❀•°•A/N: I wouldn’t really say it’s turn one but also just things they like and appreciate! Fluff and a little pinch of sexuality is evident. I tried my best and hope you guys enjoy xx
—Headcanons of the MHA men
Bakugou Katsuki
Whispering In His Ear: It's a vulnerable spot. To let you close enough to Murmur something only he can hear—a secret, a compliment, a dirty little promise—is an act of immense trust. The feeling of your breath against his skin can make his entire body seize up.
Wearing His Clothes: Specifically, his black skull-print t-shirts or a worn-in hoodie. Seeing you in his things, swallowed by the fabric that smells like him (faintly of caramel and smoke), triggers a primal, territorial part of his brain.
Subtle, Possessive Touches: In private, a hand ghosting up his back to squeeze his shoulder, fingers tracing the ridiculously sharp lines of his deltoids, or a thumb stroking over his knuckles. These small, claiming gestures bypass his verbal defenses and go straight to his system.
Praise for his skills: Not his Quirk. Praise his cooking, his strategic mind, his surprising dexterity with detailed tasks. Acknowledging the things he's worked hard on, separate from his innate power, makes him feel seen in a way that fuels a possessive sort of pride.
Matching his Passion: He finds it incredibly hot when you don't back down from an argument. When you can meet his intensity with your own fire, standing your ground and challenging him, it shows him you see him as an equal.
Kirishima Eijirou
Taking the Initiative: While he loves to dote on you, he melts when you take the lead. Grabbing him by the shirt for a kiss, pushing him back onto the couch, or whispering what you want from him makes him feel incredibly desired.
Playful Biting: A playful, sharp nip to his shoulder, bicep, or even his jawline when he’s hardened. It’s a fun, feral little challenge that his Quirk is uniquely suited for, and he finds it ridiculously hot.
Praise for His Emotional Manliness:Forget his muscles. Tell him, "It was so manly how you comforted Uraraka after that test," or "The manliest thing about you is how kind you are."
Casual, Constant Affection: He lives for it. Playing with his hair while you watch a movie, holding his hand while you walk, leaning your head on his shoulder for no reason. These small acts of love make him feel grounded and adored.
Genuine Vulnerability: When you feel safe enough to cry in front of him or confess a fear, it doesn't make him see you as weak. It triggers a deep, primal instinct to protect and cherish you. Your trust in him is a powerful aphrodisiac.
Denki Kaminari
Carefree Physical Touch: Ruffling his hair, leaning against him while you’re standing around, throwing an arm over his shoulder. He’s incredibly tactile, and these casual, friendly touches are like stocking a furnace that’s just waiting for a spark.
Loving His Music:When you genuinely jam out to a new song he’s excited about, or you put on one of his playlists and sing along. Sharing his passions and showing you get his vibe is a massive turn-on.
Playful Competitiveness: Challenging him in video games, especially rhythm games or fighters. The trash talk, the focused energy, the way you bump his shoulder when you win—it all fuels a fun, electric tension.
Needing His Tech Help: Asking him to help you fix your laptop, set up a new speaker system, or jailbreak your phone. It allows him to show off a skill he's genuinely good at and makes him feel useful and competent.
Praising His Intelligence: Seriously. Complimenting his surprising knowledge of literature or modern art, or telling him his plan for a team exercise was "brilliant." It bypasses his goofy flirt filter and hits him right in the heart (and lower).
Sero Hanta
Showing Casual Physical Dominance: Because he's so laid back, he finds it incredibly hot when you take charge in a small, playful way. Grabbing his hoodie to pull him down for a kiss, or shoving him playfully. It's an exciting change of pace.
Falling Asleep on Him: The ultimate sign of trust and comfort. If you can nod off using his shoulder or chest as a pillow, it sends a wave of protective, possessive warmth through him that is deeply arousing.
Laughing at His Dumb Jokes: When he cracks a truly terrible pun and you let out a genuine, unforced laugh, it makes him feel seen. He loves making you happy, and your laughter is his favorite sound.
Lazy Day Cuddles: He is the king of low-energy affection. Spending a whole Sunday in sweatpants, tangled up with you on the couch watching movies, is his idea of a perfect date and gets his mind racing in the best way.
Appreciating His Quirk for Mundane Things: Genuinely delighting in it when he uses his tape to grab a remote from across the room or rig up a hammock for a lazy afternoon. It makes him feel clever and appreciated.
—Scenarios of the MHA men
Bakugou Katsuki
The air in the training gym was thick with the smell of ozone, sweat, and effort. You were both utterly spent, leaning against opposite walls of Gamma Gym, chests heaving. It had been less of a spar and more of a mutual beatdown, a way to work off the adrenaline from a patrol that had gone sideways earlier that day. Bakugou had been a hair's breadth from blowing a city block to smithereens over a low-level villain who’d gotten a lucky shot in on you. You'd stopped him, but the rage had simmered in him all day.
“You’re getting predictable with that left hook,” he rasped, wiping a smear of grime from his cheek with the back of his hand. His voice was rough, but it lacked its usual bite. It was just an observation.
“And you’re still over-relying on your right to set up a blast,” you shot back, a faint smirk playing on your lips despite the ache in your ribs. “One of these days, someone’s gonna take your arm off.”
A sharp, dangerous grin stretched across his face. This. He lived for this. “Let the fuckers try.”
He pushed himself off the wall, muscles coiling and uncoiling under sweat-slickened skin. He strode over to you, his red eyes scanning you from head to toe, cataloging the new bruise forming on your jaw, the way your training top was ripped at the shoulder. He didn't offer a hand. He just stood in front of you, a formidable mountain of pissed-off man.
“You’re a mess,” he grunted.
“You’re one to talk,” you retorted, finally finding the energy to stand. You were close now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. You reached out, your fingers gently touching the edge of a cut on his cheekbone. He flinched, but didn't pull away. “This is going to need cleaning.”
His jaw worked, his gaze intense. “Whatever.”
The walk back to the dorms was mostly silent, the comfortable quiet of two people who had exhausted all need for words. You showered separately, the hot water a blessed relief on screaming muscles. When you emerged, wrapped in a towel, you found him in the communal kitchen, the lights dimmed. The tell-tale clang of a knife against a cutting board echoed softly. He was meticulously dicing onions, his movements precise and economical. Already dressed in a loose black tank top and grey sweatpants, he seemed to have shed the explosive hero persona, leaving only Katsuki.
You padded over, leaning against the counter and just watching him for a moment. He moved with a brutal sort of grace, even with something as mundane as making dinner.
“You know,” you began, your voice soft, “everyone talks about your power. How big your explosions are.” He grunted, not looking up. “But they never talk about this. Your control. The way you can go from leveling a building to chopping a spring onion so thin I can see through it.”
The knife stilled. He slowly, deliberately, placed it on the counter. He turned his head, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. The air crackled, charged with something new. It wasn’t anger. It was something deeper, hotter.
“What’s your point, dumbass?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You smiled, a genuine, tired smile. “My point is… it’s impressive. You’re impressive.”
He scoffed, but a faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up his neck. He turned back to his task, but his movements were stiffer now. You walked around the counter until you were standing behind him. You hesitated for only a second before wrapping your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He went rigid. You could feel the rigid wall of his abs against your forearms, the thunder of his heart against your chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, the sound vibrating through you.
“Hugging you,” you Murmured into his back. You slid one hand up his chest, your fingers splaying over the solid warmth of his pectoral muscle, a silent, possessive touch He didn't move. He just stood there, breathing. After a long moment, one of his hands came up and covered yours, his calloused fingers wrapping around your own. It was the closest he ever came to returning an embrace.
Later, after you’d eaten the ridiculously spicy, yet perfectly made katsudon he’d thrown together, you found yourselves in his room. It was surprisingly neat, save for a pile of clothes in the corner. You were wearing one of his old, worn-out hoodies, the one with the faded skull graphic. It swamped you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, and it smelled entirely of him.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, and he was pacing. The restless energy was back, but it was different now. It was coiled, predatory. He stopped in front of you, looking down at you in his hoodie, and an unfamiliar expression flickered in his eyes. Raw, unfiltered want.
“Stop looking so damn pleased with yourself,” he muttered.
You tilted your head. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “You’ve got that stupid little smile on your face.”
“Maybe I’m just happy,” you offered.
“Tch.” He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your hairline. His touch was hot, demanding. He pulled you gently to your feet, so you were flush against him. His other hand settled on your hip, holding you in place.
“You pushed it today,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low pitch. “In the gym. Arguing with me.”
“You were being an ass.”
“And you liked it,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. He leaned down, his face so close you could count the flecks of black in his red irises. “You like pushing my buttons. Seeing how far you can go before I snap.”
You swallowed, your heart hammering. “Maybe,” you breathed.
That was all the confirmation he needed. He dipped his head lower, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You shivered as his hot breath washed over your skin.
“Good,” he whispered, the single word a guttural promise. “Because I’m about to snap right now.”
His mouth crashed down on yours. It wasn't gentle. It was a kiss born of adrenaline and pent-up frustration and a desperate, burning need. It was punishing and possessive, a blatant claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting of spice and victory. You moaned into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tank top, pulling him impossibly closer. He broke the kiss only to Trail a line of open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, settling on the pulse point that was hammering wildly.
“You asked for it,” he growled against your skin, a sound that was half threat, half prayer. He lifted you with an ease that stole your breath, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you the single step to his bed. He fell onto the mattress with you, caging you beneath him, his eyes burning with a ferocious, unrestrained hunger. The world narrowed to his weight on top of you, the scent of him, and the raw need radiating from every inch of his body. He tangled a hand in your hair, tilting your head back for another bruising kiss, the first of many that promised to leave you just as wrecked as the training gym.
Kirishima Eijirou
It had been a week of hell. Midterms were a nightmare, a practical heroics exam had left you feeling bruised and inadequate, and to top it all off, you’d gotten into a stupid fight with your parents over the phone. You were at your breaking point.
You found yourself outside Kirishima’s door, hesitating. You didn't want to be a burden. But the thought of being alone in your room felt suffocating. You knocked softly, a pathetic little tap.
The door flew open almost instantly. Kirishima stood there, a wide, sunny grin on his face that faltered the second he saw you. "Hey! I was just—" He stopped, his expression softening into one of deep concern. "Whoa. Are you okay?"
And just like that, the dam broke. The question, so simple and so genuinely kind, was too much. A sob tore from your throat, and tears you’d been holding back all day began to stream down your face. You tried to cover your face, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," you choked out. "This is stupid."
"No," he said, his voice firm but gentle. He immediately stepped forward, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you into his room, shutting the door behind you. He didn't say anything else, just held you. He was warm and solid, a rock in your emotional storm. You buried your face in his chest, soaking the front of his 'Red Riot' t-shirt as you cried out all the week's frustrations.
He rubbed your back in slow, steady circles, resting his chin on the top of your head. He smelled like clean laundry and something uniquely Eijirou, something warm and comforting.
After a few minutes, your sobs subsided into sniffles. You felt drained, but lighter. "Sorry about your shirt," you Murmured into his chest.
"It's just a shirt," he said softly. He gently guided you over to his bed, sitting you down before grabbing a box of tissues from his desk. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
And so you told him everything. The exams, the fight with your parents, the feeling of not being good enough. He listened intently, his brow furrowed in concentration, never interrupting. When you were done, he took your hand, his calloused thumb stroking the back of it.
"That's not stupid at all," he said, his voice full of conviction. "That's a totally rough week. It's okay to be upset by it. Anyone would be." He squeezed your hand. "And for the record, you did amazing on that practical. That move you used to disable the faux villain? It was super smart. I was watching." He beamed, that familiar sunshine returning to his face. "I was so proud of you."
His simple, honest validation felt like a balm on your frayed nerves. A warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with him. You leaned your head against his shoulder, a silent thank you. He immediately responded, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close.
You stayed like that for a while, watching some mindless comedy show he put on. His presence was so calming. Absently, you began to play with the ends of his bright red hair, twirling a spiky strand around your finger. He practically purred, his entire body relaxing into your touch.
“Y’know,” you said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Everyone always says how manly it is to be tough and strong.” You looked up at him, meeting his soft red eyes. “But I think the way you just listened to me, without judging or trying to fix it… that's the manliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Kirishima’s breath hitched. A dark blush spread across his cheeks, making his freckles stand out. His eyes, fixed on yours, suddenly held a new, intense light. The atmosphere in the room shifted, the comforting warmth thickening into something heavy and charged.
"You really think so?" he asked, his voice a little strained.
"I know so," you whispered.
An unspoken permission passed between you. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, a question. You answered by pressing closer, deepening it. It was a kiss of comfort and gratitude that was quickly catching fire.
Feeling bold, you shifted, clambering onto his lap to face him. He made a surprised noise, his hands automatically going to your hips to steady you. You grinned against his lips, a spark of your usual mischief returning.
"What's this?" he chuckled, his voice husky.
"Takin' charge," you Murmured, before capturing his mouth again.
This time, the kiss was more demanding. You tilted his head back, exploring the warm cavern of his mouth as he groaned, his hands tightening on your hips. He was so responsive, so eager. It was intoxicating. His skin was warm under your hands as you traced the line of his jaw. On impulse, you hardened your own teeth and gave his bicep a sharp, playful nip.
Kirishima let out a strangled groan, a full-body shiver wracking his frame. His Quirk flared to life instinctively, his skin turning rugged and hard under your lips for a split second before softening again.
“Whoa,” he breathed, his eyes wide and blown out with desire. “Okay. Yeah. That’s…”
“Good?” you prompted, a wicked smile on your face as you leaned in and did it again, this time on his jaw.
“So good,” he growghed, the sound low and guttural. His control snapped. He surged up, flipping you onto your back on the mattress without breaking contact. He loomed over you, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration and raw need. The sweet, comforting boy was gone, replaced by a man who looked ready to worship you and devour you in equal measure.
"My turn," he rasped, his voice thick with want. He lowered his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you knew the quiet evening had just ignited into a raging inferno. The sheets started to tangle around you both as he began his loving, desperate assault.
Denki Kaminari
“No, no, no, you’re plugging the HDMI into the *output*! It’s an input-only port on the graphics card,” Denki said, leaning over your shoulder. You were both on the floor of your dorm room, surrounded by the guts of your new gaming PC that you’d foolishly attempted to assemble yourself. The air smelled of plastic and static.
“It’s a hole that fits the plug, I don’t see the problem,” you grumbled, frustrated.
“That’s what she said,” he chirped instantly, before visibly cringing at his own joke. “Sorry. Force of habit.” He gently nudged your hand out of the way, his fingers brushing yours. “Here, let me.”
You sat back on your heels and watched him. When he was focused like this, his whole demeanor changed. The usual class clown persona melted away, replaced by a quiet competence. His fingers moved with practiced ease, rerouting cables, snapping components into place, his brow furrowed in concentration. You found yourself staring at the sharp line of his jaw, the way a strand of golden hair fell across his forehead.
“You’re actually really good at this,” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended.
He glanced up, a surprised but pleased smile touching his lips. “Yeah? Well, I gotta be good for somethin’ other than being a walking stun gun, right?” He winked, but you caught the flicker of insecurity in his eyes.
“Don’t say that,” you said firmly. “This is legitimately brilliant. My brain turns to soup just looking at all these wires. You’re like a tech wizard.”
The look he gave you was different. The playful spark was still there, but it was deeper now, warmer. A faint blush dusted his cheeks. “Wizard, huh? I like the sound of that.” He gave a final, satisfying click as he slotted the last cable into place. “Alright, Kaminari-sensei’s work is done. Time for the moment of truth.”
He connected the power and hit the switch. The case fans whirred to life, bathing the room in a soft blue glow. The monitor flickered on, displaying the boot screen. You let out a whoop of joy, throwing your arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug.
“You’re the best!” you cheered.
He laughed, his arms coming around your waist to steady you both. He was warm and solid. “All in a day’s work for Denki the Tech Wizard.” You pulled back, but he didn’t let go right away. His hands lingered on your waist, his thumbs drawing slow, lazy circles. The playful atmosphere suddenly felt charged with something else. His golden eyes searched yours, and for a second, you thought he was going to kiss you.
Then came the tell-tale scent of ozone. “Uh oh,” he mumbled, his eyes going wide. The PC flickered, and a tiny, harmless spark jumped from his fingertip to the metal case. The screen went black.
“Ah, crap,” he sighed, slumping. “Did I… did I short it out?” He looked so genuinely disappointed, so crestfallen, that your heart went out to him.
“Hey, no,” you said quickly, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s probably just a loose connection. Don’t worry about it.” You saw the dazed look starting to creep into his eyes, the precursor to a full-on "whey" moment. "Hey, look at me." You took his hand. "Come on, let's get you some water. We'll figure it out in a minute."
You led him over to your bed, sitting him down. He was pliant, a goofy, unfocused smile on his face. "Pretty lights," he said, staring at your lava lamp. You rolled your eyes fondly, handing him a bottle of water. While he recovered, you fiddled with the PC, finding the power cable he’d jostled loose. You plugged it back in, and it booted up perfectly.
When he was clear-headed again, he looked mortified. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I almost fried your brand-new rig.”
“You didn’t,” you said, gesturing to the running computer. “And even if you did, it’s just a thing. I was more worried about you.” You sat next to him on the bed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Now, as payment for your wizardry, you owe me a game of Mortal Kombat.”
His face lit up. “Oh, you are SO on. But we gotta have the right soundtrack.” He grabbed his phone, connecting it to your new speakers via Bluetooth. A second later, a high-energy pop-punk track filled the room. It was the same band he’d been telling you about for weeks.
“Hey, I love this song!” you exclaimed, your head starting to bob along with the driving guitar riff.
He beamed, his whole body seeming to vibrate with happiness. “Right?!”
You spent the next hour trading wins and losses, yelling at the screen, and laughing until your sides hurt. The earlier tension had melted back into easy friendship, but it was still there, simmering under the surface. Finally, after a particularly brutal match that you won by a hair, you both flopped back on the bed, exhausted and exhilarated.
The music shifted to something slower, an indie rock ballad with a soulful melody. You were lying side-by-side, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey,” Denki said, his voice soft.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For… you know. Earlier. Not getting mad. And not treating me like an idiot when I… you know.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you, his expression open and vulnerable. “Denki, I could never think you’re an idiot.”
He gave a small, wry smile. “Everyone else does.”
“Then they’re not looking close enough,” you whispered.
The space between you felt electric again, but this time it had nothing to do with his Quirk. He propped himself up on his elbow, his body hovering over yours. The music seemed to swell, filling the quiet space.
“Can I… uh…” he started, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Can I try something that doesn’t involve wires and motherboards?”
You didn’t answer with words. You just reached up, your fingers tangling in his soft blond hair, and pulled him down. The kiss was tentative at first, just a soft press of lips, but it was full of all the unspoken things that had been buzzing between you all night. It tasted of sweet victory and a hint of static electricity. He moaned softly, a sound of pure contentment, and deepened the kiss, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. The playful energy was gone, replaced by a surprisingly intense, focused desire. He pulled away slightly, his breath warm against your lips.
“Wizard, huh?” he whispered, a smirk in his voice, but his eyes were dark with need. He lowered his head again, and the playful teasing of the day gave way to the serious business of the night as his body settled over yours.
Sero Hanta
The rain was coming down in sheets, drumming a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the windows of the Heights Alliance dorms. It was the kind of Sunday that was practically a legal mandate for laziness. Most of the class had braved the weather for a trip to the mall, but you and Sero had taken one look outside and declared it a "bones day."
Which is how you ended up in a fort of blankets and pillows in the middle of the common room floor, a laptop propped up on a cushion playing a marathon of old samurai movies. You were in your softest sweatpants, and Sero was in a pair of equally worn grey ones and a thin long-sleeved shirt.
“You know,” Sero said, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth, “I feel like this guy’s sword is basically just a really sharp, unfriendly version of my tape.”
You snorted, a laugh bubbling up against your will. “Oh my god, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day.”
He grinned his signature wide, toothy grin. “But you laughed! That means it was a good one.”
“It was not,” you argued, smiling. “It was terrible. Give me the popcorn.”
The bowl was sitting on the coffee table, just out of arm’s reach. Instead of moving, Sero just lifted a finger. A strip of cellophane tape shot out from his elbow, wrapping neatly around the bowl and zipping it through the air directly into your waiting hands. He gave you a look that was pure, smug satisfaction.
“Show-off,” you said, but you were beaming. “Okay, that was actually cool. You’re like a household Spider-Man.”
“The Friendliest Neighborhood Sero, at your service,” he said with a little bow of his head. He looked so pleased with himself, and you felt a familiar warmth spread through your chest. It was easy with Sero. Everything was just… easy.
You settled back into the nest of blankets, leaning your head against his shoulder as the movie played on. He smelled like clean laundry and the faint, sweet scent of his Quirk. His arm came around you naturally, his fingers toying with the ends of your hair. You ate popcorn and made quiet, dumb comments about the movie, your bodies pressed together from shoulder to thigh. The combination of the rain, the warmth of the fort, and Sero’s steady presence was a potent lullaby. Before you knew it, your eyelids were getting heavy. The last thing you remembered was the comforting weight of his head resting on top of yours.
You woke up to the soft glow of the laptop’s screensaver and the continued drumming of rain. The movie was long over. You were still cocooned in the fort, but you’d shifted, your head now resting on Sero’s chest, his arm a warm, heavy weight around your shoulders. His other hand was loosely tangled in your hair, and his breathing was a deep, even rhythm beneath your ear.
You stayed still for a moment, just listening to his heartbeat. It was steady and strong. For a guy who seemed so perpetually relaxed, he was solid muscle under his shirt. You could feel the hard planes of his chest, the defined line of his bicep under your cheek. The comfortable intimacy of the afternoon began to feel different in the quiet twilight of the room. It was charged, heavier.
You shifted slightly, and his breathing hitched. His eyes slowly blinked open.
“Hey,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”
“Sorry, did I wake you?” you whispered.
“Nah.” He didn’t move his arm. If anything, his fingers tightened ever so slightly in your hair. He looked down at you, his dark eyes soft and unguarded in the dim light. “You’re comfy.”
Your heart did a little flip. “So are you. You’re a good pillow.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “One of my many talents.”
You just looked at each other for a long moment. The easy camaraderie was still there, but it was now overlaid with a palpable tension. You were intensely aware of your leg pressed against his, of his hand in your hair, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your head. He wasn't the "buddy" Sero right now. He was a man, looking at you with an expression you’d never seen on him before—an expression of gentle, budding want.
Taking a breath, you decided to act on the strange, bold impulse that had been building in you. You rose up on your elbows, your face now level with his. He just watched you, his eyes wide with surprise and anticipation. Without a word, you grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the soft cotton in your hand, and pulled him upward, crashing your lips against his.
It was a clumsy, enthusiastic kiss, full of all the pent-up affection from a months-long friendship. He made a surprised noise against your mouth, but he responded instantly. His hand left your hair, moving to the small of your back to pull you flush against him. The other came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss.
He tasted like popcorn and something uniquely Sero, something warm and sweet. When you finally broke for air, you were both breathing heavily.
“Whoa,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. “Okay. So we’re doing this.”
“Is that a problem?” you asked, your voice a little shaky.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, devastatingly hot grin spreading across his face. “Not a single one.” He then flipped you both over with a surprising, fluid strength, so he was looming over you, caging you with his arms. “But now it’s my turn to be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
He lowered his head, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, and you giggled, your hands tangling in his dark hair. The lazy Sunday had taken a turn, the comfortable quiet now filled with sharp breaths and soft moans. The rain outside seemed to beat a rhythm just for the two of you as the blanket fort became a world of its own.
warning ladies !! do not spit in gojo’s mouth unless you’re ready for him to nut instantly!
“c’mon baby,” he whines, voice all breathy and cocky, his blue eyes sparkling looking greedy. “i’ve been good. spit in my mouth, please?”
you laugh, because this six-foot-whatever menace who can literally warp reality is pouting like a brat because he wants your spit.
“you’re so fucking weird, toru.”
“you are weird,” he corrects instantly, tongue already poking out a little. “now c’mon.... i’m dying here. my dick’s so hard it’s bout to file a complaint.”
you roll your eyes but lean in anyway, gripping his jaw with one hand, thumb pressing into the soft skin just under his bottom lip. he opens wider, eyes half-lidded, that signature gojo smirk twitching at the corners because he knows exactly how nasty this is.
you gather it slow on purpose, letting him watch, then spit directly onto his waiting tongue. thick, warm, right in the center.
the sound he makes is downright criminal. a broken little moan-groan that vibrates straight through his chest and into yours.
“fuck— again,” he gasps, “do it again. spit like you mean it.”
you do it again, messier this time, letting some of it miss and drip down his chin. he doesn’t even wipe it. just lets it slide while his eyes roll back.
“you’re actually getting off on this, huh?” you tease, grinding down slow on the massive bulge straining against the fabric. “big bad strongest and all it takes is a little spit to make you stupid?”
“shut up and degrade me properly,” he whines, but he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue still out. “call me a nasty little slut or sum. i’m literally leaking for you right now.”
you laugh again, i mean you can’t help it. before you do the request, you reach down and shove his sweats just low enough to free him. he’s flushed dark at the tip, already dripping down the shaft.
“open wider, pretty boy.”
he obeys instantly, loving every second of being absolutely humiliated by you.
you spit again, then lean down and lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue while you sink down onto his cock.
satoru’s whole body shudders. he moans into your mouth, hands scrambling on your hips, already babbling.
“more!! fuck— spit on me while you ride me. please baby i’ll do anything. i’ll buy you a country. i’ll cancel infinity for the rest of the night. just keep spitting in my fucking mouth—”
NOTE: THESE ARE ALL ACTORS THAT WERE POSTED ON A REGULATED SITE. EVERYTHING IS BETWEEN CONSENTING ADULTS.
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part of my kinktober series!
Movie Website
its ok if as long as it's not inside, right? ᡣ anal + toys ᡣ backshots ᡣ cuddlefuck ᡣ this ᡣ riding ᡣ deeeeep breeding ᡣ (tw) ghostface ᡣ somno ᡣ stuck! ᡣ fingering both holes
pussy eating ᡣ eating you out ᡣ jerking off to you ᡣ toys ᡣ riding ᡣ public sex ᡣ pounding + hair pulling ᡣ hole swap ᡣ groping + rough sex ᡣ 69 ᡣ pussy eating ᡣ the condom broke!
kisses between thrusts ᡣ he won't let you play your game... ᡣ doggy position ᡣ titty fuck ᡣ dryhumping ᡣ thigh fucking ᡣ more thigh fucking ᡣ reverse cowgirl ᡣ ripping your panties
somno pt. ii ᡣ cuddles ᡣ fingering ᡣ this ᡣ mutual masturbation ᡣ more fingering ᡣ tummy bulge ᡣ using you as stress relief after work ᡣ princess treatment ᡣ riding and breeding ᡣ new position ᡣ anal
see more in my main masterlist
support creators by reblogging it and commenting if you loved it
NOTE: THESE ARE ALL ACTORS THAT WERE POSTED ON A REGULATED SITE. EVERYTHING IS BETWEEN CONSENTING ADULTS.
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part of my kinktober series!
its ok if as long as it's not inside, right? ᡣ anal + toys ᡣ backshots ᡣ cuddlefuck ᡣ this ᡣ riding ᡣ deeeeep breeding ᡣ (tw) ghostface ᡣ somno ᡣ stuck! ᡣ fingering both holes
pussy eating ᡣ eating you out ᡣ jerking off to you ᡣ toys ᡣ riding ᡣ public sex ᡣ pounding + hair pulling ᡣ hole swap ᡣ groping + rough sex ᡣ 69 ᡣ pussy eating ᡣ the condom broke!
kisses between thrusts ᡣ he won't let you play your game... ᡣ doggy position ᡣ titty fuck ᡣ dryhumping ᡣ thigh fucking ᡣ more thigh fucking ᡣ reverse cowgirl ᡣ ripping your panties
somno pt. ii ᡣ cuddles ᡣ fingering ᡣ this ᡣ mutual masturbation ᡣ more fingering ᡣ tummy bulge ᡣ using you as stress relief after work ᡣ princess treatment ᡣ riding and breeding ᡣ new position ᡣ anal
see more in my main masterlist
support creators by reblogging it and commenting if you loved it
🗒️:This post contains links to sexually explicit videos on Twitter (x), don’t look at this post if you are under the age of 18 or uncomfortable with the material being shown. !
𝟎𝟏: he wanted to know what head felt like so during your movie hangout you showed him
𝟎𝟐: his first time giving you nerdy backshots
𝟎𝟑: He felt a little bold when you were over and decided he want tits in his mouth
𝟎𝟒: First time Riding him so he got a bit handsy
𝟎𝟓: you were out one day and he got bored so he made a video for you
𝟎𝟔: second video he made and he ended up getting his special movie juice all over his clothes
𝟎𝟕: he got a bit rougher after a hard day in chemistry class
𝟎𝟖: you got a bit bratty so he decided to ‘teach’ you a lesson
𝟎𝟗: after he stood up to Nathan, he showed you a bit of his confidence in the bed 😵💫
𝟏𝟎: you were giving him head and he got super cocky and confident
Disclaimer: some of the videos may be unavailable if you don’t have an account, they have been removed by the op, or the account has gotten suspended. If this is the case I’ll try to update everything as fast as possible
Back to masterlist. Inspiration page. Become a taglister
🗒️:This post contains links to sexually explicit videos on Twitter (x), don’t look at this post if you are under the age of 18 or uncomfortable with the material being shown. !
𝟎𝟏: you an nathan hooking up after a vortex club party
𝟎𝟐: you snuck into his room and he put you to work
𝟎𝟑: study time with the Prescott!
𝟎𝟒: you’re horny but he’s out of condoms
𝟎𝟓: when it’s raining and you’re in his truck
𝟎𝟔: he’s hungry and you’re the only snack
𝟎𝟕: you stayed the night in his dorm
𝟎𝟖: you’re being bratty so he put you in his place
𝟎𝟗: After class and you’ve been texting him kinky shit all day
𝟏𝟎: He snuck into the showers just to fuck you
Disclaimer: some of the videos may be unavailable if you don’t have an account, they have been removed by the op, or the account has gotten suspended. If this is the case I’ll try to update everything as fast as possible
Back to masterlist. Inspiration page. Become a taglister
🗒️:This post contains links to sexually explicit videos on Twitter (x), don’t look at this post if you are under the age of 18 or uncomfortable with the material being shown. !
𝟎𝟏: you an nathan hooking up after a vortex club party
𝟎𝟐: you snuck into his room and he put you to work
𝟎𝟑: study time with the Prescott!
𝟎𝟒: you’re horny but he’s out of condoms
𝟎𝟓: when it’s raining and you’re in his truck
𝟎𝟔: he’s hungry and you’re the only snack
𝟎𝟕: you stayed the night in his dorm
𝟎𝟖: you’re being bratty so he put you in his place
𝟎𝟗: After class and you’ve been texting him kinky shit all day
𝟏𝟎: He snuck into the showers just to fuck you
Disclaimer: some of the videos may be unavailable if you don’t have an account, they have been removed by the op, or the account has gotten suspended. If this is the case I’ll try to update everything as fast as possible
Back to masterlist. Inspiration page. Become a taglister
you’re partnered with the most popular boy at school, oikawa tooru—who you thought never noticed you—but he turns into a flustered mess every time you’re near.
starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader
wc. 10.6k
author's note: hi guys this is luna (@yukkiji) someone reported my account and got it terminated and this is one the few stories that was on my gdocs so I was able to repost it (╥﹏╥) but for the mean time I'll post my saved fics on my new blog
Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.
You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.
You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.
But he did.
He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.
“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.
Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”
“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”
Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”
“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”
Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”
Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”
“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”
Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”
“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”
“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.
“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.
“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”
“I was distracted!”
“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”
“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”
“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”
“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.
They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.
Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”
“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.
Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.
And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.
He did.
A lot.
And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.
It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.
But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.
Oikawa Tooru.
Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.
But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.
“Cool!”
You froze.
He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.
And then he tripped.
It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.
The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.
“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.
Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.
You. Knew. His. Name.
He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.
“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”
“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.
From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”
“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”
Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”
“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.
Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.
But he didn’t care.
Because you knew his name.
And you were worried about him.
God help him, he was doomed.
Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.
Again.
“Tooru.”
It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.
Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”
That did not help.
Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.
“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.
Then, without thinking, he took your hand.
You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.
Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.
“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.
None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.
“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.
You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.
Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.
“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.
You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.
And just like that, Oikawa was gone.
To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.
“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.
Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.
From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.
Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.
“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”
Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”
You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”
The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.
Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”
Oikawa stared.
If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.
“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”
You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.
You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.
When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.
You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.
Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.
And then his phone buzzed.
[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ
His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.
“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”
“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”
Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.
“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.
Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.
Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.
The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.
By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.
Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.
Kind of.
Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.
“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.
The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.
“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.
“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.
Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”
A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”
Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”
The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”
Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”
Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.
Then his phone buzzed.
[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.
“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”
He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.
Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.
[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way
[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)
Oikawa screamed.
Like, actually screamed.
He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.
“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”
There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”
Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”
Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”
Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.
And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”
You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.
Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.
"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"
You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.
She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"
"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"
That caught her attention.
She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.
You groaned into the pillow.
"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."
Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."
“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”
"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."
You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.
“I’m never texting anyone again.”
Your phone buzzed.
You shrieked.
[tooru]: see you later also ♡
You stared at your phone.
Oh god.
Why did he send a heart.
Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.
Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.
You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.
“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.
You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.
“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”
Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.
“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”
“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”
“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”
Your brain short-circuited.
Your entire body glitched.
Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.
“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.
She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”
You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”
“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”
You arrived at the café first.
The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.
You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)
Then the soft chime of the door rang.
Your head turned instinctively.
Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.
He lit up immediately.
He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.
Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.
Meanwhile, Oikawa?
He was dying.
His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—
He was done for.
He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.
A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.
A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.
You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”
You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.
“You really okay?”
“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”
You looked away again, biting back a smile.
And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:
I’m so, so screwed.
Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”
He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.
At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.
A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”
“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.
You paused. “Are you sure?”
He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.
He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”
The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.
Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”
It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.
“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.
“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.
Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.
And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.
He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.
He was so screwed.
And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”
Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.
Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.
At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.
What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.
But you showed up.
In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.
“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.
“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.
“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”
You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”
Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”
He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.
Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.
"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.
"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.
"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.
“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”
You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”
Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.
Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.
And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”
He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.
Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.
There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.
It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.
Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.
Not in the way that mattered.
Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.
You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.
And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.
Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.
“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.
“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.
“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”
“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”
“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.
He melted.
You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.
“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”
“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.
“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.
“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.
No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.
Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.
And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.
But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.
Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.
He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.
One bow caught his eye.
It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.
Oikawa lingered, slowing down.
He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.
“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.
“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”
“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”
“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”
“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”
Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”
Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”
“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.
Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”
Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.
Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”
And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.
He bought the bow.
Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.
“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”
“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.
Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.
“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.
“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”
Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”
“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.
Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”
The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”
Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.
“Don’t screw it up,” he said.
And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.
You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.
[tooru]: are you free?
That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.
You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.
[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?
You blinked.
Then you sat up.
Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.
“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”
You didn’t move.
She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”
You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And?”
“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”
Silence.
Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”
You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”
She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”
You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”
“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”
You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”
Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The one you like.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”
“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”
She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”
You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”
Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”
You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”
She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”
“I forgot!”
“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”
“I’m not in love with him.”
She arched a brow. “You sure?”
You didn’t answer.
She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”
You peeked at your phone again.
[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.
You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.
Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”
Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.
“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”
“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.
“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”
“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”
“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”
Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.
The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.
He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.
After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.
He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.
There you were.
Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.
The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.
Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.
“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.
And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.
Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.
“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”
The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.
Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”
You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.
Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.
“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.
You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.
“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”
Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”
Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”
You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.
Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.
Because this felt different.
There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.
Just you and him.
Just Tooru.
And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.
Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.
“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”
He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.
Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.
Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.
He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.
He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.
"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.
You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.
He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.
“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”
You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.
You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.
“Tooru…?”
He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.
“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”
He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”
Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.
“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”
You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.
The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.
And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”
Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.
You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.
“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”
His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.
“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”
You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”
Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.
“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”
And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.
You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.
You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.
Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.
When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.
“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”
Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.
You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.
But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.
His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.
“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.
You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”
After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.
Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.
You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.
Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.
“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”
“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.
“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”
Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”
But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:
Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.
the windows were fogged up when atsumu dragged you into his lap in the backseat. his hands grab your hips hard, yanking you down so his cock presses right against your pussy through his jeans. he kisses you rough, tongue shoving in, teeth biting your lip, groaning into your mouth like he’s starving.
“been hard for this cunt all goddamn day,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “gonna fuck you stupid, darlin’.”
his palms shove under your shirt, grabbing your tits, thumbs rubbing your nipples until they’re hard. you grind down on his bulge and he groans loud, hips bucking up, already leaking through the denim.
“so fuckin’ wet for it already,” he says, but his voice cracks. his hands grope everywhere... ass, thighs, tits, squeezing like he can’t stop.
you rip his belt open, shove his jeans down. his cock springs out thick, red, dripping precum down the shaft. you wrap your hand around it and he throws his head back, moaning like a slut, hips jerking into your fist.
“fuck...” he gasps, cock throbbing hard in your grip.
you tug your panties aside, line him up against your throbbing cunt, and sink down fast.
here's the fucking catch. the moment tip of his cock pops in, he’s done.
atsumu never told you he was a virgin. he never felt anything close to this tight wet heat, and the second that first inch squeezes around him his whole body seizes like he got electrocuted.
his whole body jerks violently, cock pulsing wildly as he cums hard inside you. hot, thick ropes shooting deep in frantic spurts, hips slamming up while he cries out broken curses. you feel every desperate twitch, every heavy spurt flooding inside your cunt, feel him shaking like he’s coming apart, filling you up so fast it leaks out around his base almost immediately.
“fuck! shit... no—” his voice cracks, face buried in your neck. “sorry, fuck, i’m sorry—never done this before, didn’t know it’d... shit—”
he’s still twitching, cock softening but not pulling out, his virgin cum dripping down your thighs. his arms lock around you tight, like he’s scared you’ll leave now that he’s embarrassed himself.
“‘tsumu...”
“don’t,” he mumbles, voice small and wrecked. “that was fuckin’ pathetic. first time and i couldn’t even last a second—”
you grab his face, make him look. his cheeks are burning red, eyes wet, usual cockiness completely shattered because he’s never felt this before.
“it’s hot,” you say.
he blinks. “bullshit.”
you roll your hips once. his oversensitive virgin cock jerks inside you, already hardening again despite the mess he made.
“see?” you whisper.
“yeah?” he rasps.
“yeah.”
he flips you onto your back on the seat, spreads your legs wide, and shoves back in, his cum and your slick making it filthy and easy. he starts fucking you hard and fast, no holding back now that the edge is gone.
“gonna make you cum this time,” he growls. “gonna fill this pussy again... fuck, gonna breed it till you’re dripping me all night,”
you clench around him and he moans loud, pace turning sloppy, desperate, chasing his second load while he watches your face like he’s addicted to it.
“cum for me, darlin’, cum on my cock while i stuff you full again...”
the windows were fogged up when atsumu dragged you into his lap in the backseat. his hands grab your hips hard, yanking you down so his cock presses right against your pussy through his jeans. he kisses you rough, tongue shoving in, teeth biting your lip, groaning into your mouth like he’s starving.
“been hard for this cunt all goddamn day,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “gonna fuck you stupid, darlin’.”
his palms shove under your shirt, grabbing your tits, thumbs rubbing your nipples until they’re hard. you grind down on his bulge and he groans loud, hips bucking up, already leaking through the denim.
“so fuckin’ wet for it already,” he says, but his voice cracks. his hands grope everywhere... ass, thighs, tits, squeezing like he can’t stop.
you rip his belt open, shove his jeans down. his cock springs out thick, red, dripping precum down the shaft. you wrap your hand around it and he throws his head back, moaning like a slut, hips jerking into your fist.
“fuck...” he gasps, cock throbbing hard in your grip.
you tug your panties aside, line him up against your throbbing cunt, and sink down fast.
here's the fucking catch. the moment tip of his cock pops in, he’s done.
atsumu never told you he was a virgin. he never felt anything close to this tight wet heat, and the second that first inch squeezes around him his whole body seizes like he got electrocuted.
his whole body jerks violently, cock pulsing wildly as he cums hard inside you. hot, thick ropes shooting deep in frantic spurts, hips slamming up while he cries out broken curses. you feel every desperate twitch, every heavy spurt flooding inside your cunt, feel him shaking like he’s coming apart, filling you up so fast it leaks out around his base almost immediately.
“fuck! shit... no—” his voice cracks, face buried in your neck. “sorry, fuck, i’m sorry—never done this before, didn’t know it’d... shit—”
he’s still twitching, cock softening but not pulling out, his virgin cum dripping down your thighs. his arms lock around you tight, like he’s scared you’ll leave now that he’s embarrassed himself.
“‘tsumu...”
“don’t,” he mumbles, voice small and wrecked. “that was fuckin’ pathetic. first time and i couldn’t even last a second—”
you grab his face, make him look. his cheeks are burning red, eyes wet, usual cockiness completely shattered because he’s never felt this before.
“it’s hot,” you say.
he blinks. “bullshit.”
you roll your hips once. his oversensitive virgin cock jerks inside you, already hardening again despite the mess he made.
“see?” you whisper.
“yeah?” he rasps.
“yeah.”
he flips you onto your back on the seat, spreads your legs wide, and shoves back in, his cum and your slick making it filthy and easy. he starts fucking you hard and fast, no holding back now that the edge is gone.
“gonna make you cum this time,” he growls. “gonna fill this pussy again... fuck, gonna breed it till you’re dripping me all night,”
you clench around him and he moans loud, pace turning sloppy, desperate, chasing his second load while he watches your face like he’s addicted to it.
“cum for me, darlin’, cum on my cock while i stuff you full again...”
