stellar ☆

in descending order: short fics/drabbles > headcanons > multicharacter > AUs. categories may overlap. everything is sfw.

❀ = personal fave

short fics/drabbles

plum (things borrowed and things given) by @passiontruit ❀

ding! by @noomon

you told me to do it scared by @ktsumu

midnight in the sky by @lou-struck

in a world of boys, he’s a gentleman by @irisintheafterglow ❀

you put hajime onto reading by @selarina

moving out of california with him by @kairakeiji

ride or die type by @wonderoustime

he’s your pretty boy by @heich0e ❀

home is where the heart is (and his heart belongs to you) by @kitashousewife — uni meet cute

greatest gift by @softeninglooks ❀

hold me, never let go (listen to this song by rocco) by @shoulmate

i don’t even mind by @nejibaby

worth being second best by @bokutosmochi ❀ — general headcanons — bf iwa headcanons + filo!iwa extra at the end

THE university hajime fic of all time. by @arhvste ❀

endearing things hajime does by @angelatsumu

with two hands to hold aka the hajime fic ever by @seiwas ❀  — third sunday of june (i think of this one every father’s day…)

change is bittersweet by @monstrsball

soft domesticity with iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer by @xoxojisu

neighbour!iwaizumi by @eightonenine

iwaizumi hajime fluff by @doggywoofwoof

iwaizumi cries when you walk down the aisle by @evamame — taking care of you while you’re exhausted — look of love — iwaizumi attacking you with wet kisses all over

spotlight by @dearru 

destined to meet by @twiishaa 

hear you out by @stellar-haikyuu 

a very worried man by @ottocre 

headcanons

fluffy headcanons by @bumpkinnnnn

uni hajime brain dump by @mysterystarz

boyfriend headcanons by @miya-rin

boyfriend iwaizumi headcanons by @tetsunova

multicharacter

bad day comfort by @rishiguro

mutual crush by @quirrrky

mornings with the hq boys by @caernys

intimidating looking boys by @omitea

“cute” boyfriends by @lumiinix

cooking headcanons by @ayyyez

love languages by @sapphicshav

kdrama cliches by @atsumulogy

mafia au by @lausterdomyamong

how the haikyuu boys fall in love by @ahtsumu

which haikyuu boys are good with kids (user deactivated) ❀

asking him “can you hold me?” by @kageyuji

what does home feel like? by @yamagucji ❀

filipino!iwaizumi

pamamanhikan with timeskip!half-filipino!iwaizumi hajime by @mahalsuya

filipino iwa headcanons by @akakeiji

filipino iwa headcanons by @sunatunaroll

paraluman! (half filo!iwa headcanons) by @blockedbykei

he’s a baby whisperer by aeonmnei (oh that's me..) — filo!iwa hcs pt1 & part 2

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— osamu miya is a gross man. don’t get his business and pleasure confused, though. his restaurant is clean as a whistle. he’s not unhygienic, either (except for the abysmal stank of his socks). no, what you mean by “gross” is that osamu is more than willing to be it. 

your first introduction to this is in the middle stages of your dating life. take this notable instance: you make yourself a bowl of fresh noodles and promptly burn twenty million taste buds off your tongue. 

“ow! ugh…” you wince as you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. osamu shuffles over from the living room. “mm, lemme see,” he says, leaning on the counter and taking your chin in his hand. “‘samu, it’s the same color as it always is,” you protest, weakly opening your mouth to let him examine. “wait, stick it out,” he tells you, eyes narrowed in concentration.

you stick out your tongue, and you don’t even get a chance to try to move before osamu darts in to plant a kiss on it. “ooh, chili soy,” he muses, licking his lips. you sputter. “EW! OH-THAH-MU! WHUH THUH HELL??” you shriek, not quite knowing what to do with your mouth. 

“i kissed it better,” osamu replies matter-of-factly, looking way too smug. you glare at him. “c’mon, don’t act like we haven’t done worse,” he says, sticking out his own tongue. “you love me.” 

you give him a wordless noise of agony in reply.

you learn later on in your relationship that if you throw up, osamu will catch whatever doesn’t make it to the toilet with one hand and use the other to pull your hair back. if you’re not sure if you smell right after a workout, osamu will stick his nose into your sweaty armpit and take a whiff. if you don’t have a tissue to wipe your boogers, osamu will hold out his arm and let you stick it on him. “there’s a thing called soap and water, babe,” he tells you, unamused at your repulsion. “that’s what i use to get it offa me.” 

“but that’s so— nasty!” you argue. “it’s nastier to have it just hangin’ from your fingers like that,” he counters. he shakes his exposed forearm. “soap ‘n water. i’m tellin’ ya.” you grunt at the audacity to call you nastier, but reluctantly swipe your fingers on his skin and give him a dubious glance in your peripheral.

you think that maybe osamu is really just that gross. eventually, you conclude that there’s simply something fundamentally off about him. he won’t even tolerate atsumu’s accidental spit droplet on him in the fervor of his ranting about another teammate, but lets you bite, lick, and slobber all over him unsolicited. 

for heaven’s sake, you burp in his face while making out one time and he laughs and kisses you again. meanwhile atsumu will sneeze in the vicinity of your kitchen and osamu will tell him to wear a mask. it’s just you. he’s just gross with you.

it only escalates more when the two of you get married. your husband will lick the drool off your cheek in the morning. your husband will help you pass gas. your husband will literally go down on you in the throes of your period!

your husband will open his hand for you to spit out something so he can taste it, too. “this sandwich is kinda dry,” you remark, dabbing the corner of your mouth with a napkin. osamu glances up from the counter and holds out his hand. “spit it out.”

you comply, because the sandwich isn’t all that great and for some reason, you think your husband is about to do something rational, like throw it away for you. instead, he tosses your chewed-up sandwich bolus into his mouth and swallows. “yeah, i make a better one…what?” he asks, genuinely puzzled at your look of abject horror. “we kiss all the time.”

and right when you think you’re used to it, to the limits of his grossness, osamu barges into the bathroom while you have the biggest poop of your life since infancy to shave his face. “osamu, get out!” you yell, tossing a hand towel at him. he catches it with one hand and picks up his razor, completely unfazed. 

like an absolute freak, he breathes in a ridiculously deep breath. you think he’s about to start floating the way he closes his eyes and leans in towards you. “that’s a good one, babe,” he says approvingly, taking no heed of your scandalized expression from the toilet. “means i feed ya right.” 

you groan. 

osamu miya is a gross man, if that wasn’t…grossly obvious. he’s disgusting. he makes you wipe your snot on him. he lets you hold it while he pees. he shaves his face in the same bathroom that you’re actively taking a shit in.

but osamu miya also goes dumpster diving if you drop something in there. osamu miya washes menstrual stains off your clothes. osamu miya cleans out your earwax. god, osamu miya would wipe your butt for you if you asked. 

he wants to take care of you. he’ll kiss you better (no matter where it is). he’ll let you cough and sneeze on him (because if you’re going down, he’s going with you). he’ll eat your leftovers (in whatever form they come in). 

osamu miya is willing to be gross because he wants all of you. even if that 'all of you' means stinky farts and morning breath and all the gross things that people shy away from. 

this is bad—terrible. horrifying

wait. lets rewind. oikawa had been a good friend. no, is a good friend. needless to say that you’re one of his favorite people; ready to pull an all nighter with you, lends you his laptop one time when yours decided to blow up and out of your ass, had basically took up for himself the role of cupid for you sometimes. 

(you’re convinced it’s just out of pity, though hyping you up on social media never fails to work its wonder, gifting your face a smile, says it always looks good on you.)

but this is not the time for playing cupid. in fact, you’re going to strangle him and reduce the remains of his lifespan once you’re out of this diner that iwaizumi hajime, his best friend (part-time) works on. a one good looking (borderline distracting) of a waiter. 

the first time oikawa suggested taking you out on this very specific diner, you’re a little apprehensive, mainly because iwaizumi in his catch-up stories are just about as intimidating as the first time you’ve finally see him in the flesh. 

slate-black apron, rolled up sleeves, his voice—a deep and firm kind of low that pricks your skin the first time you’ve heard it. eyes that couldn’t help itself but indulge in the sight of his forearms as he drops off your water. but that’s not the dead giveaway, no, no— it’s how you poorly managed yourself from stammering as your fingers scramble where to land on the menu, when he leaned in to look at what you’re pointing, you dreaded over the possibility that he could smell your plain aberration. 

because you’re sure as hell oikawa does. 

“uh, this one.”

 he nods, polite. then he casts oikawa a side-glance, his face subtly flat and impassive. “the usual?” 

oikawa hums, almost non-committal. he’s grinning wide and smug and staring at you across the table as if he’s about to drop a bomb on your upcoming plate. a very mischievous, carefully-curated bomb that’s going to throw you off for days. “you know me so well, iwa-chan.”

iwaizumi doesn’t dignify that with a response, only tears off the slip from his notepad and walks off, the pen still tucked behind his ear. you track his retreating figure before you realize what you’re doing and drive your focus away from any evidence, heat rushing up your neck. 

“okay.” you face oikawa, glaring and hissing through your teeth, voice an angry whisper,  “you set me up. you said you were hungry!”

“i am hungry!” he held his arm up in mock surrender, “hungry for a successful love story starring you and my best friend.” 

exasperated, you groan. 

“oh come on, what’s the worst that could happen? he says you’re cute!” 

“i beg your pardon?” 

“swear on my moisturizer. i showed him your IG.”

“i don’t trust you.”

“you don’t have to, sweets.” 

now, lo and behold, is the aftermath of your said aberration. from forcibly agreeing that this encounter would only be a one-time thing, to becoming a regular where waiter-staffs could probably draw your face by memory. same order, same seat, same routine. and—same, yet insanely different result, where your shitty resolve has finally cracked its surface. 

no, this is still your dear friend’s fault. you love oikawa tooru, truly you do. 

but you also want to grab him by the collar and slam him into the wall. lovingly, with intent. because this—this unraveling inside you that stirs every time iwaizumi hajime so much as glances your way—is no longer just some stupid crush.

you need the follow-up water asap, humid air’s getting to you. you pretend to work through your backlog on your laptop, ignoring the misspellings and half-hearted sentences you inserted in. you dart between the screen and iwaizumi, who’s rushing from table to table, sweat trickling down his temple, biceps flexing with rolled up sleeves that’s much messier than usual. 

he looks good. 

so good it’s actually criminal. 

graceful, that’s one word you could think of in the way he moves. in that focused, no-nonsense way of his. a towel slung over his shoulder, that same damn pen still behind his ear, his brows knitted as he calls out an order to the kitchen. he glances up, once—just once—and you’re quick to play the act of adjusting your screen brightness, as ungraceful as you could be. 

“you’re so obvious,” oikawa mutters from across the table, lips barely hiding his smirk behind a forkful of omelet rice.”

“i’m typing,” you say, offended. “i’m literally working.”

“deleting and retyping the same sentence for the past eight minutes. yeah, working”

you scowl. “i need to revise.”

“you need to admit that you’re thirsting.” 

you reach over and jab his forearm with the blunt end of your spoon. sighing, you press your knuckles to your burning cheeks. “i hate that i’m still here.”

“well,” oikawa says, chewing slowly, “good thing he likes that you’re here.”

the glare in your eyes is not something to be taken lightly. “don’t do this to me tooru.”

he raises a brow, setting his utensils down like he’s ready to go full monologue. “you think i didn’t notice he always brings your order himself? that he stands here at our table longer than anyone else’s? that he remembers your drink order down to the last cube of ice?”

“that’s just good service!”

oikawa snorts. “yeah, okay. let’s see what kind of service you get today, since i’m done eating and i have to go.”

your eyes widen. “what?”

he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i’ve got to meet someone in ten. don’t worry, i paid. just… stay here. do your fake work. and drink your water.”

“i haven’t gotten my water—”

“exactly,” he grins.

and just like that, he’s out the door with a wave.

you sit there, mouth slightly agape. you hear your laptop’s infuriating warm humming, the chatters start to buzz, and for a second you consider leaving too. maybe save yourself from further embarrassment. but before you can plop your bag on you lap and pull in your things—

“here.”

you look up. the voice could have startled you into slapping someone, if not for the familiarity. iwaizumi stands there, a tall glass of water in one hand, a fresh lemon wedge on the rim. a slight, imperceptible crease in his brow. 

“sorry it took a while. it’s a bit hectic today.” he sets it down in front of you, or that you think he had to because you’re rendered incapable of lifting your own hand and take it yourself.

…you didn’t even ask for water just yet. 

“no worries.” you try—you really do—to keep your hammering heart in check. lift your cheek in a smile that doesn’t look too forced. when he mirrors one of his own, though polite and stiff, is still as charming as it could be. 

then, without warning, he eyes your laptop. lingers in a way you’ve secretly hoped he would, asks you awkwardly, “are you…working?” 

you blink, “s-sort of.” 

you see the pause in his face, another smile emerges, but one good look had you noticing the faint dimple curving his left cheek. when he says, “i can give you a refill if you want to stay longer.” he sounds relaxed, or less tense now than he is seconds ago. 

you blink once more, pleasantly surprised than anything, “wait, really?” 

he nods. “yeah. i mean. if you’re writing or whatever. i’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

your stomach makes a flip, you give him thanks before he walks away. and when you watch him go, it’s when you lift your curses saved for tooru and replace it with a million blessings. you make a mental note to thank him later. 

so, yes, you stay for another thirty minutes (took more orders and refills.) forty, tops. not because you’re waiting for anything—absolutely not. you’re being productive. you even manage to fix two paragraphs and stop the spell-checker from crying blood. that’s worth something.

your phone thats buried deep in your bag vibrates from a notif. it’s definitely your dear friend. 

when iwaizumi walks by again, you can’t help but smile, “you’re still here.” 

“am i overstaying? i can go—“ 

“no,” he says quickly. then, more level, “you’re fine, just noticed. ‘is all” 

but you’re not really good at small talk, and maybe you are overstaying, maybe tooru’s gotten sick of waiting and your phone exploding shows that. you look back at your cursor and feel like it’s accusing you. you clear your throat, “i’ll um, pay now.” 

“oh,” or maybe you’re too far gone, because something kind of flickers on his face. something like hesitation, “i’ll get your receipt.”

when he returns, he places the small folder down. “here you go.”

you offer him a polite smile and open it—

—and promptly short-circuit.

because tucked neatly beside the receipt is a small folded napkin. written in scrawled, slightly slanted penmanship:

you’re here a lot. if you ever wanna come when i’m not working, i’d like to see you properly.

0XX-XXX-XXXX

when you lift your head up, he’s gone. 

he’s definitely not at the counter. not wiping tables. not walking anywhere within your line of sight—he fled.

you finally fished out your phone and immediately started typing.

help. he asked me out. 

it takes four seconds before your phone combusts.

ITS OINKS TIME: i am a god. this is my best work asffhjhjgkbvyruioqhdf send me photos from your wedding no wait i’m the maid of honor tf

you’re too busy grinning like an idiot, staring at the number on the napkin and wondering how in the world you’ll survive a proper date with iwaizumi hajime.

ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, THE WITCHES OF 99, CORDIALLY INVITE YOU…

Dear beloved writers, it seems like you’ve been invited to a tea party—RSVP ASAP! At our buffet, we will be serving a variety of snacks and you will have the exciting option to make your own tea. Of course, if you’re feeling indecisive, the ever-so-gracious witches have premade specials for you. And surely, we shall go beyond tea-making and chatter as we also have various activities prepared for your arrival. Come on in when you’re ready!

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synopsis: when your favorite restaurant closes down after a long day of work, samu makes sure your cravings are satisfied. details: fluff┊romantic/established relationship┊timeskip!osamu┊~1.9k words┊gn!reader┊dedicated to @sodaneko, happy birthday lalove! :D

You have had enough of your tight button-up and pants. Long days at work sucked.

It was a labor of love, as you had taken on extra hours at your office job to help Samu. You were both saving up for the large amount of money he needed to finally open Onigiri Miya’s first physical shop, and your earnings are getting you there, albeit slowly.

But honestly, it’s days like this that make you wonder how much longer you can stare at those darn spreadsheets. You wouldn’t mind doing this for your partner, but alas, you were stuck with this random, boring corporation for the meantime. 

As you look out the window, you realize that it’s gone dark out. You sigh, continuing to clear out the rest of your table before clocking out. 

You pass by other officemates who have stayed behind for overtime, greeting them goodbye. Internally, you felt a little pity for those who were already snoozing on their desks.

When you make it out of the office building, your stomach growls. Right, your last proper meal was lunch and a bunch of random vending machine snacks scattered throughout the afternoon.

Now would be a good time to look for some comfort food. It’s Friday, after all. 

As you think of where to eat, your phone suddenly rings. A quick glance lets you know it’s your beloved calling.