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 doesnāt ascend on the spot when he breathes the same air as his god because I genuinely think heās THAT needy
also your writing really brought me a lot of comfort!! Thank you for running the blog and doing what you došš
word count. 3.8k
ąØą§ ā ź° cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.
ąØą§ ā ź° 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 rightā 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 canāt 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, embarrassedā 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 didnāt 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. Itās with a clearly restrained gait that he reaches you, just barely, his knees still wobbly and the floor a shifting kaleidoscope of colors.
It doesnāt bother him. Childe feels weightless, alight with fervor, and itās 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 doesnāt say anything else. Youāre the only one he truly respects, the only one heās ever felt so fervently forā in your name, he would burn the world and scorch the earth. For you, heād stain his hands so terribly the waters turn red. He holds no desire to clean his hands with anything other than your forgivenessā 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 youā he can already feel heat spreading across his freckled cheeks, and he knows it must be obviousā but he can't find it in himself to care.
Itās 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 feelsā 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, pleaseā¦" 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. Heās already done unspeakable things in your name, hoping to garner your favor; if it means having your touch for one second longer, then thereās no low he wouldnāt fall tooā no covenant he wouldnāt break, divine or mortal.Ā
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.Ā
"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 youād 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 youā to give you no reason to give him awayā 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 youād 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 shouldnāt care. It shouldnāt 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 youāll grace him with a look, and when you do, thatās the only thing that matters. When you turn away, he wonders how he ever got to this point. When you donāt, itās like his breathās been wrung from his lungs, and he wonders again, at what point did he let himself fall so far.Ā
Itās 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.Ā
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 dignityā 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.
āGood boy,ā 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 itā 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."
Donāt betray me, he wants to say instead. Donāt 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.Ā
"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.Ā
Even just knowing he has all of your attention makes him feel dazed, and as you rub your thumb over his cheek, he canāt even muster any anger at being reduced to such a state. He hums, somehow leaning even further into your touch.Ā
āIām here,ā you say again, and Scaramouche whimpers into your palm.
zhongli
Zhongli dreams of you every night.
He knows he shouldnāt. Itās 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.Ā
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.Ā
Being able to serve you past fantasies in his imagination brings him purpose, and that should be enough. And for a time, it was.Ā
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.Ā
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.Ā
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.Ā
His greatest arrogance. Even with thousands of mortal lifetimes lived, he still can't rid himself of itā even with his own self-hatred, his thoughts continue to defy him.Ā
Even when he knows he's failing you, he falls deeper.Ā
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 youād 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. Itās selfish of him to expect that he be the only one to receive your affection, despite how his mind whispers itās because he hasnāt done enough to prove himself to you.Ā
Why else, it supplies, would you waste your breath on those undeserving of it?Ā
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.Ā
Be pleased with this much.
He's meant to be. He tells himself that, maybe, if he perseveres well enough, he'll be rewarded.Ā
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.Ā
Itās 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.Ā
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.Ā
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.Ā
He wants you to touch him.Ā
You smile, and his nerves feel alight with fervor. Zhongliās hands stay clenched on his knees, trembling with the strength needed to resist touching you.Ā
You haven't given him permission, so he keeps himself still.Ā
You cradle his face in your hands. He can feel the warmth of your palms caressing his cheeks, and he wondersā how can there be anyone who doesn't worship you?Ā
āGood boy,ā you say, and Zhongli inhales sharply.Ā
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.Ā
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?Ā
āWhere do you want me to touch you?ā 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.Ā
youāre partnered with the most popular boy at school, oikawa tooruāwho you thought never noticed youābut he turns into a flustered mess every time youāre 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 (ā„ļ¹ā„) 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 yearācharismatic, 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. Youād never spoken to himānot directly, not personallyābut youād caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.
You were convinced that he didnāt know you existed.
But he did.
He noticed youāhad 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 confusedāhe 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.
Hanamaki didnāt even look up from his phone. āWhat? Spacing out and pretending heās not heart-eyes over mystery girl?ā
āSheās not a mystery,ā Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. āI know her name.ā
Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. āCongratulations. Next, youāll be telling us you know her blood type.ā
āI donāt, obviously,ā Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. ā...Itās probably B.ā
Hanamaki snorted. āYou looked that up, didnāt you.ā
Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. āI did not! Why would Iāokay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.ā
āResearch,ā Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. āOn her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?ā
Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. āYou guys are the worst.ā
āYouāre worse,ā Iwaizumi said dryly. āYou're literally a disaster every time sheās within a ten-foot radius.ā
āSheās so pretty,ā Oikawa mumbled into his arms.
āAnd you get so stupid,ā Hanamaki added.
āYou almost walked into a door last week,ā Matsukawa said. āWe saw it. The entire hallway saw it.ā
āI was distracted!ā
āBy her existing,ā Iwaizumi said flatly. āJust talk to her, dumbass.ā
āI canāt just talk to her,ā Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. āSheāsāsheās quiet. What if I scare her?ā
āYou scare everyone,ā Hanamaki said. āThat hasnāt stopped you before.ā
āBut sheās not everyone,ā Oikawa said softly.
They didnāt say anything to thatānot because they didnāt 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. āYouāve got it bad, man.ā
āLike, āwrite her name in your notebook and practice your married signatureā bad,ā 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 charmingāand you were convinced youād 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 stutteredālike 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 calledāand immediately after, his.
Oikawa Tooru.
Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didnāt 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 wasnāt about Oikawa specificallyāit was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.
But before you could move, you heard his voiceābright, eager, and just a little too loud.
āCool!ā
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 didnāt 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 sprawlingāface-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possibleāonto the floor right in front of you.
The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.
āOh my godāTooru! Are you okay?ā
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 hurtābut 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.
āIāuh. Yep! Totally fine. That wasā¦just gravity testing me.ā
āGravity's a bitch,ā 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. āHeās malfunctioning again.ā
āDudeās gone,ā Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. āAbsolutely fried.ā
Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. āDid you hear her? She said his name. Thatās it. Weāve lost him.ā
āIām not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,ā Iwaizumi added.
Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.
But he didnāt 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 happenedānot 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 didnāt 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 headābecause you had said his name.
Again.
āTooru.ā
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 couldnāt tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiralingāand you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you mightāve made things.
Still, you did the only thing you could think ofāyou extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. āUhmāIāll help you up, Tooru.ā
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 handāand said his nameāagain. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.
āYeahāyeah, sure,ā 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 couldnāt stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warmātoo warmāand 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 theyād 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.
āWho needs a cinema when Iām watching this?ā 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 knewāthis was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.
āUhmā¦ when do you want to start?ā you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside youātoo close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.
You didnāt 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 elseāthe 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 nervousābut soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.
āLater?ā he offered, trying to sound casual.
You gave a small smileābarely there, but realāand shook your head gently. āI have another class though,ā 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 wouldāve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing heād heard all dayāmaybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said itāhe wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.
āOhāuh, rightāof course,ā he stammered, already fumbling his words. āThat totally makes sense, IāI mean, obviously youād have class, because, uh, weāre in schoolāyeah.ā
You couldnāt 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 shouldnāt be.
From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like heād 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, easierālike the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.
Oikawaās head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. āYes. YesāSaturday? That works. Saturdayās great.ā
You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. āSaturday, then.ā
The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfortābut in uncertainty. You werenāt 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, āBy the wayā¦ should I give you my number? To contact me?ā
Oikawa stared.
If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft againāso soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselvesāgive you my numberāsent him into another emotional tailspin.
āYes!ā he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. āI meanāyeah. Thatād be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.ā
You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock itātwiceābefore 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 nameāout of habit, not flirtationābut when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.
You didnāt 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 carefullyānervouslyāas 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 couldnāt believe it. Your nameāyour nameāwas now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.
And then his phone buzzed.
[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( Ā“ ā½ ` )ļ¾
His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didnāt know how else to react.
āThatās new,ā Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawaās shoulder. āSo you finally won the lottery.ā
āI shouldāve placed bets,ā Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. āAll it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.ā
Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.
āEven though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,ā he muttered.
Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weightāhis 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 couldnāt quite believe it existed.
Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe heād 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 didnāt 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 themāhim, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamakiāsomething 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.
āIwa, Iwaaaāhowās this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,ā he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumiās 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.
āItās seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.ā
Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.
āThat was rude, Iwa!ā Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.
Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. āMattsun?ā he said, knocking rhythmically. āDonāt ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.ā
A muffled groan. Then: āToo early for fashion shows, Tooru.ā
Finally, he knocked on the last door. āMakkiiii~ Youāll tell me I look hot, right?ā
The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. āYouāre obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.ā
Oikawa beamed. āThatās the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!ā
Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last timeāadjusting 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 (Ā“ļ½”ā¢ įµ ā¢ļ½”`)
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.
āShe texted,ā he whispered to no one. āShe texted first. Oh my godāsheās so cuteāwhat does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe thisāwait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.ā
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 (ą¹Ā“Ś”`ą¹)
Oikawa screamed.
Like, actually screamed.
He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.
āShe cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomojiāwhat does that even mean?!ā He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. āSheās gonna be the death of me.ā
There was a sharp knock on his wallāprobably from Iwaizumiās room. āSHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.ā
Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, āIāM HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.ā
Then, quieter, to himself, āI canāt eat nowā¦ how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?ā
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, āDonāt mess this up, Tooru.ā
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'māI'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 feverā"
"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?! Heās gonna think Iām weird."
Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."
āI shouldāve deleted it. I shouldāve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.ā
"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.
āIām never texting anyone again.ā
Your phone buzzed.
You shrieked.
[tooru]: see you later also ā”
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 didnāt even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.
āYou good?ā 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.
āHe sent a heart,ā you croaked out. āTooru. Oikawa. Heāhe sent a heart.ā
Your roommate paused for a momentā¦ and then snorted.
āOh my god,ā she said with a grin. āYouāre totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.ā
āI am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! Thatās likeābarely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!ā
āMaybeā¦ā she drawled, her grin widening, āhe likes you too?ā
Your brain short-circuited.
Your entire body glitched.
Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.
āD-Donāt say that!ā 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. āYouāre so adorable when youāre flustered. This is the most Iāve seen you lose it over a guy.ā
You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. āBecause heās not just a guy! Heās Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like thatās a normal thing to do!ā
āWell,ā she teased, āgood luck being normal when you see him later.ā
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 downābut 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 werenāt. You were justā¦ nervous.
You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. Youād already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didnāt.)
He waved at you like heād been waiting for this all week.
Your eyes met hisāand 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 staringā
He was done for.
He moved toward your table too fast, too giddyāand 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. āOh my godāare you okay?ā
āIām fine, Iām fine,ā he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. āThat table clearly came out of nowhere.ā
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.
āYou really okay?ā
āIāve had worse injuries in volleyball,ā he replied with a wink. āBut Iāll probably need emotional support now.ā
You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. āYouāre ridiculous.ā
He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. āBut youāre smiling now, soā¦ mission accomplished.ā
You looked away again, biting back a smile.
And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:
Iām so, so screwed.
Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadnāt really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, āDo you want something? Iāll order.ā
He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that youād have another iced mochaāthen added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.
At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadnāt noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gazeālike 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 didnāt just like the dessertāyou 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 didnāt know when.
You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. āWaitāhow much was mine?ā
āItās fine,ā he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.
You paused. āAre you sure?ā
He looked upāand 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. āYeah. Seriously. Itās just cake.ā
Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. āSo... how do you want to start our project?ā
It brought him back to reality. Rightāyour GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scriptsāanything 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 youāfork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his responseāit didnāt feel so straightforward at all.
āSince we have two weeks to prepare, letās just research first. Then Iāll do the PowerPointāis that okay with you?ā he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.
āOf course, but Iāll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?ā 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 heād been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignoreāso 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 couldnāt explain.
Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.
And donāt 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 youāve had all week. The way you lookedācontent, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happilyāit 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 Iwaizumiās voice echoing in the back of his headāāYouāre so whipped, itās pathetic.ā
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 patternāone Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where heād āaccidentallyā 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, āHey, arenāt we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?ā And youād 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 ātoo muchā or ātoo plain.ā You were a nervous wreck most of the timeāespecially the first time he invited you over. To a boyās 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.
āHey, sheās cute,ā Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.
āOur Oikawa has taste, huh?ā Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.
āSheās here to study,ā Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. āSorry. Theyāre idiots. Please ignore them.ā
You bowed in embarrassment. āI-Itās okayā¦ I didnāt expect anyone else to be hereā¦ā
Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. āTheyāre always here,ā he whispered to you. āBut youāre the only guest I like.ā
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 personalityālike it was something only he got to see up close. Youād 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 notā!" 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.
āIām sorry again,ā Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. āIf you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend theyāre NPCs.ā
You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. āItās okay. Theyāre kinda funnyā¦ā
Oikawa caught thatāthe 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 didnāt have toāit 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, āIs this dress too much for study night?ā
He might be whipped. But at this point? He didnāt even want a way out.
Once your literature project endedāand you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didnāt questionāyour little study datesā¦ still continued.
It was almost laughableāhow 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 himāhead bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yoursāyou 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 outsideāmostlyābut 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 Iwaizumiās.
āSheās so cute Iām gonna combust,ā he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.
āYouāve said that four times this week,ā Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.
āYouāre ruining yourself, actually,ā Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. āMan up and ask her out already.ā
āI second that,ā Matsukawa added. āUnless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.ā
āI do not make heart eyesā!ā 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.
āY-Yeah! Itās on the table!ā he stammered. āWaitāIāll get it for you!ā
āDead man walking,ā Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.
āCertified whipped,ā Matsukawa coughed.
āDo I ever get a break from you guys?ā Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.
No. No, he did not. But he didnāt 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 hopeāselfishly, stupidlyāthat there was a label between you two.
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 wasnāt really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windowsāuntil it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.
One bow caught his eye.
It was delicateāoff-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing heād 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.
āOh my god, youāre buying that for her, arenāt you?ā Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. āMakki, shut upāā Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.
āAw, come on, itās adorable,ā Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. āCan you imagine her face? Sheād die.ā
āIām notābuying anything,ā Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. āIt just... looks nice, thatās all.ā
āRight, right,ā Hanamaki smirked. āAnd I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, youāre down so bad itās almost romantic.ā
āSheās not evenāā Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. āWeāre not even together.ā
āYeah, and whose fault is that?ā Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. āBuy the bow, dumbass. Youāve been staring at it for a full minute.ā
Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. āYou guys donāt get it. Sheās... sheās different. And I donāt want to mess this up by pushing too hard.ā
Hanamaki tilted his head. āSo youād rather suffer in silence than tell the girl youāre in love with her?ā
āI never said love,ā Oikawa said, immediately.
Matsukawa raised a brow. āYou just did.ā
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 youād smile. If youād let him put it on you himself. If youād finally look at him and say you liked him too.
Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. āJust buy it already, Tooru.ā
And maybe, if he didāmaybe heād finally find out if youād let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe youād 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.
āOh my god, heās doing it!ā Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. āLook at our boyāfinally growing up.ā
āShould we clap? I feel like we should clap,ā Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.
Oikawa didnāt 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.
āIs thisā¦ a gift?ā she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.
āItās not a confession,ā Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. āItās just... something I thought might suit a friend.ā
Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. āFriend?ā
āLiar,ā 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 Hanamakiās collar. āIām sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.ā
The cashier snorted but waved it off. āItās cute. Annoying, but cute.ā
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 didnāt even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.
āDonāt screw it up,ā he said.
And for once, Oikawa didnāt 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 ināfor 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 wouldnāt 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]: thereās 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.
āUh-oh,ā your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. āItās happening again, isnāt it.ā
You didnāt move.
She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. āWhat did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?ā
You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. āHe asked if I was free.ā
She narrowed her eyes. āAnd?ā
āHe said thereās this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.ā
Silence.
ThenāāOh, youāre doomed.ā
You clutched your pillow tighter. āWhat if heās just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.ā
She gave you a look. āCompany? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?ā
You flushed. āItās not like he called it a date. What if itās just... casual? Not even that deep.ā
āAnd yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.ā
You groaned. āWe donāt even hang out like this. Itās always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I donāt know what this is.ā
Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. āHe said strawberry cheesecake, right?ā
āYeah.ā
āThe one you like.ā
āYeah.ā
āAnd youāve never actually told him you liked it?ā
You shifted uncomfortably. āThere was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kindaāmightāveāgone through his snack stash like a criminal.ā
Her grin was practically predatory now. āAnd he let you?ā
You covered your face with your hands. āHe said I looked cute when I was chewing.ā
She gasped and hit you with a pillow. āYou left that out on purpose.ā
āI forgot!ā
āNo, you repressed it,ā she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. āYouāve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.ā
āIām not in love with him.ā
She arched a brow. āYou sure?ā
You didnāt answer.
She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. āItās a date. Youāre getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. Youāre not imagining it.ā
You peeked at your phone again.
[tooru]: iāll wait for you at the station at 3. donāt be lateāi want to see if youāll 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. āYeah. Youāre toast.ā
Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the messageāhis 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 unsympatheticāthough the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.
āBe honest,ā Makki said through his cackling, ādid you actually just say āsee you laterā like youāre in a high school drama?ā
āI told you not to look at my phone,ā 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.
āI mean, I didnāt try to look,ā Makki grinned, leaning back, ābut you were holding it up like it was a love confession.ā
āYou shouldāve added a heart,ā Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. āShe replied, right? Whatād she say?ā
āYeah, come on, Tooru,ā Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, ādonāt leave us hanging.ā
Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldnāt hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simpleārushed, evenābut 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 youāan 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 wouldnāt be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.
After a few hours had passed since they finished lunchāhis stomach full but his thoughts restlessāOikawa 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 heād 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 byāuntil 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 dressesāyour signature style, heād come to realizeābut todayās 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 mallāon impulse, heād claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through himāwould 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 eyesāpure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.
āHi, Tooru,ā you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.
And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.
Oikawa blinked onceātwiceābecause somehow, seeing you through the glass hadnāt 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.
āYouā¦ wow,ā he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. āYou lookāreally, really cute. Likeā¦ ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you donāt always, justātodayāespeciallyāā He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. āThis dress suits you so much, itās almost unfair.ā
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, āThank you, Tooruā¦ā
You still wouldnāt lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and thereābecause 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.
āD-Do you, umāwhat do you want? I-I mean, to order,ā 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.
āStrawberry cheesecake,ā you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, āand probablyā¦ some tarts too.ā
Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. āRightācheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.ā
Then, under his breathābarely audibleāyou caught him mutter, āof course youād pick something sweet.ā
You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didnāt realize youād been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lipsāsmall, 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 couldnāt help but wonder if this reallyātrulyāwas a date.
Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cakeāyours 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.
āUhmāI ordered the mini tart platter instead,ā he said, stammering slightly, āso we can, like, try different flavorsā¦ together.ā
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 youāand nearly melted.
Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like youād just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldnāt decide what was sweeter.
He didnāt 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 wasnāt sure which one was more captivating.
You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, āOkay,ā 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 gazeāso damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.
āBy the way,ā 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 wasnāt sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. āI bought this andā¦ it immediately reminded me of you.ā
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 sightāit 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 youāquietly, earnestly, like heād been holding something in for a long time.
āTooruā¦?ā
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.
āI didnāt just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,ā he admitted. āIā¦ Iāve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.ā
He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. āI like you. I think Iāve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it justāmade me think of you. How cute youād look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.ā
Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.
āIā¦ I wasnāt sure how youād feel,ā he continued, quieter now. āBut I figured, if there was even a chanceā¦ then I wanted to try.ā
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, āIām really glad you did.ā
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 frozeāeyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didnāt want to ruin the moment.
You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuineātinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.
āI like you too, Tooru,ā you said quietly, just above a whisper. āI think Iāve liked you for a while nowā¦ I just never thought youād notice me like that.ā
His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.
āAndā¦ Iām happy,ā you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. āThat it reminded you of me. Itās really pretty. It feels likeā¦ you see me. Really see me.ā
You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, āAnd you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecakeā¦ you always remember the little things.ā
Oikawa was speechless for a momentāhis fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.
āYouāre kind,ā you whispered, āand I always thoughtā¦ maybe someone like you wouldnāt look at someone like me like this. But Iām really glad I was wrong.ā
And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cryāfrom relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person heād 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 flavorsāones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.
You couldnāt 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 heād 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 usualāhe thought you were the most adorable thing heād ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didnāt think his heart could take it.
When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.
āThank you again, Tooru,ā you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. āForā¦ everything.ā
Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lipsāsoft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.
You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.
But then Oikawaās hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed youādeeper this time.
His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if heād been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didnāt 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.
āā¦Iāve wanted to do that for a long time,ā he murmured.
You giggled, breathless, and whispered, āMe too.ā
After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball playerāOikawa Tooruāwho, 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 thingātying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phoneāand heād 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.
āLook at Lover Boy over there,ā Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. āHeās been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?ā
āBet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,ā Matsukawa added with a snort.
āI wouldn't put it past him,ā Iwaizumi deadpanned. āThe man once practiced āhow to smile less smuglyā in the mirror for her.ā
Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. āYou're all just bitter and alone.ā
But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbotheredātoo 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 youāit was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.
synopsis: oikawa tÅru has everythingābrains, looks, skillsābut none of it compares to how hopelessly, obsessively, ridiculously in love he is with you. tÅru oikawa #1 yearner !! (Ė¶ĖįĖĖµ)
yearner!oikawa tÅru x f!reader (not proofread, posted this at 4am)
you donāt notice at first how often his eyes are on you. itās subtle in the beginningāoikawa 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. youāre quiet, never raising your hand, always scribbling neat notes with a calm patience that he envies. to everyone else, youāre background noise. to him, youāre the loudest presence in the room.
oikawaās life is a constant balancing act. practice, late-night serves until his shoulder screams, grades that must stay perfect because he refuses to be ājustā 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. itās exhaustingāexcept for the stolen moments he catches of you. sometimes, when he picks up his phone late at night; staring at his screen, itās not a teammate or fangirl. itās a photo he secretly snapped of you earlier, tucked into his gallery like a talisman against loneliness.
your life, on the other hand, isā¦ 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.
itās 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 backāinevitablyāto 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 hadnāt even seen itāoikawa did. without thinking, heād 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 thenāsoftly, genuinelyāyou said, āthank you.ā just two words. but your voice cracked through him like lightning.
his brain fried instantly. āahān-no problemāā 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.
āidiot,ā iwaizumi muttered, hauling him back to his feet. āshe just thanked you, not proposed marriage.ā
but to oikawa, it may as well have been the same thing. that single āthank youā carved itself into his chest, and heās never escaped it.
the memory dissolves, replaced again with the presentāyour 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 canāt let that be all. not anymore.
so he starts pushing. smiling wider, leaning over your desk to comment on your neat handwriting, brushing āaccidentallyā against your shoulder when youāre 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 himāreally look at himāand his lungs feel like theyāve learned how to breathe again.
and the more you look, the more something stirs in you, too. youād noticed, vaguely, in second year, how dramatic oikawa could be. how he flustered so easily when youād spoken to him. you brushed it off as him just beingā¦ 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 youāre near.
you start to like it even more. reluctantly, at first. then now more freely then you've ever thought.
but oikawa doesnāt know that. all he knows is that time is running outāgraduation looms. and the thought of you slipping through his fingers, walking out of his life forever, is unbearable.
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.
ālisten,ā he says, but his voice cracks. his usual smooth, charming tone is goneāshattered by urgency. āi canātāI canāt keep pretending, okay? iāve liked you since first year. no, not likedāā he laughs, choked and breathlessā āloved, 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, youāre all i think about. you donāt even notice half the time, and iāiām going insane wanting you to. i need you to.ā
his knees hit the floor. he doesnāt even register it at firstāonly that he has to be lower, closer, desperate enough to match the way his heart claws out of his chest.
āplease,ā he begs, clutching at the fabric of your sleeve like itās the only thing tethering him to the earth. āi donāt care if itās pathetic. i donāt care if you laugh at me. justādonāt ignore me. donāt leave me. iāll do anythingābe anythingāif it means i get to stay by your side. i need you. i need you like air, like blood in my veins. iām begging youādonāt tell me no.ā
his forehead presses to your hand. his shoulders shake. small, embarrassed tears sting his lashes, but he doesnāt stop talking, words spilling out faster, more desperate.
āsay something. tell me you feel the same. tell me iām not insane for loving you this much. if you donāt, i swear, iāi wonāt survive it. iām so tired of dreaming about you and waking up alone. pleaseā¦ please just give me a chance.ā
and there it isāthe most fragile, human version of oikawa youāve 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. āyou donāt have to beg, tÅru. iāve liked you for a while too. i was justā¦ waiting, i was going to confess at graduation if you weren't making a move.ā
he goes silent. utterly, impossibly silent. then he exhales a laugh that turns into a sob, collapses into your arms, and clings like heāll never let go.
oh man, he cups your face so gentlyālike you'll shatter with one wrong moveāas 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 possessionāmaybe even more than thatālike you might disappear if he ever takes his hands off of you; your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders.
for once, he doesnāt care who wins, who loses, whoās better, whoās watching. all he cares about is that you said yesāand heās never letting that go. you don't have a choice anyway.
by the time you get to school, you find him waiting at the gate. not just waitingāleaning dramatically against the pillar, hair perfectly styled, his bag slung over one shoulder like heās shooting for a romance manga cover. girls passing by are whispering and giggling, but he doesnāt care; instead, he's wearing a frown like he's some kind of delinquent a handsome one at that with a face saying āi have a wife.ā the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up.
āthere she is,ā he breathes, like heās been holding his lungs hostage until you showed up. he runs up to you, picking you up and twirling you like a disney princess. āatta girl, you're so gorgeous this early.ā
ātÅru, you didnāt have to wait for me.ā you try to keep your voice even as he carefully puts you down, but your cheeks betray you.
āyes i did,ā he says immediately, almost too quickly. ādo you know how unbearable it is to walk to class without you beside me? it feels likeālike someoneās stolen half of me. do you want me to die of loneliness this early in the morning?ā
āyouāre being dramatic.ā
āiām being truthful,ā he insists, grabbing your hand without hesitation but not before snatching your bag. his fingers lace between yours like heās been rehearsing it his whole life.
āshe's so pretty, prettier than every pretty thing in the universe combined.ā
in class, he sits next to you, shoulders brushing; he's as red as a tomato, writing your name or tÅru loves y/n in the margins of his notebook when the teacher isnāt looking. he even doodles little hearts around it, and when you notice, he grins like a cat caught stealing cream.
after classes, he insists on walking you home. every five steps, he finds a new excuse to touch youāfixing your hair, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeve, squeezing your hand tighter whenever someone walks too close. at one point, he even says, āi hope you know youāre never getting rid of me. ever. iām like gum on your shoe. orā¦ no, something more romantic. like a tattoo. yes. iām your tattoo.ā
you laugh so hard you almost trip, but he catches you, arms wrapping around your waist like itās second nature. his voice drops low, almost trembling: ādonāt laugh too much, or iāll combust. i swear, youāre too much for me.ā
and in that moment, you realizeāthis isnāt just a boy with a crush. this is oikawa tÅru, star setter, smart, dramatic, yours. and heās 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 STORIESš
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 š„¹š¤§
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.
šÆš šØš±šØšš¦. š½abi x genderneutral!reader
š¶š š±ššØšš¦š². šurt, 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 itās nothing new. He canāt remember the last time he had a peaceful slumber, doesnāt believe that he ever experienced a dream that didnāt show him cruel pictures of blood and branded the smell of burned flesh into his mind and by now, heās used to it. Itās impossible to change what his thoughts evoke once his eyes drift shut and at this point, heās unfazed, no matter what horror movie begins to play in the depths of his head.
you think dabi ever gets sad he doesnāt have a close friend? like, he doesnāt show it at all and acts like he doesnāt 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 heās been his entire life? the only person heād 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 doesnāt want to get close to anyone because heās terrified theyāll deem him āunworthyā or ānot enoughā and abandon him. push him aside just like he was his entire childhood.
he pushes people away even though he might like them. itās not even a conscious decision anymore.
heās 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? heād feel like you care more about them. that you favor them over him because heās not good enough, and now heās distancing himself from you
he canāt take compliments. honestly he canāt handle you being nice to him at all because, in his mind, youāre doing it out of pity. you donāt really mean it. youāre 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, heās convinced himself youāll leave him eventually. the second he starts being himself, the second he disappoints you, the second heās no longer useful to you, youāll disappear.
it doesnāt matter how many times you reassure him, those feelings never truly go away.
heās convinced himself heās so useless and worthless that he canāt 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 ā as dabi, in the league, doing what he's doing ā 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 š„ŗ
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."
