once again, i’d like to say that the taglist will be moved to another blog (@niqutag) so there wouldn’t be much clutter! expect 7 tags incoming for tōru’s fics :3
once again, i’d like to say that the taglist will be moved to another blog (@niqutag) so there wouldn’t be much clutter! expect 7 tags incoming for tōru’s fics :3
bf!tōru bothering you in the buttcrack of the morning
happy birthday, kat! @kissjoao (i would’ve written joao for you but i didn’t have time to analyze big dawg’s personality)
there was a very real, non-zero chance that oikawa tōru was going to combust directly onto your living room rug before you even had the chance to finish swallowing your morning coffee.
he’s currently hovering three inches from your face, shaking at a frequency usually reserved for industrial-grade espresso machines or small, panicked dogs. his eyes were wider than saucers, glowing with a level of adoration that was frankly dangerous to gaze at without protective eyewear.
“happy birthday,” he breathed out, the words tumbling out of him like an avalanche of pure sugar. “happy birthday to the absolute center of my universe, the sun, the moon, the reason my heart bothers pumping blood every single morning.”
“tōru, it’s 7:15 in the morning,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t stop the grin pulling at the corners of your mouth.
“i don’t care if it’s three in the morning or during an apocalypse!” he gasped, dramatically dropping to his knees beside your chair and resting his chin against your knee, looking up at you like you had personally invented oxygen. “you were born today! do you understand the monumental weight of that statement? the world was literally dark and depressing before you decided to grace us with your existence, and now i get to be the luckiest person in human history because you actually let me hold your hand!”
he immediately grabbed your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips to press about forty frantic, delicate little kisses against your skin. he was doing that thing where his eyes crinkled up so tight that he looked entirely intoxicated by your presence, his hands trembling slightly around yours like you were made of spun glass and actual starlight.
“i made breakfast,” he announced, puffed up with pride, pointing a dramatic finger toward your kitchen counter.
you looked over his shoulder. on the counter sat a pancake tower so crooked it was defying multiple laws of physics, covered in a hilarious excess of whipped cream, fresh strawberries, and at least three dozen colorful sprinkles scattered wildly across the ceramic plate.
“is that...” you squinted. “did you try to shape the cream into a heart?”
oikawa let out a mortified, squeaky noise, his face flushing a violent shade of pink as he buried his forehead into your lap. “it melted! the pancake was too warm! don’t look at it, it’s an insult to your perfection, i’m trash, throw me in the dumpster, i failed you on your special day—”
“tōru, it’s amazing,” you laughed, running your fingers through his soft brown hair. the moment your hand touched his head, he melted into a puddle of absolute mush, letting out a soft sigh and leaning so heavily into your touch that he nearly tipped over. “i love it. you’re sweet.”
he looked back up, eyes shimmering with so much tender devotion that your chest physically ached. “i would bake you ten thousand crooked pancakes,” he whispered, his voice suddenly dropping into that soft, breathless register he only ever used when he was completely overwhelmed by you. “i’d build you a castle out of them if you asked. i’d fight a bear. i’d block every single one of ushijima’s spikes with my bare forehead if it meant you smiled at me like that.”
“please don’t tackle ushijima with your head.”
“i would do it!” he insisted passionately, sliding off his knees to sit next to you on the sofa, instantly looping his long arms around your waist and pulling you so close there wasn’t a single breath of air between you. he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, clinging to you as if you were going to float away into the stratosphere. “you smell like vanilla and my favorite thing in the whole world. happy birthday, my whole heart. my literal soul.”
he began peppering your jawline with soft, warm kisses, trailing up to your cheek, your nose, and finally settling his mouth over yours in a slow, agonizingly sweet kiss that made your toes curl into the hardwood floor. he kissed you like he was drowning and you were the air, his fingers gently tangling into the back of your hair, holding you close with a gentle, reverent desperation that made your stomach do backflips.
when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his brown eyes searching yours with an intensity that could melt iron.
“i bought you the same amount presents as your age,” he confessed casually, rubbing his thumb along your cheekbone.
you blinked, staring at him. “that’s a lot.”
“one for every year you’ve been alive, obviously,” he said, looking at you like you were silly for even asking. “actually, plus one. because that one is just me, dedicating the entire rest of my life to worshipping you.”
“you’re so dramatic,” you breathed, giggling as he cupped both sides of your face, squishing your cheeks together until your lips pursed out.
“i’m not dramatic! you just don’t understand,” he declared loudly, pressing a firm, noisy kiss right on your squished lips. “i’m hopeless around you. you’ve ruined my view for anyone else forever. if you ever left me, i would literally turn into a puddle of tears and evaporate into the atmosphere.”
you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another lingering kiss that tasted like strawberry jam. “i’m not going anywhere, tōru.”
oikawa made a high-pitched, pathetic sound in the back of his throat, wrapping his arms around your waist so tight he almost lifted you straight out of your seat. he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into your shoulder, murmuring softly into your skin like a secret promise meant only for the universe to hear.
“good,” he whispered softly, his voice thick with emotion. “because i’m keeping you forever.”
n: happy birthday once again, kat! i love you so so soooo much :3
happy birthday to one of the sweetest people i know, @kissjoao
hi kat! i wish you the happiest birthday ever! i hope you’ll have the best day of your life, in every single day possible. meeting you here in tumblr is genuinely such a blessing for me since you and sura came in one package! my time with you in here was one of the most fun time i’ve ever had. you’re so funny and creative, i can’t help but admire your wits. i think of you as my sister, one of my dearest, most treasured friend. i hope you live your life full of happiness, and when you’re down we’ll always be here to cheer you up. i wholeheartedly treasure you with my entire being and all i wish for you is the best because that’s the only thing you’ll ever deserve. you were one of the people who encouraged me to put myself first instead of burning myself out in writing, i’ll be forever grateful for that. i love you so so so much, kat. i wish you the happiest birthday of all time!
tōru has planned on bumping into you since 3 weeks ago.
w/c: 1.3k ,, happy birthday to my beloved
there’s a frequency to the squeak oikawa’s sneakers made against the damp tile outside the convenience store, and usually, it was accompanied by the sound of three different underclassmen trying to crawl into the sewer to escape his serve practice.
today, however, it was accompanied by the catastrophic velocity of your shoulder connecting directly with his ribs.
it wasn’t even a grand collision. you had been attempting to balance a soft-serve cone, a chocolate-flavored drink, and the fading remains of your own dignity after standing in line for twenty minutes behind a man arguing about coupon expiration dates. oikawa had simply stepped out from behind the rack of sports drinks like a gorgeous, knee-padded jump-scare.
the ice cream took the brunt of the impact, smearing a pale pink, tragic streak straight down the front of his pristine turquoise warm-up jacket.
for half a second, the universe held its breath. somewhere in the distance, a crow probably lost its wings.
oikawa didn’t even wince at the cold. he looked down at his chest, then up at you, his hazel eyes opening wide with the fake, theatrical horror of a victorian maiden being told her favorite corset maker had succumbed to scurvy.
he grabbed his chest, staggering backward three steps until his spine hit the glass door of the ice display with a soft, dramatic thud.
“unprovoked physical assault,” he gasped, placing a palm flat against his forehead as if he were about to faint into a pile of pre-packaged melon bread. “a targeted strike to the vitals. i’m bleeding strawberry dairy. i’m dying, right here between the red bean buns and the cheap umbrellas… i guess the only way to make up for it ..is buying me dinner.”
you froze, holding the sad, empty wafer cone like a broken tiny trumpet. “you stepped into my way on purpose. you saw me coming from six yards away.”
“false! libelous! i was minding my own business, nourishing my soul with electrolyte water, when a feral tornado wearing a very pretty cardigan destroyed my favourite jacket,” he declared, though he was already using two fingers to delicately scoop a dollop of soft-serve off his zipper and—without an ounce of shame—lick it off his thumb. “my legal counsel advises me that a bowl of warm ramen and twenty minutes of your undivided attention is the absolute minimum out-of-court settlement.”
“you don’t have legal counsel, oikawa. you have iwaizumi, and if i call him right now, he’ll hit you with a volleyball until you apologize to my ice cream.”
oikawa’s smile flickered into something dangerously sweet, the kind of grin that usually meant he was about to set a ball so perfectly it would make a high school boy cry in the locker room later. he leaned down, bringing his face down into your personal space until you could smell the faint scent of mint shampoo and desperation.
he was so ridiculously, inconveniently beautiful that it felt like a personal insult to every other human face on the planet. his eyelashes were long enough to sweep the floor, and he was looking at you with the intensity of an orange cat staring at an open tin of tuna.
“iwa-chan isn’t here,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that smooth, honey-coated register he used when he wanted something so badly his teeth ached. “it’s just you. and my ruined jacket. and a very hungry, deeply traumatized setter who happens to know a place around the corner that serves those little fried dumplings you like.”
your brain did a small, complicated somersault. “how do you know what kind of dumplings i like?”
oikawa just blinked his big, bright eyes, totally unbothered by the fact that he was confessing to high-level surveillance. “i have eyes. excellent eyes. i notice things. like how you always buy the pork ones on tuesdays, and how you look like you want to marry the chef every time you eat them.”
“that’s horrifying.”
“it’s attentive!” he corrected instantly, reaching out to gently, agonizingly slowly take the sad, empty waffle cone out of your hand and toss it into the nearby trash bin. his fingers brushed against your wrist on the way back down, lingering just long enough for you to feel the sudden, absurd heat of his skin. “come on. my ribs are bruised. my spirit is broken. if you don’t feed me, i’m going to follow you home and lay on your porch like a wet dog.”
“you wouldn’t.”
“try me,” he beamed, offering his elbow with the grand, sweeping gesture of a prince inviting a duchess to a royal ball, despite the big glob of pink cream still glistening on his chest. “i have no shame when it comes to getting what i want.”
five minutes later, you were sitting across from him in a cramped, steam-filled booth at the back of a tiny noodle shop. the air smelled of rich pork broth, garlic, and the damp wool of oikawa’s discarded jacket, which was currently folded neatly on the vinyl seat beside him.
he was watching you. not in a normal, polite ‘we’re having a conversation’ way, but in the way an astronomer might stare if a brand new planet suddenly materialized inside their living room. his chin was propped in his palm, his cheek squished up slightly, making his lips pout out in a way that made you want to hurl your chopstick case at his forehead just to save yourself from cardiac arrest.
“stop that,” you muttered, stirring the scallions into your bowl.
“stop what?” he asked, his voice dripping with complete, unvarnished innocence.
“staring at me like i’m a giant milk bread.”
“i can’t help it,” oikawa sighed, the sound so heavy and dramatic it fluttered the napkin in the holder between you. he reached across the small table, his big, calloused hand creeping over the formica until his fingertips hovered over yours. “you’re sitting right there. in the light. eating noodles. do you have any idea how long i’ve been trying to orchestrate this exact moment without looking like a complete freak?”
“you failed at the ‘not looking like a freak’ part,” you pointed out, though you didn’t pull your hand away when his fingers finally closed around yours.
his hand was huge, warm, and slightly rough from hours of hitting leather against floorboards, but the way he held your fingers was so impossibly soft, like he was worried if he squeezed too hard you’d turn into a cloud of smoke and blow out the door.
“details, details,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes. the playful, mischievous mask he usually wore was slipping around the edges, revealing the raw, glowing heat underneath. “all that matters is that you’re here. with me. not with the guys from the track team, not with that guy from your literature class who keeps trying to loan you his highlighters—”
“you know about the highlighter guy?”
“—i know everything,” he whispered, a little breathlessly, his thumb sliding over the back of your knuckles in a smooth, rhythmic circle that made your pulse do a stupid, fluttery tap-dance in your throat. “i know i’ve spent the last three weeks almost tripping over my own feet every time you walk past the gymnasium. i know my serve went into the net twice yesterday because you stopped to tie your shoe near the entrance. i’m suffering, genuinely. my volleyball career is in jeopardy because of your face.”
you let out a soft, helpless laugh, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “you’re the most dramatic human being alive.”
“i’m a man in crisis!” oikawa insisted, though the bright, pink flush spreading across the tips of his ears betrayed him entirely. he pulled your hand an inch closer to his chest, pressing his palm flat against his ribs so you could feel the absurd, frantic badump-badump-badump of his heart hammering behind his ribs. “look at what you’re doing to my resting heart rate. my trainer is going to execute me.”
the heat of him radiated straight through your skin. it was ridiculous, really, how someone so tall, so ridiculously skilled, and so agonizingly popular could look at you like you held the keys to the entire universe in your pocket.
he leaned across the narrow table, his eyes shining with luminous adoration that made your stomach flip completely upside down.
“so,” he said softly, his thumb still tracing tiny, helpless patterns against your wrist, “since i’ve officially surrendered my dignity, are you going to let me walk you home after this? or do i need to fake another tragic injury?”
you smiled, leaning in just a tiny bit closer to match him. “depends. are you going to buy me another soft-serve to replace the one you assassinated?”
oikawa’s face lit up so bright it felt like someone had flipped a breaker switch inside the dim little restaurant. “i’ll buy you ten. i’ll steal it from the store.”
“please don’t commit grand theft dairy.”
“anything for you,” he beamed, squeezing your hand tightly, utterly content to sit there in the steam, holding your fingers like they were the greatest trophy he’d ever won.
n: i love him so much, you guys have to understand. this is the last one, happy birthday to the love of my life!
tōru has a skincare routine dedicated for you.
w/c: 1.3k ,, i luv my birthday boy sm
the camera rattles violently as it’s dropped onto a marble counter, the frame spinning until it settles on a perfectly symmetrical, mildly frantic face. oikawa doesn’t do things by halves, which is precisely why he’s currently staring into the lens with the intensity of a man who has witnessed the birth of the universe and found it lacking compared to the person currently taking a nap in his living room.
“welcome back, beautiful people, and welcome to the only routine that matters,” he whispers, leaning so close to the microphone that his breathing sounds like a wind tunnel. “today we’re discussing the absolute pinnacle of dermatology. the cosmic event. the holy grail. this is ‘how to glow like y/n saw you today.’”
he jerks back, throwing his hands in the air like a game show host who has completely lost his script. his brown hair is held back by a ridiculously fluffy white headband with cat ears—a piece of merchandise he stole from your closet three months ago and has refused to return on legal grounds of ‘but look how cute i am, my love.’
“now, some of you in the comments have been saying, ‘oikawa-san, your skin looks so radiant, did you get a chemical peel?’” he mimics a high-pitched voice, waving a manicured finger at the screen. “wrong. absolute garbage. a chemical peel wishes it had the cellular-regenerating power of y/n looking at me for three uninterrupted seconds while i hold the door open for her. but since we cannot clone her—thank god, because the world would literally collapse from structural perfection—i’m going to teach you how to fake the absolute euphoria of being perceived by the love of my life.”
he slaps his palms together, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles.
“step one: hydration. and i do not mean simply drinking your silly little water from your silly little reusable bottles.” he reaches off-camera and drags a massive, industrial-sized tub of gel moisturizer into view, dropping it with a heavy thud. “your skin needs to be wetter than the amazon rainforest after a monsoon. it needs to look like you just emerged from a mystical lake to deliver a prophecy. why? because when y/n walks through that front door, my face must reflect her beauty back at her like a pristine, polished mirror.”
with an absurdly dramatic flourish, he scoops out a handful of the clear gel. he massages his cheeks with the frantic energy of a baker kneading dough during a rush hour shift.
“you have to understand the science behind this,” oikawa says, his voice muffled as he pushes his nose upward with his palms. “when y/n looks at me, my blood pressure spikes to levels that should technically interest medical professionals. my heart does a complete gymnastics routine inside my ribs. that natural flush? it requires preparation. if i’m dry, i’ll crack under the weight of her presence. last week, she wore that sage green sweater—you guys know the one, the oversized knitted one that makes y/n look like a precious moss ball—and she walked into the kitchen and said, ‘hey, tōru, can you pass the peanut butter?’”
he stops moving entirely. his hands remain glued to his cheeks, squishing his face into a diamond shape, his eyes wide and completely glazed over with an emotion so deep it borders on a spiritual awakening.
“i forgot how to use my legs,” he confesses to the camera, deadpan and entirely serious. “i stood there like a glitching NPC for a full minute. the peanut butter was right in front of me. i could have died right there, and i would have been happy. my ghost would have just stayed in the kitchen, hovering over the crunchy Jif, completely at peace. so, yes, you need the gel. apply it until you look like a glazed donut left out in the sun.”
the video cuts abruptly, a harsh jump-scrape revealing oikawa now holding a jade roller like it’s a lethal weapon.
“step two: structural definition. we need to contour the jawline. we need the face to be sharp enough to slice through the tension of waiting for a text back.” he begins vigorously rolling the cold stone against his jaw, his teeth clattering slightly from the force. “y/n has this habit. this devastating, malicious habit where she reaches up and just... rests her thumb right here on my cheekbone when she’s sleepy. it’s a hazard. my soul leaves my body through my ears every single time. if my facial structure isn’t properly drained of lymphatic fluid, how am i supposed to provide the optimal resting surface for her hand? think about it. be strategic.”
he drops the roller into the sink with a loud clatter and leans in again, his expression dropping into something fiercely devoted.
“i’m a man driven by necessity,” he murmurs, his eyes locked onto the lens. “yesterday, we were sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing. she was reading some book, and i was supposed to be studying video footage of our next opponents. but instead, i spent forty-five minutes tracking the exact trajectory of sunlight across her eyelashes. she caught me. she looked up, blinked those incredible eyes, and just smiled. a tiny, private little smile just for me. do you know what that does to a person? it rewrites your DNA. i went from a premier setter to a puddle of lukewarm soup in a fraction of a second. i had to go into the hallway and do ten jumping jacks just to remember how to breathe.”
from somewhere down the hall, your muffled, incredibly amused voice cuts through the bathroom door. “tōru? are you yelling at the mirror again?”
oikawa freezes. his entire posture shifts, the loud, theatrical internet personality melting away in a millisecond to reveal something so soft and desperate it’s almost embarrassing. his eyes light up like a stadium during a night game.
“i’m making a tutorial, sweetheart!” he shouts back, his voice instantly pitching up an octave into pure, unadulterated sweetness. “i’ll be out in two minutes! do you want the fluffy blanket? i can bring you the fluffy blanket!”
“i have the blanket, just don’t knock over the mouthwash this time!” you call back, a clear laugh underlying your words.
oikawa turns back to the camera, his face completely flushed a brilliant, undeniable pink that no amount of cosmetic product could ever replicate. he looks like he just won a gold medal, a lottery, and a lifetime supply of milk bread all at once.
“you hear that?” he whispers, his hands shaking slightly as he grabs a bottle of facial mist. “that is the voice of an angel. that laugh could cure diseases. it could break world peace. if you aren’t shaking to your very core when your partner speaks to you, are you even living? absolutely not.”
he holds the misting bottle at arm’s length and aggressively sprays his face, closing his eyes as a cloud of rosewater settles over his skin.
“final step: locking it in. when she inevitably kisses my cheek later—because i will be begging for it on my knees if necessary—i cannot have my skincare transferring onto her beautiful nose. she smells like vanilla and laundry detergent, and i won’t corrupt that purity with my pore-tightening serum.”
he fans himself with a piece of cardboard he pulls from nowhere, his skin glistening under the bathroom lights, bright and entirely luminous. but the real glow isn’t coming from the creams or the rollers; it’s radiating from the helpless joy vibrating through his entire frame.
“there you have it,” oikawa says, his voice dropping into a rare, genuinely warm tone as he reaches out to turn off the recording. “the secrets out. look this good, and maybe you’ll get a head pat. i’m going to go let her use my chest as a pillow now because my presence has been requested, and i’m nothing if not a obedient servant to the monarch.”
he winks, a classic, flashy influencer gesture, but before the screen cuts to black, the camera tilts down, capturing him practically tripping over his own feet as he sprints toward the bathroom door to get back to you.
n: this is what i do at home so i’m barely active, he teaches me skincare. i also injured my arm so bad, i can barely move it.
tōru buys binoculars just to stare at you in public.
w/c: 1.3k ,, happy birthday to my pretty boy!
you can actually feel the shift when oikawa narrows his focus onto a new target. it’s this deeply unsettling, singular frequency he operates on—a mix of precision and quiet obsession that makes you realize he won’t stop until he gets exactly what he wants, no matter what it takes.
usually, that frantic cosmic energy is reserved for volleyballs, serving routines, or meticulously styling his hair so that it looks artfully windblown while standing completely still indoors. today, however, that entire reserves-tank of absolute, unhinged devotion is aimed directly across a distance of approximately twenty-four inches.
specifically, through a pair of heavy-duty, matte-black hunting binoculars.
the click-clack of chalk against the blackboard is the only sound in the classroom, aside from the faint, rhythmic sound of oikawa adjusting the central focus wheel of a pair of high-powered optics calibrated for spotting birds at half a mile.
you can feel the phantom heat of his intense gaze burning through the plastic lenses. you try to concentrate on the quadratic formula stretched across the board, but it is physically impossible to ignore the fact that the most popular boy in school is leaning sideways in his desk, elbows propped up on his textbook, holding an enormous pair of field glasses directly in front of his face.
he isn’t even trying to hide it. his elbows are planted right on the wooden grain, his shoulders trembling slightly with the sheer physical effort of holding the heavy leather-strapped monster steady.
you slowly turn your head.
the two huge glass lenses stare back at you. reflected in the dark green anti-glare coating are tiny, warped reflections of your own utterly baffled face. behind the glass, his eyes are hilariously magnified, turned into huge, luminous hazel globes shining with the pure, unadulterated zeal of a victorian naturalist who just discovered a brand-new species of shiny beetle.
“oikawa,” you whisper, keeping your voice low so the math teacher doesn’t turn around and chuck an eraser at both your heads. “what are you doing?”
oikawa doesn’t lower the apparatus. he doesn’t even blink. his thumb twitches on the focus knob, making a sharp *click*.
“shh,” he murmurs back, his voice low and vibrating with a level of reverence usually reserved for sacred religious relics or national monuments. “don’t move. the lighting right now is doing something supernatural to your eyelashes.”
“we are literally sitting in the second row,” you point out, leaning slightly away from the dual black cylinders hovering two feet from your forehead. “you are closer to me than you are to your own pencil case.”
“distance is a myth propagated by people with weak eyesight,” he declares with absolute conviction, adjusting the diopter ring. “i need to appreciate the details.”
you stare at him, a sudden, helpless wheeze escaping your throat. “the details?”
“the details,” he repeats solemnly. a brilliant, dazzling smile spreads across the bottom half of his face—the only part not obscured by rubber-coated glass. “for instance, did you know you have three tiny freckles on your cheek that form an almost perfect isosceles triangle? i couldn’t verify the exact angle from two feet away with the naked eye. now i can. it’s revolutionary. my soul is currently expanding.”
his devotion isn’t just dramatic; it’s a full-blown atmospheric event. he looks like a man who has successfully mapped the surface of the moon using a cardboard tube and sheer willpower. he is so thoroughly down bad, so utterly lost in the sauce, that his brain has completely bypassed the normal social protocols of human interaction and landed squarely in the realm of affectionate madness.
“you are going to get those confiscated,” you say, though a sudden, uncontrollable warmth blooms right in the center of your chest. it’s stupid how hard your heart is thumping against your ribs over a guy holding field gear in fourth period.
“let them try,” oikawa whispers, his voice dipping into that soft, breathless register he uses whenever he’s looking at you like you personally hung every star in the milky way. “i will hide them in my locker. i will hide them in iwa-chan’s gym bag. i’ll make a random guy named berto hide them in a prefecture far far away. i will memorize every millimeter of your face until i can draw it from memory in the dark.”
he finally lowers the binoculars, letting them rest against his chest where they hang heavy against his yellow uniform vest.
without the lenses exaggerating his features, his actual eyes are so intensely soft it almost hurts to look at them directly. the ridiculousness of the binoculars vanishes, replaced by that terrifyingly genuine, unabashed softness that always makes your stomach do a complete gymnastics routine.
“besides,” he continues, his fingers lightly brushing against the edge of your desk, his pinky reaching out to timidly hook around yours under the cover of your standing notebook. “your eyes are really pretty today. like, stupidly pretty. it’s actually rude how pretty you are while mr. watanabe is talking about polynomials.”
“you’re completely insane,” you murmur, your cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg. but your fingers wrap around his pinky anyway, pulling his hand a tiny bit closer.
oikawa’s entire face lights up like a pinball machine scoring a high score. the soft grin that spreads across his lips is so real, so entirely devoid of his usual flashy charm, that it leaves you completely breathless. he squeezes your finger back, his thumb rubbing small, frantic circles against your skin.
“i’m not insane, i’m just observant,” he whispers back, leaning in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “there’s a difference. an insane person wouldn’t notice the way your nose crinkles when you’re trying not to laugh at me.”
“i’m always trying not to laugh at you.”
“good,” he beams, his hazel eyes sparkling with an affection so bright it feels almost unfair. “keep doing it. laugh at me forever. i’ll bring a telescope tomorrow so i can see your reaction from the back row.”
“if you bring a telescope to school, i’m telling iwaizumi.”
oikawa gasps, a look of genuine betrayal crossing his features, though his grip on your pinky never slacks for even a millisecond. “you wouldn’t dare invoke the beast. that’s playing dirty.”
“try me, captain.”
he stares at you for a long second, his bottom lip pouting out in a dramatic show of defeat, before he melts into another stupidly tender smile. he lifts your trapped hand up just an inch, resting his chin on his free palm as he looks at you like you’re the absolute center of his universe.
“fine,” he sighs, his tone dripping with a helpless, melty warmth that settles deep in your bones. “no telescope. but the binoculars stay in my bag.”
you roll your eyes, but the grin tugging at your lips gives you away completely. you turn back toward the blackboard, your fingers still securely tangled with his, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his pulse beneath his skin—a constant, hilarious reminder of just how deeply, delightfully in love he is with you.
n: i need to write for him more, he’s not characterized enuf
tōru has you as his lockscreen and his call screen.
w/c: 1.3k ,, happy birthday, tōru :3
the human brain is supposed to be a marvel of modern evolution, a complex network of neurons capable of calculating the exact trajectory of a volleyball at sixty miles per hour, yet oikawa’s gray matter currently possesses the processing power of a soggy piece of cabbage.
it’s entirely your fault.
more specifically, it’s the fault of the photograph currently illuminating his phone screen. you had taken it three days ago while sitting on the grass outside the gymnasium, squinting against the afternoon sun with a half-eaten popsicle staining your bottom lip a ridiculous shade of cherry red. you hadn’t even been looking at the camera; you were laughing at something stupid iwaizumi had said, your eyes crinkled into soft little crescents and a few stray hairs stuck to your cheek. it was a complete disaster of a photo by professional modeling standards, which meant oikawa viewed it as a sacred religious artifact worthy of being housed in the louvre.
he had set it as his lock screen within forty-two seconds of taking it.
he had also, in his frantic rush to stare at your face uninterrupted, completely forgotten to toggle the silent switch on the side of his device.
“oikawa. oikawa.”
iwaizumi’s voice was dangerously low, the exact tone he used right before throwing a heavy leather volleyball directly at the back of oikawa’s skull. they were sitting on the bench during a ten-minute reprieve from practice, towels draped over their shoulders, but oikawa wasn’t resting. he wasn’t drinking water. he was staring at his lap, where his phone was currently vibrating itself into a frenzy against his thigh.
the screen was ablaze. the phone was screaming, blasting a generic pop ringtone at maximum volume. your face—bright, cherry-lipped, and radiating absolute sunshine—was flashing across the glass in high definition.
instead of pressing the green button, instead of declining the call, instead of doing anything that a civilized person with a functioning cortex would do, oikawa simply leaned his chin into the palm of his hand. his spine turned into a puddle of warm gelatin. a sigh escaped his lips, a sound so profoundly pathetic and saturated with affection that it belonged in a victorian romance novel about a dying poet.
“look at her,” oikawa whispered, his eyes wide and shiny, utterly mesmerized by the digital glow. “iwa-chan, look at the way the light catches her eyelashes. she’s like a perfect fairy sent from the heavens to cure my chronic exhaustion. how am i supposed to answer the phone? if i swipe, she disappears. i can’t just banish her to the background.”
“it’s your mother calling you, you absolute dunce,” iwaizumi barked, his fist twitching. “answer the damn phone before i kick you into the net.”
“my mother will understand that i’m currently occupied with a divine revelation,” oikawa murmured, not shifting his gaze by a single millimeter. the call finally timed out, plunging the screen into darkness. oikawa let out a small, tragic whine, instantly tapping the glass with the tip of his finger to bring your face back into existence. “there she is. hello, my angel. did you miss me? i missed you. it’s been twenty minutes since we texted.”
it was a level of devotion that bordered on a public health hazard. the boy was down bad—so deep in the trenches of affection that he had set up camp, built a permanent residence, and declared himself the president of your fan club. his heart performs an entire broadway musical routine every time you walked into the room.
when the school bell finally rang in the afternoon, freeing him from the tyranny of advanced trigonometry, oikawa practically teleported to the front gates where you were waiting.
you were tapping your foot against the pavement, and the moment his eyes locked onto you, his internal temperature spiked by about fifty degrees. you were a walking, breathing masterpiece, and he was merely a humble peasant allowed to breathe the same oxygen.
“y/n!” oikawa wailed, launching himself forward. he didn’t care that three different first-years were watching him lose his dignity in real-time. he skidded to a halt right in front of you, his hands immediately reaching out to gently cup your face, his chest heaving as if he had run a marathon instead of walking down a flight of stairs. “you look so spectacular today. the universe really outdid itself when it made you. are those new shoes? they’re magnificent. you’re magnificent.”
you blinked up at him, a slow, amused grin spreading across your face. you were used to the dramatics, but today he seemed exceptionally vibrant, his brown eyes practically sparkling like a cartoon character that had consumed too much sugar.
“they’re the same shoes i’ve worn since april, tōru,” you said, your voice full of that easy warmth that always made his stomach do a series of complicated gymnastics. “but thank you. did you have a good practice?”
“it was agonizing because you weren’t there to witness my spectacular serves,” he complained, though the pout on his lips lasted for a fraction of a second before melting back into a besotted grin. his long fingers sliding effortlessly between yours, gripping your hand with a gentle tightness that felt like a silent promise. “let’s go get meat buns. i’ll buy you three. five. the whole shop.”
as you walked down the sidewalk, the afternoon sun casting long shadows behind you, oikawa’s phone decided to ring again.
this time, it was matsukawa trying to coordinate a weekend study session. the volume was still cranked up to the absolute limit. the ringtone blared through the quiet street, and immediately, your own face stared back at you from the screen in oikawa’s left hand.
you stopped walking, staring at the device. “is that... me?”
oikawa didn’t even blink. he lifted the phone, holding it up like a trophy, his expression a mix of intense pride and sheer, unadulterated adoration. “yes! look how beautiful you are. i haven’t answered a single phone call in twenty-four hours because i refuse to interrupt the viewing experience.”
“tōru, your phone is literally vibrating your hand off,” you pointed out, laughing as you leaned closer to look at the screen. “and you’re letting it go to voicemail! mattsun is going to leave you a twenty-minute rant about your reliability.”
“let him,” oikawa declared, his thumb gently caressing the edge of the screen, right over your digital cheek. “matsukawa does not possess the capacity to understand the artistic value of this image. you look like a soft little cloud. i want to print this out and paste it to the ceiling above my bed so it’s the first thing i see when i open my eyes.”
“that sounds mildly illegal and incredibly creepy,” you teased, though a bright, unmistakable blush was already creeping up your neck, heating your cheeks in a way that made oikawa’s knees physically wobble.
“it’s called romance, y/n! true, unfiltered romance!” he insisted, stepping closer until the fabric of his school uniform brushed against your cardigan. he looked down at you, his usual teasing smirk entirely absent, replaced by a gaze so tender it felt like a warm blanket wrapping around your shoulders. “i’m completely helpless against you. you know that, right? if you asked me to flip the gym upside down, i’d probably find a lever and try.”
you reached up with your free hand, your fingers catching the lapel of his jacket, tugging him down just an inch so you could look him directly in the eyes. “i don’t need the gym flipped. i just need you to answer your friends when they call you so they don’t think you’ve been kidnapped.”
“a compromise,” oikawa breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he leaned down, his forehead gently resting against yours for a fleeting, beautiful second, letting you feel the sudden rush of his warmth. “i will answer them only if you promise to take ten more photos with me right now so i can rotate them weekly.. or everyday. i need a winter collection. a spring collection. an entire gallery.”
“deal,” you laughed, the sound bubbling up between you, sweet and real.
oikawa let out another one of his signature, dramatic sighs, but this time his eyes were locked onto the real thing, completely ignoring the phone that had finally fallen silent in his hand.
tōru as your emergency contact
c/w: 1.3k ,, happy birthday to my husband :3
the smell of sterile mint and impending doom is universally recognized as the worst sensory combination known to mankind. sitting in a hydraulic chair that crunches like an ancient lawn mower every time the hygienist taps the foot pedal doesn’t help the vibe. you’re currently staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the little acoustic dots to keep from losing your mind, while a very nice woman named martha digs around your bicuspids with a metal hook that belongs in a medieval torture chamber.
“so,” martha says, her voice muffled by a blue surgical mask. “we had a little update to your file today.”
you can only gurgle in response. a suction tube is currently hanging out of the left side of your mouth like a plastic parasite, slurping away your dignity.
“your emergency contact,” she continues cheerfully, scraping at a phantom piece of plaque. “a mr. oikawa? he called this morning to ensure he was listed on all medical documents. very thorough young man. he actually sounded quite frantic about making sure your teeth x-rays were sent to his personal email.”
you nearly choke on your own saliva.
before you can even attempt to swallow the plastic tube or demand an explanation, the heavy wooden door to the exam room glides inward with the dramatic flair of a broadway production.
there, framed by the fluorescent lighting of the hallway like a tragic, beautiful renaissance painting of a man who has never once experienced a cavity in his life, stands oikawa.
he’s wearing an oversized cardigan that makes him look expensive, his hair is perfectly swooped to one side as if a personal wind machine follows him everywhere, and he’s holding a single, slightly bruised chocolate milk box.
“i’m here,” oikawa announces, his voice dropping into a register so deeply earnest it belongs in a historical romance novel where men die of consumption in the rain. he rushes to the side of your chair, dropping to his knees on the linoleum floor with zero regard for his pristine trousers. “i came as soon as i got the calendar alert. you okay? martha, please tell me you used the child-sized mirror for her, she has the delicate jawline of a porcelain doll.”
martha blinks. you blink, your mouth still pinned open by a rubber block.
“oikawa,” you attempt to screech, but it comes out as a wet, pathetic “oi-wah-wah.”
“shh, sweet girl, don’t try to speak through the agony,” he soothes, instantly reaching up to capture your free hand. his palms are ridiculously warm, his fingers threading through yours with a frantic, desperate sort of hunger that suggests he hasn’t seen you in twelve years rather than the six hours since he dropped you off at your morning lecture. he presses your knuckles against his cheek, looking up at you with wide, chocolate-brown eyes that are swimming with an absurd amount of devotion. “i’m right here. the guardian angel of your oral hygiene. nobody is going to hurt you while i draw breath.”
“mr. oikawa, it’s just a routine cleaning,” martha notes, though she looks thoroughly entertained, already adjusting her plastic visor.
“with all due respect, martha, a routine cleaning is a psychological warfare tactic,” oikawa declares, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s currently kneeling on a floor that has definitely seen its fair share of medical debris. his gaze snaps back to you, meltier than a marshmallow left in the sun for three days. “you’re doing so well. look at you. the bravest soldier in the entire prefecture. your teeth look like rows of tiny, perfect pearls. brilliant. blinding. i’m so proud of you.”
you manage to glare at him, your eyebrows knitting together in a silent demand for an explanation. ‘how are you here? why are you at my dentist?’
as if reading your mind—which he frequently does with the accuracy of a bloodhound on a scent trail—he offers a sheepish, dimpled smile that usually gets him out of speeding tickets.
“okay, so technically,” he whispers, leaning in so close you can smell the expensive milk tea on his breath, “you might notice a trend if you go to the secretary at your university’s health clinic. or your primary care physician. or, well, here. i may have taken the liberty of updating your emergency forms. because what if you faint from a low-blood-sugar episode during microeconomics? what if a rogue volleyball strikes you in the cranium? the world is a perilous sphere, and i can’t risk some stranger calling your third cousin twice removed when i’m fully equipped to carry you bridal-style to the nearest medical professional.”
he says this with the absolute conviction of a man who believes he has performed a holy sacrament rather than a minor breach of administrative protocol. he’s in love with you and that’s a fact. he’s like a planet revolving into the gravity of your existence, that the concept of boundaries is just a vague suggestion he passed on the highway three miles back.
“you’re...” you try to spit out the rubber block, but martha gently pats your shoulder to keep you still.
“hold on, dear, let me just rinse the left side,” martha hums, entirely unfazed by the soap opera unfolding at her elbow.
while the water jet hisses against your molars, oikawa uses his free hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. his touch is so soft it feels like a physical ache in your chest. for all his nonsense and the fact that he has essentially stalked his way into your dental records. he looks at you the way ancient stargazers looked at the sky when they discovered a new planet—like he’s completely terrified of how vast you are, but completely incapable of looking away.
“i bought you the chocolate milk,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the soft skin of your wrist, right over your pulse point as if he’s constantly monitoring the rhythm of your heart to make sure you’re still breathing. “the one with the little bendy straw you like. and i cleared my schedule for the next three hours because i figured your gums might be sensitive, so we’re going to go back to my apartment, and i’m going to make you that ridiculously over-seasoned porridge you crave when you’re tired.”
your heart does a stupid, flip against your ribs. it’s infuriating how easily he can dissolve your annoyance into mush. he’s a menace, a golden retriever with an obsession with your safety parameters, but he’s your menace.
martha finally clicks the tools back into their metal tray and cranks the chair upward. the moment the rubber block is removed, you smack oikawa’s shoulder with your free hand.
“tōru! you can’t just forge your name onto my medical documents! that has to be illegal in at least three prefectures!”
“it wasn’t forgery!” he protests instantly, though he doesn’t move an inch from his kneeling position, his hands still locked around yours like a vice. “i used my own signature! legible, very legal. and the lady at the front desk even gave me a sticker because she said it was refreshing to see a young man so dedicated to his partner’s cardiovascular and dental longevity!”
“you.. are a lunatic,” you sigh, but the corners of your mouth are twitching upward against your will. your teeth feel intensely clean, smooth, and slightly cold against the air. “a literal, certifiable madman.”
“i’m a man of action,” he corrects, his voice dropping into that sweet, honeyed tone that makes your knees go weak even when you’re sitting down. he stands up then, towering over the chair, but immediately leans down to press his forehead against yours. his eyes are dark and incredibly intense up close, the playful smirk fading into something so raw and heavy it makes your breath hitch. “i can’t help it. the thought of you being anywhere, even a boring old dentist office, without me knowing you’re safe? it makes my chest feel like it’s shrinking. let me take care of you. please?”
he says ‘please’ like his entire soul is hanging in the balance, like your permission is the only currency that matters in the world. he’s so whipped for you that it’s almost embarrassing, an absolute goner for the girl with the mint-flavored spit and now-slightly rumpled shirt.
you stare at him, taking in the faint pink flush on his cheekbones, the hope in his eyes, and the undeniable reality that he would probably fight a bear with his bare hands if it so much as looked at your teeth wrong.
“fine,” you mutter, letting your head drop back against the headrest with a dramatic groan. “but you’re paying the co-pay.”
oikawa lets out a sound that can only be described as a triumphant gasp, his entire face lighting up like a christmas tree in downtown tokyo. he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if you’re the only source of oxygen in the entire facility.
“i’ll pay for every co-pay for the rest of your life!” he beams against your skin, his lips brushing your jawline with a frantic, adoration-filled kiss that leaves you tingling. “i’ll buy the whole building! martha, send the bill to my email! we’re leaving to go consume mushy grains and hold hands until our fingers fuse together!”
martha just waves a gloved hand, smiling warmly as oikawa practically hoists you out of the chair, his arm immediately wrapping secure around your waist, pulling you flush against his side that you can feel the rapid, terrified-but-happy thumping of his heart against your ribs.
It was a very long night, longest it’s ever been ngl- but not to Navi, never to Navi. Because she was the night, she was born in the night. That’s what an alpha is.
The pack started off the morning day as normal, Navi walked out of her den with her shoulders high and up and whatever- big n all. Before running into her sister, Mika.
“Good morning my fellow sibling” navi chuckles w a smirk, placing her hand on Mika’s shoulder
“Good morning navi alpha, any plans for today my sister?” Mika says back with a mogging face bc she’s my sister and we both mog
“Nothing today, just the usual in our beloved pack. Dada is busy inside, she’s still mourning over Gojo, poor omega has been unconscious for a couple days after his fight w alpha sukuna. We’re not sure if he’ll wake up..”
“Damn….” Mika sighed out in pity, shaking her head
“It’s alright though, everyone esle seems happy n shit, so that’s good. We haven’t gotten any trouble w the rival pack either” navi lets out a small growl at the thought
“Right! That’s good for sure heh” Mika nodded, before turning to look over at the other side
“Anyways, I’m gonna go now. I need to go get yun before she starts making out w iwa in the lake again, and iya getting high w Suna. goodbye navi alpha” Mika waved her off and left
Navi let out a small sigh before she then walked over to general astra’s den, she knocked before entering- giving the women and her mate, Tangerine- that stood beside her a greeting nod
“Hello general Astra”
“Hello aloha Navi”
They shook hands in a very aura farming manner, however- the moment was then cut off when the doors burst open, Maddy and quack came rushing in- out of breath
“A-Alpha!!! We have news!” Maddy uttered out with a heavy breath, followed by quack next
“Yes! We have news about the rival pack! They seem to be planning!”
Navis eyes darken red like, like rubys n shit. Before she turned to look at both of them.
“What is the meaning of this?? They havnt done anything in years! Why now??? I thought we astablidhrf peace!” Navi growled out
“W-We don’t know alpha.. b-but.. they left a note.. J-Joan she,..” Maddy stuttered, and then quack finished
“Joan was kidnapped!!”
There was silefne for a moment, Navi’s eyes quickly turned a dark shade of red, and then-
how it feels when you're reading a fic and a character you love is mischaracterized so horrendously to the point where it's not even them but everyone in the comments love it
