#oikawa tooru one shot

[sweetlyvibe]

PAIRING : Hajime Iwaizumi x F!Reader

GENRE : angst/comfort

WC : 1.3k

SUMMARY : Iwaizumi discovers your love letter, revealing your feelings for him, but Oikawa’s arrival complicates everything.

CONTENT/WARNING : oikawa angst, love triangle, unrequited feelings, friendship strain, confession, character anxiety

Iwaizumi Hajime wasn’t someone who spent much time thinking about popularity. He never cared for the spotlight or the attention, unlike his childhood friend, Oikawa Tooru, who seemed to thrive on it. In fact, the dynamic between the two of them had always been clear—Oikawa was the star, and Iwaizumi was the reliable friend in the background. It didn’t bother him, not usually. He was content being the steady presence, the dependable one.

But lately, something had changed.

It started with you.

You weren’t like the others. At least, that’s what Iwaizumi told himself every time he caught himself thinking about you, every time he watched from the sidelines as you talked to Oikawa. It was easy to assume that you, like everyone else, were drawn to Oikawa’s charm. Who wouldn’t be? Oikawa had a smile that could light up a room, a way of making people feel special, like they were the only ones in the world when he spoke to them.

And Iwaizumi? He was just… there.

Sure, you talked to him too. You’d laugh at his dry comments, ask him how he was doing, sometimes even linger a little longer when you saw him after practice. But Iwaizumi convinced himself it didn’t mean anything. You were friendly with everyone. It wasn’t like you were seeking him out specifically. That was just wishful thinking, something Iwaizumi had long ago trained himself to stop doing.

Because Oikawa was always the one people liked. It had been that way since they were kids. Whether it was volleyball or school or just walking down the street, Oikawa would always be the center of attention. And as his best friend, Iwaizumi was used to stepping aside, letting him have that spotlight. It was how things were, and it was fine.

But when it came to you, it wasn’t fine. Not really.

Iwaizumi found himself thinking about you more often than he cared to admit. During practice, during class, on his way home. He’d wonder if you were thinking about Oikawa, if you liked him the way everyone else seemed to. Why wouldn’t you? Oikawa was everything Iwaizumi wasn’t—charming, effortlessly cool, confident in ways that made people swoon.

It was stupid, Iwaizumi knew. He didn’t have a chance. He wasn’t flashy, wasn’t charismatic like Oikawa. And deep down, he believed that if you had to choose between the two of them, you’d pick Oikawa. Everyone always did.

The day everything changed started out like any other.

Practice had just ended, and Iwaizumi was heading to the locker room, towel slung over his shoulder as he wiped the sweat from his face. His mind was still on the drills they’d run that day, thinking about how they could improve before the next game. Oikawa was already off chatting with some girls near the gym doors, flashing his usual smile, and Iwaizumi shook his head, used to the sight by now.

But when he opened his locker, a small, folded piece of paper fell out, landing at his feet.

At first, Iwaizumi didn’t think much of it. Probably a flyer or some forgotten note. But when he bent down to pick it up and unfolded the paper, his heart skipped a beat.

It was a letter—a confession.

He stared at it, his brain struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. The words were written neatly, carefully, and at the bottom was your name.

Your name.

Iwaizumi felt his pulse quicken, his hands tightening around the letter. Was this real? Was it a mistake? There was no way… but there it was, in black and white. You had written him a love letter. You liked him?

For a long moment, Iwaizumi just stood there, staring at the paper like it might disappear if he blinked. This couldn’t be right. He had spent so long convincing himself that you were just like everyone else, that you had no reason to notice him when Oikawa was right there. But this letter…

It was real. And you liked him, not Oikawa.

Later that day, Iwaizumi found himself walking toward the school courtyard where he often saw you after class. His heart was racing, his thoughts spinning with a mixture of disbelief and hope. What was he supposed to say? How could he even begin to process that you, the person he’d been quietly admiring for months, had confessed to him?

When he spotted you sitting on a bench, his breath caught in his throat. You looked up when he approached, a soft smile spreading across your face as if you had been waiting for him.

“Hey, Hajime,” you greeted him, your voice warm, familiar. “What’s up?”

Iwaizumi swallowed, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure. He wasn’t Oikawa—he didn’t know how to charm people, didn’t know how to make this feel natural. So instead, he just pulled the folded letter out of his pocket and held it up.

“I found this in my locker,” he said, his voice gruff, trying to hide the nervousness underneath.

You blinked, your eyes widening as you recognized the letter. For a moment, you looked like you were about to say something, but Iwaizumi beat you to it.

“Is it real?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “I mean, did you… did you really mean it?”

Your expression softened, and you stood up, stepping closer to him. “Yeah,” you said simply, your voice steady. “I meant it, Hajime. I like you.”

Iwaizumi’s heart was pounding in his chest, his mind still struggling to make sense of it all. You liked him. Not Oikawa, not the guy everyone else seemed to gravitate toward. You had chosen him.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why me? I mean, Oikawa’s right there. He’s…”

“He’s great,” you finished for him, nodding. “I know. But he’s not you.”

Iwaizumi looked at you, searching your face for any hint of doubt, but there was none. You were serious, genuine, and it was starting to sink in that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t living in Oikawa’s shadow when it came to you.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the quiet moment like a sharp blade.

Iwaizumi turned, and there Oikawa was, walking toward the two of you with that usual carefree grin. But as soon as he saw the letter in Iwaizumi’s hand, his smile faltered.

“Oh?” Oikawa’s voice was still playful, but there was an edge to it now. “What’s this?”

Iwaizumi’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t told Oikawa. He hadn’t had the chance. And now, Oikawa was standing there, putting two and two together. His eyes flickered between Iwaizumi and you, and for a moment, something unreadable passed across his face.

“So,” Oikawa said, his voice unnaturally light, “I guess I’m not the only one with feelings for Y/N, huh?”

Iwaizumi’s chest tightened. He knew Oikawa well enough to recognize the disappointment behind the smile, the hurt that was carefully hidden behind his usual bravado.

“Oikawa, I—” Iwaizumi started, but Oikawa waved him off.

“Hey, it’s fine!” Oikawa laughed, though it sounded hollow. “It’s not like I had a claim or anything.”

But Iwaizumi could see the truth in his eyes. Oikawa liked you, too. And now, things would never be the same.

That night, as Iwaizumi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day played over and over in his mind. You had chosen him. Oikawa had hidden his hurt behind a smile, but it still weighed heavily on Iwaizumi’s chest.

But as he thought of your smile, your words, and the way you had looked at him, a quiet sense of happiness settled in. For once, he wasn’t just Oikawa’s dependable friend. You had seen him, truly seen him.

And despite everything, that was enough.

[yanderecrazysie]

Oikawa dating a reader who's more popular than him, like she's a new young rising celebrity. At first things were perfect, they love each other, he doesn't have to worry about her getting harassed by his fangirls cuz they love her to, and they're one hot couple. But everything changed, when the fanboys attacked. They were not happy to see her happy with another guy. Especially since in their eyes, he's just some random highschool volleyball player.

It got so bad, that reader broke up with him to protect him from possibly getting harrassed in real life. But ofcourse as yanderes do, he won't accept things ending this way.

This has an ambiguous ending which can be seen as death or kidnapping, whichever you prefer. I really enjoyed writing it!

Title: Protect

Pairings: Oikawa Tooru x Reader

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, physical violence (all characters are 18 in their final year of high school)

Summary: All you wanted to do was protect him.

protect

/verb/

keep safe from harm or injury:

As the whistle blew, sounding another Aoba Johsai victory, Oikawa Tooru raised his hand and waved to the stands. The girls high above squealed, but you knew that he was waving at only one person. You.

If the cameras weren’t flashing for the victory, they sure were snapping a million pictures a minute when you ran into his arms off the court. A popular volleyball player was an article, but a popular volleyball player dating a famous actress? That was a story.

“(Y/n) (L/n)! What a surprise to see you at the game this evening!” a reporter, sensing some seriously big news on her hands, shoved a microphone in your face, “And so close to the captain of Seijoh!”

You exchanged a look with Oikawa and he gave you an imperceptible nod. “He’s my boyfriend,” you answered with a smile.

The reporter’s eyes shone like the stars, practically shaking in excitement, “And how long has the happy couple been together?”

Before you could answer, Oikawa’s fangirls came running over, squealing at the sight of you two together. It wasn’t news to the school that the two of you were an item- in fact, it was a wonder that the news hadn’t already leaked.

“(Y/n)-chan! Over here!” one of the girls shrieked, waving enthusiastically with one hand as the other clutched a poster with Oikawa’s name on it. You waved back and giggled a little at her enthusiasm. 

“I love you both!” another girl screamed, raising her own “Go, Seijoh, Go!” poster in the air. 

Oikawa took your hand in his and squeezed. You smiled gratefully at him as he leaned closer, his breath tickling your ear.

“You ready, my precious star?” he whispered.

“Always,” you whispered back playfully.

Life was perfect.

—----------------------------------------------------

Perfection has a way of crumbling. 

Everything is wonderful until the cracks start to show and spiderweb across the fragile glass of perfection. 

Oikawa’s fangirls had accepted you with open arms, but your fanboys were outraged at the news that you had a boyfriend. Some were mad that you were taken, but a lot thought you could do better than a volleyball-playing pretty boy.

(Y/n)-chan deserves better than some flatass.

Dump the loser, (Y/n)-chan!

She would be wayyyy better off with one of her co-stars and not some nobody.

He’s using you, (Y/n)-chan!

Oikawa seemed to deflate more and more as the days went on. You caught him scrolling through hate comments on more than one occasion. But it wasn’t until you caught him nursing a bloody nose and black eye that you realized that he wasn’t safe as long as he was with you.

“Tooru, we need to talk.”

The setting sun cast long shadows over Oikawa’s downturned face. 

You fought back tears as your gaze fell on the damage done to his face by the fans that had recognized him in the street. You needed to do this… for his protection.

“We need to break up.” Your voice was a hushed whisper and cracks in the middle, but he heard you all the same. His head snapped up and his eyes went wide.

“What? Why?” he demanded, a hint of panic in his voice.

“All the hate and harassment you’re getting… it’s because of me. And… I can’t take it. I can’t watch them hurt you any longer. I’ll just announce that we’ve broken up and your life will go back to normal.”

“No no no no no, we can handle this together,” Oikawa protested, suddenly grabbing you by the shoulders, “You can’t leave me!”

“I need to!” you replied, a tear slipping down your cheek, “I can’t let you get hurt on my account. We can’t be together anymore, okay?”

“Or…” Oikawa’s tone dropped several levels and his gaze became more intense. Suddenly, the man you knew was gone, replaced by something devoid of all emotion. His hands tightened on your shoulders until it began to hurt.

“Tooru?”

“Or you could just… disappear. The whole world will wonder why you went missing and, after they clear me of suspicion, the world will move on,” Oikawa smiled down at you with a grin so twisted that you could barely believe it belonged to him, “Don’t worry, my little star, I’ll never forget about you.”

[teamatsumu]

good enough.

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x reader

Word count: 2,578

✎ Soulmate AU, Angst, Hurt comfort

You had always been a meek child. And it shocked everyone you would meet.

It had a lot to do with the fact that your parents were both extremely outgoing. They were loud, adventurous types who loved trying new things. It wasn't difficult to see how they were soulmates. They were practically cut from the same cloth. But you, you often made people lose the plot. You didn't act like your parents' daughter at all.

You had always been very shy. It had taken you forever to make friends in daycare, and even longer once you entered kindergarten. Kids were too loud and too messy. So you preferred to keep to yourself. The few friends you had were because someone else would take you 'under their wing' somehow.

You got better as you grew up, though you could still technically be considered an introvert. You hated that word. Hated how limiting it was and how it put you into a box. You weren't an introvert. You had friends that you loved hanging out with and spending time with. You didn't prefer being alone. You loved companionship.

You just didn't think you were interesting enough to deserve it.

So you stayed in your little circle of dedicated friends, girls you had met as a little kid and stuck by all through elementary and middle school. But towards the end of middle school, something happened that changed your life forever.

You met your soulmate.

Well, 'met' was a strong word. You saw him, from afar. You laid eyes on him, felt that electricity shoot up inside you, the mantra of 'soulmate, soulmate, soulmate' repeating in your head. It was the same pattern of feelings you were told your whole life that you would feel. Down to every last detail. Yet your brain couldn't accept it. You couldn't believe the obvious signals your body was sending you. It just couldn't be.

Your soulmate was…… Oikawa Tooru?

The Oikawa Tooru. Kitagawa Daiichi's star setter. The best player their school had seen so far. You had seen him while he was receiving the award for best setter. When your eyes had settled on him for more than 5 seconds, signaling to your body that you were looking directly at your soulmate. You were frozen in your spot, obscured in the crowd of students seated for the ceremony. Watching as Oikawa accepted his medal and his shield. The center of attention, the smile on his face bright and warm.

You in the bleachers, clapping mechanically, no different from anyone around you. Blending into your surroundings like you had your entire life.

It took you many, many weeks to get used to the idea that Oikawa Tooru was your soulmate. Your other half. It just didn't sit well with you. You had seen soulmate couples your entire life, including your parents. People with similar tastes, more or less matching personalities, so in love and so in sync.

You and Oikawa were worlds apart.

He had a gentle charm to him, easy going smile and bright, bright brown eyes, hair so casually wind swept, the color of warm chestnut. He was tall, lean, enough to command a room the second he entered it. It almost seemed like he had a spotlight on him at all times. As you watched him from afar, cracking jokes and laughing loud, annoying his friends and greeting his fans, you realized just how different you two were.

You were, in every sense of the word, average. You weren't confident, but you could speak your mind when you wanted. You weren't ugly, but you weren't exactly a head turner. You were so….. mediocre. Especially compared to someone as rare and wonderful as Oikawa Tooru. There's no way you could match up to him.

You didn't deserve him. And more importantly, he deserved so much better than you.

You never dared mention to anyone that you knew who your soulmate was. Your friends would hound you forever and your parents would be flabbergasted that you didn't tell him yet. You didn't have it in yourself to explain to them why you didn't. It made sense in your head, but you had enough awareness to know that other people would say it's utter bullshit. You didn't want to deal with that. Someday, Oikawa would give up on finding his soulmate and settle down with someone else. Someone who could fit into his shiny, busy world. All you had to do till then was stay out of the way. This was for Oikawa's own good.

You knew fate was testing you when you unintentionally ended up at the same high school as Oikawa. You had nearly done a double take when you saw him in the halls, talking to that spiky haired boy he was friends with, basking in the admiring looks of multiple girls that walked past him and waved at him. It made you sigh. It's like every time you saw him, you were reminded how much better he was than you. And all it did was strengthen your resolve to stay miles away from him.

You managed to successfully avoid Oikawa for many months, which wasn't hard considering your straightforward routine. You didn't like leaving class for no reason. You had lunch at your desk. You weren't part of any clubs so you would go straight home afterwards. Also owing to the fact that Oikawa appeared to be the busiest person in the world, it made your life much easier.

You should've known it wouldn't last long. It seemed the entire universe was conspiring to get you closer to Oikawa. And the universe had sent Matsukawa Issei to do the job.

Matsukawa was in the same class as you. He sat next to you in the back row and dosed off during most of the lessons. You thought he was incredibly amusing. Especially when he would sneak food into his mouth during classes and try to chew it without the teacher noticing that his mouth was moving. When you would try to hide your grin, he would wink at you and offer you food too, and both of you would munch on it while you waited for lessons to be over. He was very laid back and easy going, yet had a lot of confidence. In an ideal world where you weren't so anxious, you liked to think you would be a lot like him.

You never would've dreamed that someone so naturally lazy would actually be part of a sports club. Especially not volleyball. The thought never crossed your mind. Had you known, you wouldn't have touched him with a ten foot pole. But you made it a point to stay as far away from Oikawa and volleyball as possible, so you didn't know. Big mistake.

The midday sun was beating on your head as you stood waiting at the school gate. You tried leaning against the wall but the brick was burning up, making you yelp and jump away. You scowled at your phone, staring at Matsukawa's name before hitting Call. He picked up after only two beeps.

"Y/N-?"

"Where the hell are you, Issei? I'm getting cooked in this heat!" You whined, feeling your scowl deepen. You watched students bustle out of the gate, eager to get home and away from the sun. There was a short pause on the other end of the line before Matsukawa spoke again.

"Oh shit."

You groaned out loud at the words, knowing exactly what he meant.

"Issei, I need those notes! We have a quiz tomorrow and you promised me you would give them back after school."

You could hear Matsukawa panting on the other end, making your eyebrows furrow. Was he running?

"Listen, Y/N. I left my bag at the gym. The team is out on a run right now and I think we will be back in maybe ten minutes? Why don't you go wait at the gym and I'll give it to you when I come-"

"Wait," you cut him off. "What gym? What are you talking about?"

More huffing. "Oh yeah, you don't know. I'm in the volleyball club. Go wait for me at the gym."

You stilled, blinking once, before the implication of his words sank in and panic gripped your chest. "No, no, wait! I can't go there. I'll wait for you at the gate and you can just come give it to me-"

"Coach won't let me leave the gym during practice time. What's the big deal? It'll take two minutes-"

"No Issei!" You cut him off, feeling cornered. "Keep the notebook. I'll get it from you tomorrow."

"But what about the qui-"

You hung up.

Your heart was beating a mile a minute, thoughts racing. That was so close. So close. You had unintentionally become friends with Oikawa's teammate. And you had no clue. Panic gripped you as you realized what this meant. At any given time, Oikawa could've seen you. He could've walked into your classroom to talk to Issei about something and laid eyes on you. Then he would've known.

The walk home was shaky and disorienting. You felt frustrated with yourself at this game you were playing. Trying to stay away from the boy this universe was begging you to be with. Someone your heart also desperately wanted, but your insecure, anxious brain was constantly yelling at you to stay away from.

He's too good. His future is too bright. You'll ruin him.

You were so tired.

The quiz ended up being pretty easy, considering the fact that you didn't study for it at all and spent most of your evening crying, then watching some shitty comedy on Netflix that didn't make you laugh at all, going through your snack drawer like an madwoman and finally falling asleep, where brown eyes plagued you in your dreams for the rest of the night. You thanked the gods that you had nothing good to do in your life and hence spent most of your time studying. It meant you did pretty well on your test despite doing nothing to prepare for it.

If there was one thing about you that was way above average, it was your brain.

Issei was looking at you weirdly throughout the day, and he finally spoke up at lunch, something you had been dreading.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was yesterday?" He crossed his arms, staring at you so hard you were afraid he could take a peek into your soul.

"What the hell was what." You deadpanned, avoiding his gaze.

"Don't be daft. You nearly had a panic attack when I told you to come meet me at the volleyball gym."

You cringed at the word 'volleyball', sighing deeply. "I just didn't want to make the extra trip, it was really hot outside-"

You stopped talking when Matsukawa abruptly sat up, eyes narrowed at you. "You're bullshitting me. Tell me the truth."

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. "I am telling you the-"

"I'll drag the entire volleyball team here if I have to." He drawled, a challenge in his voice. "You freaked me out yesterday. And it has something to do with my club. So tell me, or I'll find out somehow."

You felt your heart race. Dammit. You couldn't think of anything else. You couldn't think of a lie to placate him. And as you stared into his dark eyes, you knew you had lost.

Matsukawa Issei became the first person to know who your soulmate was.

He had dragged you out of the class after lunch break. There had been too much to unpack in that short amount of time. You hid behind the school overlooking the grounds, telling Matsukawa everything, like word vomit that you couldn't stop. You realized as you talked just how desperate you were to tell someone about all this. You had kept it in for so long that just saying it all out loud seemed to lighten your load.

A thick blanket of silence fell on you two when you finished, nearly out of breath. You watched Matsukawa intently as he stared out at the grounds, one leg pulled up to his torso and resting his arm on his knee. He sighed heavily, running a hand across his face.

"For someone who gets the best grades in our class, you have got to be the dumbest person I have ever met."

You blinked at his words, shocked. "Huh?"

He scowled deeply at you, shocking you even more. He looked almost angry.

"You think you know better than the universe? You think you're smarter than fate?" He raised his voice, looking pissed. "How can you think the gods were wrong when they paired you with Oikawa? And to make this huge decision, without even considering how Oikawa might feel-"

"How dare you." Your voice trembled, feeling tears prick at your lash line. "All I did was consider how Oikawa might feel. I put my own feelings aside-"

"What the hell makes you think this is what Oikawa wants?" Matsukawa raised his voice even more, nearly swelling up in frustration. "You don't know him. You don't know if he wants you. You can't make this decision for him!"

You reeled at his words, blinking your tears away furiously. What the hell was Issei implying? That Oikawa could actually make any alternative choice? It couldn't be. Why would he want you?

Issei's face was softening, watching the emotions flit over your face.

"Y/N," he continued. "You're my friend. I'd like to think I know you. And from what I've seen, I guarantee you that there is not one thing about you that Oikawa won't like."

"But I-" You drew in a trembling breath. "We're so different."

Issei snorted and shrugged. "Trust me, he needs that. Or his head would get too big for his own body to carry."

You two stayed silent for a bit, letting Issei's words wash over you like a cold shower after a hot day. Your heart was screaming at you to believe him, but your mind wouldn't let up. You heard him sigh and stand up, stretching his arms above his head. How long had you been out here anyway? It felt like hours. Was school over? What time was it?

"Alright, let's go." You snapped out of your thoughts at his words, blinking owlishly up at him.

"Go where?"

He didn't answer, waving your question off like he was swatting a fly before he grabbed your arm and pulled you up to your feet, not giving you a moment to breathe as he led you away.

"Issei-"

"Shut up. I've heard enough outta you." He didn't look back at you. You felt a sting of indignation, falling into silence and letting him drag you. You felt so burnt out.

You only tuned back into the present when you heard the squeaks and thuds on hardwood floors, tensing up when Issei climbed the three small stairs leading to the open volleyball gym doors. He tugged your arm when he realized you had stopped, turning to look at you. He gave you a soft look, almost pleading.

"He deserves this. Please."

You felt your shoulders slump in acceptance, mind stilling and slowing in its tirade of thoughts. With one last deep breath, you stepped inside.

Let me know what you think!

[mihawkhugs]

starlight

haikyuu | oikawa x reader | soulmate au

tw :  mentions of depression, and brief mention of attempts at suicide

He seemed to be made of starlight, standing out among the throngs of students, the faceless members of society, and the monotony of your daily life. 

Whatever Oikawa Tooru did, wherever he went, he seemed to command attention. He was like the sole candle in a dark room, and the people his willing moths. He seemed to radiate light. He was often accompanied by laughter and giggles, and smiles and grins.. He seemed to be universally admired no matter where he was, and that both terrified and amazed you. 

Yet, as someone who grappled with depression, paced with anxiety, drowned in insecurity, and jested with sorrow like he was an old friend, you couldn't help but notice his eyes. Sometimes, despite being surrounded by his friends and fans, he seemed to be lonely, or like a doll on display, pretty, but devoid of life and love.

In an odd way, Oikawa Tooru reminded you of yourself, of who you were before you sought help, and opened up. 

It didn't mean that you stopped hurting, stopped feeling nothing, stopped counting the seconds that seemed so fleeting, yet eternal. It just meant you hurt a little less sometimes, and that was enough, at least for now. You weren't okay, but that was alright. You were here and alive, and that opened a door of possibilities for you, even if it seemed impossible for now.

You couldn't help but notice how different he seemed around his friends, around his fangirls, and in the court. He was like an enchanted mirror, reflecting what people wished to see. 

Oikawa Tooru seemed to demand attention. On the court, his intensity was unmatched, and he very much felt like a predator, hunting for his meal, desperate to survive. With his fangirls, he seemed so princely, complying to their demands and proclamations of love, his smile a little too perfect, a little too practiced. 

With his friends, he seemed almost at ease, joking around, whining, calling for his "Iwa-chan" as he acted childishly. It was almost cute, you mused, how different he seemed from people to people, group to group. 

But in the end, a reflection and its image only exists in the mirror, and our minds. Reality demands different.

Bleh, how disgusting. 

You first met Oikawa when you were hiding at a remote stairwell in school, experiencing a panic attack. The first day of school for you had been overwhelming to say the least, and being in a new country, with foreign people, did not help. 

He had come across you for god knows what reason, as you cowered in the shadows, breathing uneven, mind screaming, body trembling, feeling terrified, giddy, and like you were about to projectile vomit Picasso style. 

His honey brown eyes and annoying fluffy hair, still echo in your mind. For a moment, he looked oh so kind and real and there, as he knelt down and whispered, almost too quiet to hear, "Are you okay?". 

You had shivered, covering your ears in reflex.

His words seemed to shock you, almost enough to make snap out of your panicked haze, and on your lower back, you could distinctly feel your soul words tingle, and an unfamiliar warmth rushed through you.

As you opened your mouth (to say something to express the please-love-shock-fear), you couldn't help but hesitate, feeling and looking like a drowned rat. He seemed so kind, so perfect, and much too good for you. His kind stare lingered on your body, and for a moment, something seemed to flash across his eyes, a sort of understanding and pity. 

So you didn't speak to him, to Oikawa Tooru, the boy who seemed to be made of star stuff, who felt so far away from you, yet so beautiful and mesmerising. You offered him a wobbly smile, before burying your head in your arms again, trying hold yourself together like it would help and make everything stop, and quiet down. 

He didn't leave. You heard him sit on the steps, a slight distance away from you, and you could distinctly feel his presence. The words on your lower back seemed to shiver in foreign delight.

And he sat there as you refused to look at the world, trying to drown our everything, in the shadows and darkness of the little stairwell. 

Silence had never seemed so loud. 

From then on, you seemed to notice him much more often. He'd smile at you, a little soft and a little sweet, when he passed by you. You'd try and nod your head, in acknowledgement, though sometimes you insecurity made you doubt he was even saying hi to you.

You'd glance behind you sometimes, looking for someone he'd actually acknowledge.

But there were days where you felt numb, and so painfully empty. It was like you were watching the world move behind  a glass box, and you felt so detached, so indifferent, that it scared you at times. 

There were days where you couldn't come to school. The bed too soft and safe, the clock too loud, the sun too bright, and you, too tired, too old, too late. And on those days, or nights, starlight seemed a little less bright, and a little more cold. 

There were days where you forced yourself to go to school, sluggishly dragging yourself through the day, running on future energy, running on desperation. 

Sometimes you'd go to the stairwell, just sitting in the silence, because the darkness just felt so familiar and safe. 

On those days, you'd find a little carton of strawberry milk, or a packet of milk bread sitting on your desk.

You were lactose intolerant, and though you knew you'd regret it, the taste of milk had never felt so comforting. And when you passed by the pretty boy, you'd give him a hesitant smile. 

After all, you'd once caught him putting a packet of milk there. Not that you'd ever tell him, because it would ruin the magic of anonymity (though you appreciated his gesture). 

But you'd see him talking to normal girls, beautiful girls, who seemed so warm and alive, and you'd understand, that the boy who seemed made of starlight, was out of your reach. 

After all, who'd want to be soulmates with you?

It had been a year later, where you found Oikawa, sitting on your spot at the stairwell. He had his head buried in his arms, and appeared to be upset. 

You blinked, hesitating a little, before setting off to the canteen, to buy some milk bread, and a carton of chocolate milk.

On your way back, you bumped into a tall, spiky haired male, who seemed like he could crush you with his bare arms. But, you noted, had kind eyes (of an older brother, of a friend who has known loss).

Sad, a little angry, but very kind. His soulmate would be lucky to have him, you concluded. 

To your surprise, he looked at you amongst everyone, and seemed to see you. He noticed the little bag of goodies you bought, and a smile seemed to tug at his lips, causing you to blink in surprise, before it hit you who he was. 

He passed you, before very gently patting your head, and murmured, "Take care of that idiot okay?".

Before you could answer, the giant beefy men left, leaving you to stare at his back, his volleyball jacket especially noticeable. It was the angry guy Oikawa was always with, the one who made him real, and seemed a little less like the stars. 

You made your way back to Oikawa, hearing whisper along the way, about how they had lost against Shiratorizawa. You hummed a little, accepting the situation as it is, realising that he must really love volleyball a lot. 

You sat on the stairwell, making sure to give him space, as you gently set the plastic bag of goods near his feet. A peace offering of sorts, and an apology. 

To your surprise, as you stood up to leave and give him space, because you had noticed the annoyed glint in his eyes at times, when the girls crowded around him, he lifted his head, looking like a kicked puppy. 

"Stay."

He whispered, tone bordering on begging, sounding like a puppy about to be abandoned by their owner, and your heart went out to the boy who looked so lost, so alone. 

You sat down as he sniffled a little, reaching out to the plastic bag, mindlessly taking a milk bread to eat. He stared down at the snack in surprise, before looking at you, with his observant eyes. 

You contemplated a little in the darkness, musing over your words. You hoped to comfort the boy, just as he had comforted you before. At this moment, he seemed so alone and tired, and a little angry, raging against the heavens. The glint in his eyes seemed so contradictory, and you fought the urge to pat his head, or hug him. 

"Do I look that good?" He smirked a little at you, leaning impossible close as your eyes widened slightly. 

Oh dear, you didn't realise you were staring. 

Unconsciously or consciously, you spoke, voice a little soft, meeting his eyes, You didn't blush, because something about his smile seemed so fake, reminding you of the mask you used to put on, when you tried so hard to be okay. 

When you saw the knowing glint in his eyes however, you couldn't help but feel that he knew. 

"You'll be okay, everything will be fine."

You couldn't help but lean up, and pat his hair, which felt as soft as it looked to your amusement. 

He froze, and for a moment, he looked torn between sorrow, and wonder, and you could have sworn you saw him smile drop into a sad frown, twitching. It was the face that everyone had, whenever tears were trying and failing at being held back at bay. 

He reached out, and hugged you gently, as though he was afraid you'd break, as though he wasn't the one hurting right now. He buried his face in your neck, nuzzling you gently. 

And that became one of many moments, where you were grateful that you didn't choose to end your life, years ago. 

You couldn't help but hug him back, hands patting him automatically, just as you did whenever you comforted your baby brother as he cried. You hummed softly as he trembled slightly in your arms, milk bread laying on the stairs, forgotten. 

You could feel jarringly warm tears dripping on your blouse, but you stayed silent. Years of experience told you that he had been needing a good cry for a long time. And so he did, crying silently, seeming so small despite being being physically bigger than you.

His silent tears tugged at your heartstrings, and you couldn't help but want to help him, feeling your cold, numb self softening just a little, as he reminded you of your younger self - so afraid, so sad, and alone, wanting help but not knowing how to reach out. 

So you stayed at the stairwell, embracing the boy who seemed to be made of starlight, realising that in fact, he was as human as you are, though no less amazing as you had thought him to be. 

And years later, as you woke up, entangled with his warm large body, as the Argentinian sun winked through the blinds at the both of you.

And you realise how fast time flies, and how much more at peace you feel. Because the universe is ever changing, ever moving, and ever healing. And as the boy made of starlight woke up with a groan, nuzzling his head into your neck, whining as his hand traced your lower back lovingly, as he had throughout the years, you couldn't help but feel grateful that you had both chosen each other, and healed, even just a little, together.

[knmaskitten]

Nonsense ˚⊹♡

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru/ afab!reader.

Summary: Based on Sabrina Carpenter's espresso and nonsense. You met Oikawa Tooru at a bar in Argentina, Oikawa has always been the type of guy to have hundrends of women thrown at him but this encounter was different because this time he wanted to throw himself at you.

warnings/tags: afab!fem reader. A lot of slapping. Oral f and m recieving. Fingering. Very badly written smut. Use of spanish. Hair pulling. not pulling out. Mentions of the pill. Unprotected P in V. Not rough but also not vanilla?. No use of y/n. No physical descriptions of reader. Lots of badly written banter. CRINGE.

notes: I love writing about oikawa he is a little piece of shit and I love him! this fic was not proof read as I would fucking cringe doing so. English is not my main language so I apologize for any bad grammar. As always my AO3 is here.

wc: 3,240.

minors DNI. +18 only

You were sitting alone on a stool at a very crowded bar. You could hear the different chatter intertwine as you were waiting for your friend Luciana to arrive. Today it was girls’ night, so, of course, you decided to dress up a little more nicely than you usually do. Your pick for today was a very tight bodycon black dress with a squared neckline that, well, did wonders for your entire body. You decided not to mess with your hair, as it naturally framed your face beautifully and gave your face a sort of brightness.

You felt your phone buzz; it was a text from your friend: “Lo siento, nena. Voy algo tarde” (I’m sorry, baby. I’m a little bit late) you read on the screen of your phone. You sighed. Part of you knew how tardy Luciana liked to be and, moreso, allowed herself to be. This wasn’t really a surprise to you, nor did it anger you; you just limited yourself to resigning to this. Today was going to be a good day, you told yourself, and no tardiness was going to disturb your mindset today.

When the bartender passed you your mojito (which you ordered extra sweet), you drank up, dark red lipstick staining the glass as it left your lips.  You swirled the ice around and left it at the table as you saw a dark brown-haired guy approach the seat next to yours. This made you skeptical, as you saw through his real intentions.

“No sé si vos sabés, pero ese asiento está ocupado” (I don’t know if you know, but that seat is taken), you said with parsimony, waiting for him to move. He looked foreign to you, and something in his aura made you feel weirdly interested in him. You analyzed his eyes, which were brown, seductive, and had a playful hint behind them.

“¿Por quién? No veo a nadie, pretty lady.” (By who? I don't see anyone), he said playfully, the last part forcefully in his home language, like he was challenging you. And you were so not having his shit, who does he think he was?

"Look, pretty boy, I’m not really playing around here.” You said it in a low tone, matching his language, which you knew, and you were glad that you took those extra classes in college all for this weird moment.

“Do you want to share a drink or something?” He put both hands up, tacitly asking for a truce between you and him.

You actually thought about his offer; he was good-looking, very good-looking, like the type of guy you could be pining for, and he could never be interested in you. And you could not believe he was hitting on you, of all people. You were having a hard time deciding between girls’ night or going home with this stranger, but you had a strong resolve. You promised Luciana this.

And well, it wasn’t like guys didn’t hit on you, but not these types of guys, not guys that looked toned and heaven-like. And you didn’t want anything to do with him; it was too weird for you. But also, it was sweet to think that he was flirting with you (in a very weird manner).

“Do I look like I want a drink?” You spat, arching your brow. “And you look very young. ¿Qué edad tienes cielito? ¿Seguro que puedes venir a estos lugares?” (How old are you, honey? Are you sure you can come to these places?)

He looked annoyed at this, like you touched a very sensitive fiber on him. He replied, gritting his teeth:

“Tengo 24 querida” (I’m 24, dear) 

“I could swear you were younger.”You laughed at this clearly mocking him. You know, you might as well have some fun while Luciana arrived, you do love the idea of men wrapped around your finger. So you did what you thought was best; you moved you hair out of the way and leaned in, cleary with intentions of showing your cleavage. You gave him a half-lidded look:

“You shouldn’t get lost in these kind of places, you might get a very unpleasant surprise.” You shrugged then took a sip of your drink.

“Like you?” He sarcastically replied, getting closer as well. He should not be getting any ideas, you were the one leading this conversation not him. You had power, he had his looks only.

“Believe me I’m not the unpleasant one here” 

The vanilla perfume you wore today had him on a whirl, he felt like never before. You were one of the first girls that did not want to throw themselves at him and it was killing his ego. You looked wonderfull in your dress and he could be drooling over it. You looked like someone who might turn him down and that was so exciting for him, a kind of feeling at the pit of his stomach bubbled at the thought.

“I’m Oikawa Tooru” he stated, almost fiercely, as if he wanted you to tattoo this information on your head.

“Mmm…Oikawa…Tooru…Ah! you play on the San Juan don’t you?” You loved volleyball, since you were little. You nevere pursued a career on it but you practiced often and you had muscles thanks to it.

“You…know me? And you don’t want me?” He bluntly said in disbielef. You knew him, and you didn’t drool over him. That was a stabbing right to his ego, it hurted like hell.

“Why would I? You’re just a guy”

“Eh! Just a guy?” You were definitely killing him, tearing his ego one by one.

“Why, can’t stand rejection?” You giggled, clearly mocking him.

“Is that your way or rejecting me?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well I don’t really think so, cielito.”

Before you could reply your phone rang, and Luciana’s number was shown on the screen alongside a picture of the two of you together. You were sticking out your tongue while she gave you bunny ears with two of her fingers. You thought the worst; you knew something was up.

“Pelotuda, no me jodas que te pasó algo.” (Motherfucker, don’t tell me something happened to you.) You said it rapidly as you picked up the phone, omitting the hello.

“Mira, nena, la verdad es que estoy acá y no te veo en ningún lado.” (Look, babe, the truth is, im here and I don’t see you anywhere.)

“Boluda…No me digas que te equivocaste de bar.” (Idiot, don’t tell me you got the bar wrong.)

“Era el bar María, ¿No?” (It was the María bar, right?)

“¡No!, era el Alfredo’s” (No! it was Alfredo's.) You hissed angrily.

You had it sometimes with Luciana; she was your best friend but that didnt mean you had to agree to everything she did. This was one of those days, and honestly? fuck it. You stood up, furiously placing some argentinian pesos on top of the table and standing from your stool. You were hearing a series of apologetic words on the other line that came like a current towards your ear. You were not having it.

��Luciana, silencio. No quiero escuchar más; dejamos la salida para otro día, boluda.” (Luciana, silence. I don’t want to hear it anymore; we will leave it for another day, idiot.)

And with that, you hung up, not really wanting to hear Luciana’s response. You picked up your black purse and fixed your hair. As you were walking out, you turned on your heels. Filled with determination, you walked towards a very confused Oikawa. You placed your hand on top of his and led him out of the bar with you, and he happily obliged without saying a word.

Oikawa and you did not exchange words on the way to your apartment. It was a very comfortable silence. He had his hand on top of your thigh, applying a little bit of pressure every so often. You liked it; you liked how he felt all mushy for you and how he was trembling so slightly with desire. You could feel how he bubbled with the same intensity as you did.

When you arrive at your apartment, both of you stay quiet and still on the doorway, first admiring your dimly lit living room and secondly thinking of what the hell to do. Oikawa knew this routine very well; he was a girls’ boy at the end of the day, and he had his fun often. But you clouded his judgment, and he wasn’t really able to dictate what to do as he usually did.

You grew tired of the indecision on his part and rolled your eyes. You clearly didn’t give a fuck about anything right now (and perhaps usually), and this brief moment of silence was appeasing the feeling in your lower belly, and you didn’t want that. So, you did what every girl in your place would do: you took him by the collar and crashed your lips together. 

It started as a clumsy kiss, and it evolved into something more complicated, intense, and hungry. Your hands were exploring his hair as he hugged you by your hips. You knew he was tall, and you thanked your shoes for giving you a lot more height than you had because it would have been harder to do this if it weren’t for it. He stopped kissing you for a moment, breathing heavily.

“Can I touch you?”

“Do it.” You demanded.

He resumed the kiss, now guiding it. He started by grabbing your ass and squishing it hard, then slapping it, to which you let out a small whimper in between kisses. He definitely liked your ass because he groped it several times. His hands then wandered towards your hips, where he squished your sides. You liked it—how strong his hands were, how extremely feral you knew he could be.

“Do not restrain yourself. Don’t you dare, Oikawa.” 

And so he didn’t. He turned you around and bent you on top of your kitchen counter, giving you a hard, dull slap on your ass. Your tits sprung out of your dress, getting hard when they hit the cold surface, and you shut your eyes, biting your lip. He started generating friction between his crotch and your ass, and you could feel him. You felt how big he was and how much he needed to eat you up. 

His hands went to your hair, pulling you up; your back was arched, and your ass was glued in place to his erection. You allowed yourself to be; you really needed to blow some stress out, and this looked like the perfect opportunity, so you did what you needed to do and what you knew was going to feel freeing. You moaned loudly and clearly. He seemed to briefly stop what he was about to do when he heard you, spellbound. 

“You’re such a good girl when you want to, huh?” He said it in your neck, his warm breath hitting your cold skin. The hairs on your skin sprung up.

It was May, and the coldness could be felt throughout the region already, so it was so comforting how he held you because he exuded a certain kind of dangerous warmth, the intoxicating kind. You wanted to be filled with it. And tacitly obliging to your wishes, he took both your breasts in his hands and started playing with them.

“How dare you. Driving me crazy with this little black dress of yours”

He pinched one of your nipples, erecting a moan out of your throat. He also started biting your neck, leaving hard hickeys (that were definitely going to leave a mark), licks and bites, hard bites, praising you for your noises. His other hand found the hem of your dress, impatiently playing with it as his head grew lighter with lust.

“Undress me.” 

You always were one to demand, and you loved how he followed your orders without hesitation. He turned you around and lifted you up; you were facing him, and your core was against his crotch, creating a blissfully good friction. You were growing wetter by the minute, and you knew you were going to start to get extremely needy if he didn’t hurry.

“Shit, sorry. Which one is the door to your room?”

“The one to the right.” you giggled, out of breath.

He placed you gently on the bed, then, without hesitation, took out your dress, leaving you in your underwear. You definitely felt exposed, but you were not going to allow yourself to cower in this moment.

“Enjoying the view?”

Oikawa was never a guy to stick with someone for a long period of time; he would rather be alone but have fun and, in all of his conquests, he was never this head over heels for someone. He saw you at the bar, and some kind of dream came true for him. You were beautiful; you made him want to keep looking, keep digging, and know as much about you as possible. And he met you an hour ago! 

“I’m going to make you learn my name tonight.” he bluntly stated.

“Oikawa…”

“Moan it.”

And as he said that, he pushed himself on top of you and started sucking on one of your nipples, nibbling and licking as well. You were on extasis; it felt so incredibly good to have an experienced mouth working so intensely on your pleasure. And while doing so, one of his hands travelled down to your panties, feeling the wet spot you were leaving.

“You’re such a brat with me, while your pussy fucking cries for me.”

Oh, my god.

He started to rub slow circles on the spot where your clit should be.  You let out small crying whimpers. You felt so impatient; you wanted him to rip your underwear and fucking touch you, to end this misery and let you have what you needed the right way. You could feel how experienced he was, looking at you half-lidded with his hazel brown eyes. He started to slide down your panties, painfully slow, until your core was fully exposed to him.

What he did then surprised you: he slapped you directly on your clit and you arched your back at this, moaning. He seemed cocky as he watched you squirm under his touch, he wanted more of this, so much more. So he did what he knew you were going to love. He spread you out (until your legs felt that muscular pain of stretching) and buried his face between your legs. 

His tongue was the first thing you felt, eating you like you were this man’s last meal on earth. He sucked on your clit and applied preassure to it while also fucking you with his tongue. He helped by introducing one finger inside you and pumping it in and out. You were a loud mess; you could feel how he touched you as every nerve in your body was alert and crisped up. His sole finger made you feel like you were so freaking close to your orgasm, and then he flicked on your clitoris, the overstimulation filling you up.

He introduced a second finger, increasing his pace as he tried to reach your g spot (which he succeeded in). 

“Tooru.” You moaned loudly, feeling overwhelmed by ecstasy.

His pace only went up by this, as if you were chanting his name in a volleyball game. And this is how he was going to win. He was going to make you feel so good that you could never forget his fingers and his dick. You were going to be his and his only.

“Don’t shut up; be fucking loud, hermosa.”

He didn’t stop and, with the right amount of pressure of his fingers, you came undone with his fingers, covering them with slick.

“You're such a good girl when you’re filled up. Not very commanding now, are you?”

“Put your fucking dick inside me, Tooru.”

“Watch that tone, preciosa. You’re going to make me punish you if you behave badly.”

“Tooru, please.” You pleaded.

You sat up as you said this, looking up at him with your mouth slightly parted and huffing as you were recovering from your orgasm. Your hand approached his belt, and he knew this was game over as he allowed you to unbuckle his pants and push them down. You stayed still, admiring his length through his boxers, before cupping it with your hand. You stood up, not breaking eye contact for one second, kneeling down in front of him.

You placed both of your hands on the hem of his boxers and pushed it down, exposing his length. You were mesmerized by how big he was; you couldn’t wait to be filled to the brim with him.

Please.

Oh, god, please.

You grabbed his length and put it in your mouth and you started bobbing your head in an almost rhythmic succession. It was ever so slightly, but you could hear Oikawa whimper and blush because of your ministrations, and you felt incredible because of it. You decided to deep-throat him. As you sucked and masturbated him with your hand as well, you slowly saw Oikawa get more and more flustered, as if this were his Achilles talon.

“Baby, don’t you dare stop.”

He said this as he grabbed your head with one of his hands and started moving it at a higher pace. This was difficult for you as you were in need of air and you were choking at times but he didn't really care; he just wanted to come in your face. And when that moment came, you were a panting mess with cum coating your face. He admired you, looking at you as if you were a trophy to admire and take care of.

He didn’t wait for both of you to calm down; he made you stand up and bent you over the bed. Once again, he slapped your ass, this time leaving various red marks on it. He pumped his length twice; that was all he needed.

“You’re on the pill?”

“Yeah.”

And with that, he aligned himself with your entrance and started to thrust. Oikawa loved the view, how your ass bounced every time he thrust into you, how your tits were a fucking mess, and your muffled moans. Oh, your moans—those were music to his ears; he couldn’t describe it otherwise than an angelic cry. You were being stretched out by his dick; it was big for you, and he did not give you space to adapt; you had to adapt to him. Every thrust felt like a piece of heaven given to you.

He placed one hand at your hip and the other one in your clit, stimulating you. He wanted you to come; that was clear, and there was something you wanted from him as well. When you felt his first moan, you knew he was going to get close, so you asked what you wanted.

“Don’t pull out.”

“Baby…”

“I’m on the pill, It will be fine, I swear.”

And when you came, he came afterwards inside you. You felt happy as you plopped down into bed with him beside you. He kissed your forehead and helped you clean up, and as you were both feeling tired, you decided to sleep.

This surely was nonsense, but at least you now have someone to rely on when you need to blow stress off.

Thank you for reading <3

masterlist and more.

[imagineanime2022]

Married Life With Oikawa Tooru

Oikawa Tooru X Reader

Requested: Anon

Request: May i request married life with oikawa

👑 Let’s rewind a little to the things that led up to you being married because half the fun was Oikawa trying to prove that he was worth marrying. 👑 The first time that you both met, he noticed you but you didn’t notice him which was new for him, he was the first to be noticed but you didn’t even bat an eye. That was why from there on he noticed you no matter where you were in the room. 👑 The first time that he talked to you was when you were brought on as the manager for the Aoba Josai team and still didn’t acknowledge him as more than the team captain. 👑 Friendship started when you saw how hard he worked to be the best on the field and the work he did to hold up the rest of his team. 👑 You guys talked a lot more as friends from there on, he liked being able to talk to a girl as a friend rather that having to appease them with the act of the prince. 👑 Dating was not official for a very long time, only with the pestering of Hanamaki and Matsukawa did he finally officially ask you out and get his desired answer. 👑 There were some slip ups on the road to engagement especially with the moods that he would get himself into on a daily basis, you were left cleaning up after him or straight up snapping him out of it. 👑 Moving onto engagement he was terrified to ask you to move to Argentina with him when he got the offer for the team but you agreed with only one condition that you were married before you left. 👑 Now onto married life.

👑 You were honestly so used to him coming home late after training and crashing, you were the one to make sure that he ate properly and even massaged his legs focusing on his injured knee most of the time. 👑 Whenever he sits somewhere at home you find a way to elevate his leg and make sure that he’s doing the best for his knee and make sure that he can keep playing. 👑 You guys go swimming together, even if that means you go with him to sit on the sidelines and watch him, it started as part of his physiotherapy but became something that you both did for fun. 👑 When you both argue big or small he finds a way to use his height to his advantage, caging you so you couldn’t storm away from the argument especially if he wasn’t as worked up as you were. 👑 When he has worked up as or more than you he tends to storm off to a gym or volleyball court somewhere for a few hours, only to talk it out later. 👑 Comes home with random gifts for you, favourite snack, take out so you don’t have to cook, merch that he insists that you wear to his next match or something a little more permanent. 👑 He still does that thing where he pulls an all-nighter trying to figure out every trick that the opposing team has in their back pocket but now you sit in his lap most of the time, pointing out things that he might have missed the first time around. 👑 You almost always fall asleep before he’s ready to call it a night so when he notices he moves to the bedroom watching the matches on his phone, turning down the brightness and putting on a pair of headphones, all while holding you close and making sure that you get enough sleep. 👑 You’ve probably stolen every one of his hoodies at least once so now your scent lingers on everyone, not that he’s complaining or anything. 👑 He’s pretty neat all things considered, you’ll probably find that he doesn’t do the washing up and never gets the laundry right, he dyed one of his white hoodies pink and still insists that he meant to do it. 👑 He has you at every game no matter when or where it’s taking place and when he wins your first first person he looks for in the crowd, if the venue allows it he even lifts you onto the court holding you against his chest whilst your legs wrapped around his waist. 👑 While he enjoys those times with you where you celebrate in front of everyone he cherishes the time that you get to spend alone, in the privacy of your own home, quiet teasing whispers and soft words of adoration and praise. 👑 He notices every inflection in your voice, change in body language or reluctance to carry out a task and pursues the topic accordingly. 👑 People think that he’s not that emotionally intelligent but it's actually quite the opposite, he just responds in a way that makes you feel more at ease and that might give the wrong idea to others. 👑 When he’s on the off season he tries his hardest to be home for dinner and spend time with you and make sure that you are eating properly and such. 👑 Sometimes he’ll when he’s got some time off he'll just grab you and go see something that you both wanted to see, a road trip where you argue about music and what food you're going to get on the way. 👑 He’s family love you and whenever you go back to Japan they’re always so happy to see you. 👑 If you want kids he’d be open to it but it’s no deal breaker if you don’t, I do honestly believe that him with a daughter would be the cutest thing. 👑 Your always telling him about how hot he look when he’s serving, everything from the twirling of the ball to the jump (no just me, well it's staying for self indulgence) 👑 Married life can be a struggle but you wouldn’t change him for the world, he cares so deeply and tries so hard to be the best for you, you could ask for nothing more.

Request Here!!

[that-one-xachster]

by saying something stupid like 'i love you'

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"I love you"

"What?"

"Nothing."

-> 3 times in which you try to tell him that you love him, but thats not how it goes

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

can be taken for any character that you'd like, I was feeling a bit silly haha- might get back into writing

not sorry if this one shot sounds like a comedy show rather than fully angsty, I wrote it based on how I have interactions with people, so im not sorry cause I don't know how you interact with people. please dont come at me for it not sounding angsty or wtv GAAAA I SOUND RUDE LMFAO WHAT

not proofread!

[f/n] = friend's name

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"I love you."

"Huh?"

He looked up from your notebook, holding his pen, explaining the question in chemistry you didn't understand. He sat so close to you, your knees touching, making you feel like a man in the 1800s who just saw a woman's ankle.

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

He just shrugged and went back to explaining the problem to you, and you shifted your weight, resting your head in your palms.

You tapped your foot repeatedly against the table, listening to what he was explaining, before stopping him -

"Wait a second, isn't that the wrong step? You gotta restart-"

"Huh? What are you talking about- oh shit."

"See-"

"Yeah, funny story how about we both just go and ask [f/n]?"

"True. Do that, she's the smarter one."

"Smarter than you for sure."

"No, you're the most idiotic one out of all of us, shut up-"

"No can do-"

You two bickered back and forth until the class ended, never getting to ask [f/n].

Moments like these were what made you fall harder.

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"I love you."

He didn't even hear you this time. Of course he didn't, how would he? He was in the hall, talking to some other friends of his. You're not his only friend, you shouldn't be so selfish-

"Did you say something? Sorry, I was submitting this assignment."

The same friend mentioned before, [f/n] sat next to you in class. She was adamant that you had a thing for the guy, despite your multiple attempts to deny it. No way in absolute hell would you admit that you had a flimsy, silly, teensy little crush on him. No way.

"Nah, you can go back to that."

"I have a better idea, did you hear what happened this morning to-"

And she told you about some events that occurred in the morning, as if she were your personal newsletter. For free of course. She was the nerdy type, but had many friends and always knew what was up with the school, and of course she had to fill you in. You listened to her tell you about random fights, break ups, make ups, and people being stupid in general, enjoying the time you spend with your friend.

Sometimes a distraction is good right? Sometimes.

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"I love you."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No no no no- what? Repeat that."

"Dude, I said nothing-"

"Nuh uh, you keep mumbling random shit and won't tell me what it is bruh, spit it out."

"The hell you mean 'nuh uh'? Buddy you don't need to peek into everything I say, you see, im a verbal thinker hArDy hAr hAr-"

"..."

"..."

"....for the love of god never do that again."

"....yeah."

Akward silence engulfed you two. The teacher walked in after a few seconds, immediately starting the class.

Recovering from the past embarrassment, you whispered jokes to each other, poked each other with your pens, copied each other's notes when you couldn't finish writing them in time, and got caught laughing too much for a joke, but hey.

At least he didn't hear you mumble another soft, barely audible, "I love you."

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| ennoshita, atsumu, OIKAWA, tendou, hanamaki (hear me out), kirishima, denki (hmo), SERO, honenhuki, muramatsu (a very big hmo), + anyone else you'd like! these were the ones I thought of lol |

hope you enjoyed <3

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bonus ! funny little smidgen- well funny to me lmao

"Do you have the answers for math?" "I thought you did." "..." "..." "Ok- ok well I did half at home, I'll just do the other half now-" "Hold up- which half did you do?" "The first, why?" "Goddammit, I did the first too." "We're screwed?" "We're screwed."

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[touchlikethesun]

i've just posted the first installment in what i'm calling my whirlwinds series, following different characters' experiences of the brazil fling. this one centers on oikawa and the end of the "fling."

[iwaoiness]

When Iwaizumi is drunk

Iwaizumi has a high tolerance for alcohol, but when he gets drunk, he gets clingy -like really clingy-, and possessive -like really possessive-. And, as twisted as it sounds to admit it, Oikawa has fun with this Hajime.

A lot of fun.

The first time he discovered it was a couple of years ago, at a party in a popular Tokyo bar. While Tooru was talking animatedly with Sugawara and a nice guy they hit it off with, Iwaizumi appeared behind him, wrapping his strong arm around his waist to pull him close, sticking Tooru's back to his broad chest, their hips fitting snugly together.

"Hey, my pretty boy, I've been looking for you" He spoke, throaty and low over the music, kissing the sweaty skin of Oikawa's neck with hot lips.

Tooru blinked, blushing up to his eyebrows as his smile faltered in the face of the new boy's confused look and Sugawara's amused gaze, who took a swig of his drink trying to hide the laughter.

"A-Ah, Iwa-chan, sorry, Koushi-chan and I got caught up with Aoi-kun" He replied, feeling his knees weaken as Hajime tightened his grip a little more, pulling him closer to his solid body. Iwa's thumb began to trace delicate circles along his hip bone through the thin fabric of his blue shirt.

"Mmh" He hummed, resting his chin on Oikawa's shoulder and raising his darkened and intense eyes to the new boy, scrutinizing him up and down.

Aoi smiled, tense and uncomfortable, wiping his palm against his jeans before extending it in Iwaizumi's direction.

"Hey, nice to meet you, I'm Ao-"

"I didn't ask you."

Suga couldn't hold back his laughter this time, and Aoi flushed with embarrassment. Tooru turned his face toward Iwaizumi with round eyes and mouth open. Who is this Iwa-chan and where is my Iwa-chan?

And why the hell is this so, so hot?

"Iwa-chan," he uttered slowly, instantly grabbing Iwaizumi's attention. Iwaizumi glared back at him, his cheeks tinged with a blush. "Are you drunk? What happened to your renowned alcohol tolerance?"

Hajime frowned, and, to Tooru's added surprise, he stuck out his lower lip in a pout.

Iwaizumi Hajime, pouting.

Him.

Pouting.

"I'm not, why do you think I am too?" He whined like a toddler in a tantrum and Oikawa's heart nearly stopped dead in its tracks when Hajime hid his face in his neck, snuggling.

"He's fucking drunk" Sugawara assured with amusement, watching Iwaizumi in fascination while Tooru continued to stare wide-eyed, his cheeks and ears turning crimson. "And I think you should take him out for some air."

"But Oikawa-san promised me a dance" Aoi protested, scowling. Tooru began to open his mouth, intending to clarify that he had promised a dance involving all three of them. However, Iwaizumi stepped forward, raising his head from Tooru's shoulder to narrow his gaze at the young boy.

"Tooru is mine, and I don't share what's mine with anyone" He growled, his tone resolute and unwavering. He then let go of the waist of the tomato-red Oikawa to interlock their fingers and lead him toward the door, leaving Aoi standing there in confusion, while Suga playfully patted him on the back.

What happened next, well, it was scarred on Oikawa's neck and thighs.

[minarixx]

𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 ✯ 𝐓.𝐎𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚

“𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝.”

PAIRING. Oikawa Tooru x f!Reader

CONTENT. Angst

Secret flings but what happens when someone wants more

WC. 1.7k

A/N. Literally came back just to write about my sneaky link right now. Listened to August and cried because everything relates too hard, and we met in August. When he breaks my heart I'm gonna come back with mad angsty one shots.

Had to do a remake cause the other was atrocious.

Masterlink - Songs Unwritten

The night swirled with energy, a symphony of laughter and music filling the air. Y/N stood amidst the pulsating crowd, her gaze drawn to one figure in particular—Oikawa. He moved with effortless grace, the center of attention wherever he went. The charismatic figure around whom the energy of the gathering seemed to revolve.

She had heard about him before, seen him from afar in the hallways of their school, and watched  his volleyball games where his presence commanded attention like a magnet pulling in metal. Tonight, however, was the first time they had exchanged more than passing glances.

Their eyes met, and a spark ignited between them. Y/N's heart raced as Oikawa made his way over, his smile like a beacon in the dimly lit room.

"Hey there," he greeted, his voice smooth and inviting.

"Hi," Y/N replied, her cheeks flushing at his attention.

They fell into conversation easily, the rest of the party fading into the background as they shared stories and laughed together. It felt like they had known each other for years, their connection instant and undeniable.

But as the night wore on, their words flowed more freely, the connection between them deepening with each shared laugh and whispered confession. By the time the early hours of morning approached, Y/N found herself drawn to him in a way she couldn't quite explain.

As the last guests began to filter out and the house grew quieter, Oikawa turned to her with a smile that seemed to hold a promise. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asked, his voice low and inviting.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts. But the pull of Oikawa's charm was too strong to resist, and she nodded in agreement.

They found themselves outside, the night air cool against their skin as they walked together, the silence between them filled with an unspoken tension. It was as if the world around them had faded away, leaving only the two of them in their own private universe.

When they finally reached a secluded spot, Oikawa turned to her, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. Without a word, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that ignited a fire within her.

In that moment, all doubts vanished, replaced by a hunger she couldn't deny. They stumbled into each other's arms, the passion between them burning brighter with each touch, each whispered endearment.

But as the sun rose on a new day, reality intruded upon their moment of bliss. Y/N watched as Oikawa's expression shifted, his features clouding with uncertainty.

"We should keep this between us," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "It's better that way, don't you think?"

But beneath the surface, Y/N felt the weight of their secret bearing down on her. She longed for something more, something real, but she was too afraid to voice her desires, too afraid of losing what little she had with Oikawa.

Y/N nodded, her heart sinking with a heaviness she couldn't shake. She knew what he meant - they were just two people caught up in the heat of the moment, nothing more.

And yet, despite the ache in her chest, she couldn't bring herself to walk away. So they agreed to keep their encounters a secret, their friendship blossoming even as their relationship remained hidden from the world.

Their hangouts were filled with laughter and excitement, each moment tinged with the thrill of forbidden desire. Whether they were exploring hidden gems in the city, sharing late-night snacks at a deserted diner, or simply losing themselves in each other's company, Y/N couldn't deny the undeniable chemistry that crackled between them.

But as the night waned and she returned home alone, the guilt crept in like a shadow, casting a pall over the euphoria of their time together. She couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that lingered in the wake of their passionate encounters, a nagging doubt that whispered to her in the darkness. 

Why did she give herself like that so easily? She felt like a slut. 

"Why do you keep coming back?" Oikawa asked one night, his brow furrowed with confusion as they lay entwined beneath the stars.

Y/N hesitated, her mind racing with a thousand unspoken truths. "I don't know," she murmured softly, her voice barely audible above the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

But in reality, she knew the answer all too well. She craved the warmth of his touch, the sound of his laughter echoing in her ears. She longed to be wanted, to feel desired in a way that transcended the confines of secrecy and shame.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to voice the depths of her longing, to lay bare the vulnerability that lay hidden beneath her carefully constructed facade. So instead, she remained silent, her heart heavy with the weight of unsaid words, aching for a love she feared she would never find.

But as the weeks turned into months, Y/N found herself yearning for more. She watched as Oikawa flirted with other girls, his laughter ringing out across crowded rooms, and felt a pang of jealousy that she couldn't suppress.

One night, as they lay tangled together in the darkness, Y/N couldn't hold back any longer. "Do you ever think about us?" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

Oikawa was silent for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns against her skin. "I'm glad we're not anything serious," he finally said, his tone casual. "I've seen too many relationships crash and burn. We're better off just chilling, don't you think?"

The words hit Y/N like a punch to the gut, leaving her reeling with a pain she couldn't articulate. She forced a smile, nodding in agreement even as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

"It's nice to just chill, you know?" he said casually, his words like a knife to her heart. 

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, her heart sinking at his words. She forced a smile, nodding in agreement, but inside, she was crumbling.

The weight of her emotions grew heavier with each passing day, until it felt like she was drowning in a sea of unspoken truths.

"I just don't understand why you keep putting yourself through this," one of them said, her voice tinged with frustration.

Y/N sighed, her shoulders slumping as she struggled to find the words to explain. "I know it's not ideal, but there's something between us, something I can't quite let go of."

"But he's treating you like nothing serious," another friend interjected, her tone harsh. "You deserve so much better than being someone's dirty little secret."

But Y/N couldn't find the words to explain the ache in her heart, the fear of rejection that held her back.  She winced at the words, knowing deep down that they were true. But the thought of walking away from Oikawa, from the connection they shared, was too painful to bear.

"I just wish you could see yourself the way we see you," her friend continued, her voice softening. "You're worth so much more than this."

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she stared down at her hands, the weight of their words pressing down on her like a lead weight. She knew they were right, knew that she deserved better than what Oikawa was offering.

Her friends exchanged exasperated looks, their patience wearing thin. "You're being stupid," another friend chimed in. "You need to get out of this mess before it destroys you completely."

But for Y/N, leaving wasn't so simple. Despite the pain, despite the heartache, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was still something worth fighting for. As much as she wanted to walk away. She would rather have this connection with him than risk losing him.

It was August, the summer break was coming to an end.As they lay together beneath a blanket of stars, that Y/N finally found the courage to speak her truth.

"I can't do this anymore," she cried, her voice raw with pain. "I can't be someone's secret."

Oikawa was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. And then, with a sigh, he nodded in resignation. "I knew this would happen," he said, his voice heavy with regret.

The words sharp and cutting as they circled each other like predators in a hunt. Y/N could feel the tension crackling in the air, a palpable force that threatened to consume them both.

"Why do you keep coming back if it makes you so unhappy?" Oikawa demanded, his voice tinged with frustration.

Y/N's heart clenched at the accusation, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his words. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I can't help it."

But even as she spoke the words, she knew they were a lie. She could help it - she just didn't want to. She craved the fleeting moments of joy, the stolen glances and whispered confessions that made her feel alive in a way she had never known before.

And yet, beneath the surface, a storm raged within her, tearing at the seams of her carefully constructed facade. She was tired of hiding, tired of pretending that their relationship was something it wasn't. She wanted more

As the tears welled in her eyes, Y/N knew that she couldn't keep up the charade any longer. She had to be honest - with him, with herself - even if it meant risking everything she had ever known.

"Feelings and emotions got caught in the way. I'm sorry."he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the pounding of her heart.

With those words, their fragile bond shattered like glass. And in that moment, Y/N realized that she had never truly been alone - that he had always known the truth, even when she couldn't bring herself to say the words out loud. But now, as she stood on the precipice of her own liberation, she knew that she could no longer hide behind the facade of their secret love.

[mania-sama]

hesitated all my life (but i'm all done running)

RUNNING - NF

➼ information ❧ Haikyuu ❧ Pairing: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru ❧ Additional Characters: Hanamaki Takahiro, Matsukawa Issei ❧ Tags: character study, angst with a happy ending, blood and injury, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced drinking, internalized homophobia, homophobia, homophobic language, starvation, dehydration, childhood trauma, heavy angst ❧ Summary: Oikawa Tooru is mugged after volleyball practice and becomes the next victim in a cat-and-mouse game between a criminal and the police. Being tucked away underneath the floorboards of his practice court, Oikawa can no longer escape the overbearing feelings he has for his best friend. Iwaizumi Hajime tries to find his best friend before it's too late. ❧ Word Count: 12,646 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 7 November 2023

A volleyball rolls on the ground, far away from where the rest are contained in the set bin. It’s going to be painful getting it back, Oikawa knows. His knee has flared up in aching pain. He sits on the ground and rubs it back into a condition where it can take him around the gym to lock up, then home.

That walk is going to be rough. He doesn’t live far nor in a bad part of town, it’s that he has to actually travel on his bad knee. It’s going to take him at least five more minutes, maybe ten if he has to stop frequently. He sighs, pushing himself slowly off the ground when the pain subsides ever so slightly. It’ll have to do.

He limps to and fro the gym. He’s lucky he’s even playing. His injury over the summer nearly cost him the season, and he doesn’t know what he would’ve done if he had been benched. It’s his final year of schooling before he moves on to higher education. He already has a scholarship lined up, but nothing can quite replace this; the late nights in the gym, practicing solo drills over and over again until he collapses, and gazing up at the Aobai Johsai banners hanging limply from the walls.

And then, of course, there are the people he’ll be leaving behind. It’s not so much the school experience, but the friends and teammates he’s experienced triumph and defeat with. He doesn’t know what to do with the heavyweight in his chest when he realizes he will never sit on the same bench with them or play on the same side of the court. The only way that would be possible is if they all somehow managed to go to the same university as he is.

Which they aren’t. At least, only one of them has been accepted to the same university as him. He and Iwaizumi are sticking together, but not on the court. Iwaizumi isn’t playing collegiate volleyball.

Oikawa shakes himself loose as he turns off the lights of the gym. Getting emotional now will do horribly for his sleep tonight, which he so desperately needs. He has two major tests the next day, and not to mention a volleyball match that afternoon. They’d be playing an unranked school, but it’s a game nonetheless. He wants, and needs, to be well-rested and energized.

The door opens with effort on his part, and he steps out into the chilling air. Seasons are changing, and that makes the nights colder and stretch on for longer. The freezing breeze bites his bare skin, cooling the sweat on his arms, neck, and face. However, it stiffens his knee and reinvites all the pain he was carefully controlling a moment earlier.

He turns to lock the door behind him when his heart seizes. A click of a gun. Clicks. Multiple guns. He stares at the door, his hands frozen mid-air. His entire body stands as still and stiff as possible. Unwanted bile climbs up his throat in complete, unadulterated fear. He doesn’t want to turn in the case they think he has a weapon of his own, or that he’s making a break for it. He doesn’t want to do anything that might make them pull their triggers.

“Drop the bag. Empty your pockets,” a disembodied voice says. Oikawa drops the keys to the ground immediately, then shoulders his duffel bag off of his shoulder. He doesn’t have much in there — a volleyball, a pair of shoes, the set of dirty clothes he wore to practice, and his wallet, probably the only thing in the bag they’re going to want.

He turns out his pockets, slowly drawing out his phone on one side and a lighter on the other. He can’t explain the lighter without outing the fact that his girlfriend smokes and occasionally forgets her lighter — she then gets mad at him for not remembering to carry one, as though he’s the one who smokes.

Only Iwaizumi knows about that. He knows most things about his life that Oikawa wouldn’t tell other people. Things that he wouldn’t tell his own family or his girlfriend.

He wonders what Iwaizumi would say to Oikawa in this situation. Would he hold his hand with a silent promise to keep safe? Or would he somehow try to preserve their belongings by running, or fighting? Perhaps he would’ve seen the glint of the muggers' guns before they could move in from the shadows, and then they wouldn’t be in the situation in the first place.

Well. It doesn’t matter. Iwaizumi isn’t here. He left thirty minutes ago when Oikawa said he couldn’t stop practicing just yet. He’d only even stayed as long as he did under the pretense of walking home with Oikawa.

If they had left together, Oikawa wouldn’t be slowly turning around under the orders of other people. He wouldn’t be staring into the barrels of three guns. “Where’s your wallet? You trying to cheat us?” The middle guy threatens. The voice sounds the same as the other orders, so it must be the same guy. He’s probably the ringleader.

“It’s in— my bag. I can— I can get it out for you,” he says, stuttering through his words. His heart beats erratically in his chest, and it feels like his entire body trembles underneath the rabbit-fast rhythm. The men are wearing ski masks to hide their expressions, but the main guy doesn’t shoot or yell at Oikawa, so he thinks he made the right call.

The middle mugger indicates his gun in the direction of the bag. “Get it out, now.”

Oikawa crouches and tries not to flinch under the distinct sound of guns shifting to follow his movement. One gun is necessary for a robber, he supposes. Three is excessive. Oikawa is unarmed, quite injured, and certainly not trained to fight three robbers with guns at one time. They don’t have anything to fear.

He unzips his bag and pulls out his wallet. It pathetically shakes in his grip. He doesn’t want to part with it. It is a good amount of cash as well as his credit card, which is currently stockpiled with unspent money. He spent all summer working nearly every day, and he has yet to dig into his stash. The plan was to use it on getting a flight to and from Argentina, as well as the various other expenditures that would be required of him during his stay.

Collegiate isn’t his end goal. Argentina is in his sights.

But now, he has his hand out, departing with his money, identity, and bank account. They don’t have his social security, at least, but it won’t mean much with his ID card stolen. It will take him forever to replace all that he will lose.

No, he can prevent most of the damage. He just has to wait until he gets home, and then he’ll call the bank before they can buy much of anything. He can’t do anything about the physical yen , but that’s okay. It has to be the sacrifice.

“Phone. Tell me the passcode while you’re at it.”

Fuck. His social security is in there, as well as his bank. Not to mention it’s a phone, which is expensive and will definitely hurt to replace. But it’s not like he has a choice. The man on the left takes his wallet, and Oikawa grits his teeth against the pain in his knee to pick up his phone. He hands it over while saying the six-digit passcode, and then —

The man on the left says: “What are we doing with this one, boss?”

Boss. Oikawa’s mind reels at that. He thought they were just a couple of guys low on money which resulted in unsavory methods. There are only three of them, and their weapons don’t look spectacular, nor their clothes. Boss would indicate a gang, or yakuza, or some sort of organized crime.

Oikawa is well and truly fucked.

He doesn’t know what to do when the right and left men move forward, seizing his arms and keeping one gun to his temple and another in between his ribs. He wants to struggle, to somehow run away, except there are three guns and he is one injured man.

“The floorboards of the gym,” the one remaining says. “It should be interesting. I want to see how long it takes them to crack this one.” He lowers his gun, but that’s only to retrieve the rolls of black cords behind his back. They were probably stuffed there and hidden by his shirt, or something. Oikawa doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, other than the likelihood he’s going to make it out of this alive or sane has suddenly slimmed to a very, very small margin of possibility.

God, he has two tests tomorrow. He has a volleyball match. His mother is waiting for him at home with a cold dinner that he’s going to have to reheat. His sister is off working in a different district, but she’ll be home to visit in a couple of weekends. Iwaizumi usually texts him before they sleep, making sure he got home okay and that his knee wasn’t bothering him too badly.

His girlfriend...

They manhandle him into the gym and shove him out of their grip when he’s inside. He would’ve run, he would’ve done anything if it weren’t for the fact that they immediately pressed the gun back to his temple. The boss nods to one, and they trade places. The apparent boss starts wrapping Oikawa tight with a black cord while the other keeps Oikawa in check.

“What are you going to do to me?” Oikawa asks, the first question he’s been able to produce on his own since this whole thing started. His voice is rather small and too shaky for his own good. “Please, I’m just a student. I haven’t done anything wrong. I—”

“Stop begging,” the boss grumbles and pulls the restraint binding his arms to his back by crossing his entire abdomen. Another one spans his waist to bind his wrists. “I’ll reconsider this whole thing and just shoot you right here. Would you like that better?”

Oikawa only responds with a shake of his head. The boss scoffs and continues with the last two pieces of cord to wrap Oikawa’s ankles and legs. Beside them, the last man tears up the gym floor with a hammer he must’ve pulled out in a similar fashion as the ropes. The strips of wood give way easily under the prying end of the hammer.

He thought that there was only solid ground beneath the hard flooring of the gym. He was wrong. There, in the center of the left side of the volleyball net, is a rectangular, less than a foot hole. He tears up more to reveal the most of it that he can, showing that it spans just long enough to fit someone as tall as Oikawa.

“I did my research on this place. The yakuza used this place as a money and weapon stash, once. One of those holes on either side of the court. Hope you don’t have a preference,” the boss says, tugging the final restraint on his ankles. It nearly knocks Oikawa over, but the other man has a steady, iron grip on his shoulders. The gun isn’t needed any longer — Oikawa can’t do anything.

Without ceremony, the man behind him forces a strip of cloth in between his lips, painfully pulling the sides of his mouth and triggering an uncomfortable salivating response immediately. He ties it behind his head, secures it, and wraps duct tape several times around his head. All the while he supports Oikawa’s weight carefully on his chest and leg.

He drags Oikawa to the pit and dumps him onto his back. Oikawa lands hard on the cement, halfway onto his shoulder before he lays flat. He’s too afraid to try and plead again, to ask them to please reconsider. He can’t, in any case. The cloth and tape have him completely muffled. When he tries to make a sound, absolutely nothing reaches his ears.

“I would tell you I’m sorry for this,” the boss says, waving for the man to start replacing the flooring again, “but I couldn’t care less. I have this game with the police. I rob and hide people, they try to find the victims before they die of whatever torture I’m putting them through. Great fun. You will die of starvation, I hope.”

The boards are close to Oikawa’s face. Close. The end of his nose presses up against the board — it’ll break if the board gets pushed in too hard. Considering that most of this is empty space, and it’s the dead center of the court, it would be hard to not hit his nose.

“Right under their noses. To put it simply, you’re an insult. I’m playing a practical joke.” It’s not funny in the slightest. Oikawa’s hungry, tired, and utterly terrified. His mouth is rubbing raw from the gag, and the cord hugs his body too tightly to the point where it digs harshly into his skin and flesh.

They leave only after stomping on the replaced floorboards. The sound reverberates through his tiny space, made perfectly to fit just one human person. Made for a victim like Oikawa. The lights turn off, and Oikawa is, one hundred percent, alone.

His stomach growls in the silence of his underground coffin. It’s quiet. It’s nothing but darkness and silence and the adrenaline-boosted exhaustion of being robbed and then locked under his gym. He’s an insult to the police, a practical joke.

Body tingling with the edges of hunger, Oikawa does the absolute only thing he can do. He sleeps in a fitful, restless night, with his body encased in cement and his face pressed against the floorboards of the volleyball court. Sleeping may be too harsh-defined for what he did. It was more like closing his eyes, forcing his breathing to even out, before startling back awake to phantom sounds of guns clicking and feet walking above him.

He doesn’t cry, even though he wants to. His family will notice that he’s gone, his friends, his teammates, and probably his girlfriend. Iwaizumi will see that Oikawa didn’t respond, even though he always does. They’ll tear the world apart looking for him.

He hopes they will.

—

The door opens with a bang, and the only indication that the lights are turned on is from the faintest of yellow outlines in the toothpick-thin space between each board. Footsteps echo through the room, and presumably his head coach sets to work preparing for morning practice. Carts are rolled out from where Oikawa hid them in the closet the night before, and the head coach paces the area. It won’t be long before the team starts filtering in.

It’s never too late to get a head start, though. Oikawa shifts, trying to make as much noise as possible by hitting his feet against the boards. Tapping is all he can manage — the cords have him restrained oddly, the tight quarters of the cement on either side, and the fact that he’s already extremely close to the boards make it so he can’t utilize much force. He tries to make vocal noises, but that’s a lost cause. Nothing makes it past the gag and layers of duct tape.

Oikawa hears his head coach mutter something faintly, then the door opens again. “Good morning, Irihata-san,” Mizoguchi, the other coach, greets.

Irihata quickly shushes him. “Do you hear that? There’s this incessant tapping noise.”

They are silent for a beat. Then: “Maybe Oikawa used the bathroom and forgot to turn off the water. I’ll check.”

The sound of footsteps carries Mizoguchi away toward the bathrooms. Oikawa continues to tap the floorboards, but it’s getting harder with each passing minute. He hears the head coach pace the gym, occasionally getting near to Oikawa, but always turning before he can get close enough to register the exact location of the noise.

Multiple people filter in at once. They greet Irihata in a disjointed manner, and Oikawa does whatever he can to keep tapping. But his body will fail soon. It’s not meant to move in this way, pinned and held together by cords, with nothing but his core to lift his legs a couple of centimeters. And with the gag strangling his ability to breathe, the task becomes a lot harder than it should be.

He hears his friends, Hanamaki and Mastukawa, talk together and say nothing about Oikawa’s absence. Iwaizumi arrives much later than everyone else, much to the coaches’ chagrin. “Where’s Oikawa?” Mizoguchi asks, having returned from the bathrooms a few minutes ago.

Oikawa’s heart races as he waits for his best friend’s reply. I’m here, he wants to scream. Help me! “I have no idea,” Iwaizumi says. “His mother called me this morning asking if Oikawa spent the night with me. Which he didn’t, by the way,” he adds rather hastily. “He hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”

“Call him right now. If he’s hungover from a party or something, I don’t care. We’ve got a game today, and he needs to get his butt over here,” the coach orders.

“I don’t think…” Iwaizumi starts and then trails off. He’s likely getting the death stare, which would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that Oikawa’s anxiety is skyrocketing. Hunger has truly struck him now, having missed two meals already and suffered through an incomplete night of sleep. His friend’s phone rings faintly from where he’s standing closer to the door than to Oikawa.

Louder, he hears: “Hello! This is Oikawa. Sorry, you just missed me! Leave a message, and I’ll consider getting back to you.”

Hanamaki calls from further away: “He hasn't replied to either me or Mattsun.”

“He better have a good reason for this,” Mizoguchi grumbles. “Whatever. Everyone else is here, so no point in delaying practice any further.”

Oikawa’s real Hell begins here.

Each step reverberates through the cement and pounds into his ears. In the close encasement, it sounds like bombs are raining down on his coffin. After they complete their sideline drills, it takes exactly two nanoseconds for someone to step on the floorboards holding him in. His noise splinters and cracks under the pressure. Blood trails down the sides of his face, and suddenly, breathing becomes one of the hardest tasks he’s ever had to do.

He stops tapping the floor in order to carefully control the air flowing in and out of his nose. He can’t exert any effort with his bones misplaced and blood seeping out his nose. His eyes sting up with the tell-tale blur of forthcoming tears, and he shuts his eyes tight. He can’t start crying. If he does, it’ll open a floodgate, and then he really won’t be able to breathe.

Oikawa isn’t keen on dying just yet. They are going to realize he’s missing soon. Hopefully. Even if they, for some reason, think he was partying and got too drunk. Iwaizumi doesn’t think that. If he can just come to his senses and report him to the police, then maybe he’ll get out of here before starvation takes him.

Practice ends without Oikawa ever making an appearance. The bones of his nose have been shattered from repeatedly being smashed in unknowingly by his teammates. He has cried if only for the sheer pain he’s experiencing. It’s only survival instincts that keep his breathing even under the pressure of his broken bones. Iwaizumi had called him again during their small break, and still, voicemail. Even Hanamaki and Matsukawa tried, but they received the same response.

The coaches dismiss them with a thinly veiled threat to make sure Oikawa attends school so he can play the game. To Iwaizumi, Mizoguchi lays the punishment thicker. They know their close friendship, he supposes.

He can’t help but find it a little odd. He has time to dwell on it since everyone clears out of the gym and they shut off the lights. They don’t stick around, because Oikawa has stopped tapping the floor due to his shattered nose. He can’t make a noise.

A few pathetic tears slip down his face. This time from sorrow — any pain he feels has become a monotonous throb hidden behind the heavy pounding of his heart. His mouth dries out, and a headache builds at the base of his neck. Yet, he is utterly alone. Though it’s morning, his world is dark and contained in a cement coffin underneath the floorboards of his volleyball gym.

Oikawa doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to step foot in this place again once this is over. If he even gets out of here.

He presses his head as close as he can to the ground to relieve his nose of any kind of pressure, and he tries to sleep. Tries. He’s not very successful. More than anything, he’s bored and alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. No music, no entertainment, nothing. Just him, unbearable pain, and his incessant inner voice.

He thinks about his mother. He wonders if she’s worried sick about him, or if she thought he had been off at a party like his couches assumed. Oikawa wants to think that she knows him better than that; honestly, he’s not much of a party person anyway. Partying takes away from the time he could be spending watching matches and studying. School and volleyball are too important to him.

That doesn’t mean he hasn’t gone to a party. His friends have dragged him to them on occasion, but they’ve never had a problem with him leaving when he doesn’t feel like staying for long. He’ll pick them up if they need a drive home in exchange. His girlfriend doesn’t like it as much when he leaves, so he stays to please her.

He wonders if that’s why they’ve grown so distant. Oikawa can’t go to parties. He didn’t bring the right lighter. He has too many fangirls, too many high-level classes to attend, and too little time to spend with her, even though he tries so hard to make time.

The silent treatment recently has struck a chord in his heart. He doesn’t even know what he did wrong, but she won’t answer his texts and she looks the other way when he speaks to her. So he can’t even find out what happened. It’s driving him up the wall, but mainly, it’s made him upset.

Upset because he doesn’t even know if he wants to salvage their relationship.

His breath shudders as that thought crosses his mind, blatant and blaring like a police siren. Their downfall isn’t a tragedy, it’s merely an inevitable end. Oikawa had felt their tether loosening and splintering over the past few months. He doesn’t mind her smoking habits; he minds her jealousy streak, the way it’s always his fault and never hers, and how she really, really didn’t like Iwaizumi.

The slimmest reflection of his best friend sent his hands tremoring with a new kind of anxiety. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him recently — it’s like every time he sees Iwaizumi, his heart races, body heats, and tongue thickens, causing him to stumble over his words as though he’s a young girl giving a confession. It’s embarrassing.

He doesn’t know what it means. Or rather, he doesn’t want to know what it means. Oikawa would rather focus on anything else in the world, but bringing himself back to the present is worse than the tumultuous words banging around his head. All that’s here for him in reality is his various aches and pains, the sharp sting of the cords keeping his body tight and still, and the complete darkness of his cement coffin.

Iwaizumi is a much better topic to think of. He always has been, and always will be, and reflecting on their relationship is much more fun than focusing on his pain. And as he reflects on his odd ailments regarding Iwaizumi’s presence, he remembers the entire, sorrowful ordeal concerning the university.

Oikawa had a very quiet meltdown when Iwaizumi texted him about the university he’d sent an application to, decidedly one that was not the same as the one that had offered Oikawa a full-ride scholarship to play collegiate volleyball. The thought that they would be separated so soon after high school made him so unbearably upset, and he couldn’t even comprehend why. His reaction to Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s decisions had been bad, but not that bad.

The day Iwaizumi revealed where he was going to university was the day Oikawa blessed the sun, the moon, and the stars, and sent his gratitude to every god of every religion. He doesn’t think he’s clingy, but when he reflects on his stroke of luck, he rethinks his entire self. Maybe he isn’t clingy, per se, but he doesn’t like losing the things he loves. Like volleyball, which he’s signed to play collegiate for. His family, whom he would lay down his life for.

Iwaizumi.

Oikawa promised himself the moment they met eleven years ago that he wanted Iwaizumi to be his best friend to the end of time. He still holds to that now, even as he starves and breathes shallowly and evenly beneath the Aoba Johsai gym floor. There’s nothing false about his eternal vow. It’s just that love is a strong word to use for a best friend.

Yet, he cannot deny that he truly does love Iwaizumi. As an extremely close best friend. Nothing more, nothing less. That’s all they ever will be, and Oikawa knows this. He doesn’t know why there’s an achingly familiar pang in his chest so vastly unrelated to his current predicament when he repeats the label of their relationship. Best friend.

He redirects his thoughts to the tests he’s missing today. He’s in his last year of English language, and though his grades are fine, he can’t help but worry over structure. Everything has become a lot more complicated after they’ve started doing complex sentences, each one being in a different tense and containing vocabulary words he’s not sure he fully understands. He went over them with Iwaizumi the other night, and it honestly seemed like his friend was fairing much better with the vocab than Oikawa.

Before his mind can travel down that familiar road of late-night study sessions, he associates English with learning Spanish in his free time, then Spanish with Argentina, then Argentina with volleyball. And where there is volleyball, there is Iwaizumi. He’s right back where he started.

He tries aliens and the various theories that follow, but that goes even quicker to Iwaizumi than English had. His other test is Calculus, he thinks desperately, but then that goes to how he struggles with the equations and graphs and Iwaizumi can just do it so effortlessly —

Everything comes back to Iwaizumi. Always.

And that leaves him with the muggers, guns, cords wrapping his body tight, cloth and duct tape binding his mouth, and a broken nose strangling his breathing.

So he goes back to Iwaizumi in a vicious cycle that repeats until he falls into a frustrated, headache-induced sleep.

—

He wakes to nothing but the deep-set ache of his body and the tight constriction from starvation. His throat is dry and his mouth is sore from the gag.

Other than his breathing, he hears nothing. He cannot tell how far into the day it is, when school will let out, or when the next day will come. Since there’s a match, nobody will be in the practice gym all afternoon. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow to try his luck again.

Distantly, he wonders if they’ll notice him tomorrow. Oikawa may be weak at that point. A full day and a quarter without any food or drink is hard on the body. It’d be one thing if he was getting water, but he was barely even taking in an adequate amount of oxygen . This careful equilibrium can’t last him forever. Besides, if they keep crushing his nose underneath their feet, then he really won’t be able to breathe.

The thought is upsetting enough that he returns to the snake biting its tail. Iwaizumi and him. He and Iwaizumi.

He works on trying to pry the duct tape off by scraping it against the cement wall. It’s not like there’s anything else he can do. He’s pressed in close enough that it doesn’t work very well, and he has to take frequent and inhibiting brakes every thirty seconds or so on account of his nose. It’s positively miserable. More miserable is sitting and doing nothing in agony.

He questions fleetingly, with objective curiosity to cure incurable boredom, what it would be like if Iwaizumi was born a girl. Oikawa shuts it down before it can bloom. It’s not like he can imagine Iwaizumi looking any different, anyway.

—

It’s incredible how fast his thoughts turn sour.

In his intense avoidance of Iwaizumi, he ends up recounting his entire life from the point of remembrance to his current, unfortunate predicament. He starts off innocently enough, but then it moves on to the first embarrassing moment of his life. Then the next, and then the avalanche of his Worst Days comes crashing down on him in a violent flurry of misery and distress.

His stomach curdles and coils with hunger, uncomfortableness, guilt, and regret. Reliving your tragic memories of humiliation isn’t something he thought he’d be dealing with when he first got shoved underneath the floorboards. At that point, he’d been too scared to think about anything but his imminent death and what he could do to avoid it. However, now he’s alone and most of the initial terror has worn off — the anxiety of it all doesn’t quite abandon him — so all he’s left with is an impenetrable amount of boredom.

He recalls the times when he caused scenes over minor things, when he’s cried in front of his classmates in elementary and lower secondary school, and been unreasonably rude or angry to his friends and family. Those in particular make his head reel and jaw flex. He has a mean streak — he’s well aware, and he doesn’t always feel sorry after he’s laid a few thick words — but something about the cramped darkness of the gym floor has him rethinking his actions.

The words he could have chosen differently. The people he’s hurt.

God, he never apologized to Kageyama for that shit he pulled when they were younger. Slapping a child because Oikawa felt sorry for himself is such a shitty move that he can’t even find the wherewithal to come up with a better justification for it. Even though it happened literal years ago, his heart pangs, and his gut clenches in that familiar, pitiful self-loathing agony.

He spirals before he knows it, and it jumps so fast to yesterday, or the day before, or however long it’s been since he and Iwaizumi had gotten into an argument, the same old fight, and Iwaizumi left Oikawa to practice in the gym alone for longer than usual. Iwaizumi wanted to walk Oikawa home, as they usually do, but Oikawa was confounded with a fit of nerves and anxiety that was overall foreign to him.

Or rather, it had been foreign to him, but in the past few weeks, he’s noticed an uptick in tremoring heartbeat and frantic thoughts. Nothing had changed between him and Iwaizumi, not anything that Oikawa had picked up on. Yet, on the basis that he was sure he was going to have a nervous breakdown if he walked in the dark with his best friend, he vehemently denied the offer and said that he should practice more. Iwaizumi argued that his knee was hurting, which it was and despite Oikawa’s best attempt at lying, Iwaizumi saw right through him.

Oikawa resorted to his usual defense mechanism, except he was much worse. The insults he swore cut deeper than he intended, and he knows it’s because of this thing he’s developed around Iwaizumi that’s completely fried his nerves. Iwaizumi left before the argument could turn from normal to violent, as though he knew that Oikawa hadn’t been feeling his best.

It didn’t mean that his face wasn’t twisted when he slammed punched the gym doors open and that Oikawa spent the next thirty minutes pushing himself as hard as he could to forget his jittery nerves and the hurt expression on Iwaizumi’s face. For the most part, it had actually worked. His knee was in enough pain and his exhausted, sweaty body averted his attention.

He’s cognizant of the fact that he was being unreasonable and that there has to be a root cause of his apparent fear of being close to Iwaizumi despite the fact that they’d been that way for their entire friendship. It came with the territory of being friends since they were six, and staying that way until they were both seventeen and drank themselves into a stupor over their eleven-year friendship.

Alone. Together. Just the two of them in the backyard of Iwaizumi’s house when his parents weren’t home. It would be one of his favorite memories, honestly, if it weren’t for the intense anxiety and heartache it causes him to recall it. It’s the way Iwaizumi looked at the time, with his face flushed with alcohol and his lips looser than usual, calling Oikawa more endearing terms than meaningless insults. He can’t remember much from that night past the hours they spent downing shots and cups that gradually led to a horrid, impromptu one-on-one volleyball match that ended with them sprawled out on the grass, laughing and making non-existent shapes of the stars hanging above them.

Oikawa woke up in Iwaizumi’s bed with the worst hangover in his entire life, pressed close to Iwaizumi, and starfished around him like a jellyfish clinging to an unsuspecting human leg. His and Iwaizumi’s torsos were bare, and thank fuck their pants were on or Oikawa would have had a panic attack for not remembering their first time together.

His thoughts come to a halt at that, and he feels his neck and face heating at the imagery of sex with his best friend. Who is a boy. Who is someone that Oikawa is not at all attracted to, and never will be attracted to. It’s embarrassing, he concludes, that he would even entertain the idea for more than half a second.

His heart palpitates and his breathing falls uneven, sending a spike of panic through his veins as he struggles to take in air through his shattered nose. It doesn’t help that he’s now actively thinking about having sex with Iwaizumi, even though he keeps trying to banish the thought. He blames it on the gym floor and boredom. He doesn’t want it to be anything else.

Even if his whole body twinges at the phantom feelings of his best friend planting kisses on his face, licking his neck, roughly unbuttoning his shirt, and sliding his hands down past Oikawa’s boxers. He moans into Oikawa’s ear, and instead of being entirely aroused, Oikawa feels uncomfortable and insurmountably guilty. He shouldn’t be having these thoughts – not about his best friend, who is not a girl and is very much a boy. He pushes imaginary Iwaizumi away from his two-thirds exposed body, unfathomably worsening his guilt and regret, and forces his mind to search for another topic.

Anything else. Please. Anxiety thrums through him as he keeps coming back to Iwaizumi, and his family, and about how horrified they would be if they found out Oikawa had been having these wretched, immoral fantasies. Ones that he’s tried for years to control but keep coming back to haunt him like a restless ghost.  He can’t imagine the anger and betrayal Iwaizumi would feel if he ever had a peak into Oikawa’s intrusive, unforgiving mind. Iwaizumi would never talk to Oikawa again. Their eleven-year-long friendship would splinter and snap like a twig, and Oikawa’s friends would all leave him because he keeps pulling Iwaizumi back to him, pressing his hands to his chest, and tearing him apart with his mouth even though Iwaizumi is the same sex as him and that makes this so, so wrong.

The metal doors of the gym creak and groan. Multiple sets of footsteps glide into the court, carrying them only a few paces before they stop entirely. They’re probably grouped at the front.

“Is there any place he could be hiding?” An unfamiliar voice asks. It’s deep and masculine, and the distinct sound of clanging metal makes him wonder if the group of people is the police coming to investigate his disappearance.

His evil fantasy disbands before him like dust in the wind. He focuses on the conversation, trying to regain his breath so he might be able to tap on the floor. If anyone can find him, it would be them or Iwaizumi. Distantly he thinks that Iwaizumi wouldn’t make a horrible officer.

Speak of the devil. “The changing rooms is where I’d look first. Nobody saw him at practice, but he spends more time here than anyone else. If there’s a place to hide, he knows it,” Iwaizumi says. His voice is tight and tired. Oikawa's heart starts hurting all over again, and something akin to strong desire throws his breathing far off-kilter again.

Moreover, the fact that Iwaizumi is directing the police to look here, where Oikawa really is. They are so close. They just need to focus and see that he’s right under their noses. If the men who did this to him were able to find out that the yakuza used this gym once — the thought sends a shiver down his spine. How long has it been since they abandoned it? Were they still using it when Oikawa attended in his first and second year, waiting for him to leave the gym so they could unload weapons, drugs, and God-forbid bodies? — then surely the police could as well.

Surely, he thinks when they pass over his coffin. Not all of them went to the locker room. Some were directed to search the main area while they thoroughly ransacked the changing room. Unfortunately, Oikawa hadn’t left anything behind when he finished practice. He doesn’t like to give any indication he was there in the first place, which is an odd behavior he’s kept since he was young. Even though the whole team knows he stays for an hour or so after practice is over, Oikawa refuses to leave a trace of his presence.

Oikawa knows exactly where, when, and why this habit developed. It doesn’t matter, now, though. His father has been out of his life for seven and a half years. He has no reason to be thinking about the awful man any further.

“And you’re sure he had no connections with any gangs, drug dealers, or the yakuza?” An officer asks, their voices filtering in as they re-enter the court.

“Yes, I don’t—” Iwaizumi’s voice cuts out abruptly. It sounds so unlike his best friend that Oikawa could honestly cry. “I didn’t go through hours of interrogation for it to continue here. Just do your job and find him.”

It’s not an officer’s place to give condolences or comfort where they aren’t strictly necessary, so the policeman predictably doesn’t respond Oikawa’s still not breathing right; every voice he hears sends jolts through his aching head, knocking away all of the progress he’d made in the second before. He can’t scream to let them know that he’s here, that someone from his past or a mugger playing an awful practical prank has laid him under the floorboards to die.

They pass over him without pausing. His nose is bent far enough back that their footballs are unable to damage it any further. Splitting in different directions, he assumes Iwaizumi is going back in the direction of the changing rooms while the police officer heads the opposite way. Oikawa has the sickening premonition that they aren’t going to find him after all.

Oikawa is overridden with panic and dread as they search through the gym and come up with nothing. They meet in the middle after a while, and a long, tense silence stretches among them. “Nothing?” One asks. Another parrots the same word as an answer. “Then let's keep going. Iwaizumu-kun, take us down his usual route home.”

“... Okay,” Iwaizumi consents.

Oikawa never got his breathing under check in time. He continues to struggle, wondering if the light-headed feeling is coming from the lack of oxygen, hunger, dehydration, or sorrow. Most likely an amalgamation of all four to maximize his misery. The door closes behind them and locks into place.

He is alone. Even his intrusive thoughts are unable to keep him company as he silently processes the likelihood that he will die.

—

Memory is inherently fallible, but Oikawa remembers his father perfectly. It’s a trick of the universe, another set of unwanted thoughts to corral his misery. He’s too tired to fight them anymore. Hunger and thirst have started to drain him in earnest.

In truth, he didn’t get to see his father that often. The custody agreement between him and his mother meant that Oikawa only went to his dad’s house on the weekends. He didn’t hate his dad at the time, but he certainly enjoyed his mom’s place more. She had all of the posters he liked, the action figures from his favorite comics, three volleyballs, and most importantly, Iwaizumi. He only lived a few houses down from his mom’s house, while his dad lived on the other side of the city. Much further away from Iwaizumi, which made it extremely inconvenient for Oikawa to hang out with his best friend.

Oikawa was young at the time. He didn’t have any comprehension of divorce, or why his mom and dad lived in two separate houses. It didn’t matter to him, really. It wasn’t until he was older that he was slowly taught all of the reasons why his father was abhorrent, and why Tooru should strive to clear the dirt off the Oikawa family name.

He was seven years old when he first heard the word fag at his dad’s house. It was about some television show his father and his friends were watching, strewn around the living room while having Oikawa serve them beer at intervals. They laughed loudly, and when Oikawa came into the room with four bottles balancing carefully in his arms, his father said the words that continue to haunt Oikawa to the present day:

“Never be a dirty bastard like that, son, or I might just have to kill you myself.”

His dad said things like that. Casual threats, slurs to anyone different than himself, and overall degrading comments to women. His dad’s friends weren’t any better, and they tended to goad his behavior rather than amend it. The abnormality of his father’s personality became more apparent to him as he got older.

Iwaizumi’s dad didn’t leave bruises on the places where he gripped too tight. Iwaizumi’s dad didn’t leave cans of beer on the ground for his son to clean up. Iwaizumi’s dad was nothing like his own dad. Oikawa liked Iwaizumi’s house better than he liked his dad’s house.

Oikawa’s room was barren at his dad’s house. He tended to keep people over when Oikawa wasn’t there — and he did when he actually was there, sometimes — so he was ordered to pick up anything that might indicate that he even had a son in the first place. Of course, Oikawa knows why that happened: his father invited women to his house almost every night. Multiple, in many cases. They couldn’t all sleep in one bed, so they were delegated to what was supposed to be Oikawa’s room.

Then there was the other stuff. His dad didn’t like how Oikawa preferred to keep himself pristine and clean, didn’t particularly enjoy any other sport than volleyball, and hadn’t shown much interest in any of the girls in his class. He only really talked about Iwaizumi, and when he met them, Mastukawa and Hanamaki. His father would warn him not to be a disgusting homosexual, and that would be that.

Oikawa only got to learn about the really bad things after his father killed himself in the living room on a Saturday night.

He was ten years old, and the sound of the killing gunshot woke him up from his shallow slumber. His room was plain and bland, just like always, with his clothes packed in his duffel bag. He raced down the stairs and found his father dead on the couch with two empty bottles at his side.

It’s only on bad nights that Oikawa recalls this. And on those bad nights, he calls Iwaizumi, who always manages to answer him despite the fact that it’s three in the morning and they have morning practice, or Iwaizumi’s at the beach, or something or the other.

He only ever asks to hear Iwaizumi’s voice. His best friend always obliges. They don’t talk about it the next day, though even if Iwaizumi asked, Oikawa would have denied him. He doesn’t like to think about it, much less talk about it.

Besides, he doesn’t know what to do with the guilt that overrides him on those nights, and the day after when his mind supplies him with the gruesome scene of his father’s pink and red brains splayed out over the dirt brown couch. 

The truth is, Oikawa doesn’t feel sorry that his dad committed suicide.

He feels sorry that he had to see it. He feels sorry that his mother suffered all his dad’s abuse and degradation for years, yet not be able to obtain full custody of her children. His father was a piece of shit through and through, and Oikawa does not mourn his death as a seventeen-year-old.

Oikawa only fears the person he will become, fears that to this day, his father clutches his mind so tight that he thinks his own brain matter is seeping between his fingers.

“Never be a dirty bastard like that, son, or I might just have to kill you myself.”

The disembodied voice echoes and bangs around his skull like a bullet’s ricochet path. Bile climbs up his throat when he thinks about Iwaizumi and all of the nasty thoughts he’s had about him in the eleven years of their friendship.

Oikawa’s father is dead, but the weight of his impact clings to him as though he were still alive to repeat those threats. Oikawa knows that the world has differing views on homosexuality, but he also knows that in the Miyagi Prefecture, there are way too many people who hold similar, if not identical, beliefs. Oikawa plays men’s volleyball for God’s sake. If he was gay, they’d all turn their backs on him. They might beat him, leave him for dead, or shoot him in through the temple like his dad did to himself all those years ago.

That’s why Oikawa likes girls, not boys. He doesn’t like Iwaizumi that way, despite his brain unhelpfully supplying him with the night they got drunk out of their minds in his backyard.

Oikawa only enjoys alcohol when he’s with Iwaizumi. That he can admit to without feeling a convoluted mess of emotions that make him want to rip out his hair, which he can’t do regardless. His arms are tied firmly to his back, and he doesn’t have nearly enough space to attempt wiggling out of the cords.

He wonders what his father would do in this situation, but he can’t imagine he’d be in it in the first place. He would’ve gotten himself killed in the process of being robbed, probably. Then, he reprimands himself. He doesn’t want to do whatever his father would do. That man was a liar, a bastard, and a cheat.

Oikawa pretends he’s called Iwaizumi. Pretends that his chest isn’t constricted with the terror that he’s become exactly like his father. Pretends that he doesn’t want Iwaizumi to hold him tight in his arms, because his father would kill him if wanted that, his teammates would abandon him, he’d never be successful in his professional career, he’d stain the family name more than it already has been, he—

—

It takes ten years for the doors to be opened again. According to his vague perception of time, — calculated mainly on his increasing thirst and hunger — Oikawa thinks it should be time for morning practice. That means a day and a quarter has passed underneath the floorboards. He feels gross from the dirt and dust coating his body. A shower would be nice. So would food, water, more than two centimeters of space to move, and real human interaction.

Alas, every man wants what they cannot have.

Instead of the slow pace and quiet grumbles of Irihata, two sets of footsteps land heavily on the gym floor. They rattle the cement coffin, though they never quite step on top of him. “Oikawa!” Hanamaki’s familiar voice calls. “This isn’t fucking funny! Oikawa!”

After a beat of silence that is filled entirely with Oikawa’s mental screams of desperation, his other friend’s voice cuts in. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s here,” Matsukawa says, and there’s an edge in his tone that Oikawa isn’t fond of.

“Fuck,” Hanamaki sighs. It’s truly amazing how one word can summarize Oikawa’s entire situation.

He hears the distinct rustling of paper and his friends moving a few paces. The pulling and ripping of tape comes next, and while Oikawa knows they’re putting something on the wall, he’s a little lost as to what. “This feels useless,” Makki professes.

“It’ll guilt the team into trying harder to find him,” Mattsun steadfastly replies. An unsettling feeling coils in his stomach when he realizes that his friend is being reasonable. Not only that, he’s become a comforting figure. Truly terrifying. The world may as well collapse underneath their feet.

Another lull haunts their conversation, as though they can’t quite figure out what to say. Or rather, everything that they wanted to share had already been discussed before they arrived at the gymnasium. Either way, it helped Oikawa very little in terms of gleaning information about the living world.

“LSD,” Makki starts. The word makes Oikawa’s eyebrows furrow painfully, given his pounding headache. “All his money went to LSD and some other drug, right? That doesn’t seem right.”

What?

“He barely even drank, and he was saving for a trip to Argentina,” Mattsun agrees.

“He seemed nervous, though, right? Like, all last month.” Makki pauses. Then, “Do you think—”

“No gangs. Oikawa doesn’t have the guts for that.” Oikawa would be offended in any other scenario. But, given his predicament and the dots connecting in his head, a bitter taste fills his parched mouth instead. “Besides, we agreed his behavior was linked to college and Iwaizumi. Getting into a gang and doing hard drugs is far out, even for us.”

What the fuck, Oikawa thinks incredulously, do they mean by that.

“Shit. I hate this. I hate this so much. It’d be easier if he ran away. At least he’d be okay. And we’d probably know where he went,” Makki rambles, then follows up with a string of curses.

Matsukawa mutters inaudibly. A little louder, he says: “We aren’t helping anyone by standing here. Let’s get changed.”

Out of all the things they’d said in their short conversation, that threw Oikawa for a loop the most. If it’s morning practice, then they should already be in their practice clothes. Their footsteps led away to the changing room, leaving Oikawa to stew in his thoughts as he always does.

A second later, the door opens again. This time, Oikawa is sure it’s Irihata. He’s usually there after one or two early players in the afternoon practice. though the fact that Hanamaka and Matsukawa are the early ones this time calls for concern. He knows why. They’re worried for him.

The anxiety and despair crushes any warmth he may have felt at the sentiment. Not only is it afternoon practice, meaning his perception of time is worse than he imagined, but morning practice had been canceled, likely from his disappearance. It surprises him — one person not being able to show up shouldn’t have made his coaches cancel the whole thing. Unless, of course, the brief investigation happened in the morning rather than at night as Oikawa originally thought.

More irritating than anything is that Oikawa has absolutely no way of confirming this unless someone happens to talk about it at a distance where he can hear, and the likelihood of that occurring is even worse than his chance of making it out alive. He resigns himself in his bristling agitation as Irihata begins setting up the court and more players, along with Mizoguchi, enter the gymnasium.

Iwaizumi’s gruff greeting captures Oikawa’s attention for a second. It doesn’t sound like much at first, but for the second day in a row, he’s come far later than the rest of the team. He knows the observation isn’t lost on his coaches, yet they opt out of saying anything about it. They let Iwaizumi pass through to the changing room without so much as a hint of displeasure.

Oikawa feels his heart hurt unbearably in his chest. Iwaizumi and Oikawa usually walk together to practice, and if they don’t, they’re on time regardless. Lateness could only mean Iwaizumi was waiting for a person who will never come, or searching for a friend whom he won’t find.

We agreed his behavior was related to college and Iwaizumi, Matsukawa’s voice echoes in his head, only slightly overshadowing the rough threat of his father.

He’d been as discreet as he could over the past few weeks. He didn’t hang out with his friends any less, didn’t break up with his girlfriend out of the blue, and certainly didn’t do anything to indicate that his heart rate went through the roof when he was with Iwaizumi for more than five whole seconds. The issue of his anxiety was something he resigned to solving by himself. Enough self-berating over time should have done the trick.

Except it didn’t, and his friends were able to pick up on it. His father, Matsukawa, and his own voice run together in a murky, slow-moving river. It rises past his shoulders and clogs his nose with muck.

“Before we begin,” Mizoguchi begins after all of the players gather in a stiff silence, “if anyone has any idea where Oikawa Tooru has gone, speak now. I don’t care if someone has given you hush money. This is bigger than pride or volleyball or whatever profit you made. A real person’s life is at risk.”

The silence prevails. Oikawa screams behind his cloth gag and layers of duct tape.

Mizoguchi continues awkwardly. “Practice and games will continue like normal. Please, keep your eyes out for Oikawa. Don’t stop searching.”

Practice is only marginally more bearable than last time. His headache splinters the space between his eyes from the constant rattling of the cement and floorboards. Although his nose is no longer in mortal danger of being broken again, he can’t quite pull it far enough back. The wood bending under hard, falling feet, chests, arms, and the occasional butt, still taps his nose in painful bursts. It makes it hard to breathe, and he spends most of practice filled to the brim with panic. Less so because he thinks he will die from suffocation, though always a prevalent fear, but because not being able to breathe makes the heart behave erratically.

His best friend leads the drills, just like he had the day before. While he isn’t toned down at all, he definitely seems out of it. Talking to the same person every day for eleven years has allowed them to gain the innate ability to tell when something is wrong with the other using simple inflections of the voice if no physical cues are given. Oikawa’s disappearance is bothering him a lot. More than Oikawa would have guessed.

He’s only been gone for nearly two days. They could easily guess that he’s run away, taken his trip to Argentina a little earlier without telling anyway, or got really messed up on LSD, if his friends’ earlier conversation is anything to go by. It wouldn’t be wrong for them to still hope that he’d pick up his phone soon and respond to the texts and calls they’d sent him.

Of course, that isn’t what happened. Hajime knows him too well. He knows that Oikawa could never keep plans of running away a secret for so long, that he still doesn’t have quite enough for his Argentina vacation yet, and he’s never been high despite the several attempts made by others. He doesn’t smoke and can count on his fingers on one hand the amount of times he’s been tipsy or drunk. The obvious conclusion Iwaizumi would come to is that Oikawa has been kidnapped or murdered.

The reality is a mixture of both. Oikawa has a feeling that Iwaizumi knows that, too.

Hearing his taut voice order the players around in place of Oikawa is too much for him to bear. It sends spikes of anxiety and such intense longing through his veins, and for the first time in his life, he can’t smother it. He can’t pretend it’s about anything else, because he isn’t doing anything else. There’s no person he can turn to blame his tremoring body on, no place to direct the pull of his heart, no game to accuse of causing his elevated temperature.

And when Iwaizumi leaves, the last person to do so without actually practicing any extra drills, Oikawa feels a part of himself leave, too. The part that has been held in Iwaizumi’s hands since they were six years old.

However, Iwaizumi fails to take Tooru’s hysterical emotions with him. It remains trapped with him in the six-foot by ten-inch coffin.

He has no road to run away from his feelings.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, experiences the pain it creates, and cries.

—

Time passes without him. It could be the next day, next month, or next year. It’s impossible to keep track anymore. All he knows is that he’s steadfastly dying under the floorboards of the practice gym, and nobody has come to tear him out of his coffin. They are only going to realize their mistake when his corpse is rotting and emitting a foul smell that attracts ants and maggots alike to feast on his flesh. His silent heart and brain will be the delicacies they save for dessert.

Practice occurs four more times: morning, afternoon, morning, afternoon. Oikawa’s convinced he’s missed some more in between there. He drifts in and out of sleep, but never long enough to allow him dreams or make him feel well-rested. He’s hungry, so unbearably hungry, and he can’t quite feel his mouth anymore. The only sensations he comprehends are the cloth pressuring his aching teeth and the duct tape sticking to his skin.

It comes to a head at no specific given point. Practice ended some time ago, and he is alone as usual. There’s nothing special about this time, and yet.

He thinks about Iwaizumi, as he has been recently. Always is his friend accompanied by the harsh words of his father, mainly because when he imagines Hajime, he’s pressing a kiss to Oikawa’s head and reassuring him that everything will be okay.

For the first time, it occurs to Tooru that his worst nightmare will come true. His number one fear, just after being outed and suffering ridicule for his sexuality, is that he will become just like his father.

Oikawa hasn’t gone out of his way to treat women poorly, but he knows that his long history of short relationships can’t be blamed on the individual girls. He doesn’t drink often, but he has and that’s worth something. This slow death of his is practically his fault, making it suicide. He hasn’t done enough tapping or wriggling or shoving.

He’s homophobic to a fault.

A painful memory resurfaces in his mind. He was sitting on a couch in Iwaizumi’s living room, two years after his dad shot himself in the head, and they were watching some television show that happened to be on. Oikawa doesn’t remember all the details. He doesn’t have to; only one scene matters.

It happened to be that two men kissed on the screen at that very moment. Iwaizumi wasn’t paying much attention, since he was actually doing his assigned homework that Oikawa was definitely not procrastinating on. The couple had been developing at a fast rate in the episode, and Oikawa’s conflicting emotions prevented him from properly distancing himself from the screen.

As such, when the scene occurred, he made a noise that was something between a gag and a whine. Iwaizumi looked up in slight alarm, looking from Oikawa, to the screen, then back to Oikawa. Raising an eyebrow, he said: “Are you okay?”

“I– uh— is that not… weird to you?” Oikawa nodded to the screen, and he felt the flush on his neck that had quickly overtaken the biting cold that had drained his body all at once.

Iwaizumi’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “What?”

“That!” Oikawa waved a shaky hand at the men who were then holding onto each other. “That shouldn’t be on screen. Right?”

Even then, Tooru’s inner conflict had raged within him. As young as twelve, he’d recognized that he was different from other people. But, at that point, his father’s death was still fresh in his mind, along with the words that would continue to haunt him for years to come. Oikawa will never forget the affronted look on Iwaizumi’s face when he realized what Oikawa was specifically pointing out.

“Don’t be an asshat, Oikawa. Boys can like other boys. Girls can like other girls. Get over yourself,” Iwaizumi asserted and then returned to his homework.

They didn’t bring it up again after that.

There were more times that Iwaizumi got hints of Oikawa’s homophobia, like when he’d startle seeing two men holding hands or two girls dancing close together in the rain. Iwaizumi would give him a look, slap him on the back or head, and that would be it. It didn’t take long for Oikawa’s outward homophobia to dissipate. He dragged it all inward, pointed it to himself, and let people live their lives without his hateful judgment.

But homophobia is homophobia, regardless of who it’s being directed to. He doesn’t care anymore when two people of the same gender share a kiss, hold hands, or dance. At least, that’s what he told himself. Oikawa reflects, and he recognizes the viper of jealousy that strangles his intestines.

He cares that people care about him, and the image he needs to uphold, and the father that’s been dead for years but is still terrified of disappointing. He’s denied himself the happiness reflected in the eyes of couples by forcing himself into relationships that won’t work because, quite simply, he doesn’t like girls.

He never has, and he never will. It’s the exact sentiment that would’ve driven his father into beating Oikawa until his heart stopped beating and then killing himself again.

His father was homophobic. So is Oikawa, despite his best efforts not to be.

He doesn’t want to be like his father. He doesn’t want to die a liar, a bastard, and a cheat.

For so long, he’s listened to that deceased voice like it can come back and kill him, like his words carry more weight than the dirt he’s buried in. Oikawa knows what it’s like in his country, and he’s aware that his father’s views were a little more radical than most. He won’t get shot in the back of his head by his teammates, and they certainly wouldn’t kick their best player off the court.

Besides, he doesn’t have to tell them anything. They aren’t entitled to his personal life — if they want to make assumptions when he stops dating girls, so be it. He’s not going to keep lying and lying and lying.

He will tell Hajime, and he won’t cut the truth down. He’ll tell his best friend that he’s gay, that he’s been in love with him for at least three years, and that if this changes anything between them, Oikawa will understand.

The thought of Iwaizumi separating himself from Oikawa’s life entirely is painful. It hurts more than his stomach eating itself to survive. But this way, he won’t be like his father. He won’t run from his problems any longer. The voice in his head will mean less than the scuff on the bottom of his shoe. Tooru will be an Oikawa in name only.

He just has to be found.

Please, he prays, uncaring of which god his words reached, I’ll do it. Please don’t let me die as my father. Please don’t let me die. I’ll do it. I’ll tell him I love him. I won’t keep living a lie. I don’t want to die. Please.

Oikawa barely hears the doors open over the pounding of his headache. He’s had it for so long that it should’ve become dull and forgettable, but he’s been acutely aware of its growing intensity. What little water is left in him is wasted by the tears trickling down his face in slow, agonizing droplets.

He knows he will die before the next practice.

The tell-tale rattle and shake of feet stepping on the gymnasium floor startles him. They pace directly to where Oikawa thinks the flyer is. Matsukawa and Hanamaki taped it up to the wall a while back, but it’s clearly not done any good. Oikawa is still missing, and he won’t be found.

Then, the sound of ripping paper cuts through his headache like a steaming knife in sharp bread.

“Damn it!” Iwaizumi yells, and his previously faint heartbeat picks up rapidly in Oikawa’s chest. “Where are you? Where are you? I can’t do it anymore. You never left. I know you didn’t. You’re somewhere in here, and I can’t—” His voice breaks into choked sobs. “Where did you go?”

Oikawa can’t breathe. Every breath hurts more than the last like a searing firestick being jabbed directly into his lungs. There isn’t enough energy in his body to keep him alive for much longer.

For the first time, he ignores his shattered nose. He ignores the fact that he cannot breathe at all without pain splintering his head as though he’s a piece of firewood being chopped in half by an unskilled lumberjack. He takes his feet and slams them as hard as he can against the floorboards. It’s probably not as loud or effective as he imagines it would be if his body wasn’t ninety-nine percent of the way dead from starvation, but he does it anyway.

And he does it again, and again, and again. All the while, he pressed his face as close as he could to the floorboards, willing his nose to be felt as an odd lump underneath Iwaizumi’s foot. His chest constricts, his heart unable to keep up with the effort he’s applying. It’s why he hadn’t done this before — the likelihood he’d make it out alive would be slim to none.

Well, if he doesn’t try now, he will die regardless.

“Oh my God,” he hears Iwaizumi exclaim, horrified, as his foot finds Oikawa’s nose. As soon as he hears his best friend and feels the pressure against his broken bones, he passes out. He knows this because when he opens his eyes next, his body is limp on the cement, and the distinct sound of metal scraping the floor filters through toothpick-thin cracks.

The wood peels up off the floor, right on top of Oikawa’s eyes. The brightness of the gymnasium lights hits his fattened pupils hard, for he’s staring directly at a burning light fixture above.

He blacks out again.

The time discrepancy between his past and current wakefulness is shorter because Iwaizumi has barely started on another board. He’s slow to comprehend his surroundings and sensations, staring blankly at the peeling wood without much going on outside of his slowing heart.

“I’m gonna get you out. Don’t die. Don’t fucking die,” Iwaizumi warns between heaving gasps in the struggle against the wood, and Oikawa truly sees him.

Iwaizumi’s short hair is more tangled and mussed than usual. His voice is frantic, hard, and frail all at the same time. He’s wearing one of his pajama shirts with his cross necklace dangling off of it. Oikawa gave it to him as a good luck charm a year ago, more so to tease him about the fact that he’s baptized, though he doesn’t believe in the Christian God. He knew Iwaizumi wore it every now and again as a fashion icon rather than his baptized status.

The sight of it now encourages his heart to keep him alive a little longer.

Tear stains mark Iwaizumi’s face as he rips out floorboard after floorboard. Oikawa doesn’t know when he stopped crying, or when Oikawa started. The scent of fresh air hits his shattered nose in a wave of flowers with thorns sticking out of every fiber. The bulbs strangle his eyesight as his pupils slowly adjust to light after bearing complete darkness for so long. The rest of his body has gone numb entirely, save for his headache.

When the last board is pulled out, Iwaizumi drags his dead weight out of the shallow cement coffin. Oikawa’s ears ring as he’s dropped onto the wooden floor, and it takes everything in him to not pass out again. His best friend wastes no time in picking at the duct tape holding his lips together, and then untying the gag that has rubbed the edges of his mouth into raw. Those parts of the cloth are stained with Oikawa’s blood.

Oikawa takes his first, deep breath of fresh air. It prickles his dry throat, and he greedily takes in all that he can in the shortest amount of time possible. He knows he must look like a drowning fish, what with his mouth gaping open and water streaming down his face, but he doesn’t care.

His mouth is open, and he can close whenever he wants. He can make sounds, and he can breathe.

“Oh my God,” Iwaizumi repeats. He’s shaking as he finds the tied ends of the cords, untying Oikawa as fast as he can. Unfortunately, Oikawa is extremely unhelpful in this process as he gets his bearings, processing the arms that are now free, the mouth that is open by his free will, the air flowing through his lungs, and the Aoba Johsai banner hanging loosely from the ceiling.

Once the final cords come off on his ankles, Iwaizumi pulls him into a tight hug. It crushes his chest and weak bones, and Oikawa would tap out of it if not for the fact that this is Hajime, who’s wound his hand through Tooru’s greasy hair and is holding on like Oikawa is his lifeline. His body is trembling and his chin rests against Oikawa’s head.

From this position, Oikawa’s ear is pressed to Iwaizumi’s chest. The beat of his friend’s heart is set in a fast, comforting rhythm. In this hold, he’s warm and safe. He wants to stay in Hajime’s arms until the world catches fire, and for some reason, he thinks Iwaizumi would let him.

Naturally, he breaks away from the hug.

Iwaizumi’s right hand remains tangled in Oikawa’s hair, but the other drops soundlessly from his back. The loss of contact makes him shiver. Hajime’s turbulent gaze is enough to get Oikawa to make use of his aching arms, bringing them up to cup Iwaizumi’s face in his hands.

His cheeks are warm to the touch. His jaw is trembling in Tooru’s weak hold. Oikawa’s arms are too weak to hold this position for long.

Iwaizumi starts to say something, and Oikawa can tell it’s going to be an apology, to ask how he’s feeling, and if he’s okay. Oikawa doesn’t give him the chance. He leans forward and presses their lips together, savoring the way Iwaizumi’s wet lips feel against his own, healing the cracks and split, bloody ends.

Their kiss only lasts but a second. Hajime doesn’t reciprocate, and Oikawa can’t physically deepen their kiss. His mouth is far too dry and weak, and his arms are shaking with the effort it takes to keep them up. He pulls back, opening his eyes to find Iwaizumi staring wide-eyed back at him with his lips slightly parted.

Oikawa knows what this means, and although he told himself it would happen, it doesn’t make it sting any less.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his throat scratching on every syllable, struggling to produce anything above a hoarse whisper. “I’m so sorry. I can’t—- live like this. I won’t run from you— anymore.” His salty tears flow over the sticky residue of the duct tape and slip into his mouth. Iwaizumi’s holding onto his wrists, keeping Oikawa’s arms from falling away from his face. He still has that shining stare that stabs Oikawa’s heart. “I’m in love with you. I’m— sorry I’m like— like this. I’m—”

Then lips are pinned against his own, silencing his rambling, shaky apologies. This time, it’s Oikawa who isn’t reciprocating. His mind has stuttered to a stop with the fact that his best friend instigated a kiss with him, and when he pulls away, he finds Iwaizumi’s eyes aren’t hard and disappointed. One of his wrists is dropped, but only to allow Hajime to rub his thumb across Oikawa’s cheek.

Hajime offers the barest hint of a smile, though it doesn’t hide the quiver of his lips. “Will it take you dying again to see how long I’ve been in love with you?”

And Oikawa can’t help it, really, when sobs tear away his soul. He collapses forward into Hajime’s chest, and Iwaizumi cradles him as gently as he can. His head splits and his eyes drain away the rest of his body fluids. He’s dry, completely, and all that’s left are desperate gasps and pained coughs while Iwaizumi repeats how worried he was, and that he’s so glad that Oikawa’s alive.

“I’m— going to die,” Tooru somehow manages. “Food. Water.”

Immediately, Hajime shifts to grab his phone from his pocket. It takes him less than a second to dial the correct numbers.

“Hello, this is one-one-nine. What’s your emergency?” A dispatcher answers.

“I need an ambulance,” Hajime says shakily, and the hand he has in Oikawa’s hair tightens only a fraction. It’s painful for his headache, but comforting all the same. Human contact is something he has been devoided for so, so long. “I found missing person Oikawa Tooru. He hasn’t eaten or drank anything in four days.”

His hand trembles against Oikawa’s scalp, carding his fingers through his crusted, greasy as he gives the dispatcher directions to the practice gym. When the call is over, he presses one gentle kiss to the top of Oikawa’s head.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m so, so sorry,” Iwaizumi says.

His energy is too depleted for him to respond, his throat too scratchy and dry, so he opts to do the only thing he can do: burying his head deeper into Iwaizumi’s chest and letting Hajime hold him as though he’ll never let go.

Oikawa doesn’t want him to let go.

[kaiserposting]

Oikawa Tooru — Jersey #2

PAIRING: Oikawa Tooru/Reader WORD COUNT: 6k TYPE: Angst, Fluff, Humor, Rivalry, Emotional Constipation (we laffed and we smiled and we crode) WARNING(S): Injury, There are no specified pronouns or identity for reader, but they are on the shiratorizawa boys volleyball team for plot reasons.

There are several truths in life.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The Earth orbits around it by spinning on its axis. Oikawa Tooru hates geniuses.

He hates Shiratorizawa, hates all natural talent, hates Ushijima Wakatoshi, and hates everything he represents. It's kind of his drive, the loathing, but really, he just wants to be something. And people like Ushijima and Tobio just seem to wall him.

His time as a first year student in Aobajousai is fine. He has his admirers, and Iwaizumi still slaps him on the neck when he pisses him off, and that guy Hanamaki punches him on the shoulder and calls him a heartthrob in a sarcastic tone when girls come around to watch them practice after school.

Sure, his upperclassman is still the regular setter, but that's normal. Maybe if he puts in some extra thirty minutes every afternoon, things will be different.

When it comes to sports, Shiratorizawa is inevitable. They're always going places, be it the junior teams or the high schoolers. Like when Ushijima washed them when they were in Kitagawa Daiichi. It's a school that upholds individual talent and prestige, so Oikawa goes to Aobajousai and it's fine.

They arrange a practice match against them two weeks after the season starts. None of the first years from Aobajousai make it on the line-up, and Oikawa's sitting on the bench next to Iwaizumi, and he heaves a theatrical sigh. "Only watching is so boring. I hate this."

"Quit whining," says Iwaizumi.

"But it's not fair, Iwa-chan! Look, they're all first years on the other side. Is Shiratorizawa bragging or something?"

Ushijima looks like a big lumbering idiot as usual, Oikawa thinks, but he's not even going to acknowledge his presence. Yeah, that'll show him.

"I've heard most of their players don't even get to, well, play," Iwaizumi says. "Maybe they're trying to scout 'em out." Coach Washijo does have a reputation for being high maintenance.

"So they are flexing," Oikawa cries.

Iwaizumi punches him on the shoulder. "I said stop whining."

It is not Ushijima who gets the first serve. Instead you stand there, and you look like you don't know what the hell is going on, but when the whistle blows, you jump high and smack the ball straight to the nationals. Their libero doesn't even twitch to touch it — hadn't expected it — and you score the first point, even though someone receives your second one.

Oikawa's immediate thought is to wonder if his serve is this powerful. And if it isn't, how much practice he needed to make it so.

His gaze stays on you after that, and it comes to his attention that you barely know the rules of the game. You're all sharp reflexes and raw power and high jumps, but the only time you make correct plays outside of serving is when the guy with the weird hair tells you where to block.

It has become apparent to everyone else, too, and most of the wing spikers target you since you're bad at receiving. Float services fuck people over all the time, too, and the guy in front of you fumbles when the ball changes trajectory at the last second. You extend your leg and kick it to the other side of the court with something like amusement in your eyes and that's another point.

Aobajousai takes the game, but it doesn't matter because Oikawa is wondering what that was. All of it. So he stays up late that night searching up Tendou Satori and Semi Eita and [L/n] [Y/n] on Facebook like a man starved for attention, looking for a victim to torment with the poke function.

He doesn't infer much about this Tendou fellow except that he had a bowl cut until not long ago. And Semi Eita seems to think being mysterious is cool because his wall is empty except for the strange messages Tendou has written on his board and occasional birthday wishes.

You're not discrete like them, but maybe you have no reason to be. Photo after photo after photo of you posing with trophies — first place, almost always — with this stupid, guileless smile on your face, but it's all for soccer.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you in the volleyball club now?

It's not like Oikawa's never won an award. He just acts like it.

Then... Then, he realizes, ah. You're one of those people he hates.

___

This is their first time at the Inter High as high schoolers. It's prime time to get bullied by Shiratorizawa for anyone unfortunate enough to play against their team. In the corridors, after Aobajosai's first win, Oikawa doesn't mean to eavesdrop, not really.

"Man, we got our asses handed to us," whines some guy to another teammate of his and a boy who's probably the manager, judging by his attire. "Shiratorizawa's totally unfair."

"I thought we'd have an easier time if we targeted number twelve because Ushiwaka is too overpowered-"

"Overpowered?"

"-but that kid's got demonic spikes, too."

"Number twelve is a meathead and if you guys worked harder, we wouldn't have been humiliated like this," says the manager before he lets out a yawn.

"Oh, shut it!"

"That asshole's asking for a shattered wrist hitting the ball that hard every time."

"Oh, so your spikes suck 'cause you're concerned for your safety? How convenient."

Number twelve, the other wing spiker. So you're a regular, huh?

It's stupid, anyway. No one can win against Ushijima by ignoring him.

No one can win against Ushijima, but that kind of goes unspoken.

___

He bumps into you and deems it rational to assert himself. "We're gonna win, you know?"

You turn around to face him and you appear confused. "Who are you?"

Oikawa's eye twitches but his lips curl up in a phony smile, anyway. "Oikawa Tooru," he says. "From Aobajousai."

He watches the way you squint at him until recognition flashes across your face. "Oh, you're that guy."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ushiwaka has his eyes on you."

He fakes a shudder. "And that's totally not a creepy thing to say."

You shrug and pivot on your heel to leave since your teammates are probably waiting for you inside the bus already, but for some reason he can't quite explain, Oikawa blurts out,

"You play soccer."

"Used to, yeah," you say. "You a fan? I'm planning on starting tennis in university." Then you rummage through your pockets until you pull out a marker and aim it threateningly at his forehead like you're about to autograph him.

"What? No! Not my beautiful face!" Oikawa shields himself with his forearms and once you appear to have stopped moving, he deems it safe enough to expose himself again. He thinks about how every word you said during the last minute pissed him off. Who the hell switches sports for every academic establishment they enter? "Tell Ushiwaka to mind his business."

You smile. "Sure, I'll let him know."

"... Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be serious?" You pull out your phone and dial someone, and he flails his hands around as he wonders once again what the fuck is wrong with you, but you're adept at ignoring his urgent gestures. "Hi, Ushijima. No, I didn't get lost, it was just a tough shit to squeeze out. Yeah, yeah, tell Coach I'm coming in a bit. Listen, some Oikawa Tooru said you should mind your business. Ah, okay, I'll let him know."

When the call is over, you tell him,

"He said you should've come to Shiratorizawa."

Oikawa clenches his fist and chokes, "Ack." Then he sticks his tongue out at you. "Whatever. Hmph."

You seem to find some amusement in his theatrics.

___

Before the match when everyone's doing their warm-ups, a hard smack echoes across the gym when a stray ball whizzes past Oikawa's head while he's setting before it bounces off. For a second he thinks Iwaizumi has finally decided to assassinate him, but then he glances towards Shiratorizawa's side only to see you panicking with wide eyes and frantic waves of your hands. You rub your head, still grimacing. "I'm so sorry!"

"You blockhead! What's the point if the ball makes it out of bounds?! That's ten extra laps next practice," Coach Washijo reprimands, shaking his fist in the air while you shriek and duck away from him before you skid to the other corner of the room.

Oikawa stares while Tendou points and laughs at you. Did you do that on purpose? Are you picking a fight? It didn't seem that way, but the thought of a Shiratorizawa member being endearing to him makes Oikawa sick.

___

He can't help it; Oikawa is always looking at different spikers and thinking about how he'd utilize them. Even on opposing teams and even about Ushijima once or twice, but it's more of an ego thing. He likes the idea of everyone reaching their full potential when he's pulling the strings.

Unlike Semi Eita during the practice match, Shiratorizawa's regular third-year setter doesn't toss to you or anyone else much at all. Not that it stops Ushijima from stomping all over them throughout the first set — like usual, really, since Oikawa and Iwaizumi are the only ones who can even attempt receiving those left-handed spikes — but Shiratorizawa has all these tall heavy-hitters, and only one of them gets to shine.

You're the kind of useful idiot who's running all across the court to make sure Ushijima has enough energy to spare for all five potential sets. And you don't stop or think because with people like you, of natural talent and ability, flinging yourself at the ball wherever it goes is about enough.

Up front, he gets to face you head-on and it's better because it doesn't seem as impossible. Again, taking notes is something he does almost unconsciously, even if only to help him read the game better. He likes to think he knows he's good enough of a setter to hone a sense for these things. The two third-years rush to attempt to wall Ushijima, but from the toss, the only person who spikes that high, from that position, is...

When Oikawa blocks you, it feels like you're trying to break his arms. His hands sting, but it doesn't matter because the ball makes it back to your side of the court, and the pain doesn't matter either because he's endured worse just to make this happen.

He lets out a dramatic ouch before he flicks his fingers and your mouth parts open in surprise. Do you have to be so shocked that he managed to stop you. How conceited-

"Woah, that's awesome," you say, looking at him through the net.

"Eh?"

You point at your teammate. "You read his ass!"

He blinks. Once more, "Eh?!"

Begrudgingly, days after that stupid, familiar, devastating feeling of losing a match right at the finals, Oikawa admits to himself he finds it a shame that someone like you has to play second fiddle to Ushijima. But maybe he just hates him and hates you a little less.

___

"Could you stop staring at their number twelve like a pervert all the time?" asks Iwaizumi. Casually.

It's another practice match. Tendou Satori tells you something while you're holding your water bottle, then you squeeze it and water squirts straight into your eye. Tendou all but dies laughing until Semi Eita smacks him on the neck and scolds him, though it hardly seems to phase him.

He's not ogling you or anything. You look stupid, is all.

"Wh- I never did such a thing! Stop being trashy."

"Says Trashykawa."

Oikawa pretends to flip his fringe. "You don't have to be jealous."

With his usual pout on his face, Iwaizumi looks a touch more incredulous than usual when he raises his eyebrows. "Jealous?"

"I understand you want my attention all the time." He grabs Iwaizumi by the shoulder and sighs like this is some kind of Shakespearean play. "But you don't need to act out-"

Just before Iwaizumi is about to call him a dumbass, which is his usual repertoire when it comes to insulting him, Mattsun and Makki join the conversation with intentions of ruining Oikawa's day. Apparently they'd overheard all that. Hanamaki whistles and says, "Fraternizing with the enemy, aren't we?"

"No fraternizing is going on," Matsukawa says with a shit-eating grin. "I think that's the kinda thing that's supposed to go both ways."

"Ooh, savage," supplies Makki with a snicker. Jerk. It's not funny.

"Like I'd want [L/n]'s Shiratorizawa cooties." Oikawa crosses his arms, and he means it in full seriousness when he says this.

"Shiratorizawa cooties," repeats Iwaizumi, like he's trying to get him to understand how ridiculous he sounds. "Why are you an overgrown baby?"

"Besides, I didn't even know that person's name, but you do," Matsukawa adds.

"Wah! Stop ganging up on me!" Oikawa covers his ears and Iwaizumi gestures towards him with a shake of his head as if to say, 'See, an overgrown baby,' and Matsukawa and Hanamaki nod as if to answer, 'Yeah, an overgrown baby.' "You big bullies, I'm telling!"

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.

"Telling?" Hanamaki asks. "Are you twelve?"

___

Oikawa never had any expectations to see you outside of a court, much less at this time of night. He's a few steps away from school when you appear into view, running, and then you halt when you notice him. At least you're as quick to recognize him as he is to you, so Matsukawa could eat that.

He's not sure if greeting you would be appropriate. It'd be cordial, yes, but you're on opposing teams and he's kind of notorious for being unable to stand your ace. Not like you leave him any time to think about his decision because you make your way in front of him. "Why are you out so late?"

"You are, too!" he says, though he doesn't have much reason to sound annoyed.

"I was out on a jog."

"All the way out here? Are you stalking me? Are you a fan?" he taunts, even though it's obvious you've crossed paths with him by accident.

The cleverness of him throwing back your words at you seems to escape you, and if it doesn't you don't care enough to acknowledge it or be impressed. "You're still wearing your uniform," you say. "Were you practicing 'till now?"

Oikawa doesn't see how that's any of your business. "Observant, aren't we?"

"Not really," you say with an impish grin. "I'm pretty dull."

You seem like such a happy person, but he figures it must be easy when you're on the side that wins all the time and when you've made it onto the list of most promising rookies despite playing for less than a year. Not that Oikawa's name isn't there, but this is different.

"What do you want?"

"I'm curious about you."

He's a bit dumbfounded by that.

"You talked to me at the Inter Highs before."

"So?"

"So," you say. "That means you're curious about me too, right?"

"No, I'm not. You're projecting," he whines and his tone is all defensive. "I'm going now," he finishes lamely.

"Bye-bye. Take it easy, alright?"

Like you're one to talk. You make some of the most exaggerated movements he's ever seen and put too much force in both your spikes and your serves and it's probably not even a big deal. Your concern pisses him off.

___

Oikawa makes it to second year without ever going to nationals. But it's fine, they'll get two more chances to try, or at least that's what he settles on telling himself. Another year means another practice match, and another, and another, and what that means is more chances to see Ushijima's annoying mug. He scoffs when Iwaizumi tells him to behave.

"I'm not your dog, Iwa-chan, you brute," he pretends to cry.

"Please spare me the embarrassment."

There are some changes, of course. High school teams rarely resemble what they used to be by the time another season rolls around. He watches you hound some newbie along with Tendou during break. The number on the back of your shirt now reads seven instead of twelve. You push yourself up and down the bench with your leg while Tendou is having the time of his life bothering whoever this guy is.

"You can't seriously be doing homework right now, Shirabu," you say.

"Not all of us can stay in this school with a sports scholarship," he says as his pen flits across whatever exercise sheet he's filling out even faster than before, maybe just to spite you.

"You're such a nerd." Tendou covers his mouth to laugh.

"You're a smartypants," you add, and then you high five each other, much to Shirabu's chagrin.

"Oh, you thought you did something," he says before he throws his pen at you, or at least he tries to, but you catch it before it can poke you in the eye. That's some killer aim, you think.

"A souvenir! From our precious underclassman!" Tendou exclaims before he comes closer to examine it like it's a mystical artifact. "Lucky."

"Hey, actually, can you give it back?" asks Shirabu, flustered, and it doesn't suit the stern expression he's trying to pull off at all. "I don't have anything else to write with."

This isn't at all riveting. Oikawa doesn't know why he's always observing.

___

Oikawa hatefully watches Semi set for Ushijima across the field even though what they're doing is innocuous. Everyone else went back already, but he finds himself sitting on his ass in the middle of Shiratorizawa's open yard, taking dramatic sips of water here and there, maybe waiting for someone to notice his sulking. What his reasons for staying are, even he doesn't know. Perhaps he's waiting to discover Ushijima's secret weakness.

He was tossing to you before this, actually, just to see what it was like, but then you started kicking the ball around, not letting it touch the ground. His gaze flickers back to you, and he thinks you're an asshole because you've been at this for longer than ten minutes.

"Do you like my moves?" you ask, once you notice his attention is back on you.

Oikawa considers it. "No," he says, then drinks some more water for emphasis. "Why'd you quit soccer?"

"Wanted to try something new," you say. "Why do you care so much about me playing soccer?"

"Doesn't it piss you off being in Ushijima's shadow? You seem like such an attention hog on the court."

He bursts out laughing when your legs tangle and you almost lose your balance and trip over nothing. Though you're still on your feet, somehow, the ball falls down and rolls away. "Ushijima is," you start, like nothing happened, and Oikawa laughs at you some more, "the best." And then he stops laughing.

"I'm sure he is," he settles on, but makes sure his tone is sarcastic enough so that you know he disagrees.

"I love it."

He pouts. "You love it?"

"Yeah," you say. "I like to compete with him. He doesn't take me seriously, though. It was so boring in soccer. I was the best player in the prefecture junior leagues."

Oikawa's eye twitches.

"I know you hate Ushijima."

"And? Everyone knows that," he says, not unlike a petulant child.

"You don't need to get so wrung up over some losses."

Oh yeah? That's easy for you to say, he thinks with a scowl, before he figures it must be a good time to leave.

___

Semi is a much more competent setter than the old one, but Oikawa can't say that brings him any comfort, exactly. When they lose finals again, he can only see Ushijima staring at him with the same distanced look on his face. Like it's natural, like it's not a big deal.

You got six service ace points overall and goaded about it until Ushijima outdid you. Tendou told you to take your sausage party to the locker rooms before going out to celebrate later, and Oikawa had to listen to you argue with him about whether he's a twink or not on the way out of the gymnasium.

You're... competing with Ushijima in your own way, just like he is, aren't you?

___

Oikawa can't say Iwaizumi didn't warn him. Even wrestled and dragged him out of the gym a few times, but that's beside the point. He trained harder because it was obvious there was something he was lacking. Overcompensating. Still, he has an injured knee now, and he's going to be out of commission for a few weeks.

There is nothing he hates more than sitting back on the bench and watching a practice match. Too lost in thought, he almost bumps into you on the way up the stairs, and when he snaps out of his trance, he sees your hand is hovering in front of him. Then his focus adjusts completely and he sees the seven on your shirt is now a two.

He looks at you like you're an alien.

"Heard your leg got fucked up," you elaborate, though you don't see why offering help is something that needs an explanation.

For a second his face seems blank, until he reaches out to wrap his fingers around yours and announces, "Sure. I love getting treated like a prince."

You tilt your head because you really do not understand his character sometimes, but then you smile as usual. "Like a prince? Just for this? You're so silly."

"Hey! Are you laughing at me right now? I dare you to tell me you're laughing at me."

You help him up nonetheless, and Mattsun and Makki make scandalized expressions at him in the background just to be annoying.

___

"What are you doing here?" asks Oikawa in an accusatory voice like he just exposed you for doing something incriminating.

Like it isn't obvious what you're doing.

"Uh," you gesture at Minako, who's holding onto your sleeve and who Oikawa knows because she's friends with Takeru, mind you, "walking my cousin to volleyball practice?"

Minako cranes her neck to look up at you and asks, "So you know the creepy man?" while pointing at Oikawa.

"Hey!" Oikawa protests.

At the same time, Takeru snickers and says, "Is this your dumb older cousin, Minako?"

"Hey," you protest, too, looking the tiniest bit embarrassed for what feels like the first time.

"Yeah!" She beams at him in confirmation, which isn't really helping your case. "I'm gonna be even better than [Y/n] at volleyball, believe it."

"Sure, Naruto," you say with a roll of your eyes.

Oikawa is pretty eager to pretend the toddlers didn't just have a roast session on both of your asses, so moving swiftly on, he squints and asks, "How come I've never seen you around?"

Minako and Takeru rush to greet Coach Ukai, who they find cooler than you and him combined.

"I don't really hang around."

He rubs his chin as if you're suspicious. "Then what do you do?"

"Go to the gym or go for a jog. Come back. Pick her up." Then you raise your eyebrows, wondering why he's acting like you just committed a crime. "What do you do?"

"Take photos, duh," he says in his usual snotty tone.

For some reason, you struggle when trying to picture him doing that, but you lower your eyelids before your lips quirk up in something more teasing than usual. "Well, aren't you sentimental," you say and adjust the strap of your gym bag around your shoulder. "Sure, you know what? I can watch, too."

Your thigh is pressing against his on the bench. Affection feels bitter in Oikawa's stomach, and so, he asks, "How were nationals last year?" even though he knows full well Shiratorizawa didn't win. Not that you'd care, anyhow.

"Not bad," you say, then you smirk and glance at him from the corner of your eye. "Same old, same old."

He frowns and huffs.

"You took a dig at me first."

"Yeah, but gallows humor is only funny when you're in the gallows, you know?" Oikawa punches you on the shoulder with a cry.

"Maybe," you allow. "Your team's good. I think we played worse guys there once or twice."

"That doesn't make me feel any better, in case you're wondering."

"Sometimes," you fiddle with the drawstrings on your shorts, "when Coach puts me out, and I'm looking at the game from the sidelines, I kinda root for you instead."

At this, Oikawa punches you on the shoulder even harder, then whines some more. "I don't need your dumb pity either."

You've got a charming smile and he really, really hates that about you. Among other things.

___

It doesn't stop Shiratorizawa from winning Inter Highs again, but Oikawa thinks they were in their prime last year, with Semi as the setter. Not that Shirabu is bad — he's not — but it's like he's always shielding himself behind Ushijima. So it makes their loss feel all the more despairing.

Oikawa really doesn't need your dumb pity. You talk with him every week when Minako and Takeru go to Lil' Tykes, so what? That doesn't mean he hates you any less for always winning, or for jumping higher than him, or for being more flexible, or for hitting harder serves, or for having a stronger block.

So why you're trying to hug him right now is beyond him.

"Away with you." He waves his hand to shoo you and backs away with this grimace on his face that almost convinces you you're diseased. "You're all sweaty and gross."

"Be nice," chides Iwaizumi before he slaps him on the back of his head with a towel and disappears down the hall. He's probably hurrying to cry in the locker rooms. Not that Oikawa doesn't do it, too.

"A girl from cheer told me she likes it when I get all sweaty after a game."

Oikawa covers his mouth in abject horror and disgust. "Ew?"

"What? I'm sure someone thinks that about you too."

"You're appalling," he says in the most distressed voice he can muster, ducking out of the way again once you attempt to go for a second embrace.

___

There are several ways something can go wrong. Actually, Oikawa isn't ready for things to go so wrong this soon.

You're going down the stairs to leave the building after your win, Tendou and Semi trailing behind you. Oikawa is going up the stairs to look for Hanamaki, who had disappeared to god knows where. He didn't cry in the locker rooms, so it was possible he chose the toilet as his brooding spot. Or maybe if he's feeling cinematic, he could be on the rooftop. Though that isn't really his style.

You reach out to give him a high-five in passing and he's reluctant to return the gesture.

Oikawa doesn't quite see how it happens.

Maybe you slipped? All he knows is that you lose your footing and barrel down seven sets of stairs mid-step, landing straight on your left leg, and then stumble onto the other one. Oikawa and Tendou both reach out their hands like they're trying to catch you, but you already fell.

You jostle a little where you stand, but it doesn't occur to you that something might be wrong after the initial flinch. If any noise came out, the impact must've drowned it out.

"Shit, are you okay?" Semi asks, hurrying down.

"I'm cool," you say, then you take a step forward, and sharp, searing pain shoots up your leg. Immediately, you fall down to your knees and start sobbing like you can't bear it.

Tendou joins to help you up and they support you with their shoulders on the way to the nurse. Not that she could do much to help with that, probably. Oikawa gawps at the spot long after everything has passed like he's in a stupor.

But it's going to be fine, right? You're one of the most physically resilient people he has ever met. Surely he's overreacting.

___

You feel kind of stupid laying down in a hospital room with a cast on your leg. Like when something of exaggerated destructive force happens in a cartoon and then two characters who hate each other have to occupy adjacent beds. Actually, you feel kind of stupid all the time, so maybe this isn't that different.

Tendou visits you a day after your surgery. Almost like he's mad at you, he throws something and you catch it before it can smack you in the face. "You've got an admirer. Which, fuck you, by the way."

"Oh, is it from Yui?" You wiggle your eyebrows since you know this will piss him off. The two of you have been having this debate for half a year.

"No!" Tendou says, giving you the stink-eye. "And you keep your grubby paws away from her. If you scare her away like Saeko-chan, we'll never get a cute manager to pass us bottles before we graduate."

Yui is the latest candidate for the manager position. The last one, Saeko, tucked in tail after the first half of her trial week, though you think it was unlikely Coach Washijo would approve her application. He's always nit-picking.

"You freaked her out by showing her your Goku voodoo doll. I didn't do anything."

"No, you scared her away by showing her the rotten sandwich in your locker," Tendou argues before he pulls the chair backwards and sits on it with his arms crossed. You laugh when you remember the incident. She looked kind of confused when you first told her to 'come smell the sandwich,' but you're pretty sure she ended up thinking it was funny. Maybe. "Anyway, that's from Oikawa."

"Yeah, I can... tell," you say, examining the envelope. Not that you're the guess monster between the two of you, but it's pretty obvious since it's labeled 'From: Oikawa Tooru ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭*' on the front.

He sighs and slouches almost all the way down his chair. "I wish Iwaizumi would dote on me."

"You've got a thing for aces?"

"What'd he get you?"

"Chocolates," you say. You're not sure if you're allowed to eat that. You certainly didn't when you were on an eating regime for sports, but that's not relevant right now. 'Get better soon (╯3╰)' was written on the inside, so he hadn't even bothered to get a piece of paper. It's pretty shoddy, all things considered.

But you appreciate the gesture... Kinda.

"He came during practice looking for you and I was on the way, so." He shrugs. "Anyway, how's it lookin'? When are you coming back? The old man was bugging me about it."

"Oh," you say with a wry smile. "I'm finished, I'm afraid."

Seeing genuine surprise on Tendou's face, of all people, is rather rare. Maybe you would've eviscerated your ankle earlier if you knew. He sits straight up again to stare at you. "Wait, huh?"

You stare back at him.

"That's really not funny," he says with a forced laugh before he pats you on the shoulder. "You're always such a jokester. Now tell me, really, when's it gonna heal?"

"They said 'cause I was already under a lot of strain before it happened, it probably won't go back to the way it used to be. So."

Tendou isn't really sure what to do. He's not good at these kinds of things.

"Would it make you feel better if I drew a dick on your cast?"

"I mean, shit. Maybe you should write me a Hail Mary, too."

With a salute, he promises, "On it."

___

Oikawa sees you for the first time again after a little over a month following what happened. You're about to leave with Minako and he hadn't noticed before because you were sitting next to him on the bench, but he can see it in the way you walk.

It's not like it's hard for him to make observations. You're easily the most dynamic person in Shiratorizawa alongside maybe Tendou, while the rest of them are stiff. Quick on your feet, what-have-you.

Your limping isn't as bad as he expected it to be considering apparently they took off your cast not too long ago, but his gaze lingers on the way you're slightly dragging your foot across the pavement.

Minako pulls on your fingers and yells out your name.

"Hm?"

"Can you carry me?"

"Sorry," you say. They told you to lay off the weights, and you're already carrying both of your bags. "Can't."

"You suck!"

You laugh at her and flick her forehead.

"Uh," Oikawa starts. He thinks about the time he had a sprain and you helped him up the stairs, and he wants to offer to do the same, but the words don't wretch their way out of his throat. Besides, he has to get Takeru home, and... "See you around."

At finals, preferably.

"See ya." You give him a peace sign.

"What was that?" asks Takeru in a judgemental tone. "Lame."

___

There are several ways something can go wrong in life. It always has to be all ironic and shit.

This isn't how this was supposed to go.

You're sitting on the steps outside, hunched over with a fizzy drink in hand. Oikawa plops down next to you and he can recognize the Shiratorizawa uniform shorts anywhere, but you're wearing a random shirt and some tracksuit along with it. "Isn't it a bit cold to be sitting out here like this?"

"Whatever," you say, eyes flitting over to him. "The fuck are you dressed like a journalist for?"

"Gah! Don't be mean, I couldn't find my contacts in the morning," Oikawa cries before he adjusts his glasses.

You always seemed like such a happy person, smiley and cheery and air-headed.

"Why weren't you on the bench?" he asks when you don't follow up with anything.

"I guess you wouldn't know," you say. "I got kicked out of the team a few weeks ago."

This isn't how the finals were supposed to go — it should've been you and him playing inside, and then Shiratorizawa would've lost, and Ushijima would've bowed down to him, and you would've put your head in your hands and said, 'Oh, damn!' or something.

He traces your leg with his eyes and stops when he sees the way your knee cap juts out way more than it did before. "I'm sorry about your... injury," he says, because there really isn't much else to make of this.

You purse your lips and shrug. It goes without saying that you've lost, well, everything. Your biggest hope of getting into university was the stupid sports scholarship, and Oikawa has overheard those morons Tendou and Semi tease you for your abysmal grades more than enough.

"I think I'll try chess next," you joke and your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"You'd probably be good at it. Maybe Shiratorizawa would have won if you were there," he concedes. He doesn't have any preferences on who wins between the two pains in his ass, so speculating isn't any more miserable than the current reality.

"Probably not." You pick your ear. "I really hate how Shirabu sets."

"Semi's better than him," agrees Oikawa in a mild tone, and you take another sip of whatever crap you're drinking.

Oikawa isn't half as cruel as he likes to believe he is. He thought — had really, really hoped in a way that's selfish and naive — if this were to happen, he would've felt vindicated. To see someone with an advantage over him get punished for it. But it did and he doesn't, and he thinks if it was Ushiwaka instead of you, he wouldn't have been content with it either.

You're just some dumb kids with dreams, after all. Be it your stupid desire to conquer every sport you can get your hands on or his desperation to make it to nationals at least once, to prove himself.

And really, Oikawa isn't as wronged by fate as he makes it out to be, either. He can still go for it.

You can't.

___

I got my leg fucked the same way reader does in this fic, broke both of them actually, and while one of them is fine, the other one that took the brunt of the it never healed properly lmao

[yanderecrazysie]

So, um- I may or may not have an idea, hear me out

Idol! Oikawa who everyone in the world know him except for darling, so when she was dragged by her friends to see one of his concert- at first darling was kind of impressed and enjoyed his concert (she's not the type of y/n who reads book at a concert) so when the concert ends her friends, again— dragged her to the vip section to meet him directly. The first glimpse of darling had already made butterflies flying in Oikawa's tummy. He wants to have her, he needs her. After that, he demands his assistants to stalk on darling's life and eventually captured her. Darling was shocked at first and resistant but Oikawa comfort her that there's no one else could treat her better than him

the end-

(also could you make an nsfw part? gonna make it bit spicy🔥)

-🐇anon

My precious bunny anon, I had too much fun writing this! No one judge me on the nsfw part, I'm still not great at writing it. But damn this is SPICY.

Title: Idol

Pairings: Oikawa Tooru x Reader

WARNINGS: yandere themes, NSFW, NON-CON, swearing, implied drugging

Summary: You can see the appeal in the pop sensation Oikawa, but you aren’t aware that he sees even more appeal in you.

idol

/noun/

a person or thing that is greatly admired, loved, or revered:

“Okay, okay, the concert was pretty good,” you admitted, “He’s not just a pretty boy- he can actually sing really well.”

Oikawa smiled as your friend hugged you and squealed, staying just out of sight around the corner with a hat and sunglasses shielding his face from potential fans. 

He had been waiting there for an hour.

For you.

Did you believe in love at first sight? Oikawa didn’t. Not until now at least.

He let out a weary sigh as your friend dragged you out of earshot. She was a noisy, annoying creature- not Oikawa’s type at all. But she had brought you to his concert, and that redeemed her in his eyes.

He could see you from the stage as he sang, and you dazzled him far more than any of the spotlights. Everyone’s attention was on him, but his attention rested solely on you. If only you had been seated close enough for him to whisk you up onto the stage!

Now, you were leaving him behind. Ending the concert without another thought. Maybe you would go out for ice cream to complete the night? No. Probably not. It was very late after all.

Maybe you would go home and touch yourself under your sheets to the thought of the handsome idol on stage.

“Hey, Shittykawa,” he heard the voice of his friend and manager Iwaizumi calling to him, “Backstage passes still exist.”

He followed Iwaizumi through the backstage area, hope blossoming in his chest as he began to pray that he would see you in line to meet him, a backstage pass clutched in your pretty little fingers. As soon as the line of girls was in his sights, he zeroed in on the person he wished to see. 

Ah. There you are.

You didn’t look particularly excited to be meeting him face-to-face, but that was okay. 

Oikawa’s heart was pounding in his chest as he watched from behind the curtain. You looked so out of place among the extremely excited fans, with your bored expression and hands stuffed in your pockets. Every single one of the other girls had his face on their shirts while you wore just a plain red hoodie. Your gaze was calm but curious, while the other girls’ eyes shone with excitement. 

But to him, you were the only one that mattered.

He took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and put on his most charming smile, then stepped out from behind the curtain to meet his fans. Cheers erupted from the line and girls began squealing to each other, but his gaze never wandered from an unimpressed you.

One by one, the girls came up to him, getting autographs, selfies, and some brief exchanges, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. How could he make a lasting impression on you? How could he turn you into the lovestruck fan he wished you were?

You were next.

You walked up to him calmly, but you lacked confidence in each step, as if you were uncertain about approaching such a celebrity. Your friend gave you two thumbs up and you laughed softly- music to Oikawa’s ears.

You smiled up at him in a polite sort of way, not a hint of eagerness. “Hey,” is all you said as you handed over the backstage pass for him to sign. He took it from you, making sure that his fingers brushed against your own. 

“Did you enjoy the concert?” he asked, voice sweet as sugar.

“Yeah,” you said, “You’re pretty talented.”

That’s all? Oikawa winced for a moment before covering up with a winning grin, “I’m so glad you think so, thank you~”

There was an awkward pause where only the sound of his pen scrawling against the backstage pass could be heard. Oikawa finally spoke up, “What’s your name?”

You gave your name, shrinking a little under his intense gaze.

“(Y/n)...” he repeated dreamily, as if savoring the sound of your name on his tongue, “You have no idea how happy I am that you enjoyed my show.”

You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to say back. The way Oikawa looked at you, as though you were the only girl in the world, made you feel both flattered and frightened.

“Let’s take a picture together,” he suggested. You began to pull your phone out of your pocket, but he was quicker, his light blue cell phone in your face before you could blink. “Say cheese!” Weirded out, you gave the camera a forced smile, shuddering as his arm wrapped around your waist, fingers sinking into your hip.

Oikawa watched as you slipped out of his hold and hurried to the exit, waiting at the door for your friend to have her turn with the idol. He forced a charming smile back to his lips and signed a picture of himself and took a picture with your friend. He was every bit the gentleman to your bestie, while his eyes remained glued on you.

As soon as your friend had finished with the idol, you dragged her through the door, ignoring the way she looked back over her shoulder in awe at the singer. Oikawa let out a little chuckle. It seemed he had creeped you out. How unfortunate.

As soon as the last girl exited the concert building, the charming smile slipped from his face. Coldly, Oikawa turned to his staff and held up his cell phone, where a picture of you and him was still displayed.

“Find her,” he said sharply, “I want information. Anything you can find on my future wife.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

You woke up slowly, your head pounding and your vision blurry. It took a few minutes for the room to come into focus. Instantly, your heart kicked into overdrive and you began to panic. You had no idea where you were or whose bed you were on. 

Candid pictures of you, often taken from behind or during intimate moments, are plastered on the wall like posters. Your heart stutters in your chest when you see the blown-up photos of you undressing and getting out of the shower. 

You tried to sit up, only to realize your wrists are chained to the bed posts.

Sick. This is sick. Where the fuck am I?

As if to answer your question, the door to the bedroom opened and the pop sensation, Oikawa Tooru, walked in. You turned away, cheeks hot, the moment you realized he was naked. Then, the truth dawned on you.

You’re naked too.

“What’s going on?” you tried to sound confident and angry, but your voice came out as a pitiful squeak.

It had been months since you’d last seen him and you can’t tell if it’s a lack of makeup or sleep that has bags under his eyes. He looked exhausted until his gaze fell on you. Then, his countenance lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Iwa-chan told me I had a surprise in my room, but I didn’t imagine…” he trailed off. The grin he gave you was not charming, but terrifying, almost as though he was baring his teeth at you. 

You began to tremble with fear, the realization of your situation sinking in. Oikawa walked slowly towards the bed, hand outstretched. You closed your eyes and shuddered when his hand brushed against your cheek and made its way lower, trailing against your chin, down your neck, and across your collarbone.

Finally, his hand ghosted the beginning of your breast and a sinister chuckle echoed across the room, “I have you… after months of watching… I finally have you.” His fingers pinched your nipple suddenly and you shrieked in surprise and slight pain, “You’re all mine.”

“I don’t understand,” you sobbed, “You’re a famous idol- what the fuck are you doing kidnapping some stranger?”

“Stranger?” Oikawa tilted his head like a confused puppy, “You’re no stranger. I’ve been in love with you from the moment we met.”

“I wish I never got dragged along to your stupid concert,” you spat.

Oikawa just chuckled again, his voice growing husky, “Too bad, it’s too late now anyways. I’ve got you now and I’m never letting you go.”

His hands began to fondle your breasts lightly, fingers tweaking at your nipples. You wished you could swat his hands away, but your wrists merely ache against their cold metal binds.

Oikawa crawled onto the bed, straddling you while stroking the achingly hard member between his legs. The red tip glistened and a bead of precum was squeezed through the slit as he let out a throaty groan. His hands left your breasts and moved to grasp your legs, which were stubbornly clamped tightly together.

He wrenched your legs apart with little effort and you lost it. You began trying to kick him and began to scream at the top of your lungs. Anything to get him away from you. Anything to protect yourself from what he would inevitably do to you.

Your voice grew hoarse and died on your lips as the madman began to laugh. He laughed like you had just told him a hilarious joke and, when his laughter faded, a steely look of determination replaced the mirth in his eyes. His lip curled a little into a sneer as he forced your legs straight, apart, and into the mattress.

“It doesn’t matter how much you kick and scream,” he growled, taking hold of his leaking cock and lining it up with your clenching entrance, “I’m going to make you mine.” And with that, he slammed forward, causing a choked scream to escape your sore throat.

Oikawa groaned loudly, tilting his head back and letting his eyes roll back into his skull, “Fuck, that feels so good. I knew you’d be perfect…”

Tears rolled down your cheeks as he leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of your head and caging you in. Your cunt ached like it was being torn in two, and it probably was.

“I wonder what the articles will say if I show up one day with a kid,” he snickers between heavy breaths, “Or an obedient little pregnant wife. Won’t the fans be so jealous of you?”

You let out a sob as he drew back his hips and slammed home again, deeper than the first thrust already. You looked between your legs and gulped- you’d barely taken 2/3rds of his throbbing length already.

He brought his face closer to yours and, after a moment, he swallowed your lips up into a hungry kiss. You didn’t kiss back, but he forced his tongue into your mouth anyways. He dominates your tongue easily and moans into the kiss as he begins to grind his cock into you, forcing himself even deeper.

To your horror, you could feel your passage becoming wetter, making it easier for him to slide in and out. The slick sounds of him pumping into you and the slaps of skin-on-skin filled the room and you desperately wished you could cover your ears.

You tried staring at the ceiling, but Oikawa’s face eclipsed your vision, grinning down at you as he panted and let out deep moans. The sounds and sights were too much for you and you closed your eyes tight. But still, you cannot block out the sounds.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, ignoring the buildup of pleasure beginning in your gut. Oikawa’s groans became more frequent, and you can tell he’s worked himself up too much- he’s getting closer to his end.

His lips moved to your throat, where he began to suck a hickey into your skin. Sobs bubbled up through your lips and tears continued to escape under closed lids. 

You laid there and took it as his thrusts grew rougher, hips slamming into yours hard enough to leave bruises. Your orgasm hit you out of nowhere and you squirmed against your binds as little moans escaped you and white filled your vision. 

You come down just in time to hear Oikawa let out a loud, choked groan and a soft “Fucking take it!” and his slips slam against yours one last time. Heat blossomed inside you as his cock throbbed and released its load deep inside you.

He collapsed on top of you, panting heavily. His weight felt like it was crushing you and you struggled to breathe.

“Don’t worry…” Oikawa said with a breathy chuckle, “There’s no better boyfriend on this planet than me. I’ll take such good care of you.”

[taeyamayang]

MORE THAN WE COULD EVER BE

a/n: a very personal piece. close to crying as i sip on the tea he gave me.

PAIRING: Oikawa Tooru x reader

THEME: angst, hurt, confession

Time comes tailed with unwanted thoughts. You find yourself unconsciously halted by realizations that was once never there. They, the thoughts, were new, yet a sense of familiarity ominously haunts you like a predator behind tall grass waiting for its chance to grapple you, unaware and whole. A gradual and torturing realization of losing grip of your meticulously crafted life. A path weaved by your self-centered desires and inhibitions, all of it ruined by a simple nod. A nod of recognition; a greeting of “hey, we meet again.”

It was a harmless reunion but somehow you were made to believe that it was something more. Perhaps, you are a fool for believing in a higher order. A lover of destiny and soulmates–a hopeless romantic, if you must. But how could you blame your naive mind when his touch effortlessly eroded your edges? His words reminded you that you are more than your rigid plans and achievements, that you’re more than just a person living up to other people’s expectations, and that you, too, are allowed to feel affection, warmth, and possibly, love. He carried your worries like he was part of you, invading your enclosed world as though he has always meant to be in it. And before you know it, you’re searching for him.

He’s raw. He feels, he cries, he laughs, and he loses his mind over the simplest things. He’s human. In the moment he let his guard down and shows you a side of him he protected from the keen eyes of the watchers, he became the person you longed for; a person who expresses in a way you couldn’t and accepts your irrational thoughts and vulnerability gently like a shattered glass in his hands.

All he is is what you lacked, and all you are is what he sought to be, 

and instantly, you were each other’s person.

You recount the nights you both sneaked out just to see each other. Dinner with him was the best, and you remember it so well. Stolen glances turned to long yearning stares. You remember the night you had it rough and he was all you could think of. He went out of his way to give you comfort and walked with you under the moonlight and behind the shadows, watching you with unjudging eyes as you crumble in defeat. 

How he pulled you close under an old tree and embraced you like no one ever did. He was careful, words whispered in your ears to remind you that you have him. His hands were on the small of your back and the side of his face pressed to your cheeks. You remember getting lost with him, unexpectedly traveling to the other side of the city and to the countryside with no idea how to get there and home. You can still feel his damped button-up polo that you wore when the rain wouldn’t stop. He was intent on keeping you warm despite him being equally drenched and cold. It was the first time you let loose of control, letting the present decide for you. You can still remember the taste of the donut you had on that same day. It was sweet, nothing like any pastry you had before. 

But at the back of your mind, you also remember how Oikawa thanked the heavens and the gods for meeting you again but only promised you today. How he thanked you for bringing out his inner child but at the same time telling you how much he hated who he was in the past. How he was so sure of you the night before but forgets about it when the morning rises. How he looked back on memories from two weeks ago as if he was reminiscing on something lost when you are still there, under the tree on the night of July, between his arms, and with only his voice breaking the stillness of the night.

Were you the only one who felt it was real?

Your thoughts circled in your mind in a leisurely and painful way, slow and dragging as though you are supposed to feel every inch of the knife stabbed in your chest. A long sigh is all you could muster as the voices from the group of friends you came with drowned beneath the anchoring waves you long stared at. You watch the sea pull and crash repeatedly in an unending cycle and somehow you empathize with it.

The sand buries Oikawa’s feet as he uninvitingly sits next to you. He might have finally noticed your disappearance after enjoying himself with drinks and chats. 

“What are you up to?” He asks innocently, cheeks flushed from alcohol.

“Wondering if I have a place in you.” is not what you said, instead you masked it with a generic, “Enjoying the view of the ocean. It’s breathtaking at night.”

“It is,” he responds, hiding a cheeky smile behind a can of beer as he takes a gulp.”It’s breathtakingly dark. I can’t see shit!” 

His laugh is contagious enough that even your agonizing realizations were pushed back momentarily. Until hurt came tenfold, gripping your chest. You couldn’t hold yourself back.

“Oikawa,” you utter, tears pooling on your lids.

It’s a mistake to be so honest and bold. Yet, for the last time, you let yourself lose control, 

With him, you’re not in control.

The waves crash.

“I’m falling for you.”

a/n to x: you were and are amazing. thank you for being my muse, but is that all you could ever be in my life?

a/n: heck, this a depressing way to say i'm back to writing lmao but i hope you guys liked it! -pea

MASTERLIST | HQ MASTERLIST

[softeninglooks]

i never dreamt of times like these | oihina

oihina are my favourite friendship in hq, so after seeing this lovely piece of fanart, i couldn’t stop myself from writing about them 🥹

When Shoyo slowly blinks slumber away from his eyelids, the spot on the other side of the bed still retains some of its former warmth, though the sleepy hand that he runs over it is met with the cold softness of empty bedsheets at the end of his fingertips.

A ray of early sunlight is streaming into the room, gently falling onto Shoyo’s bare freckled shoulder. He can hear the distant murmurs of the waking city, beyond the half-open windows and fluttering white curtains, and feel the gentle morning heat rising. It will be another sunny day, filled with the familiar scorching of the sand under his feet and the coolness of beers with friends in the evening.

Shoyo yawns into his pillow, lazily turning over in the few seconds of drowsy bliss that he savours before decisively jumping to his feet. A professional athlete, he no longer counts on lying in to properly delight in the benefits of a good morning - a delectable and energising breakfast, this is what he enjoys the most. Quickly pulling a cream-coloured t-shirt over his head, Shoyo stops by the bathroom before heading toward the kitchen, where a certain person may be waiting for him. The delicious wafts of coffee and sugar floating into the rest of the apartment is enough to tell him that Tooru is making breakfast.

He finds him by the hotplates, an old light blue San Juan VC t-shirt hugging the defined muscles of his supple torso, and his short brown hair slightly disheveled from the night. In his hand, a pan is happily sizzling with eggs and spices, while fresh coffee is brewing on the kitchen counter by a plate of diced fresh fruit. They bought the apartment together only a couple of months ago, but the cooking utensils playing hide and seek all over the place, the matching hand-towels hanging by the sink, and the chipped mug that Tooru insists on keeping—for old times’ sake—already make it feel like home. There are trophies and medals gathered on a shelf, pictures with friends and family put on display in the living room, the Olympic flag hung on one of the walls, a new couch that they bought for half the original price, volleyballs stacked in a corner of the room. 

Tooru cranes his neck to see him when Shoyo walks in, his face illuminated by a warm smile. “Morning, Sho-chan.”

The endless care in Tooru’s eyes, aimed at him; the affectionate nickname that he gave Shoyo when they started going out, rolling off Tooru’s tongue; they send shivers down Shoyo’s spine as his hand sets on the small of Tooru’s back. “Good morning, Tooru.”

How has Oikawa, a high school rival that seemed to him so unreachable, become this to him? How could it be that their paths crossed again, so many years later, and ever since intertwined? Shoyo presses a kiss onto Tooru’s arm, and he tells himself that he cannot think too much into it. Somehow, he caught Tooru’s eye, and all he wishes for is to offer him a lifetime of the heaven that they first shared during those couple of days in Rio, when they had found an unexpected fragment of home in each other. Unbeknownst to them, back then they had given each other the very thing that they needed. A breath of passion; a friendly hand to pull oneself back up.

Peeking at the golden omelette in the pan, Shoyo feels the caress of Tooru’s lips on his temple. “The omelettes will be ready in a minute,” he says, focused on the dish he is preparing. It had not taken long for Shoyo to notice that whatever Tooru sets his mind to, be it volleyball, assembling furniture, or cooking, he does with the utmost dedication, never accepting to back down or leave it be if he cannot achieve the goal he imagined. Discipline, consistency, hard work; Shoyo and Tooru live by the same principles. But when they are together, the fun part never dies out. Shoyo wraps his arms around Tooru’s neck and plants another kiss onto his cheek, which has Tooru chuckle and teasingly mumble “the omelettes will burn if I get too distracted, Sho-chan.”

Shoyo pours steaming coffee into their mugs while Tooru is taking care of their meal, and when Tooru returns to the kitchen counter with two plates, the two of them are caught in the familiar rhythmicity of domestic routine. Shoyo’s body moves instinctively to leave room for Tooru who is setting down the plates, their arms brushing against each other, their legs bumping under the surface of the table. A tender touch, the gentle collision of their movements, fitting together. Tooru’s hand cups Shoyo’s cheek and he leans across the counter to kiss him on the lips, enthralled by the kindness that he reads on Shoyo’s face, the unbounded love that he sees in his brown eyes, speckled with gold under the morning light. Shoyo kisses back, with the impulse of a thousand butterflies taking off in the pit of his stomach. 

“Thank you for the breakfast,” Shoyo murmurs against Tooru’s lips, his hand softly going up Tooru’s tight forearms.

“Anything for my beloved,” Tooru flashes a smile at him, ever playful and loving, and glances at their plates. “Dig in while it’s still hot.”

“Itadakimasu!” 

The omlette is delicious. They eat, chat, and discuss the latest V. league news. Laughter is echoing in the kitchen, the sunlight is pouring into the room, catching in Shoyo’s blazing hair, and they cannot take their eyes off each other. In the afternoon, they will be playing beach volleyball again, then Tooru is to write back to a journalist who wishes to interview him for a Brazilian sport’s magazine—Shoyo took care of teaching Tooru the basics of Portuguese. Never has Shoyo thought that his life would come to this, having breakfast with Tooru in their very own apartment, their futures full of dreams that once seemed impossible. And, with every bite into the omelette, he tastes all the love that was put into building this life.

[ourlittlesky]

IWAOI NATION !!!

let me share with you my iwaoi fic:

haikyuu!! pre-skip.

valentine's day & white day.

idiots in love.

romantic fluff.

one shot.

you can read it here. enjoy <3