1. he’d chase volleyball until his knees gave out.

2. he’d chase you harder.

it’s been years, and somehow, despite the fame, the international travel, the screaming fans who wave banners with his name on them, oikawa’s still most famous for one thing: being your hopelessly devoted man.

you didn’t even notice it at first—how in every post-match interview he’d slip your name in, or how he’d somehow always redirect questions about his performance back to you.

“the real mvp? my soon-to-be wife, y/n. she woke me up today.”

“oh, the serve? yeah, y/n made me coffee this morning. that’s why it landed.”

“my inspiration? it’s y/n. always y/n. i breathe because of y/n.”

he never shuts up about you. and by the third year in argentina, it becomes a meme. twitter edits, tiktok compilations, instagram fanpages—everyone calls him “y/n’s husband.” he’s been owned publicly, globally, shamelessly.

and he loves it, this guy thrives on it.

when his teammates tease him, he doesn’t even flinch. one training session, a teammate says, “oikawa, do you ever shut up about her?” and oikawa just deadpans:

“no. i won’t. i can’t. not when she exists.”

they groan. you laugh. he’s dead serious.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by now, he’s planning something. you know, because he’s been acting weirder than usual. you catch him on the balcony at 2am, muttering to himself like a mad scientist.

“ok, fireworks… maybe a choir? a drone show spelling her name? too small. too plain. she deserves the universe.”

when you clear your throat behind him, he jumps, clutches his chest like an old man, and blurts, “y/n, hi, go back to sleep! i wasn’t—uh—googling how many doves it takes to spell ‘will you marry me’ in the sky, nope! haha which crazy guy would do that?! not me, definitely not..”

spoiler: he was.

oikawa tōru, pro volleyball star, heartthrob, setter of the club atlético san juan… is planning a marriage proposal so extravagant the olympics look humble in comparison.

he can’t help himself. because no matter how many years you’ve stood by him—through the brutal training schedules, through the matches that left him broken and limping, through the interviews where he cried—you chose him. and he’s never stopped being afraid that one day, you’ll realize you could’ve had someone better, someone less dramatic, someone less obsessed.

so he tries to prove himself every day. little things: bento boxes he makes (and burns) for you, massages after long days, insisting you take the bigger pillow, keeping your photo as his phone wallpaper since 2015.

his yearning hasn’t faded. if anything, it’s worse now that you’ve proven you’ll stay.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the day of the proposal arrives.

his plan? simple (in his deranged mind): a fancy dinner in buenos aires, followed by a private boat ride, then fireworks spelling “marry me, y/n.” he even hired a band to play your favorite song.

except.

everything goes wrong.

first, it rains. torrential downpour. the fireworks crew cancels. the band gets stuck in traffic. the boat nearly tips over because the captain misjudged oikawa’s weight (he insisted on bringing three suitcases of rose petals, don’t ask).

you’re sitting in the drenched boat, laughing so hard you can’t breathe, while oikawa is panicking. he’s in a soaked suit, clutching a box in his pocket, muttering, “this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, it was supposed to be perfect—”

and then he looks at you. really looks. hair wet, mascara smudged, grinning like he hung the moon just for you.

and he breaks.

the ring box slips from his pocket as he blurts it out, raw and unpolished:

“i can’t wait anymore. i was supposed to give you the grandest proposal the world’s ever seen, because you deserve the universe, but y/n—god, i’m hopelessly in love with you. i’ve been in love with you since i was sixteen, and it’s gotten worse every single year. i can’t breathe without you, i don’t want to breathe without you. i don’t care if there’s no fireworks, no music, no perfect night. just—just marry me. marry me because i’m yours, i’ve always been yours, i’ll die yours. i love you, i've been loving you for a long time and i always will; let me take care of you, hold you, cherish you. i'm oikawa tōru, am made to love you and only you; i will hopelessly and happily dedicate my life, my soul, and my entire being to you; i'll be over the moon to be able to call you my beloved wife.”

he’s crying. you’re crying. the boat captain is awkwardly looking away, trying not to intrude on whatever unhinged romantic soap opera he just got roped into.

you laugh through your tears and nod. “of course i’ll marry you, idiot. and i love you too, tōru, you're all i could every ask for. how come i got such a perfect man in my life? i'm the luckiest woman in every universe.”

and oikawa sobs. loud, messy, ugly sobs. he clutches you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish, kisses your soaked cheeks, whispers thank you a thousand times into your skin.

the ring doesn’t even slide on properly because your fingers are wet, but he doesn’t care. he’s shaking, giggling, crying all at once, whispering, “i’m going to introduce myself as your husband in every interview from now on. they’ll all know.”

and you believe him.

because oikawa tōru may have ruined his extravagant plan, but he gave you the most oikawa proposal possible: chaotic, heartfelt, too much, and utterly devoted.

he’ll never stop yearning. never stop loving. never stop being “y/n’s husband.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: where are men like this, did they go extinct?

© 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˵)

you don’t notice at first how often his eyes are on you. it’s subtle in the beginning—oikawa slouching lazily in his seat, spinning a pen between his fingers, pretending to half-listen to the teacher while his gaze always, always drifts to where you sit. you’re quiet, never raising your hand, always scribbling neat notes with a calm patience that he envies. to everyone else, you’re background noise. to him, you’re the loudest presence in the room.

oikawa’s life is a constant balancing act. practice, late-night serves until his shoulder screams, grades that must stay perfect because he refuses to be “just” an athlete. he laughs and smiles for the world, but behind closed doors, his apartment desk is stacked with practice tests and pain-relief patches. it’s exhausting—except for the stolen moments he catches of you. sometimes, when he picks up his phone late at night; staring at his screen, it’s not a teammate or fangirl. it’s a photo he secretly snapped of you earlier, tucked into his gallery like a talisman against loneliness.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

your life, on the other hand, is… quiet. you study, you help your family with small chores, you go home after school without lingering. no clubs, no sports, no loud group of friends. and yet somehow, that simplicity makes you magnetic. the few times oikawa hears your laugh, it haunts him for days.

it’s on one of those long afternoons in third year, sun slanting into the classroom while everyone else files out for lunch, that his mind drifts back—inevitably—to the moment it started for him.

you were standing near the gym hallway in your first year, distracted, a book hugged to your chest. the volleyball came fast, a blur of white and green hurtling toward you. you hadn’t even seen it—oikawa did. without thinking, he’d sprinted across the floor, hand smacking the ball away just before it hit you.

the adrenaline crashed into his veins like fire. you blinked up at him, startled, and then—softly, genuinely—you said, “thank you.” just two words. but your voice cracked through him like lightning.

his brain fried instantly. “ah—n-no problem—” he stammered, cheeks flaming, words tripping over themselves. his vision swam. you smiled at him, sweet and unguarded, and the world tilted. the next second, he collapsed, ears ringing, face redder than the sunset.

“idiot,” iwaizumi muttered, hauling him back to his feet. “she just thanked you, not proposed marriage.”

but to oikawa, it may as well have been the same thing. that single “thank you” carved itself into his chest, and he’s never escaped it.

the memory dissolves, replaced again with the present—your head bent over your notebook, sunlight catching on your hair. he wonders if you even remember that day. to him, it was revelation. to you, maybe just a passing moment. believe me when i say this, it wasn't.

he can’t let that be all. not anymore.

so he starts pushing. smiling wider, leaning over your desk to comment on your neat handwriting, brushing “accidentally” against your shoulder when you’re walking side by side. he clings. he lingers. he jokes, he flatters, he fills the quiet you keep around yourself with noise until you look at him—really look at him—and his lungs feel like they’ve learned how to breathe again.

and the more you look, the more something stirs in you, too. you’d noticed, vaguely, in second year, how dramatic oikawa could be. how he flustered so easily when you’d spoken to him. you brushed it off as him just being… oikawa. but now, in third year, the persistence wears at you. the way he never lets your attention slip far from him. the way he seems to soften whenever you’re near.

you start to like it even more. reluctantly, at first. then now more freely then you've ever thought.

but oikawa doesn’t know that. all he knows is that time is running out—graduation looms. and the thought of you slipping through his fingers, walking out of his life forever, is unbearable.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

one evening after practice, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, hands trembling from nerves, he pulls drags you to the school rooftop. the door clicks shut behind you.

“listen,” he says, but his voice cracks. his usual smooth, charming tone is gone—shattered by urgency. “i can’t—I can’t keep pretending, okay? i’ve liked you since first year. no, not liked—” he laughs, choked and breathless— “loved, who cares about those stupid relationship rules you see these days; as long as you like me, i'll love you and i'll teach you how to love me. every day, every single day, you’re all i think about. you don’t even notice half the time, and i—i’m going insane wanting you to. i need you to.”

his knees hit the floor. he doesn’t even register it at first—only that he has to be lower, closer, desperate enough to match the way his heart claws out of his chest.

“please,” he begs, clutching at the fabric of your sleeve like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. “i don’t care if it’s pathetic. i don’t care if you laugh at me. just—don’t ignore me. don’t leave me. i’ll do anything—be anything—if it means i get to stay by your side. i need you. i need you like air, like blood in my veins. i’m begging you—don’t tell me no.”

his forehead presses to your hand. his shoulders shake. small, embarrassed tears sting his lashes, but he doesn’t stop talking, words spilling out faster, more desperate.

“say something. tell me you feel the same. tell me i’m not insane for loving you this much. if you don’t, i swear, i—i won’t survive it. i’m so tired of dreaming about you and waking up alone. please… please just give me a chance.”

and there it is—the most fragile, human version of oikawa you’ve ever seen. stripped of bravado, trembling with the weight of his own heart.

you kneel down, hands cupping his face, and smile through your own tears. “you don’t have to beg, tōru. i’ve liked you for a while too. i was just… waiting, i was going to confess at graduation if you weren't making a move.”

he goes silent. utterly, impossibly silent. then he exhales a laugh that turns into a sob, collapses into your arms, and clings like he’ll never let go.

oh man, he cups your face so gently—like you'll shatter with one wrong move—as he softly puts his lips on yours; his face looks like it's been vandalized by red paint and so does yours. both you have melted into the kiss, his hands going down from your shoulder and stopping at your waist, holding you like a prized possession—maybe even more than that—like you might disappear if he ever takes his hands off of you; your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders.

for once, he doesn’t care who wins, who loses, who’s better, who’s watching. all he cares about is that you said yes—and he’s never letting that go. you don't have a choice anyway.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next morning, you wake up to the faint vibration of your phone. you squint at the brightness, still groggy, and see your notifications flooded.

oikawa tōru has texted you… thirty-seven times.

most of them are variations of:

“good morning, my pretty girl 🩵”

“did you sleep well? were you warm? were you thinking about me? did you dream about me?”

“i only dreamed about you. like literally. only you. in 4k.”

“please send me a picture of your hand holding your toothbrush. i miss you.”

you stare at your phone, speechless, and then laugh so hard you almost drop it on your face.

y/n my wife: “you’re insane.”

tōru<3: “i’m insane for you, sweetheart.”

y/n my wife: “you don’t need to text me about every thought that pops into your head.”

tōru<3: “then what’s the point of having thoughts?”

you sigh, still smiling.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by the time you get to school, you find him waiting at the gate. not just waiting—leaning dramatically against the pillar, hair perfectly styled, his bag slung over one shoulder like he’s shooting for a romance manga cover. girls passing by are whispering and giggling, but he doesn’t care; instead, he's wearing a frown like he's some kind of delinquent a handsome one at that with a face saying ‘i have a wife.’ the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up.

“there she is,” he breathes, like he’s been holding his lungs hostage until you showed up. he runs up to you, picking you up and twirling you like a disney princess. “atta girl, you're so gorgeous this early.”

“tōru, you didn’t have to wait for me.” you try to keep your voice even as he carefully puts you down, but your cheeks betray you.

“yes i did,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “do you know how unbearable it is to walk to class without you beside me? it feels like—like someone’s stolen half of me. do you want me to die of loneliness this early in the morning?”

“you’re being dramatic.”

“i’m being truthful,” he insists, grabbing your hand without hesitation but not before snatching your bag. his fingers lace between yours like he’s been rehearsing it his whole life.

‘she's so pretty, prettier than every pretty thing in the universe combined.’

in class, he sits next to you, shoulders brushing; he's as red as a tomato, writing your name or tōru loves y/n in the margins of his notebook when the teacher isn’t looking. he even doodles little hearts around it, and when you notice, he grins like a cat caught stealing cream.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

at lunch, iwaizumi practically drags him off you so you can breathe. “crappykawa, you’re smothering her.”

“she likes it!” oikawa argues, turning his head so fast to look at you. “you like it, right?”

your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. oikawa is staring at you like the universe is balanced precariously on your next word.

“…i don’t hate it,” you admit, cheeks hot.

he slams his hands on the table in triumph. “SEE?!”

iwaizumi groans, muttering something about how you’ve just doomed humanity, but oikawa doesn’t care. he’s glowing.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

after classes, he insists on walking you home. every five steps, he finds a new excuse to touch you—fixing your hair, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeve, squeezing your hand tighter whenever someone walks too close. at one point, he even says, “i hope you know you’re never getting rid of me. ever. i’m like gum on your shoe. or… no, something more romantic. like a tattoo. yes. i’m your tattoo.”

you laugh so hard you almost trip, but he catches you, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s second nature. his voice drops low, almost trembling: “don’t laugh too much, or i’ll combust. i swear, you’re too much for me.”

and in that moment, you realize—this isn’t just a boy with a crush. this is oikawa tōru, star setter, smart, dramatic, yours. and he’s not holding back anymore.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: I JUST LOVE MEN WHO YEARN

© 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˵)

the first thing anyone notices isn’t the sound.

it’s the look.

that starry-eyed, knees-buckling, soul-leaving-his-body look that oikawa tōru gets whenever you so much as breathe in his general direction. it’s the same expression people get when they see a surprise puppy, or a limited-edition dessert, or the last seat on a packed train. reverent. fragile. deeply unserious.

you’re just standing in the kitchen.

barefoot. hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing one of his old shirts that you stole years ago and never returned because he practically framed it as a historical artifact once it touched your skin. you’re humming, quietly, off-key, because you always do that when you’re content and unaware of being perceived.

oikawa is leaning against the counter like a man struck by divine intervention.

he presses a hand to his chest.

“i married you,” he says, voice trembling with the gravity of a man realizing he won the lottery and ate the ticket just to be sure no one else could claim it. “i actually married you.”

you turn, smiling soft and a little sleepy, eyes warm in that way that makes his brain short-circuit like someone poured tea directly onto the motherboard.

“you’ve been married to me for four years,” you say gently. “this isn’t new information.”

“it renews itself,” he insists. “like interest. compounding. daily.”

he crosses the kitchen in three dramatic steps and cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if he’s afraid you might evaporate if he doesn’t keep contact. his forehead drops to yours, eyes closing.

“you’re real,” he whispers. then, quieter, like a secret meant only for the universe, “thank god.”

you laugh, the small breathy kind that slips out before you can stop it, and his grip tightens by a fraction. not painful. never that. just enough to anchor.

“what brought this on?” you ask.

“you existed within my line of sight.”

“ah,” you nod seriously. “understandable.”

𓏵

kageyama arrives ten minutes later to visit and immediately regrets being born.

he stands in the doorway of your apartment, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, as he witnesses his brother-in-law crouched in front of you like a knight pledging fealty. oikawa is adjusting your slipper. your slipper. with the focus of a man diffusing a bomb.

“don’t want you slipping,” oikawa murmurs. “the floor is dangerous. the world is dangerous.”

“tōru,” you say softly, placing a hand on his head. “it’s tile. i’ve walked on it my whole life.”

he looks up at you with damp eyes.

“exactly. a miracle.”

kageyama clears his throat.

neither of you notice.

he clears it louder.

oikawa finally glances over, face immediately twisting into something smug and feral. “oh. it’s you.”

“why are you like this,” kageyama says flatly.

“love.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only answer.”

you turn, face lighting up when you see your brother. “tobio! you’re early.”

he softens instantly, shoulders relaxing. “practice ended sooner.”

oikawa watches the exchange like a hawk with a law degree.

“you should eat,” he says quickly. “you always forget after practice. i made soup. the good kind. the one you like.”

you blink. “i didn’t even ask—”

“i knew,” he says, nodding seriously. “your energy this morning was soup-coded.”

kageyama stares. “that’s not a thing.”

“it is when you’re married.”

𓏵

later, kageyama sits at the table, spooning soup into his mouth while pretending not to observe the domestic circus happening three feet away.

oikawa follows you around the kitchen like a lovesick satellite. you reach for a towel—he hands it to you before your fingers even curl. you yawn—he’s already pulling a chair out for you to sit. you lean against the counter—he positions himself between you and the edge like it personally insulted him.

it’s nauseating.

it’s horrifying.

it’s… effective.

“does he ever stop,” kageyama mutters.

“no,” you say cheerfully. “but he does slow down if you pat his arm. like this.”

you do.

oikawa exhales like a tranquilized animal.

“see?” you say. “enrichment.”

kageyama looks between the two of you. “this is illegal in at least three prefectures.”

oikawa smiles sweetly. “jealousy ages you.”

“i’m twenty-two.”

“and bitter.”

you reach out and flick oikawa’s ear. gently. lovingly. he gasps like he’s been struck by lightning.

“violence,” he whispers, eyes shining. “from the woman i adore.”

“you’re enjoying this too much.”

“everything you do is enjoyable.”

kageyama chokes on his soup.

𓏵

sometimes the love is loud.

sometimes it’s oikawa dramatically announcing to strangers that you are, in fact, his wife, as if they were considering stealing you mid-grocery aisle. sometimes it’s him wailing about a random guy named berto because he has merch of you (berto gave him everything when he started weeping on the floor). sometimes it’s him clutching your hand in public like the world might snatch you away if he loosens his grip for even a second.

but sometimes it’s quiet.

like the way he wakes before you, every morning, just to watch you sleep. not in a creepy way—more like a man checking that gravity still works. he traces the lines of your face with his eyes, memorizing, re-memorizing, committing you to muscle memory and bone.

when you stir, he stills.

pretends he was asleep.

you always know.

you roll closer, nose pressing into his chest, and he melts instantly, arm locking around you with a possessive sort of relief.

“morning,” you mumble.

“best one,” he murmurs back. “you’re still here.”

“i live here.”

“still.”

your fingers curl into his shirt. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he swallows.

there’s something in his gaze then. something deep and aching and sharp around the edges. like the thought of losing you is so unbearable he refuses to even imagine it properly.

“good,” he says quietly. “i wouldn’t survive.”

you lift your head, studying him. “that’s dramatic.”

“accurate.”

you kiss his jaw. “eat breakfast.”

he beams. crisis resolved.

𓏵

kageyama thinks the worst part is that oikawa knows how he looks.

the man is aware. self-aware. maliciously conscious.

like when you come home tired and slump onto the couch, shoes kicked off, eyes heavy. oikawa drops everything. water? abandoned. phone? forgotten. dignity? nonexistent.

he kneels in front of you, carefully removing your socks like they’re made of glass.

“you worked hard,” he says, reverent. “i’m proud of you.”

you blink. “i just went to the office.”

“a battlefield.”

“i sent emails.”

“to enemies.”

kageyama watches from the hallway, arms crossed.

“this is psychological warfare,” he says.

“shhh. she’s sleepy,” oikawa doesn’t look away from you.

you smile down at your husband, thumb brushing his hair back from his forehead. “you don’t have to fuss.”

“i do,” he says immediately. “it’s a need.”

kageyama groans. “i’m going to take a walk.”

“bring snacks!” you call.

“don’t encourage him,” kageyama snaps.

too late. oikawa is already listing your favorite brands.

𓏵

there’s a particular look oikawa gets when someone else makes you laugh.

not anger. not jealousy, exactly.

more like… recalibration.

his eyes narrow just a touch, lips pressing together as he studies the situation, files it away. he slides closer, arm wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. not confrontational. just present. undeniable.

“what’s funny,” he asks lightly.

you explain.

he laughs too. louder. longer. adds a comment that makes you laugh harder.

mission accomplished.

kageyama notices.

he always notices.

“you’re scary,” he tells him once.

oikawa grins. “i’m married.”

“that’s not a defense.”

“it is in court.”

𓏵

you love him in a way that’s lived-in.

not fireworks, not constant intensity—though he supplies plenty of that on his own—but warm and steady and patient. you know his tells. the way he gets clingier when he’s stressed. the way he seeks your hands when he’s thinking too hard. the way his bravado softens into something almost shy when it’s just the two of you.

like now.

you’re brushing your teeth. he’s leaning in the doorway, watching you like you’re performing a sacred ritual.

“what,” you ask, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

he shrugs. “you’re cute.”

“i look like a rabid animal.”

“my favorite kind.”

you spit, rinse, turn to face him. “you say that about everything.”

“because everything about you qualifies.”

he steps closer, presses a kiss to your temple. then your cheek. then the corner of your mouth.

slow. deliberate. like he’s savoring.

“you chose me,” he says quietly. “out of everyone.”

you rest your forehead against his. “i’ll keep choosing you.”

his breath catches.

somewhere deep inside him, something locks into place, permanent and unmovable.

𓏵

kageyama leaves that night with a headache and a bag full of leftovers.

as he stands at the door, tying his shoes, he glances back. you’re curled up on the couch, half-asleep. oikawa has you tucked into his side, arm wrapped tight, chin resting on your head like a crown.

he looks… settled. dangerous in his contentment.

“take care of her,” kageyama says.

oikawa meets his gaze. no jokes. no smugness.

“with my life,” he replies.

kageyama believes him.

unfortunately.

he shuts the door behind him and walks into the night, wondering how his sister managed to marry the most exhausting man alive—and somehow turn him into a home.

inside, oikawa presses a kiss to your hair and holds you like the world might try to argue.

it won’t win.

n: i love oikawa sm. i’m sorry that i haven’t uploaded at all, my life has been shit. starting from my ex to the ww2 bomb found 1 minute away from our house.

tōru’s taglist 1/2

@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @nivabiva @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @asthmaticasma @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @han0vyc @keiob @depressinglyobsessed @babybird-meena @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @fiannee @tsukkislala  @starzlytoetsie @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67

© 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 !

“y/n-chan,” oikawa crooned, his voice hitting a pitch that only dogs and desperately lonely teenagers could hear. “did you see my serve today? the one where i absolutely obliterated the water bottle on the other side? it was like a meteor strike. a beautiful, majestic, athletic marvel.”

you pulled the zipper of your bag shut. the noise it made was significantly louder than your actual response.

“yeah,” you said.

oikawa’s soul practically left his body and did a little victory dance before slamming back into his ribcage. ‘yeah. she said yeah!’ that was an affirmative! that was a confirmation of his existence! she had perceived him!

“wasn’t it amazing? didn’t it make your heart do a little flip-flop? like a pancake?” he scrambled to his knees, ignoring the protesting creak of his joints. his brown eyes were wide, glittering with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, and if he had a tail, it would have been clearing the equipment off the nearby benches. “i practice that just for you, you know. to dazzle you. to sweep you off your feet so violently that you require medical attention.”

“cool,” you replied.

you slung the bag over your shoulder and stood up. you didn’t look at him with disdain, which was the tragedy of it. you didn’t look at him with annoyance. you looked at him with the calm, neutral serenity of a person observing a moderately interesting boulder.

oikawa clutched his chest, gasping for air as if you had just physically reached in and squeezed his lungs. he was so violently down bad for you that it was actively lowering his blood pressure. he was a puddle. a heap of absolute mush. if you told him to go bark at a passing car, he would ask which brand of sedan you preferred him to target.

iwaizumi walked past, dribbling a volleyball, and used his free hand to shove the back of oikawa’s head. “stop acting like a dying victorian maiden, shittykawa. she’s trying to go home.”

“iwa-chan, you brute! you’re interrupting a monumental romantic breakthrough!” oikawa shrieked, popping up to his feet like a jack-in-the-box powered by pure desperation. he smoothed down his alien-themed t-shirt and bounced over to your side, refusing to let the heavy atmosphere of your nonchalance crush his spirits. “y/n-chan, let me carry your bag. it looks heavy. it looks like it’s weighing down your delicate, beautiful shoulders, and as your future husband, it’s my sworn duty to protect your posture.”

“it’s just towel and a water bottle,” you noted, handing it to him anyway because, hey, free labor is free labor.

the way he seized that bag was nothing short of feral. he held it against his chest like it was a sacred relic containing the secrets of the universe, inhaling deeply as if your fabric softener was the finest french perfume. it was terrifying, really. if anyone else did it, you’d probably call the police. but oikawa carried an aura of chaotic, puppy-like sincerity that made his borderline deranged behavior feel strangely domestic.

you started walking toward the exit, and he fell into step beside you instantly, his stride matching yours with a precision that hinted at hours of subconscious practice.

“so,” oikawa started, his voice dripping with hopeful honey. “since we’re both done and the sun is setting in a highly cinematic fashion, would you care to accompany me to get milk bread? my treat. i’ll buy you anything you want. i’ll buy you the whole bakery. i’ll buy you the plot of land the bakery stands on.”

“sure,” you said, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets.

oikawa stopped dead in his tracks. his brain short-circuited. the internal gears jammed, sparks flew, and a tiny windows error sound echoed in the depths of his mind. sure. you didn’t say no. you didn’t give a vague excuse about having to wash your goldfish. you said sure. he covered his face with his free hand, letting out a high-pitched, muffled whine of pure, unadulterated adoration. you were destroying him. you were picking him apart atom by atom with single-syllable words. he was a grandmaster at volleyball, the great king of the court, a heartthrob with a fan club that required crowd control, and here he was, reduced to a quivering mess of jelly because a girl who talked like an automated text-to-speech program agreed to walk to a convenience store with him.

“y/n-chan,” he whined, jogging to catch up again, his face flushed a furious shade of pink. “you can’t just do that to a man’s heart. it’s fragile. it’s a delicate ecosystem. you are global warming and i am a helpless polar bear.”

“it’s just bread, tōru,” you said mildly.

hearing your voice utter his first name caused his knees to buckle. he actually stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe of the gym. “say it again.”

“what?”

“my name. say it again. put me in a coffin, y/n-chan. bury me six feet under with the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.”

you blinked at him. your face remained a masterpiece of blankness, though the corner of your mouth twitched by approximately half a millimeter. “tōru. let’s go.”

he let out a sound that could only be described as a tea kettle reaching maximum boiling capacity. he followed you out of the school gates, clutching your gym bag to his chest with enough force to fuse the fibers together, grinning like a complete and utter madman.

the walk to the convenience store was a masterclass in contrasting energies.

on the left, there was you: walking in a straight line, hands in pockets, looking like you were contemplating the existential dread of a monday morning. on the right, there was oikawa: vibrating at a frequency that was probably disruptive to local radar systems, talking at a rate of two hundred words per minute, and aggressively gesticulating with his free hand.

“and then i told matsukawa that there was no way his block was better than mine, because my blocks are fueled by the power of love and aesthetics, whereas his blocks are fueled by spite and bad memes. don’t you agree, y/n-chan? don’t you think my presence at the net is like a gorgeous, impassable brick wall made of marble and gold?”

“hmm.. well, you’re tall,” you offered.

oikawa pressed a hand to his forehead, reeling back as if you had struck him with a physical blow of overwhelming affection. “tall! she thinks i’m tall! i’m a giant in her eyes! a colossus! a titan of romance!”

“i mean, objectively. the door frames are a struggle for you.”

“it is a struggle i gladly bear for you! i will duck under every doorway in the world if it means i can stand by your side!” he leaned in closer, invading your personal space with zero shame and one hundred percent intent. his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned into the contact, walking with a slight tilt just to maintain that friction. “you’re a little smaller compared to me. it’s adorable. i want to put you in my pocket and carry you around like a little hamster.”

“i would suffocate,” you noted, your voice monotone.

“worth it! the pure joy of being near me would sustain your oxygen levels!” he laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the quiet evening air.

it was a strange dynamic, and anyone watching from the outside would assume oikawa was harassing a very bored stranger. but the truth was, you weren’t bored at all. your heart was doing heavy metal drum solos against your ribs, and the warmth radiating from where his shoulder pressed against yours was making your ears burn. you just weren’t built for grand displays of emotion. your brain didn’t process feelings through your face or your vocal cords; it processed them by simply existing in the space someone carved out for you.

and oikawa was carving out a space the size of a small country.

you reached the convenience store, the little chime at the door announcing their arrival. oikawa immediately made a beeline for the bakery aisle, dragging you along by the sleeve of your jacket.

“okay, y/n-chan! the feast of champions! what do you want? chocolate? strawberry? this one that looks like a bear? i’ll buy them all. i’m a sugar daddy. i have pocket money and i’m not afraid to use it.”

“just the plain milk bread is fine,” you said, pointing to the shelf.

“classic! elegant! pure! just like your soul!” oikawa grabbed three packs of milk bread, a carton of strawberry milk for himself, and your favorite drink, which he had memorized three months ago after intense, covert observation that borderlined on espionage.

at the counter, he paid with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary for a transaction involving baked goods. he took the plastic bag from the cashier, hooked it over his finger, and beamed down at you.

“to the park! to consume our victory meal under the stars!”

the park was mostly empty, save for a few stray pigeons and the distant sound of traffic. you both sat down on a wooden bench under a streetlight that cast a warm, yellow glow around you. the air was crisp, carrying the scent of cut grass and the looming promise of spring.

oikawa tore open a pack of milk bread and held it out to you with both hands, looking like he was offering a sacrifice to an ancient, powerful deity. “the finest bread in the prefecture for the finest girl in the universe.”

“thanks,” you said. you took a bite. it was soft, sweet, and comforting.

oikawa ripped off a piece of his own bread and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing happily. for a few glorious seconds, there was silence. the boy who never stopped talking was actually quiet, his eyes fixed on the sky where the first few stars were starting to poke through the twilight.

you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. without the exaggerated expressions and the dramatic whining, oikawa was breathtakingly handsome. the soft yellow light of the street lamp hit the bridge of his nose and the sharp line of his jaw. his brown hair was messy from practice, a few strands falling over his forehead. he looked human. soft.

he caught you looking.

instead of teasing you or making a loud joke, his expression softened into something so tender it felt illegal to look at. his lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn’t reach for the cameras or the fan girls. it was just for you.

“y/n-chan,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing its performative edge. “you have a little bit of bread on your face.”

before you could lift your hand to wipe it away, he leaned in. his movements were slow, deliberate, giving you all the time in the world to pull back. you didn’t. you sat there, frozen, as his thumb gently brushed against the corner of your lips. his skin was warm, a little calloused from thousands of volleyball reps, but his touch was as light as a feather.

he didn’t pull his hand away immediately. his thumb lingered on your cheek, tracing a small, slow circle. his eyes were dark, focused entirely on your face, and the sheer gravity of his gaze made you feel like you were being pulled into orbit around him.

“you’re really pretty,” he murmured.

your heart skipped a beat. then it skipped another one. your face, usually a fortress of indifference, betrayed your face burning so hot it could rival the sun. “it’s dark. you can’t see.”

“i have 20/20 vision when it comes to you, my love,” he whispered, leaning in a fraction closer. his breath smelled faintly of sweetness. “i could see your beauty in a pitch-black cave during a power outage. i could feel it. you radiate it.”

you swallowed hard. your vocabulary, which was already limited to bare-minimum survival phrases, had completely evaporated. you were running on emergency backup systems.

“tōru,” you managed to say, your voice a little breathless.

“yes, darling? light of my life? center of my solar system?” he was smiling now, a blinding, beautiful thing that made you want to hide your face in his jacket.

“your face is very close.”

“is it? i hadn’t noticed. maybe i should get closer to investigate the phenomenon,” he teased, though his eyes weren’t joking at all. he looked at you with such intense, unbridled devotion that it made you feel like the most important person to ever walk the earth.

you gathered all the emotional energy you possessed, reached up, and placed your hand over his, which was still resting on your cheek. your hand was smaller, cooler, but as soon as you made contact, oikawa’s eyes widened.

you didn’t pull his hand away. you just held it there, leaning your face slightly into his palm.

“i like you too,” you said. it was simple. it was plain. it lacked the metaphors about polar bears and ancient gods. but it was yours.

oikawa ceased to function.

he didn’t scream. he didn’t faint. he just stared at you, his mouth falling open slightly, his eyes blowing wide. a single tear, dramatic and glistening, actually welled up in the corner of his left eye.

“y/n-chan,” he breathed, his voice cracking like a middle schooler going through puberty. “did you... did you just confess to me? is this real? am i dreaming? iwa-chan definitely hit me too hard with a volleyball and i’m currently in a coma in the nurse’s office.”

“you’re not in a coma,” you said, pulling your hand back, though the blush on your face hadn’t faded one bit. “don’t make me take it back.”

“no! absolutely not! no refunds! no returns! the transaction is complete!” oikawa surged forward, wrapping his long arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. he squeezed you so tightly you could hear the air leaving your lungs in a soft huff. “oh my god, you like me. you actually like me. i’m the luckiest man alive. i’m the king of the world. aliens are real and they are witnessing my triumph.”

you sat there, engulfed in the scent of sweat, expensive shampoo, and strawberry milk, feeling the violent thudding of his heart against your chest. you slowly raised your arms and wrapped them around his broad shoulders, patting his back awkwardly.

“tōru, you’re squishing me.”

“i’m fusing our atoms together so we never have to be apart!” he wailed into your shoulder, laughing and sniffing at the same time. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with a manic, overwhelming affection that made you dizzy. “this means we’re dating. i’m your boyfriend. i get to hold your hand in the hallways. i get to carry your books. i get to fight off all the unworthy peasants who dare to look in your general direction.”

“sure,” you said, the small, rare smile finally breaking through the ice of your expression.

oikawa let out another high-pitched noise of pure bliss and kissed your cheek. it was loud, sloppy, but it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to you.

𓏵

the next morning, the entire aoba johsai volleyball team was gathered in the gym for morning practice, but productivity was at an all-time low.

this was because oikawa was sitting on the bench, staring at a small, hair tie on his wrist with the expression of a man who had just been handed the keys to heaven.

“he’s been like that for twenty minutes,” matsukawa whispered, leaning on his broom. “it’s creepy. he looks like he’s trying to communicate with it telepathically.”

“it’s her hair tie,” hanamaki said, shaking his head in pity. “he stole it from her bag yesterday after she confessed. he told me he’s going to frame it and hang it over his bed.”

iwaizumi walked over to oikawa, holding a clipboard, and looked down at the captain with pure, unadulterated disgust. “shittykawa. if you don’t stand up and start stretching in the next five seconds, i’m going to serve a ball directly into your spine.”

oikawa didn’t even flinch. he just lifted his wrist, pointing to the hair tie. “iwa-chan, look at it. look at the craftsmanship. the elastic integrity. the subtle hue of emerald green. she gave it to me.”

“she didn’t give it to you, you kleptomaniac, you took it when she wasn’t looking,” iwaizumi snapped.

“she didn’t stop me! that is a non-verbal agreement of romantic entanglement!” oikawa stood up, clutching his chest dramatically, his eyes shining with tears of joy. “you cannot comprehend the depth of our connection, iwa-chan. we speak on a higher plane. she says ‘yeah’ and it means ‘i love you with the burning passion of a thousand supernovas’. she says ‘sure’ and it means ‘let us elope to a tropical island and build a dynasty of gorgeous, athletic children’.”

you chose that exact moment to walk into the gym, holding a stack of clipboards for the coach. you had your normal, unreadable expression on your face, your hands moving mechanically as you set the clipboards down on the table.

oikawa’s head whipped around so fast he probably gave himself whiplash. “y/n-chan! my beloved! the morning sun of my life!”

he bolted across the gym floor, sliding on his knees for the last three feet until he was bowing at your feet, resting his forehead against your sneakers.

“good morning,” you said, looking down at his brown hair.

“it is a glorious morning! the birds are singing, the sky is blue, and you are here to bless my eyes with your presence!” he looked up at you, his chin resting on your shoe, blinking with massive, watery puppy eyes. “give me a percentage, y/n-chan. how much do you love me today? on a scale from one to a billion?”

you looked at him for a long, quiet moment. the entire gym went dead silent, everyone holding their breath to see how the resident dry-humored manager would handle the absolute weapon of mass affection kneeling at her feet.

you reached down and patted the top of his head twice, like you were praising a particularly obedient golden retriever.

“hundred.” you said.

oikawa let out a noise that sounded like a deflating balloon, collapsing entirely onto the floor in a heap of pure, unadulterated bliss, fully convinced that he was the main character of the greatest romance novel ever written.

n: as you can see, i gave up on not using honorifics since it gives life whenever it’s oikawa. also there’s a little height comparison PLEASE PLEASE DON’T TORCH ME

tōru’s taglist 1/3

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @nivabiva @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @asthmaticasma @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @han0vyc @keiob @depressinglyobsessed @babybird-meena @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @fiannee @tsukkislala @starzlytoetsie @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67

© 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 !

boyfriend!oikawa who refuses to let you leave without kissing him goodbye. even if you’re rushing to get home, he’ll grab your wrist and whine, “babyyy, you’re forgetting something important,” before pointing at his lips.

boyfriend!oikawa who gets nervous before every big match, but the second he sees you proudly cheering for him in the stands; his shoulders relax & he’s able to focus on the game better. somehow, having you there always settles his nerves almost instantly.

boyfriend!oikawa who absolutely melts whenever you praise him. no matter how cocky he acts, one genuine “i’m proud of you, tooru!” from you is enough to leave him grinning like an idiot for the rest of the day.

boyfriend!oikawa who constantly brags about you to iwaizumi. every conversation he has with his best friend somehow always circles back to you. “did i tell you what my girlfriend did yesterday?” “look how cute she looked earlier!” at this point, iwaizumi swears he knows more about you than he ever intended to.

IT was a Wednesday night in South Korea. The dark sky made everything dim except for the bright buildings. The school staffs gave everyone two hours to explore and have dinner whenever they wanted. So there you were with your friends at a random fast food place.

The smell of sweet chicken hit your stomach. There was so much food you couldn’t wait to dig in. After not being able to munch anything else, you decided to just relax on your phone while you waiting for your friends to finish their meal.

Suddenly, a group of boys entered the place. One was a giant and the two was fairly tall, though tiny compared. They seemed terrifying to even approach as if it seemed nothing phased them. Their loud nature made you want to go away and hide, though the tallest is beautiful.

“Ah, crap.”

Your friends face look confused.

“bathroom.”

“there should be one upstairs.”

“thanks!”

It wasn’t weird to wonder alone in a restaurant. Just hopped somebody woukd speak enlgush. An exmaple, right now…. When reaching your destination to the bathroom there was a huge sign with no english translation on it.

Just your luck.

Before you could use your phone to translate the boys from earlier paused seeing you and notice you reading the sign.

“The bathroom is upstairs.”

“One of the stall’s isn’t available.”

They talked in Korean while communicating with you…such an awkward interaction. You felt terrible because you just stood there as if your brain shut down.

“Um, English? Do you speak English?” You scratched your head embarrassingly.

“Oh, english? Yeah.”

The tallest one smiled at you. As you nodded your head.

“Bathroom is upstairs. One of the stall’s isn’t working.”

“Oh. Okay, thank you.”

Then they disappear away from your sight as you took care of business in the bathroom. The thought of getting his number made you chicken out. There was no way he would want your number, right?

After joining your friends again at the table, the boys were about to leave the restaurant as you would never see them again. Until he actually approached you.

“Hey, my name is Louis. Can I have your number?”

Suddenly your friends down stared the both of you. No way this was happening on a school trip. But it most definitely is.

“Of course, thanks for earlier.” You put in your number on his phone. It was like a dream come true.

“no problem. I’ll text you later on. Have a good night.”

Who would’ve thought that same boy, Louis was a popular singer. But in your eyes, he was just a nice guy who helped you with translation. Don’t worry, you most definitely stayed talking as you went back home.