you were kids and you jumped his garden fence. why should any of that change now?
“someday, we’re going to get caught,” you say breathlessly, raking your hands through ushijima’s hair. he has you braced between his arms, your back against the wall. his mouth is sweet and warm, though he’s hardly this forthcoming with anyone else.
perhaps a bit too forthcoming with how he kisses you, his mouth hard and insistent against yours.
“it’s not like you care much, anyway,” he says, pulling back. “and if you don’t care, then neither do i.”
you hum in agreement. “yeah. guess i’ve waited too long.”
he’s too tall, you decide, so you duck out from underneath his arms and grab his hand, pulling him along with you. ushijima, however, is impatient. he turns you around with a hand on your shoulder that he then slides to the back of your head and into your hair, cradling your face as he captures your lips with his once more. he swallows your gasp and moves you backward. the locker room is dim—for all your talk, you really don’t want your relationship with the captain to become the next piece of gossip that’s passed around at school.
you stumble over a bag someone accidentally left behind on the floor, but ushijima steadies you with a hand on your waist. he kicks it aside—shirabu’s, maybe—and nearly bumps his shoulder on the cabinet by your left. all the while, his lips are on yours and his hands are all over you, and all you can do is moan and gasp and trust him not to let you fall.
ushijima backs you to the edge of a table, breaking the kiss just to say, “hop on.”
you do, and bring your arms around his neck, wrapping your legs around his torso. “someone’s needy today.”
“can’t help it,” ushijima says, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. his voice is filled with adoration, a tender thing that only you are privy to. “you distracted me so much today.”
“oh, yeah?”
“don’t be smug,” he grumbles, and kisses you again, and you forget what you were going to say, because his mouth is sweet and his hands are warm. you consider your argument won.
ushijima wakatoshi x #45. kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed for @lumissandbox.
Warnings: Play fighting, ooc ushijima maybe?, and use of Y/n at end
Requests r open and dividers r by my goat @pixopix
If there r any spelling mistakes no there r not it’s 2:11am
Play wrestling had always been your favorite game. Before your sibling came into the world, it was just you and your father. Not really wrestling, since you were young. He would carry you and flip you in the air and let you pretend choke him out. He let you win most of the time, but sometimes he’d put you in a half nelson and would keep you trapped as your mother tickled you until you laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
When your siblings were old enough to start playing rough, it was chaos. Tackling, hair-pulling, fists flying, and most importantly, teaching them when to tap out by playing with your spit over their face.
“Tap out!” you would yell.
“No!” they always refused, struggling under your larger frame.
“Tap out or I’ll do it!”
“No!”
And it began. You always had a glass of orange juice at breakfast, making your spit stringy and dexterous. You hawked up a nice piece of stringy spit from the front of your throat, and let out the thinnest gloop of it from your lips. Your sibling’s squealing and harsher resisting made you suck back up the now cold spit, storing it in your cheek.
“Tap out!”
You were always answered by a growl and a stubborn answer of, “NOOO!”
The only way the game stopped was if your mother caught you, yelling at you to let your sibling win because ‘they’re younger’ or if the thrashing made the spit come loose from your mouth, and landed on your siblings forehead, making them cry, and causing your mother to yell at you anyway.
“Eso no se hace!” she would scold you every time. “Guacatela! That’s disgusting! Vete a tu cuarto!”
Once you got to Junior High, you stopped wrestling your sibling or your father. Your mother had finally got what she wanted (no more physical fighting) and that was because… you didn’t know. You just stopped. School suddenly became much more serious, and you didn’t feel like wrestling, even playing a simple game with your little sibling.
It was when a tiktok trend came up when you were 22 that you even thought of play fighting anyone again.
“Whoever pulls the sock off the other’s foot first wins,” you explain, one foot barefoot and your other foot covered in your ankle sock.
“I am 220 pounds,” Wakatoshi says simply. “You are not. How is this fair?”
His well-meaning honesty was going to bait your competitive personality, even if you knew he didn’t mean it.
“You think I can’t beat you up?” you ask playfully, sending a couple shadow punches his way. “Unts, unts, unts. Oh, too fast! Oh, you can’t get me! And… you’re knocked out. KO!! 🗣️🗣️🗣️”
“I don’t think you can even get me on the floor,” he ignores your shenanigans as you continue to pretend beat him up.
“Yeah I can!” you insist. “How about this, how about this, I get… twenty seconds to get you on the floor before you start playing. Sound fair?”
“So, you get a handicap to make it fair?” he clarifies. “I was going to suggest that but you didn’t seem receptive to it.”
“It’s a handicap for YOU,” you grit your teeth. “So you can play with me.”
He chooses not to argue, ever passive and great at choosing his battles.
You start the game, Wakatoshi counting out loud as you stalk around him. At the five second mark, you kick his knee in, and nothing happens. You get down, sitting behind him with his foot in between his legs, and you try and pull the sock, but all of his weight is on the foot. The sock isn’t going anywhere. He’s at fifteen. You pounce up, leaping onto his back wildly, and try to knock him off balance. He’s a damn statue. He reaches twenty, and gives you a moment as you flail to try and make him lose balance, still. Posture is perfect, no movement from him.
“Your time is up,” he says.
You groan in annoyance, “Ughhh, I know!”
He leans down, making you scramble forward and squeal, and he pulls you forward the rest of the way with his arm, standing back up to his full height of six foot two inches. You squeal as you thrash on his shoulder, kicking your legs out so he can’t get your sock.
“No!” you laugh, and reach down to his pants, just barely reaching. You pull his underwear up quickly, giving him a soft wedgie. He gives an unceremonious “Ack!” and sets you free in shock with your sock still safely on your foot. You stumble, catching your balance quickly, and dive at his foot again as he fixes himself.
“Why did you do that-“ he grumbles, pulling you up again, this time upside down.
“Babe, BABE!” you laugh, your smile burning your cheeks as he holds you upside down by your hips. You kick your foot around, trying to avoid his long arm, but to no avail. He pulls your sock off, and sets you down as tears of laughter stream down your face.
“I told you!” he said sincerely, a small victorious smile on his face.
“I know, I know,” you grumble, but paired with the smile on your face and the happiness radiating from your soul, he knew it meant nothing.
“you said, you hate the crowd, so we had to stay in” v2
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader
w/c: 1.1k, reader gets easily overstimulated ,, wait! series
the flashing of smartphones and the sudden, suffocating surge of voices always hit you like a physical wave.
one second, you were walking down a relatively quiet side street in miyagi, hand loosely tucked into the massive, warm palm of ushijima. the next, a group of teenagers had spotted the towering, broad-shouldered schweiden adlers ace. within two minutes, a dozen people had mutated into a small, suffocating mob, pressing in from all sides with notebooks, cameras, and shrill, excited demands for autographs.
ushijima, ever the stoic professional, answered them with his usual blunt politeness. but his focus wasn’t on them. his eyes kept tracking down to you.
you felt the air leaving your lungs. your chest tightened, the chatter of the crowd turning into a deafening, staticky roar in your ears. the proximity of so many strangers—accidentally bumping into your shoulders, shoving past you to get closer to him—was too much. you hated crowds. you hated the noise, the unpredictability, the way your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.
unconsciously, your fingers slipped out of his hold.
ushijima felt the sudden loss of warmth immediately. his eyes snapped over to you, a rare flicker of alarm piercing through his usually unreadable expression.
you gave him a small, strained smile, taking a step backward into the shadow of a nearby storefront. you pointed weakly toward the alleyway that led back toward your shared apartment, mouthing, ‘i’ll meet you at home.’
you just wanted to breathe. you needed to escape the noise.
but as you turned to slip away into the quiet secondary streets, you didn’t realize that leaving ushijima behind was entirely impossible. because to ushijima, the crowd didn’t exist. the fans didn’t matter. the only thing that anchored him to the earth was you, and the moment you detached yourself from him, his entire world tilted dangerously off its axis.
“excuse me,” ushijima said, his deep voice slicing through the chatter with absolute finality. he didn’t sign the half-extended notebook in front of him. he simply stepped through the crowd, his size forcing a path open as he pursued your retreating figure.
you heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of his sneakers against the pavement before you saw him. you had only made it half a block into the quiet alley when a massive hand gently, but unyieldingly, clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, spinning around, only to come face-to-face with him.
ushijima was breathing heavily, his dark eyes wide and uncharacteristically dark. there was an almost frantic desperation bleeding through his rigid posture. he looked less like a celebrated volleyball star and more like a man who had just watched his entire life slip through his fingers.
“y/n,” he rumbled, his voice tight. “where are you going?”
“wakatoshi,” you breathed, your voice still trembling from the sensory overload. “i... i just needed to get away from the crowd. i told you, i’ll meet you at the apartment. you should go back and finish with your fans—”
“no.”
the word was a heavy, immovable brick. he stepped closer, effectively trapping you between his broad chest and the brick wall of the alleyway. he didn’t touch you anywhere else, but his shadow completely engulfed you, shielding you from the rest of the world.
“don’t leave me behind,” he said. it was a plea, delivered with a chilling intensity that made your breath hitch.
“i’m not leaving you,” you explained softly, reaching up to touch his forearm. “i just get overstimulated. you know how i get. i just needed to go home.”
ushijima’s grip on your wrist didn’t slacken; instead, his thumb began to stroke the sensitive skin over your pulse point, feeling the rapid, erratic beat of your heart. a dark, possessive satisfaction flickered deep in his chest at the realization that he was the one holding you while your heart raced, but it was quickly eclipsed by his intolerance for being separated from you.
“then take me with you,” he pleaded, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. “if you’re going home, i’m going with you. don’t run away by yourself.”
“but your fans—”
“they do not matter,” ushijima interrupted without a shred of hesitation. his gaze was fixated entirely on your face, tracking the slight flush on your cheeks, the way your lips parted. he was completely, hopelessly whipped for you. “nothing outside of you matters. if the crowd is too loud, we will leave. if the city is too crowded, we will stay inside. i will lock the doors. we never have to come out.”
there was a faint, unsettling edge to his words—a quiet willingness to abandon the rest of the world entirely if it meant keeping you safe and contained right beside him. he was a simple man, but his devotion to you had long since warped into something consuming. he’s a simp for you in the most literal, terrifyingly absolute way possible; your comfort was his law, your presence his oxygen.
“wakatoshi...”
“please, my love,” he murmured, leaning down until his forehead almost touched yours. his breath was warm against your skin. “take me with you. let me shield you. i can’t function if you walk away from me, even for a moment.”
the sheer weight of his adoration was heavy, almost as suffocating as the crowd, but it was a weight you knew, a weight that belonged entirely to you. looking up into his intense, dark eyes, you saw the truth in his words. he would gladly let the world explode if it meant he could sit in the quiet ruins with you.
the panic in your chest finally began to settle, replaced by the grounding reality of his massive presence.
“okay,” you whispered, reaching your free hand up to cup his jaw. his skin was warm, and he immediately leaned into your palm like a starved man. “we’ll go home. together.”
the tension in his massive frame didn’t fully dissipate, but the desperate edge in his eyes softened just a fraction. he turned his head to press a deep, lingering kiss into the center of your palm, his lips burning against your skin.
“yes,” ushijima quieted, his fingers sliding down to interlock tightly with yours, squeezing until it was almost painful. a perfect, unbreakable seal. “together. we’re staying in.”
he didn’t look back at the street they had just left. he didn’t care about the whispers, the eyes that might have followed, or the people named berto, berting, and yun doing the six seven emote. he simply led you down the quiet backstreets, his body positioned perfectly to block you from view, guiding his whole world back to the safety of four walls where nobody else could ever touch you.
n: yolo, fuh pls give me gojo’s event card on sofi 😔😔
poppy says: he just doesn't know how to talk to people, your honor. it's not his fault.
content warnings: food (bagel and coffee); slight angst
This time. This time, I’ll ask them out.
WAKATOSHI stands outside the bakery, the faint scent of fresh bread mingling with the morning air, his fingers restlessly tapping on the sides of his legs as he tries to boost his confidence. In times like these, he wishes he could be more like his teammates. They always praise him for how talented and strong he is; but he would give anything to have the social skills they do.
If your bakery were a volleyball court, he would know exactly how to act. Professional Athlete Wakatoshi Ushijima would walk out onto the court confidently. He would have researched the team weeks in advance, staying up late into the night to watch old game footage and analyze their strengths and weaknesses. New moves would be in his arsenal. He would be prepared for anything.
Off The Court Wakatoshi Ushijima is far from that, though.
That Wakatoshi is an idiot. Off The Court Wakatoshi feels like his heart is simultaneously in his throat and in the pit of his stomach whenever you smile at him. That Wakatoshi once laughed too loudly at a corny joke you had learned. And when you raised your eyebrows in response, he blurted out “APOLOGIES”, and then ran straight into the door, apologizing to the door on the way out too.
He didn’t come back for two whole weeks.
Wakatoshi lets his eyes fall shut now, stilling his fingers as he starts to breathe in a slow, steady rhythm. If he can just put your bakery inside a court . . .
After a few moments, though, he gives up. It’s not working. The mere thought of talking to you is a thousand times more anxiety-inducing than any team he’s ever encountered.
He’s being ridiculous. All he has to do is open the door. He just has to open the door and say good morning to you. He just has to talk casually to you, ask how your morning is so far, and not act like he wants to throw up. All he has to do is casually steer the conversation toward asking you out.
Is it really conversation? His brain teases him. It takes two to take part in a conversation.
Regardless, it’s become his favorite part of his morning routine: munching on his bagel and sipping his coffee while you fill the silence. It strikes him as funny that you chatter away exactly like Satori and Shoyo do, jumping from one topic to the next with ease. But unlike with Satori and Shoyo, he doesn’t mind it one bit.
And while he has shared little about himself with you — “It’s always wise to be cautious and stay vigilant when you’re a famous athlete.” Or at least, that’s what his coach tells him — You don’t seem to mind it. He’d much rather listen to you anyway. You’re far more interesting than he could ever be.
But you know he has a dog (his phone’s wallpaper). You know that Satori is his best friend (Satori had switched the wallpaper to a picture of himself). You found out through the TV that he plays volleyball professionally. And you know he can’t stand the greasy texture of sausage on his breakfast sandwiches.
The last one still makes him cringe thinking about it. You tried to persuade him to taste a custom-made breakfast sandwich, boasting about the hearty protein infused in every layer, from the dough to the flavorful toppings. But the face he made betrayed his polite “No, thank you”.
And though you never pried for information about himself, he still found himself talking at length about his protein sources and about tips for boosting protein in one’s diet, all while catching the bright sparkle in your eyes as you listened with fascination.
And he learned that day that maybe Coach could be wrong.
Maybe letting your guard down is okay, if that’s what he gets to see in return for sharing.
Wakatoshi reaches for the door handle now, his fingers brushing against the cool metal, his gaze lingering on the smudged handprints marring the glass.
Shit.
Wakatoshi has no doubt in his mind that these are from Kotarou. They can’t not be. Because Kotarou had arrived for their practice match last week, kicking open the gym doors and practically pirouetting across the court, with his voice bouncing off the goddamn walls, announcing that he had found a new favorite shop - and possibly a new lover - on his way there.
Kotarou was gushing, his words painting a picture of your delightful nature — your kindness, humor, and the exquisite taste of your pastries. Knowing exactly who Kotarou was talking about, Kiyoomi’s head swiveled in Wakatoshi’s direction, and they instantly made eye contact. Kiyoomi had given him a firm nod to let Wakatoshi know he’d shut Kotarou up if that’s what he wanted, but Wakatoshi only shook his head once, and that was that.
Instead, Wakatoshi had held his hands at his sides, clenching them until pain seared into his palms.
How could this have happened? The bakery was his spot. Was it just sheer dumb luck on Kotarou’s end he found it? Or did Wakatoshi, yet again, have the bad luck of a friend swooping in before he got the courage to ask them out?
Anyway. Leave it to Kotarou to not read. Wakatoshi could just see it. Kotarou pressing his entire body flush against the door, his golden eyes darting around the empty shop soaked in sunlight, wondering why the door was locked, when the answer was right in front of him.
The bell above the door chimes as Wakatoshi swings it open with just a little more force than necessary.
This time. You have to ask them this time before Kotarou can. You can’t keep putting it off.
But instead of being greeted by your smiling face, Wakatoshi is greeted by . . . Nothing.
Nothing more than an open bakery, with no one manning the counter.
Wakatoshi looks around, trying to find any sign of you. It’s not like you to not work this early. Are you ill? You occasionally liked to flirt with danger, snacking on a small cup of raw cookie dough while you told him your plans for the day. He isn’t the least bit surprised if you’ve gotten salmonella.
When he told Kiyoomi this a month ago, Kiyoomi went on and on about hygiene, his eyebrows scrunching together as he just kept shouting “But WHY?” and “It’s a BUSINESS!”. Wakatoshi told him that your shop was the cleanest place he’d ever seen, and you were always fussing about keeping things in an orderly fashion. You deserved a little treat of raw cookie dough now and then for how hard you worked.
A sweep of the shop confirms to Wakatoshi that you aren’t here. Only an older gentleman at one of the far tables, doing what looks like a crossword puzzle while he occasionally takes bites of his muffin.
Surely someone’s here. The old man wouldn’t have just climbed over the counter and plucked out the muffin himself.
“GOOD MORNING, WAKATOSHI!”
Wakatoshi inhales sharply as you magically materialize behind the counter.
“Good morning.” He answers, regaining his composure and giving you a nod. “I was starting to think that you weren’t here.”
You cock your head to the side, frowning a little as you wipe your hands on your apron. “Why would you think that? I’m always here.”
“I thought the raw cookie dough got you.”
He wants to smack himself upside the head for such an honest response, but your sudden burst of laughter calms his nerves.
“Not yet. One of these days, though, probably.” You say, before giving him a small wink.
His heart hammers away even harder in his chest.
“So, what will it be today?” You ask, leaning over the counter as he comes closer. “Do you want to be adventurous today? I got some strawberries this morning. I could make you something with them if you can hang around for a bit.”
“No.” He says, just a little too quickly. He wants to shove the word back into his mouth when your eyes flicker with sadness.
“I mean, not today.” He clarifies, “Maybe another day. Just a—”
“Yeah, yeah. Just an everything bagel with cream cheese and a black coffee. I know.” You sigh, pushing yourself up from the counter. “One of these days, I’m going to get you to try something else! I don’t just make delicious bagels, you know!”
Wakatoshi watches on as you go about creating his usual order - coffee that’s, you once joked, “as black as your soul” and a lightly toasted bagel with a hefty amount of cream cheese.
(When you had asked him once why he preferred just a light toast, he shyly admitted he didn’t like thoroughly crunchy items. Although this preference probably came about from being Satori’s guinea pig for many, many trial and error baked goods, now that he thinks about it. You don’t need to know that, though.)
“Tasty as always!”
Wakatoshi nearly jumps out of his skin at the old man’s voice cutting through the quiet. How long has he been standing next to him? Such a big voice for someone so small.
“I’m glad you enjoyed!” You grin back at the old man before reaching across the counter to hand Wakatoshi his bagel.
Wakatoshi quickly closes the gap, his fingertips brushing yours while you ask the man how he did on his crossword today. He’s thankful you’re looking in a different direction because the less you see him blushing, the better.
Wakatoshi carefully unwraps the bagel now, half-listening in on you and the old man.
How in the world is he supposed to ask you out now without making it awkward?
What on earth is he supposed to do? Ask for your phone number? No, you might give him the phone number for the bakery as a misunderstanding. But what if he’s late for practice? Coach will have his head. Maybe he should just text the group chat and tell them he isn’t coming today.
Wakatoshi chews his bagel slowly, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine as he senses something watching him. He glances down to his right, and just as suspected, the old man is smiling warmly up at him.
“You look strong.” The man says, giving Wakatoshi a once-over.
“I am.” Wakatoshi confirms, then takes another bite of his bagel.
The old man’s eyes dim, his mouth curving downward as he turns to you.
“He doesn’t mean anything by that. He just talks like that.” You whisper from behind your hand to the old man, and he nods knowingly.
“Did you know that Wakatoshi here is a professional athlete?” You say proudly, attempting to change the subject. “You should see him on TV! He’s really good! When he’s — what’s it called? Serving? Hitting? I dunno. But he goes BAM, and the ball goes flying!” You exclaim, and the old man chuckles.
“What do you play, son?”
Why is everyone talking about him as if he’s a child who has just joined their first sports team? It’s condescending.
“Volleyball.”
“Ah. I’m sure all that height and strength is an advantage for you!”
Wakatoshi chews some more, then swallows. “Sometimes.”
The old man’s eyes crinkle as he throws his head back and laughs, giving Wakatoshi a firm pat on the back.
“I like this one.” He says to you, motioning to Wakatoshi. “He’d be a good boyfriend for you.”
Wakatoshi almost drops his bagel onto the gleaming floor, his fingertips pressing into the creamy spread as he hurriedly tries to catch it. And when he looks down, he finds he no longer has a bagel at all in his hands, but a taco.
A very smushed taco.
When he looks at you for your reaction to the man’s suggestion, you’re too busy having problems of your own.
“He doesn’t mean anything by that, Wakatoshi!” You yell at the counter, frantically tearing off paper towels to blot at the coffee you’ve splashed across its surface. “He just talks like that!”
Wakatoshi meets the old man’s gaze once again, who is only looking back at Wakatoshi with a smug grin, his eyebrows doing a little dance of amusement.
What a strange man.
“Well, I’m off!” The man announces, giving you a wave and Wakatoshi a nod. “I’ll be back next week!”
“Okay! See you then!”
You’re still talking to the counter.
The bell above the door chimes as the old man exits, and Wakatoshi’s attention shifts to removing the cream cheese from his fingers, twisting his body so you don’t see him sucking on them. When he turns back around, though, you’re nowhere to be found again. What are you, a magician on the side?
“Don’t mind him.” You say, popping up from the floor and avoiding eye contact with him, inspecting your now clean counter. “He likes to stir up trouble. He was just joking.”
Wakatoshi has his doubts, because your tone is light, but the sweat forming on your forehead says otherwise.
Still refusing to meet his eyes, you place a larger, empty to-go cup on the counter and pour the coffee with intense focus, as Wakatoshi savors the final crumbs of his bagel-taco.
When Wakatoshi reaches for his wallet to pay, you dismiss him with a wave. “Oh, it’s all free today! The least I can do after he embarrassed us both like that.”
Embarrassed?
Do you . . . Do you not think he’d make a good boyfriend? Has he been reading this wrong the entire time? Of course he has. Idiot. He’s just a patron. He was a fool to think it could have gone somewhere.
Kotarou would be a much more appropriate boyfriend for you, anyway. Kotarou knows how to talk to people and how to make them more comfortable instantly. He can make an entire room of strangers feel like they’re best friends in a simple matter of minutes.
He can't compare in that way. He would just make things awkward for everyone you knew.
How would you introduce him to your friends, your family? Prepping them beforehand that he can be blunt, but it’s unintentional? You wouldn’t be able to take him anywhere.
He may be equals with Kotarou on the court, but not at this.
At this, he’ll always be a thousand steps behind.
“Okay,” He says, realizing he’s been quiet for much too long. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! And please, don’t let him deter you from coming back here. He just likes to tease. You’ll get used to it.” You reassure him, handing him the new coffee.
The warmth of the cup in his hand becomes his sole focus, a welcome contrast to the sharp sting behind his eyes. He can’t cry. Not now. He has to get to practice, and he can work it out there.
The smudges left by Kotarou mock Wakatoshi as he approaches the door and pushes it open with a shoulder. They’re smudges that belong to hands that will get to hold yours eventually, probably, if Kotarou gets his way.
He’s charming and joyful and easygoing and all the things he’s not.
And he’d be lucky to have you.
“You’ve got handprints on your door,” Wakatoshi informs you, his tone carefully controlled as he stands with the door half open.
“Oh?” You say, walking out from behind the counter. “Oh, yeah. I see ‘em. Thanks for letting me know!”
“You’re welcome.” A beat. And then, “Goodbye.”
“Bye! Don’t work too hard!”
Working is all he’ll be doing now, but he keeps the thought to himself.
Idiot. Why didn’t you ask them?
Wakatoshi takes a long, hot gulp of his coffee, his footsteps echoing faster on the pavement as he makes his way down the sidewalk now. A grunt escapes him as the searing heat of the liquid instantly burns the roof of his mouth. Adding insult to injury, he sees. Or is it injury to insult? Would that be more fitting in this situation?
It’s for the best this way. He won’t have to talk to Kiyoomi when he inevitably asks how things went this morning. He won’t have to talk to Kotarou when Kotarou announces to the entire world with his megaphone mouth he has a date lined up with you. It will be awkward when Kotarou introduces you to everyone, but he’ll just deal with it.
When is it his turn to fall in love? Why is he always on the damn sidelines when it comes to this sort of stuff?
Maybe he can move out of the country and start playing internationally. Coach has to know somebody who knows somebody.
“WAIT! Wakato — WAKATOSHI, WAIT! HOLD UP!”
Wakatoshi slows his pace and turns to witness your desperate sprint, your legs pumping furiously to close the distance. By the time you get up to him, you’re heaving like he is at the end of a match.
“How f—” A deep inhale from you, shielding your eyes from the sun to look at him properly. “How fast can you run?! I couldn’t even keep up with you walking!” You wheeze, bending over and toward the street. “Oh my god, I’m dying. . .”
“Do you need medical attention?”
You cackle, then immediately wince, clutching at your side. “Ohhh, ow! Ow ow ow ow! Don’t— Don’t make me laugh. It hurts t—” Another deep inhale. “It hurts too much.”
Wakatoshi stands there, watching you as you try to catch your breath, when his eyes catch something glossy in your left hand. When you finally stand upright, you take a deep breath and then exhale slowly before presenting the object to him.
A cookie?
“I know you probably can’t eat it until, like, later or whatever. I can only imagine how strict your coach is about nutrition and stuff. But I want you to have this! Just to, y’know, prove I can do other stuff besides bagels.” You say.
Wakatoshi’s fingers brush yours as he hesitantly takes the cookie. It’s a fair size, roughly matching the span of his palm. The sweet scent of sugar wafts from beneath the crinkling cellophane, his gaze fixed on the pristine icing.
“I didn’t know what kind you liked, so I figured a sugar cookie was a safe bet, being plain and all. I even put a little volleyball on it, see?” You point at the cookie. “And your jersey number too!”
He silently marvels at the great attention to detail; the lines on the volleyball meticulously applied, and he’s impressed by how perfectly straight the numbers appear.
He recalls your complaint that you detested personalizing your items, citing that “working with icing is always unpredictable.” He tried to relate to you on some level, saying he had opponents who were also unpredictable. Even with all his intense research weeks beforehand, he still couldn’t predict what they would do come game day. When he had finished his spiel with “All you need to do is practice”, you had sighed heavily and nodded your head. “You’re right.” You had said. “Why are you always somehow right?”
Looks like you practiced.
But this is still a sick joke. One last parting gift before he has to see you with Kotarou all the time. The Universe is twisted.
And while he appreciates the sentiment, a cookie won’t solve anything.
He doesn’t want his jersey number on a cookie. He wants his jersey number on you. He wants to look out into the stands and see you cheering him on, smiling from ear to ear every time he adds another point to the board.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Just then, Wakatoshi's phone buzzes incessantly in his jacket pocket. He doesn't even have to look; he knows who it is. Only one man blows up the group chat at any given time.
Wakatoshi bites the inside of his cheek as you glance down at his jacket, the fabric shifting with every buzz.
“Are you gonna get that?” You ask.
“No,” He answers after a moment, and you laugh.
Honestly, he had no intention of being funny. He's mostly worried about what he'll see if he looks. It could be Kotarou saying that he's going to go to the bakery today to see you.
It crosses his mind briefly that he could just lie to Kotarou and say that you have a boyfriend, and Kotarou would one thousand percent believe him, no questions asked. Because why would Wakatoshi lie? A fine, upstanding, trustworthy man like Wakatoshi? He would never.
But, then again, Kotarou will live this one time, right? It won’t be the end of the world if he doesn’t get what he wants. He gets shiny syndrome all the time. He'll dramatically nurse his heart and be onto someone new in two days.
But, then again, Kotarou wouldn’t hurt him intentionally, so maybe if he just explains to Kotarou that—
No, you know what? Screw it.
“Would you like to go out with me this weekend?” Wakatoshi blurts out, the cellophane loudly crinkling in his hand as he tries to put the nervous energy somewhere.
Eyes fixed on you, Wakatoshi holds his breath as you blink once, twice. And then a soft smile slowly spreads across your face.
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“baby, are you ready yet?” he calls, leaned against the hallway door. you stumble out of the bedroom, working on your necklace as you reply with an incoherent mumble. he walks over towards where you stood, helping you close the necklace’s clasp as he mutters, “you look pretty.”
you were both getting ready for the long awaited summer festival. you initially had to beg him to go as he wasnt the type to enjoy such crowds, much less take time off work—but anything for you, of course! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵). you were extremely excited to go, already thinking of all the food you could eat, all the games you could play, and souvenirs you could buy.
once ushijima had parked the car you stepped out, bouncing with excitement and energy. he followed behind you, hands in his pockets as he asked, “where do you wanna go first?” you looked over your shoulder, smiling and wrapping a hand around his arm before looking up and humming, “hmmm.. i think.. i wanna check out some of the games first! and then we can look around for some food. and then.. we’ll play more games and go watch the firework show!” ushijima nodded along, listening to you plan out the day.
the first game you guys checked out was a water shooting game, which you won. you happily accepted the prize, a small stuffed bunny. “ushi! lets do this one!” you exclaimed, pointing at the claw machine.
“which one do you want?” he asked, looking at all of the plushies inside.
“hm.. i waant.. the brown bear!”
he nodded, inserting a token into the coin slot and… missing. he had his ego high at first, feeling sure that he was going to win the bear. he let out a quiet grumble, putting another token into the slot and trying again. he was so close, really, but the bear fell off the claw and close to the machine’s chute. you watched with amusement as he became slightly more frustrated with the machine. “er.. one more time,” he said, reaching for another token and putting it in. “ushi, its okay, we can look at—oh! you did it!”
you happily exclaimed, watching as the beloved bear fell into the chute and as he leaned down to take it out. he let out a sigh of relief, holding it out and watching you grab it. “its so cute! it looks like you! thank you ushi!” you happily said, moving a hand down to hold his. he had a slight smile on his face, watching as you dragged him along towards the food section.
you both waited in line, scanning the big menu board.
“hm.. i want.. cotton candy, a corn dog, lemonade.. ooh! lets try those fried oreo things!”
he hummed, listening to your choices and waiting for you to finish before adding on, “..okay. i think ill just get a corn dog. and fries,” you nodded, smiling as you both waited to order. once you had both arrived at the front, you both gave your orders, he pulled out his wallet, paying with cash before you both stood off to the side an waited.
once the food was ready, you both grabbed it and made your way near the place where the fireworks show was going to be held. ushijima picked out a table, waiting for you to sit before doing the same shortly after. you excitedly picked up a fried oreo, holding it out to ushijima before taking one for yourself.
“okay. lets try it,” you said, waiting for him to put his stuff down and take it. you counted down from three before taking a bite of it at the same time as ushijima.
“oh! its good! do you like it?”
“..i dont like sweet things that much, but yeah, its good,” he nodded, finishing the rest of his oreos before eating some of his fries. he offered them, muttering “you can have some if you want,” only to be met with your head shake as you took a bite of your corn dog and replied with an, “im okay.”
you were both halfway through the food before the fireworks show started, a loud boom! startling you. regardless,you both enjoyed the show, watching the bright blooms of color in the sky.
you swung your intertwined hands, a pep in your step as you both made your way back to the car.
“did you have fun?” he asked, glancing down at you.
“mhm! lets come back next year. and the year after that. and the year after that. and—“
he interrupted you, a low chuckle escaping him before speaking, “okay, okay, i get it. we’ll come back, i promise.
taglist: @metal-fl ˚ ༘♡
a/n: lets ignore how bad my upload schedule is thangya
the shiratorizawa volleyball gym is dead silent, the rest of the team having fled on the early bus before a sudden, violent summer thunderstorm turned the campus paths into rushing rivers. the wind is rattling the heavy glass windows of the locker room.
you’re standing by the benches, rubbing your arms through your uniform blazer to shake off the chill, when ushijima walks out of the shower stall. he’s fully dressed in his white-and-purple tracksuit, his dark hair damp and slightly messy.
he looks at you. he looks at your shivering shoulders. he walks forward with long, heavy strides, stops directly in front of you, and unzips his jacket.
without asking, he reaches out, pulls you forward by the waist, and tucks you directly inside the massive fabric of his track jacket, zipping it halfway back up so you’re physically pinned against his chest. he is radiating an unbelievable, furnace-like heat, his broad torso completely shielding you from the drafty room.
“wakatoshi,” you gasp, your face pressed flat against his collarbone. “you’re huge, i can barely move my arms.”
“movement is unnecessary at this time,” he rumbles, his chest vibrating heavily against your cheek as he wraps his massive arms around the outside of the jacket, locking you into place like a vice. he drops his chin heavily onto the top of your head, his breathing deep and steady. “your body heat is insufficient for this climate. my mass is greater, therefore i’ll regulate your temperature.”
“tendō is going to walk back in here to look for his umbrella,” you mumble, your face burning up against his skin.
“let him,” ushijima says flatly, his grip tightening just a fraction, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to anchor you completely against his heartbeat. “he knows that i’m stubborn. i will not release you until the downpour ceases and your hands are no longer cold. stand still.”
n: for my twin, @forgottensniper forget my follo misspellings, this is a bribe
ushijima feels like he can’t get to you fast enough.
the final whistle has barely echoed through the gym when his eyes find you in the stands—already standing, already smiling, like you’ve been waiting for this moment just as long as he has. the crowd is loud, people moving everywhere, teammates clapping him on his back, but none of it registers because you’re the only thing he’s moving towards.
your face lights up when you see him heading your way, and you start weaving through the edge of the court. he meets you halfway, and before he can say anything—before he can think of anything worth saying—you throw your arms around his neck.
he grunts softly as he catches you, big hands steadying your waist like you’re the most natural thing he’s ever held. you hug him tight, nose buried in the damp crook of his neck, all sunshine and love and joy that you know he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
“you were so good,” you whisper, pulling back just enough so you can look him in the eye. “like, stupidly good. i was yelling so much i think my throat gave up on me.”
ushijima blinks, dazed from the affection, but there’s something warm flickering behind his eyes.
“you yell even when i’m bad,” he says.
“that’s because i love you either way,” you reply without missing a beat, and press your mouth to his like it’s instinct, like it’s something you’ve wanted to do since his first serve of the match. it’s a little clumsy, but it makes his hands grip your waist just a little tighter.
when you finally pull away, noses bumping, he blinks again, flushed and terribly in love. the faintest curve tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“i thought you didn’t like to be so… public,” he says, voice low.
“i don’t,” you say, pecking his lips again, “but i’ll make an exception for you.”
ushijima kisses you again, and thinks, you’re mine. you’re my exception, too.
a/n yet another repost. tagging @lumissandbox because. heh. 🤩
