hiiii bestie ♡♡♡ i've been thinking abt kagehina wanting kids and i was wondering if u'd do something with that?? and can i order it with uhhh blackberry sauce, orange syrup, chocolate syrup and maybe a hint of espresso? tysm i love you !!!
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.
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.
"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!"
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.
This, at least, is something Shoyo has always found.
