I’ve been writing a lot of fills for Sportsfest, which I’m uploading on AO3. Generally they’re v short, and a variety of ships, so I’ve set up a pseud which is ... drumroll
(Yes, Kita, this is necessary)
... continues drumroll to hike up the anticipation and cover the fact it’s not startlingly original ...
SaekoCrolla
Everything from SportsFest that’s under 1k. is going on here, and I’ll probably use it for Fan Week fics too. Haikyuu!!, Shokugeki, the odd YoI will be listed there.
Haikyuu Series - 25 (so far) fics and ficlets -not all of them menacing
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Title: Why don’t you cry (ch 3 of Icarus)
Ship: IwaOi
Characters: Oikawa, Iwaizumi
Rating: Teen and Up
A/N: At last some Oikawa POV. :D
Summary:
The horizon had been before them, the sun bright as they ventured towards their future. At Junior High, all Hajime had worried about was whether Tooru would burn out, whether he’d fly too close to the sun and collapse into a sea of despair.
With Oikawa at university, and Hajime repeating a year, it should be possible for them to remain together. The distance is nothing to a pair who’ve been friends for years.
However when he doesn’t return to Seijou, but to the one school - and the one Setter - Tooru’s never liked, their future looks to have snapped under the weight of history and perpetual arguments.
And now Hajime feels he’s the one with wings of wood and wax, skeltering downwards, while Tooru flies on - not looking back.
This is the final part of the Philos series.
March
What if things don’t work out?
The question plagues Tooru with far more regularity than he will ever admit to Hajime. Because not everything does work out - he’s learnt the hard way.
Destiny is a fickle master.
There’d been a belief they’d defeat Shiratorizawa. Not just Tooru against Ushijima - not only Oikawa and Iwa-chan bringing him down – but the team. Seijou. Oikawa, Matsukawa, Hanamaki, Iwaizumi, Watari, Kindaichi, Kunimi … Kyoutani. Taking them on as a team. Yahaba urging them on, taking control on the sidelines when necessary. That would be the way they’d defeat Shiratorizawa and claim their time in the sun at Nationals.
But they’d fallen – not even at the final hurdle, but the penultimate – pecked at and harried by a team in black. Inelegant. Loud. Their plays screeching their ascendancy.
And since then, Tooru’s knows that not everything comes right just because you wish for it hard, night on night for years on end.
Il molo San Nicola, i banconi di pietra dei pescatori e il Chiringuito cambieranno look. Il cantiere di importo complessivo di 915mila euro prevede la realizzazione di servizi igenici, un nuovo bar per la movida giovanile e una fontanella. Inoltre verranno rinnovati i box dove i pescatori vendono il loro pesce.
I lavori finiranno entro il 2017 mentre a fine mese inizieranno i lavori per il rinnov…
Title: Recognition
Characters: Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime
Warnings: Meh, bit suggestive.
A/N: This is an expnded version of a drabble I wrote during advent. The prompt was The Song of Achilles from emery-dragonfly and this is for you, hon.
Another A/N: This is an immediate follow up to Philos and a prequel to both Cleaved and Perfect Day. Also on A03
Summary: After an injury in a practise match, Iwaizumi lies in a hospital bed while Oikawa watches on.
‘I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.’ ~The Song of Achilles
The room was dark, but the light from the corridor was enough for Tooru, even if he was huddled down in the chair, hiding from those who’d send him away.
Iwaizumi was asleep. The pain medication and sedatives dripped into his arm, soothing him to a state of unconscious. And in sleep he looked peaceful, his face in repose, relaxed and almost happy in a way Tooru rarely saw when he was conscious.
Of course that would change when he woke, which was why Tooru had decided to stay. It wouldn’t be right, he’d decided, for Iwaizumi to wake alone, for the first person he’d see to be a nurse or doctor. Even if he scowled out at Tooru as soon as he saw him, it was better than waking up with a stranger by his side.
At least, that was Tooru’s opinion. He wouldn’t want to wake alone.
His breathing was easier, no longer the ragged breaths wrenched from his lungs as he fought not to scream, but soft and even. A sound Tooru had heard so many times throughout their childhood, but had only recently paid attention to. When Iwaizumi slept like this in his bed, by his side, Tooru would watch him, and wonder (and wonder, and wonder ...) how it was possible for someone with so much passion - so much rage- to be able to sleep at all.
And he’d think about running his hand through Iwaizumi’s hair, splaying his fingers at the vee of his throat, and mazing a path downwards. But when Iwaizumi slept like this, Tooru never wanted to wake him. At home, he’d stare instead, his eyes boring into his friend, and his lips would part as he’d pout the name ‘Hajime’ into the silent air between them. He’d inhale the scent and sweat, breathe in the feral, sexual musk of his skin. Or he’d wait for a movement, some sign that Iwaizumi was aware he was not alone, and then lean across to whisper ‘Iwa-chan’, while nipping at his ear.
(Was friend the right word now? Had friend ever been the right word? Kith not kin. Not bound by a thick blood tie, but water frozen to ice, cleaving each fast to the other.)
Sometimes Tooru was scared the thaw of spring would release them.
Iwaizumi’s hair was spiky, especially at the back. Pressed into the hospital pillows, unwashed after the match, it was messier and spikier than ever. When they were kids, Tooru had teased him about his hair, calling him a hedgehog because it would never lie flat, nor fall into waves. He’d mocked him mercilessly just to see the reaction. The scowl, shouts and kick on the shins had been worth it, but Iwaizumi appearing the next morning with his hair hacked off had not. It had taken two months for it to grow back, so Tooru had never used that particular insult again, although he’d found plenty of others, as he always did.
When we were kids. He laughed a little, the sound catching at his lips, before he could break the silence in the room. We’re still kids, Iwa-chan, aren’t we? Tooru hoped.
Because that way, neither had to assume responsibility and break the chains.
He stared again, tilting his head to one side as he took in the nearly-man, lying so still between crisp, unruffled sheets.
I like your hair, he mused, consequential to nothing, recalling its coarseness rubbing on his stomach, scratching at his thighs.
Perhaps I should tell you that.
And I like your throat, the way it constricts when I make you gasp. The way you try so desperately not to call my name, to admit that I can make you feel in any way pleasurable. How you don’t always feel anger when I’m close by. I love your denial, Hajime, as much as I love your capitulation.
I love-
“Oikawa?”
He jolted upright. “Iwa-chan, you’re awake!”
“You don’t say,” he muttered blearily. “What are you doing here?”
“Your parents had to leave –”
“Yeah, I remember that. Mum can’t stay over ‘cause Dad’s got a late shift. But why are you still here?”
“I got comfortable,” he lied, because the hospital chair was awkward for someone with his long limbs. “And the coffee is surprisingly good.”
“Liar,” Iwaizumi rasped. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”
He shrugged, but the weight on his shoulders didn’t shift. “I don’t mind.”
“I’m only going to sleep,” Iwaizumi said and yawned. “And the nurse’ll check up on me at some stage. You’ll have to flutter those pretty eyelashes of yours or she’ll call security.”
“I’ll tell them I’m your brother, or something.”
“Yeah, right, they’ll go for that because we’re so alike.”
“My sister doesn’t look anything like me,” Tooru said. “So it could be true.”
Iwaizumi grimaced. “Yeah, you’re a one-off,” he muttered. “You could pick my brothers out in a line-up, though. We’re common enough.”
“Don’t believe that for a moment,” Tooru murmured. He turned his soft smile to one of mockery. “Your scowl is unique, Iwa-chan.”
“You see it often enough,” he retorted. But he wasn’t scowling when he said it. The clock ticked, Iwaizumi’s breathing evened out again as if he were sleeping, but his eyes didn’t close. Instead, he stared at the door, avoiding Tooru’s gaze. “The nurse will be here soon.”
“Are my eyelashes pretty?”Tooru asked. He didn’t really want an answer, but this way of speaking, this constant asking of provocative questions, was their thing. Or rather it was Tooru’s, for Iwaizumi never asked anything unless it was about volleyball or ...
(Are you okay? Was that good? Did I hurt you? Do you like it when I...?)
“Stop fishing. She won’t believe someone as pretty as you and someone as plain as me are related, Oikawa, so you should go.”
“Cousin, then,” Tooru amended. He fixed Iwaizumi with a stare, and very slowly parted his mouth, licking along his upper lip. “’Kissing Cousins’, Iwa-chan.”
And even in the half-light he knew Iwaizumi was blushing.
Fierissima tempra di comandante, nella lotta partigiana profondeva la fede antifascista, il leggendario suo coraggio, la giovanile baldanza e la somma delle sue alte virtù. Evaso dalla detenzione fascista, prima semplice partigiano poi comandante di distaccamento sabotatore, di battaglione e di brigata nella Val Ceno tutti superava per ardimento sublime e supremo sprezzo del pericolo che fecero di lui l’acclamato comandante di tutte le forze partigiane della provincia di Parma. Circondata ed attaccata di sorpresa la sede del Comando da soverchianti forze fasciste, mentre alcuni compagni cadevano sotto l’intenso fuoco, affrontava intrepidamente gli assalitori e cadeva colpito da raffiche di mitraglia. Il suo eroico sacrificio incitava i compagni alla riscossa e, quale luminoso simbolo, ispirava nel Parmense la lotta partigiana fino alla liberazione
Le ragioni del conferimento della Medaglia d'oro al valor militare alla memoria per Giacomo di Crollalanza
It's Akaashi's birthday, and Bokuto has a special present for him.
A/N: Wanted to write this idea ever since the wonderful crollalanzaa came up with it after I bought stickers of owls wearing rainbow scarves. Akaashi's birthday is clearly the best opportunity to write it.
He only feels the paper crinkle under his fingers, because even when Akaashi's head is lowered, from the corner of his eyes he's watching Bokuto's impossibly wide smile instead of concentrating on the wrapping. Bokuto is nearly bouncing in his seat and yet he's wringing his hands in a manner Akaashi has come to learn means he's insanely nervous about something.
Under the haphazardly thrown together mess of wrapping paper and tape (more tape than paper, it seems), something soft seems to be hiding.
Akaashi is excited to see it, but peels off the tape slowly, just to get to see that light in Bokuto's eyes longer.
“I worked really hard! I hope you'll like it! But it's fine if you don't!” He had repeated all this in varying ways about five times already. “C'mon Akaashi, just open it already, will you?!”
“Patience, Bokuto-san,” he tells him, but to be honest, he's being a hypocrite here. Bokuto had been hyping about his present in both ace and dejected mode for the past month or so, and Akaashi had been dying what it was, and you know what, he's done with patience.
Bokuto makes a sound that sounds like a squeal and a terrified screech crashing together to form the ultimate weird noise, and Akaashi smiles softly about it and digs his nails into the wrapping paper to tear it open without any regards to the packaging. (Which is, without a doubt, made with love but also so much incompetency.)
What awaits him is the most unfortunate attempt at a scarf he has set eyes on in his life.
The edges are frilled out and its width varies, because Bokuto's knitting got tighter and more loose again, no doubt according to his moods. The colours are bright and stark, all colours of the rainbow, the order messed up beyond belief. Red follows green follows blue follows orange follows, for some weird reason, also pink, and yellow seems to have gotten lost in favour of an extra length of light blue like the sky. The scarf is, by all means, horribly ugly and looks scratchy on top of it.
Akaashi looks up, Bokuto trembling nervously, clearly on the verge of going dejected but some hope there still, and he looks down at the scarf again, and breaks into the widest, easiest smile. How much time must his insane partner have spent on that scarf? How long had he spent picking colours and figuring knitting out? How much time and energy and effort had he poured into this, how many mood switches had he suffered for it?
The scarf might be a trainwreck, but it's one made for him, with love. As cheesy as it might sound – there is nothing Bokuto does without passion and joy and love for what he's working on. He wouldn't have kept going if he wouldn't have thought making a rainbow scarf for Akaashi would be absolutely worth his time.
Now it made sense, that grin Bokuto had flashed him one night going home together, the taste of the on-coming winter in the air already, crisp and clear, and Akaashi had been shivering because the cold had bitten his defenceless neck.
“Don'tcha worry! I'm gonna take care of it!”
He had. He actually had.
“So, what do ya think?”, Bokuto asks him, voice actually quiet this once. Akaashi's heart might skip a beat hearing it.
“I love it,” he says, and he means it, with all this heart. “Now I won't have to freeze in winter.”
Bokuto's like a music box which had been trudging along, Akaashi's words winding him back up so he can play his music with all his strength, beam and be loud.
“I know, right?! You were always cold! So I thought! Yeah, I'll do something about that! Isn't that amazing?! It's the best idea, right?!”
Akaashi nods along, still all smiles, the soft scarf under his hands, the entirety of it physical proof of how much he means to Bokuto, and his friend's joy and happiness all the bonus he needs to feel happy today.
---
Akaashi still smiles, when he wears his horrible scarf, nose buried in the scratchy wool and mouth hidden by it as Bokuto talks on and on about something, still sometimes smiling proudly when he catches a glimpse of the scarf around Akaashi's neck.
