Till Death Do Us Part (Literally)
One shot
Featuring : Tooru Oikawa x F!Reader. GORE WARNING.
HAIKYU!! MASTERLIST
The Church bells rang with a harmonious melody.
But that was the exact opposite sound by the expressions of horror and screams of fear.
A murder had taken place, of a beautiful bride on her wedding day.
Taken away from her beloved husband -to- be.
By her so called Childhood Best Friend...
Tooru never believed in auspicious sutff like the groom not being allowed to see the bride before the wedding as it is considered bad omen, in fact he just said screw it and secretly slipped away from the groom's room, from the vigil eyes of Iwaizumi to check on you, his lovely bride.
while walking through the opulent hotel corridor he finally took some seconds and admired the lavish decorations and the intricate wall tapestries high on the ceiling.
amidst walking he felt a dreaded gut feeling of something that had terribly gone wrong, so he quickened his stride towards the bridal room where you were residing temporarily and didn't have the thought of knocking like a decent person would have and barged in with heavy breath and what he saw caused him to freeze in horror.
GORE WARNING AHEAD.
He saw Erika, your childhood bestfriend since you both were in diapers. straddling your hips as she was about to pluge the stolen bloodied cake knife from the hotel kitchen,
as if...
the previous 12 strikes werent enough already.
tooru dared to look at you and he felt his stomach lurch at the sight of you.
the sight of your bloodied neck which had so lovingly kissed the previous night before going to bed.
the one that your childhood best friend resented for having such a long slender neck like a swan.
The world narrowed to a single, impossible point: Erika's raised arm, the knife glinting wet and red under the chandelier light, your white wedding dress no longer pristine but a ruined canvas of crimson blooming outward like grotesque petals. Twelve strikes—Tooru counted them in the sick instant his mind could still form numbers—had turned the elegant bodice into something shredded and obscene, fabric clinging wetly to the deep gashes across your chest and stomach. Blood had pooled beneath you, thick and dark, seeping into the cream carpet in a slow, spreading halo. Your neck… gods, your neck. The long, graceful line he'd traced with his lips only last night was now a ragged mess, the final wound still oozing in sluggish pulses. Your eyes—those eyes that had always sparkled with quiet mischief when you teased him, stared blankly at the him, glassy, empty.
Your white wedding dress—once pristine silk and delicate lace, the very one you'd twirled in for him just hours ago with that shy, radiant smile—was now a grotesque canvas of crimson. The fabric clung wetly to your torso where Erika had driven the blade again and again, tearing through bodice and skin alike. Jagged rents exposed pale flesh turned raw and glistening, the wounds gaping like accusing mouths. Blood had pooled beneath you in thick, dark syrup, soaking into the plush carpet in a widening halo that crept toward Tooru's polished shoes. Your arms lay limp at your sides, fingers still curled as if reaching for something—someone—in your final moments, nails chipped and painted the soft pearl shade you'd chosen together.
Erika's hands were slick to the wrists, the knife trembling in her grip as fresh rivulets ran down the blade and dripped onto your ruined collarbone. Her face was a mask of something feral and broken—eyes wide, mascara streaking black rivers down her cheeks, lips parted in a soundless snarl. Strands of her hair stuck to the drying blood on her cheek like obscene decorations.
She hadn't even noticed him yet.
Tooru's breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. The charming, easy grin that usually curved his lips was gone, replaced by something hollow and glassy. His chocolate-brown eyes—usually sparkling with mischief or sharp calculation—were fixed on the ruin of you, pupils blown wide with shock. His perfect hair, swept back just so, had fallen forward in disarray from the frantic run down the hall.
For one endless second, the world narrowed to the wet rasp of Erika's breathing and the distant, mocking toll of the bells.
Then something inside him cracked.
"You…" His voice came out low, almost conversational lowkey unhinged, the way it did when he was plotting a devastating set on the court. But there was no playfulness now, only a cold, trembling edge. "What… did you do?"
Erika's head snapped up. Recognition flickered through the haze of madness, and for a heartbeat she looked almost like the girl who'd once braided your hair and shared secrets under blankets. Then her expression twisted again—jealousy, rage, triumph all at once.
"She took everything," Erika hissed, voice cracking. "She always took everything. You were supposed to be mine, Tooru. We were supposed to be—"
Tooru didn't let her finish.
He lunged.
Not with the calculated grace of a setter, but with raw, animal fury. His long fingers closed around Erika's wrist—the one holding the knife—and twisted hard. Bone cracked audibly. She screamed, the sound high and shattered, but he didn't stop. He wrenched the blade free, sending it skittering across the floor in a spray of red droplets. Erika clawed at him with her free hand, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek, but he barely flinched.
He shoved her off you with brutal force. She hit the vanity table hard, mirrors shattering in a glittering cascade around her. Glass sliced into her palms and knees as she scrambled to rise, but Tooru was already there.
He dropped to his knees beside you.
His hands—those clever hands that had once mapped every inch of you with reverence—hovered over the carnage of your chest. Blood soaked through his white dress shirt instantly, warm and sticky, staining the cuffs where he'd rolled them up earlier in casual elegance. He pressed his palms to the worst of the wounds, as if pressure alone could force life back into you.
"Hey… hey, cutie." he whispered, voice fracturing. "Come on. Open your eyes for me. You promised you'd walk down that aisle looking like the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Don't break your promises now."
Your head lolled slightly toward him. One eye was half-open, glassy and unseeing, the other swollen shut from a brutal blow Erika must have delivered earlier. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, staining your lips the color of crushed roses.
Tooru's fingers trembled as he brushed your hair back, smearing red across your forehead. "Iwa-chan's gonna kill me for sneaking in here," he tried to joke, but it came out choked, broken. "He's probably already looking for me. Yelling my name down the hall like always. 'Trashykawa!' Right?"
Nothing.
Your chest didn't rise.
The room was too quiet now. The bells had stopped.
Erika laughed—low, wet, delirious. "She's gone, Tooru. She's finally gone."
He didn't look at her. His gaze stayed locked on your face, memorizing every detail even as it slipped away: the faint freckles across your nose you'd always hated, the tiny scar on your chin from falling off your bike when you were eight, the way your lashes fluttered when you laughed at his stupid jokes.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the fallen knife.
Erika's laughter died.
"Tooru—"
He stood.
Blood dripped from his hands in steady patters. His shirt hung open at the collar, exposing the frantic rise and fall of his chest. The charming mask was gone entirely; what remained was something colder, sharper, more terrifying than any opponent had ever seen on the court.
"You think this fixes anything?" His voice was soft, almost gentle—the same tone he'd used when coaxing you to sleep after a long day. "You think taking her makes me yours?"
He stepped forward.
Erika backed away, slipping in the pooling blood, falling hard onto her back. She stared up at him, eyes wide with sudden fear.
Tooru crouched beside her, knife loose in his grip.
"You were my friend once," he said quietly. "You were her friend. And you destroyed that. For what? Jealousy? Because she had something you wanted?"
He tilted his head, the motion eerily reminiscent of his old teasing smirks, but empty now. Hollow.
"I don't forgive that."
The knife came down once—clean, precise, through her throat. Blood sprayed in a hot arc across his face and chest. Erika gurgled, hands scrabbling weakly at the wound, eyes bulging in shock.
He didn't flinch.
He twisted the blade once, then pulled it free.
She stilled.
Tooru stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, knife dripping at his side. Then he turned back to you.
He dropped the weapon and gathered you into his arms—careful, reverent, as if you might still feel it. Your head fell against his shoulder, blood matting his hair. He rocked you gently, the way he'd held you after nightmares, after losses, after everything.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into your hair. "I'm so sorry I wasn't fast enough. I should've… I should've known."
His rocking grew slower, more desperate, as if motion alone could keep time from moving forward. He pressed his lips to your temple, tasting copper and salt. "You always said I was dramatic," he whispered, a broken laugh escaping him. "Look at me now. Can't even stop shaking. Pathetic, right?"
Footsteps thundered down the hall—heavy, urgent.
"Tooru! Where the hell are you, you shitty—"
Iwaizumi burst through the door, still in his half-buttoned groom's vest, face flushed from running. He froze.
The room looked like a slaughterhouse.
You, lifeless in Tooru's arms.
Erika, sprawled in a spreading pool of her own blood.
And Tooru—covered in red, eyes distant, cradling what was left of his future like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
Iwaizumi's voice came out rough, broken. "Tooru… what happened?"
Tooru didn't look up.
He just kept rocking you, fingers stroking your cold cheek.
"She took her from me, Iwa-chan," he whispered.
His voice cracked on the next words, raw and small—the way it only ever did when no one else could hear.
"And I let her."
Iwaizumi took a single step forward, boots squelching in the blood-soaked carpet. His face drained of color, but his eyes—always steady, always furious—locked onto Tooru with something close to terror.
"Put her down, Oikawa."
Tooru's arms tightened. "No."
"Tooru." Iwaizumi's voice dropped lower, the growl he used on the court when someone was about to get hurt. "You need to let go. Now."
Tooru finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, pupils blown, but the spark that usually lived there—the competitive fire, the sly charm—was gone. Replaced by something vacant and endless.
"I didn't get to say goodbye properly," he said, almost conversationally. "She was supposed to tease me about my hair being perfect. She was supposed to laugh at how nervous I was. I didn't… I didn't even get to see her smile one last time."
Iwaizumi swallowed hard. He moved closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal. "She's gone, man. She's gone. You can't—"
Tooru's laugh was sudden, jagged. "Gone? Yeah. I can see that." His fingers dug into the ruined silk of your dress. "But if I let go, then it's real. And I can't… I can't do real right now, Iwa-chan. Not yet."
Iwaizumi reached out, hesitated, then placed a hand on Tooru's shoulder. Firm. Unyielding.
Tooru flinched like he'd been burned.
"Let. Go."
Tooru shook his head, rocking faster now. "No. No, no, no—she's cold. She's so cold. I have to warm her up. She always got cold feet. Remember? I'd put socks on her when she fell asleep on the couch. She hated cold feet."
His voice cracked higher, words tumbling faster. "I should've checked sooner. I should've ignored the stupid tradition. I should've—"
Iwaizumi's grip tightened. "Stop."
Tooru's breathing hitched. "I killed her too. Erika. I… I did that. Does that make me better? Worse? I don't know anymore. Everything's red. Everything's—"
Iwaizumi moved in one swift motion. He hooked his arms under Tooru's, prying them away from your body with brute strength. Tooru fought—wild, desperate, nails digging into Iwaizumi's forearms—but Iwaizumi was stronger, always had been when it mattered.
"No—let me—"
"You have to stop," Iwaizumi grunted, voice thick. "She's gone. You're hurting yourself. Look at your hands. Look."
Tooru's gaze dropped to where his fingers were smeared crimson, trembling uncontrollably. He stared at them like they belonged to someone else.
Iwaizumi pulled harder. Your body slipped from Tooru's grasp, settling gently back onto the bloodied carpet. Tooru made a sound—low, animal, broken—that ripped straight through Iwaizumi's chest.
He collapsed forward, hands scrabbling at empty air where you'd been. "Don't—don't take her—please—"
Iwaizumi caught him before he hit the floor fully, hauling him back against his chest. Tooru thrashed once, twice, then went limp, sobs tearing out of him in ugly, wrenching waves.
"Iwa-chan," he gasped between heaves. "Iwa-chan, I can't breathe. I can't—"
"I know," Iwaizumi said, voice cracking for the first time. He held on tighter, one hand fisted in Tooru's blood-matted hair. "I know. Just… breathe. I've got you."
Tooru curled into him like he was eight years old again, hiding from nightmares. "She was supposed to be my wife," he whispered. "We were supposed to… we were supposed to…"
The words dissolved into more sobs.
Iwaizumi didn't let go. Not when distant shouts echoed down the hall—guests, staff, security. Not when sirens began to wail far below. Not when the room filled with flashing lights and horrified faces.
He just held on.
Because if he let go, Tooru would shatter completely.
And Iwaizumi wasn't ready to lose both of them in one day.
The church bells outside kept ringing, cheerful and mocking.
Tooru laughed once—a hollow, broken sound.
"Bad omen, huh?" he said to no one in particular. "Guess you were right after all."
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in his life, the Grand King let himself lose. Completely. Irreversibly.
Because the one match he could never win… was already over.
