Various — Hair Ties & Heartstrings
(timeskip era, dad fluff, domestic softness) includes Ushijima, Daichi, Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Kuroo, Bokuto.
│ they were warriors on the court, but no battle was harder than tiny hair ties and baby curls.
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Ushijima Wakatoshi
he treats your daughter’s hair like it’s a matter of national importance.
you walk into the living room to find him sitting perfectly upright on the floor, legs folded neatly beneath him, your toddler perched in front of him with her hands resting obediently on her lap. the television plays a paused tutorial, and ushijima watches it with the exact same laser focus he once reserved for analyzing opposing teams. he rewinds the same ten seconds over and over, studying the way the woman twists the strands.
your daughter keeps glancing up at him, eyes wide, waiting for instructions. he touches her shoulder gently. “hold still,” he murmurs, and his tone is so soft she melts instantly, chin lifting with pride.
he works slowly, delicately, his large hands surprisingly gentle. he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t fumble. he simply concentrates, carefully dividing her hair into sections while occasionally checking the screen again. when he finishes the braid, it’s not perfect—lumpy in a few places, slightly loose at the bottom—but your daughter squeals the moment she sees it in the mirror, hugging his leg.
ushijima looks at you over her head, expression unreadable to most, but you know exactly what it means: tell me how to improve. and later that night, when he sits behind you on the couch with a comb in hand, determined to practice on you too, you can’t help but smile at how earnest he is—how badly he wants to be gentle in every way a father should be.
Daichi Sawamura
daichi genuinely believed pigtails would be easy.
he’d handled rowdy teams, survived countless practices where everyone ignored his instructions, and he's a police officer—he thought two little elastic bands would be nothing. but ten minutes in, he’s sweating like he ran suicides. the comb keeps getting caught, your daughter keeps turning her head to talk to him, and every part he makes immediately shifts lopsided.
“sweetheart,” he sighs, “you have to stop moving— no, don’t twist— oh, no, that made it worse— okay, hold still— no, not like tha—”
you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing.
eventually he manages two pigtails. they’re… not even. at all. one sits higher, the other is fluffier, and the ends stick out like they’re trying to escape. but when your daughter sees herself, she beams so brightly daichi forgets every struggle he just went through.
“daddy did it!”
the way he softens—absolutely melts—should be illegal. later, when he slumps onto the couch beside you, rubbing a hand over his face, you lean into his shoulder. “they looked cute,” you tell him.
he groans. “one was pointing due east.”
“still cute.”
and the tiny smile he gives you tells the whole story—he would fight a thousand lopsided pigtails if it meant making her smile like that again.
Oikawa Tooru
oikawa is convinced he’s good at this.
why? because he watches hair tutorials on tiktok sometimes. because he thinks he understands aesthetics. because he has three daughters, and confidence is all a man needs, right?
you walk into chaos.
one girl is sitting with her hair half-combed. another is running laps around the living room wearing a tutu. the third is holding a handful of clips and trying to convince oikawa to use all of them. he is trying to negotiate with them like they’re all tiny diplomats.
“okay, okay— one clip each, no more, or daddy’s going to lose his mind— mina, sit still— no, not that clip, it clashes with your shirt— no, no, don’t cry, we’ll find another bow— hey, don’t eat that—”
you lean on the doorframe, watching him juggle all three girls like they’re an entire volleyball lineup.
eventually, he manages hairstyles for all of them—messy but adorable, creative but chaotic. the girls sprint off proudly, showing each other their “princess hair,” and oikawa collapses onto the couch like he’s survived a natural disaster.
“i am amazing,” he says weakly, throwing his head back.
you kiss his cheek. “you’re tired.”
“i’m both,” he mumbles, curling into you like he needs emotional CPR. “kiss me again so i don’t die.”
you do.
and he absolutely purrs like he just earned MVP.
Iwaizumi Hajime
he’s trying so hard to be gentle.
but his hands are built for power, not precision, and every time he tries to stretch a hair tie, it snaps with a loud pop. your daughter laughs every single time, clapping her hands, thinking this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.
iwaizumi groans, head falling back, hair tie dangling pathetically from his fingers. “i swear i’m not doing it on purpose.”
“you’re too strong,” she says with absolute seriousness, patting his bicep.
his ears turn red.
finally, after enough snapped elastics to create a small graveyard, he manages to gather her hair into the tiniest, cutest ponytail imaginable. it’s barely an inch long. it’s crooked. it looks like a sprout. but she beams at him in the mirror.
“it’s perfect, daddy!”
iwaizumi’s whole expression softens—just melts right through his tough exterior. he scoops her up, peppering her face with kisses until she squeals.
later, when you pinch his cheek and tell him, “you did a good job,” he grumbles under his breath but leans into your touch anyway, muttering something about “needing better elastics next time.”
Kuroo Tetsurou
kuroo is ambitious.
your daughter asks for a “ballerina bun,” and he agrees before you can warn him what he’s getting into. ten minutes later, he looks like a man who’s questioning every decision he’s made in life. the bun keeps unraveling, the pins keep slipping, and every time he tucks one piece away, another pops out dramatically.
your daughter is unfazed—she’s eating crackers and humming to herself like this is the funniest show she’s ever watched.
“stop laughing at me,” kuroo mutters as another pin clatters to the floor.
“i’m not laughing,” she lies immediately, crumbs on her face.
you step in only long enough to give him one tip on twisting from the base rather than the ends. he tries again, expression fierce with determination, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.
this time… it works.
the bun is slightly crooked, a little fluffy, and honestly adorable. your daughter beams at herself in the mirror—then clips a tiny pink bow into kuroo’s hair for “helping.”
he freezes.
“oh. so that’s how it’s gonna be.”
you’re laughing as he lets her add two more. he kisses your cheek on his way past, voice soft.
“she gets the hair,” he murmurs, “but the cute part? she definitely gets from you.”
Bokuto Koutarou
bokuto hits every emotional mode in five minutes.
he starts confident. “i got this! easy! her hair is like— like a tiny broom! i can do broom stuff!” he does not, in fact, “got this.”
two minutes later, he’s dramatically hunched over, mumbling, “her hair hates me… i’m a failure…” your daughter pats his head. “it’s okay, daddy.”
you kneel beside him and show him how to brush from the bottom up to avoid tangles. his entire face lights up like you’ve taught him a secret technique passed down from ancient hair masters.
“OH. BABE. THAT’S SO SMART.”
he tries again. slower. gentler. concentrating so hard you swear you can hear gears turning in his head. and finally—finally—he gets her hair into the cutest little puff ponytail.
he lifts her into the air triumphantly. “LOOK AT YOU!! YOU’RE SO CUTE!! I MADE THAT!!”
she giggles, clinging to him, and bokuto beams like he just won nationals.
when she runs off, he wraps his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “thanks for helping,” he murmurs, softer, sweeter. “i wanna be good at this.”
you lean back into him, smiling. “you already are.”
and the way he squeezes you tells you he believes it.
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requested by @thecranberrypineapple
