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tw: implied nsfw //
It’s typical to think about his hands, he always does and could most likely produce poetry about it, if he was any good with flourishes. They are certain and precise, honed by years of hard work that transmits itself in the accuracy that oozes from his
It’s typical to think about his hands, he always does and could most likely produce poetry about it, if he was any good with flourishes. They are certain and precise, honed by years of hard work that transmits itself in the accuracy that oozes from his
fingertips and guides the ball to the place he wants it to be like the pull of gravity itself.
They are the hands that are capable of putting him together, then break him only to rebuild Iwaizumi again. They are the hands he wanna hold until they are old and grey.
They are the hands that are capable of putting him together, then break him only to rebuild Iwaizumi again. They are the hands he wanna hold until they are old and grey.
Infallible, perfect.
Hajime is surely obsessed enough with them, but in wake or slumber Oikawa’s legs fill his dreams too.
Hajime is surely obsessed enough with them, but in wake or slumber Oikawa’s legs fill his dreams too.
He remembers that was the first thing he noticed when they were kids. How tooru’s legs were impossibly long and thin, like twigs. That’s precisely why watching them now, seeing the muscles bulge powerfully underneath the skin, is probably so striking.
Because he remembers scrapped knees. He remembers bandaids being placed over bruises and the purple marks, things that were not so different from his own legs as a pair of kids growing as active as they did. However, the fact was that Oikawa’s legs, since they one, never allowed
for him to be still for too long.
They were always ready for him to take flight, be that in jump serves that stroke the court like lightning bolts or as they moved to take him far away from Hajime, after they shared a last embrace in Narita before Tooru got inside a plane for
They were always ready for him to take flight, be that in jump serves that stroke the court like lightning bolts or as they moved to take him far away from Hajime, after they shared a last embrace in Narita before Tooru got inside a plane for
Argentina.
When that happened, he hated them.
He hated seeing him leave as much as understanding washed over him that even though he was the one supposed to help him as his best friend, pillar, lover, Tooru had always being good enough to stand on his two feet alone
When that happened, he hated them.
He hated seeing him leave as much as understanding washed over him that even though he was the one supposed to help him as his best friend, pillar, lover, Tooru had always being good enough to stand on his two feet alone
and go places. All he needed was his legs and the bravery that lifted his spirited every time he faltered more than Iwaizumi ever could.
Hajime found himself filled with pride to the brim, but he couldn’t avoid hatred when they were so apart and he missed the other so terribly.
Hajime found himself filled with pride to the brim, but he couldn’t avoid hatred when they were so apart and he missed the other so terribly.
That’s why now, he tries to make his peace.
He pledges his apologies against Tooru’s skin, with kisses against his calves, thumbs and fingers brushing over the muscles as he maneuvers himself in between those long, longe legs that took his lover so far away.
He pledges his apologies against Tooru’s skin, with kisses against his calves, thumbs and fingers brushing over the muscles as he maneuvers himself in between those long, longe legs that took his lover so far away.
He begs for forgiveness as he nips at now sunburnt skin at the inside of the setters thighs, tongue lavishing every freckle that came to surface with care as his ears drink every moan that scape Tooru’s lips.
He maybe even loves them when they squeeze against his head and then his hips just right.
No piece of Oikawa’s legs, as they enjoy the hot, humid night of San Juan together, is left untouched, unkissed — nor is any other piece of Tooru, or Hajime’s own for that matter. They both take their time on relearning each other’s topographic with utmost care and intent.
And when morning comes, and the light turns filters from the window just right, turning Oikawa’s hair into caramel waves and painting his body shivering gold, Hajime chuckles. He chuckles and sighs, sliding his fingers gently and caringly over the soft and marked flesh of Tooru’s
legs again, realization softening his features as he keeps watching his sleeping lover, pillar and best friend.
He should know, from the beginning, there’s not one piece of Oikawa Tooru that he is capable of truly hating, even when they hurt him just so.
He should know, from the beginning, there’s not one piece of Oikawa Tooru that he is capable of truly hating, even when they hurt him just so.
