Voicemails After The Breakup (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

Coucou😁, J'ai vraiment adorée la fic sur l'omegaverse avec bakugo "The hunt Moon" pourrait il y avoir une partie 2 pleeeaaaseee🙏🙏🙏

I'm glad you liked it! a second part is definitely being considered, especially considering how many people have requested it, but like i've said before i just have no clue where to go with it :(

omg wait what if i just write some headcanons in that universe anybody up for that holy shit big brain

I just read your reborn series and I’m fully in love with it and need to know what happens next. I’m feeling so many things and i kinda feel bad for kuroo 😭 you are so talented and until you write the next part i will be here waitinggg! I’m so excited for that day, thank you for even writing it i love no and keiji so much😭

Ooooh I’m super excited for the series too!! Next part won’t be for a while, but I’m really glad you’re liking it!!☺️ I have plenty more planned, but u know that thing where u got a story but no timeline?🤦‍♀️ I have small brain, but I’m def gonna use this time off to figure it out😤thank you so much!!🥰🥰

Hurts to Forget (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After getting into a scuffle with a villain, you get knocked unconscious and retain minor injuries. At least you thought they were minor. But according to the destructive blond who had blasted his way into your hospital room, your brain might be a little more damaged than you first thought. 

A/N: You get amnesia. That’s it, that’s the story. Really cute, really sad. I hope it’s as good as I think it is… either way, enjoy!

Word count: 2960

        Rain dribbled outside your hospital window while you stared in wonder at the needle lodged in your hand. Wait, was it wonder? Nope, you were wrong; it was agitation. Every now and then you would move to grab your glass of water on the table next to you or take a look at your phone, only to hiss in pain at the sudden jab. You get used to it, my ass, you thought to yourself, rolling your eyes at the nurse’s words. You couldn’t even move to, ehm, unwedge the paper-thin hospital gown you were forced to wear. 

      “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, and the nurse standing in the corner of your room with a clipboard finally peered up, if only to serve you a dirty look. You twitched your eyebrows in response and she heaved a large sigh, pushing up off the counter she had been leaning back on. 

      Setting down the clipboard on your legs, she refilled your water glass while occasionally glancing up at you. “I know this sucks, but you hit your head pretty hard, so we need to monitor you in case there’s any serious damage,” she insisted, but the pity in her eyes told you differently. Had they already found the damage? Handing you the cup, she reached for the clipboard once more, preparing to ask the same questions you had answered about a million times by now. 

      “Nope,” you stopped her, “I’ve already told you one too many times before. It’s March thirty-first, my name is YN YLN, I go to U.A. High School, and I’m tired of these stupid questions. I remember everything that happened, so just let me go home!” you pleaded. 

      “YN,” she sighed again, “I’m sorry, I truly am, but this is for your well-being. The symptoms of serious brain damage can take hours to show, and these precautionary steps need to be taken for your health.” Your hands dropped down on the hospital bed beside you and you groaned in exasperation. 

      “You’ve gotta be kidding meee-” your guttural whining was interrupted by a loud bang down the hall from your door. Both you and the nurse looked at each other with frightened eyes. You jumped into action, pulling out your needle and ignoring the liquid that splashed everywhere while you hopped out of bed, but your companion was faster, more prepared. 

      “Sit back down,” she ordered seriously. Her eyes were wide and intimidating, and this was the one time you were actually scared enough to listen. Slowly, you lowered yourself back down on the now-soaked bed, but sat on the edge so as to be ready for anything. Hesitantly, the nurse tiptoed over to the door, and you held your breath in anticipation. 

      The storm arrived and the calm ended when your door literally blasted open and a wave of heat hit you. Choking on the fumes, you barely noticed your nurse get slammed into the wall next to the room’s entrance thanks to the explosion. A figure walked through the smoke and you stood, preparing to fight even though your knees wobbled and your hands shook. 

      “Dammit dumbass, what the hell were you thinking?!” The enraged voice made your racing heart skip, and your defensive stance faltered. “Your stupid ass could have gotten killed, then what?! What am I supposed to do when you’re dead?!” The nonsensical shouting was soon joined by the appearance of a blonde guy stepping closer and closer to your trembling form. His brows were furrowed and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Who is this dickhead? You resisted the urge to gasp at his words, knowing you would choke on the hot air around you anyways.

      “Umm, I think you have the wrong room, dude,” you mumbled with a pointless shrug, suddenly finding the speckled floor fascinating. You braced for impact, maybe another explosion, but it never came. 

      “What is your dumbass on about?” His tone was quieter, and now he seemed more concerned than irate. Surprised at the abrupt mood shift, you glanced back up at his face. Oh wow, his eyes are gorgeous. Maybe crimson was your new favorite color, but this guy’s bitter attitude was kind of ruining it for you. 

      “Hey! Who are you calling a dumbass, dumbass?” you retorted lamely. It was all you could come up with, and to be honest, this guy was giving you quite the headache. Either way, that seemed to enliven the eruptive blond once more. 

      “What are you, stupid? It’s me, idiot, and now’s not the time to joke. Tell me what happened.” Okay, this boy and his repetitiveness was getting on your nerves. Glancing up at the ceiling, you prayed for grace and patience while dealing with your unwelcome visitor. After exhaling loudly into his face, you shouldered past him and trudged over to your unconscious nurse through the rubble he had caused. 

      “Look jerkwad, like I’ve said, you’ve got the wrong room.” Using your super strength, you picked her up and lugged her over to your own bed, unceremoniously dropping her before dusting off your hands and swinging back around to face the guy. “And I think you’ve caused enough trouble in here. You should probably leave.” You nodded your head to the door just in case he had forgotten where the destroyed exit was. 

      “YN, I don’t think you’re okay.” He brushes off your words, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards the door. “We need to find someone to help you.” Clenching your jaw at his ignorance, you ripped your hand away from his grasp.

      “Dude, how many times do I have to tell you, you’ve got the wrong girl! Now leave.” You harshly point to the door and glare at him, losing your patience. The blond’s hands twitched at his sides and he looked about ready to blow his top, his maroon orbs lit like a bonfire. Then, it was almost as if someone had stolen the spine right out of him in an instant. Slowly unfurling his fists, he slumped his shoulders and turned his head to the side, avoiding your gaze.

      “Fine. I’ll leave you alone. Just... promise me you’ll get some help, YN.” You blanched at his surrender, but he didn’t wait for your response. Promptly, he whipped around and sauntered out of the smoky room, his hands stuffed indignantly in his pockets. Letting out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, you bit your lip. You almost felt bad, but you didn’t know why. His words had been insulting and had stung your heart, not to mention he had KOed your nurse. Overall, the guy seemed… just terrible. So why did you suddenly want his presence back?

                           ###

      It took a couple more days in the hospital and another week locked in your own home before you were finally allowed to return to school.

Bouncing up and down in your seat on the subway, you couldn’t keep the giddy grin off your face. You were just so excited to return to class and train instead of lazing around your house all day. Also, there was an inkling in the back of your mind that you would see someone there. Someone you missed, but couldn’t remember for the life of you.

Shrugging it off, you plugged in your earbuds and strutted to the beats of your music all the way to the entrance of your classroom.

Once there, you beamed are the sight of the oversized door, pushing it open and stepping inside like it was the entrance to an elegant ball.

      “YN, you’re back!” the voices of your classmates harmonized as they jumped up at your arrival. 

      “We heard you got whammied,” Kaminari spoke up first with a smirk. You scoffed.

      “Of course not. I got like thirty blows in before he finally took a swing. It just so happened to catch me in a bad spot is all,” you waved off his suggestion. 

      “So what happened, then?” Mina spoke up. 

      “Well, I saw a villain trying to hurt some innocent kids, so I called the cops, right? But they weren’t showing up fast enough, so I-” you were interrupted by the loud bang of the door whipping open. The chattering around the room died of instantly, and all your classmates’ attention was drawn to whoever had just arrived behind you.

Confused, you turned around to see what had caused such a reaction, only to see the asshole from a week ago. “Ugh, you’re here too?” you melodramatically whined. 

      The blonde didn’t reply, but he seemed to wince at your comment. His silence baffled you, but you figured maybe he was only okay with cussing people out in private. He walked past you and completely dismissed your presence.

Bewildered, you observe as your classmates silently moved out of his way so he could take his seat on the far side of the room. They had all watched your one-sided interaction with perplexed eyes, and you couldn’t take it anymore. 

      “Okay, why are you guys acting so weird now?” you prompt them, only to widen your eyes at the numerous gasps you received. Overdramatic much?

      “YN, did you two break up?” Uraraka asked, watching you sadly. 

      “Break up? Us two? What are you talking about? By the way, who is that guy?” Your numerous questions only served to confuse your audience even more, and they all grew somber and awkward, avoiding your gaze. You almost spontaneously combusted when Kaminari began to casually whistle while looking away, but someone finally spoke up.

      “YN,” Iida’s matter-of-fact tone was gentler than usual when he stated, “it seems you have amnesia.”

Aww man, you missed these guys.

Ignoring the baffled stares, you began to giggle, short little burst bursts of chortles before slowly easing into all-out howls as you held your stomach from the pain. Your laughter prompted the others to join you, chuckling lightly while still exchanging confused glances with each other. 

      Wiping the tears from your eyes, you snickered. “Nice joke guys. But seriously, who’s the new kid?”

A loud crash boomed after your statement and you peered over to see the blond guy stepping out of his chair and stomping towards you. Tensing up at his glare, you choked out a sigh of relief after he thankfully bulldozed right past you.

You scoffed uncomfortably, releasing another anxious chuckle. “Okay, what’s up with that guy?” You pointed your thumb behind you jokingly, but your face fell when you only received pitying gazes in response. 

                           ###

      Bakugou sat out on the entrance steps of the school, picking up pebbles and blasting them away with his quirk.

Miserable, that’s what he was. He didn’t want to cry, that was for sure. He was pissed off and it was raining. Yeah, it’s just raining out, he tried to assure himself.

It didn’t work.

Eyes burning and teeth clenching, the top U.A. student folded his arms over his knees and pressed his face into them, hissing curses at himself.

“This is stupid. Why is she so stupid? Why did that dumbass have to forget everything?” he scolded angrily, digging his nails into the fabric of his pants.

Just as he began to see stars behind his eyelids, a gentle hand patted his shoulder. Bakugou jerked his head up violently, baring his teeth and glaring at the intruder. The act dwindled into a mere whimper when he soon identified the sight.

      “H-hey,” you stammered, your eyes looking at anything but him. Pulling your hand away, you slowly lowered yourself down next to him and flattened out your skirt.

Bakugou glanced back down at his knees and scooted away from you slightly.

Glowering at the action, you tried not to take it too much to heart. Instinctively, you began to pick at the skin on your hands before finally finding the courage to speak.

“Look,” you mumbled, “umm, my- our friends told me about… you know, us, and how we were, um, together and stuff.”

You glanced over at him, but only received a grunt in response, so you looked back down and continued, scratching at your hands even harder.

“I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry I don’t remember… you know, us. From what they told me, it sounded like you- erhm, we were really happy together.”

Bakugou didn’t say a word, but he ducked his head even farther down, biting his lip and clenching his eyes shut.

Uh oh, if he thought that was bad then here comes the kicker. 

      “So, look, I don’t know you enough for us to get back together, and to be honest, you seem kind of like a jerk— sorry, that was mean. A-anyways, I just wanted to say that… um, maybe we could try being friends again, I guess.” Apparently the suggestion wasn’t good enough for the explosive blond, because he went off.

      “Are you kidding me?! Friends?! You only want to be friends again?!” Bakugou’s voice was tight and rushed, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Come on YN! We’ve been through so much together. Please, just remember me!”

The desperation in his pleas made you tear up, and words lodged themselves in your throat. 

      “I’m sorry! I don’t know how to!” you exclaim. You began to sniffle as tears trailed down your face. This boy, this poor boy was heartbroken over a relationship that you don’t even remember. Your heart, your head, everything began to hurt, and when you looked over at him once more, the pain only increased.

He was leaning over towards you, one hand paused in your direction while the other supported him on the rough concrete below. His eyes were puffy and wet, but he appeared frustrated. 

      “Please.” His voice cracked mid-whisper, and he stared directly into your eyes, into your soul.

Shaking your head dejectedly, you placed both your hands on his shoulders and pulled him towards you. The hug took both your breaths away, but neither of you minded as he crushed you into his chest. 

      Crying silently for the forgotten boy, you mumbled into his neck, “I’m so, so sorry. I just don’t know how.”

You felt his jaw spasm against your collarbone, and he tore his head away to look you in the eyes harshly. 

      His nostrils flared, and under his breath he muttered, “Please don’t hit me.”

Before you could question him, he placed his hand on the back of your neck and pushed your lips onto his.

It felt right. So so right... No wait, you didn’t know him! 

Suddenly growing shocked by his actions, your eyes widened as you tried to push him away with your hands on his chest, but he never let up. He kept your lips pressed hard against his own while he held you in place, two hands cupping your cheeks.

At the last second, you decided to use your strength to resist, but then something hits you. Like a brain freeze, you tensed up at the sudden wave of pressure directly behind your eyes.

Memories. There were memories, hundreds of them, all playing like a movie in your head.

The first day you met, when you asked him to spar. He had cackled haughtily in your face as a response, only to holler in surprise when you swiped his leg out from under him. “Oh, now it’s on,” he had snarled up at you from the ground.

Then the first time he had asked you out. It had been Valentine's Day, and he had thrown a bouquet of flowers at you sitting peacefully at your desk. They hit you in the face harshly while he shouted with a red face, “We’re going to the movies tonight!”

Then your first kiss. During training you had socked him right in the face. “Ow, you son of a bitch!” You covered your mouth while gasping, and then began to giggle.

      “Sorry, you want me to kiss it better?” you suggested while snickering.

      “Actually, yes.” He tugged you in swiftly as your lips collided, albeit a little brutally from the initial force. 

       And now, as you pulled away from him with closed eyes and a dazed smile at the memories, you couldn't help but scoff at his brash words from when he had first seen you hurt.

Opening your eyes to smack him in the chest, he let out a less-than-manly shriek at the sudden change in sensations before glaring at you harshly, his eyes still puffy and red. 

      “What the hell was that for?” he barked at you, lip curled back into a vicious snarl. 

      “Who the hell do you think you are? Why did you barge into my hospital room and think it was a good idea to call me a dumbass first thing? You knew I got hit in the head, how could you-”

Your scolding is abruptly stopped when Bakugou tugs you back into his familiar, strong arms.

You release a breathless foof as all the oxygen in you chest is forced right back out into the atmosphere once more. Smiling and laughing under your breath at his needy skinship, you gently patted his back while letting your lips brush against his ear. 

      “I’m glad you’re back.” His voice was muffled in your shirt, but you still understood and kept rubbing his back soothingly.

After a few minutes of sitting like that, he pulls away. His face is still locked in a signature frown, but there’s a livelier glint in his eyes. Still, Bakugou seems to have an irresistible urge perfectly in that moment to chastise you. “But I swear to God, if you ever get hurt and forget about me ever again, I will blast your ass to outer space.”

      “Wow, that didn’t take long,” you rolled your eyes, smiling adoringly. 

      “Hey,” he rested his hand on your cheek, his maroon eyes hardened and dark, “I’m serious.” 

      “I know,” you whisper back, laying your hand over his own to keep him in place. “I promise I’ll be more careful from now on. I swear.” Pressing another kiss to his lips, he smirked into it before pulling away with mischievous eyes and standing, lending you a hand to rise as well. 

      “Good, you better… dumbass.”

      “Hey!”

Can i also be tagged to reborn? Love ur story btw! <333

Of course!! I’m glad you’re liking it☺️💜

How They Kiss *Captain Edition* (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: Just a short little thing cuz I was feeling big brained. Enjoy!

Word count: 2005

Oikawa Tooru:

On the average day, I think he kisses with a smugness often found in the form of a curled lip. He likes the idea that he has you, and that he knows you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. 

His lips are always soft, smooth with the chapstick he always keeps handy. Most likely cherry-flavored because he likes the slightest pink tint it provides.

Normally, his hands are in your hair. Oikawa likes combing through your strands, almost as if to encourage you to do the same. 

Yes, he adores it when you comb through his hair. Tug on it or just brush through it, whatever you gotta do to give his scalp those eye-rolling sensations. 

The first kiss is never the last, and it’s rarely the highlight of the show. The second kiss is much more wanton; he forces as much passion in it as he can, whenever, wherever.

You’re never the one to open your eyes first; Oikawa prides himself in blowing your mind with a kiss that takes you a moment to process it. Not only that, but he also likes to see the little dazed smile you wear afterwards. No matter how hard it is, he will always force his eyes open just to see your face.

Bokuto Koutarou:

Oftentimes, Bokuto’s kisses are always giddy and filled with smiles. Usually, it’s after a game or a practice. While Oikawa uses kisses for pleasure, the Fukurodani captain uses kisses as greetings. 

It shouldn’t surprise you that you accidentally crash your teeth together or bump each other’s noses from time to time. The pain’s never worth thinking about for long, because as soon as you two find your groove, you’re off to the races. 

Bokuto’s not afraid to be touchy-feely, and God does he love feeling you. His hands will wander for a split second, but, after a few seconds, they always find home on your butt. 

He likes your hands against his chest. It feels like he’s surprised you with the kiss. You usually throw your hands up against his chest to cushion the blow when his lips land on yours, and it works about half the time. 

After a kiss, he separates only to litter your face with small pecks, eating up the little giggle you give off. 

When you guys are at that stage, after every kiss will come along a small “I love you,” said with glowing eyes that deliver the emotions Bokuto couldn’t communicate with words. 

His kisses are always rushed, not too much, but enough to frustrate you when it steals your breath away all too suddenly. His lips are only chapped because he licks them too much in excitement; it’s just another little perk of his you love. 

Terushima Yuuji:

Terushima likes to kiss you whenever he can. He’s got a wide array of kisses, but the one you receive most is heated, and of course a little tongue is mixed in. 

He’s a very optimistic guy, but he can become serious when it’s necessary. Thus, I think his kisses always start with a little “hello” as he presses his forehead against yours, then he waits for you to lean in before he dips his head and responds. There’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face when you two kiss, but it slips away the more intense it becomes. 

Suddenly, it’s heavy breathing as he cups your face, pulling you closer and not wanting to let go. His tongue asks for permission about fifty percent of the time at this point in your relationship, only because he knows that he can drive you up the walls with that piercing of his. 

Your hands fall to his waist, where they clench and unclench depending on how out of breath you are. That one pesky strand of hair on his forehead tickles your own, but you’ve grown to ignore it. 

Finally, when the heated kiss ends, Terushima likes to pull away quickly, smirking and waiting for you to open your eyes in shock. When you do, he drowns himself in the sight of your blown-out pupils.

His thumbs are always a rough texture against your cheek thanks to how often he practices, but Terushima likes to slowly trace them over the curves over your cheeks, almost as if he’s trying to wipe away the flush that’s grown there. He likes the feeling of your heated skin under his fingertips. 

Both of your hearts are racing, and Terushima will let out a little breathless sigh before pulling away completely and capturing your hand in his. “Let’s go home, baby.” He’ll kiss the back of your hand, letting his tongue slip out for a split second and chuckling at the grossed out reaction you always provide. 

Sawamura Daichi:

Daichi hands out kisses sparingly, even in private. On a normal day, he’ll only greet you with a swift kiss to the forehead before holding your hand in his and walking beside you to school.

However, when you do kiss, he’s always gentle. These moments are precious to him, and he would hate to rush them for the both of you just for the sake of a little satisfaction. 

Normally, they happen after a hug. He pulls away from your shoulder and leans your forehead against his, waiting to see you look into his eyes before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It’s just a preview. 

The second kiss is more drawn out. He presses his lips against yours, and they’re smooth because of the plain chapstick he habitually puts on every morning after waking up. It’s careful, almost like Daichi wants to remember every little detail. 

While one hand tilts your jaw so he can kiss you deeper, the other lies at the small of your back, pressing you that much closer to his chest. 

He likes your hands at the back of his neck, just barely dipping into the hair along his nape. When your fingernails scratch that little spot of his that makes him groan, that’s when he pulls away, hot breath mingling with your own in the miniscule space between your pleased faces. 

Daichi feels like he could never get enough of you, so before pulling away, he’ll press just a small kiss to your lips that you willingly return. The hand on your chin moves to brush away some hair that had fallen into your face, and he’ll push it behind your ear before leading you away, to go home to study or continue the makeout session, whichever option you prefer. 

Kuroo Tetsurou:

Kisses with Kuroo are quick and teasing, usually found between classes and in hallways. 

He’ll sneak up behind you and spin you around by your hips, tugging you into a kiss that quickly muffles your surprised squeal.

As always, you melt into the kiss, letting out a small moan when he teasingly bites on your lower lip. You’ve noticed that over the years, he’s bitten your lips more than you ever had. 

At school, they’re always slow. Kuroo likes taking his time to truly lose himself in it. He doesn’t give in to his wandering hands, not after the most recent time when you punished him for pinching your ass in the middle of the hall right in front of everyone. Two weeks without sex and he was willing to listen to your every demand about PDA.

At home, however, your body is free game. In the privacy of his apartment, Kuroo always has the kiss lead to something more. He lets you know this with an eager swipe of his tongue along your lower lip. After being given permission, he’s instantly inside your mouth and winning the battle for dominance, but he still loves the little fight you like to put up once in awhile. 

Kuroo’s hands during a kiss are always below the chest. They wander your waist, your hips, your ass, about as far as he can get before he decides to take things to the next level. A hand pats the back of your thigh, and that’s the only signal you need to wrap your legs around him and let him carry you to the bedroom. 

When Kuroo pulls away from kisses, it’s almost like he baits you to want more. A string of saliva connects the two of you, and no matter where it lands, he’ll clean it right up. The movement as he separates from you is so slow you don’t even realize he’s gone until you notice that you can breathe once again. Subconsciously, you always chase after him, and you’re slow to open your eyes. 

“Let me see, Kitten.” A thumb brushes on the skin just above your cheek and that’s the sign he wants to see how blissed out you are. The second he sees how blown out your pupils are, his lips attack yours again, aching to taste that much more of you. 

While you know he doesn’t use chapstick or anything on a daily basis, his lips are normally soft. Some days, after a volleyball game or practice, they might be cracked, and only then will you taste the tang of mango chapstick, but other than that, his lips are only naturally soft. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi: 

Kisses with Ushijima are always initiated by you, and you alone. The only time you get him to kiss you first is when you ask, and even then he will occasionally pause millimeters away from your lips and wait for you to cover the remaining distance. 

You wish he would kiss you more though, as he’s surprisingly good at it. 

While in the beginning, you assumed he would be a little clumsy and awkward, Ushijima was basically a natural. Kissing you was like breathing air to him, and took him little to no time to figure out what you liked. 

During a kiss, Ushijima doesn’t really set the pace or care where your hands go. Though, if you were to ask, he would have to admit that he likes your hands on his face. There’s something about you cupping his face and pulling him in that makes him almost want more. 

With his hands, Ushijima’s quite traditional, and they always land on your hips. You like to feel them flinch when you suddenly nibble on his lips or press your tongue against his mouth. 

His lips have the bitter taste of Carmex, and though you’ve begged him to switch to something more appealing, he’s surprisingly unyielding about it. He says it’s healing and beneficial, and there’s really no other purpose for chapstick that matters other than those. 

The average kiss with Ushijima is a little forceful. His lips press against yours almost harshly, and sometimes you wonder if he actually does like it as much as you. There are times where you try to end the kiss but apparently it's much too soon for him. He’ll chase after your lips, and on these rare occasions, a hand will stray from your hips and press against the back of your head, pulling you back in for more. 

When you do manage to separate from Ushijima, he has the cutest little quirk of brushing his nose against yours for just a split second. Don’t bother asking him about it though, as he claims he has no idea what you’re talking about. Still, in these precious moments after the kiss, his face is still as blank as ever, but the hair hanging down on his forehead is ruffled and sticking out wildly. Your hands on his face hide the flush behind them, but if you spread your fingers, the red tint is slightly visible on his tanned skin. 

“How was that? Not too much of a pain, right?”

“I would not consider it a waste of my time if we were to kiss again, I suppose.”

Really, that’s the best response you can squeeze out of him.

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

*not a request* I JUST READ YOUR GAROU FLUFFS AND OH MY GOD THEY ARE SO GOOD!!!!! YOU'RE SO TALENTED!!! I LOVE YOUR WORK 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Akxbskncksnw thank you so much!! I’m so glad u like them🥺💜

Ngl I’m at that point of being a *writer* where all I can do is look back at my old work and c r i n g e🥴

YO WERE U TALKING ABOUT MOTORBOATING FOR KUROOS SIT ON FACE TEXT CAUSE WATERBOARDING IS TORTURE

I WAS TALKING ABOUT WATERBOARDING BC HE REALLY DO WANNA BE SUFFOCATED BY THE COOCHIE😌😌

Jfc looking back at all this I cringe at the fake texts I’ve written🤦‍♀️

Volleyball on the Brain (Kageyama x Reader/Soulmate AU)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: In a world where soulmate’s thoughts are written on their other half’s hand, your soulmate always has the same thing on his mind every day: volleyball and the occasional dumbass ginger.

A/N: Thank you so much for 300 followers! Like holy crap, that’s amazing how fast that happened, so thanks again you guys! Here’s the celebration fic, but I’m pre-sorry bc it’s not as good as I hoped it would be. I’m sorry, but I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 3076

        Ever since you hit the age of puberty and soulmarks, your soulmate only had one thing on his mind: volleyball. Almost every single one of his thoughts revolved around the sport.

        ‘Did I set that right?’

        ‘Will Oikawa help me learn how to serve?’

        ‘Why didn’t Kindaichi go for my set?’

        ‘I’m not leaving this court.’

        It’s been driving you insane since you were in middle school. But lately, ever since you started at Karasuno, they’ve become… calmer in a way, with the addition of a new “Hinata.”

        ‘Damn, carrot top actually reached that set!’

        ‘That red headed idiot actually beat me in a race! I won’t let it happen again!’

        ‘Hinata, that idiot. He seriously served it right into the back of my head! I’m gonna teach that dumbass a lesson.’

        Every new thought he had drew itself in his own sloppy writing on your left hand. They ran over the back and in the middle of your palm, each new addition darker and bolder than the last, while the oldest faded away to make room for more. 

        At the moment, you inspect the freshest mark on your hand before a kind voice interrupts you.

        “Hey YN! Whatcha doin’?” Yamaguchi, one of the only friends you’ve made since you first began high school, approaches your desk with some pep in his step. He waves at you shyly and you smile. 

        “Just lost in thought,” you respond absentmindedly. You stare back down at your palm, watching a new, more vulgar phrase take the place of a previous thought about yogurt. 

        “That’s what your soulmate is thinking, right?” You nod. “What does it say?” With a huff, you run a finger over the words. 

        “They’re still talking about this redheaded weirdo. It’s so stupid!” 

        “Oh really?” A smug voice pipes up behind Yamaguchi. “Can I take a look?”

        “Sure, go ahead.” You twist in your seat and hold out your hand to Tsukishima, who doesn’t care enough to flip it and read others. The one on your palm seems to satisfy him enough. 

        “Interesting,” he mutters with a smirk. You throw a confused glance at him before the school bell lets out a chime to bust your eardrums. 

        “What do you mean ‘interesting’?” Tsukishima shrugs away the question before exiting your class and Yamaguchi gives him a wave, taking his seat next to you. 

        “Do you know what he meant?” you lean over and raise an eyebrow at your companion, but he only waves it away dismissively.

        “Don’t mind Tsukki, he’s always aloof like that. It’s better to just ignore it.” Yamaguchi’s attempts to reassure you doesn’t stray your mind from the initial problem.

        Does he know something?

                                ~~~

        “YN, you’re up.” The teacher waved the slip of paper with your name on it like a surrender flag. It was public humiliation day, and you were the first to go. Wonderful. At least you could get your presentation over with quickly, but that wasn’t what really gave you anxiety. It was him. At any given moment, your hand could whip out a cuss faster than a bullet and you couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. 

        “Okay,” you accept your fate and the risks it provides, ambling your way up to the front of the class with note cards written nonsensically. Curse my chicken scratch.

        “Umm, so my presentation is about-” a snort echoes about the room, followed by a few more snickers, and lastly a gasp from your teacher. 

        “YN!” she whispers your name oh-so discreetly in front of the group of students. “Your hand!” The words are scandalized, like you had slapped her with your glove and declared a duel. 

        “Whatever do you mean?” You stay wide-eyed innocent and purse your lips in confusion. How long can I play this before she excuses me? 

        “Please take this pass and go to the office for a glove,” Bingo. “You’ll have to present tomorrow.” Rescind the Bingo.

        With a grumble, you snag the germ-infested pass and exit the room. It’s on your journey down the hall that you glance down at the word on the back of your hand.

        ‘FUCK!’ it says, capital letters and all. It covers the entire spanse of skin too, written sideways and reaching all the way up to your wrist. 

        “What the hell did he do?” You shake your head frustratedly while stepping into the main office. 

        “Excuse me?” There’s only one person bumbling around the room, and it’s a younger member of staff who flinches and pushes up his glasses at the sight of you.

        “Yes? Did you need something?” You enter the cramped space and hold up your hand, squinting to see the ID card reading “Takeda.” He tenses at the word before nodding solemnly.

        “I understand, let me find a glove for you.” Everyone is now used to the idea that soulmates can have profane thoughts more often than not, so it’s not uncommon for someone to wear a glove on their left hand to hide this.

        “Aha!” “Takeda” is crouched behind a desk but waves around the hopefully unused glove he found victoriously. “I got one!”

        “Oh, thank you,” you say, approaching him and extending a hand to accept it.

        “Of...course…” his voice trails off as he reads the words on the palm of your hand.

        ‘Hinata, the dumbass. He can’t receive for shit.’

        You laugh awkwardly and hide the words behind your back. “Sorry, he’s always thinking stuff like that.” The faculty advisor nods slowly, but pulls the glove just out of reach as you go for it.

        “O-on second thought,” he mumbles, ears growing pink, “t-this is unacceptable.” 

        “Excuse me?” You narrow your eyes at him and raise an eyebrow. What the hell is he talking about?

        Takeda clears his throat and glances at the ceiling. “You should know by now to cover your hand with a glove, especially if your soulmate has been thinking this way during your school hours.” What the fuck?!

        “I can’t control his thoughts, you know!” You sneer at him and cross your arms.

        “Y-yes but this is unacceptable,” his tone loses its nerve but he continues. “I may have to give you detention.”

        “What?! Why?!” 

        “Unless you’re willing to volunteer at our boys’ volleyball game tonight. We could use some point-watchers.” 

        “Hell no,” you seethe, eyes burning with rage. 

        “An hour of detention or helping out at the game tonight, your call.” The staff member wasn’t cruel or mischievous through any of this. In fact, he seemed almost happy, like a father who had just bought his child a puppy for Christmas. Even so, this doesn’t quench your thirst for blood.

        “Fine,” you clench your teeth together and roll your eyes, giving in to his stupid rule, “I’ll help at the game.” At least you didn’t have anything going on tonight.

        “Wonderful!” Takeda smiles at you gratefully and nods his head, handing you the glove before dismissing you. 

        “School is so fucking stupid,” you hiss on your way back to class, snapping the rubber glove indignantly up your forearm.

                                ~~~

        Set one, thirteen points to five. Or was it six? Oops.

        So it turns out you weren’t doing very well at your mandatory volunteering job. Imagine that. While most of you wanted to blame it on the fact that you had been unwilling in the first place, a small part of you thought, no, knew that it was the blueberry on the court.

        “Nice set, Kageyama!” A third year smacked your eyes’ favorite person on the back. You assumed it was the team captain who did this, and you assumed he had just spiked the ball and earned a point. 

        “YN, flip the card over,” the blonde girl, Yachi was her name, urged you with wide eyes. 

        “Right, right, sorry.” You bite your lip and flip it over before returning your gaze to the court. He seemed to have an attitude problem, and hot damn if that wasn’t your favorite type of man. 

        “There’s something wrong with me,” you whisper, glancing back down at your hand guiltily. You couldn’t help it; “Kageyama” was just so pretty! I love him- whoa, where did that come from? Shaking your head for clarity, you read the words on your palm to avoid eye-fucking him for a couple more seconds. 

        ‘That blocker’s not jumping very high. I’ll have Hinata spike it directly forward and over his fingers.’ 

        You smile fondly before returning your gaze to the game. Still thinking about volleyball, huh? I guess we’ll have something in common for once. 

        The redhead of the team charges forward just as Kageyama tosses up the ball. The shorter male jumps high enough to make you blanch while he slams the ball to the ground, just brushing a blocker’s fingertips. 

        “Whoa,” you flip over the card while gazing in awe at the court. “Yachi, what’s that little guy’s name? The one who just spiked the ball?”

        “Ooh, that’s Hinata! He’s amazing at jumping, and he’s really fast too!” The blonde hops up and down excitedly.

        “Yeah, you’re right!” you admit breathlessly. “That was-” Hinata. “-amazing….” Hinata. His name is… Hinata? Oh. 

        “YN!” A hand waves in front of your face frantically. “Pay attention before you get smacked in the face! Trust me, it’s terrifying.” She shivers beside you while you try to breathe properly. Oh my God. It’s him. It’s the blueberry. 

        On the court, Kageyama fist pumps to himself and Hinata copies the action, both yelling heatedly at the point. 

        “Shut up, you two!” Daichi smacks them both on the back of the head and they switch off like a light, repositioning for the next serve. Just as he wipes away a bead of sweat rolling down his face, Kageyama’s eyes catch on something. Her thoughts.

        ‘His name is Hinata?’

        ‘Oh my God. It’s him. It’s the blueberry.’ Did she… find me? He shook his head, trying not to take it to heart before more words, almost indecipherable, scrawl themselves on his hand.

        ‘That Kageyama guy is my soulmate.’ Holy shit. She knows! 

        “Kageyama! Block it, now!” A shout coming from Sugawara on the sidelines causes him to jump into action. Except he got a little too excited.

        “Ooh.” The crowd and players all share the same grimace at the faceshot Karasuno’s first year setter has just taken. He got the point, though.

       You flinch at the sight of Kageyama taking a hefty spike to his pretty mug. A collective gasp arises from the fans and his teammates surround him, inspecting the damage. A coach jogs out onto the court to do the same, and it’s around that time that your gut tries to tell you something.

        Go over there! Umm, how about no? Just do it! You’re not Nike, shut up!

        “Man, I hope he’s okay. Kageyama’s always been tough, but that was a hard hit!” Yachi anxiously bounces on her toes beside you with worry in her eyes.

        “Do you think he’ll be able to keep playing?” you ask, watching as the other female manager hands him a rag for his nose bleed! When did that happen?!

        “I don’t know. I’m sure they’ll have to pull him, if only to take him to the infirmary.” You swallow nervously at her response. The urge in your chest to run out there just got a whole lot stronger.

        Go! No. Go! No. Go out there, YN! All right, fine!

        You bound your way over to the scene. It’s a nervous sprint on your tippy toes, so you wouldn’t be surprised if you resembled a two-legged gazelle prancing along the court.

        “We need to take you to the nurse, just for a checkup.” The closer you get, the better you hear them.

        “No, I’m fine.” The gruff voice makes your heart skip a beat. Oh wowww. Hello there.

        “I-I can take him.” You step up behind a shorter player- Hinata- and speak up. The ginger jumps in fright at your sudden voice. 

        “I don’t mean this to be rude in any way, but who are you?” The captain of the team, an intimidating brunet, regards you curiously and a little defensively. You don’t take it to heart right now, but maybe you can spare a couple hours of sleep tomorrow to dwell on it.

        “I’m really sorry to intrude, but, I mean, I can take him to the nurse’s office so nobody kind of essential has to leave.” You shrug and suddenly realize how half-baked your plan actually was. Little too late now. Kageyama watches you suspiciously from inside the circle of people.

        “I agree,” a squeaky voice adds. It’s Takeda! “YN can take him to the nurse real quick. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Right, YN?” He gives you a pointed look.

        “Yep,” you nod slowly. What is he doing?

        “Ughh, whatever, let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Kageyama pushes past the crowd, including you, and walks towards the gym doors. With a head nod from Takeda, you take the cue and hustle after him, joining him in the silent hallway.

        “Hi.” You want to slap yourself silly.

        “Umm, hi?” He gives you a weird look but continues on his trek, nose now dry of blood and soiled rag held by his side. A tuft of dark hair almost covers his heart-stirring blue eyes, but you're thankful it doesn’t. God, he’s so pretty. How’d I catch this? The thought reminds you of the main reason you were out here with him.

        With a deep breath, you snag his arm and halt his movements. Kageyama grows confused and impatient with you, but you try not to let it deter you. 

        “I know this is weird,” you avoid his gaze, but his attention still gives you butterflies, “but can I do something for a second?” His eyebrows rose.

        “Like what?” I think you’re my soulmate. You grab his hand and hold it up to his face, clenching your eyes shut and bracing for his reaction. 

        It’s deafeningly quiet. All before a single “Huh.” 

        Huh? Huh?! What, did you find an Easter egg or something? What does “Huh” mean? For a split second, you forgot he could read your thoughts. A deep chuckle breaks out between his lips.

        “It means I found you. And I’m okay with that.” You open your eyes if only to glare at him. 

        “Oh, you’re okay with that? Thank God, I’m so glad you’re okay with that. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t-” your breath hitches when he palms your cheek. “-okay… with… that.” The words die off your tongue and you wait. His pupils are dilated, so you wait. His palm is so rough, but still warm and tender against your cheek, so you wait... for nothing apparently. 

        “I think…”

        “Yeah?”

        “I think we should find the nurse’s office. My game’s still going on, and it’s going on without me. That’s a problem.” You snort at him, shaking your head exasperatedly before grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers.

        “I should’ve figured you’d be just like your thoughts.” You lead him to the infirmary, but his long strides easily catch up to yours.

        “What’s that supposed to mean?” He suddenly grows loud and offended. Oh man, you are going to have so much fun teasing him.

        “Nothing bad. Now that I’ve met you, I guess it’s kind of admirable that you think about volleyball so much.” His hand squeezes yours at the words and your chest grows tight with joy.

        “Thanks, I guess.” A flush creeps up his face and you chuckle at the sight, inching closer to his side.

        “Of course.”

                                ~~~

        Well, Kageyama didn’t damage anything serious, but his nose is a little purple from the hard hit. The game is won by a landslide, and he offers to walk you home, a chance at which you jump furiously. 

        “You played amazing tonight.” You smile up at him and he hesitantly returns the gesture. Through another hand squeeze, you infer that your soulmate is more into physically showing his love than any other way. With a returned hand squeeze of your own, you infer that you’re going to be totally okay with that.

        “Thank you. I just wish that dumbass Hinata had-” Your eyes widen and you swiftly press a finger to his lips. 

        “Nope!” His face grows visibly confused. “Nope.”

        “‘Nope’ what?” He asks against your finger. You try not to let your eyes roll back at the feeling. It’s not much, but you figure it’s the closest you’ll get to his lips touching your body tonight. Not that you mind that! You’re totally fine with it! It’s just that, you know, he’s fucking drool-worthy. And he’s all yours.

        Kageyama glances down at a watch he doesn’t have and gulps at the sight. Then he draws up his blown-out pupils to meet yours. “Thanks,” he repeats. “I think you’re pretty hot yourself.” He licks his lips and you follow the action dutifully. “And you’re all mine too.”

        Yep, you were gonna die. Your heart couldn’t handle an attack like this, so you worm your hand out of his grip and start to giggle like a maniac while cupping your burning cheeks. “Why,” you laugh your way through the question, “did you have to say that?” It ends in a high-pitched squeak that causes him to flinch.

        “I’m sorry, was that too forward?” No. More please. “I’ll take it back-”

        “Don’t!” You shake your head rapidly and hold your hands out to stop him. “Please don’t ever take anything like that back, please. I’m gonna need it for my sanity.” Confusion washes over his face for a split second before he nods slowly, glancing down at his left palm just in case. 

        “Okay, I won’t.” You nod affirmingly and grasp his hand again, leading him on the right path to your house. 

        “I just have one question.”

        “Shoot.”

        “Do I really look like a blueberry?”

An Enemy Hypnotizes Bakugou and He Hurts You (BNHA Headcanons)

*GIF not mine*

A/N: Got outta writer’s block with this bad boy. Enjoy!

Word count: 2138

“Katsuki, this isn’t you! Look at what you’re doing!”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Red rage burned in his eyes as he raised his sparking hands, both trained on you. 

Gritting your teeth, you settled back into your own defensive stance. Feet planted on the hard cement, you raised your arms across your chest and braced for impact, eyes glancing back and forth to ensure no more civilians were left on the street. 

The sun shone brightly in the sky, soaking into your skin and creating a halo around Bakugou’s blond head, despite which he still looked like a devil. A leer hung on his face as he circled you, a lion waiting to pounce on his prey. 

Pro Heroes were supposed to be arriving any second; after all, this was just supposed to be a simple academy training mission. You and Bakugou were supposed to survey a local villain terrorizing the streets and observe how a Pro Hero would go about capturing him. 

They should’ve remembered who Bakugou was and realized that he wasn’t the type of person to hold himself back from a fight, however, though distantly you assumed they believed you would be able to hold him back. 

They were dreadfully wrong.

“Katsuki, I don’t wanna hurt you,” you pleaded, softening your stance a bit. 

“Cute that you think I’m the one who’s gonna end up hurt,” he sneered, curling his hands into fists. Sweat dripped down his forehead and arms, further fueling the weapons attached to his arms. 

Panic struck you as you realized he had no control over himself and that no doubt he would use those weapons on you, full force. 

There was only one way to stop him before that happened. 

You would have to attack him first, hard. 

“Just remember, babe,” you shook your head solemnly, “I don’t mean any of this, and I would never hurt you unless I absolutely had to.”

Bakugou cocked a brow and curled his lip, hands sparking now more than ever. 

“Oh, and I also don’t forgive you for eating my muffin this morning.”

A grunt escaped him as he flew through the glass window of the restaurant behind him, crashing and collapsing against a table and chairs. You dropped your leg back to the ground, worry taking over your face as you strained to see his form in the dark restaurant. 

“Katsuki?”

“YN!” All Might’s voice dragged your attention away, leading you to watch as he landed on the street a few yards away. “Are you all right?”

Glancing back into the darkness of the restaurant one last time, you pursed your lips and turned, making your way toward the Pro Hero. “I’m fine, but Katsuki got-”

The wind gets knocked out of you just as you try to take another step, a blast of pure heat slamming into you and knocking you to the ground. 

Head smacking against the concrete, you bite down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood. 

“Shit,” you wheeze out as you roll onto your back, blue sky blurring above you. The epicenter of pain is on the left side of your skull and your head pounds with every heartbeat. Whooshes of blood flood your ears and a voice calls your name before everything turns to black. 

“YN. YN. YN!”

A hand pats your cheek gently, urging you to stur. When you continue to refuse, two fingers peel open your eyelid, flooding it with pure light and increasing the headache that had only been steadily pulsing before. 

“Ughhh,” you moan, unable to form words as the same person lifts open your second eye. 

A muffled “pupils are dilating” sounds far off in the distance before you feel your body being lifted up off the hard ground and onto something softer. 

Words like “hospital,” “concussion,” and “serious” filter in and out as you try to open your eyes, even the millimeter you actually obtain being a strain. 

Where is he? You try to form the words but your mouth feels stuffed with cotton and someone shushes you. Even in the blinding brightness, though, you can see him. 

He’s struggling in All Might’s grip, unsuccessfully trying to rip both arms away and barking at every EMT who walks past--who then begins to walk even faster--as his gaze continually glances from them on to you then back. 

Bakugou stops mid-shout and grows still when he finally sees your smallest of movements--the twitch of your fingers, the blink of your eyes, and the mouthing of his name.

Every ounce of fight in his body drains in that instant, and he slumps back against All Might, shoulders and brows drooping as he holds eye contact with you. 

Even in your daze, you wonder why he doesn’t come with, why they won’t let him come with, but that question falls from your mind the instant the ambulance doors are shut and they begin to drive away. 

Two days later, you were released from the hospital. You had a minor concussion and first-degree burns on your left arm, but otherwise you made it out unscathed. 

And during that time Bakugou didn’t contact you once. Not even a lame “Hey, u good?” text. Though technology was forbidden for the first couple days after your concussion, you still snuck out your phone from time to time to call him, text him, anything. He never responded. 

You told him that you were okay, that it was okay. You knew everything that had happened wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t in control of himself. Someone had forced him to hurt you and he’d had no part in it. If he had, he would’ve stopped it, you were sure. 

Nothing. 

All you would get was a little check mark marking each and every one of your messages as “seen.” 

Now that you were coming back to school today, you could finally give him a piece of your mind after that silent treatment. 

First thing you did when you arrived was look for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. People flooded you as you entered, asking if you were okay and how many fingers they were holding up. 

You noticed they were asking all but one question: What happened? 

Although you didn’t necessarily want to answer it anyway, this still piqued your curiosity and just as you prepared your own inquiry Aizawa entered and they scurried to their seats. 

Still no Bakugou in sight. 

The most acknowledgement the weary teacher gave you after your absence was a nod and an unceremonious grunt before diving right into the lesson. 

Though your doctors would blame it on your concussion, you found yourself unable to pay attention. It wasn’t even anger towards Bakugou at this point, but genuine panic that he hadn’t shown up yet. You never even thought to wonder what happened after you were knocked out until now. 

Maybe he got hurt too, or was it possible he could still be hypnotized? No, no way. You saw him recognize you post-knockout. So where was he?

The minute class ended you were out the door and running to the dorms. If Bakugou wasn’t there then obviously this situation was more serious than you thought. 

You hit Floor Four and bounded past Kirishima to the absent blond’s room, pounding on the door with all your might. 

“Katsuki? Are you in there?”

His red-headed friend watched as you knocked, flinching each time the door shook hard enough to rattle the entire level. “YN.”

“Katsuki I swear to God if you keep ignoring me-”

“YN.” He tried again, growing anxious. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass so bad you won’t even-”

“YN.” 

“What, Kirishima, what?”

It took a few seconds to register that he hadn’t said your name the third time. Snapping your head to the other side, you faltered at the sight of the blond. 

Hair ratty and tangled, eyes puffy and sunken, cheeks pale and bloodless. If anyone were to guess, they would think Bakugou was the one who took the beating. 

“YN.” He repeated your name like he was pondering over it. 

You heard a door click and turned to see Kirishima gone, disappearing into his room. Glancing around the hallway, you realized it wasn’t exactly the perfect place to have such a serious conversation and gestured for Bakugou to open his door. 

The second it was closed, you turned back to him and threw him a dirty look. “Why didn’t you respond?”

He stayed quiet for a second, looking you up and down, up and down. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gulping, and you took the time to notice how bloodshot his eyes were. Then, finally, he spoke. “Are you okay?”

Anger swelled at his dismissal of your question, but before you erupted you noticed something. Though Bakugou’s hands twitched at his sides, every time you moved closer toward him he would inch away. 

Taking a deep breath, you moved another step closer, startled when he took one back. 

“Why are you…” you trailed off, struck by his apprehension. 

“Are you okay?” he asked--no, he insisted. When you responded “yes” he nodded slowly and clenched his jaw, turning away. “That’s good.” Instead of facing you he began to fiddle with his desk chair, rotating it from side to side. 

You step closer, reaching out your hand to touch him and sighing when you see his shoulders tense. It hurt to see him like this, avoiding your every touch like it would give him the plague. “Why?” you whispered sadly.

“I read all your texts, you know.” He turned around and leaned back on his desk, propping himself up on his hands. When his eyes met yours, you saw the crimson was filled with pain. “You said it wasn’t my fault that you got hurt, that it was someone else. Someone else burned you, knocked you out. Someone else hurt you. ” He swallowed roughly. “But that’s a lie.”

“Katsuki, no it’s not-”

“It is, YN!” he snapped, pushing off his hands and pacing “I’m the one who hurt you! I used everything I had against you, to purposefully hurt you.” When he stopped in front of you, his cheeks were puffed and red, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 

He was angry now, pissed off but you knew it wasn’t at you. It was at himself for something he couldn’t control. 

You hated it when he was like this. 

Quickly, before he could flinch away you grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him in, close. He wriggled in your grasp, even preparing to wrench your hands off with both of his own on your wrists before you raised a brow. “You really wanna do that?”

Hesitantly he dropped his arms to his sides and gave in to your hold. The muscles in his face relaxed under your touch, and you started to brush your thumbs over his cheeks with a small smile. “Katsuki,” you leaned your face in closer, “the only thing that hurt me during all that time was you ignoring me. Did you know that?”

“YN, I was just trying to-” Before he could finish you yanked his forehead down to press against yours, effectively shutting him up. 

“Did you know that?” you repeated, slower this time. 

He rolled his eyes and pressed harder against your forehead. “No.”

“Look at what I’m trying to tell you, Katsuki. The only time you ever hurt me, the only time you ever caused me pain, was when you ignored me after I was injured.”

“I’m…” ever so slowly he let his hands trail up to your hips, settling there and squeezing for just a second. He closed his eyes and let out a soft breath. “I’m sorry.”

Your mouth twitched. “Sorry for what?”

“Come on, YN, don’t-”

“Sorry for what?” you laughed, tugging him back in after he tried to pull away. 

Apologies, especially of the genuine kind, were rare for Katsuki. In fact, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d even heard those words fall from his lips. 

But here they were, some of the hardest words to ever say, laid out for you and you only. 

Bakugou’s gaze travelled up your face, pausing on your grinning lips before continuing on to a permanent stop on your eyes. His own lips perked for a second. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you after you were hurt.” 

Carefully, like you were a china doll, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close. His body was harsh but warm against yours as he leaned his cheek against your hair. 

It was sweet. The sweetest you’d ever gotten out of him, but…

“God, you are one awkward hugger.”

“Don’t test me, YN.”