Just a girl obssessed with Haikyuu

I do imagines based on songs! You can request one if you like 💖

[hqobssessedgirly]

Welcome ^_^

Masterlist:

I think about what we could've been - IwaizumixF!Reader based on Could've Been by H.E.R.

You got me pouring for two, I swore I'd never do it again - Oikawa Toru x ex!reader based on Love Hangover by Jennie ft Dominic Fike

I'm done actin' like I don't care what we are - Miya Atsumu x reader based on we never dated by sombr

When she's around, it's hard for me to breathe - Kageyama Tobio x reader based on Nervous by The Neighbourhood

Rules and author's notes:

I write imagines based on songs i like or requested by you!

I am willing to write fluff, angst, suggestive content and close to smut

I do not write explicit smut

Don't worry if i don't know the song you requested. I always listen to it a few times to really get the vibe and write the best story i can 🥰

English is not my first languague

[hqobssessedgirly]

When she's around, it's hard for me to breathe

Pairing: Kageyama x F!reader

Based on the song Nervous by The Neighbourhood

Warnings: pre-timeskip; high school crush; slighlty angst; soft!Kageyama; platonic relationship;

Kageyama Tobio has never once been nervous on a volleyball court. His hands don't shake there. His mind doesn't go blank there. Around you, apparently, none of that applies.

"You're doing that thing again," Hinata says, watching him fumble a receive for the third time, eyes drifting toward the bleachers where you're sitting with your headphones in, barely glancing his way.

"What thing?"

"The thing where she's within twenty feet of you and you turn into a rookie."

Kageyama doesn't answer, mostly because it's true, and mostly because you've never once seemed to notice.

It isn't that he doesn't know what he wants to say to you. He's said it in his head a hundred times, in the shower, on the walk home, staring at the ceiling at two in the morning like an idiot. Something simple. He's not good at flowery words — never has been, never will be — but he's good at knowing exactly what he means, even if getting it out of his mouth in the right order is apparently a skill that requires more practice than a jump serve.

Every time you're actually standing in front of him, though, it all falls apart. His pulse does something stupid. His hands don't know where to go. His mouth, usually so blunt and certain, forgets every word it was supposed to say.

One day Sugawara finds him after practice, sitting alone on the steps, staring at his phone.

"You've been off all week," Suga says, sitting down beside him without waiting for an invitation. "Weirder than usual, I mean."

Kageyama's ears go red. He turns his phone over in his hands, screen dark, he's been building up to texting you and losing his nerve on a loop for the better part of an hour.

"I don't know how to say it," he admits suddenly, frustrated with himself. "When she's around, i get goosebumps all over me and it's hard for me to breathe. I open my mouth and none of it comes out right. Or it doesn't come out at all."

Suga is quiet for a second, surprised with the sudden confession, considering him with the kind of patient attention he used to give Kageyama back when nobody else did. "Can I tell you something? You don't have to make it perfect. You're not setting up a match point. You just have to be honest."

"What if she doesn't feel the same? She's never exactly acted like she does."

Suga doesn't have a good answer for that one. "Then at least you'll know," he says gently. "Better than wondering forever."

Kageyama sits with that for a long moment, turning it over like a play he's trying to memorize. It almost helps. It almost makes the knot in his chest loosen enough to convince himself he can actually do this.

He texts you that night:

can we talk tomorrow?

sure

You reply, nothing more.

The next evening, you meet him outside the gym.

"So," you say with a kind smile and your hair reflecting the golden sunset. "What's up?"

"I—" His voice catches. His hands, steady enough to place a toss within an inch of where it needs to be a hundred times a match, don't know what to do with themselves. He can feel the shape of the sentence right there, right at the edge of his mouth, and it just won't move.

"Tobio?" you ask trying to make him look at you. "Nothin'," he says, too fast, the word falling out flat and final before he can stop it. "Forget it. It wasn't important."

You raise an eyebrow, not quite convinced, but you don't push. "Okay. If you're sure."

It takes him another week to think of trying again. He finds you after class, tells himself this is it, that he's not leaving without saying it this time.

Then he sees you laughing at something across the courtyard — Nishinoya, who's doing some exaggerated impression that has half the team cracking up, and you're looking at him with an easy, warm kind of laugh Kageyama's never quite managed to earn from you himself.

It shouldn't mean anything. He knows that, logically. You laugh like that at everyone. But something in his chest goes cold and small anyway, and by the time you notice him standing there and wave him over, whatever nerve he'd built up over the past week has already quietly folded in on itself.

He tells himself it's fine. Tells himself a guy like him — blunt, bad with words, all volleyball and nothing else was never really in the running to begin with, not against someone who can make you laugh without even trying.

He doesn't stop noticing you. He doesn't stop rehearsing the words in his head at two in the morning, either, turning them over like a play he never gets to run. He just stops believing they're worth saying out loud.

Some tosses, he tells himself, are better left in his head. Even if some nights, watching you laugh at someone else across the gym, he isn't sure he actually believes that at all.

[hqobssessedgirly]

Hi love. May I request an IwaizumixF!Reader based on the song "Could've Been" by H.E.R.? Post-timeskip and angst to fluff please! I need a happy ending 😭 tysm!!

I love your writing!! 💕

Hii! Thank u so much! I just started posting my writing on Tumblr, so it really means a lot to me that you liked it!! Here's your request. I hope you enjoy it. XOXO 💖

I think about what we could've been

Pairing: Hajime Iwaizumi x F!reader

Based on the song Could've Been by H.E.R.

There's a version of the two of you that exists somewhere in his head, in the space between what happened and what almost did.

In that version, he says something the summer after graduation instead of just standing at the edge of every gathering with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching you laugh at something someone else said, the words he'd rehearsed a dozen times dissolving every single time you turned and smiled at him like nothing was about to change. In that version, the two of you don't spend your whole time orbiting each other at the same university, close enough to grab ramen after class, close enough for easy texts and inside jokes, but never quite close enough for him to say the one thing that actually mattered.

Iwaizumi Hajime has never been a man who dwells. That was always Oikawa's department — the overthinking, the second-guessing, the elaborate mental replays of every worst-case scenario. Iwaizumi moved forward. Iwaizumi didn't waste time on could-have-beens.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

He finds out Oikawa asked you out from Oikawa himself, of all the ways to find out, tossed out casually over post-practice stretches like it's nothing — "oh, by the way, Iwa-chan, I asked her to dinner Friday, wish me luck" — and something in Iwaizumi's chest drops so fast and so hard it takes him a second to identify the feeling as something other than annoyance.

"You did what?"

"Asked her out." Oikawa blinks at him, genuinely oblivious, which is somehow worse. "Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I just told you I kicked a puppy."

Iwaizumi doesn't answer. He can't, actually — his mouth has gone dry and his stomach has folded itself into something small and cold, and it takes him the better part of that evening, alone in his apartment, staring at nothing, to admit to himself what the feeling actually is.

He is, in no uncertain terms, about to lose you to his best friend, and it turns out he has never once stopped dreaming about what you could've been.

He'd told himself a long time ago that whatever he felt back at graduation had faded — filed away neatly under old, harmless nostalgia. He'd built a whole year of friendship on that assumption. Lunches. Late-night study sessions. The particular ease of a friendship he told himself was enough.

It was never enough. He just hadn't let himself notice until the alternative showed up wearing Oikawa's face.

He finds you the next day outside your lecture hall, and he doesn't rehearse anything this time, doesn't give himself the chance to talk himself back down.

"Don't go Friday," he says, before you've even fully registered he's there.

You blink at him. "Excuse me?"

"With Oikawa. Don't." He exhales, hard, and pushes forward before his nerves gives out, the way it always used to. "I should've said something a long time ago. On graduation. This whole time, honestly. I kept telling myself there'd be a better time, and there wasn't ever gonna be a better time, there was just gonna be me running out of chances until somebody else took one instead."

"Hajime, what do you mean?" You looked at him hoping he was going to say what you always wanted to hear.

"I like you. I've liked you since before I had the guts to say it, and I let that turn into something I called just being friends because it was easier than risking it. And now Oikawa's taking you to dinner Friday and I can't even be mad at him, 'cause he doesn't know, 'cause I never told anybody, 'cause I've spent a year sitting across from you at ramen acting like it was fine."

You're quiet for a second too long, and his stomach drops all over again, certain he's blown it, certain the window closed the second he let someone braver walk through it first.

"I was going to say yes to him because I got tired of waiting for you to say something," you admit, finally. "Not because I wanted him."

The relief that goes through him is almost dizzying. "So say no."

"Give me a reason to." you step closer to him.

He doesn't hesitate this time. No rehearsed speech, no five years of missed timing standing between the two of you — just him, steady, sure of himself in the way that only comes from finally having nothing left to lose by trying.

"Go to dinner with me instead."

Your smile is the one that's stolen every word out of his head for a year straight, and this time he doesn't let it stop him from finishing the sentence.

"Took you long enough," you say smiling.

"Yeah, well." He huffs, a real laugh this time, easy in a way he hasn't let himself be in weeks. "Better late than losing you to Oikawa, I guess."

Later that day, he's the one who has to tell Oikawa, who takes it with far more grace and far more teasing than Iwaizumi expected, already threatening to bring it up at every practice for the next decade. Iwaizumi just lets him.

There's no version of this where he lets you walk into dinner with someone else without saying something first. Turns out all those could-have-beens only ever needed one good scare to finally become something real.

[hqobssessedgirly]

You got me pouring for two, I swore I'd never do it again

Pairing: Oikawa Toru x ex!reader

Based on the song Love Hangover by Jennie ft Dominic Fike

Warnings: exes to lovers; mutual pining; mature themes; non explicit; alcohol mention

You said it was over. You said it was over three times now, actually, always with that same careful, reasonable voice — standing in whatever doorway or parking lot or half-lit kitchen the two of you happened to be ending things in that week, telling yourselves it was for the best, that he needed to focus on volleyball, that this back-and-forth wasn't fair to either of you. You always sounded so sure. He never was.

And every single time, he called you back within the month.

That was the part his friends had stopped commenting on, the way they'd go quiet and exchange a look whenever his phone lit up with your name again, like they all knew exactly how this cycle ended before it even started. It wasn't that he didn't know better. He knew better. He'd known better since the second breakup, honestly, maybe even the first. Knowing better had never once stopped his thumb from finding your contact at midnight, some half-formed excuse ready — just checkin' if you're okay, thought I left somethin' at your place. It never stopped what happened after, either, the two of you falling back into each other like no time had passed, like his hands had never gotten the memo that they weren't supposed to know your body this well anymore.

Mornings after were the worst for him, though he'd never admit that to anyone but you, and even then only in the dark, when his guard was too worn down to keep the mask up. He'd wake up with his face in your hair, head aching in a way that had nothing to do with anything he'd had to drink the night before, and he'd lie there for a long moment just breathing you in before the guilt caught up with him. He started calling it that in his head — the hangover. Not from the wine, though there was usually some of that too, a bottle he'd bring over "just to talk," the two of you always ending up in far less clothing than talking required. It was a hangover from the whole exhausting loop of leaving and calling and coming back, of pouring two glasses when he told himself he was only stopping by for five minutes.

The fourth time, he called before he could talk himself out of it.

"I know," he said the second you picked up, not even waiting for hello, "I know what I said—"

"I know what you said. I know what I said, too." you answered.

There was a pause on the line, "I keep tellin' myself I'm gonna stop doin' this," he admitted, quieter than you'd ever heard him. "Keep tellin' myself if I just don't call, it stays over. And then it's midnight and I'm starin' at your name in my phone again, and I can't remember why I thought stayin' away was ever gonna work."

"Why do you keep calling, Toru?"

"'Cause not callin' doesn't fix anythin'. I've tried it. I never actually got you out of my system, I just white-knuckled it for a while." He laughed, low, tired at himself more than anything. "Pretty pathetic, huh. Grown man sittin' in his kitchen at midnight, phone in his hand, dialin' the same person who's broken up with him three times, hopin' she picks up so he can end up back in her bed by mornin'."

You should have hung up. You'd rehearsed it enough times — the click, the silence after, the small cruel satisfaction of finally being the one who didn't answer. But hearing him like this, stripped of all his usual polish, all the sharp things you'd rehearsed dissolved into something a lot softer.

"You got me pouring for two most nights," you admitted. "Even on the weeks you don't call."

Something in his breathing changed on the other end — not triumph, nothing that easy. Just relief. The particular relief of a man realizing he wasn't the only one who couldn't fully let go, wasn't the only one whose habits kept setting a place for someone who was supposed to be gone.

"Come over," you said, before you could talk yourself out of it. "Let's stop pretending we're any good at staying apart."

He didn't say anything clever back. For once, Oikawa Tooru didn't have a line ready — just the sound of keys, a jacket being pulled on too fast, the door of his own apartment clicking shut behind him like he couldn't get out of it fast enough.

When he showed up at yours twenty minutes later, damp from the walk over, he didn't wait for an invitation. He just stepped inside fast, like he still couldn't quite believe you'd let him, and closed the door behind him — softly, like he understood exactly how many times that door had been closed to him before, and didn't intend to give you a reason to close it again.

Later, when the wine had gone warm and forgotten on the counter and the apartment had gone noisy in the particular way it only did with him in it, neither of you reached for the second glass anymore. You just reached for each other.

He made coffee the next morning. Two mugs, on purpose.

[hqobssessedgirly]

I'm done actin' like I don't care what we are

Pairing: Miya Atsumu x reader

Based on the song we never dated by sombr

Warnings: a little bit of angst; friends to lovers; situtationship; angry confessions;

You never called him your boyfriend. Not once. Not even as a joke.

But somehow he had a toothbrush in your bathroom, and somehow he knew you took your coffee with too much sugar, and somehow every Friday night ended with his hoodie draped over your shoulders and his bike helmet dangling off your doorknob like it lived there.

"Hey," he'd say, sprawled sideways across your couch like he owned it, feet in your lap, phone held above his face. "You're staring."

"I'm not staring, I'm judging your posture."

"Same thing" he said with a cocky smile.

You'd throw a pillow at him. He'd catch it without looking, because of course he would, hands like that don't miss, not on the court and not with you. And the two of you would sit there in the loud quiet of your room, and it would feel like something. It would feel like everything, actually, if you let yourself think about it too long.

You didn't let yourself think about it too long.

Because there were rules, unspoken ones, the kind that exist specifically so two people can stand at the edge of something and pretend they're just standing near each other. No labels. No definitions. Just Atsumu showing up after every practice smelling like sweat and citrus deodorant.

"Y'know," he said once, late at night in your apartment "if anyone asked me what we are, I wouldn't know what to tell 'em."

"Tell them we're friends."

"Friends." He said it like it tasted wrong. Like it was a word borrowed from a language he didn't quite speak. "Right. Friends who—" He stopped himself. Laughed, short and a little bitter, and looked at the ceiling instead of you. "Never mind."

You didn't ask him to finish that sentence. That was another rule. If you asked, it would become real, and if it became real, it could also become over, and somewhere along the way you'd decided that a thing without a name couldn't be broken.

He showed up at your door on a Tuesday, which was wrong in every way — Atsumu didn't do Tuesdays, Atsumu did Fridays, planned and lazy — and the second you opened the door you knew something had shifted.

"Atsumu—"

"I'm done pretendin'." He said it before you'd even stepped back to let him in, said it like he'd been holding it behind his teeth the whole drive over. "I've been done for a while, actually. I just kept tellin' myself it was fine. That whatever this was, was enough."

"Come inside, at least. The neighbors—"

"I don't care about the neighbors." But he came inside anyway, because some habits don't break, and he stood in your living room with his jacket still zipped, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn't trust them not to reach for you.

"I watched you on Saturday," he said. "At Suna's party. Some guy was talkin' to you, and you laughed at somethin' he said, and I wanted to—" He exhaled, sharp, through his nose. "I wanted to go over there. Put my arm around you. Say somethin' stupid like she's mine even though I got no right to say that. Because we never made it a thing. How come we never even dated but i...." he interrupted himself looking at the floor.

"Atsumu?"

"I'm in love with you." He said it flat, looking back at your direction, almost angry. "I don't know when it happened. Maybe it was always happening. But I'm done actin' like I don't care what we are, 'cause I do. I care so much it's stupid. I care so much I can't sit with our friends and watch a movie and pretend my hand landin' on yours is an accident anymore."

The room went quiet. Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping gold across the ceiling and gone again.

"You never said any of this before," you said, finally, quiet.

"'Cause I was scared." He looked at you now, really looked, none of his usual cocky ease anywhere in it. "Scared that if I said it out loud and you didn't feel the same, I'd lose you. At least when we never talked about it, I got to keep pretendin' there was a version where it worked out. But I don't wanna keep pretendin'. I want the real thing, or I want to know it's never gonna happen, 'cause I can't keep doin' this in between."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want ya to tell me what this is." He took a step closer. Just one. Close enough that you could see he meant every word, close enough that his voice dropped lower, rougher. "Are you my girlfriend? Are we somethin' real, or am I just a guy who leaves his hoodie at your place and calls it complicated 'cause it's easier than callin' it what it actually is?"

You didn't answer right away. You didn't trust your own voice to hold steady if you tried.

"Say somethin'," he said, and for the first time all night, he sounded less like Atsumu Miya, cocky and untouchable, and more like a boy standing in the middle of a room with his whole chest wide open, waiting to find out if it was going to get handed back to him in pieces.

"I don't want you to be some guy who leaves his hoodie here," you said finally. "I want you to be the guy who doesn't have to leave at all."

Something in his face broke open — relief, disbelief, both at once — and he crossed the last of the distance between you like he'd been waiting his whole life for permission.

"Say it plain," he murmured, forehead nearly touching yours. "I need to hear you say it plain."

"I want to be yours, Atsumu. For real. No pretending."

He huffed out something that was half laugh, half breath he'd been holding for months, and pulled you in like he was afraid you'd take it back if he let go.

"Finally," he said against your hair. "Finally."