#Oikawa tooru x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

biggianteggplant · 8 hours ago

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PHEROMONE MADNESS

OIKAWA TOORU

The front door clicks open quietly at 11:42 PM.

You’re already waiting, lights dimmed low, curled up on the couch wearing one of Tooru’s soft grey shirts — the one that hangs just enough to tease your thighs. No bra. No shorts. Just skin, scent, and the knowledge that your husband hasn’t touched you in over a month.

You hear his keys drop into the bowl. Then silence.

“Tooru?” you call softly, rising from the couch.

“...Shit,” he mutters, voice rough and low.

You blink — he’s standing frozen in the hallway, suitcase forgotten beside him, jacket half-off one shoulder. Hair messy, face flushed from the flight, and eyes locked on you. Or rather… the scent of you.

He blinks hard like he’s dizzy. “What… the hell… are you wearing?”

You smile, pretending to be clueless. “This? It’s just your shirt.”

“No,” he rasps, stepping closer. “That smell.”

You tilt your head coyly. “Oh… perfume. You remember the one you got me before you left? The one you said was too ‘dangerous’ to wear in public?”

You see it — that little flicker in his eyes. Lust. Regret. Possession.

He drops everything he’s holding. Literally. Shoes still on. Bag still zipped. He doesn't care.

Oikawa walks straight to you like a man possessed, stops only inches away, his chest rising and falling hard.

“You wore that for me, didn’t you?” he whispers.

You nod slowly, your voice barely audible. “I missed you.”

And that’s all he needs.

In a second, his hand is cupping the back of your neck, lips crashing against yours. It’s messy — all teeth and tongue and groaned apologies between kisses. He grabs your waist with both hands, fingers digging into your skin like he’s checking if you’re real.

“I was gonna shower first,” he pants against your lips, breath hot. “I had this whole cute plan to surprise you, take you to bed slow, tell you how beautiful you are—”

You tug his shirt, breaking the kiss. “Then do it slow.”

He stares at you for a beat… then laughs darkly, low and dangerous.

“Oh, baby,” he says, backing you toward the wall. “You knew exactly what you were doing the second you sprayed that shit. You wanted me like this.”

Your back hits the wall and he leans in, burying his face in your neck. He inhales deeply, shuddering.

“This scent—fuck, it’s not fair. I’m jet-lagged, I’m dehydrated, I’m probably dying from airport food, and you hit me with a boss-level debuff like this?”

You giggle, but it’s breathy — he’s already running his hands under the hem of his shirt (your shirt?) and his fingers are dangerously close to finding skin he hasn’t touched in weeks.

“I missed your hands,” you whisper.

He groans, forehead resting against yours. “I missed everything.”

And suddenly, he’s picking you up — one arm under your thighs, the other gripping your back. You squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Tooru—!”

“You wore my perfume, my shirt, no bra, looking like sin itself, smelling like heaven—what did you expect me to do? Go to bed like a good boy?” he growls.

The bedroom door slams open.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

It’s been a long day.

He drops his duffle bag by the door with a grunt. “Never letting those idiots convince me to run court sprints with them again,” he mutters, already tugging off his hoodie, revealing that sweaty clingy tank top that does things to you it shouldn’t. You can see the deep stretch of his back, the taut pull of his arms, and the shine of sweat across his collarbones. The man is exhausted. And stupid hot.

You blink. You stare. You decide: enough is enough.

You’ve had a little bottle tucked away—something you ordered on a whim and hid like your most sinful secret. A pheromone perfume. Just a little spritz. Something warm. Sweet. Deep. Something that whispers take me.

You spray it once behind your ears. Once on your wrists. And because you’re a menace, once just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

You plop down on the couch like you’re innocent. You’re not.

Iwaizumi walks past you on the way to the fridge. Stops.

Turns.

Sniffs.

“…Did you change your shampoo?” he mutters, brow furrowing.

You tilt your head. “Nope.”

“Perfume?”

“Maybe.”

He hums like he doesn’t trust you. Like he shouldn’t.

He opens the fridge. Closes it again without grabbing a single thing. Then slowly turns back to look at you.

And this time—his gaze is different. He looks at you like something clicked. Like he just smelled danger and liked it.

“Babe,” he says, voice already lower, already rough, “what the hell are you wearing?”

“Just something new,” you say, stretching a little on the couch so your thighs press together. “Why?”

“…Smells like trouble.”

You smirk. “Maybe it is.”

He’s on you in seconds.

You let out a tiny gasp as he pins you to the cushions, strong arms boxing you in, heat radiating from his body like a furnace. “You know I’m sore,” he mutters, voice strained, “and this is how you welcome me home?”

“I was trying to be comforting,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his jaw. “You looked like you needed to be taken care of.”

He groans, like it physically hurts to be this attracted to you while his muscles are aching.

“You’re evil,” he mumbles as his hands slide under your shirt. “That smell—it’s like you’re begging me to lose control.”

You arch your back, let him feel the way your body responds to his touch. “That’s because I am.”

His mouth crashes into yours, hot and needy, and the second your hips shift, he curses under his breath.

“You can’t just walk around smelling like that. Not unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences.”

“Guess you’ll have to punish me then, Hajime.”

He groans again—louder this time—before lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

“Bedroom. Now.”

KYOTANI KENTARO

It’s been hours. Still no words.

He’s planted on the couch, jaw tight, gaze fixed on nothing. Not scrolling. Not gaming. Not watching.

Just... sulking. Brooding. Breathing in irritation.

You sit on the bed, watching him from across the room. The air feels thick with everything unsaid. And the silence? Colder than the AC.

You knew he was upset. The way he walked in, shoes kicked off without a word, keys dropped with too much force. The way he wouldn’t look at you— Not when you asked about dinner. Not when you leaned in to press a kiss to his temple.

He turned his head away.

And it hurt.

You didn’t even know what exactly made him mad. But you felt the ache in your chest. The hollow in your throat. And lower, where the ache turned into something else. Need. Desperation. For him. For his voice. His warmth. His hands.

You were done waiting.

Your fingers curl around the small bottle tucked in your drawer. A gift you’d been saving. A pheromone perfume. The name written in elegant script: “One Spritz, One Night to Remember.”

You spritz it once behind your ears. Once on your collarbone. And once right between your thighs—low and hidden, just for you.

Then, silently, you cross the room.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed under your chest. And you wait.

It doesn’t take long.

He sniffs.

His brows twitch.

Then he shifts—subtle, but telling.

You walk past him slowly, deliberately, letting the scent trail behind you like a ribbon in the wind. His eyes follow. His jaw clenches again. But this time, differently.

You pause near the window, pretending to check your phone. You hear him stand.

You don’t look back.

But you feel him there—hovering close, heat radiating off his body, breaths growing heavier.

"You wearing something?" His voice is low, rough. Suspicious.

You smile. “Maybe.”

He steps in closer. “Smells like trouble.”

You tilt your head. “Are you still mad?”

A pause.

Then, voice strained: “Yes.”

You press your back gently to his chest. “Even if I said I missed you?”

He inhales. Slow. Deep. And then his hands are on your hips, gripping tight.

"You don’t fight fair," he mutters into your neck. His voice—already hoarse with restraint.

“I wasn’t trying to.” You shift your hips back just slightly—barely enough to press into him. His breath hitches.

Silence again. But this time, it’s heavy. Charged. Trembling.

Then he says, almost a whisper: “You really want me that bad?”

You nod. “I always want you.”

A long breath. His fingers slide under your shirt, tracing your skin like he’s trying to remember every inch. "Then let me remind you what happens when you play dirty, baby."

You gasp— As he turns you around, backs you into the wall, and finally, finally— kisses you like the silence never existed.

KENMA KOZUME

The click click click of Kenma’s controller has been nonstop since 9 a.m. It’s now... almost 8 p.m.

He’s in his gaming chair, hood up, headset on, mumbling into the mic with that focused scowl that makes him look ten times more dangerous than he is.

You peek into the room. He hasn’t eaten the lunch you brought earlier. Or the tea. Or the snack tray.

You sigh.

Fine. You’ll play dirty.

You disappear into the bedroom for two minutes and come back with a plan: no words, no warning — just your softest, most sinful loungewear… and a little spritz of that dangerous perfume. The one Kenma said was “distracting” last time.

You walk in.

Nothing.

He’s too locked in.

So you step closer — quiet, innocent — and lean over his shoulder, pretending to look at his screen.

“Still playing?” you say sweetly.

That’s when he smells it.

His fingers twitch on the controller. His thumb slips. His character falls off the map and dies instantly.

“...Shit.”

You blink innocently. “Oops. Was that me?”

He turns his head slowly. His golden eyes drag across your body, pausing at your bare shoulder, then your thighs, then your collarbone... then he inhales. Once. Twice.

And his brain just—blue screens.

“Are you wearing that perfume again?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

You shrug, smirking. “Maybe.”

Kenma slowly sets the controller down. Like it’s physically painful to let go of it. He stares at you for a few more seconds — completely silent — until he speaks again.

“I need you to leave the room.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to do something that’ll make me miss my tournament.”

You giggle. “So pause it.”

Kenma lets out a slow exhale through his nose. You can see the moment his willpower evaporates. He rips off the headset, tosses it on the desk, and stands up.

And now he’s the one walking toward you.

“That perfume should be illegal,” he mumbles, backing you up against the wall. “And you know exactly what you’re doing.”

He’s quiet. But the look in his eyes? That’s not quiet at all.

“I haven’t touched you in three days,” he whispers, nose brushing against your cheek, “and you walk in here smelling like that?”

You smile. “Guess I missed you.”

Kenma leans in close, lips grazing your ear.

“You’re evil.”

He picks you up — no strength training, no warm-up, just pure gamer rage turned into boyfriend strength — and carries you out of the room like it’s a mission.

The door slams shut behind you both.

Somewhere, his game is still on. But Kenma’s already playing something way better.

KUROO TETSURO

You and Kuroo haven’t spoken in two days.

Two days of passing each other in the kitchen like strangers. Two days of closed doors, cold silences, and clipped replies. Two days since that argument about something stupid — a small thing that spiraled into a storm.

He was mad. You were mad. But now? You’re just… aching.

You miss him. The kind of miss that crawls under your skin, that makes your chest feel too tight and your sheets too cold. The kind of miss that builds in your stomach, low and heavy and needy.

Your pride's still wounded, but your desire? It's louder.

You grab the bottle from your nightstand. The one labeled “Do not wear when mad at me. -Kuroo”. You smirk.

Spritz.

The scent blooms around you — warm, sweet, addicting. Like sugar and heat and secrets whispered in the dark.

You pad softly into the living room. He’s on the couch, reading a book. Barefoot, hair tied loosely, glasses low on his nose. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show his forearms — the ones you haven't touched in 48 torturous hours.

You stand in the doorway.

He notices.

Kuroo doesn’t say a word — doesn’t even look directly at you at first. But you see the shift. The subtle inhale. The way his fingers pause on the page.

His jaw tightens.

You take a slow step forward. “Still mad at me?”

His eyes flicker up to yours. Cool. Guarded.

But then he smells it.

And cracks.

“…What the hell is that?” he mutters, voice rough.

You blink, innocent. “Perfume.”

He closes the book slowly. Very slowly. Like he's trying to keep himself calm.

“I know that one. You wore it the night we—” He cuts himself off. His eyes darken.

“You’re cheating,” he accuses.

You shrug, walking past him — just slow enough for him to catch another wave of your scent. His eyes follow your every step.

You lean over the coffee table, reaching for a glass you don’t actually need. Your shirt lifts a little. Your skin glows. That perfume lingers in the air like a curse.

When you turn, he’s already behind you.

“You think you can wear that after ignoring me for two days?” he says, voice low, like a growl.

You look up at him. “I wasn’t ignoring you. You were ignoring me.”

“I was setting a boundary.”

“Well,” you whisper, placing a hand gently on his chest, “I’m breaking it.”

You feel it — the tension between you both, all that unsaid apology and all that bottled up want. His hands twitch at his sides, trying to behave. But you smell too good. You look too soft. And that damn ache inside him has only gotten worse every hour.

“You’re playing dirty,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “You know what that perfume does to me.”

“Then don’t be mad,” you whisper. “Come back to bed.”

Kuroo exhales hard — like he’s giving up a fight he never wanted to win.

“Bed?” he echoes, grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him. “No. I’m gonna remind you on this couch why you don’t pick fights you can’t finish.”

AKAASHI KEIJI

You weren’t trying to manipulate him. You just… missed him.

Keiji had been stretched thin lately — long hours at the office, deadlines that bled into dinner, shoulders that carried too much weight. He was still warm with you. Still gentle. Still loving. But physically?

He hadn’t touched you in days.

Every night ended the same way — him sighing into the pillow beside you, muttering a sleepy, “Not tonight, I’m exhausted,” before pulling you close and passing out.

And you understood. You really did.

But understanding didn’t stop the ache. Didn’t stop the way you started waking up wanting. Didn’t stop your body from craving the way he used to hold you — like every part of you was worth worshiping.

So tonight, you reach for the small amber bottle tucked in the back of your drawer. You bought it on a whim, weeks ago, after reading reviews that said things like “My man couldn’t keep his hands off me” and “I wore this and now I’m pregnant.”

You hadn’t touched it since.

Until now.

You spritz it once on your neck. Once at the curve of your thigh. Once behind your ear. It's warm and soft — like sugar melting on skin, with a hint of something darker beneath it.

You change into your comfiest tank top and shorts — nothing suspicious. Nothing loud. Just you.

You walk into the living room where Keiji’s typing away at his laptop, glasses low on his nose, hair falling into his eyes.

He looks up when you enter. His eyes flicker over you briefly — then again, slower.

“You smell… different,” he murmurs.

Your heart skips. “Do I?”

He sniffs subtly, his fingers hovering above the keys. Then pauses entirely.

“Yeah. It’s nice. Really nice.”

You shrug casually, plopping onto the couch beside him. “Just trying something new.”

He nods slowly, gaze lingering a little longer than usual. Then goes back to typing. For five seconds.

Then six.

Then… he stops.

You feel the weight of his stare before you look up. His eyes are darker now, unreadable. You shift slightly, and the air moves — carrying that scent to him again.

He closes his laptop without a word.

“…Come here,” he says, voice low.

You blink. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” He swallows. “I just— I want you close.”

You move into his lap, surprised but not resisting. His hands rest on your thighs, sliding up slowly, like he's testing the waters.

“God, you smell like…” He trails off, nose brushing your neck. “Like sin.”

You laugh. “You okay?”

“No.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower. “No, I’m really not.”

You feel him harden beneath you. His breath turns shallow. His hands grow bolder.

“I thought you were tired,” you whisper.

“I was. Now I’m not. What is that scent?”

You smile to yourself. “Just something I’ve been saving.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck.

“You’ve been walking around with this weapon and not using it? That’s cruel.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tilting his face up. “Think of it as a science experiment.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting all week — like the past few days never existed, like his body just rememberedexactly how much it missed yours.

Later that night…

You're tucked under the sheets, his arm heavy over your waist, his breathing deep and even.

“…Hey,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your shoulder. “Whatever that was… wear it again. Please.”

You grin in the dark. “Not tired anymore?”

He chuckles sleepily. “Exhausted. But satisfied.”

You lean back into him, heart full.

Not bad for an experiment.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

He bursts through the door like a storm.

“BABY! I’M HOME!” Training with MSBY ran long, and Bokuto’s shirt is clinging to every inch of his muscle-packed frame, hair messy from a long day of spikes and sweat.

You peek from the kitchen, playing it casual. “Welcome back, Kou. Good practice?”

He nods eagerly, bounding over. “Mmhmm! I was thinking about you the whole time, you know?”

You hum, trying not to look smug. Because you? You had a plan.

Before he arrived, you spritzed just a little bit of that scent — that soft, warm, vanilla-spice thing that clings to the skin like honey and heat. You know how scent gets to him.

You lean in to kiss his cheek and— His breath hitches.

“…Whoa.” He blinks. “What is that?”

You blink innocently. “What?”

He leans in again, nose twitching. “That smell! You smell like… mmnngh—like sugar. Like heaven. Like something I wanna—” He cuts himself off and grabs you by the waist, eyes wide. “C’mere. I need to cuddle. Right now.”

You giggle as he tugs you onto his lap on the couch, legs straddling his thighs.

You settle in his hold, your back pressed to his chest. But then—

His hips jerk up. Once. “Ah—!”

You freeze.

He freezes.

“…Oops,” he says, voice breathless.

You turn to look at him, but he’s already burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“‘M sorry—! I didn’t mean to—! You just—! It’s the smell, baby!”

You feel him whimper, clutching your hips tighter.

“Wh-why do you smell like that? It’s not fair… You’re being unfair…”

You laugh, breath shaky now, because you feel how unfair it’s getting.

“Didn’t mean to,” you tease. “Just missed you.”

He lets out a broken sound.

“I missed you too, but—ngh—you’re gonna make me lose it, sweetheart…”

His breath is hot against your skin as he rocks his hips up again, helpless this time. You gasp, clutching his forearms.

“You didn’t even warn me,” he whines. “You smell so good, and now I’m—!” He pants, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Now I’m so hard and you’re on my lap and I don’t think I can cuddle anymore…”

You shiver, your smirk crumbling fast. “Then what do you wanna do, Kou?”

He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, face flushed.

“…I wanna ruin cuddle time.”

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

You’ve always been the one to make the first move. When it came to kisses, to touches, to taking things a little further under the covers.

Wakatoshi never minded it. He loved holding you. He loved your affection. He was gentle, patient, loyal— Too loyal, sometimes. Loyal to routine. To recovery hours. To eight hours of sleep.

You’re sitting on the couch next to him, in the oversized jersey he gave you, freshly showered and looking like sin on legs, and what’s he doing?

Reading a book.

You scoot closer. “Toshi.”

“Yes?”

You kiss his cheek. He smiles and puts his hand on your knee. …That’s it. That’s the move. That’s the entire move.

You squint at him. He doesn’t get it. He never does.

He always thinks it’s cuddle time. Like soft music and dim lights and you being all over him just means “quality bonding”.

So tonight, you’re done trying the soft approach. You pad over to the dresser and pick up the bottle.

It’s a stupid perfume. A joke gift from a friend. Labeled in loopy cursive font: “1 Spritz = 1 Baby Bump.”

You spritz it once on your neck.

And walk back to the couch.

Wakatoshi looks up, blinking slowly.

“…You smell different.”

“Mhm.”

“…You look like you want something.”

“Oh, I do, Toshi.”

He tilts his head, trying to figure it out. “You want to cuddle?”

You deadpan. Then sit on his lap. Face to face.

“I want you.”

He stills. “You have me.”

“No, Toshi. I want you to pin me to this couch and remind me you’re not just the strongest in volleyball.”

A silence. He blinks again.

Then, a pause— A very long one.

“…Oh.”

You watch it hit him in slow motion. His hands on your waist grip tighter. His eyes scan your face. Then your legs. Then your neck. Then his jaw clenches.

“This is because of the perfume?” he asks.

You sigh, dramatic. “Toshi, this has been building for weeks. But yes. The perfume helped.”

“I see.”

He picks you up like you weigh nothing and walks to the bedroom.

“Wait—Toshi—what are you—”

“If one spritz equals one baby bump,” he says calmly, “we should test the claim.”

You blink. “Wha—”

“Accurately. Scientifically. Repeatedly.”

The door shuts.

Two hours later, you’re sprawled on the bed, breathless. Wakatoshi sits beside you, rubbing your thigh gently.

“…Should we try two spritzes next time?”

SHIRABU KENJIRO

Shirabu’s been busy. Like won’t-look-up-from-his-laptop busy. “Not now, I’m reviewing a case study” busy. Grumbling at 2AM in the dark like a sexy, pissed off raccoon busy.

And you’ve been patient. Really, you have. But you’ve been walking around this house in cute pajamas, brushing past him with your soft little “oops” bumps, and what does he do?

Nothing. Maybe a glance. A grunt. The bare minimum.

So today? You choose violence. A tiny spritz of “Soft Siren” behind your ears and on the inside of your thighs. It’s floral, sweet, and just a little feral.

Then you wait.

And wait.

He walks past you once in the hallway. Pauses.

Walks back. Sniffs the air.

“…Did you change your body wash?” he asks suspiciously.

You shrug. “Maybe.”

He narrows his eyes. “You smell different.”

You lean closer, whispering, “Do I?”

The silence is tense. You can practically see the vein in his forehead twitching as he stiffens, ears turning red.

“I’m working,” he grits out, retreating to the bedroom where his laptop lives.

But it’s too late.

The smell is in his brain now, tangled in all his smart little synapses. And when you pass by the door again, he doesn’t say a word—but he follows you this time.

You feel it. That shift.

“Kenjirou,” you tease over your shoulder, “do you need something?”

You feel him grab your wrist. He turns you around, eyes dark.

“What the hell did you spray on yourself?”

You smirk. “Why? You like it?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “I can’t think straight. I’m trying to work and you’re walking around like—like—”

“Like what?”

“…Like you want something.”

You tug him by the collar of his wrinkled scrub top.

“I do. But I’ve been waiting. Waiting for you to stop choosing your laptop over me.”

His mouth twitches.

Then you’re being shoved gently—but firmly—against the nearest wall.

“You really had to wear that smell on today of all days?”

You tilt your head. “Bad timing?”

He growls.

“No. It’s perfect.”

He kisses you hard, hands roaming your sides like he’s starved. And maybe he is. Maybe you both are.

Laptop forgotten. Case study closed. Tonight, Doctor Shirabu’s new patient is you, and he’s taking his time.

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

It’s the same routine every night.

Door opens. Shoes kick off. Bag flops. “Hi, I’m home,” he mutters, already yawning.

You peek from the hallway. Goshiki’s drenched in sweat, skin flushed, hair messy from practice, shirt clinging to his back. And yet—he’s still stupidly cute. Exhausted, a little pouty, and already collapsing onto the couch face first.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” you say softly, padding over.

“Mmhmm. Thank you,” he mumbles into a throw pillow. “Just five minutes. I swear. Then I’ll reheat it…”

You sigh. You love him. But damn it, you’re not dating a nap gremlin. You’re dating a powerful, kind-hearted, hot athlete—and it’s been days since you’ve had anything more than a sleepy forehead kiss.

So tonight?

You spritz.

A dab behind the ears. One on your wrists. And because you’re mean, one spritz just under the hem of your oversized shirt.

It hits him instantly.

“Mmm… What’s that smell?” he mumbles, lifting his head slightly. “You smell... different.”

You kneel beside him, brushing hair from his face. “Do you like it?”

“…It’s really nice. Kinda sweet. Makes my chest feel funny. Like…” He blinks at you. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“…Like you’re about to eat me alive.”

You just smile, soft and slow, and whisper, “Only if you ask nicely.”

He freezes. The tips of his ears go pink. “…Wait. Are you—are you—”

“You’re always tired, baby,” you coo, gently stroking his arm. “Always coming home drained. But I want you. All of you. Right now.”

He swallows hard. “I-I can still eat first—”

You straddle him. His mouth opens. No words come out.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his neck, letting the perfume do its work. “I’ve been patient. But tonight, you’re not allowed to nap until I’m done.”

He makes a high-pitched noise and grips your thighs. “Oh my God. Okay. Okay! I—I’m awake. I’m up. I’m here.”

You grin.

“Good.” Ten minutes later: He’s whispering apologies mid-thrust like “I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier,” “You smell so good I can’t think straight,” and “I’m gonna cry this is better than any nap.”

KITA SHINSUKE

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

You just… opened the coop door to help.

Just a little peek. Just to feed them real quick.

But somehow—chaos.

Feathers flying. Beaks pecking. And Shinsuke chasing every single chicken around the yard under the burning sun. Hat tipped back. Shirt sticking to his skin. Silent. Stoic. But absolutely, definitely pissed.

You tried to apologize—he didn’t snap, didn’t yell. He never did. But the way he walked past you afterward, wordless, sweaty, and slamming the hose down next to the coop?

Yeah, he was sulking.

So now you’re inside, peeking out the window like a guilty little gremlin, watching the love of your life simmer in silence.

And maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the guilt. Or maybe it’s just that you miss him—the way he grabs your hips with those farm-calloused hands, the way he moans your name like it’s a hymn.

So you dig through your drawer.

Pheromone perfume. A risky little thing you’d been saving. The tag? “Fix Cluck-Ups With One Spritz.”

You laugh softly to yourself as you spray once to your neck, once over your chest, and one more, just beneath the waistband of your shorts. Then? You wait. Sitting on the kitchen counter, pretending to drink water. Innocent. Almost.

He walks in minutes later. Hair damp from rinsing off the dirt. Shirt clinging. Eyes tired. Lips pressed thin.

He doesn't speak. He just wipes his face with a towel and lets out a low, tired breath.

“Shin…”

“I ain’t mad,” he mutters. “Just tired.”

“I know,” you whisper.

Another pause.

Then you see it— His nose scrunches. Subtle. Curious.

And then it hits him.

He stops drying his hair. Looks at you, still holding the towel. Eyes drop to your collarbone.

“…You wearin’ somethin’?”

“Just thought I’d clean up a little. For you.” Your voice is sweet. Too sweet.

“Smells… good.” His voice dips. He lingers in the doorway, jaw clenching.

You hop off the counter, walking past him just slow enough for the scent to follow. You feel his eyes on you, heavy and distracted.

He doesn’t move until you pause in the hallway and turn over your shoulder.

“You sure you’re just tired?” It’s a whisper. A challenge.

He’s in front of you in three slow steps. His hands find your hips. His forehead rests against yours.

“You’re trouble,” he breathes. “Even after you let the damn chickens out.”

You smile. “Still mad?”

“No,” he says. “But I’m still tired…”

His hands slide lower.

“…So you better do most of the work.”

SUNA RINTARO

The second he walks through the door, he groans.

Not a dramatic, whining kind of groan.

No. A Suna groan. Deep. Flat. Laced with exhaustion and "I hate being alive after work" energy.

“Food?” he mumbles, not even making eye contact, tossing his bag near the shoe rack. His voice is gruff, scratchy from not talking the entire commute home.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there.

Looking entirely too calm.

Too inviting.

Wearing that. The perfume. The one tucked away behind your other bottles, labeled almost too cheekily: “Dinner Can Wait.”

Just three little spritzes— One behind your ear, One over your chest, One on the waistband of your lounge shorts.

It’s warm in the apartment. The smell’s lingering like a ghost. Sweet. Soft. Sinful.

He pauses halfway through yawning. His eyes narrow. Head tilts just slightly. Still tired, but now? Suspicious.

“Why does it smell like…” he squints, sniffing the air like a confused alley cat, “…whatever this is?”

You don’t answer.

You simply walk past him toward the couch, brushing against his arm as you go. And his whole body stills like he’s buffering.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Turns his head slightly to track your movement.

“…You did something.”

“Nope.”

“…You definitely did something.”

You flop onto the couch, lazily patting the cushion beside you.

Suna doesn’t move for a second. Just watches. And then you see it—that moment his tired, sleepy face slowly morphs into something darker. Lower-lidded eyes. A slow lick of his lips. A deep sigh through his nose.

“…You know I came home tired and hungry,” he mutters, approaching.

You raise an eyebrow, smile coy.

“And?”

He kneels on the couch, hands planted on either side of your thighs. His nose hovers just above your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.

“…Now I’m just hungry,” he says flatly, eyes dark. “But not for food.”

Your breath hitches.

His mouth is on your neck before you can say a word. Slow kisses. Lazily teasing, like he’s got all night. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you feel him grin against your skin.

“You planned this,” he mumbles.

“Maybe.”

“You’re cruel,” he says, voice low as his hand slides beneath your waistband.

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he groans. “And now I’m gonna eat first before dinner gets cold.”

“…Dinner is already cold.”

He pauses. Smirks.

“Not this one.”

It started innocent.

Really, it did.

MIYA ATSUMU

Osamu had just been teasing him. As he always does. Something about the way Atsumu talks when he’s flustered. The way his ears turn pink when you call him pretty. The way he—quote unquote—moans dramatically when he stretches.

And you?

You laughed. A little too hard. Leaned into Osamu’s shoulder, even clapped once.

It was over.

Now? Silence.

You’re sitting on the couch with a very obviously sulking Atsumu curled up beside you—arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to burn a hole through the carpet.

Every so often, he glances your way.

You catch him.

He tchs, looks away again.

God, he's so dramatic.

But also? A little cute.

You nudge his thigh with yours. “Still mad?”

He doesn't answer.

You hum softly and lean forward, spritzing the perfume you’d been saving for emergencies like this. A warm, sweet, heady scent—the kind that always makes Atsumu stutter and blink slow.

It hits him before you even sit back.

“…What’s that,” he asks flatly, eyes flicking to your shoulder.

“Dunno,” you shrug, feigning innocence.

His nose twitches. He tries to pretend he’s not already shifting closer, but it’s laughably obvious.

“I said I dunno,” you repeat, biting back a smirk. “Why, is it bothering you?”

He turns fully toward you, now sitting cross-legged like a child ready to argue. “Ya laughin’ that hard at Samu was already insultin’, but now yer gonna seduce me when I’m vulnerable?!”

“You’re sulking, not vulnerable.”

“It’s the same thing!”

You try not to laugh again. Really, you do. But the pout on his face, the scrunch of his brows, the genuine wounded pride—it’s too much.

And he sees it. The twitch at the corner of your lips.

“Yer unbelievable,” he mutters, standing. “I’m goin’ to bed—”

But before he can leave, you pull him down by the wrist, guiding him right into your lap.

He startles, blush creeping over his ears. “Wha—what’re ya doin’?!”

“Claiming my right to apologize.”

He swallows hard. Because now that he’s straddling you, with his nose buried in the crook of your neck, his whole resolveis cracking.

“…You do smell real nice though,” he mumbles.

You run your hands up his back, slowly. “Mhm.”

“Like… like somethin’ dangerous.”

“Mhm.”

“Like I should forgive you but also maybe punish you a little.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“I mean… just to make it even,” he says, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “So I don’t get laughed at again.”

You hum. “And what kind of punishment are we talking about?”

His hands slip under your shirt, grip hungry. “I’m thinkin’…” he growls, voice husky, “a long night of me provin’ I’m no joke.”

MIYA OSAMU

You didn’t mean to.

In fact, you were absolutely sure it was your onigiri. You’d seen it on the plate, sitting there with zero post-it notes, zero name labels, zero indicators of “DO NOT TOUCH, THIS IS SAMU’S.” So how were you supposed to know it was hiscarefully-crafted, expertly-seasoned, emotionally-attached, lovingly-made snack?

Now Osamu Miya was standing in the middle of the kitchen, devastated like you’d just told him the rice cooker broke permanently and he could never make another onigiri again.

“…You didn’t,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t what?” you blinked innocently, lips still dusted with leftover rice.

He pointed to the now-empty plate. “That was mine.”

You blinked.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he scoffed, dramatically grabbing his chest like he was in emotional pain. “I made that for me after my shift. I had a whole mouth fantasy planned and everything.”

“I thought—”

“—You thought wrong.” His voice was so dry, it could’ve cooked the next batch of rice by itself. He was already sulking, back turned, grabbing ingredients to make another one, each motion full of silent judgment and petty betrayal. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe I live with a thief.”

You bit your lip to hold back a smile. Because… yeah, okay, you did feel guilty. But also?

Sulky Samu was kind of adorable.

His pout was prominent, hair messy from work, sleeves pushed up his toned forearms as he grabbed fresh seaweed and furikake. Still grumbling. Still muttering dramatic things like “don’t even got a lock on the fridge” and “betrayed by the one I love.”

You quietly turned and walked up the stairs.

“Yeah, run away from your crimes!” he called after you.

But you weren’t fleeing. No. You had a plan.

Because earlier that week, you bought something—something new, something… experimental. A sweet, warm, subtle perfume that lingered like temptation. Vanilla and sandalwood, musky but soft, almost edible.

The bottle had been sitting on your vanity, untouched, waiting for the perfect moment.

And if now wasn’t the perfect moment to pull out the big guns, then when?

You spritzed once—just enough. Behind your ears, down your neck, one across your chest. You let it sink into your skin like you meant trouble.

Then padded downstairs again, heart thudding a little.

He was still at the counter, shaping the fresh onigiri with slightly more force than necessary.

You walked up behind him silently, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing yourself against his back. “’M sorry, Samu.”

He paused mid-shape, shoulders tense.

“…Did you put on perfume just to apologize?” he asked warily.

“Maybe.”

He turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why do you smell like a warm dessert with bad intentions?”

“Because I’m sorry?” you offered with a little smile against his shirt.

He stared at you.

Then back at your hands wrapped around his waist.

Then back to your lips ghosting against his hoodie.

“…You’re evil.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, tilting your head so your nose brushed the shell of his ear. “But you love me.”

He exhaled shakily.

“You smell like you should come with a warning label,” he muttered.

“I do,” you murmured, kissing behind his ear. “It says: One spritz = kitchen counter incident.”

He groaned.

“Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“If I burn this rice, you’re makin’ the next batch.”

“If I burn the kitchen, it’s your fault for being so hot when you pout.”

That earned you a look. But he still turned the stove off.

And without saying a word, he picked you up—effortlessly, like he’d been waiting for the excuse—planted you on the counter, and stepped between your legs.

“You smell like sin,” he muttered, forehead resting against yours.

“And you smell like you wanna kiss me.”

“…Don’t tempt me.”

“I already did.”

He kissed you.

Hungry, sweet, slow. One hand bracing the counter, the other sliding behind your waist, pulling you closer until the scent of vanilla and warmth wrapped around both of you like heat. You felt his lips twitch against yours.

“Y’know what?” he whispered. “I forgive you.”

“For the onigiri?”

“No. For making me fall even harder when I was tryin’ to stay mad.”

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

It had been a long practice.

He wasn’t even in a bad mood. Just... tired. Muscles aching, hoodie damp with sweat, mask still slung under his chin as he unlocked the front door, duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Kiyoomi stepped into the quiet of your shared home, intent on showering, stretching, maybe scrubbing himself down three times like usual before even thinking about touching you.

Routine. Safe. Orderly.

Except—

“Welcome home,” your voice called from the kitchen, soft and warm.

Except he stopped mid-step. Eyelids flickering. Nose twitching.

What… was that smell?

It wasn’t food. Wasn’t candles. Wasn’t his detergent or yours. It was you.

You… smelled different.

Soft, sweet. Sultry. Almost intoxicating. Like a honeyed whisper, rich musk and vanilla with the tiniest hint of spice—comforting, warm, dangerous. A scent that crawled under his skin and curled low in his stomach.

You poked your head out to smile at him. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared.

His eyes trailed from your face down to your oversized shirt—his shirt, hanging loosely around your thighs—and back up again. He could tell by the look on your face that you knew what you’d done.

He shifted his duffle bag. Cleared his throat.

“I need to shower.”

You tilted your head. “You sure? You look like you’re struggling.”

He swallowed hard. That scent. It was in the air. On your neck. Clinging to you. Begging him to lean in. To bite. To ruin. His self-control teetered on a wire-thin thread.

“Shower,” he repeated tightly. “Then maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

You were teasing. Cruel. Smiling like you weren’t singlehandedly destroying every wall he put up.

He brushed past you—barely—but not before pausing to inhale, deeply, right near your neck. A near-growl bubbled in his throat, low and quiet. His eyes closed for one breath. One shaky, drawn-out inhale. Then he pulled back.

“Don’t move,” he muttered.

“Hm?”

“I said don’t move.”

And then he sprinted to the bathroom.

You blinked after him, hearing the rush of water a moment later. You’d never seen Kiyoomi hustle like that. Ever.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

You were about to check on him when the door to the bathroom opened.

And there he was—hair still wet, hoodie replaced by a fitted black tee, sweatpants low on his hips, barefoot, eyes dark and sharp as blades.

You straightened, startled. “You okay—?”

“I didn’t last a minute in the shower,” he said plainly, walking toward you with slow, sure steps. “I kept smelling you.”

You swallowed.

“Had to take a cold one.”

“Oh.”

“And I still came out hard.”

Your mouth parted slightly. “Kiyoomi—”

He reached you in two long strides.

Hands on your waist. Back pressing to the counter. His scent now clashed and tangled with yours—mint and soap and pure hunger.

“You think you’re funny?” he asked, voice low. “Spraying that on and walking around my house like that?”

“…Maybe.”

His hands squeezed your hips.

“Smelling like you wanna be devoured?”

You let out a breathless sound.

Kiyoomi leaned in, pressing his nose to your neck again—right where you’d spritzed. He groaned. Actually groaned. His lips ghosted your skin, then dipped to your collarbone. “You smell dangerous.”

You smiled faintly. “Is that bad?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. And for a second, the restraint cracked.

“No,” he murmured. “But it means I’m not letting you out of this kitchen until you smell like me instead.”

And when he kissed you—deep, firm, filled with every bit of tension he’d held back since he walked in—you knew damn well that perfume bottle had officially entered your emergency-use-only drawer.

Because whatever it was, whatever magic it carried—

You’d just discovered Kiyoomi Sakusa’s ultimate weakness.

And he was going to make you pay for it.

Over.

And over.

Again.

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katescorner · 4 months ago

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ex-boyfriend oikawa who takes care of you quietly despite the end of your relationship. you two don't talk. you pass each other in hallways without so much as a glance. but his eyes linger and his heart still stutters. he tries to play it off, but none of the boys believe him when he tells them he's over you. he doesn't mean to be so involved, but he can't help himself when it comes to you. so he brings an extra umbrella when it rains because he knows you forget. he leaves candies on your desk on the days you have tests. he pays for your drink ahead of time when he sees you're heading to the vending machine. and he leaves notes in your locker with words of encouragment. you know it's him. he's never been subtle, but you don't say anything because maybe, just maybe, you feel your heart stutter too.

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noyasmashing · 10 months ago

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౨ৎ HAIKYUU BOYS AS TWITTER PORN PACK ౨ৎ

characters: (Sub!) Hinata, Yamaguchi, Nishinoya, Asahi, Kageyama, Akaashi, Bokuto, Oikawa, and Suna!!

a/n: HIIII ermm since i forgot how to write, i might as well give u hq boys as my fave twt porn videos LOL. uhh there will be masturbating videos, pegging videos, spanking, etc. remember to watch these in moderation and consume sfw content on here too!!

another a/n: PLEASE let me know if a link isn’t working, there is a duplicate, etc. friendly reminder that you will have to sign in to twitter to see most of these!!

Hinata: video video video video video video video video video

Yamaguchi: video video video video video video video video

Nishinoya: video video video video video video video video

Asahi: video video video video video video video

Kageyama: video video video video video video

Akaashi: video video video video video video

Bokuto: video video video video video video video

Oikawa: video video video video video video video video

Suna: video video video video

#sub haikyuu #sub character #haikyuu #haikyu smut #sub!hinata #sub!kageyama #oikawa tooru x reader #nishinoya smut #yamaguchi smut #akaashi smut #bokuto smut #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smut #haikyuu oikawa

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riddlesrose · 3 months ago

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sporting someone else's jersey

w/ ushijima, bokuto, sakusa, oikawa, kyotani, atsumu, suna & tsukishima

in which you decide to see how your pro volleyball player boyfriend reacts to you wearing a jersey. a jersey that so happens to not be his, and not even his team?? c'mon now.

a.n; all my favs go pro this is great

ushijima wakatoshi stares you down as you're cooking in the kitchen. you can feel the intense bore of his curious eyes as you welcome him home from practice. his wandering vision takes in the black jersey with the name "sakusa" in big, bold letters across the back. you look over your shoulder when he doesn't answer, and are met with his bewildered state.

"oh are you interested in my new shirt?" you pull at the hem, examining the MSBY jersey look-alike as you turn to face you boyfriend. he takes three long strides through the kitchen before he's caged you between himself and the counter.

"i don't like it. it's representing another team. though i am acquainted to sakusa..." he grasps his chin between his thumb and forefinger, pondering for a moment. "no, i don't like it."

you let your head fall onto his shoulder, defeated by his straightforwardness. he runs a hand down your spine, "is there a problem?"

you groan, meeting his eyes, "i thought you'd react more to it, like... be jealous or something, gods.." you say, rolling your eyes.

"well, i am jealous, i thought that was obvious?" he tilts his head to the side slightly, like a puppy.

"no, it wasn't!" you drop your forehead onto his chest and groan again. his 'matter-of-fact' attitude is probably going to kill you one day.

bokuto kotaro eyed the green shirt suspiciously, "when did you get that?"

you hum in a fake thought, "i think a while ago?" you turn, revealing the full front of the jersey. a large number 17, followed by the name sendai frogs.

"hey! it's tsukki-bro! hey, wait..." his shoulders fall, along with his smile. you almost gave up the act right then and there, he looks so upset immediately. he drags one foot after another, stopping in front of you. he pinches the mock jersey and rolls it between his fingers.

"it's not as soft as mine is." he mumbles, eyes still trained on the details of the shirt.

you wrap your arms around his neck and attempt to catch his eyes, but you realize they aren't sad. they're crinkled at the edges like he's smiling wide. seems like he's got you figured out.

kotaro figures you've caught onto his fake sadness, and a smile spreads across his lips as he kisses your forehead, "i saw the receipt on my email, you used my card."

"shit."

sakusa kiyoomi grimaces at your package as you hold it up for him to examine. if kiyoomi didn't find the green utterly horrid, it was the fact that you spent money, probably his, on a jersey that didn't even support his team.

"it's like you spun a wheel with teams on it and bought the first one it landed on," he watches as you rip the plastic off and instantly throw the jersey on. "oh my god."

you pull the shirt over your head, fitting into the sleeves, "what?"

"you're not even going to wash it first?" you pause. you hadn't thought about that, nor the fact that your boyfriend was now judging you twice over.

"i, um... no?" kiyoomi rolls his eyes, a telling look clouds his eyes. "wait, are you jealous?!" you practically leap off the couch, the green jersey falls fully into place, the hem grazing your thighs, as your boyfriend avoids your eyes.

"you are, i knew it!"

"i'm not.." he mumbles, cheeks turning just the slightest shade of pink. "why did you pick the sendai frogs anyways? do you even know the player you picked?"

"it was kyotani, and not really, i've only ever seen their team play on tv, like once." you reach around your head and pull the shirt off, throwing it to the side. "but you're jealous!"

"am not."

the jersey was a short lived accessory in your closet, but best believe kiyoomi threw it out later that night. the shirt wasn't even soft enough to turn into a cleaning rag or sleep shirt, in his best opinion.

oikawa tooru, your loving boyfriend, stands in front of you, absolutely fuming as he eyes the white schweiden adler's shirt. what makes it even worse is the name and number you've picked. #20, kageyama tobio.

"get rid of that, like, yesterday."

"um, how about no?"

"what do you mean, 'no'!"

you stand from the couch, "oh tooru, you grew up with iwaizumi as a best friend, you've been told no before." then take off towards your bedroom.

"you-! get back over here!" tooru tails you into the bedroom before you can shut and lock the door, leaving him in the hall. he grabs a handful of jersey pulling you towards the closet as you protest, trying to scratch at his arm like a cat.

"here is a treasure trove of shirts and sweaters at your disposal, why on earth would you need that."

you wiggle free from his, not surprisingly, strong grip and fall back onto the neatly made bed, wrinkling the sheets. "because, i knew you'd freak."

tooru whips around, slack jawed, "oh, and it was iwazumi's idea." if his mouth could fall any further to the ground, you'd have to pick it up for him.

"you're both so horribly mean to me!"

kyotani kentaro, a man of many emotions but little words. for some reason some 15 months ago, you decided that he was a great target for your affection. it took a long time poking and prodding at the volleyball player for his number, and by the grace of the gods, it worked. you broke down his walls and caved yourself a cozy little home in his heart. now, he'd ask for nothing different-

"what the fuck is that."

you look between your drink and your phone, one in each hand, "what do you mean?" you ask with a sweet smile.

he rounds the table, "oh piss off, you know what i mean," and pulls your chair out from the table, while tugging at your oversized argentina jersey t-shirt. the blue shirt ripples under kentaro's hold.

"oh, that! there was a giveaway online on them after the argentina team won their last big game, people online were saying they were soft, so i entered for one to sleep in. i needed a new sleep shirt anyways." you don't miss the disgusted look that your boyfriend sports so well, it deepens as he realizes the name on the back. oikawa.

after a moment, he notices your shoulders shaking lightly in laughter, sensing his displeasure. you rise from the chair, bringing him and his scrunched face into your hold, "i'm just fucking with ya, i specifically picked oikawa, too."

he huffs with a stupid smile, rolling his eyes but reciprocating the hug, "gross, get rid of it."

miya atsumu's jaw drops when he catches a sight of you lounging comfortably on the couch, in a jersey that is most definitely not his. he swiftly makes his way between you and the television, ignoring your protest. his brow furrows when you don't immediately acknowledge him and his pout, (though he will 100% deny he's pouting, miya atsumu does not pout like a child).

you lean back on the couch as he advances, "off, take it off," he says while grasping at the neck, trying to pull the jersey from you.

"atsumu stop, you're gonna stretch it!" you protest, trying to blindly swat his hands away.

he stops, the jersey falls back over your eyes and you're met with the most dramatically hurt expression ever, "you care more about this, than my feelings?!"

"i spent good money on it, besides, you went to school with suna so i thought it would be cute!"

"it is far from cute," he spits, eyes full of envy for what could have been you in his clothes. "if i let you re-steal the grey sweater can i throw that thing out?"

"... possibly."

atsumu crosses his arms, "i'll forfeit my movie choice tonight."

"you've got yourself a deal, sir."

"rin come help me with this!" suna rintaro shuffles off the couch at your call, making his way to the hallway between the living room and kitchen of your share apartment.

he leans on the doorframe as he watches you move around a picture frame, "where should this go?" you turn to him, handing the frame to him. it was a picture of the two of you and the miya twins at the recent festival that passed. it was nice to see the two of them, and thankfully both their schedules allowed for them to come.

rintaro smiles at the picture, gaze lifting to you, who's looking at him expectantly. his view lowers to your attire, a simple pair of black shorts and a shirt he's never seen before.

you catch him examining the jersey-copy and turn around to reveal the name miya across the back. you look over your shoulder and are met with rintaro's sharp eyes, judging your choice of player. and team.

he reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder, turning you back around to face him. "hey, why don't we have a bonfire tonight, i'm sure the pit is free and i have the perfect fire starter." you feel the shirt tighten by your shoulder, he's got an iron grip on the jersey, but his face remains calm as ever.

a little too calm, it's kind of unnerving.

large white letters stare tsukishima kei right back in his dumbfounded face. your boyfriend places his gym bag down by the door, walking into the kitchen, ducking under the frame that just slightly too short for him.

"hinata, really?" his voice sounded extremely irritated, but his face softened as you turned to face him.

you place your mug down, "yeah! i remember you went to school with him, i thought it was cool you both went pro!"

"i don't care what that blockhead did. more importantly, where did you get that?" the blonde gestures to your torso, flicking his wrist around distastefully.

you smile, "i ordered it online! since it's a popular team they have their own line of lookalikes, they're really soft too." while you praise the MSBY jersey, kei's brief look of jealousy goes unseen.

"you bought a jersey based on someone i went to high school with?" he steps closer, just to flick you on the forehead, "that's stupid."

you rub the spot, while swatting his chest with the back of your other hand, "you're stupid!"

"no, it's stupid that we're not burning that thing yet."

masterlist

p.s; i was gonna do goshiki but realized how CHOPPED he is in the timeskip. sorry my beloved i can't take you seriously with those baby bangs.

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shouyuus · 7 days ago

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hiiii Yuu!! what have you been up to this week? c: I love the little writing game hehe I think that’s a very fun idea. I would love to see what you come up with for Oikawa + 9:00pm! thank youuu ^u^

writing/warmup game <3

oikawa; 9:00pm --

"i can explain -- i -- i just forgot --"

"it's alright, tooru -- you don't have to -- i get it --"

"will you just listen --"

you swallow passed the hot prickle of tears, the spastic seize of your throat as you force your eyes away from the phone screen. across the world somewhere, oikawa tooru is running a haggard hand through his already mussed up hair.

"fine," you say, your voice clipped, looking anywhere but at him, "go."

oikawa sucks in a breath, "i..." he falters, his voice crackling along the bend of your downturned lips as he sighs, "i fucked up -- i'm sorry -- look, i've got a flight back for this weekend -- i'll make it up to you --"

you suck in a long breath and cast your salt-stung eyes towards the blue, blue sky. you know it must be evening for him in argentina, but here, the day's just begun.

this is the last time, you think to yourself as an airplane passes by overhead.

"where are you staying?" you ask, brushing away the wetness that threatens your lower lashes as you blink hard to keep the tears from falling.

oikawa swallows, "uhm -- at a hotel near iwa-chan's place -- but --"

"th-that's nice. it'll be nice for you to see him --"

"mi amor --"

"don't," you say, your voice cutting across his slightly accented spanish, "just... i'll see this weekend. okay?"

oikawa nods, wordless, for once.

a moment later, he clears his throat, "will... will you be at the airport?"

you let out a soft, mirthless chuckle, shrugging as you glance back at the phone screen.

"sure... if i don't forget."

#⛈ monsoon season #hahahah why was this angsty why does oikawa inspire such angst in me EVEN ON MY OLD BLOG I WROTE ANGST FOR HIM ALL THE TIME #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #x reader #hq x reader #oikawa x reader #hq oikawa #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa x you #haikyuu angst #hq angst #oikawa tooru x you #anime boys galore #rains writing games #i feel like oikawa would be a jackass bf until he grows up a bit more lsdkfjaosdighsdlfkj

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ventismacchiato · 11 months ago

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OIKAWA BREAKING YOU UP

oikawa tooru x gender neutral reader

you, a semi popular youtuber, meet oikawa at one of his games and he says ily after you scream it at him during an interview. you send the video to your current bf, who gets jealous and doesn’t take it well and ends up breaking up with you. after it goes viral on stantwt oikawa reaches out.

notes: ok i haven’t read the manga, so pls don’t come at me if i get any details wrong 😓 based on the yeonjun situation lmfao. takes place after high school u guys are twentyish. also i know i said peg it in the 27th slide i hope that’s still gn T-T

notes — bye i wrote this in a day the haikyuu obsession is back why r we back in 2020 😭 also ignore the ! in some of the tweet dns i forgot to edit them out and i’m lazy it’s so all the fan users are at the top of my app

#oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa x y/n #oikawa tooru x you #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa smau #oikawa tooru smau #haikyuu oikawa #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu smau #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #oikawa x gender neutral reader #oiakwa tooru x gender neutral reader #oikawa texts

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literatooru · 14 days ago

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❝ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 ❞

pairing: f!reader x oikawa tōru

“Why don’t you just go talk to her?”

“Hm?” Oikawa hums, and somehow manages to tear his eyes off you to look at his best friend, nonplussed.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, shaking his head softly.

“Man, you’re down bad. You’re so busy drooling over her that you didn’t hear a word of what I just said.” The room is mostly dark apart from the colored lights dancing over the multitude drunken, swaying bodies, and the music drums loudly in Oikawa’s ears. He could use that as an excuse; tell him the music’s too loud and therefore he hadn’t been able to hear him. With his brows knit together and feigning feeling offended, he opens his mouth to tell him just that, but Iwaizumi interrupts him before he can get a word out. “Don’t even try to deny it. I can practically see the hearts in your eyes. Really, it's disgusting.”

“I am going to deny it, because it’s a blatant lie,” he says, his own words making his stomach lurch a little. “If anything, she should be drooling over me. You know, like any other girl.”

His best friend stares blankly at him, letting out a soft, incredulous scoff after a moment.

“You’re so full of it.”

“And you’re being unnecessarily mean, Iwa-chan. Why would you even think—?”

“I don’t think— I know you like her. You have since high-school.”

Oikawa looks baffled for a second, scrunching up his nose a little and averting his gaze, which automatically finds its way back to you. He wishes you weren’t so far away.

“I don’t have silly crushes. I am the crush.”

Iwaizumi stares at him for a second with a deep frown on his face. He looks like he’s about to punch his friend... knowing him; he just might.

“She obviously likes you, too. Go do something about it.”

Oikawa arranges his face into what he hopes is a puzzled expression, his own frown a little over exaggerated.

“There’s nothing to do,” he says with a light, nonchalant shrug.

Iwaizumi rubs the side of his face with the palm of his hand and lets out an exasperated groan. “You really are trash.” And before Oikawa can reply, he continues. “I’m going to get another drink. You just keep lying to yourself or whatever.”

Oikawa watches him until he disappears among the crowd, wondering if his best friend has noticed—and the obvious answer seems to be yes. And how could he not? Iwaizumi’s not stupid, and Oikawa has always been pretty obvious; at least to him.

But Iwaizumi had noticed, all right. The lingering touches, the way Tōru would always make sure your shoulders brushed whenever you walked past each other, or how he would interrupt your conversations with unnecessary possessiveness (and pretty evident jealousy) whenever you were talking to other people. But the biggest giveaway was his smile. It seemed brighter when you were the person on the receiving end—bigger. It was one of the few times it was genuinely authentic, and he always seemed to save those specifically for you.

Oikawa gives a heavy sigh beforetaking a sip from his cup, keeping the cool liquid in his mouth for a second before swallowing, eyes fixed on your frame. Anyone who saw him would think it strange, because Oikawa Tōru doesn’t stare at just anybody. He wasn't wrong when he said it was usually the other way around.

But there you are, and there he is... so close, and yet so far away from each other. All it takes is a couple steps, ten, maybe fifteen. Somehow, the distance seems much greater than that.

His eyes follow you as you head to the balcony outside, which he assumes is empty. He leaves his cup forgotten on some table, walking with long strides towards the very same door you jusy disappeared through—towards you. When he reaches it, he hesitates for just a second, hand hovering over the doorknob. He gives a quick glance behind him and, when he makes sure nobody’s really paying attention to him, he steps outside silently.

And there you stand, hands resting on the cold metal of the rail as you take in the stunning view of the city spread out before you. It’s nice; he won’t deny that, but he’d much rather look at you.

He steps close enough that you become aware of his presence, but you don’t turn around to face him. Instead, you smile softly.

“You’re going to get cold,” he murmurs, shrugging off his jacket and placing it gently over your shoulders.

“Careful,” you whisper, quirking up an eyebrow. “Someone might be looking.”

“All they’d see is me being the gentleman that I am.”

Your snort makes him smile; he likes hearing your laugh, whether it comes out as a light giggle or a sudden, weird and unnecessarily loud bark.

“Why aren’t you enjoying the party?” you ask him. Your voice is quiet as though you’re sharing a secret with him. You’re used to using that tone with Oikawa. “Shouldn’t you be impressing all the ladies with your fabulous moves?”

He puffs up his cheeks, mimicking your pose. His right hand is so close to yours that he can feel the warmth radiating off your skin, a nice contrast to the chilly weather outside. If he moved just a bit closer he’d be able to touch it, maybe even hold it. It’s absolutely stupid and unfair that he can’t.

Oikawa’s quiet for a second, pursing his lips, deep in thought.

“Well, the only lady I’d like to impress decided the party was not up to her standards.” He shifts his hand a little to the right, and his pinky makes contact with yours, and he lifts it to place it on top of it. “Got too boring for you?”

You hum, hooking your finger with his and your smile broadens.

“I just needed some fresh air,” you answer, giving him a sideways glance. Anyone who saw the two of you outside would think that you were just holding a casual conversation. “What about you?”

He chuckles, eyes downcast as he flexes his fingers around the cold metal.

“I just needed an excuse to end up in a lonely balcony with you.”

Your heart does a summersault in your chest and you look away to impede him from seeing you’re actually flustered. He’s barely touching you, but you feel oddly warm. It’s funny how, after all these years, he still has that effect on you.

His eyes dart to you for just a second, and the urge to lean into you is so strong that he has a hard time fighting it. It’s a real struggle to keep a respectful distance between your bodies. Despite that, each hushed word between you two makes you both inch closer to each other.

Next thing you know, your faces are a breath away, and you’re mesmerized by the intense emotions in his eyes.

“I love you,” you whisper. And, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing and how much you like it, you force yourself to take a wide step back. He curls his fingers around your hand with a strong grip before you’re able to back away too much. Your brow is furrowed as you look down, trying to pull away from his grasp. He doesn’t budge. “Tōru, what are you doing?” you mumble frantically, glancing furtively around. Though no one seems to be looking your way, you make a feeble attempt to free your hand once again.

“I’m done pretending,” he says, his voice low, the warm whisper of it sending shivers up and down your spine. Oikawa allows his fingers to trail up your arm, and you drag your gaze up to his. His eyes are so full of longing and desperation that you freeze in your spot. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Saying those words allows him to finally breathe, it’s a huge weight that has been lifted off his shoulders. It had taken him weeks to muster up the courage to tell you, but seeing you tonight had made something in him crack. Oikawa’s tired of pretending that he isn't utterly and madly in love with you, and according to Iwaizumi, he had already failed at it anyway.

Pushing his feelings down is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Acting like you’re just another person in his life with no bigger importance than a good friend, stealing kisses behind curtains and underneath bleachers, sneaking around to stay the night just so that he could hold you for just a moment as you fall asleep in his arms.

And he looked at you and simply didn’t care anymore—about what people say. That he’s a hopeless romantic, that he’s reading too much into things, that he’s still too young to know what real, actual love feels like. But if that’s true, then what is it that he feels when he’s with you?

It’s not just his heart racing and his knees growing weak or his loss of speech. It’s the calmness that comes with you; the feeling that he’s complete, like he’s finally found his place in the world—which is next to you. Wherever you are is where he belongs.

“I love you. So much,” Oikawa breathes out, and he touches you gently under the chin, prompting your gaze to meet his. His eyes gleam with earnest sincerity, and you suddenly find yourself at a loss for words. “And I don’t want to hide it anymore. It’s torture, pretending you don’t mean everything to me. I’d be nowhere without you. I’m tired of all the secrecy; of not being able to hold you in public, to kiss you and… be with you. I just want to be with you,” he repeats, shining eyes falling to your lips.

Your mouth parts open upon hearing his confession, your previous struggle long forgotten. And you really don’t know what to say. It’s okay though, he knows.

His heart pounds loudly in his chest when your faces inch closer, and Tōru swears time stops when his lips finally meet yours. Your knees grow weak and your eyes flutter shut, fingers curled against his chest, around the fabric of his shirt. His lips are soft and warm; he instantly invades all your senses, and the taste of him silences all your thoughts. There’s raw emotion in the way his fingers dig into your lower back to hold you as close as humanly possible. Heat rises from Oikawa’s stomach to his chest, and he feels like he could combust any second just from the sweet feeling of your lips on his—he nearly forgets how to breathe. He’s sure his whole body will catch on fire if he doesn’t stop.

When he reluctantly breaks the kiss, his breath comes out in short, ragged pants. He presses his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut. He can feel people’s eyes on you both, but frankly, he can’t bring himself to care. It feels as though it’s only the two of you in the entire world.

Oikawa opens his eyes, which glimmer with admiration when he looks at you, almost like you’ve just given him the entire universe. In a way, it’s true. You gave it to him when you gave him your heart.

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kitasuno · 10 months ago

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i'll keep every promise (if it's a promise with you) | oikawa tooru x reader

oikawa tooru has a bad habit of breaking promises and running from his first love. or: the four times oikawa breaks his promises and the one time he keeps one

( a / n ) - oh my god this is my magnum opus... my baby.. its a little bit of angst and a little bit of fluff and a little slice of life. u go through ages 6 to 28 LMFAO. iwaizumi + you + oikawa were such a fun trio to write for and i hope u guys enjoy !!

gn! reader | 2k words | happy birthday OIKAWA

Oikawa Tooru has a guilty conscience and a bad habit of breaking his promises.

For every promise made and every promise broken, Tooru repents: 200 yen slid in a saisen-bako, a ninety degree bow, two wishes at a shrine. An offering to counter every promise he breaks, ample water to wash away his sins, and apologies written on wood.

( Iwaizumi has made the grand suggestion of: Maybe not breaking your promises? on several occasions, but Tooru can’t help it. )

He’s broken four promises and made eight wishes so far: four on blue Tanzaku and four atop Ema boards, followed with a prayer and an offering if the promise broken was particularly heinous or particularly his fault.

He breaks his first promise at six years old– one made with you and Iwaizumi when the three of you were four and freshly neighbors. It was Tooru’s birthday, and he had promised this:

I swear that I will take us all to the Ryokan before I turn six.

It’s a small promise: one that neither you nor Hajime had expected him to follow through with. But Tooru believed it, and Tooru had tried. He takes every single chore and odd job in the Oikawa household, scraping together a two-year-old Ryokan trust fund with mismatched coins and crumpled bills. He saves his allowances and puts everything in a glass jar next to his bed, and dreams.

Two Julys pass. Oikawa blows out four candles and then five, the jar gets bigger, you start Elementary school, and you and Hajime forget about the Ryokan. And then, on the third July, when Tooru turns six, you and Iwaizumi find Tooru mumbling about a broken promise— courtesy of his failure to take the three of you on an all inclusive trip to that Snow Monkey Ryokan that Iwaizumi wanted to go to.

So he apologizes through prayers at a shrine and two wishes under a red Torii gate. It’s a thirty five stair climb to the neighborhood shrine: Hajime and Tooru race up and you come last, but the view is gorgeous and Tooru feels considerably less guilty.

It is 100 yen for each wish on a colored paper strip. Hajime says they’re called Tanzaku. Hajime drops one coin, Tooru drops four, you drop two. Seven thunks, four wishes.

Tooru gets the honor of tying your tanzaku on bamboo branches as the tallest of your trio, and with it, the honor of reading your wishes.

Iwaizumi’s wish is messy and scrawled on bright red— Tooru tells him to Please work on your handwriting, but it’s legible and all well wishes for volleyball and you and Oikawa and cicadas.

Tooru’s got two wishes— a cyan one and a turquoise one, but he only lets you and Hajime read the cyan one. His cyan one is a little neater than Iwaizumi’s and reads:

Sorry I couldn’t take us to the Monkey Ryokan.

He hangs the red one on his tippy-toes. Cyan next. Hajime cheers a little when Tooru hangs turquoise next to your pink one, and then asks:

“Whaddya need two wishes for anyways?”

He shrugs.

“Guilty conscience, maybe?”

You’re thirteen when Tooru promises that he is going to ask you out in two years. Tooru is not allowed to date until he’s in high school, so he tells you under a blanket of stars that when the two of you are a little older, he will ask you out properly and maybe take you on a date.

He walks you to school every morning. Hajime comes too, but the pink skies before the sun rises are for you and Tooru. Moments before you make it to Iwaizumi’s block are moments that Tooru gives you his scarf, and then his gloves, and when the wind bites at your cheeks too hard his jacket is draped over your shoulders. On rainy days, Tooru holds the umbrella and laughs as your fingers brush and your cheeks flush. Some mornings he brings you toast: and tells you in hushed whispers to eat it before Iwa-Chan sees.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi walk you home after cram school and volleyball practice. Hajime’s house is first— so Iwaizumi bows first, heads back inside first, waves goodnight first. When the door closes and the light turns on, the black sky and twinkling stars are for you and Tooru. He always says Good Night saccharine sweet with a smile like the sun that makes you feel like you really can’t wait to turn fifteen.

Oikawa blows out fourteen candles. The three of you graduate in blue and walk home like usual. Summer passes, another July goes by, Oikawa blows out fifteen candles, and high school starts.

You learn several things in your first year at high school: you really like the student council, Hajime is actually pretty smart, and Tooru is afraid of commitment.

Tooru is popular: he is athletic and tall and the Volleyball Club’s golden first year. He smiles at the girls in his class, he slings arms around their shoulders, he winks when he passes by the student council room, and he preens a little and shines a lot.

Oikawa is fifteen when he goes on his first date with a girl from another school: and when he tells you and Iwaizumi after he gets home, he plays dumb as Hajime gives him a look and takes you home, overhearing Iwaizumi’s apologies and your crestfallen voice as you say something about a promise.

Oikawa’s chest hurts that night so he walks to the shrine with 200 yen in his pocket and a sorry scrawled on two pieces of colored Tanzaku.

Oikawa turns sixteen and goes to the shrine again.

This time, it’s a broken promise with a girl in his class. She was popular– she smelled like cotton candy and reminded Tooru of strawberries and daisies, so when she asked Tooru out, he had said Sure, and he had smiled like she was the sun.

But he’s a bad boyfriend– a terrible boyfriend– because he’s only there when it’s convenient and he ditches her for volleyball practice and maybe sometimes he catches himself thinking about a certain childhood friend when she holds his hand and buys him milk bread at lunch.

She was sweet and she was terribly pretty, but he doesn’t feel anything when she kisses him or when she rests her head on his shoulder.

Iwaizumi asks him what he’s running from after practice one day. Tooru knows Iwaizumi is asking why he is running from you.

Tooru is a little scared of how you make him feel too much. Oikawa likes being in control and Oikawa likes stability, so when he realizes that his heart thumps erratically whenever you’re around and he finds himself all consumed with thoughts of you and a burning desire to please you; he rejects and refrains. And runs.

His girlfriend dumps him after a few months. Tooru says sorry, removes her phone contact, and faintly remembers a promise he made with her four weeks ago.

I swear I’m not in love with someone else.

from: tooru (23:20) shrine time!!! ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

from: hajime (23:21) You broke another promise?? Ur a piece of shit lol

from: tooru (23:22) iwaaa chan U￣ｰ￣U ur so mean !

from: you (23:24) bro . don’t tell me it was about ur ex ur a manwhore !!!!

from: hajime (23:25) Average Shittykawa moment

from: tooru (23:25) i can’t help it !! (✿ ♥‿♥) everyone wants a piece of me !!! ill pick u guys up and we’ll go to the shrine and ramen after plsss ☆

from: hajime (23:26) Ur treat?

from: tooru (23:27) iwa-chan’s treat !! i’m going through a nasty breakup, remember ? \_( ◉ 3 ◉ )_/¯

from: you (23:29) hajime we know his address we can burn his room down

from: tooru (23:30) OK FINE my treat! it’s on me!!! everyone say thank you tooru !!!

from: hajime (23:31) thank you tooooruuu chan (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

tooru and y/n reacted with: Scared !

from: tooru (23:32) um please don’t do that ever again

Oikawa’s fourth promise is one to himself and one to Seijoh.

We will make it to Nationals.

He doesn’t leave his room for a week when he breaks it. He’s inconsolable. He says he’s sick: he’s got a bad fever, it’s contagious, he’s bedridden, he’s fine. But the lights are never on in his room, his curtains are always drawn, and you know that Tooru devoted everything for a chance and a dream and a volleyball.

He comes to you first. He’s standing in your doorway and there are bags under his eyes and he says, Hi, and then, I’m fine. He tries for a smile— and then you give him a look, and suddenly he’s in your arms and sobbing.

He cries for two hours. Tooru ugly cries– his chest racks when he sobs and his arms are tight around you and digging into your back. Oikawa Tooru is not weak: but he is not a prodigy.

He falls asleep in your bed with his head in your lap and your hands in his hair, but his eyebrows are furrowed and he’s shifting a lot and he’s probably having a nightmare. You call Hajime before gently shaking Tooru awake.

He blinks up at you— all puffy eyes and tousled hair and swollen cheeks, but he sees you and he softens.

“Wanna go to the shrine?”

Iwaizumi still grumbles the whole way up the thirty five steps, but he’s quiet as Oikawa slips two coins into the saizen-bako. Hajime wraps an arm around your shoulder as the coins rattle in the box and you know he’s upset too— his hands are slightly shaking and he keeps sniffing. Nationals might have been Oikawa’s dream but Iwaizumi was also a dreamer, and sure, Oikawa was going to go, but they were going to go together.

Tooru hangs two Ema boards and for the first time, he bows at the Honden. Two claps. Head down and hands together as he prays. Iwaizumi joins him: and you watch as Oikawa apologizes to him and Hajime shakes his head- because it was Hajime’s promise too.

Oikawa is twenty-eight and on a plane when he finally keeps his first promise.

It’s a small promise: but a promise nonetheless, one that he made before he left for Argentina. He tells you he loves you at the airport but he has his boarding pass in one hand and his passport in the other. And you tell him you love him too, but also that he’s being unfair, and no you won’t go out with him. And Oikawa knew you would say that, but he still finds himself making a promise– a promise you laugh at because Oikawa Tooru never keeps his promises.

If we’re still single in ten years, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to ask you out.

You cry, and Tooru wraps his arms around you and cries too— and then Iwaizumi’s there, and Iwaizumi’s crying, and you don’t know which part of you is Oikawa or Iwaizumi. Oikawa leaves for Argentina with a heavy heart but a hunger for the future.

In the ten years that pass he plays a lot of volleyball. He tans a lot. He learns some Spanish. He tries beach volleyball. And then, he buys a plane ticket on his birthday.

from: y/n (21:12) happy birthday tooru !! me n hajime r having an honorary drink for u. hope ur having fun in argentina!!! hajime and i say te amo !!!!

from: tooru (21:15) i’d like a hot sake plssss thank u!!! ( ˙▿˙ )

from: y/n (21:15) LMFAO. no. me and haji r drinking ASAHI DRRRRRRYYYYYYYY for u bro also hajime got BUFF wat the hell hope ur tanning good in argentina

from: tooru (21:16) well tell BUFF iwa chan that ill be there in 5 and i want a HOT SAKE and also YES i tanned good SO EYES OFF IWAIZUMI

from: y/n (21:17) ? what? ur funny lol … TOORU?

Tooru is twenty eight and might retire soon. Thirty five stairs is too many to climb and keeping promises is far more fun than breaking them. So he taps your shoulder, hands Iwaizumi your bouquet, and takes your cheeks in his palms to tilt your chin over.

“Hi!” He says.

Tooru bends down to kiss you.

#oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa toru #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa fluff #oikawa angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fic #oikawa fic #haikyu x reader #oikawa x you

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dearru · 3 months ago

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i miss you, come here ! | t.oikawa

-> pairing: ts!oikawa tooru x gn!reader | sfw | cw: headcanons, suggestive content under the cut, reader is in university, long distance, manga spoilers ig, bittersweet ending | mlist

-> rq: boyfriend headcanons with oikawa tooru

boyfriend!oikawa who started dating you in high school. you were heartbroken when he told you he was going abroad post-graduation, but he assured you that long distance would work.

boyfriend!oikawa who has never failed to text you “good morning” and “goodnight” despite the time difference between you guys. the messages are also always accompanied by a selfie of him. he says it’s to prevent you from “ forgetting about his pretty face,” but that’s nearly impossible to do considering images of him are plastered on every magazine you read and news channel you turn on. it’s nice to have pictures of him that are solely for you, though.

boyfriend!oikawa who brags to everyone he meets in argentina about how lucky he is to have you as his partner. his teammates feel like they’re the ones dating you from how often he rambles about how much he loves you. he could drone on for hours about how smart you are for going to university, or how cute you are when you scrunch your nose at him. he’s obsessed with you and makes it everybody else’s problem.

boyfriend!oikawa who gets offended when his PR team suggests marketing him as an available bachelor to increase his popularity. he reassures you that he’d never sacrifice the integrity of your guys’ relationship to get a little ahead in his career. he express-ships a big bouquet of flowers to your door as a way to apologize even though he did nothing wrong. (he calls it “proactive damage control”)

boyfriend!oikawa who unfollows everybody except for you on his social media accounts to prove his devotion. this causes quite a stir and results in your classmates staring at you when you walk into your lectures. you’re known around campus as “oikawa tooru’s significant other,” but you and him agree that there are worse things to be known as.

boyfriend!oikawa who notices how stressed you get from being a university student, so he surprises you with a round-trip business class ticket to argentina. he squeezes you so tight when he sees you for the first time that you think you may suffocate. as he holds you, you can feel the wetness of his tears against the back of your shirt, but you decide not to tease him about it. you missed him too.

boyfriend!oikawa who’s excited to show you the life he’s built for himself. he shows you his favorite beaches, introduces you to his teammates (who you apologize to in broken spanish about how annoying your boyfriend is), and takes you to the best restaurants in town. when you two go out for food, he orders for you in perfect spanish, and the dishes he recommends for you to try are always better than what you would’ve ordered for yourself. it reminds you how well he knows you.

boyfriend!oikawa who’s shocked when you admit one night during dinner that you’re afraid that he doesn’t need you anymore because of how well he’s assimilated to argentina without you. he takes your hand and fervently reassures you that despite moving here, you’ll always be his home.

boyfriend!oikawa who won’t let go of your hand the entire time you’re walking on the beach afterward. “people are staring, tooru.” “let them stare.”

boyfriend!oikawa who takes you to the airport when you eventually have to leave. he impulsively buys a ticket for the flight solely to wait with you at your gate for as long as possible. when it’s finally time to board, he watches with teary eyes as you walk away. it takes all his willpower not to get on the plane with you.

boyfriend!oikawa who loves you more than life itself and is counting the days until he can be with you again.

extras ! (cw: suggestive :3)

boyfriend!oikawa who’s loved kissing you since the beginning of your relationship, but now that you’re long distance, there’s a little more desperation in his touch. during nights spent together, he makes a habit of littering you with kisses. his lips start at the top of your head, make their way down to your stomach, and if he’s feeling lucky he goes a little further.

boyfriend!oikawa who unwinds after practice by hand-feeding you food. it’s cute at first, but sometimes it goes overboard and makes you wonder what his true motivations are. “try this one. this one too!” “tooru, you’re gonna make me choke” “im just getting you prepped!” “FOR WHAT.”

boyfriend!oikawa who almost convinces you to extend your trip simply by how well he knows how to make you tick. when you kiss for the last time, his hand snakes down your waist and pulls you closer in a way that leaves you breathless. he laughs at your blissed-out expression and tells you, “you’ll have to visit your lonely boyfriend again to get another one of those.” you roll your eyes and whisper in his ear to inquire about other things you’ll get when you visit him again, and he goes red in the face.

—a/n: me making oikawa content on this blog is the equivalent of walking into your kitchen and seeing a fish cooking pasta.

#oikawa tooru #haikyuu #oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa x y/n #oikawa fluff #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #hq x reader #hq fluff #hq x you

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remuswriting · 3 days ago

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volleyball besties m! reader and tooru (they’re secretly in love with each other)

#haikyuu #haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu social media au #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa x male reader #oikawa tooru x male reader

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biggianteggplant · 11 hours ago

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Omg Hi, i finally found the request Button, and now i feel stupid TwT.

Anyways, i got the idea that yn tries to cook for the haikyuu boys after their match but they almost burn the kitchen down and the character comes to save yn, and of course the kitchen.

(I need one Oikawa pls im so obsessed with him, and i can imagine that both Oikawa and yn would burn the kitchen down)

COOKING DISASTER

OIKAWA TOORU

The apartment smelled amazing. You were proud—sautéed garlic, perfectly seasoned sauce simmering on the stove, and pasta just a few minutes away from al dente. You hummed softly, swaying a little to the background music as you plated up some garlic bread. You wanted to surprise Oikawa after his game, give him a cozy, home-cooked dinner to celebrate his win.

The door creaked open.

"I'm home~" Oikawa sang in that dramatic voice of his, tossing his gym bag down. “And something smells heavenly—oh wait, it’s you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up and we can eat.”

But he was already walking into the kitchen, eyes twinkling like he knew he was about to do something dumb. “Let me help! I’m great in the kitchen, you know.”

“You almost caught fire trying to microwave a fork last week.”

“That was one time,” he said, offended. “Besides, I’m just gonna stir—”

“No, wait—don’t tou—”

Too late.

He picked up the sauce pot, burned his hand, dropped the lid into the pan, splashing tomato sauce onto the open burner. The pan hissed. The flame flared. You both froze.

“IS THAT SMOKE?!”

“Why is it sizzling like that?! Oikawa, what did you—”

BEEP BEEP BEEP — the smoke detector went off.

“OH MY GOD,” you shouted, grabbing a kitchen towel and swatting at the ceiling like your life depended on it.

Meanwhile, Oikawa, in full panic mode, somehow grabbed the fire extinguisher upside down, fumbled it, nearly dropped it, then finally sprayed it—too much, everywhere. The kitchen was now a snowy scene of white foam and garlic bread dust.

You turned to him, eyes wide, towel still in hand. “I had it under control.”

He looked at you, sheepish, hair a mess, extinguisher still in hand like a guilty puppy. “You did. I just… wanted to be part of the memory.”

You sighed, letting out a breathless laugh. “Congrats. You’re the memory.”

Later, both of you were sitting on the couch, eating slightly smoky garlic bread and reheated leftovers, wrapped in a blanket and smelling faintly of extinguisher.

“I love you, disaster boy,” you mumbled.

He grinned. “I love you too, head chef slash smoke detector whisperer.”

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You were determined. Today was the day you’d finally cook something nice for Iwaizumi. Something that didn’t involve a microwave or instant noodles.

Things started out okay. You found a recipe video, chopped a few vegetables (a little uneven, but still!), and were now halfway through making stir-fry. It smelled good… kind of.

You reached for the oil and, in classic fashion, accidentally knocked over a measuring cup full of soy sauce.

“OH—NO—no no no—”

It splashed everywhere: stove, counter, your shirt. In your panic, you dropped the spatula, which somehow flipped a piece of chicken onto the floor.

And that was exactly when Iwaizumi walked in.

He froze in the doorway, gym bag still on his shoulder, staring at the scene like you’d summoned a kitchen demon.

“…What happened,” he said flatly.

You looked at him, holding a sauce-covered spoon like a weapon. “I’m cooking.”

“You’re causing a hazard.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then your elbow hit the handle of the frying pan—and it tilted. Fast.

In a blur, Iwaizumi was beside you, grabbing the hot pan with a towel before it could fall or burn you. He set it back on the burner with a sigh that carried the weight of a hundred cooking disasters.

“Y/N,” he said, gently pulling you away from the stove. “You are not allowed to cook without adult supervision.”

“I am the adult,” you pouted.

“Not in this kitchen.”

He grabbed the spoon from you, turned down the heat, and started stirring like he’d done it a hundred times. You stood beside him like a sad little chef in training.

“…I just wanted to surprise you,” you muttered. “Y’know, romantic dinner and all that.”

He paused, glanced over at you, then gently bumped your shoulder.

“You are the surprise,” he said, not looking at you. “Almost gave me a heart attack again.”

“But the good kind?”

He finally cracked a tiny smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

KUROO TETSURO

You were so proud.

You had followed the steps (sort of), watched a cooking video (on 2x speed), and even tasted the sauce—which, to be fair, wasn’t that bad. So when you heard the front door open, you were already bouncing with excitement.

“Kuroooo~ dinner’s ready!” you chirped, peeking your head out of the kitchen.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and gave you that usual half-smirk. “Smells… edible.”

“Rude,” you snorted. “Just wait ‘til you try it.”

He sat at the table, clearly bracing himself, as you placed a plate in front of him.

Spaghetti.

But like… crispy.

He blinked.

“…Did you bake the noodles?”

You squinted at the plate. “No? I just… left them in the pan for a while to ‘let the flavors soak in’ and maybe turned the heat up a little…”

He poked it with his fork. Crunch.

“…This spaghetti is crunchier than my will to live.”

“Kuroo—!”

He burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. “What even is this? Spag-crackers? Crunchini? Garlic glass?”

You were mortified, covering your face with your hands. “Okay okay shut up!! It’s a little crispy but I worked really hard—”

“I can tell,” he grinned, still laughing. “You cooked it like it wronged your family.”

You huffed, arms crossed. “Fine. No more romantic dinners for you.”

“Noooo don’t say that.” He stood up and wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I love it. Crispy spaghetti and all.”

“…You’re lying.”

“I am, but it’s sweet that you tried.”

You smacked him with a potholder.

He kissed your cheek.

AKAASHI KEIJI

You were feeling ✨experimental✨ today.

There was leftover soup. There were hotdogs. So naturally, your genius brain went:

"What if… gourmet fusion?"

You sliced the hotdogs (diagonally, for aesthetic, obviously), threw them into the pot of warm broth, and topped it with—wait for it—cheese and some croutons because why not. It looked… okay-ish. Like something out of a low-effort cooking life hack video on YouTube that had suspiciously upbeat background music.

Just in time, Akaashi walked through the door, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat.

“I made dinner!” you announced, way too excited for someone holding what looked like a cursed science experiment in a bowl.

He smiled softly. “Thank you, love. What did you—”

He paused when he saw the bowl.

He blinked.

“…Is that… soup?”

“Mhm!”

“With… hotdogs?”

“Yes! I call it—‘Sausage Swirl Surprise.’”

There was a long pause.

“…It’s not swirling.”

You grinned proudly. “It will. Once you digest it.”

Akaashi blinked slowly. His soul briefly left his body.

“…You’re banned from naming food. Indefinitely.”

Still, he slowly sat down, gently picked up the spoon like it might bite him, and gave it a cautious stir. The hotdog slices floated like confused survivors in a cheesy broth tsunami.

He took one bite. Chewed. Silently.

You stared, wide-eyed. “So…?”

He set the spoon down. Calmly.

“…I will be honest with you.”

“Oh no.”

“I don’t know what I expected. But it tastes like… school lunch. In an alternate dimension.”

You gasped. “That’s kinda poetic?”

He gave you a look. “It’s also concerning.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair. “Okay okay, I’ll never cook hotdog soup again.”

He chuckled softly, standing up to kiss your temple. “It’s okay. I’m making grilled cheese. You’re on dish duty.”

“Fair.”

“And I’m hiding the hotdogs.”

KITA SHINSUKE

Boil and Error”

The front door creaked open as Kita stepped inside, slipping off his shoes with his usual quiet grace.

“Y/N?” he called out gently. “I’m home.”

There was a smell in the air. Curry. But not the usual comforting, warm, savory kind.

More like… confusion. And raw vegetables.

Curious—and concerned—he walked into the kitchen.

There you stood, beaming proudly with an apron on and oven mitts on both hands, despite standing in front of a rice cooker.

“Kita! I made curry for you!” you announced, holding up a ladle filled with suspiciously watery brown liquid.

He blinked. Walked over slowly. Peered into the pot.

There it was:

A whole unpeeled potato, just chilling like it paid rent

An entire onion, still wearing its dry papery skin 😭

Three massive carrot chunks, untouched by a peeler or mercy

And the “curry” itself? Looked like muddy tea with commitment issues

“…You didn’t cut anything?” he asked gently.

“I thought it would soften while boiling!” you said proudly.

“Y/N… it’s still rock hard.”

To prove his point, you poked the potato with a fork.

Clink. It bounced off.

“…Crap.”

Kita didn’t flinch. He just nodded, calm as ever, and turned off the rice cooker like he was disarming a bomb.

“Okay,” he said with that soft little smile of his, “Let’s try this together.”

You pouted. “But I wanted to surprise you…”

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. “You did. I’ve never seen curry like this before.”

Then, ever so gently, he reached for the cutting board and knife, holding up the unpeeled potato like it was a sacred artifact.

“Let’s give this potato a second chance.”

MIYA OSAMU

Osamu was humming when he stepped into the apartment, casually swinging a paper bag full of ingredients like a happy little domestic god. It was his turn to cook tonight—he had dreams of garlic butter pork, fluffy rice, maybe even plating it like a chef on TV.

Then he froze.

There was smoke.

There was silence.

And then—

BANG!!!

“WHAT THE—”

The bag hit the floor as Osamu launched himself toward the kitchen like he was dodging a grenade. He didn’t know what awaited him, but his soul screamed that it wasn’t good.

He skidded into the kitchen like a Fast & Furious stunt double—and then, he saw you.

You stood frozen at the stove, holding a wooden spoon like you were about to duel it.

The rice cooker behind you was open. Its insides were no longer rice but some sort of bubbling, demonic goo, white and sticky and expanding like a living thing. Steam hissed. Something popped. It smelled like… vanilla?

“Oh hey babe!” you said, voice an octave too high, eyes wide like a raccoon caught stealing spaghetti. “No worries! I’m fine! Totally fine! The rice just kinda… um. Exploded.”

Osamu blinked. Once. Twice. He looked at the… crime scene. Rice—or what he hoped was rice—was oozing out like it had just achieved sentience.

“…What did you do to it?” he asked, voice trembling with the weight of unspeakable trauma.

“I followed the instructions on the bag!” you declared with misplaced confidence.

“…The bag of flour?”

You blinked. Slowly turned to the counter. Looked down at the white bag you’d opened earlier.

“…That’s not rice?”

Osamu inhaled. Held it. Considered just walking into the sea.

“That’s pancake mix, Y/N.”

Your eyes widened. “I KNEW IT SMELLED LIKE CAKE.”

He approached the rice cooker like it might bite him. Steam belched. The sticky mass wobbled ominously.

“Did you at least use water?”

You gave him a smile. Too bright. Too cursed. “I used oat milk!”

There was a moment of pure, biblical silence.

“…Why,” he whispered, emotionally kneeling inside.

“‘Cause it felt healthier?! Like, I was improvising! Like you do on those cooking shows!”

Osamu looked into the pot again. It looked back. He was now grieving something he didn’t have a name for.

You gave him a small, guilty shrug. “I just wanted to surprise you. You always cook. I thought… maybe this time, I could try.”

He stared at you. At the spoon in your hand. At the lava pancake glue nightmare you had summoned from the depths of a culinary hell.

And yet…

“…You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said with a sigh, pulling you into a hug like you hadn’t just committed a war crime against starch.

You snuggled into him with zero remorse. “Sooo… you’ll take over?”

“You’re banned,” he said, dragging you to a chair like a toddler on time-out. “You sit. You watch. You touch nothing unless it’s a drink or a side of rice I personally hand you.”

“Fair,” you nodded, as the rice cooker behind you let out a final, dying wheeze.

He turned back to the kitchen and grabbed the garlic. “Though I gotta admit… not everyone can invent pancake milk lava rice.”

You beamed. “It’s called fusion cuisine, babe.”

He muttered something that sounded like a prayer to the ancestors and started chopping. Somewhere in the distance, the rice cooker clicked off with a sound that could only be described as “defeat.”

(OMG to my bb who requested this, HELLO!! 😭 Don’t feel stupid at all—the request button is sneaky sometimes lol. But I’m so glad you found it! And your idea??? SO FUNNY AND CUTE AHHH. I can totally imagine the chaos.)

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makkir0ll · 11 months ago

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thinking about co-star!oikawa who you’re filming a rom com with. it’s fun, flirty, and the two of you have a good dynamic with each other whether that be on set or behind the scenes.

especially behind the scenes because the two of you are in a secret (not so secret) relationship. the whole hair and makeup crew has pretty much picked up on it. the makeup artists who have to re-do your makeup after the two of you are "practicing lines" in each other's trailer. they have to cover up hickey on your neck when you claim it's just a burn from the curling iron the hairstylist used. your hair in an up-do for this specific scene you're filming.

but what get's everyone caught up on your not so secret relationship is when the two of you have to film the steamy makeout scene in the movie that occurs when the two characters finally kiss each other. oikawa keeps "messing up" the kiss. going in for the kiss too early or too late, not making it perfect. so this leads to you having to re-do the scene fifteen times, and in between each time you're getting your makeup retouched up and you see him smirking and winking at you from across the room.

(during press tour, he's asked what his favorite scene to film was and he says the kiss. this stirs the pot for sure and the two of you are now trending on twitter with tweets such as - "oikawa tooru and l/n f/n dating confirmed? watch this clip")

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foreveia · 3 months ago

Text

fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t.

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics.

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it.

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less.

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction.

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest.

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep.

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed.

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him.

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it.

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

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teddybeartoji · 9 months ago

Text

18+ mdni; gn!reader

oikawa fucking your throat while iwaizumi is in the room next door...

his hand is on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping into the bathroom cupboard every time he bottoms out. his pubes tickle your nose and you gag around his cock, making him to bite down on his lip in order to muffle the loud groan that's forcing its way up his throat.

he doesn't pull out.

he strokes your cheek with his free hand instead, a sick smile playing on his lips as he stares down at you. "y'have to be quiet, baby... or iwa is going to hear you, okay?"

beads of sweat form above his brows, his cheeks are dusted pink and his voice is raspier than ever and it's easy to forget the ache in your knees when you get to see him unraveling like this in front of you.

his hair is a mess, too – just before coming in here, he had his head on your lap, quietly purring as you played with his soft curls. iwaizumi was sat at the other end of the couch, his eyes glued on the tv screen where the movie oikawa himself had chosen.

you think this was his plan all along – to pick a film his friend would love so he could toy with you instead.

iwaizumi didn't notice the way oikawa kept kneading your thighs as he laid there on top of you, how his fingers inched further between your legs with every breath he took. iwaizumi didn't notice the way oikawa kept squirming, or the way he kept trying to readjust his pants.

(or at least, you think iwaizumi missed it all.)

you tried to make him stop, your body burning from his teasing touch. glancing over at iwaizumi, you were glad to never meet his gaze – like a statue he was, eyes set forward as if was built that way. maybe he really did just like the film so much..

oikawa knows that's not the case.

he knows the film is the last thing on iwaizumi's mind right now.

he has seen the way he looks at you sometimes, how iwaizumi flushes a pretty shade of dark pink whenever he happens to see you bending over. or when you sit a little too close to him by accident – oikawa doesn't mind, he can tell you're not doing it on purpose. it's not like iwaizumi is doing any of it on purpose either; the way he screws his eyes shut after catching himself staring at you while your boyfriend, his best friend, is in the same room. he feels bad, he feels awful about having these thoughts. these filthy ideas.

but he really can't help it.

oikawa isn't making it any easier for him either; he's constantly all over you and while iwaizumi knows that he is very touchy, the eye-contact oikawa makes with him as he's pressing a kiss just below your jaw cannot be anything other than him trying to push iwaizumi's buttons.

he hates how much hotter your reactions make the whole thing, too. the way your eyes meet his for a mere second before shying away. oikawa can only laugh to himself as you try to shove him off of you, knowing full well that if you really wanted him to stop, you'd tell him. you want the attention as much as oikawa does and it shows.

and oikawa is more than excited to give his best friend a deeper look into your relationship.

so, here he is now – balls pressed against your chin as you drool and slobber all over his dick. he knows that iwaizumi is listening, he can see the shadow from beneath the door. and that's turning him on even more.

oikawa cradles your jaw before giving his hips one more thrust, his blown wide eyes twinkling at the sight of your rolling back inside your head at the feeling of having your mouth so full. of having him so far deep your throat.

you hold back another gag as spit dribbles from the corners of your lips and it's making a big fucking mess – it's all over your chin and your neck, and your soft plush thighs. the shorts you're wearing are doing almost nothing to cover you up and with the way you're down on your knees right now, they seem to have disappeared entirely under the hem of your oversized shirt.

it's fucking hot.

oikawa watches the sticky liquid trickle between your legs and he can't but be proud of how big of a mess he's making in his friend's bathroom. he knows for a fact that iwaizumi's listening to you two right now, his ear probably pressed against the wooden door as he tries to memorize every sound that you make. every gag, every splutter of drool. oikawa wonders whether he's touching himself too, is he rubbing his bulge over his sweats or is he still trying to act normal. is he still trying to convince himself that he isn't a dirty fucking pervert, who's currently collecting masturbation material by creeping on his best friend and his beloved while they're having fun?

you tap on his thigh with a shaky hand and he pulls away in a second, his dick springing up and slapping against his tummy at the same time you take a desperate breath in. he chuckles at your ruined state.

the tears brimming at your lashline make you look like an angel and oikawa can't tear his eyes off of you. there's a shine to your swollen lips; it's a mixture of your own drool and his precum – his favourite.

you're still trying to catch your breath when you look up at him; his fingers are wrapped around his length, his fist meeting his full balls with every strong stroke he makes and this look, the layer of pleasure that's painted onto his pretty face is something you wish to burn into your memory forever.

when your eyes meet, oikawa gives you a darling smile before lunging at you, hunching over in order to smash his lips against yours in a sloppy kiss. keeping a steady pace on his cock, he grabs at your face as if he's afraid you'll fade away – he moans into your mouth, the salty residue on your tongue making his dick twitch in his hand.

the slick sounds of oikawa pumping himself and him trying to eat your face reverberate through the room andn suddenly you remember where you are.

your eyes grow big as you try to push at oikawa's chest.

"w– wait.. "

he grins while nipping at your jaw. "what's wrong, baby?"

his teeth brush over your pulse point and he doesn't waste a second before sinking them into your skin and sucking until he's rewarded you with the most gorgeous masterpiece in the world. all the best for his lover.

"haji– hajime's here... "

"no, it's just me, baby." a wave of goosebumps runs over your body when you feel him licking the fresh mark on your neck. "your boyfriend, tooru. remember?"

he laughs at his own joke, his head resting against yours as he pushes himself back up. oh, and how he wants to drop back down when he sees the glare you're giving him. "tough crowd, hm?"

oikawa coos at your scrunched up brows while brushing a finger over your pouty lips. "aw, don't worry, he's in the other room, okay? you're being so good for me, all quiet and pretty. my angel."

it's hard not to believe his sickly sweet words, the love in his eyes smoothing every pain and worry in your body with ease. you don't say anything else when he steps closer again, now replacing the finger on your lips with his sticky tip instead. "yeah?"

he cocks an eyebrow and you give him a nod. the corners of his lips stretch wider as he pumps his cock right above your face. "say 'aaaaaah' for me, baby."

this cocky side of him is something you've never been able to resist. it looks good on him. his own lips part alongside with yours when you present your mouth to him again and he doesn't even try to hold back the pornographic moan that spills from him at the feeling of your warm tongue sliding against the underside of his cock.

but while you're distracted by the heavenly sound of your boyfriend's overwhelming pleasure, you miss the creak of the bathroom door.

oikawa's eyes meet iwaizumi's ashamed ones through the slightest crack but neither of them make any effort to look away. oikawa is more than happy to finally see his best friend crumble and iwaizumi is mortified.

but he can't.

he can't move. he can't close the door. he can't stop staring.

oikawa's eyes fall down to your screwed shut ones, pride blooming in his chest when your nose touches his trimmed pubic hairs. head still shoved against the cupboard, he's the one in full control – your mouth is his, your body a perfect doll for him to play with. and he loves it.

you swallow around him and he lets out yet another heavenly moan. his hand is back on your cheek, his warm palm engulfing the side of your face in reassurance that while he's got the reigns, it's all done with love. your eyes crack open just as another few tears drop and oikawa's hips pick up the pace. he adores it when you hold his gaze; he thinks it's the most romantic thing in the world and so whenever you do it while taking him in your mouth, he just loses it.

quickly, he places his free hand behind your head again and then he's fucking your mouth like it's the only things he knows. back and forth, his cock slides in and out your tight, warm throat; the sounds that come from the act are just outright sinful, they're something a person could only hear in his dreams and oikawa doesn't know what he did to deserve a sweetheart like you.

it doesn't take a lot for him to sense his nearing orgasm, his body going rigid, tensing up as the knot in his lower tummy tightens and tightens.

iwaizumi is still there. oikawa doesn't need to look at him to know it.

from the corner of his eye he can see movement – so he is finally giving in. iwaizumi is stroking himself through the material of his sweats, his cock painfully hard as he watches oikawa fuck your mouth. he has never seen anything like this; maybe in some videos, sure, but seeing it with his own two eyes is completely different.

the sounds. the sweat. the drool.

the eye-contact you have with oikawa. the way he's holding you.

the fact that he hasn't told iwaizumi to 'fuck off' yet. the fact that he clearly wants him there, that he wants him to see this.

his own precum is starting to leak through his pants and it's embarrassing. but there's no stopping now. not when oikawa's hips are starting to stutter, not when you're starting to guide him to yourself by sinking your nails into the back of his thighs.

oikawa gives you second long breaks but you're handling it so well that iwaizumi begins to wonder how much you let him do this. would you ever let him—

he shakes his head to get rid of the thought, the idea of actually doing anything with you weighing heavily on his heart. and if sensing his inner turmoil, oikawa's raspy voice breaks him out from his head.

"fuck.. you- you'd like it if he did hear you, right?"

iwaizumi's eyes almost pop out of their sockets, his lips parting as panic flood his veins. based on the look on oikawa's face, he assumes that you don't agree with him – he's staring at you with that grin of his, the infuriating one, and iwaizumi prepares for him to pull out, so you can finally see what he's been doing. so you can see what kind of a man he really is.

but oikawa doesn't pull away, bottoming out instead. he takes a moment as if he's waiting for your answer – and when he gets one, the very same he knew would be the truth, his lips stretch even wider.

he doesn't need you to say it when he can read your body better than any other language in the world.

he sees the way your thighs press together. he feels your nails digging into his thighs harder than ever before. he knows his right.

like always.

"yeah... that's what i thought."

iwaizumi thinks he might pass out. his hands shake and the air he's breathing doesn't seem good enough – he's trying his best to not start panting like a dog but you not disagreeing with oikawa is a lot. you want him to hear? you want him to be a part of this?

you want.. him?

"want haji to see you like this, hm? want him to see how well you take me down your throat?"

iwaizumi thinks he might die actually.

oikawa chuckles when you blink up at him with tears in your eyes and coos at you when he takes his dick out of your mouth and you still don't say no. "my little star, yeah?"

you show him your tongue and he groan at the way you give yourself to him. he bottoms for the last time of the night, his messy balls pressed flushed against your drool-covered chin as you struggle to keep your eyes on him. "in— fuck— inside?"

humming around his cock, you give him the last push and then he's already spilling his seed down your hungry throat. you gag around him again, the feeling of cum suddenly flooding your mouth a bit too much. with a hand in your head, oikawa pulls away and watches you swallow as much of him as you can. the rest of it spills out from the corners of your lips and trickles down your chin and neck, successfully mixing with every other type of bodily fluid that's already coating your skin.

and then you give him a smile.

oikawa feels like his knees are going to give out as he throws his head back with a dramatic moan. "ohhh.... "

"what?"

his head snaps back to its place, his eyes finding yours in an instant while you slap a hand over your mouth.

your voice. it's almost completely gone, reduced down to a bare rasp by his relentless thrusts and his need to always give it his all, no matter what he's doing.

a sudden flash of shyness takes over, the tone coming from your mouth sounding so unfamiliar that it's almost impossible for you to accept that it is, in fact, yours. but when oikawa kneels down in front of you, his both hands now on your cheeks and when his heart filled eyes find yours, the feelings disappears.

he presses his lips against your forehead and you feel the fondness spread all over your body. "i love you so much, did you know that?"

his cheeks are still pink and despite the fact that just a minute ago, he was fucking your throat like it was his own personal fleshlight, he looks awfully cute with that bashful smile on his face.

oikawa nudges his nose against yours when you don't speak up again, only nodding your head with a tired smile.

"so cute."

the slap against his chest forces another burst of giggles out of your boyfriend but you're not mad. you do love him afterall. he pulls you into his chest and lets you rest for a minute before tugging you up and helping you clean yourself up.

iwaizumi is gone.

oikawa can only imagine the way his best friend is now shamefully changing out of his ruined sweats, the images of you and oikawa now forever engrained into his brain.

after oikawa carries you back to the couch, he snickers at iwaizumi and his fresh pair of pants. but that's all. nobody says anything – iwaizumi doesn't inquire about why you left him all alone and you don't ask about the flush on his cheeks.

oikawa is the only one that is sitting proudly between the two people he loves the most. his fingers dance over the sensitive skin of iwaizumi's nape while his other hand rests on your shoulder, holding you to him as you slowly doze off into your dreamland.

he's very happy about the progress you've all made today.

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