I think a sagau! touch starved/needy childe, scara and zhongli feels very attractive, to have two powerful harbingers on their knees just for a shred of attention from their god makes me wanna pamper them
but also like zhongli?? That man is so touch-starved like poor dude has been worshipping for hundreds of years without a reward for his good work probably drives him insane. I cannot imagine how he hold it together and doesn’t ascend on the spot when he breathes the same air as his god because I genuinely think he’s THAT needy
also your writing really brought me a lot of comfort!! Thank you for running the blog and doing what you do💜💜
word count. 3.8k
୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.
୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im so happy you like my writing!! im sorry i took forever to write this, but i still hope you like it !!!!
childe
In the unfathomable dark of the abyss, you were the only thing Childe had to keep himself sane.
Without you, he would've lost himself; without you, he is nothing. He only survived because of your guidance. In his eyes, his ever consuming need of you is only right— he has no need of anything else, and sees no purpose to think otherwise. You've only ever proven how worthy you are of worship.
When light seeps through tree boughs, he sees you. He sees you in the way the leaves leave a shadow. He feels you in the cast of the wind's breath. Every breath he takes is inlaid with your name. The mere thought of the opposite makes him sick.
He's pathetic, but his pitiful appearance is only for your eyes.
Just breathing in your presence is enough for him to feel weak and fluttery, but your eyes on him leave him delirious; the sort of dizzy where he can’t bring himself to move at all. All you have to do is glance at him for his knees to tremble like they're about to buckle underneath his weight.
Somehow, he keeps himself standing each time. He should be ashamed, he knows, embarrassed— but drool pools quickly in his mouth as your eyes linger, and any sort of dignity is discarded in the light of your gaze.
As a Harbinger, he should have more pride than he does, but Childe's only arrogance is his belief that he's special to you. That belief was the only thing he had to ground himself in the abyss, and he clings to it as if to let go would mean death. In his mind, it would be no different.
You were the only thing he had, even if he only knew you in the form of whispers and imperceptible kisses of wind. He didn’t need to touch you, no matter how tortuous of an existence it may be, as long as he could feel you.
That was enough. He thought it would be enough.
Seeing you is an entirely different matter however, and quickly, he finds himself wondering what your skin would feel like under his calloused fingertips.
He wants you to touch him. It's a selfish want, but one he carries with him all the same.
He wants you to play with his hair and hold him close as if he's something precious. He wants you to run your fingers along his spine and see him as he reveals every dark, nasty part of himself. He wants you to look and still find something to love.
Childe doesn't speak a word of his desires. He sits with them in the dark and tries to will them away. He tries to withstand their passage, but only ends up choking on each thought.
He tries to hold himself at night, imagining his arms are yours, but it only makes the ache worse.
He imagines loving you, and you loving him.
When you summon him to your chambers, Childe has to hold every nerve in his body to keep himself from running to you. It’s with a clearly restrained gait that he reaches you, just barely, his knees still wobbly and the floor a shifting kaleidoscope of colors.
It doesn’t bother him. Childe feels weightless, alight with fervor, and it’s a struggle to stop himself from rushing forward just to breathe a little closer to you. He drops to his knees, bowing his head until his forehead sits against your marble flooring.
Touch me, he thinks.
He somehow manages to choke a greeting out of his throat, unable to stop the small shudder that runs through him when he feels your gaze settle on him.
It feels right, being beneath you. It feels right, the slight tension in his body as he waits for you to speak.
Childe doesn’t say anything else. You’re the only one he truly respects, the only one he’s ever felt so fervently for— in your name, he would burn the world and scorch the earth. For you, he’d stain his hands so terribly the waters turn red. He holds no desire to clean his hands with anything other than your forgiveness— and so he doesn't dare to speak out of turn, unable to bear the thought of you being upset with him.
"Come here," he hears you say, your voice gentle and cooing. Childe doesn't hesitate, taking your words as a command, crawling towards you like some sort of dog.
Despite how eager he is to be near you, his hands rest dumbly at his sides. His fingers twitch, aching to touch you for just a moment, but he sits still, trying to be good. Without your permission, all he can do is sit, no better than a well-trained hound.
Childe looks up at you with a dumb, dopey smile on his face. He knows he must look like a fool, dazed just by sitting so close to you— he can already feel heat spreading across his freckled cheeks, and he knows it must be obvious— but he can't find it in himself to care.
It’s you.
You're so close he could touch you if he dared. Your warmth is only a few inches away from him, and he inhales, trying to breathe you in. For a brief moment, he allows himself the blessing to imagine what it would be like to touch you.
He imagines running his fingers against your skin. He imagines brushing against your hand. He imagines his palms gliding across the length of your robe, pretending the silk is your flesh. The thoughts strike him dumb, and he lets out a small whine before he can reel himself back in.
It's a breathless noise, but one he's sure you heard.
Your hand reaches forward to cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your palm, leaning into your warmth as if trying to drink you in.
"So cute," you say, and every dark, needy part of him lights up all at once.
Childe makes another sound, a soft whimper drawn from the back of his throat. His russet lashes flutter shut, and any sense of propriety is promptly thrown to the side.
Touch me.
Another sharp shudder runs through him when you rub your thumb over his cheek. He almost falls limp against your hand, his breath locked in his throat, but he manages to steady himself in time.
His hands find your ornate robes within a second, and then he's clutching onto them until his knuckles are white. Childe can feel himself digging little crescents into his palms, but your touch means he's unable to focus on anything else, and the thought of lessening his grip makes him afraid you'll pull away.
Childe bites his lips, trying to stifle another noise. He never wants this to end. You could spit in his face, and he would thank you for it.
Just as he jerks forward, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, overwhelmed by how good your touch feels— you're letting go, and pure, unbridled fear rushes over him.
"N-No!" Childe begs hoarsely, unable to realize that he's acting out of what he's allowed. "No, no, d-don't stop, please! Please, please…" he pleads weakly, fingers digging into your robes again, tighter this time.
Unshed tears wet his eyes. If it means having your attention on him, he would do anything. Nothing is too far beneath him. He’s already done unspeakable things in your name, hoping to garner your favor; if it means having your touch for one second longer, then there’s no low he wouldn’t fall too— no covenant he wouldn’t break, divine or mortal.
As long as it means being by your side at the end of it, any agony would be worth it. No shame is too much for him to bear.
"Oh, puppy," you murmur softly. One of your hands cups his cheek, while the other gently tugs at his hair. "How could I say no to you?"
The fear coalescing around his heart dissipates, and the fingers that were clutching onto you lessen their grip slightly.
"Mhm," Childe hums at too high of a pitch, but he's much too drunk on you to think about anything else, much less whether he's ruining your perception of him. He hides his face in your hand.
Your puppy, he wants to add, but his mind is too frazzled to get the words out.
Your fingers in his hair tighten, and Childe can't help the little bit of drool that falls from his lips.
scaramouche
He shouldn't be ecstatic with just this much.
All you’d done was look at him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and it was enough for him to feel every nerve bursting like stars all over, pin pricks dancing under his skin. It was enough for every ugly, horrible little part of himself to reveal themselves like he'd done nothing to hide them.
The sudden surge of emotion, an incessant and desperate need to please you— to give you no reason to give him away— breaches the surface far too quickly. His every move is then dictated by how it might affect you, whether it'll give him your favor or ire; and an ever increasing chittering spawns in the back of his mind, crying for you to touch him.
All you'd done was look at him.
Scaramouche tries to ignore it at first. He, very pointedly, does his best not to think of how his skin burns when a thought of you touching him enters his mind unbidden, nor how it simultaneously destroys whatever preconceived notions he had of himself.
He knows titles are meaningless in front of you, but that doesn't quite quell the petulance he feels when he crumbles each time you look at him. You don't have to touch him for every wall to burst like they were nothing. You don't even have to be near him. Your eyes meet his for a moment, and it's like everything he is shatters.
It makes him feel disgustingly weak and as insignificant as the day he was born.
Scaramouche is one out of many; one interaction you may have out of hundreds. He knows how many clamber for your affection, and how many more would ruin themselves for it.
You hold his gaze for a meaningless amount of time, and he knows it means nothing to you. His body still reacts like it does. He knows once you've turned, you'll have already found something else to capture your attention. His pulse still churns as if you’d just held his face in your hands.
It's nothing to you. It should mean nothing to him.
He hates the fact it bothers him.
He shouldn't care. It's not the same as you abandoning him. That you look at him at all should mean something. But it doesn't change the way fear bundles inside of him when you look away, nor does it change the disgust that rises at the very fact he feels that way at all.
He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. It does.
It eats away at him like a festering wound. It hurts like nothing before it. He wonders if you’ll grace him with a look, and when you do, that’s the only thing that matters. When you turn away, he wonders how he ever got to this point. When you don’t, it’s like his breath’s been wrung from his lungs, and he wonders again, at what point did he let himself fall so far.
It’s a point of irritability for him, and he ignores it like acknowledging it would be the death of his ego. Knowing that it would only serves to make him suffer more.
Whether you smiled or twitched your brow shouldn't feel the same as being reborn or having life torn from him.
You haven't left him yet. He constantly feels like you're about too.
Scaramouche has to sit and watch when you interact with others. It feels like torture. You smile, and for some reason, it feels like fire washing over him. You laugh, and somehow, he hears it as vividly as he would if he was next to you; only it hurts because he's not the one you're sharing it with.
He could at least pretend he wasn't so pathetic before. He could hold himself up with some pride, even dignity— mask his emotions well enough they couldn't be used against him. Now, sitting in front of you like this, he can't even have that much.
It's piety, worship, love, or something in between or all of them at once. He's weak all over because of it, and it makes him furious at the same time it makes him euphoric.
He wishes he was stronger. Tempered by the abyss, and he still can't resist falling into you.
Your hand runs across the nape of his neck, and he shivers, skin burning where your fingers brush. A soft, shuddery breath escapes him, and his fingers curl where they're latched onto your robes.
If it was anyone else, maybe he would have mauled them for seeing him in such a state. People are perfidious; quick to betray, and even quicker to exploit whatever they've gleaned. Faster still to take away anything that makes him happy.
It's not just anyone, though. It's you. And despite how terribly he fears and how deeply he wishes to bury his emotions, his want of you runs deeper. If it means holding your attention, then you can have anything. If it means feeling your touch, then he'd let you use whatever you wanted against him.
If it meant having the assurance of your presence, then he'd kneel and discard his every title and name. He'd become nothing, if he knew he'd still have you.
“Good boy,” you whisper, and Scaramouche instinctively moves closer, rubbing his knees raw against marble, trying to breathe in your warmth.
He despises how fast he weakens at your beckoning; how he can't even will himself to resist, or fathom the thought of it— malleable to your every whim, and unable to be truly angered by it. He only shifts to be nearer to you, dreaming of your touch, hoping to share some of your eternity.
A whimper rises from his throat, trying to kill his desperation.
"Don't leave me," he says, the words wrenched from his throat. "Don't leave me."
Don’t betray me, he wants to say instead. Don’t abandon me.
It's a disgusting display of weakness. He wishes he could kill his voice so he wouldn't speak at all, but even without a heart, his emotions feel like they might choke him.
The things you do to him are terrible. Pleas for you to only look at him sit and die on his tongue. He reels himself back in before he can make a fool out of himself even further, but he knows you only have to look at him for a little bit longer for any sense of resistance to die alongside his pride.
"I won't," you say softly, holding his cheek against your palm. "I'm here."
Scaramouche leans into your touch, hiding his face against your hand. He manages to keep himself from making an improper sound through sheer will, though he has to clench his jaw and close his eyes.
Even just knowing he has all of your attention makes him feel dazed, and as you rub your thumb over his cheek, he can’t even muster any anger at being reduced to such a state. He hums, somehow leaning even further into your touch.
“I’m here,” you say again, and Scaramouche whimpers into your palm.
zhongli
Zhongli dreams of you every night.
He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not proper of him, nor is it right for him to sully your image with his thoughts. Still, though, the thoughts come unbidden and leave him a wreck in their wake.
What troubles him is what he knows to be the cause of them.
Zhongli has always been eternally grateful. He's sat with the love of you until it permeated every thought. He's lived beside the worship of you until it coated his every word and nerve.
Being able to serve you past fantasies in his imagination brings him purpose, and that should be enough. And for a time, it was.
He could see you and feel fulfilled. He could breathe your air and feel like the thousands of years spent waiting for you had been worth it. Even following you around like some sort of dog was more gratifying than splitting the earth apart. This, he thought, is enough.
This sense of greed, then, shouldn't exist.
Zhongli pretends it's not his own, but the truth is that every thought is painfully his.
He imagines you running your fingers through his hair. He imagines touching your skin. He imagines you whispering praises against the pale column of his throat, and he imagines being yours in such a way that he knew he was special to you. He imagines you breathing his name and it feeling like rebirth. He imagines your touch. He imagines being able to worship you selfishly, entirely, in a way that no one but him could claim the honor of.
In a way, he thinks he deserves it. To be tortured with visions of things he knows he doesn't deserve and thoughts he knows you wouldn't approve of.
Zhongli would think of you often before, when all he had of you were the prayers on his lips and promises of piety. It was difficult to imagine you as something physical, but still, his heart stirred. His most meaningful company was the thought of you beside him.
What he thinks of now is different.
He wouldn't have dared to imagine touching your skin. He wouldn't have let the thought escape the darkest of his subconscious. He wouldn't have dared to let himself the simple fantasy of you speaking his name like he's something precious to you. All he wanted, then, was to share the same plane of existence as you. A selfish want, but it was pure.
What pervades his mind now is some sort of sacrilege. He should know better, but he still sullies you every time he closes his eyes, unable to fight and equally unwilling too.
His greatest arrogance. Even with thousands of mortal lifetimes lived, he still can't rid himself of it— even with his own self-hatred, his thoughts continue to defy him.
Even when he knows he's failing you, he falls deeper.
It's worse when you interact with others. Zhongli hugs your shadow and trails after you always, eager to please but always hiding behind a mask of propriety and decorum. He likes to pretend to have a semblance of control in your presence, though he knows that if you’d only ask, he would rid himself of it entirely and be thankful for it.
You're perfect, which is why you're kind even to those that don't deserve a modicum of your attention. You smile, and each time it's not directed at him, he tries to choke the indignance out of him. It’s selfish of him to expect that he be the only one to receive your affection, despite how his mind whispers it’s because he hasn’t done enough to prove himself to you.
Why else, it supplies, would you waste your breath on those undeserving of it?
He reminds himself of his place. It assuages him for only a moment.
Zhongli dreams of your breath. He dreams of you cracking him open and bearing witness to every depravity and every virtue and still whispering your love to him. He dreams of looking at you and knowing that he means something to you. He dreams and he wants so terribly, and he knows none of it is his to imagine.
He reminds himself of his place, repeating the words over and over in his mind. He whispers them to himself at night in hopes that maybe, it'll finally stick this time.
Be pleased with this much.
He's meant to be. He tells himself that, maybe, if he perseveres well enough, he'll be rewarded.
Maybe you'd let him touch you?
He wouldn't ask for much. Maybe you would be kind enough to let him hold your fingers in his. He wouldn't do so for long. Maybe, if he was good, you'd let him kiss your fingertips with the reverence you deserve.
It’s an impossibility, he knows, but it's his sole comfort. If he withstands just for a while more, you'll be proud instead of disappointed that he's fallen so low.
Then you ask for him to kneel, alone in your chambers, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Zhongli does as you say immediately. He falls to his knees so quickly that his mind doesn't have the chance to catch up. Vaguely, he understands that maybe he should be ashamed with how fast his body responds. He decides he doesn't care. All he knows is that you're looking at him, and that it feels sweet and good, and that he doesn't want you to stop.
His breath is lodged in his throat. His heart sounds like a roar in his ears. Nothing exists but you and your words. All you have to do is whisper a word that could vaguely be understood as a command and he would be at your feet, ready to be used.
He wants you to touch him.
You smile, and his nerves feel alight with fervor. Zhongli’s hands stay clenched on his knees, trembling with the strength needed to resist touching you.
You haven't given him permission, so he keeps himself still.
You cradle his face in your hands. He can feel the warmth of your palms caressing his cheeks, and he wonders— how can there be anyone who doesn't worship you?
“Good boy,” you say, and Zhongli inhales sharply.
For you, he wants to say. Only for you.
He doesn't, afraid to speak; afraid that to murmur even the softest of praises would cause you to pull away.
Does he tell you, he wonders, that he wants you to play with his hair? Does he tell you he wants you to love him completely, innocently, selfishly? Does he tell you he wants you to touch his skin, anywhere if it means having that small piece of contact?
“Where do you want me to touch you?” you ask, and he can hear the small tint of mirth in your voice.
The question strikes him dumb. His body burns and his blood is singing. Zhongli doesn't care if you find him amusing. No, he delights in it. It doesn't matter as long as he means something at all to you.
His fingers twitch, and just barely does he manage to keep his hands to himself.
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.
synopsis: oikawa tōru has everything—brains, looks, skills—but none of it compares to how hopelessly, obsessively, ridiculously in love he is with you. tōru oikawa #1 yearner !! (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
yearner!oikawa tōru x f!reader (not proofread, posted this at 4am)
here's part two ‹𝟹
category: fluff, fluff, fluff <3
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you don’t notice at first how often his eyes are on you. it’s subtle in the beginning—oikawa slouching lazily in his seat, spinning a pen between his fingers, pretending to half-listen to the teacher while his gaze always, always drifts to where you sit. you’re quiet, never raising your hand, always scribbling neat notes with a calm patience that he envies. to everyone else, you’re background noise. to him, you’re the loudest presence in the room.
oikawa’s life is a constant balancing act. practice, late-night serves until his shoulder screams, grades that must stay perfect because he refuses to be “just” an athlete. he laughs and smiles for the world, but behind closed doors, his apartment desk is stacked with practice tests and pain-relief patches. it’s exhausting—except for the stolen moments he catches of you. sometimes, when he picks up his phone late at night; staring at his screen, it’s not a teammate or fangirl. it’s a photo he secretly snapped of you earlier, tucked into his gallery like a talisman against loneliness.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
your life, on the other hand, is… quiet. you study, you help your family with small chores, you go home after school without lingering. no clubs, no sports, no loud group of friends. and yet somehow, that simplicity makes you magnetic. the few times oikawa hears your laugh, it haunts him for days.
it’s on one of those long afternoons in third year, sun slanting into the classroom while everyone else files out for lunch, that his mind drifts back—inevitably—to the moment it started for him.
you were standing near the gym hallway in your first year, distracted, a book hugged to your chest. the volleyball came fast, a blur of white and green hurtling toward you. you hadn’t even seen it—oikawa did. without thinking, he’d sprinted across the floor, hand smacking the ball away just before it hit you.
the adrenaline crashed into his veins like fire. you blinked up at him, startled, and then—softly, genuinely—you said, “thank you.” just two words. but your voice cracked through him like lightning.
his brain fried instantly. “ah—n-no problem—” he stammered, cheeks flaming, words tripping over themselves. his vision swam. you smiled at him, sweet and unguarded, and the world tilted. the next second, he collapsed, ears ringing, face redder than the sunset.
“idiot,” iwaizumi muttered, hauling him back to his feet. “she just thanked you, not proposed marriage.”
but to oikawa, it may as well have been the same thing. that single “thank you” carved itself into his chest, and he’s never escaped it.
the memory dissolves, replaced again with the present—your head bent over your notebook, sunlight catching on your hair. he wonders if you even remember that day. to him, it was revelation. to you, maybe just a passing moment. believe me when i say this, it wasn't.
he can’t let that be all. not anymore.
so he starts pushing. smiling wider, leaning over your desk to comment on your neat handwriting, brushing “accidentally” against your shoulder when you’re walking side by side. he clings. he lingers. he jokes, he flatters, he fills the quiet you keep around yourself with noise until you look at him—really look at him—and his lungs feel like they’ve learned how to breathe again.
and the more you look, the more something stirs in you, too. you’d noticed, vaguely, in second year, how dramatic oikawa could be. how he flustered so easily when you’d spoken to him. you brushed it off as him just being… oikawa. but now, in third year, the persistence wears at you. the way he never lets your attention slip far from him. the way he seems to soften whenever you’re near.
you start to like it even more. reluctantly, at first. then now more freely then you've ever thought.
but oikawa doesn’t know that. all he knows is that time is running out—graduation looms. and the thought of you slipping through his fingers, walking out of his life forever, is unbearable.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
one evening after practice, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, hands trembling from nerves, he pulls drags you to the school rooftop. the door clicks shut behind you.
“listen,” he says, but his voice cracks. his usual smooth, charming tone is gone—shattered by urgency. “i can’t—I can’t keep pretending, okay? i’ve liked you since first year. no, not liked—” he laughs, choked and breathless— “loved, who cares about those stupid relationship rules you see these days; as long as you like me, i'll love you and i'll teach you how to love me. every day, every single day, you’re all i think about. you don’t even notice half the time, and i—i’m going insane wanting you to. i need you to.”
his knees hit the floor. he doesn’t even register it at first—only that he has to be lower, closer, desperate enough to match the way his heart claws out of his chest.
“please,” he begs, clutching at the fabric of your sleeve like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. “i don’t care if it’s pathetic. i don’t care if you laugh at me. just—don’t ignore me. don’t leave me. i’ll do anything—be anything—if it means i get to stay by your side. i need you. i need you like air, like blood in my veins. i’m begging you—don’t tell me no.”
his forehead presses to your hand. his shoulders shake. small, embarrassed tears sting his lashes, but he doesn’t stop talking, words spilling out faster, more desperate.
“say something. tell me you feel the same. tell me i’m not insane for loving you this much. if you don’t, i swear, i—i won’t survive it. i’m so tired of dreaming about you and waking up alone. please… please just give me a chance.”
and there it is—the most fragile, human version of oikawa you’ve ever seen. stripped of bravado, trembling with the weight of his own heart.
you kneel down, hands cupping his face, and smile through your own tears. “you don’t have to beg, tōru. i’ve liked you for a while too. i was just… waiting, i was going to confess at graduation if you weren't making a move.”
he goes silent. utterly, impossibly silent. then he exhales a laugh that turns into a sob, collapses into your arms, and clings like he’ll never let go.
oh man, he cups your face so gently—like you'll shatter with one wrong move—as he softly puts his lips on yours; his face looks like it's been vandalized by red paint and so does yours. both you have melted into the kiss, his hands going down from your shoulder and stopping at your waist, holding you like a prized possession—maybe even more than that—like you might disappear if he ever takes his hands off of you; your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders.
for once, he doesn’t care who wins, who loses, who’s better, who’s watching. all he cares about is that you said yes—and he’s never letting that go. you don't have a choice anyway.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next morning, you wake up to the faint vibration of your phone. you squint at the brightness, still groggy, and see your notifications flooded.
oikawa tōru has texted you… thirty-seven times.
most of them are variations of:
“good morning, my pretty girl 🩵”
“did you sleep well? were you warm? were you thinking about me? did you dream about me?”
“i only dreamed about you. like literally. only you. in 4k.”
“please send me a picture of your hand holding your toothbrush. i miss you.”
you stare at your phone, speechless, and then laugh so hard you almost drop it on your face.
y/n my wife: “you’re insane.”
tōru<3: “i’m insane for you, sweetheart.”
y/n my wife: “you don’t need to text me about every thought that pops into your head.”
tōru<3: “then what’s the point of having thoughts?”
you sigh, still smiling.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the time you get to school, you find him waiting at the gate. not just waiting—leaning dramatically against the pillar, hair perfectly styled, his bag slung over one shoulder like he’s shooting for a romance manga cover. girls passing by are whispering and giggling, but he doesn’t care; instead, he's wearing a frown like he's some kind of delinquent a handsome one at that with a face saying ‘i have a wife.’ the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up.
“there she is,” he breathes, like he’s been holding his lungs hostage until you showed up. he runs up to you, picking you up and twirling you like a disney princess. “atta girl, you're so gorgeous this early.”
“tōru, you didn’t have to wait for me.” you try to keep your voice even as he carefully puts you down, but your cheeks betray you.
“yes i did,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “do you know how unbearable it is to walk to class without you beside me? it feels like—like someone’s stolen half of me. do you want me to die of loneliness this early in the morning?”
“you’re being dramatic.”
“i’m being truthful,” he insists, grabbing your hand without hesitation but not before snatching your bag. his fingers lace between yours like he’s been rehearsing it his whole life.
‘she's so pretty, prettier than every pretty thing in the universe combined.’
in class, he sits next to you, shoulders brushing; he's as red as a tomato, writing your name or tōru loves y/n in the margins of his notebook when the teacher isn’t looking. he even doodles little hearts around it, and when you notice, he grins like a cat caught stealing cream.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
at lunch, iwaizumi practically drags him off you so you can breathe. “crappykawa, you’re smothering her.”
“she likes it!” oikawa argues, turning his head so fast to look at you. “you like it, right?”
your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. oikawa is staring at you like the universe is balanced precariously on your next word.
“…i don’t hate it,” you admit, cheeks hot.
he slams his hands on the table in triumph. “SEE?!”
iwaizumi groans, muttering something about how you’ve just doomed humanity, but oikawa doesn’t care. he’s glowing.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
after classes, he insists on walking you home. every five steps, he finds a new excuse to touch you—fixing your hair, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeve, squeezing your hand tighter whenever someone walks too close. at one point, he even says, “i hope you know you’re never getting rid of me. ever. i’m like gum on your shoe. or… no, something more romantic. like a tattoo. yes. i’m your tattoo.”
you laugh so hard you almost trip, but he catches you, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s second nature. his voice drops low, almost trembling: “don’t laugh too much, or i’ll combust. i swear, you’re too much for me.”
and in that moment, you realize—this isn’t just a boy with a crush. this is oikawa tōru, star setter, smart, dramatic, yours. and he’s not holding back anymore.
soo likee, I saw a reel on ig that is like a scaramouche voice saying "You're a God, do you think I'm evil?"
AND LIKE I IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT OF YOUR ACC CUZ IT JUST FITS SO WELL WITH YOUR genshin x creator!reader STORIES😭
The reel: https://www.instagram.com/reel/C1hH_8ON8sY/?igsh=eTM0NnV5bnh5dWE0
(This isn't a req since ur reqs are currently closed I just wanted to say this :p but like, you can also do this if you want, not pressuring tho since ur prob busy^^)
A/N: the fact that you thought of me 🥹🤧
Scaramouche's thoughts spiral, the silence stretching longer. The longer your stare, the more he grows certain of what you must conclude.
With each passing second, his existence feels less worth preserving, and yet... He has come this far, and he can't help but ask the final question: "... Am I... evil?"
"No." His eyes widen, his breath catches in his throat.
No?
The word resonates within him, sending tremors of hope up his spine and through his heart. No. Scaramouche tries to take in the meaning of the word, its significance. You've never answered him like this before. "... You don't find me evil?" he finally asks, his voice cracking slightly with uncertainty.
"You're broken, you have lost all hope and believe in humanity. But your past mistakes don't make you evil, if anything they're a cry for help." Your words are an anchor that steadies him. You acknowledge his pain, his struggles... you understand him. It's an unquantifiable relief to know that you don't reject him as a hopeless cause. The floodgates inside him begin to open up, and a tide of emotions spill out. He looks up at you again, his expression vulnerable, raw.
"What do you see... now... when you look at me?," Scaramouche's voice wavers slightly. It's hard to look you in the eyes, but he won't let his gaze stray. The answer is too important. "I see a broken boy who needs help...someone." "Someone... like you?," Scaramouche's voice is as tender and fragile as a baby's, but his words carry a meaning as heavy as a boulder.
𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲. 𝗁urt, comfort, nightmares, mentions of blood and violence
MASTERLIST
Currently thinking about Dabi having a nightmare when he stays over at your apartment for a few days. And it’s nothing new. He can’t remember the last time he had a peaceful slumber, doesn’t believe that he ever experienced a dream that didn’t show him cruel pictures of blood and branded the smell of burned flesh into his mind and by now, he’s used to it. It’s impossible to change what his thoughts evoke once his eyes drift shut and at this point, he’s unfazed, no matter what horror movie begins to play in the depths of his head.
you think dabi ever gets sad he doesn’t have a close friend? like, he doesn’t show it at all and acts like he doesn’t want/need anyone but maybe deep down he feels a debilitating loneliness.
do you think that when he people watches, he sees all those people smiling and laughing with their friends, he sees how close some people are with others and he just... wants that? he wants someone to talk to. someone who checks up on him, knows everything he likes/dislikes, sends him things that remind them of him and invites him to do things. he just yearns for a connection, he just wants to be cared for.
you think he just thinks about how lonely he’s been his entire life? the only person he’d been close to was his younger brother, one who was too young to fully understand him at the time. how he never had close friends at school. definitely never close to his parents. his entire life it was just..him
dabi doesn’t want to get close to anyone because he’s terrified they’ll deem him “unworthy” or “not enough” and abandon him. push him aside just like he was his entire childhood.
he pushes people away even though he might like them. it’s not even a conscious decision anymore.
he’s rather sensitive to feeling ignored or pushed aside for someone else. you mention hanging out someone else? doing something with someone that you never do with him? he’d feel like you care more about them. that you favor them over him because he’s not good enough, and now he’s distancing himself from you
he can’t take compliments. honestly he can’t handle you being nice to him at all because, in his mind, you’re doing it out of pity. you don’t really mean it. you’re a liar and it pisses him off, even though he so desperately he wants to be cared for.
even if you manage to get close to him, he’s convinced himself you’ll leave him eventually. the second he starts being himself, the second he disappoints you, the second he’s no longer useful to you, you’ll disappear.
it doesn’t matter how many times you reassure him, those feelings never truly go away.
he’s convinced himself he’s so useless and worthless that he can’t possibly imagine why anyone would want to be around him.
thinkin of dabi n his lovelanguage being touch hes just ,, hangin around, as if u could b ripped away from him or ud leave him or sumn,, theres always this lingering sense of desperation
as if you could be ripped away from him. anon. you are so correct. i think that — as dabi, in the league, doing what he's doing — if he finds love or romance of some kind, i think he's just waiting for it to end, and to end terribly. there's no amicable way that the two of you could separate; either he's breaking your heart and leaving you for good or dying or vice-versa and that's it. and so i think he would definitely have a lot of walls up around his feelings to try and soften that inevitable blow, but i think once he's passed that touch barrier oooooh my god. he's a touchy little bastard.
probably holds onto you in his sleep, even if it's just a hand on your back or something, flush against each other. i think he's attached at your freaking hip, crowding you in the kitchen if you're making food or putting your feet in his lap on the couch. likes taking showers together, just to be together, not even necessarily for sexual reasons. i think. he even wears your clothes, too, small or loose as they might be on him. goes out for a few days and is sporting some t-shirt with a local band logo that has everyone like ??? where did you get that why are you wearing it LOL
even if he knows this is going to end badly and that it's going to happen eventually, i think he's selfish enough to indulge as much as he can, bc he never knows when the last time he holds your hand is gonna be 🥺
as a kid, he'd eat whatever was prepared for him according to the strict diet that had been contrived in an attempt to help him gain weight and build muscle--his quirk seemed determined to keep him small and scrawny, burning whatever mass he managed to put on away faster than he could build it up.
as he got older and food became scarce--the times between "meals" (if you could even call them that) stretching longer and longer--he didn't have the luxury of being picky.
the first time you cook touya dinner he doesn't know what to say, stunned into an uncharacteristic silence. for all the unspeakable things he's experienced in his life, this simple act of kindness is the one that confounds him.
"I hope you like it," you say as you place the plate of food--simple, wholly unremarkable food--in front of him. your tone is almost sheepish, nervous even, like you're not feeding a warm meal to the young man that's been living off of scraps and whatever he can steal from the convenience store for the better part of his adult life.
it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
he eats until he feels sick. eats until he knows a single bite more could well and truly end him. eats until he feels the staples on his abdomen pulling a little tighter than they should.
he revels in the discomfort.
after dinner when the two of you are laying on your couch, you stroke your hand gently over his tummy.
"you shouldn't have eaten so much," you laugh a little when touya groans, nestling his unnaturally warm cheek against your thigh as he rests with his head in your lap, "you gonna be okay?"
he grunts, too full to do much else--a tightness in both his stomach and his chest that he's never before had the indulgence of experiencing.
"does this mean you liked it, at least?" you ask him as you rub a pattern into the flat plane of his stomach. he tries to map the shape through touch alone, but keeps getting distracted by how nice it feels.
"yeah," he murmurs softly, making out the shape of a heart you draw around his navel. "it's my favourite."
