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mojogojocasahouse · 3 days ago

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I’ll be sobbing and crying into my pillow FOREVER?! Angst, JUST FOR ME?! I can’t. I must go pass away and then find some miraculous way to repay this debt. (I’ll buy you a breakfast sandwich next weekend from THE place.)

I love youuuuu!! And I guess I have to stay in HQ fandom forever now 🤷🏻‍♀️

THE ICARUS TO YOUR CERTAINTY.

oikawa tooru x f!reader — 18+, 4k, friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, seijoh 4 cameos, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms

a/n: dedicated to my beloved @mojogojocasahouse<3

“Heard you needed a ride.”

Iwaizumi’s voice is gruff when he comes up to stand beside the barstool you’re currently perched atop, your fingers idly stirring the dregs of your glass with a tiny red straw. His shoulder brushes yours, and you can feel a lick of the outdoor chill seep from his jacket onto your bare shoulder.

Somewhere nearby, you hear the distinct sound of Makki and Mattsun’s laughter.

“Is he with you?”

Turning your head to the side, you meet Iwaizumi’s gaze as he replies evenly, “You know he is.”

Sighing, you toss a few bills onto the bartop before sliding from your seat, the feeling of the tacky vinyl tugging at your skirt wholly unpleasant on the way down. Your boots and ankles disagree when you land, meeting the floor at an odd angle, and you inhale sharply as you prepare for pain—only to feel an arm catch you at your waist instead.

Logically, it should belong to Iwaiumi, since he’s still standing beside you.

But the familiar smell that invades your senses is all him.

All Tooru.

“Careful—”

His light, concerned tone is ice in your veins.

“Thanks,” you cut Oikawa off, barely sparing him a glance before shrugging out of his steadying grip and heading for the door, where Mattsun and Makki absorb you between them, arms criss-crossing over your shoulders.

“We were told that we’re rescuing you from a bad date,” Mattsun says conspiratorially.

Rubbing a hand over your face, you groan, following his lead as he tugs you and Makki through the doorway to the street outside at an odd angle so as not to break their joint hold on you. You immediately feel yourself start to shiver at the sudden drop in temperature.

“Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Makki snorts, “See, this is what happens when you bail on hanging with us.”

You don’t bother mentioning the real reason you bailed, because he’s back.

“You’re all brutes,” the last voice you want to hear interrupts as the three of you come to a stop in front of Iwaizumi’s car, tone laced annoyance not directed at you.

Oikawa steps into your line of sight, holding out his jacket and gesturing to the amount of skin you’ve currently got exposed to the elements (to be fair, it was somewhat warmer out when you left your apartment earlier.)

“We were keeping her warm,” Makki says defensively, but Oikawa just rolls his eyes, hand remaining outstretched.

You take the jacket, if only because you’re well aware Iwaizumi’s not above manhandling each and every one of you into the car if you’re going to have a standoff on the sidewalk. You’re loath to admit that the heavy outer layer, laced with Oikawa’s lingering body heat, feels far better than the cold breeze that’s rustling his soft, brown hair.

And because Matsukawa’s a fucking traitor, you find yourself squished between Oikawa and Makki in the backseat. You hope he can feel you glaring at the back of his head.

Iwaizumi’s eyes find yours in the rearview when you look away from Matsukawa, his expression inscrutable, and the engine rumbles to life.

The ride back to your apartment is quiet, save for the occasional sound of a video playing on Makki’s phone and Mattsun toying with the radio dial. That, and the dull roar of blood rushing in your ears as you willingly (though that’s debatable) sit beside Oikawa Tooru for the first time in over a year.

Oikawa’s thigh sits flush with your own, and despite the fact that you’re in virtually the same position on the other side with Hanamaki, it’s wholly different.

Different in a way that leaves your throat dry each time his knee jostles yours when the car passes over a pothole.

Different in a way that has your stupid heart rattling insistently against the trellis of your ribcage with every second that passes.

You try to focus on the sharp spearmint of the gum that Iwaizumi’s chewing, or the sweet, artificial strawberry scent of the lollipop Makki’s clicking against his teeth. But all you can smell are the familiar notes of Oikawa’s cologne.

It used to be your favorite smell, once upon a foolish time.

Now it just makes you feel sick.

When Iwaizumi pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building, Oikawa’s quick to pop open his door to let you out before Hanamaki can. Except when the door thuds closed, he’s still standing on the other side of it.

Iwaizumi’s window rolls down, and he frowns. “What’re you doing, Shittykawa?”

“You live a block away. I’ll walk,” Oikawa waves them off.

You know that if you really wanted him to, Iwaizumi would get out of the car and shove Oikawa into the backseat. When your eyes meet his, the expression on his face asks just that. But you shake your head—because you’ll have to get this over with eventually, after all.

You’ve been finding reasons to avoid Oikawa ever since he got back to Japan three weeks ago.

“Thanks for the ride, Iwa.”

Mattsun gives you a salute from the front seat while Makki yelps as Iwaizumi smacks the hand currently snaking its way toward the radio knob. You stand there for a moment watching the red glow of his tail lights disappear down the street.

When you finally turn on your heel to head inside, Oikawa silently falls into step beside you. And if it were a year ago, the foot of space that lingers between your shoulder and his would feel strangely cavernous.

Right now, it just feels suffocating.

He stands on the opposite side of the elevator when you step inside, looking soft and rumpled in an old Aoba Johsai hoodie with uncharacteristically mussed hair—as if he’s spent the better part of the night running a hand through it. There’s a furrow between his brow, one that reminds you of his look of deep concentration on the court.

But there are no sleek hardwood floors here, no bright fluorescent lights. No crowd. No ball clutched in his hand.

No winners or losers.

It’s just you and Tooru and the hum of the elevator shaft.

(You and Tooru and all of the ghosts that still linger between.)

It’s only once your front door slips shut with a resounding click that you finally address him, your eyes trained firmly on the wall as you remain standing in your entryway with your back to him, his jacket tossed on the hook.

“What do you want, Oikawa?”

It’s funny—how you’re not even looking at him, but you can still feel him flinch from your use of his surname.

He inhales slowly, like he’s still not quite sure of the answer himself just yet.

And in that moment, it’s just past dawn on a late August morning, and you’re reaching out to smooth the wrinkle in your best friend’s brow while he sleeps beside you in your bed, the warmth of his breath curling against your palm.

His eyes open, dark brown distilled into golden honey in the gentle morning light that seeps through the gauzy curtains fluttering in a light breeze.

Tooru laces your fingers with his, kisses the inside of your wrist. Your stomach flips.

In that moment, you’re beneath him again. A bird sings. Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki are fast asleep in the living room. And Oikawa would still be there, too, if whatever it is that the two of you have been skirting around for years didn’t find you pressed up against your fridge in the middle of the night, his palms at your waist, your fingers in his hair. A glass of water forgotten on the countertop.

(Tooru’s still cupping your face, kissing you breathless, easing a knee between your legs. Still slipping a hand beneath your shirt, his tongue past the seam of your lips. Still tugging your panties aside and easing into you deep and slow—)

It’s rare to find Oikawa Tooru without words, so you continue, fueled by over a year’s worth of anger and hurt rising to the surface inside of you like a cresting wave.

“You’re so fucking selfish, you know that?”

“I know.”

His voice sounds rough, lacking its usual charm. You refuse to turn around and look at him, to give him the satisfaction of seeing the way your face screws up when you say the next part.

“If you regretted it that much, you could have just talked to me. I would have gotten over it, and we could have still been friends. Instead, you fucked off halfway across the world to some training camp that I had to find out about from Iwaizumi.” Your voice breaks on the last few words.

You don’t bother adding how he decided to continue traveling after that, how he hasn’t been home in over a year. He’s well aware.

“I didn’t—I never regretted it.”

Your eyes sting with unshed tears. “You never even called—”

The warmth of his body finds yours as he steps closer and leans a palm against the wall in front of your face. His voice wavers when he replies, “Because I didn’t know what to say.”

You stare at his long, thin fingers. “I don’t know, how about, ‘Hey, sorry that I acted like a jealous asshole the entire time you dated your ex boyfriend, fucked you two weeks after he broke up with you, and then ghosted you like we haven’t been friends for half of our lives.’”

“I—”

“Or ‘Sorry I forgot you don’t do one-night-stands like I do.’”

“That’s not—”

“Or ‘Sorry for the pity fuck, let’s pretend it never—’”

Oikawa’s forehead falls against your shoulder, and his hair tickles your bare skin as he inhales sharply. “It wasn’t a pity fuck.”

“Then what was it, Tooru?” you ask, none of your usual softness curving around the vowels. It’s sharp, venomous.

His fingers curl against the wall’s dark green paint.

“Everything,” he gasps, quiet and strained.

Your teeth sink into your cheek, and confusion blooms hot and heavy in your gut. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve spent my entire life feeling like I can figure everything and everyone out. I’ve always known what I need to do in every situation.” His voice quiets, like loose, shifting gravel. “And I’ve never felt less in control than I did that night.”

His hand slips down an inch, and he continues, “You—I’ve never known how to be good enough for you.”

You feel dizzy, unmoored. “What?”

“Being with you feels like—” his voice cracks, and he laughs weakly, “It feels like freefalling. It’s always felt like that. And when we finally…I just wanted you so bad…but after…I was fucking terrified when I realized that for the first time in my life, I had no clue what to do. How to be what you deserved.”

You press your own palm to the wall, if only to steady yourself. “I didn’t think…that you meant for any of it to happen.”

Oikawa looks at you like you’ve been missing the point all along. “It was all I could think about.”

You’re torn somewhere between the knowledge that it all meant something—and the reality that he still left anyway.

“But why didn’t I get to be the one to decide what I deserved?”

He’s quiet for several beats before he replies, “Because Iwa-chan caught me coming out of your room that morning. And I’ve never seen him look so genuinely angry at me before. He reamed me out later, said I was taking advantage of you after your breakup, called me a selfish piece of shit.”

“Are you trying to blame this on him?”

You finally turn around, and you’ve never seen Oikawa Tooru look so stricken. He avoids your gaze, drags a hand through his air, looks up at the ceiling. “No. I just…that conversation made me realize that I was the last thing you needed after getting out of a two-year relationship. I felt like I had some…claim on you. It was wrong.”

He lets his hand fall back to his side. His words leave you feeling hot all over. You think you feel a shiver wrack down your spine.

“So you thought leaving without a single goddamn word was what I needed?”

Oikawa looks at you then, defeated. “I wasn’t even planning on going to that training camp, that’s why you never knew about it in the first place. But then I panicked. I knew that if we talked about what happened, you’d find some way to make me out to be anything but the bad guy. You’d change my mind. And then I would have probably ended up hurting you. I thought a few months away would clear my head.”

You quietly scoff, “You hurt me anyway. And you were gone for over a year.”

“I know. But you seemed happy after a while.” He wraps one of his hoodie strings around his finger; the coil falls limp as soon as he lets go of it.

“Not that you’d know. You never texted, never called.”

He cringes. “I asked Iwa-chan.”

“I figured you were off dating models,” you huff.

He laughs, but the sound is more self-deprecating than anything else, and shakes his head, smiling at you sadly. “There was never…no. The coach at my first training camp referred me to some connections he had in other countries. You had just started seeing someone new, and I realized I still wasn’t over you when Iwa told me, so I thought it would be better if I kept travelling a little longer.”

Your nose scrunches up at the memory of that fling. “That guy was awful. It didn’t last long.”

He looks down at his shoes, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “I heard Mattsun almost punched him.”

“Tooru.”

There’s something earnest in his eyes when he looks up at you. “Yeah?”

“You’re an idiot. And an asshole.”

He inhales slowly, nodding. “I’m well aware.”

“Why did you want to talk to me tonight?”

“Because I wanted to tell you that I left because I was afraid of fucking up, not because I didn’t want you. Not because you did anything wrong. You deserve to hear that from me.”

“And what if I don’t want to forgive you?” You try to sound more confident than you feel.

He shrugs. “That’s my cross to bear, not yours. I don’t expect you to.”

“Are you over it now? Do you expect us to go back to being friends eventually?”

A laugh escapes his lips, one that’s full of disbelief. “What do you want me to say?”

Fight for this.

“The truth.”

He takes a step closer. “You want me to tell you having you once fucked me up, and I haven’t been able to look at anyone else without thinking of you? That I spent a year trying to dig up every part of myself thousands and thousands of miles away and all I could find were pieces of you scattered in every corner? That I did it all wrong? That I know I will never, ever deserve you—“

“Tooru…”

“That I loved you then, and I still love you now?”

His forehead leans against your own. His hands find your waist. He touches you like he’s waiting for you to shove him away, waiting to catch fire. Waiting for all of this to go up in flames once and for all. “Tell me to leave.”

You should.

“No.”

But you can’t.

“Tell me to leave, because all I wanted to do when I saw you when we got to the bar was kiss you. And that’s all I want to do right now. I’m still a selfish bastard.”

Because you know him. And you know he means it, every last word.

Your fingers catch in the fabric of his sweatshirt. You think of all the times you’ve stolen it from him and worn it yourself. “Maybe I like that you’re a selfish bastard. I’ve known you since we were teenagers, you know.”

“You’re supposed to kick me out and make me grovel. You should be more angry with me.”

The hand that’s been slowly trailing up his chest slides up to cup his cheek before your fingers thread their way into his hair. You watch the way he softens beneath your touch. “Being angry at you when you do dumb shit is Iwa’s job. I’m tired of being angry.”

He blinks. “I feel like this is a test, and I’m failing horribly.”

You shrug, and there are thousands and thousands of days and minutes and seconds that settle into the weight of your shared gaze. “Because I’ve never known you to be someone to give up, to walk away. I’ve never known you to lose a game that you were made to win, Tooru.”

Because it’s always been Tooru for you.

And you’re tired of pretending you don’t love him.

(Tired of pretending anyone else could ever hope to come close.)

In the heavy darkness of your kitchen on sticky, hot, late August night, it was Tooru who kissed you first.

But this time, it’s your mouth that finds his.

Tooru’s kiss tastes like the nostalgia of summer afternoons spent laughing on your backs on his living room carpet. Like the velvety petals of the flowers he always handed to you on the walk to school on the first day of spring.

Like the heat of his eyes meeting yours across the room at a crowded university party, even when you were leaning into someone else.

Like the way his voice curls around your name over the phone, where even the static seems to bend to the lilting warmth of his will.

Like brief moments of your fingers tangled together on boardwalks and beaches and rainy days and in the backseats of cars long past.

Like every golden-spun thread of love that you’ve known in your life.

Like a home for your heart, once he doesn’t realize he’s already built.

“I don’t want you to forgive me this easily,” he gasps into the kiss, even as he’s pulling you closer, arms wrapped around you tight.

You think his arms could swallow you whole, think his lips could devour you. (You think you’d let him.)

The two of you stumble past the living room, down the hallway toward your bedroom. He collapses backward on your bed, legs buckling at the knee, the mattress groaning in protest.

“I didn’t say I forgive you yet,” you tell him as you climb atop him.

Tooru’s hands find your hips, and the way his palms curve against them feels like a kiss in and of itself. He smiles at you, and between one breath and the next, gravity tilts as you suddenly find yourself on your back.

He stares down at you, eyes alight with determination as his lips slot over yours in a deep, slow kiss that leaves you arching upward into his touch. Your lips part as his tongue slips over the seam, and he deepens the kiss, one hand tracing the hinge of your jaw.

When Tooru pulls away, his mouth trails down your neck, along your collarbones, down your chest.

“I’m prepared to grovel,” he murmurs into your navel, fingers teasing the waistband of your skirt. He nips at your hipbone, strokes the inside of your thigh with his thumb.

Your toes curl.

“Show me.”

—

Tooru takes his time with you.

With your thighs spread wide and your skirt rucked up and your panties conveniently lost somewhere in the vicinity of one of his pockets, he works you open on his fingers first.

If it were anyone else, you might feel self-conscious about the slick arousal that’s already dripping onto the sheets between your legs, about how easily he works in the first finger to the last knuckle (about the desperate moan that shivers out of you).

But it’s Tooru.

Tooru, who inhales sharply as soon as the pads of his fingers make contact with your soaked panties, who groans when he gets them off and runs those same fingers through your glistening slit with something akin to reverence.

Who leans in and kisses you, hot and wet and messy as he adds a second finger, voice rough while he tells you how pretty you look like this.

He strokes your swollen, aching clit with this thumb and slowly fucks his fingers into you until you’re bucking into his touch, slick coating your inner thighs, his name a broken plea on your lips.

—and you’ve hardly come down from your climax when his mouth finds purchase against the heat of your cunt next, tongue slipping into your tight hole and stroking and licking and lapping and fucking.

Tooru grasps your thighs, ruts his own hips down into the mattress, groans into your pussy about how many times he’s thought about this, how many times he’s fucked his own fist to the thought of tasting you. The coil of pleasure in your gut is a maddeningly tight bowstring beneath his grasp as he rocks you back and forth over the ledge of another orgasm, huffing out a laugh when you whine in frustration, burying your fingers in his hair.

You arch your hips into his face, humping the slippery friction of his wet, messy lips, and Tooru hums, stuffing two fingers back inside of you as he sucks on your clit until tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure building in your veins explodes.

And overstimulation be damned, the sight of Tooru’s erection tented at the front of his pants is too much when he rolls over onto his back, cheeks pink, chest heaving, chin shiny with your release. You bat away the heel of the palm currently pressed down over his shaft, revelling in the way he gasps as you tug down his pants and boxers and wrap your fingers around his bare cock.

The moan that leaves Tooru’s mouth when you ease down onto him leaves you breathless, heart a thrumming frequency in your chest as he easily stretches you right open to the hilt, cock slipping through your soaked, dripping walls.

Running a hand over his face, his hips cant upward as he breathes out, “I’m not going to last long.”

You smile down at him, grinding down into his abdomen, clenching down on his shaft just to see the way he gasps before you start moving up and down. “I thought athletes had stamina,” you tease.

Tooru pulls himself into a sitting position, arms wrapping around you as you find yourself nestled in the cradle of his hips. His mouth slots over yours as he begins to fuck up into you, hips rocking in a steady rhythm. “Stamina isn’t in the room with us right now, sweetheart. Not when the last time I had sex was right here in this bed.”

True to his word, it doesn’t take long for Tooru to spill between your bodies, ropes of cum painting your abdomen and inner things until his cock is left flushed and spent.

And later, when you’re curled up on the couch in his sweatshirt, head pillowed in his lap, his fingers in your hair, his own still damp from the shower, you both laugh when he lifts up his vibrating phone to see Iwaizumi’s name flash across the screen.

“You’re on speaker phone, Iwa-chan,” Tooru tells him, setting the phone down on the couch cushion.

“Do I need to come strangle him?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Not yet, but you can come bring us food!” you reply.

“Do I look like Uber Eats to you?” he grouses.

“I mean…” Tooru trails off.

Mattsun and Makki start chanting something about pizza in the background.

“YOU ALL HAVE YOUR OWN GODDAMN CARS!” Iwaizumi growls in exasperation, and the line goes dead as he hangs up.

Your phone lights up with a text from Matsukawa immediately after.

dw he’s already putting on his shoes

Tooru smirks when you show him the message, his fingers trailing beneath his sweatshirt, finding only bare skin beneath the fabric as he makes his way up your chest.

“How much more grovelling do you think I have time to do before they get here?”

#oikawa tooru #oikawa tooru x reader #talented bestie

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