Im Gonna Cry @brooksviolin - Tumblr Blog

“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.