Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

hi
before we start this whole mess - fake dating, volleyball boys, accidental feelings and dangerous amounts of sarcasm - a quick disclaimer

this story is written in english
but english is not my first language
so if you notice strange grammar, missing commas, or phrasing that makes you tilt your head
just pretend it's ✨quirky✨ and keep reading
thanks for your understanding ♡

now, what are you in for?

✦ reader x matsukawa issei
 you (yes, you) are the main character
 and you've somehow ended up in a fake relationship with the most sarcastic, tall, chaotic volleyball boy of them all
 good luck!

✦ tropes & themes
 • enemies to lovers (heavy on the "enemies")
 • fake dating, real tension
 • ridiculous dares, late-night thoughts, soft moments when no one's looking
 • friends who are way too involved
 • denial, deflection, and all the slow-burn pain

✦ what to expect
 • comedy
 • language
 • suggestive content (yes smut )
 • sexual tension so intense you might need water
 • emotional whiplash masked as flirting
 • characters who are definitely 18+ and still make horrible decisions

The bar reeked of grease and regret.

Overhead, a tired ceiling fan groaned, its blades sluggishly slicing through the thick air, heavy with the scent of fried food and stale beer. Neon lights buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow hue over the cracked leather booths and the sticky tabletops. The room felt damp, like spilled drinks and bad decisions had seeped into the very walls.

Matsukawa Issei leaned back in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the top of the booth, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his glass. The amber liquid inside caught the dull light, its surface rippling faintly as he swirled it. He wasn't in a rush-Matsukawa never was. His dark eyes lingered on nothing in particular, half-lidded and unreadable, the kind of gaze that made people wonder what he was thinking, though he rarely gave anything away.

"Here we go again," Hanamaki Takahiro muttered, his voice dry, almost bored. He didn't bother to look up, but the slight flick of his head toward the bar was enough to draw Matsukawa's attention.

Matsukawa shifted his gaze, slow and deliberate, and there he was-Oikawa Tooru, leaning against the counter as if the world were his stage. His signature grin was firmly in place, teeth white enough to rival the neon beer sign flickering above him. One hand rested casually on the counter, while the other combed through his perfectly styled hair. He tilted his head just so, his long lashes fluttering in a way that was probably rehearsed.

Matsukawa exhaled through his nose, a low, unimpressed sound. "Does he even take days off?"

Hanamaki finally looked up, his lips quirking into a smirk as he took a sip of his beer. "Not when there's an audience, apparently."

The faint hum of Oikawa's voice carried across the room. Smooth, practiced, like honey dripping onto polished wood. Matsukawa didn't need to hear the words to know what was happening. The girl behind the counter was already leaning closer, her smile polite but unsure, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the register.

"Do we stop him, or let nature take its course?" Iwaizumi Hajime asked, his tone flat. He didn't look up from his phone, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his growing irritation.

Hanamaki raised his glass in a mock toast. "Let the mating dance conclude. For science."

Matsukawa huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He took a sip of his drink, the whiskey burning a slow trail down his throat. It wasn't enough to distract him from the faint buzzing of the neon sign, or the sticky feeling of the booth's leather against his forearm.

"You think he'll actually get her number?" Hanamaki asked, his tone light with amusement.

Matsukawa's eyes flicked back to Oikawa, who was now leaning in closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter as he spoke. The girl laughed, a little too nervously, and handed him the receipt.

"Of course he will," Matsukawa said, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "The real question is how many girls regret giving it to him."

Hanamaki snorted, his laugh cutting through the low hum of the bar. "Limited edition regrets. Collect them all."

Oikawa returned to the table a minute later, his grin smug as he held up the receipt like a trophy. "Got it."

Nobody clapped.

"Her name's Sayaka," Oikawa announced, sliding into the booth with a flourish. "Loves horror movies, hates olives, and says I have a trustworthy face."

"Sounds like she needs glasses," Iwaizumi muttered without looking up.

Matsukawa leaned back, his posture as loose and relaxed as ever. "Congrats. You seduced the girl who hands out change."

Oikawa's grin didn't falter. "Don't be jealous, Issei. It's unbecoming."

"It's not jealousy," Matsukawa replied, his voice slow and dry. "It's secondhand embarrassment."

The waitress arrived with another plate of fries, the smell of hot oil wafting through the air as she set it down in the middle of the table. The grease shimmered under the lights, and Oikawa immediately reached for one, popping it into his mouth with the air of someone who believed he'd earned it.

"You're all just mad I have game," he said through a mouthful of fries.

Hanamaki made a gagging sound, leaning forward with his chin resting in his hand. "If that's what you call game, then sure."

Oikawa flicked a fry at him. Hanamaki dodged, laughing, before his expression shifted into something sharper, more mischievous.

"Alright," Hanamaki said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. "Let's make it interesting."

Matsukawa raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. Iwaizumi finally looked up from his phone, frowning slightly.

"The third-years' party this Saturday," Hanamaki continued, his grin widening. "You know, the one with too much booze, bad music, and questionable life choices. Let's raise the stakes."

"What stakes?" Oikawa asked, already intrigued.

Hanamaki leaned back, his smirk practically dazzling. "One of us has to hook up. Or at least kiss someone. Doesn't have to be love-hell, it doesn't even have to be a good idea. Just... a story."

Oikawa's grin stretched wider, the kind of expression that made people want to punch him-or, in rare cases, kiss him. "Oh, that's unfair. I'll win without even trying."

Iwaizumi groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'm out. I'd rather not lose more brain cells than necessary."

Hanamaki waved him off, undeterred. "Fine, you can sit on the sidelines and be our referee. But Matsukawa..." His gaze slid toward the taller boy, his eyes glittering with challenge. "What about you?"

Matsukawa didn't answer right away. He tilted his glass slightly, watching the liquid shift and catch the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitched, faintly amused. He wasn't the type to jump headfirst into things-it wasn't his style. But there was something about Hanamaki's grin, the way it dared him, that made him pause.

The bar's noise seemed to hum around him-the clatter of plates, the low murmur of conversations, the faint buzz of music leaking from the old speakers. The air smelled of salt and hot oil, dense and almost suffocating. Matsukawa let the moment stretch, the silence deliberate.

Finally, he drained the rest of his drink in one smooth motion, setting the empty glass down with a soft click. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a cat stretching before deciding to pounce.

"Fine," he said, his voice low and lazy. "I'll play."

Hanamaki's grin widened, and even Oikawa looked pleasantly surprised. Iwaizumi muttered something under his breath about this being a terrible idea, but Matsukawa ignored him. He wasn't doing it for the thrill, not exactly. It was more like... curiosity. A spark of interest in the monotonous rhythm of their usual nights out.

"Hope you're ready to lose," Hanamaki teased, leaning back with his arms crossed behind his head.

Matsukawa's smirk deepened, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Hope she's not boring."

At the far end of the bar, the air felt different. Still heavy with grease and neon light, but the energy was sharper, more chaotic. Laughter spilled from a corner booth, loud and unrestrained, cutting through the noise like shards of broken glass.

Y/N sat in the middle of it, her hands wrapped loosely around a sweating glass of cola. The drink had long gone flat, but she hadn't touched it. Her focus flickered between her friends, their voices overlapping in a whirlwind of stories and half-finished jokes.

Ayaka was mid-rant, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten fry. "I swear, men would rather solve quantum physics than figure out basic anatomy."

Hina snorted into her drink, nearly choking, while Mei meticulously picked at her burger, her movements precise and deliberate. The table was a mess of crumpled napkins and discarded pickle slices, the aftermath of a battlefield disguised as a casual dinner.

Y/N shifted in her seat, the cracked leather sticking faintly to her thighs. The air felt too warm, the noise too loud, like everything in the bar was pressing down on her all at once. She wasn't in the mood for this-not for the chaos, not for the laughter that felt too sharp against her skin. But she was here anyway, caught in the orbit of her friends' energy.

Her gaze wandered, drifting over the bar's patrons without much interest. The lights cast strange shadows on people's faces, making them look older, wearier. She was about to look away when something caught her attention-a voice, low and smooth, cutting through the din like a knife.

She turned her head, her eyes landing on the source of the sound.

Oikawa Tooru.

He was leaning against the counter, his posture so relaxed it seemed almost calculated. One hand combed through his hair, the other resting lightly on the surface of the bar. His smile was dazzling, almost too perfect, like a character from a romance drama who'd stepped off the screen. The girl behind the counter was laughing, her cheeks flushed, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Y/N arched an eyebrow, her lips twitching upward in a faint smirk. "Seriously?"

Ayaka followed her gaze, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Oikawa. "Oh my god. It's him. The walking ego."

"It's like he's auditioning for a toothpaste commercial," Y/N muttered, resting her chin in her hand.

Ayaka let out a sharp laugh. "Plot twist: he's selling mouthwash for all the girls he ghosted."

Their laughter was light, private, but Y/N's attention had already shifted. Her eyes flicked past Oikawa, past the polished act, to the booth in the back.

There were three more of them. His teammates, she guessed, judging by the matching jackets draped over their shoulders. They sat with an easy familiarity, their movements loose and unhurried, like they owned the space without even trying.

Her gaze lingered on one of them-tall, broad-shouldered, with dark curls framing a sharp face. He was slouched in his seat, his long legs stretched out beneath the table, one arm draped over the booth in lazy confidence. He wasn't talking much, just sipping something dark and amber-colored, his expression calm and unreadable.

Something about him caught her attention. Maybe it was the way he didn't try to stand out, yet somehow managed to anyway. He was the opposite of Oikawa-quiet, unassuming, but undeniably present.

"Why do girls even fall for guys like him?" Mei asked, her voice cutting through Y/N's thoughts.

Ayaka snorted, twirling a fry between her fingers. "Because sometimes we want hot mistakes, not husband material."

Y/N smirked, her gaze flicking back to her drink. "That boy radiates 'you up?' energy."

Ayaka pointed the fry at her like a dagger. "And yet. You were looking."

"I was judging."

"Mmhm. With your eyes."

"Shut up."

The booth creaked as Y/N shifted, the cracked leather pulling faintly at her thighs. She dragged her finger idly around the rim of her glass, tracing the condensation with a kind of absent focus. The cola inside was flat, syrupy, and unappealing, but it was something to keep her hands busy-something to ground her.

Hina's voice broke through the noise, high and teasing. "So, the third-year party this Saturday. You guys coming or what?"

Ayaka lit up immediately, her grin sharp and wolfish. "Oh, absolutely. That party is the stuff of legends. Last year, someone broke a table, and I'm pretty sure someone else ended up locked in a closet with two people they didn't know."

"Sounds gross," Mei muttered, peeling the last pickle off her burger with surgical precision.

"Sounds iconic," Ayaka countered, popping a fry into her mouth with a snap of her teeth. "Come on, Mei. Live a little."

Hina leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "And by 'live a little,' she means 'make some bad choices and kiss somebody hot.'"

Y/N rolled her eyes, leaning back into the booth. "You're all acting like this party is some kind of life-changing event. It's just another excuse for people to get drunk and make out with strangers."

"Exactly," Ayaka said, pointing a fry at her. "That's the beauty of it. No expectations, no consequences-just pure chaos."

Y/N arched a brow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "You make it sound so romantic."

"Oh, honey," Ayaka said, leaning closer, her voice dropping into something low and conspiratorial. "Romance is overrated. What you need is a good, filthy distraction. You'd be amazed how much clarity comes after a few hours of bad decisions."

Hina snorted, nearly choking on her drink. "Ayaka, you're a menace."

"And proud of it," she replied, tossing her hair over her shoulder with mock elegance.

Y/N shook her head, but her smirk lingered. She wasn't entirely convinced, but there was something tempting about the idea of losing herself in the chaos, even for just one night. The thought was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came.

She glanced toward the bar again, her gaze drawn instinctively back to the group of boys in the corner. They were getting up now, moving with a kind of lazy confidence that came from knowing they were being watched. Oikawa, of course, led the pack, his grin still firmly in place as he threw one last wink at the cashier. The poor girl looked equal parts flustered and relieved.

Behind him, the others followed-Hanamaki flipping his hood up, muttering something under his breath; Iwaizumi shoving his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he was already regretting being there. And last was Matsukawa, stretching leisurely as he stood, his arms raised over his head. His joints cracked audibly, the sound cutting through the low hum of the bar.

"Christ, Issei," Hanamaki said, wincing. "You sound like a fucking haunted house."

Matsukawa smirked, slow and lazy, his dark eyes glinting as he let his arms drop. "Gotta make room for bad decisions."

Hanamaki snorted, shaking his head. "You're a walking red flag, you know that?"

"And yet, people keep ignoring the signs."

The two groups collided at the narrow corridor near the exit, where the air felt colder, cleaner, as if the outside world was creeping in through the cracks in the doorframe. The space was too small for so many bodies, the proximity forcing shoulders to brush and gazes to flicker upward.

Y/N felt it before she saw him-the solid warmth of someone passing too close, the faint scent of something sharp and smoky lingering in the air between them. She looked up instinctively, her breath catching for just a moment.

Matsukawa was already looking down at her.

He wasn't smiling. Not exactly. His expression was more of a slow, deliberate study, like he was filing her away in some secret corner of his mind. His eyes-dark and half-lidded-flicked down briefly, just enough to make her pulse stutter. He wasn't subtle, but he wasn't obvious either. It was the kind of look that lingered, heavy with implications left unsaid.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching upward in a faint challenge. She didn't look away, even as her heart thudded once, hard, against her ribs.

Matsukawa's gaze lingered a second longer before he moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers just enough to leave a faint trail of heat in its wake. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Behind her, Ayaka's voice broke the silence like a whip. "Oh. My. God. He looked like sin wrapped in sarcasm."

Y/N didn't turn around. "He looked like someone who ruins playlists."

"And yet," Ayaka said, her grin audible. "You're still thinking about him. About Matsukawa Issei."

Y/N rolled her eyes and shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets. "Shut up."

"Admit it," Ayaka pressed, her voice low and teasing. "You'd let him destroy your entire sense of self-respect."

"Not a chance."

"Liar."

Ayaka's laughter followed them as they stepped outside, the cold air biting at their skin and clearing their heads. Somewhere in the parking lot, a car engine roared to life, its headlights cutting through the dark like a blade. Music thumped faintly from a passing car, the bass rattling through their chests.

Mei checked her phone, her expression unreadable. "Saturday's at 9."

"Are we really doing this?" Hina asked, though the smile on her face betrayed her excitement.

Y/N's gaze flicked back to the door of the bar, her mind replaying the moment over and over again-the weight of his gaze, the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth, the way he moved like he had all the time in the world.

"Yeah," she said softly, more to herself than to anyone else. "Let's see who makes the bigger mistake."