#Skipped 27

[theindescribable1]

🎃 Cringetober Day 28! 🎃

(Skipped 27 bc this one would take longer)

🎃 Pumpkin Carving! This one is to give me a break from the actual cringe prompts. Anyways, enjoy these two different types of carvers! 🎃

[kamisama1kiss]

GUYS PAUSE EVERYTHING YOURE DOING THE TIME-SKIP HAIKYUU IN CONFIRMED TO BE ANIMATED

LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO

23 YEAR OLD HINATA SHOYO IN BRAZIL HERE I COME.

(Don't kill me if it's wrong info-)

[atc-iwaizumi]

Iwaizumi worked a 13 hour volleyball tournament and is gassed. No more thoughts behind those eyes. Someone on the team asked what he was doing after the game. Iwaizumi is so tired, he says Oikawa. The team didn't know and now they are losing their shit. Cause Iwaizumi came out to them about his relationship and it all happened cause Iwaizumi was too tired to fully process what was happening.

[sassy-pistachy]

(open for full size)

THE MAGNUS PROTOCOL CONSPIRACY BOARD (Ep 27)

(all my theories will probably contain spoilers for all of TMA)

OK so, we can all agree that was Jonah Magnus writing, right? At least a Magnus. "The Institute would not have been founded, nor would my fellows have selected me for its leadership, much less its name"

If Augustus really is the voice of TMA's Jonah, this would be the first instance of someone from the TMA Universe giving voice to it's TMAGP's Universe counterpart. And that's pretty cool.

He also mentions "Boyle's meddling inheritors", pretty sure he's talking about Robert Boyle, founder of the Royal Society. How long has it been since?

The Royal Society was founded in 1660, and Presumably Jonah Magnus writes this in 1845. Saying "we have been undertaking this great work for three decades", does that put the foundation of the Institute around 1810? That's almost two centuries after the foundation of the Royal Society. But both organisations are definitely connected. Perhaps the Insitute was created to take the Royal Society experiments to the next level, to have the philosophers work together.

More things:

-TREVOR fucking HERBERT MP?? Speechless.

-Celia getting an email, and the address looks like "gibberish". That probably rules out Jon? When Sam got Jon's email, he didn't mention the address being gibberish... ARG friends, do we have any suspects?

-Do we think Celia knows what's in Hilltop? She def knows she's not from this universe, but does she know she came through Hilltop's crack in reality? Does she know about it?

[burningthetree]

crying?

[infinitemilk]

Not me thinking Kageyama and Hinata carrying the olympic torch when they get old.. .

[jay-birds-fly]

Special shoutouts to Brazil Hinata, MSBY Black Jackals, and Iwaizumi Hajime (27) Athletic Trainer

[tanglepelt]

The ring of rage and crown of “fire”. I Made it an ice crown. Cause why not.

[nando161mando]

27% of Americans are skipping meals, surely this is not a sign of trouble.

[iwaoiness]

Oikawa's problematic phone case

Without any doubt, Iwaizumi is the only person in the world who is able to look so fucking hot in his ID picture without even trying. His golden skin, his hair in that natural state of spiky, his forehead relaxed without any wrinkles, that piercing in his eyebrow that he got in his first year at Irvine and that Tooru still shivers over, his eyes staring at the camera with an intensity in their greenish hue that takes breath away, his lips curved in a small lopsided smile, a shadow of dimple on his cheek, his jaw well marked by the lights, his chin slightly elevated.

Hajime sent it during one of his video calls while telling him about his day; the soda Oikawa was drinking at that moment shot out of his nose when he choked while opening the picture. Early in the morning, he stood in the nearest copy shop to his house to request eight copies, still blushing, heart racing, and ears still ringing from Iwaizumi's deep-playful-stupid-hot laugh and his Do I look so hot that it makes the great Oikawa-senshu this nervous?

One of those copies ended up in his grey silicone case (which actually matched Iwaizumi's, his with a chubby dinosaur drawing in the bottom corner asking What are u doing?; Oikawa's, with another smiling dinosaur hugging the rest of Iwasaurus missing tail, answering Miss you, hug me!), accompanying him everywhere for months along with a small family photo with his parents, sister and Takeru.

However, one night, during an interview on a popular and prestigious TV show, Oikawa completely forgot that he changed his usual cover for a transparent one and took out his mobile phone in the middle of the interview to show the presenter a really embarrassing video of Matias, his friend and San Juan's starting blocker.

And, of course, Tooru's loud and intense fandom erupted the minute they noticed (thanks to damn high-definition cameras that might as well show gaping pores in close-up as reveal a years-long relationship with a really hot athletic trainer) Hajime's photograph on his IPhone case.

Social media was abuzz with dozens of screenshots from different angles, threads about conspiracy theories (Hanamaki's favourite was that Oikawa had the wrong phone and used the phone of a technical member of the programme; Matsukawa's that Hajime was Tooru's older brother), civil wars between fans over who was more right until only a day later it was revealed (thanks to one Suna Rintaro) that the strange boy was Iwaizumi Hajime, the hot athletic trainer of Birtwistle University and the Japan Men's National Volleyball Team.

And there was no shortage of hashtags like #IwaizumiHajime27AthleticTrainer, #LGBTooru, #BiRighToorus, #IwaOi that became worldwide TT and the grotesque rise of followers on Hajime's official account and also Oikawa's own.

"You had to use a fucking transparent case" Hajime speaks when it's finally his turn to come to Argentina. He's sitting on the bed with Tooru propped up next to him, blinking at the memes that continue to pop up on his TL even though it's been a month of what Oikawa's fans have already dubbed IwaOi National Day. "You have a drawer full, full, of ridiculous phone cases and you pick the one that's transparent."

"I already said it was unintentional, Iwa-chan! Unintentional!" Oikawa protests, crossing his arms as he makes a pout that Hajime finds truly endearing. "I'd better have kept the picture that auntie took of you when you were nine years old and got stuck in the cat flap," he mutters, but Iwaizumi hears him clearly and Tooru squeals as a pillow hits his face, nearly knocking him off the bed.

...

the cute phone case inspired this drabble

as always thank u sm and u can find me on my ao3 🍉

[sergle]

I just saw your post about dropping gandalf pics on your birthday. I dont know if that means your birthday is today (yesterday?) but I turn 27 tomorrow! Happy birthday neighbor <3

My bday is on the 23rd!! and Carrie Fisher's birthday is today. Libra season in full bloom tbh. Happy birthday back, neighbor!!

[oswaldthehero]

doc ocktober day 28: Tinkering with Arms

[atc-iwaizumi]

Sometimes I think about how Iwaizumi got to be an athletic trainer for team Japan, specifically with the men's volleyball team. Yes, he's a good athletic trainer, has worked with volleyball before, and worked his way through the system. But I think it's more that he knows a lot of this team and they trust him. They trust him so much. They know that when they put their bodies on the line that he will be there, no matter what, to help them get back on the court. They can count on him that when he sees them at their worst, he'll know what to do to help get them back to being their best.

[charlythelee]

🇯🇵 Iwaizumi Hajime (27), Athletic Trainer (✒︎ on Ao3)

2021 Olympic Team | Haikyu!! | Timeskip | Rating: T | 2.5k words

“You see, Trainer-san,” Yaku clears his throat. “You’re a meme.” “What?” Hajime blinks at him. “A meme… a contextual internet phenomenon amusing the masses,” Ushijima explains. “I know what a meme is, why am I one?” Yaku opens the laptop, finally releasing Atsumu’s fingers and shows him the Twitter page. Iwaizumi Hajime (27), athletic trainer. Yep, Hajime is a meme now.

Or: Everyone has a crush on Trainer-san! Don't really remember how or why this idea came to me, but I hope you enjoy this small story — Big thanks go to @matsinko for helping me with beta reading 💕

[iceunhie]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGesr5mkC/

im sending this to you because you're the only person im moots with who likes haikyuu (which I'm aware of) and im Not going to suffer enjoy this alone!!

IM DEAD THIS REMINDS ME OF 2020 when everyone kept portraying kghn with hinata as the one that always cries whenever he and kageyama have an argument line BFFR ur talking about the 150-153 cm kid that challenged ushijima and almost all the powerhouse schools into a direct fight

HES LITERALLY CALLED NINJA SHOYO AAARRRRGHHHHHH fanon 2020 hinata they will NEVER make me like you

[set-phasers-to-whump]

breathe

prompt: "let me see"

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

hi here's the part 2 to this fic from day 18. i hope you like it, i had a really good time writing both of these :)

Peter steps off the plane at Dulles in the early evening. He feels slightly better than he had on the first flight, having now gotten a good deal of sleep, and having bought some extra-strength painkillers and a ridiculously overpriced meal at JFK. At the very least, he’s not so exhausted and the pain is more manageable and he no longer feels nauseous with hunger. 

He gets a cab home, not caring about the price. Halfway there he realizes that he doesn’t have his key - it’d been in his bag, which is now gone. The cab driver mercifully has a paperclip that he gives to Peter, though he looks at him a little skeptically in the rearview mirror. 

Peter knows he doesn’t exactly look like an upstanding citizen at the moment. The bruises on his face have become more pronounced over the last several hours, and he’s still dirty and sweaty and generally gross. He makes sure to tip the driver well when they at last reach his apartment building. 

He picks the lock on his door with little trouble and heads immediately to his bedroom. 

He hadn’t bothered to buy and change into new clothes at JFK, though he certainly could have. But he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of changing without showering, and in any case he hadn’t really had the strength. 

He isn’t entirely sure if he has the strength to change and shower now, but he’s damn well going to anyway. The thought of a nice hot shower, of clean and comfortable clothes, is nearly enough to make him weep. 

He gathers clothes at random - an old t-shirt, his favorite sweats, the hoodie he’d stolen from Cisco all those years ago. Then he steps into the bathroom and turns the shower on, almost as hot as it will go. 

He strips down while the bathroom slowly steams up. First to go are his boots. His fingers shake when he unties the laces, and he has to sit on the floor to get enough leverage to tug them off.

His socks follow suit, full of sand that scatters across the floor. He’ll deal with that later. He’s relieved to see that his feet aren’t blistered - he really hadn’t walked that far - but his left ankle is swollen and tender to the touch in a way that suggests a sprain at the very least. 

He wriggles out of his pants and boxers without standing back up. His knees are both bruised and so are his shins. One of them sports a large break in the skin, blood matted into the hair around it. 

He unzips his jacket and pulls off his shirt. The cuffs of both are bloody from his wrists, despite his earlier efforts to clean them. His entire torso is like one massive bruise. He’ll have a few broken ribs, for sure. 

He can’t see the bruise around his neck, but he knows it’s there. He cannot stop feeling it, a phantom arm still wrapped around his throat. Stop thinking about it, he tells himself. You’re safe now. 

He only half believes it.

He forces himself up off of the floor with a groan of pain and then steps into the shower. The hot water stings his skin and the pressure of it makes the bruises across his body hurt like he’s being beaten all over again. He grabs the soap and shampoo and then sinks to the floor, too tired to remain on his feet. 

He covers himself in a thick layer of soap. It stings his open wounds, but he grits his teeth against the pain and keeps going. He cannot risk infection. He cannot be anything less than clean.

After this, he scrubs shampoo into his hair. The water runs faintly pink when he washes it out, and he wonders where the blood had come from. 

At long last, he’s certain that every inch of his body has been scrubbed clean. He no longer feels sand prickling at his skin and he is no longer stained with blood. He sits beneath the water and breathes in the steam until it starts to run cold. 

Out of the shower, Peter dries himself off as gently as possible. He’s also quick about it, not wanting to stand on his ankle any longer than he has to, and so when he gets dressed he’s still a bit damp and the clothes stick to his skin. 

He doesn’t mind. The feeling of the familiar fabric is comforting regardless, and it reminds him of where he is. At home, far away from the people who had hurt him. 

He rubs neosporin into the raw skin of his wrists and the cuts on his face, then swallows a couple more painkillers. Finally, he brushes his teeth until he’s spitting blood into the sink. 

He leaves the bathroom something of a wreck and heads for the kitchen. He’s hungry again. There are a few packages of ramen in the pantry, for times when he doesn’t feel like cooking. He’s extremely grateful for them in this moment, and within five minutes he’s sitting in front of a steaming bowl and breathing in the very familiar scent. It’s one he associates with his days at Quantico, and he is hit with the realization that he needs to contact his bosses. 

He hadn’t been given any instructions for communication before he’d left, so they won’t necessarily know anything has gone wrong. He needs to tell them. He doesn’t want to. 

He can put it off for a little while. It’s not like he currently has a phone, anyway. 

He finishes eating, has a large glass of water - he thinks he is always going to be just a bit thirsty, now - and then just sits there. 

His body aches and he knows he should probably get checked out by a doctor. But the thought of some stranger poking and prodding at him, after everything, is incredibly unpleasant. It can wait until tomorrow, at least. 

It is dark outside, nearing eight o’clock, and Peter does not want to be alone. He wants to see Rose.

She lives across the city from him, in a cute little house that she’d moved into only a couple months ago. He wants nothing more than to go there, to simply be in her presence. 

He’d normally call and ask whether she’s free. But he can’t. He’ll just have to hope she’s there, that she won’t mind him coming by unannounced. 

He puts on a pair of boots - thankfully not the ones he’d been wearing before, which are full of sand - and a jacket with a high collar. Lacking his phone and keys, he feels distinctly like he is forgetting something as he steps into the hallway, but he knows he isn’t. He leaves the door unlocked behind him and tries not to think about it.

He takes the bus and then the metro across town. He feels anxious, memories of the bombing overlaying themselves atop memories of the past twenty-four hours. He focuses on looking out of the window and trying to control his breathing. 

He arrives at Rose’s house a little after 8:45. He experiences a moment of doubt before he rings the bell - what if she doesn’t want to see him, what if she isn’t home - but she opens the door with a smile on her face. 

“Back so soon?” she asks. He’s supposed to have been away all week. 

Seeing her, hearing her voice - he hasn’t cried, not since it happened. He’d been too exhausted, too focused on making it to the next step. But she is his final destination. 

He starts to cry and he can’t stop. Rose pulls him inside and wraps her arms around him and it hurts but he doesn’t pull away. 

His ankle is throbbing. He sinks to the floor and she goes with him. Her fingers are in his hair and he clings to her shirt like a lifeline. 

At some point, after a long while, he does stop crying. His eyes are dry and itchy and his throat feels raw. He leans heavily against Rose and breathes raggedly. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. The word feels like sandpaper. 

“Shh,” Rose replies. “Come with me.”

She gets up and he follows her to the couch. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Peter takes off his shoes but leaves his jacket on. He does not want her to see the mark on his neck. It is enough to feel it, all the time. 

Rose comes back with a container of ice cream and two spoons, and Peter feels himself nearly smile. She sits cross-legged beside him, pries open the carton, and passes him a spoon. 

The cold dairy feels wonderful on his throat, and Rose’s steady presence makes him feel safe and comfortable. He relaxes quite a bit. 

And then his jacket sleeve rides up as he’s trying to dig out a chunk of chocolate, and Rose freezes, grabbing his wrist. 

“What happened?”

He gently pulls away. “It’s nothing.”

She abandons the ice cream, turning her body to face him. “Peter, that doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Rose nods. “Okay. Let me see, at least? You don’t have to say anything. I just…”

He knows. 

He can hardly refuse. He’d want the same thing, in her place. To know that she’s alright. To see how bad it really is. 

He carefully removes his jacket and pushes up his sleeves. He looks down at the floor as Rose touches his arms with cold fingers. 

“Look up for a second?”

He complies. Looking down, he knows, had hidden the worst of the bruise on his neck, but hadn’t hidden it all. He swallows hard as her fingers ghost over the bruise, trying to pretend that they don’t make him think of what had happened. 

“Is there more?” 

He could lie. Except that he can’t, really. Not when it’s her. 

He nods. He doesn’t know why it feels like admitting something shameful. 

“Can I see?”

In response, he lifts up the hem of his shirt to reveal the bruising on his torso. He hears Rose suck in a breath. 

“What happened?” she asks, lightly touching his chest. There are tears in her eyes and part of Peter wants to tell her, to reveal every single detail that he remembers. But another, larger part of him cannot face it. It’s too much and too soon, and he feels like one raw, exposed nerve. He can’t. Not yet. 

He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later. Promise.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Have you been to the hospital?”

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Peter -”

He meets her eyes, really meets them, for the first time. “Please. I swear, I’ll go tomorrow. But right now - I can’t.”

Rose nods, although it’s clear she doesn’t love this plan. “Will you stay here tonight? So I can keep an eye on you?”

He hadn’t been sure of how to ask this very question without seeming like a child afraid of a monster lurking in the dark. He nods. 

Rose smiles, sad and happy at once. “Are you tired?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

“Come on, then.”

They go to her room. The bed is large and warm and smells like her and it kind of makes him want to cry all over again, for reasons he doesn’t really understand. 

“Just a minute,” Rose says. She disappears to lock up, to get ready for bed, and Peter buries himself beneath the blankets. 

She returns to the bedroom a few minutes later, switching off the light. The complete darkness makes him feel panicked for a moment, but then the bed dips and her hands find his. 

He feels her move around a bit, and then one of her hands is on his cheek. Her nose bumps into his, which hurts a bit, and then she kisses him, light and a little clumsy and perfect. 

Peter rests his head against her shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed. He falls asleep quickly and completely, breathing deep and even for the first time in quite a while.

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it <3