PLEASE
— if love was a volleyball, yū would dive headfirst into cement just for the chance to set it to you.
nishinoya yū x f!reader
c: fluff!! honorifics are used.
i went out to meet the pope yesterday, sorry everyone 😔
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there are many things in this world nishinoya yū is willing to throw his life away for:
volleyball.
pudding cups.
you.
and unfortunately for him (and for everyone else within a fifty-meter radius), the third one has begun to consume him with the ferocity of a raccoon that just spotted an open trash can.
“please,” he says, clutching at kiyoko’s sleeve with both hands like a man sentenced to wander the desert without water. “please tell y/n to look at me. just once. one second. half a second. i’ll take a quarter second if that’s all she can spare. my heart is a shriveled raisin, kiyoko-san, i’m begging you.”
kiyoko, saintly, patient kiyoko, simply pats his head like he’s a small, shaking dog left out in the rain, then she shrugs him off and keeps walking.
he collapses. not figuratively. his knees hit the gym floor with a crack, palms smacking flat like he’s been tackled by invisible forces. it is not unlike a greek tragedy—if greek tragedies starred short, loud liberos with way too much gel in their hair.
“unnoticed!” he cries, arms thrown wide, as if the heavens might swoop down and deliver mercy in the form of your gaze. “ignored! abandoned on the cruel battlefield of love!”
tanaka, in the corner, is nodding furiously, clearly supportive of his comrade’s downfall, but also munching on a protein bar like this is just another monday.
the thing is—every time you walk by, nishinoya feels his soul try to crawl out of his body. it’s embarrassing. truly. his chest seizes, his legs wobble, and he becomes ninety percent volume, ten percent tragic poetry. you could say "hi" and he would pen a six-page essay on the revolutionary nature of your voice.
and yet, he cannot help it. he is devoted, he is anchored, he is entirely and catastrophically yours.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
when you finally walk into the gym that day, carrying nothing but your usual smile (which, to him, has the radiance of one thousand suns and also possibly cures diseases), nishinoya immediately launches into motion.
“she’s here,” he whispers, crouched low behind the volleyball cart, like a wild animal preparing to spring. “everyone remain calm.”
no one was panicking except him.
he rises—dramatically, of course—like a villain from a saturday morning cartoon, only to stumble and nearly trip on the stray ball yamamoto left lying around. it’s fine. he plays it off. it’s all part of the act.
“y/n-chan!” he blurts, far too loud, waving so hard his entire arm looks detachable. “welcome to our humble gymnasium! the air is fresher now that you’ve graced us with your presence!”
you blink. smile. wave back—just a tiny, normal wave. to anyone else, it would be insignificant. to him, it is the equivalent of a divine blessing.
he clutches his chest, dropping to his knees for the second time in the span of ten minutes. “she noticed me. i have been seen. this is the pinnacle of existence. bury me here on this volleyball court, i’ve peaked.”
hinata pops up, “noya-san, you can’t just die here, we have practice.”
nishinoya, gripping hinata’s shoulders, “don’t you understand? she waved. she WAVED.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
later, he tries to impress you with his dives. which, to be fair, are very good. however, his definition of “impress” involves throwing himself at the floor like it owes him money every time the ball so much as drifts within his zip code.
“noya-san, stop sacrificing your body,” daichi groans, clearly two seconds away from banning you from practice just to keep the libero alive.
“i must!” nishinoya yells, springing back to his feet with gravel in his hair. “for y/n, i will sacrifice not only my body, but my kneecaps, my spine, my ancestors’ kneecaps—”
“please stop talking.”
the truth is, he doesn’t actually need to prove anything. you already think he’s funny. you already think he’s sweet. but oh, if you so much as glance in his direction while he’s on the court, he turns into a one-man broadway show about the triumph of the human spirit.
at one point, he dives so hard he slides halfway across the gym floor, stops at your feet, and just looks up at you like a knight who’s found his holy grail.
“did i scare you?” he asks, breathless, eyes wide and shining. “don’t be scared. i’m yours. forever. in life and death. probably the afterlife too. ghosts can play volleyball, right?”
you laugh. it’s a sound that melts every bone in his body into hot soup.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
of course, his antics don’t stop there. when you bring water for the team, he acts like you’ve presented him with an ancient relic that grants eternal youth.
“this—this bottle,” he whispers, staring at the condensation like it’s liquid gold. “from your hands to mine… i’ll never wash it again.”
“please don’t do that,” suga mutters, already resigned.
he’s dramatic, yes. over the top, obviously. but in between the kneeling and the shouting and the occasional attempts at serenading you with a broom like it’s a guitar, there are quiet moments too. when you smile at him for real, not the quick polite kind but the one that crinkles your eyes, he softens.
you say his name and it rolls around his head for hours afterward, like the most beautiful curse he’s ever been blessed to suffer under. he’d never admit it out loud (he totally would), but he writes it in his notebook with tiny hearts around it.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
eventually, you catch him staring. (to be fair, he’s always staring, but this time you actually notice.)
“noya?” you ask, tilting your head, curious.
and oh, he nearly combusts. he straightens up, nearly salutes, blurts out: “yes, my liege?”
“you’re so dramatic,” you laugh.
he freezes. you’re laughing. because of him. the sound fills every empty space inside his ribcage, sticks to his lungs, rewires his brain chemistry.
“dramatic?” he repeats, blinking fast. “no, no, no—this is devotion. this is—this is me, living with my entire chest cavity exposed! if you told me to, i’d swim across an ocean, i’d climb mount everest, i’d—”
“i’d be happy if you just sat down next to me,” you interrupt.
it’s so simple. so gentle. he doesn’t even know what to do with it. he sits. immediately. so fast it’s like you’ve pulled his puppet strings.
“done,” he says, softer now, grinning so wide it might split his face.
and for once, he doesn’t need to collapse in tears, or beg kiyoko for a miracle, or fling himself across the gym floor like a torpedo. because you’re there. you’re smiling at him. and that’s more than enough.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and so nishinoya yū, the libero with knees made of steel and a heart made entirely of glitter, learns something new: sometimes, devotion isn’t about how loudly you can shout it. sometimes, it’s about how quietly you can sit beside someone and still feel like the luckiest man alive.
though, to be fair, he still shouts about it later. loudly. very loudly.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: i’m ngl, i want to work
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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
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