Call me Charlie ||18|| she/they || Certified anxious bisexual barista:) haven’t been active in months but might start posting some drafts and drabbles so stay tuned
Voicemails After the Breakup (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)
*GIFs not mine*
A/N: I pity the fools who ignore this a/n bc WARNING, these are hcs without those stupid bullet points bc I have suddenly emotionally decided that they fucking suck. Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy the light angst, for all those survivors who are still vibing in this fandom. Enjoy!
Word count: 1968
Tooru Oikawa:
“I’m totally and completely over you.”
That’s how the message starts.
Part of you wonders if you missed something, or accidentally skipped ahead. It’s so immediate, like Oikawa could barely wait for the beep before tearing into you. Like he needed to spit poison the second he had the chance.
And it’s one of those biting remarks that he wants to let fester—for a while, evidently; he doesn’t say anything else for another five minutes.
All that follows is a loud thud, like he’s thrown the phone away from him. And then footsteps, like he’s pacing, pacing, pacing back and forth, trying to think of more scathing words by burning holes into his carpet.
You hit a point where you think you should delete the message, maybe try and not care about whatever else he may or may not say after waiting for so long. You nibble on your nails and tug at the snarls in your hair. You pick four pieces of lint off your sweatshirt and seventeen more off the blanket draped over your lap, and you know how many there are because you line them up and count them afterwards as you wait, anxious, listening to your ex-boyfriend’s panting.
But a small rustle stirs at that five-minute mark, right against your ear. And a sniffle.
“Fine.” Oikawa’s voice cracks. “You win.”
You suck in a breath.
“What do you wanna hear? That I miss you?” He sniffles again, then scoffs bitterly. “That I miss you so fucking much I can’t sleep at night? That my bed is so fucking cold now I can’t even stomach sleeping in it? That every girl I see I automatically compare to you because I have to—I just fucking have to, all because she’s not you. And it makes me sick.”
His chuckle is sour and crackles harshly into your eardrum. “Am I stroking your ego enough, sweetheart? Because you win. You fucking win.
“I want you back.”
He sighs, and it sounds like he’s rubbing his forehead.
“I need you back.”
More beats pass in the silence. More sniffles, too, but stretched out, like he’s trying to steady his breathing.
You don’t think it’s helping him any. As you wipe the cuffs of your sweatshirt underneath your eyes, his voice returns, thoroughly raw and wounded. It squeaks out of him, barely above a whisper. His voice is so loud and tender, like he’s cradling the phone against his cheek.
Your hand against his warm cheek, curled over that pink skin, fingertips inches away from brushing through those soft strands, wiping tears. That’s what you wish it was.
“I didn’t know…”
A shaky breath. You hold yours in return.
“I didn’t know anything could hurt this bad.”
He swallows thickly.
“Those last few moments after you left—I thought that would be the worst of it. When you just walked out. And I keep seeing you do it, over and over and over, in my head like I can’t help but torture myself with it.
“I never knew it would get so much fucking worse.”
He whimpers a little, and your heart constricts unbearably. You tear at the damn thing buried underneath your sweatshirt, massaging the skin like it can soothe that phantom ache.
Oikawa must hate you. Maybe he hates you like you hate him: not because of the breakup, but because you can go for weeks without seeing him, holding him, kissing him, and everything still hurts like that last time.
“Thing is, I could’ve sworn you weren’t always in my life. It’s been two years. Only two years. And yet I can’t remember a damn thing before us. It feels like it was always us. Some fog, and then you, and then everything afterwards. Everything that was us.”
“And I hate that we had it so good, YN. I really do. Because missing you has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The frustration in his voice is familiar, a sickening sense of deja vu around it, and you latch a hand over your mouth at how vividly the image comes to you: Oikawa tearing his fingers through his hair, teeth gritted, cheeks flushed and shiny. Like when he lost a game, but different somehow.
Like this was something he didn’t even know he could lose.
He’s crumbling in a way he doesn’t know how to stop. That ugly part about having something wonderful and new—the moment it’s gone, what the hell are you supposed to do then?
“I just—Goddamnit, I can’t stand how badly it hurts anymore. I can’t,” he cries, desperate and aching, like his hand is fisting at his heart. You can hear the breath hitching in his throat, the hiccuping breaths after his sobs. You can hear every tear, feel it against your own cheeks, a soreness building at the front of your skull.
Too many tears. Your body is screaming at you, too many fucking tears.
But it’s him and he was yours and you were his.
Were.
You were his.
You had no idea how much that single thought could make your entire chest throb.
Oikawa inhales, and it makes your heart race against the thick wall caging it in, squeezing against it.
“I need to see you.”
He says the thought like it’s just slapped him across the face.
“I need to go see you, I—I have to.”
He mumbles to himself unsteadily, like he’s rocking back and forth. Debating, really, what he’s supposed to do, if he should do it at all, if it’s right after everything.
You should probably think he’s wrong.
You probably shouldn’t be curled over your phone, eyes wide, mouth open, not making a fucking peep. Waiting to hear what he’s going to do.
Maybe—just maybe—you shouldn’t be telling yourself that as the voicemail counts down to its final seconds, if he decides he’s not going to go to you, that you’ll definitely be going to him.
“I can’t just sit here. I can’t stay in here, without you. This isn’t right, I—”
Your breath hitches when you hear the frantic jingle of keys.
Then the sound of a door slamming.
His footsteps racing down his apartment’s stairwell.
A car engine revving.
“I need to see you.”
And the voicemail ends.
_________________________
Satori Tendou:
The message begins with a scoff of utter disbelief.
“Is that what we’re doing now?”
He pauses, almost like he thinks you’re going to respond.
“Heard from someone that I suddenly have syphilis. Yesterday, I had herpes though, so I guess I’m gonna have a tough week.”
A rustle like he’d shaking his head, like he can’t fucking believe it.
“And sure, okay, I figured that’s fine. You can say all that shit, and it won’t really stick because everyone knows it was us and that it’s you and you’re hurt.”
He sighs.
“But I saw it, sweetheart. I saw it.” The phone whines like he’s adjusting it against his face, and his voice is suddenly lower, darker.
“You don’t get to have it both ways, you know. You can’t spread all that shit—all those rumors about how shitty everything was and how we didn’t have anything going for us—and then turn around two days later wearing my sweatshirt. And you don’t get to wear that necklace I gave you for our anniversary and then run away from me the second you see me. That’s just not fair—you’re not playing fair anymore.”
Something swishes around like loose clothing, and a large huff greets your ear from what must be Tendou collapsing into a seat. When his little sounds become quieter, that relentless humming and the excitable clicks of his tongue against his teeth, you figure he must have put the phone on speaker and balanced it on his knee like he always did. Mid-conversation with Ushiwaka, he always used to spin his phone with those long fingers, or bounce the damn thing up and down against his frantic leg.
And the voicemail came through late last night, one of those dead hours where the only ones awake were Tendou, his scrambling thoughts, and the moths flitting back and forth outside his glowing window. He was always awake, always thinking, always doing something.
When you’d first broken up, after one long, wrenching fight where you’d both lost your voices and the frustration welled so high you just couldn’t breathe anymore, you’d been thankful for the idea of sleeping soundly for the first time in months.
You’d been wrong. You weren’t even sleeping anymore; just long, slow blinks where your phone screen would magically turn from 3:45 a.m. to 7:25 a.m., and in five minutes you’d have to get up and slug your way through another day.
Tendou had been the same. Those naturally wide eyes sagged under the pressure, and the curve of his spine had deepened like he’d been hauling the lack of sleep everywhere he went.
He must be sitting at his window now, at this moment in his message, pale skin aglow with wispy tendrils of moon. And he’s calling you. And he saw everything you’d done.
“Not fair. Not fair at all,” he whines, teasing. Always, always teasing, and if you hadn’t heard the slight cripple in his voice on the last word, you’d have gone on thinking he viewed it as one big joke.
You’re sure he heard the same thing you had—that he couldn’t keep acting like it was all fun and games. His usual, cat-like smile surely fell into a pert little frown, pale lips twisting like he’d sucked on a lemon.
No fun, no fun, no fun, he must have been thinking.
“Ya see, I thought we had a little deal,” Tendou drawls. “You’d talk smack and start dressing all pretty just to spite me, and then–and then I’d go ahead and delete all your pictures and put your name as ‘Bitch’ in my phone. And in, like, two weeks, we’d just be two ships, whoosh, whoosh, passing each other on the high seas of life, ya know?”
He breathes a ghost of a laugh.
“But, sweetheart, you look like shit.” He chuckles for real this time, and it’s disgustingly hollow. “I’m not even kidding. Like someone ran you over three times every morning—it’s horrible, really.”
You curl into yourself even further, and you’re smiling, grinning, lips peeling with how much you’ve cried and how little water you’ve drank after. You hate him; God, you hate how he can make you laugh and cry at the same time.
“But that’s okay, I’ll give you a pass just this once. I haven’t deleted your pictures yet, so I botched my end of the deal, too.” Tendou tsks his tongue.
“I won’t go easy on you, though. Here–here, how’s about this: for every day you stop wearing my clothes—because they look horrible on you, sweetheart; really, you’re painful to watch—I’ll delete one of your pictures, eh? That means, in about–uhhdivideby365daysinayearignoringleapyearbullshit–ah, seven years, I’ll have held up my end. S’that good with you?”
You lean your head back, letting the tears flood your hair as he chuckles to himself.
“Fuck it,” he says after a pause. Hopeless. Breathless. “Fuck it.” He must be gnawing on that pale lower lip, biting and nibbling until it bleeds. Because he lets something go to sigh again, and he must have smacked his head against the wall, and then you think he sniffled.
“I still want you. I’ve always wanted you. And I’m tired of missing you and wanting you. Doing both hurts too much.”
Tendou soughs.
“So I’m still your Chicken Tendy, baby. Always. And I’ll be here when you're ready, syphilis and all.”
I’m hijacking your tags because this looked super fun.
This picrew is SUPER POC friendly, I was pleasantly surprised. You don’t have to add onto this tag game unless you want to, but I thought you might have a little fun with a picrew 💓
im tagging @twtakami @blondeboyfriend @heich0e @shin-kam-eve @medusashima @melancholicautumnfever @touyangel @ghostbeam @phen0l and anyone else who wants!!! this is one of the most lovely and inclusive picrew’s I’ve ever seen so I encourage everyone to enjoy ❤️
thank you @strawberrystepmom for the tag!! this was so much fun
this piccrew is just as inclusive as everyone says it is! i’m tagging @galair, @spiceandwhiskey, @dabilove27, @touyaspeach, @touyasdoll, @iooiu, as well as anyone else who might like to do it!
tagging: @awkwardchick87 @fandomluke @heroesfan101 @frostthecupcake @kweenkatsuki @potionpeddlerpatchy @saphhonic @toutoshodoroki @vampyrsm only if you want to 💖
They actually had pink for the glasses!!
Ok I’ll tag - @the-fishing-basket @dragons-and-skulls @trxshpandax @heroesfan101 and anyone else who wants to do it!!
DO ME!!!! *said very politely by your adorable little sister ☺️*
I’m an infp and 4w5 I believe
Lmao again with you giving me info like I don’t know you better than you know yourself XD
I SHIP YOU WITH: MONOMA NEITO
PLS THE ABSOLUTE CHAOS YOU TWO WOULD CAUSE
I had never thought of this before but now I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of the two of you together?? Like, two crazy ass blondes who are pretty when they stop making crazy ass faces for two seconds?? Amazing.
He would help your inferiority complex by feeding into your god complex and I love that for you.
imagine all the TikToks you two would make flexing on other people! Iconic.
Monoma is a 3 and when you look up 4’s compatibility with 3s this is a piece from the article that comes up:
The Three will fight for the Four extremely hard even when the Four will not fight for themselves. Witty, fun and playful, the Three can bring the Four out of their brooding moods while the Four can remind the Three to slow down to appreciate life.
LIKE PLEASE THIS IS SO GOOD!!! I would wholly trust Monoma to stand up for you and be your hype man whenever I’m not around to do it.
You cannot convince me this boy wouldn’t love to do makeup or skincare with you while you guys catch up, talking about anything and everything going on in your lives.
AND THE WAY HE WOULD FEED YOUR PLUSHIE ADDICTION
You two would be absolute gremlins. He would support the hell out of you being in your villain era (as long as it’s healthy for you)
It just occurred to me that there's literally nothing stopping me from not having an aesthetic. Like,,,,,,,,,, I can sit in my room wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, in full makeup, listening to classical music while drinking a monster and watching one direction fan videos. That's a thing I can do. There's no law saying that I have to be always 'alt' or always 'straight' or always fuckin 'dark-light-fantasy-medieval academia'. I don't need to be a thing to be a person, wow
It seems like there's more positivity on Tumblr than other platforms (*cough*Twitter*cough*). Like, you can say "I love you, bestie." without anyone calling you corny or childish.
Y'know what? Reblog this to let your besties know you love them.
because hockey au kirishima. big and large and brolic even out of his uniform. tall and muscular and fit and so irresistibly sweet, with the cutest laugh and a smile that disarms you instantly.
hockey au kiri who spends his free days out on the ice practicing. who you’re able to observe due to you working the little concession stand inside of the rink, watching him when you’re set to take inventory and help load in new stock. kiri who’s a natural on the ice, skating comes as easily to him as walking and breathing. he looks elegant out there, graceful and defined.
hockey au kiri who stops by and you’re greeted with all of him. kiri in his compression long sleeves and trackies. wild hair that’s just dampened with sweat, scraped back carelessly in a ponytail that fits him seamlessly. kiri whose quick to give you that dazzling heartbreaker smile, ask you how your day’s going, sweet talk you into giving him a large slushee without paying the full amount.
hockey au kiri who’s all cut muscle and ripped and you see it every time he moves. everytime he stretches, his biceps flex. he turns to hail a friend and you watch the muscles in his back roll and grow taut when he raises an arm. he laughs and his chest expands and perky tits bounce, pebbly pierced nipples prodding for attention through his shirt.
hockey au kiri who’s admittedly a bit of a dumb jock, not near the smartest on campus, but he’s smart enough to pick up on attraction. he’s smart enough to catch on to the pretty little thing who works the concession booth who’s always a bit too easy with him without even trying. hockey au kiri who’s well aware of you, kiri who plots the day he can finally get you alone and to himself.
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
prguitarman
