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⋆🍼! ꩜｡ˎˊ˗ BROCON (2) ─ oikawa tooru.

second part of BROCON ─ part 1 // part 2

SYPNOSIS. You and Oikawa Tooru are constant rivals.

Bickering in class, competing in grades, and clashing over your brother, Kageyama Tobio.

To Oikawa Tooru, you are a lifelong problem—his rival in class, his sharpest critic, and the fiercely protective older sister of his nemesis.

From Kitagawa Daiichi to Aoba Johsai, your relationship is built on mutual irritation

Somewhere along the way, Oikawa realizes how much he’s gotten used to your presence. Without any big confession, your rivalry slowly softens into something warmer.

PAIRING. kageyama's older sister!reader x oikawa toruu

GENRES. fluff, enemy to lovers?, slice of life, heavy brother complex, reader LOVES tobio, oikawa x reader rivalry, pinning

WORD COUNT. 3.1K

AUTHORS NOTE. ── ★ in this second part it focuses more on the relationship or lack there of between reader and oikawa tooru. its not exactly romancy, just a lil bit. anyways hope u enjoy it!

To Oikawa Tooru, you are a problem

Just like your brother.

Not a small one. Not an occasional inconvenience. But a recurring, deeply personal and pride-damaging problem

You have been one ever since Kitagawa Daiichi.

Back then, he’d thought you were just loud. Annoyingly principled. Always sitting two seats away, always sticking your nose where it didn’t belong—specifically, wherever your little brother was concerned.

Kageyama Tobio.

Just the name alone used to irritate him.

Not because of Tobio himself—no, Oikawa had plenty of thoughts about that—but because every single time he opened his mouth about the kid, you were there.

Like a guard dog or worse a lawyer.

“He’s creepy,” Oikawa had said once, carelessly, back in middle school.

You’d turned slowly in your seat. The smile on your face gone in an instant.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” you’d said. “He’s just focused.”

“He’s rude,” Oikawa shot back.

“You’re loud.”

“I’m charismatic.”

“You’re annoying.”

And something in the air had shifted and ever since then, it’s been like this.

Now you’re all at Aoba Johsai, older, supposedly wiser, and Oikawa thinks—briefly, foolishly—that maybe you’ve grown out of it.

You have not.

The first day of class hasn’t even started when you squint at him like he personally offended your bloodline.

“Why do you look like that?” you ask.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Is that how you greet an old friend?”

“You are not my friend,” you say flatly. “You’re a man who keeps dissing my brother.”

Ah. There it is.

Oikawa hates it.

Oikawa Tooru has always been good at reading people.

It’s one of his strengths—right up there with his sets, his serves, his smile. He knows when someone is impressed, intimidated, infatuated. He knows when they’re lying, when they’re posturing, when they’re desperate for his attention.

Which is why you annoy him so deeply, because you never look at him the way other people do.

You look at him like he’s a problem.

It’s infuriating.

Your rivalry is famous. You snipe at him in class then he fires back. You outscore him on exams and make sure he knows. He brags louder about volleyball just to see your eyebrow twitch. You call him narcissistic. He calls you scary.

People expect it now. Iwaizumi sighs the moment you open your mouth. Classmates brace themselves when exam results come back.

One time a classmate asked if you were exes who had a bad breakup and your eyebrows immediately twitched.

“I would rather eat chalk than date him,” you announce once, to a group of stunned classmates. Loud enough for Oikawa to hear.

Oikawa laughs too loudly. “Please, like anyone would want to date you.”

Iwaizumi pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to oikawa. “Why are you like this?”

Oikawa stays silent and just scoffs at him, because he doesn't know either.

If Oikawa lives for volleyball.

You live to beat him academically and mentally.

Every test, every paper—you always score higher. Always with that calm little tilt of your page, that sweet, lethal smile.

“Huh,” you’d said once, tapping your score. “Turns out the best setter is only knowledgeable about volleyball.”

He’d nearly torn the paper in half.

Every day, you made it your personal mission to comment on his character—as if you knew him better than everyone else.

Funny enough, you did.

You never criticized his skills. Never his sets, his serves, his precision. You went for him instead.

“You’re so dramatic,” you’d say, unimpressed, as he grandly complained about practice. “You love attention too much,” when girls crowded his desk.

“You pretend you’re confident, but you hate losing more than anyone here,” you added once, almost offhand.

That one stuck.

He laughed it off, of course—wide grin, easy charm. “Wow, profiling me now?”

You shrugged. “You make it obvious.”

And that was the problem.

You saw the cracks of his well curated character then poked at them, teased them, named them, like you weren’t afraid they’d bite back.

Most people admired Oikawa Tooru from a safe distance. They liked the version of him that was polished, impressive, untouchable. You interacted with him like he was just… a person. An irritating one, sure—but real.

You called him out when he sulked. When he overcompensated. When he tried too hard to be admired instead of understood.

“You’re exhausting,” you told him once, as he bragged for the third time that day.

He tells himself it’s annoying.

He tells himself that you’re just doing all this for your brother.

And maybe that’s why it bothers him so much.

Because the way you love Kageyama Tobio is… intense, loud, and unapologetic. You defend him like the world is constantly out to misunderstand him.

You cheer for him like he’s already perfect.

Oikawa doesn’t miss things like that.

He notices the way you straighten whenever Tobio’s name comes up. The way your voice sharpens, protective and sure. The way you never hesitate.

He wonders, sometimes, what that kind of certainty feels like.

Because there was a time—before he was Oikawa Tooru, before the pretty setter, before the praise—when he wanted that too.

Someone who would stand up without asking whether he deserved it yet.

He hates that thought.

He hates that you make him think it.

Still, every day follows the same rhythm.

You trade jabs. You roll your eyes at him. You one-up him. You glare when he talks about your brother.

And Oikawa… looks for it.

To him your voice has become part of his day.

Your arguments are timed like drills. Your insults hit closer than anyone else’s because you actually see him. That when you tilt your exam paper so he can see your score—again—his chest tightens in annoyance according to him.

And then, one week, you’re gone.

At first, Oikawa doesn’t notice.

Or rather—he notices, but dismisses it.

Your seat is empty. Whatever. You’re probably sick. Or busy. Or plotting something deeply annoying.

By day two, the classroom feels… off.

Too quiet.

No sharp comments when he brags. No dry muttering from your desk. No satisfied smile when he trips over a word during English.

Iwaizumi notices before he does.

“Where’s y/n?” he asks casually.

Oikawa scoffs. “How should I know?”

But his eyes flick to your seat anyway.

Empty.

Iwaizumi notices. Of course he does.

“You keep staring,” he says flatly.

Oikawa scoffs. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“…Shut up.”

By day four, the feeling settles in his chest like static.

It’s irritating, distracting, and just wrong.

He catches himself thinking, She’d hate this assignment, during class. Imagining what insult you’d throw at him if you saw his serve that day. Wondering—annoyingly—if you’re eating properly. Sleeping enough.

It pisses him off.

He wants to fight with you.

He wants you to call him annoying. He wants to argue about grades. He wants you to snap at him for mentioning Kageyama.

The realization hits him sideways.

He misses you.

It’s disgusting.

He hates it.

When Iwaizumi finally mentions it—“Track meet, I think. She’ll be gone all week.”—the relief hits Oikawa so hard it almost makes him dizzy.

Track.

Of course.

Just like him, you had your own obsession.

He should’ve known. You were always like that—laser-focused, stubborn, relentless in pursuit of whatever you set your mind on. The kind of person who didn’t half-commit, who didn’t dabble. When you cared about something, you gave it your whole spine, your whole breath, your whole future.

He imagines you on the track the way he knows himself on the court—counting steps, measuring pace, chasing a fraction of a second like it’s the difference between being seen and being forgotten. He can almost hear the way you’d scoff at exhaustion, the way you’d push through anyway.

Just like Tobio, he thinks before he can stop himself.

And maybe that’s why it gets under his skin.

Because he understands obsession. He understands loving something so much it rewires you. He understands choosing one thing and letting it define you, even when it hurts.

The classroom feels emptier without you, and now he knows why.

It isn’t just the lack of arguments. It’s the absence of someone who looks at him without illusion. Someone who challenges him without trying to replace him. Someone who exists outside of his orbit entirely—and still manages to matter.

Aoba Johsai wins a practice match that week. Oikawa plays well. Better than usual, even.

And still, when the gym empties, he finds himself thinking that you’d have something to say about the way he looks creepy on court, about how he lives for the screaming girls watching volleyball just for him.

He hates that he wants to hear it.

When you finally come back, it’s like the room exhales.

You look tired. Happy. There’s a faint bruise on your knee, your bag slung over one shoulder.

“Tooru,” you say, flat as ever. “You look loud today.”

Relief hits him so hard it almost makes him giddy.

“Oh?” he fires back automatically. “Did you miss me?”

You snort. “In your dreams.”

And there it is.

The rhythm returns.

Oikawa leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the paused screen like it personally offended him. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“Heard you placed,” he says finally. Casual. Too casual. “Congrats.”

You squint at him, immediately suspicious. “…Wow. Was that genuine? Should I frame this moment?”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t get weird. I’m just stating a fact.”

“Well,” you hum, leaning closer with a grin that already spells trouble, “you know me. Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the great king, right?”

The reaction is instant.

His head snaps toward you. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh?” you widen your eyes innocently. “But I thought you liked it. Hinata Shoyo from Karasuno seemed very impressed with you when Tobio told him about your stories together.”

“I hate that nickname,” he hisses.

You beam. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Iwaizumi sighs from the side. “Why do you keep provoking him?”

You reply sweetly. “Keeps him humble.”

Oikawa scoffs. “Please. Coming from someone whose entire personality is ‘annoying sister of Karasuno’s setter.’”

You gasp, offended. “Excuse you. I’m academically superior annoying sister of Karasuno’s setter.”

He smirks. “Right. So what, you’re good at exams and being insufferable?”

You lean back, unfazed. “Funny how you’re supposedly the best setter in Miyagi, but somehow you keep losing to my family. On the court, in grades—”

“Don’t start,” he groans.

“Oh, I will,” you sing. “It’s almost impressive how consistent it is.”

Oikawa doesn’t argue this time.

In the following week people congratulated you. You shrug it off like it’s nothing.

Oikawa watches you laugh, animated, alive in a way volleyball makes him feel alive.

And suddenly, it makes sense.

Your devotion. Your stubbornness. Your intensity.

You love fiercely. Completely. Whether it’s track, or your brother, or—apparently—antagonizing him.

The way you never waver, made him see you in a new light.

The next time you insult him, he catches himself smiling a little wider.

The next time you beat him on a test, it doesn’t sting as much.

Because somewhere along the line, Oikawa Tooru—who never lacked attention, never lacked admirers—realized he only wanted it from one girl.

Of course Oikawa doesn’t confess.

That would require emotional maturity, timing, and dignity—three things he refuses to bring to the table.

Instead, he doubles down.

If you’re back, if the rhythm is restored, then he will pretend the hollow week never happened. He’ll pretend he didn’t count the days. Pretend he didn’t ask—casually, too casually—where you’d gone. Pretend the classroom didn’t feel wrong without you in it.

So he does what he does best.

He provokes you.

“You’re late,” he says one morning, leaning back in his chair the moment you slide into your seat.

You blink at him. “I’m on time.”

“For you, that’s late.”

You scoff. “Wow. Obsessed much?”

He grins, easy and practiced. “Please. If I were obsessed, you’d know.”

You roll your eyes, but he catches it—the way your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile.

Annoying.

He hates how much he likes that.

Your fights become sharper after that. More frequent but less about Tobio, strangely. Now it’s about everything—about what genre of music is better, about who used the last worksheet, about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

And Oikawa notices he’s much more careful with you now.

Not in the obvious way. Not in a way anyone else would catch.

But he doesn’t cross certain lines. He watches your face when he jokes. He pulls back if your eyes harden instead of spark. He never mentions your brother the way he used to.

Not since he saw the way your shoulders tense.

He tells himself its strategy.

It’s not.

It’s because he likes the way you look when you’re arguing for fun, not for blood.

The turning point comes quietly.

It’s raining. Of course it is—life loves symbolism when Oikawa is emotionally unprepared.

You’re alone in the hallway after practice, stretching near the lockers, hair damp, expression tired in a way that has nothing to do with school.

He almost walks past you.

Almost.

“You know,” he starts, stopping a few steps away, eyes on the window, rain streaking down the glass, “you’re really annoying when you’re not around.”

You froze for a second and then… You laugh. Actually laugh.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He huffs. “Don’t get used to it.”

You stretch, then sling your bag over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Tooru.”

He watches you walk away.

And it hits him then—sharp and undeniable.

He doesn’t just want your attention.

He wants your presence.

The next weeks are… different.

The fights soften around the edges. There’s more laughter now, less bite. You still one-up him on exams. He still complains loudly. But sometimes your arguments trail off into shared sarcasm, into glances that linger half a second too long.

Iwaizumi notices.

Again.

“You’re smiling at her,” he says one day.

Oikawa scoffs. “I smile at everyone.”

“You smile differently at her.”

“…Shut up.”

Then comes the InterHigh Preliminary match.

Aoba Johsai versus Karasuno.

And there you are—in the stands, loud as ever.

But this time, when you scream, it’s not for him.

It’s for your brother.

“Tobio-chan! NICE SET!”

The gym roars. Kageyama flushes red. You look like you might burst with pride.

And Oikawa—

Oikawa notices you immediately.

He watches the way your joy is unfiltered. The way your love is fearless. The way you don’t hold back, not even for a second.

And something settles in his chest.

He wants to be loved like that.

Not because he’s impressive. Not because he wins.

But because he exists.

After the match, you’re outside. He finds you there, arms crossed, expression bright despite Karasuno’s loss.

“Your brother’s good,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “That better not be sarcasm.”

“It’s not.”

Another pause.

“…You know,” you say slowly, “you didn’t annoy me today.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said.”

That’s it.

That’s the moment he stops running from it.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “If I asked you out—”

You turn fully toward him.

“—would you fight me about it first?”

You stare.

Then you grin.

“Obviously.”

Oikawa laughs, real and unguarded.

Yeah. This was it. This is exactly it.

Nothing happens.

Not officially. Not dramatically. There’s no confession echoing down the hallway, no sudden hand-holding, no moment that people can point to and say, that’s when it changed.

Because on the surface?

Everything stays the same.

You still fight.

Every exam, every assignment—every time papers are handed back, Oikawa already knows what’s coming. He doesn’t even look at his score first anymore. He looks at yours.

Higher.

Again.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You tilt your paper just enough for him to see. “Skill issue.”

When Karasuno is mentioned, it’s even worse.

Someone brings up Kageyama in passing and you’re already sitting up straighter, eyes sharp.

“Oh? Your brother again?” Oikawa says, smirking. “Doesn’t he ever stop being stupid?”

You slam your pen down. “Say that again.”

“Nope.”

And just like that something has shifted.

Oikawa doesn’t cross the line anymore. The jokes stop just short of where they used to cut. He watches your face more carefully now, gauging when you’re having fun and when you’re genuinely pissed.

And you—annoyingly—notice.

You notice when he deflects instead of escalating. When he rolls his eyes instead of pushing. When he glances at you first when Karasuno is mentioned, like he’s checking something.

Like he’s checking you.

The Aoba Johsai team notices too.

It starts small.

Makki leans over during practice, eyes narrowed. “Why does Oikawa look… softer?”

“Might be sick,” Matsukawa offers.

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer. He’s watching the way Oikawa’s attention keeps drifting—not to the court, not to the ball, but to the stands where you sometimes sit, arms crossed, expression fierce.

Later, during a break, you walk past the gym doors and Oikawa’s eyes follow you without thinking.

Makki whistles. “Oh.”

Oikawa snaps back to reality. “What.”

“That,” Makki says. “That was not subtle.”

“I was looking out for a threat,” Oikawa replies automatically.

Matsukawa snorts. “Since when is she a threat?”

Iwaizumi deadpans, “Since forever.”

The biggest tell comes during an exam week.

Everyone’s exhausted. Tempers are short. Oikawa’s already bracing himself for the usual smug commentary when you sit down beside him, tapping your pencil.

“I’m beating you again,” you say casually.

He smiles without thinking. “Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try.”

You pause.

Just for a second.

Then you scoff. “Wow. So you’ve accepted defeat?”

“In this one specific area,” he says grandly. “Yes.”

Classmates, sitting behind him, chokes.

“Did he just—compliment her?”

Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa like he’s betrayed everything he stands for.

The fights are still there.

Loud. Petty. Competitive.

But now there’s laughter threaded through them. A familiarity that doesn’t feel hostile anymore—more like sparring partners who know exactly where the other stands.

And Oikawa realizes something else, too.

He doesn’t dread losing to you.

He looks forward to it.

Because after every loss comes your grin. Your teasing. Your presence.

And when Karasuno comes up, when Kageyama’s name is said, he catches himself watching you first—gauging your reaction, gauging how fiercely you’ll defend him.

There’s admiration there. Undeniable.

One evening, after practice, Iwaizumi finally says it.

“You’re in love with her.”

Oikawa scoffs immediately. “I am absolutely not.”

“You stop when she looks hurt.”

“That’s called manners.”

“You missed her when she was gone.”

“…Coincidence.”

“You haven’t called Kageyama ‘King of the Court’ in months.”

“I’ve… matured.”

“I haven’t even said her name and you already know who I'm talking about.”

Oikawa opens his mouth.