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Even More FanFic Recommendations:

Apparently, I spend way too much time reading fanfics,and the last recommendation pose I did seemed to go over well, so I thought I’d do another list, and give even more stories some love.  I made it so that if it was on my first list, then it won’t be on this list; so, if you haven’t seen that list, I shall post a link to it here.  I’m combining a bunch of fandoms into one post, so prepare yourselves, because it’s going to be a long list.  

Assassination Classroom:  

Not With Me by BlackSoulStar-  Karma x Nagisa, One Shot, 5k Words, Rated M, Takes Place After Episode 18 of Season Two, Jealous Karma, Established Relationship.  

Neca Aut Necare by King_or_2_Queens-  Karma x Nagisa, One Shot, 3k Words, Rated T, Part of a Three Part One Shot Series, Established Relationship. Very Well Written.  

Panem et Circenses by King_or_2_Queens-  Karma x Nagisa, One Shot, 2k Words, Rated M, Part of a Three Part One Shot Series, Karma Thinks Very Dirty Thoughts About Nagisa.  Very Well Written.  

Occulta Hominum by King_or_2_Queens-  Karma x Nagisa.  One Shot, 10k Words.  Rated Explicit.  Part of a Three Part One Shot Series.  What Really Happened on the School Trip.  Very Well Written.  

Nakamura’s Question by Wolfiqueen - Karma x Nagisa.  One Shot. 1k Words, Rated T.  Very Funny.  Nakamura Questions Karma’s Sexuality.  

Goodbye Yesterday by ShiroNekoIsMe - Karma x Nagisa.  One Shot. 3k Words, Rated M. Nagisa returns to 3-E after finally becoming a teacher.  

Truth or Dare? by  KyrieEleisonElise -  Karma x Asano.  One Shot.  8k Words. Rated T.  Karma gets bored and wants to play a game with Asano.  High School Time Skip.  

Fake Out by MerpsiclesTheGreat - Karma x Nagisa.  MultiChapter.  Complete.  21k Words, Rated M.  Karma pretends to be Nagisa’s boyfriend.  Teacher Nagisa!  Cute Read.  

Thinking Out Loud by Midnitestar421 - Karma x Nagisa.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing. Rated T.  Karma tries to understand his feelings.  Spoilery. 

 Asano Comes To Play (Continued) by Jessng - Karma x Nagisa. OneSided Asano x Nagisa.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated T.  Asano gets punished and transferred to E- Class.  Spin Off Series.  

Kuroko no Basket:

Videotape by Kuroko x Akashi - Akashi x Kuroko.  Two Shot.  Rated M. 4k Words.  Major Character Death.  WILL MAKE YOU CRY LIKE A BITCH.  ANGST. ANGST. ANGST.  FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.  

This Ain’t Love by AgapantoBlu - Akashi x Kuroko, Akashi x Haizaki.  MultiChapter. Complete.  58k Words.  Rated Explicit.  Angst.  Angst.  Angst.  Abused!Akashi.  Major Triggers.  Fucking Amazing.  Very Dark.  

Bad Behavior by Nekonser - Akashi x Kuroko.  MultiChapter.  Complete.  61k Words.  Rated Explicit.  Prison AU.  Angst.  Inspired by OITNB.  Very Well Written.  

Shattered Miracles by Mafy_Mod - Akashi x Kuroko.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated Explicit.  SuperPower AU.  Very Long.  Angst.  Fluff.  Smut.  300k+ Words.  It’s amazing, but long as fuck.  

Yellow Diamonds by soundlessAria - Akashi x Kuroko.  MultiChapter.  Ongoing.  Rated M.  Crime AU.  Very Good.  Angst.  

A Different Point of View by LadyLasgalen - Kuroko x GoM.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated T.  Funny.  Kuroko and GoM+Seirin watch KnB.  

Snowflakes by  n.kukurichan - Akashi x Kuroko.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated T.  Angst.  Kuroko goes to great lengths to figure out why Akashi is avoiding him.  

On the Dangers of In-Flight Entertainment by Belncaz - Implied Kuroko x Harem.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated T. Hilarious.  

Fairy Tail: 

A Fairy and a Kitty Cat and a Salamander and a Popsicle by Inizhay - Sting x Lucy, Gray x Lucy, Natsu x Lucy.  MultiChapter.  Complete.  83k Words.  Rated T.  Takes Place During the Grand Magic Games.  

Celestial Lightning by xoxmarshaxox - Laxus x Lucy.  MultiChapter.  Complete.  71k Words. Rated M.  Powerful Lucy.  Very Well Written.  

Lightning and Flames by AzureJade - Laxus x Lucy.  MultiChapter.  Complete.   37k Words.  Rated T.  Cute Read. 

Marked by FizzyBubblegum13 - Lucy x Dragon Harem.  MultiChapter.   OnGoing.  Rated M.  Lucy marked by four dragonslayers, and now needs to be courted.  Amazing.  

Shattered Dreams and New Beginnings by Leoslady4ever - Lucy x Rogue.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated M.  This is very, dark and has lots of triggers.  It’s rated M for a Reason!  

Time To Get Stronger by Jordeng2 - Lucy x Sting x Rogue.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing. Rated M.  Well Written OT3.  

Shingeki no Kyojin:

Risk by AlmostDaringDreamer - Eren x Levi. MultiChapter.  Complete.  50k Words. Rated T.  Soul Mates AU.  Very Sweet.  Somewhat Angst.  

Unexpected by KikkyChan - Levi x Eren.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated M.  Modern AU.  Fucking Amazing. 

Boku no Hero Academia:

Glitter by CloverDreams - Izuku x Todoroki x Bakugo. MultiChapter.  Complete.  69k Words.  Rated M.  Fairy!Izuki and Fairy!Todoroki.  Polyamourus Relationship.  Amazing.  So much glitter someone could die.  

The Truth Hurts? by @unoutan - Bakugo x Izuku.  Izuku x Todoroki.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated M.  Truth Quirk Izuku.  Fucking Amazing.  No Fliter Deku.  Hilarious.  

Kuroshitsuji:

Sexual Harrassment by @sondervallant - Sebastian x Ciel.  MultiChapter.  OnGoing.  Rated Explicit.  Office Setting AU.  Amazingly Written Smut.  Seriously, It’s very well written.  

Crossover:  

Demon Clan Series by @crazyjanacat - Crossover Series between Kuroshitsuji, Death Note, Durarara, DRAMAtical Murder, Togainu no Chi, and Kuroko no Basket.  Series of One Shots, a MultiChapter, and Drabbles.   Everything Rated Explicit.  VERY VERY DARK.  Sebastian has five brothers, each with their own adventures.  Sebastian x Ciel, Akashi x Kuroko, Light x L, Izaya x Kida, Koujaku x Aoba, Akira x Shiki.  

the small, crowded college apartment you share with miya atsumu has proved over and over again to be the biggest annoyance of your life.

the leaky sink, the wobbly table, or even the stupid balcony that you would consider cute if it wasn’t for the fact that it gives the entire town a complete view of what’s going on inside your apartment.

all piling up to be a great bane of your existence, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think that you hated it more than atsumu does.

this mess of an apartment that you both call home, cluttered with your college books and his sport equipments, you don’t know how the two of you could continue to live like this.

( and it’s not like you guys can move and find a bigger place to live either, the two of you are broke enough as it is. )

so without the options of getting a new apartment or literally incinerating every single thing inside the flat — you and atsumu do the responsible thing:

putting on old songs on a stereo, and deep cleaning the entire place!

the two of you start small; taking out boxes you never got around to unpacking and deciding to organize whatever it was that was in there.

(of course neither of you took into account just how many boxes you both ignored to unpack, and now, seeing as how the apartment is cluttered with stacks and rows of moving boxes, you realize how it might have been a tiny mistake to start there.)

“ok pause!” you yell from your side of the room, calling out as you pull something out from one of the cardboard boxes, “look what i found!”

and not a second later, atsumu sprints to your side - his hair a complete mess, in his old inarizaki jersey shorts and a t-shirt that’s too old to be worn outside - he has his own box of items in his grip.

“what’re those?” he drops the box he carried onto the floor, walking closer to you as you offer your hand out.

on your palm, you hold out two boxes of the colored diamond ring candies that almost double as a lollipop — ring pops!

the boxes they come in are dusty and a bit crumpled on the edges, but the smile you give atsumu as you hand him one is unmatched.

he takes one from you, “what are these?

“okay so like these are rings,” you move closer to him, “but get this the diamonds are actually made of candy.”

atsumu rolls his eyes, shoving your shoulder playfully as you hold back a conniving grin.

“i’m not 8.” he tells you, focusing on his box of candy.

you cross your arms, “i’m not 8 either.”

but before the two of you could say anything else, he’s hurrying to open his box of candy, and you’re hurrying to open your box of candy.

“what flavor did you get?” he looks over to your unwrapped candy ring, stars in his eyes.

you smile widely, “grape!”

and he scoffs, “i got red - that’s not even a flavor!”

“that’s what you get for forgetting about them,” you shake your head, clicking your tongue over and over again in the tune of an ‘i told you so’.

atsumu frowns, and he’s quicker than you, so you don’t anticipate it when he grabs the -your- candy ring from your hand, and before you could react, he shoves the entire piece of candy inside his mouth.

(plastic handle and all.)

a silence falls in the air. atsumu looks at you with a proud smirk on his face, and you take a long time to blink.

“tsumu.” you call to him.

and with the piece of candy still in his mouth, he says, “ywes?”

you shake your head, “i’m gonna kill you dead.”

needless to say, that’s what begun the hours of chasing around the two of you did all throughout the entire flat.

boxes and stray pieces of clothes still scattered around the floor so the constant ‘ow!’ and ‘agh!’ as either of you take turns tripping and falling fills the quietness of the air.

atsumu insists to take an hour for a pizza break, and you insist to take an hour for a lay-on-the-sofa-and-do-nothing break.

the next hour you decide to put away more boxes, you’re sitting on the floor, opening through piles and piles of paper bags and unopened seals tucked away in the crevices of the cardboard.

sometimes you see old souvenirs, sometimes there are mementos, and other times there are photographs.

you wipe away the sweat on your temple with the back of your palm, taking a closer look on one of the picture frames you fished out of a box.

“god, we have to go to one of these.” you say aloud, and atsumu - sitting by your side, rummaging through his own box of nonsense - looks over your shoulder.

he tilts his head, “okay, i have no idea what i’m looking at.”

“it’s an informal debate!” you shove the picture frame closer to his face.

and he rolls his eyes, “you say that like a normal person would know what that is.”

“okay, loser.” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest, “it’s literally just a normal debate but the crowd gets to chime in with their opinions.”

your husband looks unimpressed.

and you grin, “sometimes people throw stuff.”

“okay,” and atsumu scooches way closer to you, taking the frame from your hand, “you have to take me to one of those.”

“hmm.” you hum slightly, a grin breaking through your face as you see him so invested in the photo.

he hands the photo back to you.

you chime, “one time this person threw fries at the speaker because they didn’t agree with what they were saying.”

“huh.” atsumu smiles, and he looks at you, knowingly, “so we’re the fries cold?”

and you grin, “nah, i just didn’t want to eat them anymore.”

“now we definitely have to go, i wanna see you throw food at people with stupid opinions.”

“it’s a date.”

atsumu kisses you lightly, smiling against your lips as you don’t pull away from him.

this entire day has been the two of you just walking around the mess of the apartment, cleaning up what you can, making even bigger messes by accident, and sharing stories about the things you’ve brought along together.

there are stacks of books on one of the old wobbly tables and it’s when atsumu decided to make you flash cards to help you study for your finals.

there’s a huge dent on one of the walls of your bedroom that you opted to cover up with a framed picture of you guys — the dent was made by a volleyball ball when he tried to teach you how to serve.

and there’s the perfectly good dining table covered with books and clothes and bags and old cartridges of hair dye because atsumu knows you prefer to sit with him on the floor.

the mess of an apartment that you two call a home.

atsumu kisses you deeper, and he feels you smile against his lips.

you laugh, “i can taste my ring pop from your mouth, and i resent you for it.”

the day is almost over, the white skies slowly being painted by a pink and orange as the sun sets, and the balcony doors are left wide open to let the summer breeze in.

you lay your head on atsumu’s chest as he lays his back on the hardwood floors.

sunlight seeping in to fill your cluttered apartment, now seeming even messier than before, and you feel the fast pacing of atsumu’s heart.

“how have we been cleaning for hours and it still looks like a maze in here?” you sigh loudly, keeping your head on his chest.

atsumu murmurs, “i think we’re cursed.”

and you tilt your head up slightly to him, “do we move?”

“too much work.” he groans, “stay on the floor.”

there’s a bubble of laughter coming up your chest, and maybe if you weren’t so tired, you’d actually have the strength to laugh at that.

you rest your head back against his chest, smiling, “the next time we do this—”

“there’s gonna be a next time?” atsumu groans louder.

and you get up slightly to turn, laying on your belly to see a better view of him, and he only feigns a dramatic frown once he sees that you’re finally looking at him.

your hand goes to his forehead, pushing back the hairs that clung to his skin with sweat, and you smile.

“next time we do this,” you continue, “we sweet talk aran and the others to help us.”

atsumu seems to be chipper, and he props himself up on his elbows, “do you think we can sweet talk them into doing all the work?”

“well, we still have that wedding gift ‘anything you want’ favor coupon suna gave us,” you laugh lightly, remembering how ridiculous of an idea it seemed at first.

(atsumu said he was being lazy. suna turned to you and told you not to marry him.)

“woah.” atsumu nods, “but do we really wanna use our one great favor from suna on having him clean our apartment?”

you look at atsumu, and atsumu looks back at you.

there’s a second stuck in the air.

you snap your fingers, “we have him clean the balcony too!”

and atsumu, stars in his eyes, pride in his chest, nods his head slowly, “i taught you well.”

AO3 | SFW | 🎵 (Listen)

Relationship: Post-Timeskip!Iwaizumi Hajime x F!Reader Rating: Safe for Work Content Warnings: Manga Spoilers, Iwaizumi POV, Oikawa POV, Heavy Angst, Hurt/NO Comfort, Alzheimer's Disease, Depression, Grief, Flashbacks Summary: He never expected to fall in love with a linguist major while in California, just as you never expected to be diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's at 29. Word Count: 4,970

A/N: Early submission for @rintarhoes But My Feelings Collab! This was originally going to be a completely different scene but it ended up not feeling right. This story came about and, after getting feedback on it, I was promptly called "a writer of depths of disparity and misery like none other have ever known." They won't talk to me about my projects anymore. I can't fault them.

Autumn 2032

Tucked inside of this neat little envelope provided by the hospital staff is the last letter you will write him. It sits heavy in his palm with the shaky lettering of his name in your first language, the permanent reminder that you’re disappearing.

Even if you’re safe in the building behind him, still breathing, still there, you’re slipping from him, just as the doctor said you would nine years ago.

It’s not long until you’re gone that he'll find the strength to read it.

Five Months Later

The letter, still unopened and unread, stays with him wherever he goes. It’s a constant reminder of what’s happened, a constant piece of you that he can keep close. Everyone knows better than to bring you up, save for Oikawa and the therapist you two used to share.

“Couples in trouble aren’t the only ones who should see a therapist. We have a good thing and we want it to keep going, right? It’s never a bad idea to strengthen our communication!” “Of course you would say that, Dr. Iwaizumi. You’re fluent in five languages and are learning another. Your life revolves around communication.” “Tsk. You just like hearing your name attached to my title. Anyway, think of it as maintenance. You don’t wanna wait until there’s a breakdown, right? It’s better to take care of it like you’re supposed to.” “Okay, okay. Go ahead and make the appointment. But you’re damn right, I like hearing my name with your title. It’s your name now, too.”

He alone carries these memories, the memories of you and him, of the life you had together. He alone carries the weight of your love, of his love for you. Just like your letter, it stays with him wherever he goes.

It was a hot summer day, just before the start of his first term at UCI. You were on the phone just outside of the cafe, speaking animatedly to the person on the other end of the line, talking about something or other—he can’t remember because he wasn’t paying attention back then. Not really. It wasn’t until you started listing languages you were fluent in and which you still wanted to learn that he had started listening. You caught him staring and offered a wide smile as though you two were the best of friends.

While he went inside to get a drink, he hoped you wouldn’t be there upon his return, that you would’ve left, that you would've afforded him the opportunity to quietly contemplate the cute girl who had caught his eye, the same one who had said that she’s fluent in Japanese. Of course, that didn’t happen. Off your phone, you were reclining in your chair, looking as though you were waiting for him. As soon as your eyes landed on Iwaizumi, your smile turned breathtaking and you invited him over.

Just like that, you had entered his life, changing it permanently.

A Ph.D. Applied Linguistics candidate in your second year of post-grad. You were fluent in English, obviously, Japanese, and Castilian Spanish, and were in the process of learning Arabic. It was easy spending time with you, something he attributed to your Japanese, though he now understands it was a part of your charm. Exceptionally skilled at reading people, you knew just what to say and how to act to make others comfortable, though you never had to do so with Iwaizumi. Being in your company was comfort enough, providing a sense of peace he never thought he’d need.

Two years. It took him two years for him to fall in love—well, a better way to describe it would be to say that it took two years for him to realize he was in love with you.

Looking back on it, he can’t be upset that it took him so long to figure it out. It was still time spent with you, spent enjoying you and making you smile.

Upon graduation, he returned to Japan, having received an offer to train with the national team thanks to recommendations made by Ushijima and Utsui. The two of you maintained contact, communicating over the phone, over handwritten letters, over video calls. All the same, there was only so much communication that can be done with more than 8,000 kilometers and a sixteen hour time difference separating you two.

Looking back on it, he regrets the time spent away from you. It was only eighteen months, not that much time in the grand scheme of things—as he justified to himself back in 2020—but too much time considering the amount of time he would actually get with you.

It’s something he still struggles with reconciling now that he returns to an empty bed at the end of each day.

Three Months Later

The facility always smells like various cleaners, always a shock to the senses despite coming each day. Better this than a virus that could run rampant among immuno-compromised patients, as witnessed during the pandemic.

The doctors glance his way and busy themselves, answering the question he’s yet to ask. But he asks nonetheless.

“How’s she doing?”

The answer they give him is one they must be familiar with giving, but one that’s undoubtedly difficult to answer each time.

Iwaizumi knows before the words tumble from their lips. It’s written across their faces. It’s heavy in his coat pocket, heavy in his heart at the memory of your first night here months ago, of the day that came before. The one where you didn’t recognize him, where you didn’t recognize your home, where you couldn’t communicate what you needed or what you wanted. The one where there was nothing he could do to comfort you.

He still visits each day, still talks to you about his day, about Oikawa and his reluctance to retire from volleyball, about how veterans of his first Team Japan still ask about you. He continues to read to you from your favorite—er, what were your favorite poetry books, though he’s certain he’s butchering some of the poems in other languages. He changes your flowers once a week, making certain to care for them as you had once shown him.

Some days he’s able to spark your memory, even if but for a moment. You make it abundantly clear how much you miss him, how sorry you are that you can’t fulfill your promises to him. It comes in the form of correcting his pronunciation or humming the godzilla theme with him. Those are the days he looks forward to, the ones where he can see you. Those are the days that break his heart, when the love in your eyes is replaced with fear and confusion, when he loses you yet again.

He knows the day is coming when you’ll be far past recognition, when he’ll no longer see your smile, no longer see the affection that you once held. He knows that day is coming when this will be another memory that belongs to Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi alone.

Some days, he wonders whether there’ll come a point where it’s too much, where his heart can’t take it anymore, where he’ll listen to those who dare tell him that you’re already gone, that visiting doesn’t make a difference anymore. Some days he believes that his limit is coming sooner rather than later.

But the truth is that he still won’t abandon you. The truth is that the sliver of hope that resides in his heart is enough to keep him going, even when all of him knows there is no saving you.

Five Months Later

The day he married you, the sakura had started to fall. It marks change, marks the ending and new beginnings simultaneously. He had believed the hanafubuki to be a sign of hope, of the beginning of his life with you, the promise of always having you by his side. After your diagnosis, he would look back on that moment and wonder whether it was an omen, a foretelling of the ending to come.

It had started slow, almost insignificant, coinciding with an intense set of expectations and responsibilities, either of you traveling for work while you were in the process of being published in two separate journals. Both of you had chalked it up to stress.

Blanking on a word that was clearly on the tip of your tongue. Forgetting where you had placed an item that you had just put down. Forgetting names when you always had an exceptional ability to remember the name of someone you had interacted with only once. Losing track of the conversation mid-thought.

The therapist attributed it to stress, just as you did, just as he did. They recommended little reminders—alarms, post-it notes, vibrant ribbons to grab your attention, multiple planners and calendars placed around the home. Iwaizumi took it upon himself to create reminders in his phone so that he could remind you himself.

Two months had passed and it only got worse. No longer had you the additional stress from the journals, yet the lapses became more frequent, ultimately culminating into an accident that prompted a series of scans and that diagnosis. Neither of you were alone that day, having Team Japan there to offer support because it was you. Undeniably charming, impossible not to love. You brightened each room you entered, reminded everyone of the little blessings to be found each day, leaving everyone with a smile on their face.

And still, that night you both felt incredibly alone and incredibly scared. That first night was hell—not that any of the subsequent days were any better. It was spent desperately trying to absorb the information thrown at you, ending with you curled against his chest while soft sobs punctuated the silence that threatened to consume you both.

You started writing letters again, despite the fact that he wasn’t leaving you. Once a week for nine years until you couldn’t anymore. “Entrusting him with your heart,” you would say, but you both knew that it was your way of giving him as much as you could before… Well.

This.

A phone call as he travels to visit with you again. The morning sun blinds him momentarily as he answers via Bluetooth.

He should stop driving. He should pull off to the side of the road. He should—

“Iwaizumi-san? I’m sorry to report that your wife—”

He should do something because the world is slipping away from him and his vision is clouded by tears as he feels himself being hollowed out.

It’s a miracle that he made it. They find him on his knees in your now empty room, still decorated with the flowers from yesterday, with the books he made certain they had, with his letter to you firmly placed on the nightstand. There’s a vibrating in his pocket but he can’t find it in him to make it stop.

“Haji?” “Hm?” “Can I rave about these so-called ‘untranslatable words’ with you? It’ll be but a moment of your time.” “You never take a moment when talking language, doll. But go ahead. Tell me all about them.” “It’s kinda a point of contention among linguists—” “What is?” “The existence of ‘untranslatable phrases’ in the English language. The idea that there are words that exist, beyond our ability to translate. It’s false, obviously, as they can be translated, even if it takes a more detailed translation. Just because a word in one language has no counterpart in another, specifically English, we dare call it untranslatable.” “Okay. I’m following. Is this what you wanted to tell me?” “No, no. You know me! I like providing context. Anyway, what’s so interesting about these words is that they describe sensations and experiences nearly universal with varying degrees of importance depending on the culture. Eh. It’s more like—what a given culture has paid more attention to, for one reason or another.” “You’re starting to lose me, doll.”

“Iwaizumi? Bud?”

He recognizes the voice, but can’t quite place it. Everything is engulfed by a fog that numbs him, that separates him from his senses, keeping him in a prolonged state of limbo, a state of reality wherein he doesn’t exist.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Since he arrived an hour and a half ago. When I made the call on her behalf, I expected someone else.”

“Yeah. The person you called—”

“Oikawa-san?”

“Yeah. Him. He’s working on flying in from Argentina, so he called us.”

Nothing makes sense right now. Not the voice he’s known for the last twenty-three years, the one he hasn’t heard in a couple of months, nor the soft voice of someone he only ever sees in passing, only ever here. He’s astonishingly, astoundingly, devastatingly

e m p t y .

Everything feels weighted, sluggish, like his nerves are taking their sweet time relaying input to his brain. And he can’t find it in him to care. He understands what you meant, what that “untranslatable word” signifies.

It was a lie that he didn’t realize he told, but it doesn’t matter now. Any misconception is left by the wayside now that he feels that pain firsthand.

“It’s how we have so many words related to sakura here. Or how there’s specific words to describe each phase of snow in Inuktitut. These words exist in these languages because it’s something we experience often, something that has significance to our cultures.” “Okay, that makes more sense. But is that what you wanted to share with me?” “Not quite. What I find to be particularly enchanting are all the phrases dedicated to describing various points in love. Can I share some with you?” “Go for it, doll.” “Fuck, I love you, Haji.” “Is that one of them?” “Haj-iiii!” “Sorry. Go ahead.” “Thank you. Going back to Inuktitut, there’s ‘iktsuarpok,’ which describes that feeling you get when you’re waiting for someone to arrive. More than anticipation, enough that you find yourself looking out of the window or popping your head out of the front door to check if they’re nearby.” “I think that’s what it felt like while I waited for you to come into my life. I was waiting for something and it was only appeased once you asked me to join you.” “Who knew that Iwaizumi Hajime was so cheesy when in love?” “You, for one. What’s the next one?” “Norway has ‘forelsket.’ It’s that giddiness that you feel when you start to fall in love, when you think about them or when you get to spend time with them. And there’s ‘onsra,’ which is almost like the Boro contrast to koi no yokan. Instead of an inevitability before you walk into love, it’s the inevitability that a love won’t last.” “Huh. I wonder if that’s what Kusokawa meant when he was talking about his last relationship. Okay, then. What’s the one that strikes you the most?” “‘Ya’aburnee.’ It’s Arabic, something I had come across a couple of years ago but never really looked into. Its literal translation is ‘you bury me.’” “That’s morbid, don’t you think?” “I guess? It’s that pain, that feeling you get, deep in your being when you consider living without your love. It’s the wish that you die before them to spare yourself the pain of living without them because it’s certain to be unbearable. It’s typically incomplete in that form, but I digress. I… I feel it, in my soul. The possibility that I’ll outlive you? It terrifies me.” “I think I get what you mean. I wouldn’t want to live without you either, but I’d rather spare you that pain than to go first.”

The acrid smell of Matsukawa’s shitty cigarettes brings him to the brink of consciousness, pulling him away from the memory of you. He hates this—hates that his escape is the burden of these memories while you left without any. To hear you speak, he has to dive into the depths of his memory, has to see the life you two had together, the life cut short. Not even forty and he’s achingly, staggeringly alone.

“Oikawa’s flight just took off. He should be getting in sometime tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Hanamaki sighs. “Where do you think we should go? I’m not sure that taking him home’s such a good idea.”

“I don’t know. I can’t think right now with how hungry I am. Hey—Iwaizumi. You there?”

One of them nudges him, tries to get him to speak, but he can’t find his voice. Lifting his eyes in acknowledgment, he can nearly feel the relief that flows from them both.

“That’s progress,” Matsukawa says with just a hint of disbelief. “It’s been a while since you’ve had anything to eat, right?”

The words won’t come and his voice is lost, left somewhere that only you would know.

“Shit. Alright. Going off the assumption that you haven’t eaten since six this morning, it’s safe to say that you need food just as much as we do. Makki—there’s a little ramen place not too far from here. Think you could get us there?”

“I know just the one you’re thinking of,” Hanamaki sighs. It falls silent before he hears Hanamaki say, “Hang in there, Iwaizumi.”

Six Months Later

Things are… better. Depending on how you choose to look at it. For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, Iwaizumi is doing better. For Oikawa, he’s not. Then again, Oikawa’s been around long enough to know better.

While you had been writing letters for him, you had also written letters for each of your friends, each of his friends. You even wrote one for whichever nurse would be on duty when you passed. They served as goodbyes, dedicated with love as could be expected from you. But they also included instructions. Specifically, instructions on how to help Iwaizumi, to make certain that he’s not alone, that he knows he’s loved.

They serve as a testament to how well you knew him—predicting how he’d react, when he would want to be left alone, when he shouldn’t be left alone. His friends help keep the memory of you alive simply by honoring your wishes as diligently as they are. But it’s not you.

It doesn’t lessen the pain, doesn’t lessen the yearning.

The only way he can get Oikawa to leave him alone—by which he means staying on the opposite side of the house—is by telling him that he’s going to read the letter. The one he’s been intentionally neglecting.

The edges of the envelope are soft, worn down from constantly being on his person. Barely sealed, he’s able to delicately open it, maintaining its condition as best as possible. The contents are short, succinct if only because you were struggling with writing it in the first place, both emotionally and physically. It doesn’t fail to tear into that gaping wound, doesn’t fail to leave him open and bleeding out.

And Oikawa’s there for him when he needs it the most, whether by his own instinct or by your guidance, he doesn't know.

This pain is cataclysmic, but he would still rather deal with it himself than have you live through a second of this.

One Year After Your Death

Oikawa watches as Iwa-chan works up the nerve to enter what used to be your office. He’s only entered it once after your passing, not that Oikawa can particularly blame him. Of any other room in your shared dwelling, this one is nothing but you.

But almost everything else is packed, save for some essentials, the big pieces of furniture, and your office. It’s time.

As soon as the door is pushed open, the thick musk of dust that’s built up over the years engulfs them both, even as Oikawa waits in the hallway. As the dust settles, the subtle notes of jasmine reach his nose, reminding him of the pressed flowers you liked to keep. Iwa-chan stiffens as he enters the room and Oikawa knows it’s because he smells it, too.

What little traces of you that remain exist wholly untouched in this room. He feels for his best friend, he does. Bad enough to imagine what it would be like were Oikawa in his shoes, if he had lost his partner as Iwa-chan lost you.

That word you had mentioned in your letter—what was it?

It takes quite a while before either of them can start. Oikawa takes up gingerly packing your items as Iwa-chan goes through them, cherishing each piece. He’s not certain whether Iwa-chan will ever truly recover from this, though there has been some progress made, a semblance of returning to normal.

The thing is—normal for Iwa-chan has included you for nearly half of his life. Oikawa will sometimes find him preparing to visit you, either having forgotten what’s happened or too emotionally spent to realize that it’s not a part of his routine anymore. Sometimes he’ll pick up the phone and dial the facility, hanging up once they answer.

But the spark that used to be in Iwa-chan’s eyes is slowly coming back, though it’s muted, nothing he’s ever seen in all the years that they’ve known each other. It doesn’t surprise him, not when he considers the relationship you two had.

When Iwaizumi had first brought you to meet Oikawa, he was surprised. Sure, Iwa-chan had introduced other love interests to Oikawa before, but never had he flown them across the world to meet him. Never before had one of his partners looked at him the way you did—as though you had found the most beautiful creation in all the cosmos.

Hours pass like this—reminiscing over random memories associated with almost any item, some happy, some sad, while Oikawa packs up box after box. It’s when he gets to your desk that confusion dances across Iwa-chan’s face.

“Iwa-chan?”

He turns in the direction of Oikawa’s voice, but his eyes are focused on the drawer he just opened. There’s the soft shuffling of papers shifting against one another as he pulls out an envelope, pristine, looking as though it were placed there earlier today.

On the face of the envelope is addressed to Iwa-chan in precise kanji that he knows to be yours. This is a letter that you had written him from quite a few years ago—the one Oikawa had received but three years prior had started in hiragana, but was forfeited after several basic mistakes, transitioning to English. But the letter that is being unfolded by Iwa-chan right now is a gift from the linguist that he had fallen in love with from either before or shortly after your diagnosis.

“Do you want a moment?” The question drips from him, a worrisome mixture of hesitance and anxiety, and a silence quickly builds, one that starts to border deafening. Iwa-chan is looking at the letter, not quite reading, not quite seeing anything past your careful script. It lasts a moment longer before—

“I, uh—yeah. Yeah, that’d be… good.”

With a small nod, he turns on his heel and leaves your study. Once in the hallway, he leans against the wall adjacent the door and slides down, feeling the residual grief that has seeped into the bones of this house that’s no longer a home. He waits for the sound—any sound, really—of his friend needing him, waits for a break from the stifling quiet, the one that has him praying to whoever will listen that he never experience this kind of pain.

My dearest Hajime,

It’s been three weeks since my diagnosis and I am writing this because we both know what it means.

I’m scared, Haji. I’m terrified of losing my memories—the important ones. I couldn’t care less about misplacing my keys or my books. I couldn’t care less about getting lost in the city that I’ve called home for the last two years. I couldn’t care less about any of the minuscule symptoms of the early stages.

I’m scared—absolutely petrified, my love—of losing the important memories. That night we were both studying, bickering over which version of Blade Runner was best (we both know I won that argument, thank you!). When we went stargazing and you told me all about Tōru’s theories surrounding aliens and his fascination with the cosmos. That one guy from my department who kept asking me out, making you get all defensive and anxious until you got fed up and asked me out yourself. The way your lips felt the first time we kissed and the way my hand fits perfectly in yours. The moment I asked you to marry me and I got to watch as Iwaizumi.exe stopped working (only for you to pull out a ring from your pocket).

I don’t want to lose these memories, so precious and dear to me. I don’t want to lose you.

Calling you over to join me on 13 September 2016 was the best decision I have ever made—and you and I both know, I’ve made some pretty amazing decisions over the years. Nothing compares to the moment you stepped into my life and changed everything. It was as though I had been living in a world without color or music or literature, something I wasn’t even aware I was missing out on. And you came onto the scene and everything became so vibrant. Music became complex and intricate, utterly enchanting. Poetry had never sounded better, had never carried such evocative emotions.

You are the best thing to have ever happened to me. There is so much love in your heart—even if you show it through aggression—that pushes you forward. You have drive and compassion that continually inspires me and motivates me to be a better person, if only for you. There isn’t a single part of you that I’m not desperately, hopelessly in love with—even the things I “hate” about you are things I adore, though you will still never catch me waking up with you at five in the morning to go on a run. I’m sorry, Hajime. That’s just the way it is.

You’re probably wondering why I didn’t give you this letter sooner. Shit. I’m wondering why I’m not going to give this to you sooner. I think it’s because I know that at one point, my letters and my communication are going to become less coherent as I start to lose cognizance. Knowing me, I’ll keep this up as long as I can—you know how much of a fan I am for the written word—and that at some point, I’m going to give you the last letter I can ever write.

I can’t speak to its eloquence or its contents, but I know that I want my last words to be ones that I am cognizant of. I want to choose my last words just as much as I have chosen every single aspect of my life, and I’m confident in choosing to keep the letter in my desk drawer because I know you.

I know that you are adamant that I need my space. I know that you respect my space. I also know that you vividly remember the morning after you had tried to help me by organizing my office—the very office that had my research carefully organized and spread out in my mess. I don’t think I’ve seen you that scared since. You won’t come in here until you have to. So this piece of me will be waiting here for you when it seems as though I have nothing left to say.

We both know that’s not true.

There is not a single regret that I hold throughout the entirety of my life—not the excruciatingly embarrassing childhood memories that almost seem like bad dreams; not the pains of adolescence that we shall not name; not the trips, stumbles, and falls that riddled my life. I regret none of it because it led me to you. It made me who I am today and granted me the opportunity to be a partner to the most fantastic, awe-inspiring, beautiful person this planet has to offer.

I have and will continue to cherish each and every moment I spend in your presence, each and every moment that you choose me to be your partner. Each day I wake, I look forward to choosing you again and again. I love you, thoroughly, unconditionally, and completely. My love for you will outlive the both of us. This, I know with absolute certainty. As sure as the sun will rise and the sakura will arrive, my love for you will outlive us.

It was shortly after we married, I think, that I went on that tangent about untranslatable phrases. Do you remember? I shared the one that one phrase that had struck a chord with me. Ya’aburnee. It’s a beautiful word for a beautiful language, one that weighs heavily on me now. Back then I had said that I never wanted to know what it was like to live without you. Now that wish is likely going to be a reality, I want to take it back. I would rather save you from that pain than to save myself.

I cannot spare you that pain, but I can wish. For you, Hajime, love of my life, I wish for your health and safety. I want for your happiness, for the world to be brightened by your smile. I want for there to come a day—sooner, rather than later—when the sun will be high in the sky and a pleasant breeze will blow past you, and you’ll feel peace and love. Know that when that day comes, I am with you.

Until I see you again.

A/N: I wrote this with some insight provided by research, but largely based on the memories I have of my great grandmother, so I apologize if I misrepresent Alzheimer's at all. As for the languages, I am by no means an expert. Language has always fascinated me, especially those words that don't have a direct translation in English (it's also fascinating how because there's no direct translation in English, they're dubbed 'untranslatable'). Additionally, I'd like to extend a very, very special thank you to @caxsthetic for letting me talk angst with you. I don't know how you keep doing this, but I'm grateful to have you to talk to~ 💙😘

a day in the life of miya atsumu—(featuring you, his wonderful lover)

sakusa’s part here

6:45 AM:

“Baby, hey—hey, baby. Y/n? Y/n, are ya—holy shit,” Atsumu gasps, hand clutching his heart startled when you move to bite his prodding finger suddenly.

“Will you shut up and let me sleep? Go get up quietly,” you hiss, making him furrow his eyebrows and stare you incredulously.

“Yer on top o’ me! Don’t yell at me.” You look down to see that you are indeed laying on a warm chest.

“Five more minutes.”

“I don’t have five more minutes.”

“How about ten?”

“No, why would I have—I just said I don’t have five,” he says exasperatedly. Your head finds the crook of his neck.

“You didn’t say anything about ten.”

“Yer impossible.” Despite his words, Atsumu settles back in bed, limbs tangling with yours as he rubs your back gently, kissing your forehead while you drift off with a smile on his face.

7:18 AM:

“If ya keep rollin’ on top o’ me every mornin’ so I can’t leave, ‘m gonna start sleepin’ in the guest room,” Atsumu huffs, rushing to finish his breakfast.

“That’ll be very cold for you.”

“And why’s that?” he asks in a mouth full.

“You kick the blanket off fifteen minutes into sleeping. Who’s gonna keep you warm or cover you up again?” He pretends to ponder your words for a moment.

“‘S a bit of a predicament.” You smile.

“It is.”

“Guess I’ll have ta be the one who lays on top o’ ya instead.” Atsumu reaches to your plate with his chopsticks, stealing the last bite. He snickers when you smack his shoulder.

“I’ll wake up dead. You’re heavy.”

“We’ll, at least that’s one less person ta nag me—I’m kiddin’! Don’t push—hey! Look, ya made me spill ma water.” He chuckles when he notices you stare at his muscled chest through the wet shirt.

7:38 AM:

“Tsum, you should really go now,” you whisper.

“Yeah, ‘m goin’.”

“You said that three times already.”

“Why’re ya in a rush ta get me out the door?” Giggling, you reach up, cupping his cheeks and pressing kisses to his the apples of them, purposely skipping his lips.

“Drive safe. Don’t curse people out the whole time, okay?”

“If ya don’t kiss ma mouth, it’ll curse more than usual.”

“Guess I should give you a few extra kisses then,” you giggle. Atsumu smirks, arms snaking around your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer.

“Guess ya should.” He wastes a few more minutes getting his kisses, but maybe the sweetness on his lips will last a bit longer that way.

8:05 AM:

“Miya, quit taking my parking spot,” Sakusa grumbles, lifting his weight as he glares daggers at the blonde.

“Doesn’t have yer name on it, Omi.”

“Neither does y/n, does that mean that we can all have y/n,” Adriah calls from across the room, making the other team members snicker as Atsumu’s face curls in distaste.

“Yer all ugly. Y/n doesn’t want any of ya.”

“Maybe y/n wants someone less childish,” his captain adds, pushing his buttons further.

“Y/n’s not into old people,” he spits, lips curled in a pout. He lifts the weight in his hand up, eyes narrowed as he looks around.

“No, y/n’s into real men. Not children.”

“‘M not a child!”

“You’re a lil kiddo, Tsumie,” Oriver calls out, making everyone burst into another round of chuckles. Atsumu only lifts his weight more aggressively, not comforted when Hinata calls out I think you’re manly, Atsumu!, a scowl painted over his face as he huffs to himself about how he’ll prove them wrong on their lunch break.

Keep reading

encountering a ‘pick me’ girl

character(s) : kirishima eijirou, todoroki shouto, bakugou katsuki (bnha)

warning : PICK ME GIRL, misogyny (?) pick me girl makes an off handed comment about your body but it’s not detailed at all

PART TWO — PART THREE

legend : [Y/N = your name] afab! reader, but they/them pronouns used, quirk not mentioned

headcanon type : fluff, angst if you squint

note(s) : i made 2 versions of this post so,, if you’re reading this— then i probably decided that i liked this one more than the other one i made,, anyways, i used real life examples 💀

»»————-　♡　————-««

kirishima eijirou

i’d imagine that eijirou would have an idea of what a pick me girl is— i mean, there were probably 2 of those girls in middle school

but has he experienced it first hand? nahh.

though, eijirou didn’t think he’d encounter one when he was already in a healthy and committed relationship!

eijirou is practically friends with everyone— and yeah, even the most unexpected. so, he’s bound to accidentally befriend a pick me girl

him, being the nicest one out of all of the characters in this list, will still be nice to said pick me girl, despite wanting to snob them to the core

because really— you can’t really fight fire with fire in some cases

but, he can be everything but lenient when the pick me girl starts insulting you for doing certain things, and for absurd reasons too

like,, how you laugh, and how you take care of yourself (for example— if you wear makeup, or how you style your hair)

which is odd! everything about you is everything but the things the pick me girl has stated so.. he cannot stand by.

SCENARIO

the girl giggles to herself after that snide comment leaves her lip gloss coated lips. eijirou shifts uncomfortably— honestly taken aback by the anything but subtle insult that was thrown at you

“like.. seriously! it’s honestly quite superficial if you look at it like that. who the hell would put that much effort infront of your boyfriend? i’d assume they’d see everything AND everything but.. i guess not.”

you blink. superficial? now that’s a new one. the girl infront of you has been babbling insults sugarcoated in boasts the entire time, and you’re just wondering if it’s about time you guys leave but—

“well that’s unfair,” your boyfriend laughs, “i put the same amount of effort as this cutie right here,” eijirou pokes at your cheek, earning a quick laugh from you— which he can only thank the heavens for that

“but that’s different. it actually looks put together when you’re doing it, eiji.” the certain glint in her smile makes you want to wipe it right off with a dirty mop, “it’s impossible to look put together with expensive clothes, but being built like a—”

the sound of the sliding of a chair is quicker than your actions, and it easily cuts her off.

“i’m sorry, but we gotta go, it’s totally not cool of you to say those things about Y/N!”

“what? but i mean.. it’s true, right? i’m looking out for them! they’re literally out here l—”

“bye!” eijirou waves her goodbye with your hand, dismissing the sour expression on her face— as he dashes off with you

you’d question how he’s just so nice to people like that, but when he turns around, you could see the distaste in his eyes

“so that’s what a pick me girl’s like,” shaking his head, his expression lights up with such a quick manner “i’ll never make friends that are like that again!”

safe to say, eijirou’s friend list has been a a person shorter ever since that incident

bakugou katsuki

oh, so that girl’s bold bold.

if she thinks she could get away with being a not so subtle pick me girl infront of bakugou katsuki, then she couldn’t be more wrong.

it’s absolutely revolting— i mean, he hasn’t displayed any romantic feelings towards ANYONE that isn’t you.

also, they’re quite gutsy if you ask me. so congrats for having guts??

i don’t think he’d be friends with a pick me girl. he’s very selective of who he’s befriending, so it’s probably your friend that’s the pick me girl in this case

he wouldn’t know what a pick me girl would be, but he’d probably know the description of one.

over some time, he’d grow some resistance to insults directed at him, but when someone insults his s/o

oh boy. that’s not good. remember when i said that katsuki was almost like your scary and intimidating dog

this is what i mean

knows he can’t make a scene, so his first option is to be dismissive asf— but if said pick me girl literally can’t get it, he won’t be afraid of shoving some explosions into her face

because his hands are rated e for everyone

SCENARIO

“so you wanna be picked or something, is that it?” he hates how you literally have the resistance of a rock— which is something he always liked, but in this case hated. if it weren’t for you— he would’ve blasted explosions into her sorry excuse of a face until it’s beyond recognition (that wouldn’t be hero like, is what you’ve said in the past, but he disagrees.)

but seriously? ugh. he just wants to leave this horrid place, and make some dinner with you in the comfort of his home. why are you even friends with her anyway? she’s not even trying to be slick at this point.

“p-picked? i’m not understanding, katsu.”

“it’s bakugou.”

“right,” her laughter is like nails on chalkboard, “i’m just watching out for Y/N, y’know? there’s no point in wearing all of that.. on their face.” and she’s obviously referring to your obviously very well done makeup

“it’ll make your skin terrible in the long run! and really— i couldn’t really understand on why someone would wear that much, when you could survive with i dunno.. lip gloss at most?”

you would’ve actually said something as a rebuttal, but your boyfriend is quicker, and a lot more direct than anyone else in the area.

“just say you can’t do makeup and fucking scram,” katsuki’s ice cold glare finally breaks out of the act he’s been trying to hold together for you

“their makeup is fucking bomb as hell, compared to your ridiculous spider lashes, lady. come back when you’ve watched james charles’ entire fucking channel.” he harshly states in similar bakugou fashion, despite the lack of screaming.

and if you squinted hard enough, you could see tears welling up in her eyes. but katsuki tugs your hand before anything else could be said

“let’s fucking go, you need better friends.”

he makes you cut ties with all of them, and he practically scolds your terrible choice of friends— but he goes quiet when you tell him that you’ve been friends with her since middle school

“good fucking riddance. next time, i’ll punch them as soon as they say something outta line, got that?” and next time (hopefully, there won’t be a next time) you’ll actually lash out— or maybe,, you’ll let him loose for once.

todoroki shouto

now shouto might be,, socially unaware sometimes. but he can tell whenever someone’s trying to insult his s/o

like,, right away.

now— you both run into this person after a pleasant date, and she eagerly presented herself as your friend

so, her attitude catches him off guard because who’d have anything rude to say about you and towards shouto’s face? especially when it’s about something normal.

like,, wasn’t she your friend?? why is she even like this?

his hostility is very well known, so they should be scared.

he gets detached from the conversation, and he’ll immediately go cold— and shouto would probably go as far as walking away with your hand in his

doesn’t matter if he properly says goodbye or not— if a girl’s being rude to his s/o, they obviously don’t deserve his usually polite attitude. nope, that’s a luxury.

oh— and what more when they’re seeking for his validation. newsflash! said pick me girl won’t be get any from him.

SCENARIO

shouto couldn’t stop the bitterness bleeding into his mouth, when the girl in front of him continued to babble and take up the valuable time he had left with his s/o

initially, she presented herself as your friend from middle school— but as of now? she seems to be more interested in him more than you, despite knowing you first.

she’d ask him a string of obvious questions with very obvious answers, like ‘is she treating you well?’ ‘is she acting correctly?’ and questions of the sort

“oh, sorry! i’d hate to cut this conversation short, but—” you finally decide that it was about time to leave, while shouto looks pretty,, deadpanned right now, you could tell that he was gradually starting to get irritated by your friend’s words.

“wait. thats.. kind of controlling, don’t you think? do you ever let shou make decisions?”

“uh.. controlling? since when??” you question at the accusation. this girl knows nothing about your relationship dynamic, and she’s already jumping the gun and making conclusions.

your gaze snaps back to shouto, who looks just as surprised as he could possibly be.

“yeah! it clearly looks like he still wants to talk” which is an obvious lie, shouto just wants it out of here “i wonder how you managed to snag such a guy like him,” she comments with a smile that looked anything above suspicion (yet, it makes your stomach churn)

you could see the way her hand gets gradually closer to him— and frankly, you’re not sure about what she was planning to do next, “you wouldn’t need to dress all expensive and fancy, if you’re with a girl with an already classy appear—”

“i think this conversation is over,” shouto grip is firm on the wrist that was attempting to grab his shoulder, shouto makes no attempt to even look at the girl infront of him “i don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not humorous. at all.”

“what?” she stammers, drawing her hand back “i-it’s obvious they don’t know how to take a joke! this is why there are barely any good w—”

shouto’s next actions knocks her speechless, his hand rests at the small of your back, before gently guiding you forward— “love, what movie are we watching later?” he says, making an effort to press a quick, yet intense kiss on your lips

“oh,” you breathe out, surprised by this action. “don’t be so tense, love.” shouto comments on how tense your shoulders have looked, ever since she started running her mouth, “now.. what movie do you want to watch tonight? comedy? thriller?”

“you pick,” you laugh at the quick shift of topic. and when you look behind you, you could see shame and defeat welling up on her face. shouto finally feels like he could smile again, the bitterness dissipating from his mouth

after shouto questions you if that was what a pick me girl was, he makes sure that you guys won’t ever encounter such thing again

“you.. don’t have more friends like that, right? if you do— we could always do another friend list cleansing.” this statement makes you laugh but shouto is anything but joking

but being reminded of his reaction to that ‘pick me’ girl does puts a smile on your face.

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei, i only own the writing and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, reupload, translate, or use my works for audio readings without permission

Boyfriend Texts with Iwaizumi Hajime! 

pairing: Iwaizumi x fem! reader 

Suna’s part | Oikawa’s part | Kuroo’s part | Atsumu’s part | Sugawara’s part 

warnings: cursing, suggestive themes, typos maybe? 

a/n: these are really bad im sorry in advance :( click on the photos for better quality :)  

(it’s supposed to be *pick up my bad) 

a/n: reblogs are always appreciated <3 also lmk what y'all think about the pick up line :) 

general taglist: @devilgirlcrybabiey​ @torus-wiife​ @ebiharachan​ @eitaara​ aka my baby <3 

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just keep on winning

summary: Oikawa x Figure Skater!Reader. He wonders why everyone warned him about the Olympic sex-fest; he thinks he’s in far more danger if he’s developing a crush this bad after approximately half an hour of interaction.

word count: 3.6k

cw: swearing, sex jokes, one self-indulgent reference to favor the brave, reader speaks All The Languages

a/n: per anon's request! i got totally carried away and did so much research and then i didn't want to throw away half the fic because i'd done all that research ahaha so. three thousand six hundred and thirty something words [crying emoji] enjoy!! i had a lot of fun tbh so i hope you do too

Oikawa is getting tired of having condoms thrown at him.

It’s funny the first day, when he arrives in Olympic Village, when the staff member showing them around points to the freely available contraceptives— a veritable mountain of them— and his teammates nudge him, smirking.

“Hardly enough for the whole team,” they all laugh raucously. “Hell, Tooru alone’ll be burning through those in the first week.”

“I’m here to win,” he says sternly, making a show of grabbing a few packets and tossing them in the air, catching them with his other hand and tucking it neatly behind his back. “But it’s always best to be safe.”

“Now he’s concerned with his well being,” comments Bruno.

“I’m in top health,” he snaps his wrist back and sends one of the foil packets spinning through the air. It lands squarely on his friend’s forehead, and he catches it only after it bounces off. “Improve your reflexes before you tell me I work too much.”

The guide looks both awestruck and like she’s trying not to laugh. He winks at her and she covers her squeak with one hand.

It’s still funny that night, when he’s settling into his dorm and walks into the hall, only to be pelted with foil packets.

“Please, please, I know I’m attractive, but there’s no need to beg for my attention like this,” he laughs. “Watch the face! Aye, those corners are sharp!”

He can barely sleep that night, partially because of jet lag and partially because he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking I’m at the Olympics I’m an Olympian holy fucking shit I’m an Olympics holy shit holy shit holy shit!

If you were a mind reader, his thoughts would sound like a series of exclamation marks.

He gets a scant three hours of sleep before he’s awoken a full half hour early by the obnoxious, familiar smack of his best friend.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Iwaizumi says, folding his arms. Oikawa rubs his eyes.

“Awoken by my true love,” he says breathily, and gets smacked again.

“I forgot you were a morning person,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “Sick in the head, you are.”

“I missed you!” Oikawa throws his arms around the shorter man. “And I’ll pretend those weren’t your first words to me in person after nine million years of not getting to experience my winsome face-to-face presence.”

Iwaizumi’s arms come up to squeeze Oikawa just as tightly.

“Yeah, I missed you too.”

They go for a run together, and Oikawa finds that he’s gotten faster than Iwaizumi. Sure, he was slightly impaired during their last year of school, but it’s still something to gloat about.

“I can’t even be mad, Olympian,” Iwaizumi holds out his fist when they’re done. Oikawa bumps it, then dashes for the meal center.

“Race you!” He calls over his shoulder, and he can feel Iwaizumi’s eyes roll, like, spiritually, but he follows nevertheless.

“—You were like whoosh, and scree! And then BAM!” Comes a familiar voice, and sure enough, when Oikawa swings his head around, the sound effects are emitting from a bright orange shortstack.

“Small fry!” Calls Oikawa, dashing over and lifting him into the air. “How’s it going?”

“I’m at the Olympics!” States Hinata enthusiastically. Oikawa laughs.

“This is true. So am I!”

“Did you see all the condoms?” Hinata drops his voice to a loud whisper. “I saw them and thought of you.”

Oikawa blinks and receives with not a little amusement another few foil packets.

“You messing with my team?” Iwaizumi looms up behind him and Oikawa laughs, handing him the condoms.

“Chibi-chan here was just trying to help me out, I guess,” he says. “I have more than enough already, you know, my team was throwing them at me yesterday. Wasteful, honestly. I’m not planning on getting lucky with anything except my match with them.” He jerks his chin towards the gathered Japanese National Team. “And that won’t be luck,” he finishes, a prideful feeling swelling in his chest as his eyes land on his own team, sitting together and digging into their own morning meals.

Three days after arriving in Olympic Village, it’s not so funny anymore.

“We’re not in high school anymore,” he whines when he sits down next to a grinning Iwaizumi, who’s holding a bowl of condoms. “I’m not a flirt, I’m just good looking.”

“Lying is a sin,” says Lopez piously, grabbing a few for himself.

“Premarital sex is a sin,” Oikawa says, snatching the bowl back. “Get your own.”

Five days in, he’s adjusted fully to the new time zone— better than most of his teammates can say, but what can he say? He’s never had much trouble with moving around, or with forcing his body through grueling regimens.

Oikawa may not be in high school anymore, but he may still have a slight problem with overworking himself. Slightly.

“Tooru,” Coach Blanco calls, walking in. “You’ve been at it for a little too long. Take a breather.”

Oikawa tosses the ball in his hands up in the air and hits it hard, watching it flatten on the opposite side of the court with no small satisfaction. The bang echoes in total silence.

“Last one, Coach,” he says cheerily as he walks past Blanco to collect his things. “You know we’re at the Olympics, yeah? No such thing as too much training.”

Blanco tosses the ball back to him, all the way across the court.

“Don’t let your anxiety control the way you play,” he says simply. “That includes injuring yourself through overwork. Blow off some steam. Use some of those condoms, or, better yet, go see one of the massage therapists.”

Well, he has no intention of using the condoms.

He’s supposed to meet Iwaizumi in the spa, but when he gets there, his friend is already in conversation with someone.

“Behind you,” he taps the athletic trainer on the shoulder. Iwaizumi’s conversational partner, who had been turned around, pointing at something, spins on their heel, and—

Oh.

Your smile is the first thing he notices, huge and infectious and wildly attractive. He can feel citrus bursting on his tongue, looking at that smile. He can feel the Argentinean sun on his skin, looking at that smile.

“Oh, you’re the one Iwaizumi is meeting! I’ll let him go, then, I’d hate to keep you—” you direct the you at Iwaizumi— “from your hot date.”

“He’s passable at best,” Iwaizumi says.

“And I’m here for a massage! I would hate to be the one to take Iwa-chan from his girlfriend when I set them up,” he throws an arm over Iwaizumi’s shoulder and is promptly shrugged off.

“You barely set us up,” he says. “Barely.”

“All my work,” Oikawa tells you. You throw him a bone and nod conspiratorially. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Iwaizumi snorts.

“I just have one of those faces,” you say, deadpan, but a new smile, mischievous and close-lipped, tugs at the corners of your mouth. “You said you needed a massage?”

You pass by him in line for lunch the next day, after he’s gotten an excellent massage and a good night’s sleep. He was barely even sore this morning— and despite all his protesting, he knows he should have been barely able to move after his excessive-even-for-the-fucking-Olympics training regimen of the last couple days. Sure, their early arrival and need to adjust to Japan Standard Time means that their schedules are a little more lax than they will be in a week, but he knows that he’s been grating on his trainer’s nerves.

You smile at him, orange peels and sunny skies, and he grins back, his grip on his plate nearly slipping.

“My favorite massage therapist!” He cheers, and a split second of confusion crosses your face.

“I didn’t give you a massage?”

“Yeah, but you are one, right?” He gasps. “Unless you’re an athlete, oh my God, I just assumed, which event are you competing in? I’m so sorry—”

“Hey, don’t worry, don’t worry,” you wave him off with crinkled eyes. “I’m not competing in the 2020 Summer Olympics,” you deepen your voice and make jazz hands. “I still didn’t give you a massage, though.”

“There’s time yet,” he tells you. “I didn’t even get your name, gosh, I’m all sorts of scrambled.”

“No worries, it’s stressful to have the Games coming up,” you say. “Uh, right?” He nods. “It’s Y/N L/N, and I don’t know your name either.”

“Tooru Oikawa,” he says. “I’d shake, but my hands are full, sorry.”

“No worries,” you say, and graze your cheek along his. Tooru doesn’t blush as easily as he did when he lived here, but he can still feel his face filling with red. “You’re Argentine, yeah? Hope that wasn’t weird.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You know our customs so well, you should come sit with us. Me and the team.”

“Hmm,” you say, twisting your lips to the side. “I don’t know, will Iwaizumi be there?”

“Uh,” Oikawa flicks his eyes towards his team’s area. “I can’t see from here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, turning towards where he’s looking. “He has a girlfriend, and I think you’re more attractive anyway.”

When you look over your shoulder, he’s still staring at you, an embarrassed, delighted expression making its way over his face.

He wonders why everyone warned him about the Olympic sex-fest; he thinks he’s in far more danger if he’s developing a crush this bad after approximately half an hour of interaction.

Evidently, there’s no need to introduce you to his team, or at least one of them.

“Y/N!” Beams Garcia, and as soon as he’s standing you’re dapping him up, then going in for a one-armed hug. Oikawa’s not sure if he’s more jealous that you evidently know his teammate or pleased that you gave him and not Garcia a cheek kiss.

“How have you been?”

“I’d be better if you’d text me back!” You laugh at him, patting the pocket your phone is evidently in.

“I’m busy,” you tell him. “And you haven’t texted me for, like, half a year.”

“You know each other?” Oikawa asks, deliberately keeping his tone light. “Tell me, Garcia, why didn’t you introduce me sooner?”

You giggle, and pride swells in his chest.

“We met at a party a couple years ago,” you tell Oikawa. “I wrecked him at beer pong once, too.”

“Some party,” Garcia snorts.

“What,” Oikawa looks between you two, bewildered. “What kind of party was this? Like?” He makes some obscene gesture— he doesn’t even know what he’s miming, honestly. For a renowned flirt in Japan (and alright, he’s had his moments in the years since he left), he’s found that he’s considered hilariously prudish to some people. Culture is a funny thing.

Garcia merely roars with laughter, while you keep looking at Oikawa for a little while longer. Your eyes on him are altogether too much for him, and he drops his hands, feeling heat rise to his cheeks once more. He shovels rice into his mouth and hopes that he doesn’t choke.

“No,” your face dawns with realization. “Oh, no, not at all.” Your laughter is as intoxicating as the rest of you, charming and undiluted by any emotion other than simple, pure happiness. You lean on him for support, your hand burning through his jersey and right to his skin as you continue to be overcome. He’s sure his teammates are taking note of his sickening, schmaltzy expression, and he’s sure he’ll get unprecedented levels of shit for it later, but you look up at him, bent at the waist, eyes sparkling and little noises of mirth still escaping your chest as you try to get your breathing to stabilize, and, wow, he has to swallow his rice fast or he really will choke.

“It wasn’t that funny,” he defends.

“You didn’t see yourself. What were you even— even—” and he’s sent you off again, peals of laughter ringing through his head and leaving it stuffed with cotton.

“You leave Oikawa speechless,” Lopez says when all the hysterics have finally died down. Oikawa sits, arms crossed, pouting. “We like you. Come to our practice today.”

“My schedule’s clear,” you shrug. “If it’s okay with you?”

It takes him a second to realize that you’re talking to him.

“Of course, I’d love it if you come,” he says, folding his hands.

As you poke his cheek— and so does Garcia, on his other side, but he’s not concerned with Garcia— he thinks— it’s too much like high school.

In high school, he liked having his girlfriend watch him practice (she hadn’t liked it so much). He’d dated people since then, too, but none of them (save the one volleyball player) had ever been asked to practice, and the v-ball player had been critical instead of cheering him on, and that was just weird. Thus, after practice, he’s a little nervous.

His crush is barely a crush and he suffers no illusions about that. But so early on, there are signs that you’ll get along with him, and your reaction to the love of his life, his cruelest mistress, his reason for living (he could go on), is certainly one.

He knows you’ve seen volleyball before, since it had been asked on your way over.

“...What did you think?” Is his leading question, you having sped to the front of the group as they all walk back for free time and dinner.

“So cool! Volleyball looks fun— well, I wasn’t any good at it, back in middle school— and you’re incredible.” You gush, and he swears all the muscles in his body release their tension right then. “I didn’t even want to cheer while you were playing, I was too nervous— you looked so focused.”

“You could’ve cheered,” he ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“I’ll be cheering during the games,” you say confidently.

“I’ll keep an ear out,” he says, knocking into you by accident. You just knock him back, though, and it’s easy. You get me, he thinks.

The two of you form a casual friendship over the next week— you’re often hanging around the spa, and Tooru gets sent there more often than he’d like to admit, and you help him relax, with your upbeat attitude and encouraging nature.

His team likes you, too, and instead of inflaming into some kind of disturbing obsession, his attraction to you relaxes into a simple interest in your person and an appreciation of your presence.

It’s two nights before the opening ceremony (breathe, Tooru, two nights, two nights) and he’s watching Schweiden Adler matches on his phone after dinner, earbuds in.

“Hey,” you say, sliding into the seat next to him, and he plucks them out, waving at you mutely. “Nervous?”

“Me? Never,” he says drily. “Only the biggest event of my life so far.”

“Hey, you’ve been working toward this your entire life,” you pat him on the shoulder. “I’m not going to tell you to relax because that would be stupid, but don’t drive yourself up a wall with anxiety. The Games are games— they can be as fun as they are nerve-wracking.”

“You speak from experience?” He’s looking at you with lazy eyes, a smirk plastered over his face, and while his expression is fond, it doesn’t distract from the keen sensation that you are looking at one of the most intense people you will ever meet.

“Sochi 2014,” you say, biting your lip as you smile. The unnerving aura around him disappears within a second as his mouth drops into a perfect oval. “And PyeongChang 2018, too.”

“You— you lied! To me! Like a liar!” He balls up his napkin and throws it at you. “You said you weren’t an athlete!”

“I did not,” you dodge. “I said I wasn’t competing here! I’m a winter sport! Stop throwing things at me!”

“I wanna see,” he gasps, wide eyed and seemingly already forgetting all about the betrayal. “Show me, show me, show me show me show me!”

“Fine, fine,” you push at his head with one hand, but he returns, dogged. “Look me up on YouTube.”

He’s never typed in anything faster— maybe this is what his slim, long setter fingers are for.

“This one?” He points at the first result. You take his phone and squint at the screen, scrolling through the videos.

“Mm, no. No. Oh, that one was embarrassing. No. Wait, this one was good! This one, this one.” You make your selection and hand the device back to him. He puts in the right earbud and offers you the left. “Oh, I don’t need it. I mean, I was there, so, uh…”

“Just take it,” he says, and you favor him with a shy smile and take the bud.

He presses play.

You glide onto the screen amidst applause and the overlaid commentary begins, introducing you, your range within a point system he doesn’t understand, and the music, which he’s pretty sure he used to listen to as motivational study music back in high school.

You skate around the rink a few times, then take your place still, folding yourself into a graceful starting position. The music begins, and the camera angle shifts. He can see the beatific smile on your face as you begin moving, quick, yet graceful. Your costume is dazzling, but not distracting or gauche— he doesn’t care much about the way you’re dressed, anyway, not when you look like that.

Your tights are, in a word, tight, and if he were a lesser man he’s sure he’d be zeroed in on your ass, which is admittedly right there. His eyes instead trace the long line of your back, the smooth curves of your arms and your well-muscled thighs, the way you look like you were born walking on ice instead of steady land. He becomes more and more sure that every inch of you must be pure muscle as the video progresses. You move lightly through the first minute, swinging like there are wings holding you up from one improbable position to the next.

The music intensifies, and he leans closer as your movements become more dramatic, although you still appear to be swimming through the air, no less bound by the laws of gravity now than he is on the volleyball court. Every beat is hit, every movement is obviously precise even to his untrained eye. Watching you skate, Oikawa realizes that he’s been dining with a master.

Your skating is equal parts dancing and storytelling on ice. Oikawa can appreciate that even without knowing what most of the moves mean.

He pauses the video and tries to unjumble his words.

“Can we mute it and you explain?” he says, all in a rush, words stringing together as clumsily as he feels compared to you.

“You’re sure?”

“I don’t like the announcer’s voice,” he nods, even though he could care less. He just wants to hear it from the person doing it.

“Alright,” and you might be winter sports royalty, but the way you brighten up talking about figure skating is still reminiscent of July, hot and reverent and limned with white gold. “So there’s the triple lutz-triple loop, which I was so worried about because I kept fucking it up in practice, not to mention that it doesn’t have the push a toe loop gives…”

He listens carefully as you tell him all about a sport he’s never even considered before, and he might be a stranger to skating, but the love and fire in your voice as you speak is as familiar as his own reflection. The commentary you provide doesn’t detract at all, but instead gives him insight into the skater on his screen, helps him understand. For a short while, he falls in love with figure skating, too.

On his phone, you finish, arms held high, eyes glittering, and after a second of that elegant, frozen landing, you’re skating around the rink again, gloved hands thrown up in the air as that orange-peel smile crosses your face, bigger than he’s seen it even in real life. You exit the rink, not even stumbling as you transition to the mats from the ice the way he used to when his sister took him skating as a kid.

“So what does that mean? What did you get?” He asks, when the video ends, again on a point scoring system he doesn’t understand. Your smile is triumphant, even after all these years.

“Gold.”

Oikawa Tooru doesn’t like geniuses.

He does like passion, evidently, he thinks your demonstrable expertise is hot. He likes athleticism, and drive, and going the distance. He likes you, and you have all these things, and it’s frightening, how seductive not even five minutes of watching you in your element was.

He hopes he’ll have a reason to use those condoms eventually.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, and wraps his arms around you in a hug. You lean in just as hard, the victory still fresh, your laurels barely askew.

“Right? I wasn’t a top pick to win, either, I earned that with blood,” you tell him. He squints at you.

“Can you read minds?”

“What? No. Why?” He shakes his head, refocusing. Oikawa’s cheeks are red and his eyes are clear when he runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it so it falls in soft waves over his ears (also red). He leans away from you, an inch or so, and then closer again. He smells like lemongrass and young love, and even though you’re not kids anymore you don’t think it’s so terrible that he makes you feel like one.

“Not important. Can I take you out sometime after the Games are done?”

tagging: @crystal-lilac , @kohi-zeri

oneus 'black mirror' mv lockscreens!! please like or reblog if you save it!! 🍣

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TO ALL THE GIF CREATORS AND PEOPLE WHO DO EDITS AND STUFF LIKE THAT

DON’T BE SO HARD ON YOUR WORK

EVERYTHING YOU DO IS LOVELY

I’M ALWAYS BLOWN AWAY BY YOUR HARDWORK AND DEDICATION, WHETHER YOU’VE MADE 1 SET OR 100+.

EVERYTHING IS ALWAYS SO AMAZING TO ME!

SO PLEASE

PLEASE

PLEASE

KEEP DOING WHAT YOU’RE DOING

YOU GUYS ALWAYS PUT A SMILE ON MY FACE EVERY SINGLE DAY!

HWANWOONG SUPREMACY, REPEAT AFTER ME! HWANWOONG SUPREMACY!!! 🔥🔥🔥🔥

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Yes you were sir 😔😔😔

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“I was born cute”

Another amazing dance 🔥🔥🔥

[HWANWOONG]

급하게 준비해서 아쉬움도

많았지만 동생에게 많이 배운

솔로 퍼포🥰 여전히 배우고

싶은 게 많아요오🙏🙏🙏

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He did so well 😭😭😭😭

He stole my heart and now my soul!! What else can I sell for the Black Mamba cover if he keeps stealing like this from me😭😭😭😭

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I'm officially deceased if anyone asked 😔😔😔😔

[HWANWOONG]

난 앞으로 찔러 좌우 Bruce Lee🙌

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The photos are not mine. The captions are.

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He's so precious and cute ❤️

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❀ hwanwoong and his mini-me ❀