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these hands, like gods + oikawa 🥹

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these hands, like gods (and other hand-related headcanons)

ft. oikawa tooru

if you were to ask him what his own favorite feature was, he'd wink and tell you that obviously, it's his face. they don't call it a "money maker" for nothing, y'know? but you know better -- you know that he loves his hands, loves the way the can shape a game, the perfect arc of a ball in the air; loves the way they fit into the shape of you, too, late at night, when he can close his eyes and let his mind and his hands wander; he knows that they'll always, somehow, end up on you

he loves the way you fit between them too, the way your body bends and shifts at his touch, like you're his to be touched -- by him, with him

he always complains that they're too big for normal phones, that his fingers, dexterous as you know they are, always punch more keys than he's trying to hit, his texts full of random typos and the weirdest autocorrects; you have a folder of all his funniest mishaps, and this, too, he knows -- is the shape of your love

these hands, he thinks, are his rhyme and reason -- they're his bread, his butter, the paving stones for his entire future, and he takes care of them the best he can, tells you that once when he was little, he promised himself that he'd only touch the most beautiful things -- like volleyballs and really good poems and you --

he doesn't really like finger tape, but if you're the one who puts it on him, he thinks he doesn't mind it as much

your hand in his sometimes feels like coming home, and other times, he wonders how a person's hand can be so small, so slender and delicate; he wonders if sometimes he holds onto you too tight, if he'd ever accidentally hurt you -- you tell him yes, he has, but you don't mind; it's only ever proof that he wants to be closer, that skin on skin sometimes still isn't enough for him, and you've always known him to be a greedy man, to always want more, more, more...

he traces his fingers along the dips and curves of your body, worships the shape of you with both palms pressed to your skin, his lips carving himself into the hollow of your throat, the warmth of your mouth -- he wants to make himself a home there, a home inside your skin, a home he can sink his fingers into --

"you have the prettiest hands," you tell him. "i know," he says, grinning sweet and lopsided, eyes twinkling as he reaches up to bop your nose, "all the better to hold you with, right?"