Haikyuu Iwaizumi - Blog Posts

Iwaizumi Hajime

I did a background yay

I tried to go back to do a more simple coloring for the skin so I don’t colapse every time I need to do one

I also used different brushes and tools

And I just wanna say that I hate drawing faces

UGSHDHNDMFMRJEKEFKEMD

thinking about bf!iwaizumi, who always flexes his big muscles for you to show how strong he is 😞

What da hail I got so busy 😭 I wanna write but school hit me like a truck I wanna finish that tetsuro fic😓😓😓😓 grbrgrgrggrgrr

Hsjdjwjdjw thank you!! Tbh I see Iwa in NU as well omgsbdjkwwjwj I would love to see him in the NU Bulldogs uniform 😭 sorry st benilde but your uniforms look like shit 😔 they look like leprechauns. Actually you know what, I think Iwa should be in NU talaga WHAHAHSHHSD

Big brain moment, Lintik by brownman revival with Filo!Iwaizumi 😭 I think papuntang Benilde to si Iwa WHAHSHAHSHD I love the idea of La Sallean Iwa

"Lintik na pagibig"

— Iwaizumi 2024

(For non-filos, lintik means lightning, and pag-ibig means love, so literally the translation would be lightning love, but lintik is also used as an exclamation)

Love takes many forms. Sometimes it's a slow burn, gently eating at your heart and soul. Or maybe it can come naturally, you see it coming and it just happens. But Iwaizumi didn't expect you to come into his life like lightning.

It was electrifying. Seeing your soft smile sent shocks straight into his heart. But lightning, by nature's design, left as fast as it came. Maybe it was fate, meeting for a brief period. After all, lightning leaves traces. One strike could start a fire that consumes a whole forest.

That's exactly what you did to him, and he's not just gonna let you go so easily.

OOOOOOOOOIIIIIII!!!!! PINOY!!!!!!! 🇵🇭 ❤️💥🔥 PINOOOOOOOOOYYYY!!!!! 🇵🇭❤️💥❤️‍🔥🔥 PINOYYYYY 💥💥🔥❤️OIYYYYYY!!!!!! 🇵🇭❤️❤️❤️❤️💥🔥💥🇵🇭🇵🇭💥💥 PILIPINAAAAASSSS!!!!! ❤️‍🔥🇵🇭💥💥💥 PINOOOOOOYYYY PRIIIIIDEEEE!!!!!!❤️‍🔥🇵🇭🔥💥🇵🇭❤️‍🔥❤️💥❤️ LAABAAAAAAN PILIPINAAAAASSSS!!!! ❤️🇵🇭❤️‍🔥🔥💥❤️‍🔥💥 AMIINNNN ANG WEST PHILIPPINE SEA!!!!!! 🇵🇭❤️‍🔥❤️KWEK-KWEK💥❤️FISHBALL💥❤️ISAW💥❤️‍🔥KARE-KARE❤️‍🔥💥 SUMAN 🇵🇭LECHON 🇵🇭SINIGANG 🇵🇭 ADOBO 🇵🇭BULALO 🇵🇭 TORTANG TALONG 🇵🇭 TINOLA 🇵🇭 BICOL EXPRESS 🇵🇭 TURON 🇵🇭 KARE KARE 🇵🇭 DAING 🇵🇭RED HORSE🇵🇭 EMPERADOR🇵🇭 TANDUAY🇵🇭 GINEBRA 🇵🇭 SAN MIGUEL🇵🇭❤️‍🔥 BARONG TAGALOG 🔥💥🇵🇭 RIZAL 💥❤️‍🔥BONIFACIO🇵🇭🔥 LAPU LAPU 🇵🇭 JUAN LUNA💥🔥 MANNY PACQUIAO!! 🔥💥🇵🇭🥊❤️‍🔥 PILIPINS NUMBAWAN 1️⃣❤️‍🔥🇵🇭💥

I AINT TISOY!!, IM PINOY!!!!! ❤️‍🔥🇵🇭🔥RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!🌋💥🦅🦅🦅

Ps. I'm still working on the Paki-sabi fic, making banners is hard😭😭😭 giraffic design is NOT my pashun😔

Big brain moment, Lintik by brownman revival with Filo!Iwaizumi 😭 I think papuntang Benilde to si Iwa WHAHSHAHSHD I love the idea of La Sallean Iwa

"Lintik na pagibig"

— Iwaizumi 2024

(For non-filos, lintik means lightning, and pag-ibig means love, so literally the translation would be lightning love, but lintik is also used as an exclamation)

Love takes many forms. Sometimes it's a slow burn, gently eating at your heart and soul. Or maybe it can come naturally, you see it coming and it just happens. But Iwaizumi didn't expect you to come into his life like lightning.

It was electrifying. Seeing your soft smile sent shocks straight into his heart. But lightning, by nature's design, left as fast as it came. Maybe it was fate, meeting for a brief period. After all, lightning leaves traces. One strike could start a fire that consumes a whole forest.

That's exactly what you did to him, and he's not just gonna let you go so easily.

OOOOOOOOOIIIIIII!!!!! PINOY!!!!!!! 🇵🇭 ❤️💥🔥 PINOOOOOOOOOYYYY!!!!! 🇵🇭❤️💥❤️‍🔥🔥 PINOYYYYY 💥💥🔥❤️OIYYYYYY!!!!!! 🇵🇭❤️❤️❤️❤️💥🔥💥🇵🇭🇵🇭💥💥 PILIPINAAAAASSSS!!!!! ❤️‍🔥🇵🇭💥💥💥 PINOOOOOOYYYY PRIIIIIDEEEE!!!!!!❤️‍🔥🇵🇭🔥💥🇵🇭❤️‍🔥❤️💥❤️ LAABAAAAAAN PILIPINAAAAASSSS!!!! ❤️🇵🇭❤️‍🔥🔥💥❤️‍🔥💥 AMIINNNN ANG WEST PHILIPPINE SEA!!!!!! 🇵🇭❤️‍🔥❤️KWEK-KWEK💥❤️FISHBALL💥❤️ISAW💥❤️‍🔥KARE-KARE❤️‍🔥💥 SUMAN 🇵🇭LECHON 🇵🇭SINIGANG 🇵🇭 ADOBO 🇵🇭BULALO 🇵🇭 TORTANG TALONG 🇵🇭 TINOLA 🇵🇭 BICOL EXPRESS 🇵🇭 TURON 🇵🇭 KARE KARE 🇵🇭 DAING 🇵🇭RED HORSE🇵🇭 EMPERADOR🇵🇭 TANDUAY🇵🇭 GINEBRA 🇵🇭 SAN MIGUEL🇵🇭❤️‍🔥 BARONG TAGALOG 🔥💥🇵🇭 RIZAL 💥❤️‍🔥BONIFACIO🇵🇭🔥 LAPU LAPU 🇵🇭 JUAN LUNA💥🔥 MANNY PACQUIAO!! 🔥💥🇵🇭🥊❤️‍🔥 PILIPINS NUMBAWAN 1️⃣❤️‍🔥🇵🇭💥

I AINT TISOY!!, IM PINOY!!!!! ❤️‍🔥🇵🇭🔥RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!🌋💥🦅🦅🦅

Ps. I'm still working on the Paki-sabi fic, making banners is hard😭😭😭 giraffic design is NOT my pashun😔

(ㆆ_ㆆ) ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

♫⋆｡♪ Iwaoi after school ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Sleepy Iwaoi after practice (っ˕ -｡)ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

butch4femme iwaoi <3

I was gonna give oikawa acrylics and then remembered she’s a setter </3

Capa para a fanfic "Confissões" escrito por Soower para a seção de Haikyuu, fanfic com foco no Oikawa x Iwaizumi (Iwaoi).

Então, deixa eu confessar que de todos os personagens de Haikyuu, definitivamente eu sou hater do Oikawa NDOAINWDOIAWNDOINWA (não que seja um segredo né, é tipo minha relação com o Tsukishima, amor e ódio) Eu era mais na época que estava vendo o anime, hoje em dia eu até relevo um pouco. Mas não posso negar que o ship Iwaoi é um ship tão bonitinho, tão nhonhonho que eu fico meio bobinha editando coisinhas do ship, me fez até esquecer do hate no Oikawa NDAOIWNDWAIN Ainda mais com as artes de @ariannaaart que meu Deus! Que artes lindaaaas! (e ela me seguiu aaaaaaaaaaaaa eu tô surtando -qqq)

This message is for you Arianna, I wanted to thank you for allowing Soower and me to use your art for the fanfic cover edit! I was really happy to make this edit with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, and I hope you like it as well!

Créditos à @ariannaaart pela arte utilizada da edição e aos donos de todos os recursos utilizados como textures e png's.

Innocent Misunderstanding (Iwaizumi x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Last night, it was all fun and games until Iwaizumi accidentally pushed you too far. To be fair, you did underestimate his strength, so it wasn’t completely his fault. That didn’t prevent you from limping to school, though.

A/N: Same old, same old. Got an idea and wrote it in the a.m. It was just a little idea, so it’s really short. I do hope y’all like it tho!

Word count: 619

        “Woah, YN, you’re walking funny! You two must have had a wild time last night.” 

       “Shut it, Shittykawa.” You flip off the man while your boyfriend tightens his supporting arm around your waist and gives his teammate a withering glare. The dull aching in your legs is still painful enough for you to grip your boyfriend’s shoulder a little harder than necessary. 

       “You’re so mean, Iwa!” The captain’s mocking whine echoes down the hall while he walks away, and girls slowly flock to his side with every step. After his back disappears in the distance, Iwaizumi grunts at your deathly grip. 

       “Jesus, YN, unclench a little, will you?” He desperately tries to wiggle away from your claws and you dig them in harder just to spite him. 

       “Stop moving, it still hurts you know.” His face grows guilty at your grumble but he remains silent, guiding you slowly to your desk. Small twinges of discomfort arise with every step you take, the pain originating from your pelvis and traveling downward. You weren’t sore, why would you be, it was just the fact that every time your feet touched the ground with even the smallest amount of pressure, your legs would start to tremble and tingle. You sighed in relief when your newborn-giraffe imitation ends with you collapsing elegantly into your chair. 

       “How are you feeling?” Iwaizumi takes his assigned seat next to your own and stares at you with worry. 

       “Like there’s a pain in my ass now.” You weren’t lying; the ache had now transferred into your tailbone. Shit, why did he have to push me so hard? I knew we should have stopped before it got really rough. His hand drops on your thigh and comfortingly massages the skin there. Meanwhile, his olive green eyes are filled with unease, and you decide to put the blame game on pause for a second. “I’m okay,” you avoid his gaze as a blush grows on your face, “it doesn’t hurt as much this morning.”

       “Good.” His pearly whites flash at you while he gives you a rare Iwa-grin. It was beautiful and blinding, and so endangered that you only caught one once every two weeks. That’s exactly why it flustered you enough to restart the game. 

       “I told you we shouldn’t have jumped on the bed last night, though.” Leaning back in your chair, you busy yourself with picking at your fingernails disinterestedly while Mount Iwaizumi slowly prepares to erupt. 

       “You’re the one who started the pillow fight!” The volleyball player frustratedly whisper-shouts at you. The rough hand on your thigh squeezes irritably and you slap your own on top of it, pressing it down to prevent any more movements.

       “Well you’re the one who pushed me off the mattress!” The repartee ends when your boyfriend clenches his jaw and seethes silently, receiving dirty looks from you and returning them with ease.

       The squeaks of someone’s tennis shoes entering the classroom are ignored in favor of you both opening your mouths once more, armed with new retorts. 

       “So, long night huh?” A smug voice sounds behind you, and the already high tensions burst through the roof. Thankfully, both sides of the war finally agree on a single reaction.

       “Shut up, Oikawa!”

Thinking of Iwaizumi coming home after a day of training and fucking you to sleep with his big cock <3

Bros and Hoes~ Get ready for the riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide<3~

Hello Everyone!🏐💙

We're very pleased to inform you that we're considering bringing you IwaOi Week 2025!

The event will be held as two weeks:

1. SFW Week (June 7 - June 13)

2. NSFW Week (July 14 - July 20)

We're super excited to see your views regarding the event! Do fill the google form we've linked below if you're interested!

IwaOi Week 2025 Interest Check - Google Form

Thank you. Stay tuned!🏐💙

Inspos

Well just decided to share the inspos for the cats. Check em out!!

Oke time for the answers!!! The 1st pic is our dear IWA-CHAN<3~ (Someone might just kill me for using that name... scratch that 2 ppl might kill-)(* ￣︿￣) The 2nd pic is of everyone's fav girly Oinkawa- I meant OIKAWA ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆ The 3rd pic is of...... drumroll plz...... of MY DEAR SUGA-CHAN<3~~╰(*°▽°*)╯ If ya liked these, yall might just gimme character recommendations or prompts for other characters, not necessarily just from haikyuu!! ^3^ If yer interested in the inspos: It's here!!

Haikyuu But as Cats :3

Lo behold our dear Haikyuu babies as cats!! Yall Have to now guess which one is which character!! Put it down in the comments<3~ BTW I created these using this :>

Iwaizumi, Rivals, part 3, nsfw..? Please 🥹 only if you have time ofc.. but like.. please don’t leave me hanging.. the cliffhanger… please..

You ofc, don’t need to do it. It’s totally up to you. Also please remember to drink water & eat full meals!

Just posted (read here) after eating a full meal and drinking all my water :D I hope you enjoy the spice eheheh thank you for the ask lovely <333

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Pt. 3 (NSFW)

The overhead lights in your office buzzed faintly, casting a sterile sheen across your desk, your tea, your meticulously arranged files. Every folder sat aligned at a perfect angle, every spreadsheet tabbed and color-coded to hell and back. You had done it all this morning, trying to distract yourself—trying to settle your mind with clean lines and predictable logic. The problem was, your hands weren’t moving. Your cursor blinked on the empty field of the player report form, waiting for an input that wasn’t coming.

You were still in last night’s gym.

You could feel it—his hand at your waist, his breath ghosting along your neck, the focused burn in his eyes like he’d been trying so hard not to look and failing anyway. That single brush of his fingertips over your lower back had lingered longer than it should have. You’d felt the press of his palm even after the janitor’s voice startled you both apart.

You clicked your pen hard against the desk, leaving a dent in the paper beneath it. No. You are not spiraling over Iwaizumi Hajime’s fucking triceps. This wasn’t high school. You didn’t have a crush. You had standards—and a job to do.

So why the hell couldn’t you stop replaying how his eyes had dropped—not to your clipboard, not to your notes—but to your mouth, right before the door opened?

Another sharp click. Another unfinished line of text. The memory flushed through your chest like static, and you were just about to stand and walk it off when a knock sounded on your door.

It was brisk. Familiar. Firm.

You barely managed to school your features into something neutral before the door cracked open—and there he was.

Iwaizumi Hajime, looming like a storm cloud, his Olympic-branded laptop tucked under one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins tracing his forearms like tension maps, his jaw tight, unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside your office with the restrained efficiency of a man too used to high-stakes situations.

“I’ve updated the training program,” he said, voice rough and clipped, as if last night hadn’t happened. “Based on what you showed me yesterday.”

He moved toward your desk, tilted the screen toward you. The moment the spreadsheet opened, your eyes skimmed the rows—and your stomach tightened.

Komori’s lateral sequences had been scaled down. Hyakuzawa’s overhead load was decreased. Flexibility modules were individualized. The wording was precise. The ratios were accurate.

You couldn’t believe it.

“It looks… solid,” you said, cautiously. “You actually listened.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth quirked. “I always listen.”

“You just don’t usually believe me,” you muttered, fingers tapping the edge of the keyboard.

He shrugged. “I believe you when you’re right.”

You were about to fire back when the door slammed open.

“Whoa—no yelling?” Bokuto’s voice rang out with playful disbelief as he peeked in, already grinning.

Behind him, Yaku gave a nod like he’d seen this coming from a mile away. “Told you they’d mellow out eventually.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “What the hell are you two doing?”

“Seeing if the explosion already happened,” Bokuto chirped, eyes darting between you and Iwaizumi. “But this? You’re practically cozy. Suspicious.”

“Get out,” Iwaizumi growled, his voice all grit and warning.

“Wait, are you two—” Bokuto began.

“Absolutely not,” you cut in, sharp enough to decapitate.

Yaku raised a brow. “You’re denying it a little too fast, Doc.”

Iwaizumi’s glare could have melted iron. “Say one more thing and you’re benched for the week.”

“Okay, okay!” Bokuto backed up, laughing. “Damn. Just saying—it’s new energy.”

You stood, jaw clenched. “Out. Now.”

The two Olympic players exchanged a final glance before Bokuto tossed over his shoulder, “If it does happen, call me for the wedding.”

As the door shut behind them, you exhaled sharply. “They are insufferable.”

Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Because we let them be.”

He turned toward the door, laptop still under his arm. Before leaving, he hesitated—just for a beat—and looked at you over his shoulder.

“Seriously. You were right. Yesterday.”

The words landed heavy. Too heavy.

“…Thanks.”

He nodded once, then walked out. Door closing on his way out.

And you didn’t move for a long time.

Not until your pulse calmed and the sound of his voice stopped buzzing in your ears.

--

You’d barely made it back to your office from your lunch break and shut the door behind you before there was another knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That rhythm was far too obnoxious to belong to anyone else.

“Doc!” Atsumu Miya strolled in like he owned the place, grinning with all the charm of a cat who’d just knocked something off a counter. “Got a second? My shoulder’s actin’ up again—figured you’d be thrilled to poke around in it.”

You rolled your eyes, but gestured toward the exam bench anyway. “Sit. Shirt off. Keep the commentary to a minimum.”

“That’s no fun,” he mumbled, but obeyed, peeling his shirt off with the practiced flair of someone who knew exactly what his arms looked like in fluorescent lighting.

You slipped on your gloves, moving around him with practiced ease. “Still some impingement from the inflammation?”

“Mmhm,” he replied, rotating his arm slightly. “Worse after I sleep on it wrong.”

You pressed gently along the front of the shoulder, assessing the rotation with subtle shifts. He winced once, which you noted.

Then, predictably, the smirk returned.

“Ya and Iwaizumi-san looked cozy earlier,” he said casually, not even trying to be slick. “Should I be worried?”

You froze for half a second, just enough for him to catch it.

“Worried he might kill me?” you deadpanned, fingers still pressed to his deltoid. “Absolutely.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh, but his eyes narrowed, too observant for your liking.

“I was thinkin’ the opposite,” he mused. “Didn’t look like hate to me.”

Your brows twitched.

You narrowed your eyes. “Did the rest of the team put you up to this?”

Atsumu’s smirk deepened. “What? Can’t a guy notice things on his own?”

You scoffed and reached for his shoulder again. “I’m going to press deeper into the joint now.”

Atsumu, still grinning, relaxed his shoulder—and immediately yelped when your fingers dug just slightly harder into the inflamed tissue.

“Still tender, I see?” you asked innocently, lifting a brow.

“Ow—damn, Doc!” he hissed, rubbing the area as you pulled back. “That was a low blow.”

You offered a thin smile. “Consider it a reminder to keep your theories to yourself.”

He winced, stretching his shoulder slowly. “You wound me. Here I am, bringin’ you a little entertainment in your dull clinic, and you repay me with violence.”

“I repay you with diagnostics,” you replied coolly, stepping around to the back of his shoulder. “And unsolicited opinions get the treatment they deserve.”

“Don’t know why you’re actin’ like this is such a scandal,” he muttered. “Half the gym’s been waitin’ for you two to snap and jump each other.”

Your glove-clad fingers stilled mid-rotation.

Atsumu grinned like a shark. “C’mon, you mean to tell me ya don’t see it? All that arguing—feels like foreplay.”

"It is not in your best interest to continue that train of thought."

You moved to the back of his shoulder and rotated the joint again, this time met with less resistance.

But your heart was suddenly in your throat.

Atsumu didn’t push further—blessedly—but his silence was far louder than any teasing remark. He watched you finish the check-up with a strange sort of calm, the air between you humming with something unsaid.

“You’re good,” you said finally, peeling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Still keep the compression sleeve on when you’re not on court. I’ll send you some updated stretches.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He hopped off the bench, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. But just before he stepped out, he paused at the door.

“Y’know,” he said, almost too casually, “it’s kinda wild. Iwaizumi’s been here for years, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”

The door shut behind him before you could ask what the hell that meant.

And you hated—hated—the way your face warmed.

--

The lights in the hallways were dim, the soft hum of the facility settling into its nightly lull. Most of the staff had already cleared out—offices darkened, doors locked, the echo of your footsteps the only thing keeping the silence company. You rolled your shoulder, spine aching after another long day of meetings, treatment notes, and dodging the smug glances Atsumu kept throwing you every time he passed your office.

You were halfway to the exit, bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand, when something made you stop. A dull, rhythmic sound. The muted clang of weights meeting padded flooring.

Your eyes cut to the side.

The training gym was lit only by a single overhead bulb in the far corner, flickering slightly above the racks. Inside, shirtless, sweat-slicked, and visibly focused, stood Hajime Iwaizumi. Alone.

You didn’t mean to stop. But your feet planted themselves anyway.

He was mid-lift—some kind of upright barbell press—and the curve of his back shifted with every rep, sweat rolling down between the muscles that flexed and released with practiced rhythm. His sweatpants clung to the powerful line of his hips, and a notebook sat open beside him on the bench, filled with scrawled corrections and diagrams. He wasn’t just working out. He was testing.

Your breath snagged, and before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to gently push the door open.

Iwaizumi looked up.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Just kept lifting, jaw tight, eyes catching yours.

"You just gonna stand there," he said, voice gravelled with fatigue and something warmer, "or you planning to come in?"

Your heart gave an inconvenient lurch.

You stepped in. Slowly. The door clicked shut behind you, the echo bouncing off the gym walls like a warning shot.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," you said, keeping your voice neutral.

He lowered the weights, rolling his shoulders back with a grunt. "Didn’t finish the work. That thing you won’t stop nagging me about."

Your lips twitched. "Right. That thing."

A beat of silence. Thick and heavy.

You moved closer, eyeing the open notebook.

"You’ve changed a lot," you said, voice quieter.

He arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

You pointed at the program updates. "The circuits. You adjusted the progression intervals. And you finally stopped overloading the endurance drills."

A shrug. "You were right."

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to hear it from his mouth.

"Don’t get smug," he muttered.

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

The corner of his mouth quirked, and for a moment, the silence between you was less heavy. Just taut. Like a pulled wire.

You pointed to the bar. "May I?"

His brow raised, but he stepped aside. You brushed past him—just barely—but the heat that rolled off his skin followed you like static. You wrapped your fingers around the bar, adjusted your stance.

"Like last night," you murmured, reaching back with your hand, brushing your palm across the taut muscle of his abdomen. "You’re still tensing too soon. Posterior tilt’s off."

He let out a rough exhale. "You always this picky?"

"You always this stubborn?"

He caught your wrist. Not hard—just firm enough that your eyes snapped to his.

"You know what you’re doing."

Your pulse jumped. "Do I?"

His mouth crashed into yours before you could answer.

Everything went hot and messy.

His lips were rough, desperate, teeth scraping your lower lip like it was a grudge he meant to settle. You gasped into his mouth as his hands found your waist, calloused fingers digging into the soft give of your skin like he could anchor himself there. The gym’s cold air was a distant thing, barely felt beneath the furnace of your bodies colliding, friction turning tension into fire.

You didn’t remember moving, only the wild clutch of your limbs and his, the stumble of your shoes across the floor. One step. Two. Then you were walking him backward toward the center mat, his chest rising beneath your touch. He was tugging your shirt up, shoving it over your head with a grunt of impatience, and it hit the ground somewhere behind you. You didn’t care. You needed more—needed his skin under your palms, needed to feel him, solid and hot and here.

"You’re such a pain in my ass," you growled, teeth flashing as you wrestled with the waistband of his sweats.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his hand already sliding past the waistband of your leggings, fingers curling possessively around your ass. "Then why do you keep showing up?"

You shoved him. Hard.

He hit the mat with a thud, breath whooshing out of him—and still he grinned like the bastard he was, even as he yanked you down on top of him.

Your thighs spread across his hips as you straddled him, your palms braced on his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath each ragged breath. You kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. Your tongue slid against his, your hips beginning to roll, teasing friction where your bodies met. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and hot and barely contained.

"Take them off," you muttered.

He obeyed. Sweats shoved down, boxers next, and his cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and ready. You stared for a beat too long.

"What?" he panted, eyes dark and glassy.

"Nothing," you lied. "Just shut up."

Clothes hit the floor in a trail of skin and fabric. Your leggings. Your panties. His shirt. Everything discarded in your frantic need.

He sat up just enough to run his hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts, then down to your thighs as you shifted above him. You held his gaze as you reached between you, guiding him to your entrance. Your breath caught at the first stretch—then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

You both froze.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body adjusting to the thickness of him. The sensation was overwhelming—stretching you open, the slow drag of every inch sending a shiver down your spine. It had been too long since something felt this good. Since someone felt this good.

He groaned, hands trembling against your waist, gripping you like he might come undone.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You—"

"Don’t talk," you snapped, breathless.

You rocked forward, and he moaned. A sound from deep in his throat, guttural and raw. You did it again—slow, dragging circles with your hips, feeling every ridge, every inch, the way he filled you so completely you could barely breathe. The pleasure curled through you hot and tight, blooming in your belly, liquid heat spreading with every thrust.

His mouth found your neck, tongue tracing the line of your throat before he bit, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper.

"You drive me insane," he muttered against your skin, and this time, you didn’t argue.

You set a rhythm, your hands on his chest, his hands on your ass, guiding you down harder, deeper, every motion building heat in your belly. Sweat slicked your skin, your thighs trembled, and every thrust sent sparks up your spine. The tension climbed higher, unbearable, addictive.

He met you thrust for thrust, rising to meet you, hips snapping up as you dropped down, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gym walls. You felt yourself unraveling around him, muscles tightening, your body shaking.

"You like this, don’t you?" he growled, voice low and fucked out. "Being in charge. Getting your way."

"Shut up, Hajime."

He grinned—and flipped you.

You hit the mat with a gasp, his body heavy and hot above you. He braced one arm beside your head, the other slipping under your thigh as he pulled your leg higher around his waist.

"Not gonna let you win everything, Doc."

Then he was pounding into you, unrelenting, deep and fast, and your fingers clawed into his back, desperate to hold onto something as pleasure overtook you. Each thrust filled you to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him, slick and tight and aching.

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut, hips canting up to meet his every thrust.

"There," you gasped. "Right there—"

He didn’t stop. Not until your back arched, legs locking around his waist, and you came with a broken moan, pleasure snapping through you like lightning. You pulsed around him, body locking up as ecstasy tore through you.

He followed seconds later, groaning into your neck, his body trembling with release.

For a long moment, all you heard was breath. Harsh. Labored. Yours and his.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his hand tangled in your hair.

You stared at the ceiling.

Oh, fuck.

What now?

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Part 2

The office door clicked shut behind you, tension coiled tight in your shoulders like a spring ready to snap. The argument with Iwaizumi had dragged on longer than either of you expected, every word exchanged like a verbal spar, blades dulled by professionalism but no less sharp.

Coach Fuki Hibarida sat behind his desk like a man who’d already fielded more than his share of chaos before lunch. His fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze sharp as it flicked between you and Iwaizumi. The air in the office was thick enough to choke on.

“I appreciate both of your passion,” he said finally, voice flat and uncompromising. “But if you keep at it like this, the only thing we’re going to accomplish is splitting the damn team in two.”

You leaned forward in your chair, back ramrod straight, the fire in your voice only barely tempered. “With all due respect, Coach, I’m not trying to split anything. I’m trying to protect these athletes from outdated training philosophies that completely disregard their medical history.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw flexed, arms crossed so tight across his chest it looked like he was trying to restrain himself from lunging across the room. “And I’m trying to prevent injuries before they happen. Without a baseline of strength, flexibility means jack shit.”

“Tell that to Sakusa’s ACL.”

He scoffed, sitting forward just enough that your knees almost touched. “You think I don’t know their files? I’ve worked with these guys longer than you’ve even been part of this team.”

“And yet your ‘expertise’ almost put Yaku back in a brace.”

“Enough!” Hibarida barked, and the room dropped into silence.

His eyes moved from Iwaizumi to you and back again. “You’re both right.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and begrudging.

“I’m signing off on your proposed changes,” he continued, nodding toward you. “Flexibility and personalized conditioning will take precedence moving forward. But Iwaizumi—your job is to ensure the training stays rigorous and strategic. Adjust programs for injury history. No exceptions.”

There was a long pause.

Iwaizumi’s voice, when it came, was stiff as granite. “Understood.”

Hibarida’s chair creaked as he stood, clearly eager to be done with the two of you. “I want the updated plan submitted by Friday. Together.”

You stood without looking at Iwaizumi. But as you passed him, shoulder nearly brushing his, you said under your breath, “Try not to screw this one up.”

His grunt of irritation followed you out the door.

--

Iwaizumi stood at the front of the gym, clipboard clutched tightly in his calloused hands, the glossy finish damp where his fingers curled. The fluorescent lights hummed above the Olympic training gym, casting cold, clinical shadows over the rows of elite athletes stretching and rotating through warm-ups. Despite the early hour, the place buzzed with restless energy.

But Iwaizumi wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His eyes tracked every movement with practiced detachment, but his thoughts were far from the court. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his eyes, and the usual rhythm of morning practice only aggravated it. The pressure building in his temples had nothing to do with lack of sleep—and everything to do with you.

He was still pissed.

“We’re holding off on the strength circuits until the new plan is finalized,” he said, voice clipped, tone leaving no room for discussion.

Heads turned.

Atsumu blinked up from the mat where he’d been balancing his ankle on his opposite knee. “Wait, what? We’re not lifting today?”

Bokuto, halfway through a forward lunge, perked up instantly. “What happened to ‘no excuses’? Did we slip into an alternate universe or something?”

Even Sakusa raised a brow. “Did she win the argument?”

Yaku’s smirk was slow, subtle. “Feels like she won.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched so tightly it made the muscle near his ear twitch. “I said they’re on hold,” he growled, tone sharpening. “New guidelines. End of discussion.”

“Wow,” Suna muttered, droll as ever. “He’s actually mad.”

“I will make you run drills until your legs fall off,” Iwaizumi snapped, voice a low bark. “Stretch. Now.”

That shut them up.

A beat of tense silence passed before the team shifted into their warm-ups. The sounds of light chatter and sneakers resumed, but the atmosphere was noticeably stiffer. The undercurrent of curiosity and amusement didn’t go unnoticed by Iwaizumi, but he shoved it down beneath years of discipline.

The rest of the session moved efficiently. Too efficiently. Every minute felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

By noon, the players filtered out of the gym in loose, staggered groups, sweat-darkened shirts clinging to lean muscle and jerseys half-hanging from relaxed shoulders. The air in the locker hallway was humid with effort, and banter floated lazily through the corridor.

Bokuto swung a towel behind his neck like a cape, laughing at something Suna had deadpanned. Sakusa lingered by the door for a beat, casting Iwaizumi a thoughtful glance before slipping out.

“Wonder if she’ll sign my cast when he snaps,” Aran muttered, nudging Hinata, who bit back a laugh.

Iwaizumi said nothing.

He turned on his heel, movements stiff, and marched toward the small office tucked off the side of the gym.

The door shut with more force than necessary.

He dropped the clipboard onto the desk. Papers slipped free, fluttering to the surface like discontent made manifest. The training revisions glared up at him.

And all he could see was your face.

The way you’d challenged him in Hibarida’s office—calm but cutting, your words sharpened like scalpels. The way the coach had leaned in your favor, as if your voice carried a gravity his didn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t accept change—he wasn’t stupid. He knew you were right about the numbers. About the science. About the goddamn knees.

But it burned anyway.

It was personal. He couldn’t separate the two. Not when you looked at him like that, like every disagreement was some gleeful test of willpower. Like you were waiting for him to crack so you could claim the final point.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, sighing harshly. His shoulders were still tight from holding his voice steady all morning.

He sat down with a grunt, chair creaking beneath him as he opened his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised but reluctant.

He didn’t want to change the entire system. Didn’t want to concede. But the damn truth was already there, glaring back at him from between the numbers and patient logs.

So he typed. Adjusted. Modified.

And when he hit send, the sting of it settled low in his stomach.

The phone lit up before he even closed the tab.

You.

Of course.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, teeth grinding as your name lit up the caller ID.

Twice it rang. He let it.

On the third, he answered—no greeting, no softness. Just barked, “What now?”

“This revision is still garbage,” came your voice, flat and scathing. “Komori’s and Hyakuzawa’s circuits are identical. One has chronic shoulder fatigue, the other doesn’t.”

“The adjustments are proportional,” he snapped back, voice low and sharp. “That’s how progressive loading works.”

“Progressive loading my ass. You copy-pasted three damn circuits and called it a day. You didn’t even touch their mobility metrics.”

“I factored in what matters.”

You laughed. Cold. “What matters is that Hyakuzawa won’t last another month if you keep pretending his joints aren’t glass.”

His hand slammed against the desk before he could stop himself, palm stinging. “You’re not his goddamn physical therapist.”

“No,” you snapped. “I’m the idiot burning her day off trying to keep him out of a hospital.”

He froze for half a beat.

Your words landed hard, scraping under his skin.

And god, you weren’t done.

“I’m not playing translator for whatever bullshit this is. If you want my sign-off, you’re getting it the right way. You clearly don’t understand the changes, so I’m coming in to explain them. In person. Like a teacher walking through homework with a slow student.”

He tilted his head back, jaw ticking, breath exhaling like steam. He glared at the ceiling tiles like they’d give him strength.

“Fine,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes.”

“Good,” you hissed. “Try not to screw anything else up in the meantime.”

The line went dead.

Iwaizumi stared at the phone for another second, his thumb hovering above the darkened screen.

The silence afterward rang louder than your voice.

And under his breastbone, the pulse of it—his rage, his pride, the heat of your words—all of it throbbed, slow and persistent.

Like something ready to burn.

--

You stormed into Iwaizumi’s office like a gust of controlled fury, not bothering to knock.

He barely had time to glance up before your voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

“It’s my day off, Iwaizumi. You know that, right?”

His brows lifted, clearly caught off guard—not just by your tone, but by your clothes. Joggers clung snugly to your hips, your tank top fitted and dipped in a way your usual business-casual never did. A jacket hung loose around your shoulders, unzipped, and your hair was tied up messily, strands falling out in a way that was entirely unfair.

Still, he bristled at your tone. “You didn’t have to come in.”

“Then maybe don’t make me rewrite your entire plan for you,” you snapped. “I told you Hyakuzawa’s shoulder range isn’t compatible with Komori’s. And you still sent it over like I wouldn’t notice.”

“I adjusted for mass and range—”

“You adjusted by copy-pasting,” you cut in. “Do you even read the assessments I send you?”

His jaw flexed. “I read everything. And I know how to train a team.”

“And I know how to prevent torn rotator cuffs.”

A sharp silence settled between you. You stood with your hands on your hips, breathing hard, Iwaizumi staring at you from behind his desk, every muscle in his arms coiled with tension.

He should’ve barked at you to leave. Should’ve snapped something back just as biting.

Instead, he stood.

“I’m not arguing with you in here,” he said, voice tight. “Let’s go.”

“To the gym?” you asked.

He nodded once, already stepping past you. “You said you’d show me. So show me.”

--

The weight room was empty save for the two of you. Echoes of distant foot traffic from the other side of the facility drifted in and out through the thick walls. Overhead, a single bank of lights buzzed faintly.

“Start with the squats,” you said, tossing a pair of 40-pound dumbbells his way.

He caught them with ease. “Loaded squats? Really?”

You folded your arms. “Humor me, Captain.”

He rolled his eyes but turned to face the mirror, feet shoulder-width apart, and dropped into his first rep. His form was solid—predictably—but your eyes tracked the subtle tremors in his posture, the way his shoulders bore tension even during a movement that should be driven by legs and core.

“Pause,” you ordered.

He straightened slowly, setting the weights down.

“You’re bracing too much in your upper back,” you said. “You’re engaging traps when you should be isolating quads and glutes. Komori compensates the same way, which is exactly the problem.”

You moved behind him, slid your hand down between his shoulder blades, pressing lightly.

“Here,” you murmured. “You feel how stiff this is?”

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

“Try it again, but keep this area loose. Let the legs drive.”

He picked up the weights again and dropped down, this time more controlled.

You circled him once, sharp eyes on every joint.

“That’s better,” you said. “Still not perfect.”

He huffed through his nose. “Then what is?”

Your lips twitched, eyes gleaming. “I’ll show you.”

You stepped forward, picked up a lighter set of weights, and took your stance in the mirror. Your movements were deliberate, slow, each line precise. You dipped into a squat, spine long, and spoke as you moved.

“This is full isolation. Core tight. Knees over toes. Glutes firing.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

“Here—” You set the weights down and grabbed his wrist, tugging him forward. “Put your hand here.”

You placed his palm on your thigh, just above your knee.

“That’s the difference between alignment and load. You feel that tension? That’s what Hyakuzawa can’t hold for more than five reps. So when you give him a template that pushes twelve, you’re training him into injury.”

His fingers twitched where they rested against your leg.

You didn’t look up. Neither did he.

But the silence was loud.

You finally moved, stepping back, letting the contact fall away. His hand lingered for half a second before he pulled it back and flexed his fingers into a fist.

“Alright,” you said, exhaling. “Shoulders next.”

He didn’t speak, just nodded tightly and picked up a new set of dumbbells.

“This one’s more relevant for Komori. Upright rows. Don’t use momentum—go slow.”

He stood tall, lifting the weights to chest height with steady control.

You stepped in again, brushing your fingertips along his forearms as he moved.

“Good... Now hold.”

His muscles tensed, veins stark beneath tan skin, the curve of his biceps flexed just enough to make your breath catch.

You swallowed hard, refocusing.

“Lift from the delts, not the biceps,” you murmured. “They’re stabilizers here.”

Your hand moved to his chest, palm flat over his pec. The contact startled him—just enough for his eyes to flicker up and land right on the exposed line of your cleavage through your tank.

He froze.

And you saw it. That split second of his eyes widening before snapping back up to yours like he hadn’t seen a damn thing.

Your brow rose. “Focus, Iwaizumi.”

He gritted his teeth. “I am focused.”

You pressed a little firmer into his chest. “Then stop compensating here.”

His breath came a little heavier now.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

The tension snapped taut between you. Neither of you moved, the air thick with something sharp, electric.

Then—

“Ah—sorry!”

The door creaked open.

You both jolted, stepping back so fast you almost tripped.

A janitor stood in the doorway, expression blank. “Didn’t realize the room was still in use.”

You cleared your throat. “We were just wrapping up.”

Iwaizumi grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead, still avoiding your eyes.

The janitor nodded and disappeared.

Silence returned.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, trying not to show how fast your heart was racing. “I’ll expect the revised plan tomorrow.”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

He was still staring at the spot where your hand had been.

Rivalry: Iwaizumi

You didn’t knock.

The door slammed open against the wall with a thud, reverberating through the quiet of the gym offices as you stepped in like a storm on legs. Iwaizumi barely looked up from his tablet, but the hard flicker of his eyes said everything.

“You want to tell me what the hell this is?” You threw the clipboard down onto his desk—hard enough that the pens rattled.

He set the tablet down slowly, deliberately, like he was resisting the urge to match your energy. “You’ll have to be more specific. I get a lot of aggressive paperwork these days.”

You narrowed your eyes. “The new conditioning plan. The one that overemphasizes lower-body strength for half the defensive line—including Yaku, who, if you remember, has two prior knee injuries and doesn’t need another one.”

“It’s a generalized strength cycle,” he said, already starting to sound annoyed. “And Yaku’s cleared. His knees aren’t glass.”

You leaned forward, voice clipped. “And he’s cleared with a note that says he needs flexibility emphasis. You’re pushing reps on a recovering joint. That’s not generalized, that’s reckless.”

His jaw ticked. “I’m not pushing anything he can’t handle. He’s an elite athlete, not a porcelain doll.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, pacing a few steps across the room. “Jesus, Hajime, sometimes I think you forget you’re not just coaching weight numbers—you’re managing people. People with injuries, with thresholds. If he gets benched because you want him to hit a personal best on a squat—”

“—Then that’s on me,” Iwaizumi cut in, standing now, matching your gaze, his voice sharp. “Not on you.”

You turned slowly, cold fury in your expression. “You’re damn right it won’t be on me. Because I’m not signing off on that.”

He stepped around the desk. “You don’t get to unilaterally veto a team decision.”

“You don’t get to override medical flags like you’re some goddamn authority on joint physiology.” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “Your job is to keep them strong. Mine is to keep them playing. If they’re hurt, no one wins.”

The tension hung thick between you both, barely bridled, mouths drawn tight like you were both holding back everything you really wanted to say.

“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered under his breath.

“Right back at you.”

You turned sharply, storming to the door. You needed air. You needed to not strangle a nationally-ranked strength coach in the middle of an Olympic facility.

But when you threw the door open, two bodies fell inward with a crash.

Bokuto hit the ground first, limbs flailing like he’d just been knocked out of a tree. Atsumu came next, barely catching himself on the wall, eyes wide as he winced dramatically.

“Ow—shit—”

“Uh… hi?” Bokuto grinned sheepishly from the floor. “We were just… stretching.”

You stared down at them, blinking once. Then twice.

“Stretching,” you repeated flatly.

“In the hallway,” Atsumu added quickly, brushing himself off. “Gotta stay limber, you would know Doc.”

Your glare could’ve turned them to ash.

Behind you, Iwaizumi groaned under his breath.

“I’m going to kill both of you,” you muttered.

“No need!” Bokuto said, already scrambling back. “We were just leaving! Right, ’Tsumu?”

“Yup. Definitely not eavesdropping. Totally respect privacy.”

They both darted off like startled dogs, leaving behind only the faint sound of snickering down the hall.

You didn’t say another word. You just stepped out, slammed the door behind you, and willed your heart to stop pounding through your ribs.

—

The door had barely stopped vibrating when Iwaizumi let out a slow, audible sigh. He turned back to his desk, ran a hand through his hair, and stared blankly at the clipboard you’d left behind like it was personally mocking him.

God, you were impossible.

And you were right.

He wasn’t about to admit that—not to your face, not in front of a pair of eavesdropping idiots, and definitely not when your voice still echoed in his head like a challenge he hadn’t yet figured out how to win.

“Yo, Iwa.”

Iwaizumi turned, slowly, to see Atsumu leaning against the gym wall with all the subtlety of a spotlight. Bokuto was standing beside him, whispering something that earned him a smack on the arm.

“What,” Iwaizumi snapped. Not a question. A warning.

Atsumu raised his hands innocently. “Nothin’. Just, uh… wonderin’ if we’re still runnin’ through defensive drills. Or if you need a minute to, y’know, recover.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Bokuto grinned, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “’Cause that sounded brutal. Like, she murdered you with words.”

Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Do either of you want to do ten extra sets of burpees?”

“Shutting up!” Atsumu said quickly, throwing a thumbs-up before jogging off toward the court.

Bokuto lingered a second longer. “Hey,”

Iwaizumi looked up again.

“She’s not wrong. Yaku’s been wincing during cooldowns.”

Then he jogged off too, leaving Iwaizumi alone with nothing but the echo of your voice and the weight of the truth.

He grunted under his breath, shaking his head as he walked toward the training area, jaw tight. His athletes were waiting. The whistle was in his hand. He’d deal with you later.

But even as he barked out the next drill set, his mind drifted back to the fire in your voice, the way you jabbed a finger into his chest like you weren’t afraid of anything—not even him.

And for some goddamn reason, that wasn’t just infuriating.

It was distracting.

Worse: it was getting harder to ignore.

Pregnancy: Iwaizumi

The second the double doors of the weight room open, it’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe—a world of metal clanks, low grunts, chalk-dusted air, and the constant thud of iron plates hitting the floor. And now, slicing clean through that rhythmic storm of testosterone and hyper-focus, is you: very pregnant, slightly annoyed, and holding the wallet your husband managed to leave behind on the kitchen counter this morning. You didn’t think twice about walking the ten minutes over from your place. It’s not like you hiked a mountain—you waddled across pavement in sneakers. But by the way the entire Olympic volleyball team turns toward you in unison, you might as well be carrying a live grenade instead of a baby.

“WOAHHH—LOOK OUT! Civilian on the floor!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the room, sweaty hair sticking up, arms mid-air like you’d broken the rules of gravity just by showing up.

Atsumu, flat on a bench press with Kageyama spotting him, twists his head far too dramatically toward you and lets out a long, low whistle. “Ain’t no civilian, Bo. That’s Iwaizumi’s wife. And she’s lookin’ like she’s about to drop that baby right here in front of the dumbbells.”

You don’t even get the chance to sigh before you spot him—Hajime, towel around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm, halfway through barking cues at someone doing squats. His head snaps toward you the second he hears Bokuto’s yell, and his entire body goes rigid. The clipboard hits the bench with a clatter. The towel is forgotten. His mouth moves, but there’s no time for words—he’s already weaving through machines and teammates, practically charging toward you like the floor itself might crumble under your feet.

“You walked here? Alone?” he demands as soon as he’s within a few feet, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s checking for bruises.

“I’m not made of paper, Hajime. I walked from the apartment. Not across a battlefield.” You hold the wallet up between two fingers, giving him a pointed look. “You left this on the counter, by the way.”

He takes it, but barely spares it a glance. His attention is completely on you—his wife, his very-pregnant-wife, standing in the middle of the Olympic team’s weight room surrounded by free weights, kettlebells, unstable mats, and volleyball players who think balance training on BOSU balls is a personality trait.

“This place isn’t safe for you,” he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing at a barbell someone just let crash onto the floor nearby. “You shouldn’t be around this equipment. There’s too many ways you could trip, or get knocked, or—hell—slip on a chalk patch.”

You raise your eyebrows and gesture around you. “I am standing still, Hajime. On flat ground. Wearing shoes. Holding a wallet. This is not a life-threatening activity.”

His lips flatten into a tight line. “You’re thirty-eight weeks. You should be sitting, preferably somewhere padded, with a bottle of water and a snack within reach.”

You blink. “Are you reading off a checklist right now?”

He doesn’t answer.

At that moment, Komori jogs up with his usual bounce, sweat still gleaming on his forehead and a towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “Wait—this is your wife? The one we keep hearing about?”

“He doesn’t talk about her,” Kiryu calls from the dumbbell rack, not even bothering to look up. “He says stuff like ‘my wife made soup’ and ‘my wife needs pickles.’ That’s it. That’s all we get.”

You offer a small, amused smile and rest both hands on your stomach. “Hi. Yes. I’m Soup-and-Pickles. Thirty-eight weeks along. Full of baby. And apparently one bad step away from being put in a medically induced nap.”

There’s a chorus of laughter, though it’s mixed with soft whistles of awe as more of the team gravitates toward you. Aran strolls over with a light smile, while Hinata’s practically vibrating behind him.

“You really came all the way here?” Aran asks.

“It’s ten minutes from home,” you reply, shooting a glance up at your husband who still looks like he’s trying to map the safest escape route out of the gym for you. “I’m pregnant, not cursed.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re standing next to iron weights in Converse. That’s a hostile environment.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting the strap on your bag. “They’re high-tops. Extra support.”

Before he can scold you further, Hinata suddenly leans forward with stars in his eyes. “Is the baby kicking?”

“Oh yeah,” you nod, hand moving instinctively to the right side of your belly. “She’s training for nationals, I think. My ribs are her new personal practice net.”

“Can I feel?” Komori blurts out, his expression open and hopeful.

You’re about to say yes, but Hajime moves before you can answer, shifting his stance ever so slightly to put his body between you and Komori with the quiet intensity of a dad who’s already protective before the baby’s even born.

“She’s not a mascot,” he says flatly.

You place your palm on his chest. “Hajime. It’s fine.”

His eyes flicker to yours. He relents with a small sigh, stepping aside like it physically pains him to do so.

Komori gently places his hand on your stomach, and when the baby kicks, his face lights up like someone handed him a puppy. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”

Kageyama peers over curiously. “Does it feel weird?”

“Like an alien living under your skin,” you say cheerfully. “And sometimes the alien cries when you don’t feed it grilled cheese at exactly 3 a.m.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Sakusa mumbles nearby, adjusting a band on his wrist.

“Iwaizumi,” Yaku calls from where he’s doing banded lunges, “you better give that kid rock-solid calves. I don’t care how. It’s your duty.”

“Oh, we’re starting this already?” you laugh. “Pressure before she’s even out of the womb?”

“Oh, we’ve been taking bets,” Suna says, finally looking up from his phone with the laziest smile. “Due date, hair color, position they’ll play.”

“Definitely not libero,” Bokuto adds, puffing his chest. “That baby’s got outside hitter energy.”

“I swear to god,” Iwaizumi mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

You press a soft kiss to his jaw and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, hand resting low and protective on the curve of your stomach. He kisses the top of your head. Quiet. Steady.

You nudge him lightly and lift a brow. “Still mad I walked into the weight room?”

He looks down at you, expression flat. “I am always mad when you walk into a room with flying metal plates and men with the coordination of blindfolded rhinos.”

“I brought you your wallet.”

“And almost gave me a stroke in the process.”

You grin, dig into his pocket, and pull out one of his protein bars. “And I’m stealing your snack.”

“…Unbelievable.”

Confessions: Iwaizumi

The overhead lights buzz faintly, casting a dim yellow glow over empty desks and scattered papers. Practice ended hours ago, but you’re still here—half because you’re sorting through lineup sheets for Coach, and half because Iwaizumi never knows how to leave when Oikawa’s still in the gym pretending he’s immortal.

It’s just the two of you now. Oikawa finally gave up ten minutes ago, muttering something about stretching at home, and the silence that follows his absence is a rare kind of peace. You can hear Iwaizumi breathing again. That quiet, controlled rhythm he always slips back into once he isn’t yelling, chasing, fixing. The gym’s been quiet, too, like it’s exhaling after hours of pounding sneakers and shouting voices.

He’s sitting across from you now, chair turned backward, arms crossed over the backrest. Watching you. Probably not even trying to. He just does that—studies you like you’re part of the game plan, like your existence needs analyzing in case it ever falls out of line.

“You should go home,” you mutter without looking up, thumbing through one of the stat sheets. “You’re gonna pass out before you make it up the hill.”

“I could say the same to you,” he fires back, voice low, tired but still that familiar gravel that’s embedded itself into the fabric of your after-practice routine.

You shoot him a look, but it doesn’t have much heat. “Yeah, but I’m not the one who’s been diving face-first into the court all evening.”

He smirks. Leans his chin onto his forearm and shrugs, like the ache in his shoulder isn’t something he’s been carrying for weeks now. You wonder if he even notices the way he favors it. Probably. He just ignores it.

“You never quit,” you murmur, half to yourself.

“Neither do you.”

You don’t say anything to that. Mostly because it’s true. He sees right through you. Always has.

The silence stretches. It’s comfortable, warm in the way only Iwaizumi can make it feel. There’s no pressure to fill it. No need to perform. He’s always been like that—solid, grounded, the kind of person you could fall into without worrying if they’d catch you. And he would. Every time.

You’re not sure when you started noticing it. The way his hands lingered when he handed you a towel. The way he remembered how you liked your drinks cold, not iced. The way he always checked your clipboard before practice started, just in case you forgot something. He never made a show of it. He just… did. Like breathing.

You look up at him, and he’s already watching you.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs again. “Nothing.”

“Creepy.”

His smirk deepens. “You’re the one talking to yourself.”

“I was talking to you.”

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hate that it’s so easy with him. So natural. Like your heart hasn’t been clenching in your chest for months now, like every little moment with him doesn’t echo louder than it should. It’s loud right now. Deafening.

You look back at the papers. “Seriously, though. You should rest. You’ve got a game this weekend, and if you overdo it now—”

“I know.”

Of course he knows. He always does. That’s part of the problem.

You press your thumb into your temple, eyes scanning over messy handwriting. Your back aches. Your stomach’s been growling since the second set ended. You know you should pack it up and go home, but there’s something sticky in the air tonight. Something that hasn’t settled.

“Here,” Iwaizumi says suddenly, and before you can react, he’s pushing something across the table.

A protein bar. Slightly squished, but still sealed.

Your brow furrows. “You brought this for me?”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “You always forget to eat after practice. Thought I’d try being useful.”

You stare at him. “You’re already useful. Like, medically essential. You’re the only reason Oikawa still has knees.”

He snorts. “I mean to you.”

The air shifts.

It’s subtle. Barely a tremor. But it leaves everything a little quieter, a little sharper.

You don’t answer. Just take the protein bar and turn it over in your hand. You trace the crinkled edges of the wrapper with your thumb like it’s a puzzle.

“Thanks,” you say finally, soft. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. But his eyes are still on you. Warmer now. He looks like he wants to say something else but doesn’t know if he should.

You try to focus on the sheets again, but your fingers don’t move. The pen in your hand feels suddenly pointless.

“You ever get tired of it?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “Doing everything for everyone else?”

He hums, leaning back. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

Another pause. His voice, when it comes, is soft. Almost too soft.

“Because I care.”

You glance up at him.

His eyes don’t waver. “It matters to me. That people are okay. That you’re okay.”

Your breath catches.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but the words knot up in your throat. They don’t come.

And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says it.

“I love you.”

Just like that. No lead-up. No dramatics. Just the truth, falling out of his mouth like it’s been there the whole time. Like he’s been saying it in a hundred other ways already.

You freeze.

He freezes.

It’s only a heartbeat of silence, but it stretches. Stretches until it feels like the air might snap.

He blinks. Swallows hard. “I—shit. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did, but I wasn’t gonna—fuck.”

You just stare at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, the picture of calm unraveling. “Forget I said that.”

“Hajime—”

“No, seriously. I didn’t want to make this weird. I just—shit, I don’t know. You were just… sitting there, and I—”

“Stop talking.”

He does. Immediately.

You reach for him without hesitation—close the space between you, one hand curling into the collar of his sweatshirt as you pull him down and press your lips to his.

It’s soft at first, like you’re testing the waters. But he responds almost instantly, his hands rising to your back, grounding you like always. Like he’s been waiting. Like he’s been holding his breath.

The kiss is short, almost clumsy, but it burns. You can feel every second of restraint he’s practiced up until this point unraveling between you.

When you finally pull away, breath shallow, he’s staring at you like he’s still trying to catch up. Like he’s not sure it really happened.

And then you smile, smug but breathless.

"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice barely grazing the space between you before you're kissing him again—firmer this time, with all the words neither of you said until now pressed into the space where your mouths meet.

He smiles against your lips.

This time, he kisses you back like he means it.

Jealousy: Iwaizumi

Iwaizumi was good at controlling himself.

He had to be—he worked in a gym, surrounded by athletes, lifters, and fitness junkies who all looked like they were carved from stone. He’d seen enough shirtless guys flexing in mirrors to be immune to it.

Or at least, he thought he was immune.

Until today. Until this guy.

Some shredded gym bro with veins popping, abs tight, sweat glistening just right under the gym lights, standing at the bench press and calling for you.

Not him. Not any of the other trainers. You.

“Hey,” the guy said, voice smooth, cocky. “Think you can check my form?”

You—being the professional, non-suspecting menace that you are—nodded immediately. “Sure thing.”

Iwaizumi didn’t react at first. Just kept his eyes on you from across the room, his towel draped over his shoulder, fingers twitching slightly against the water bottle in his hand.

Because he already knew what was coming.

He knew what this guy wanted.

And so did you.

But that didn’t stop you from walking over, from crouching beside the guy, adjusting his grip, your fingers brushing against his forearm, his bicep, your voice sweet and focused.

Iwaizumi exhaled sharply through his nose.

You weren’t even flirting. You were genuinely coaching him. Adjusting his wrist placement, explaining the mechanics of the movement, giving clear, professional advice.

But the guy? He was milking it.

“Oh, like this?” he asked, purposefully getting it wrong again.

You frowned slightly, stepping closer, placing your hands lightly on his arms to guide him. “Not quite. Here, you should feel tension through your chest, not just your shoulders.”

You gave him a quick tap on his tricep, then his pec. “Feel that?”

The guy grinned. “Not really. Maybe I just need a better pump.”

Iwaizumi rolled his neck, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You, ever the dedicated trainer, didn’t immediately clock the bullshit. Instead, you pressed lightly against his bicep, checking the engagement. “It should activate here—”

The guy flexed slightly, purely for show.

And that’s when Iwaizumi had enough.

He made his way over, casual but not really, and stopped beside you, tilting his head slightly.

“Boss is looking for you,” he said, voice low and impossible to argue with. “I’ll take over.”

You blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait, what—”

But he was already guiding you away, firm but careful, not giving you a chance to protest before turning back to the guy.

“Alright, man.” Iwaizumi cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s see that form.”

The guy nodded, picked up the bar—

And immediately, his form was perfect.

Not a single issue.

Iwaizumi just stared. “Huh.”

The guy hesitated, shifting awkwardly. "Uh… well, I just need a spot."

Iwaizumi nodded slowly, expression unreadable. "Oh. Yeah? No problem."

As he stepped into position behind the bench, you decided to check if your boss had actually needed you. You made your way toward the reception desk, leaning over slightly. "Hey, did the boss ask for me?"

The receptionist frowned, shaking their head. "Nope. Haven't seen them call for anyone."

You paused, then huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head to yourself. "It’s alright."

Turning around, you smiled knowingly.

By the time you returned, Iwaizumi was finishing up with the guy. "Yeah, your form is practically perfect now. Looks like that advice really helped."

The dude muttered a quick "Thanks" before grabbing his towel and heading toward the lockers, a little too quickly.

You raised a brow at Iwaizumi. "Boss didn't need me for anything."

He didn’t even flinch. "Huh. Weird."

You stared at him, lips twitching. "Super weird."

His smirk was casual, smug. "Well, he really did improve, didn’t he?"

You hummed, stretching your arms overhead before tilting your head at him, eyes playful. "If only I had someone to improve my form..."

Before you could take another step, his hand was on your waist, firm, warm, pulling you back against him. His other hand slid down, palming your ass with a slow squeeze that made your breath hitch.

He leaned in, voice low and rough. "Just wait until we get home."

Managerial Duties: Aoba Johsai

Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team was many things—talented, competitive, and, above all, nosy. But when it came to you, their manager, they had collectively accepted one simple fact: you lived in oversized, comfortable clothing.

Baggy sweatpants, hoodies, loose athletic shirts—if it wasn’t designed for maximum comfort, you didn’t wear it. Even during official team meetings outside of school, you opted for relaxed attire: a sweatshirt over leggings, sneakers, and maybe a jacket if it was cold. It wasn’t that you disliked fashion, exactly. You just didn’t see the need to dress up for them.

So when you casually mentioned you had to leave practice early for a family event, no one thought much of it.

"Skipping out on us?" Oikawa teased, tossing a volleyball in the air as you packed up your clipboard. "And here I thought we were your favorite people in the world."

"You’re absolutely not," you deadpanned, adjusting the strap on your bag.

"What’s the occasion?" Iwaizumi asked, more genuinely curious.

"Wedding," you muttered. "Family thing. My parents are making me go."

Matsukawa, stretching lazily, smirked. "That why you’re sneaking off?"

"Something like that," you grumbled, crossing your arms. "They’re making me wear this stupid dress. It’s all tight and uncomfortable, and the shoes are even worse. Who the hell decided that formalwear should be painful?"

Hanamaki raised an eyebrow. "What’s it look like?"

You groaned, already dreading the memory of trying it on. "It’s one of those straight-jacket ones that make you feel like you can’t breathe. Apparently, looking ‘put together’ is more important than basic human comfort. I swear, my mom picked this just to torture me."

"Sounds fancy," Watari mused.

"Sounds awful," you corrected. "I’m gonna suffer through this thing and then burn it the second I get home."

"Bet you’ll look nice, though," Kindaichi added hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You gave him a deadpan look. "If you call suffering looking nice, sure. Anyway, I’ll see you guys at the next practice. Don’t destroy the gym while I’m gone."

"No promises!" Hanamaki called as you walked off.

That was the end of it.

Practice was still in full swing when you stepped back into the gym, freshly changed and already regretting every single life choice that had led you to this moment. You had only come back because you’d stupidly left your phone on the bench, a mistake that now seemed far worse than just being phoneless for a few hours. The team was scattered across the court, finishing up drills and cooldowns, their chatter filling the space as they moved around. You had hoped—prayed, even—that you could slip in, grab your phone, and leave unnoticed. But fate, as always, was cruel.

Then you stepped forward.

And the entire gym stopped dead in its tracks.

Oikawa, who had been mid-sentence, visibly choked. His water bottle slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.

"Holy shit," Matsukawa whispered, not even trying to be subtle.

Iwaizumi, caught off guard, blinked hard, as if his brain needed an extra second to process what was happening. Yahaba, who had been chatting with Kunimi, turned so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, mouth opening but no words coming out. Kunimi, usually too lazy to react to anything, actually paused, his usual indifferent stare slightly wider than normal.

Even Kyotani, who rarely paid attention to anything that wasn’t volleyball or fighting, furrowed his brows, looking between you and the rest of the team like he had just walked into some elaborate prank. After a long pause, he finally muttered, "Why do you look like that?"

You shifted uncomfortably, hating every second of this. "My God. Can you guys stop staring?"

"We can’t," Watari blurted, sounding just as shocked as the rest.

Because, for the first time since they had met you, you weren’t wearing your usual baggy, oversized clothing. You weren’t hidden under loose layers of fabric that swallowed your frame. No, today, you had been dressed by your mother, which meant you were in something far more… put together.

The dress was sleek and form-fitting, something you never would have picked for yourself. The fabric hugged your silhouette in a way that felt unfamiliar, and you had spent the entire night feeling like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. To make matters worse, your mother had insisted on makeup—subtle, but noticeable enough to make you feel even less like yourself. The heels were even worse—unsteady, impractical, and making you curse whoever thought fancy shoes should hurt.

"Why—how—what?!" Kindaichi, who had been stretching, nearly tipped over from shock.

"Is that you?" Hanamaki added, pointing unnecessarily.

"No," you deadpanned. "I’m an imposter. The real me is at the wedding, plotting my escape."

"Hah—seriously, though! You clean up nice," Matsukawa mused, looking you up and down with a smirk. "Didn’t know you had it in you."

"No one did," Yahaba muttered, still looking at you like you had just shapeshifted before his eyes. "What the hell."

"I don’t," you grumbled, adjusting the hem of the dress uncomfortably. "My parents picked this out. Not my choice."

"Your parents should pick your outfits more often," Oikawa said before immediately ducking as Iwaizumi chucked a towel at his head.

Kunimi let out a short exhale. "So that’s what was under all those sweatpants. Huh."

Kyotani just grunted, arms crossed. "Tch. Whatever. Doesn’t change anything." But the way he kept glancing at you said otherwise.

"And that’s why I dress the way I do," you huffed.

Sensing your growing discomfort, Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand down his face. "Alright, that’s enough. Stop freaking out."

"I am freaking out," Oikawa retorted. "This is earth-shattering news."

"You’re an idiot," Iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You love me," Oikawa shot back, undeterred.

"I don’t," Iwaizumi deadpanned.

You exhaled, already exhausted. "Okay, I’m leaving now. If anyone makes another comment, I swear I’m quitting this team."

"No, wait!" Oikawa called. "Just one picture—"

You shot him a withering glare that promised pain if he continued that sentence. He wisely shut up.

With that, you turned on your heel and left, still muttering under your breath about hating dresses, hating heels, and how you were never letting your mother pick your outfits again. Behind you, the team was still buzzing, voices overlapping as they tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Matsukawa let out a low whistle. "Damn. We’re never gonna see that again, are we?"

"Nope," Hanamaki sighed. "Should’ve taken that picture."

"So we had a hot manager this whole time?" Yahaba muttered, still looking at where you stood like he was processing a cosmic revelation.

Oikawa, arms crossed, hummed thoughtfully. "Iwa-chan, do you think we could convince her to dress up again?"

Iwaizumi didn’t even hesitate. "No."

Rivalry: Kyotani/Mad Dog (NSFW)

You had always been a hothead. It was something the team had come to accept, even appreciate, over time. Your sharp tongue and refusal to take anyone’s crap made you the perfect manager for Seijoh—especially when it came to keeping the chaos of Oikawa and the others in check.

Until Kyōtani arrived.

They called him Mad Dog for a reason, and from the moment he stepped onto the court, you knew he was going to be a problem. He was raw, aggressive, barely listening to anyone, and his sheer refusal to be controlled made him the biggest wildcard the team had ever seen. Even Oikawa—who had made a sport out of getting under people’s skin—had to take a step back and re-evaluate.

The coach, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi had even pulled you aside before his first official practice, practically begging you to not bite his head off.

“Look,” Iwaizumi had said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… try not to engage with him too much. He’s got a short fuse.”

Oikawa sighed dramatically. “And you have a much shorter one, which makes this whole thing a recipe for disaster.”

You had rolled your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m not going to start anything. But I’m not going to stand by and let him run the show, either.”

And true to your word, you hadn’t gone looking for a fight. But Kyōtani made it impossible not to fight back.

The team tried to adjust to him, letting his rough playing style integrate into their system, but you could see it plain as day—Kyōtani wasn’t playing with them. He was playing through them, like they were just obstacles in his way instead of teammates.

So when he nearly took out Matsukawa during a reckless play, you didn’t hold back.

The tension in the gym shifted the second you opened your mouth.

“Kyōtani, if you’re going to keep playing like a brainless lunatic, at least do it outside of practice where you’re not dragging the rest of us down.”

The words sliced through the gym, sharp and unapologetic.

Silence.

The entire team froze. Even Oikawa, who usually thrived on chaos, hesitated mid-laugh, his expression shifting into something wary. Iwaizumi muttered a curse under his breath, already preparing for the fallout.

Kyōtani’s head snapped up so fast it was almost inhuman, his eyes burning with a fury that could’ve set the entire gym on fire. His entire body stiffened before he was already charging toward you, a force of pure, unrelenting anger.

“The hell did you just say to me?” His voice was gravel, rough and unrestrained, like he was barely holding himself back.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Just folded your arms and stepped toward him, meeting his fire with your own. “I said you’re reckless. A liability. And if you keep playing like an idiot, you’re going to cost us more than just a few points.”

Kyōtani’s jaw locked. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The one who has to clean up after your messes,” you shot back, eyes gleaming with defiance. “You think playing like a rabid dog makes you stronger? It just makes you sloppy.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked dangerously. He took another step forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of his fury radiating off him. His fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles went white. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Oh? Then tell me,” you challenged, tilting your head mockingly. “Are you deliberately making the same dumbass mistakes, or is it just a bad habit?”

A few strangled sounds came from the team behind you. Hanamaki visibly recoiled, while Matsukawa mouthed, Holy shit. Oikawa, however, looked absolutely delighted.

Kyōtani’s breath hitched, nostrils flaring as his rage boiled over. “The hell’s your problem?!?”

You smirked, unbothered. “Right now? You.”

That was it.

Kyōtani lunged—actually lunged—shoulders tensing like he was about to tear through you.

“Oi! Enough!” Oikawa’s voice cut through the thick tension as he shoved himself between you, hands raised in an attempt to de-escalate. “Let’s not murder our manager, yeah? Not exactly great for team morale.”

Neither of you budged.

“Back off, Oikawa,” Kyōtani growled, eyes still locked onto yours like a predator locked onto prey.

“Yeah, no, I don’t think I will,” Oikawa shot back, still grinning but with thinly veiled nerves. “How about we all take a deep breath and—”

“Kyōtani,” Iwaizumi cut in, voice sharp, stepping in beside Oikawa. His hand slammed into Kyōtani’s chest, holding him back with unquestionable force. “That’s enough.”

Kyōtani was breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling erratically, but he didn’t move. Iwaizumi’s hold was unyielding—and everyone in the gym knew that when Iwaizumi shut something down, it was over.

For now.

Kyōtani’s chest heaved, but after a long, tense beat, he jerked his arm away and stormed toward the other side of the gym, hands clenched at his sides.

Kyōtani didn’t bother with another word. His jaw was locked, his entire frame radiating barely-contained rage as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the gym altogether, the doors slamming behind him with enough force to make the walls tremble. The silence he left in his wake was deafening, the air still crackling with tension even after he was gone.

You watched him go, arms still folded, expression neutral. But inside?

You were already looking forward to the next round.

And you could tell—so was he.

By the time the rest of the team had filtered out of the gym, you were still lingering, scribbling down notes on the practice report. The tension from earlier was still humming beneath your skin, but at least Kyōtani was gone, having stormed out long before practice had officially ended.

Just as you were about to finish up, Iwaizumi’s shadow loomed over you.

"What the hell was that?" His voice was low, firm, and pissed—the kind of tone that immediately told you there was no wriggling out of this one.

You let out a light scoff. "What? He started—"

"No. Stop." His voice was sharp enough to cut through any excuse you were about to give. "You can't keep having explosive arguments like this. This isn't some damn street fight. You're the manager. You're supposed to be keeping things together—not provoking him into ripping the gym apart."

Your mouth snapped shut, irritation prickling under your skin. "I wasn’t provoking him, I was holding him accountable. Someone has to."

Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through gritted teeth. "Someone will. And that someone is not you."

Oikawa whistled low from a few feet away. "Yikes. Parent mode activated."

Iwaizumi shot him a glare so lethal that even Oikawa had the good sense to shut up.

"Here's what's going to happen," Iwaizumi continued, his gaze back on you. "You're going to apologize."

Your head snapped up. "Absolutely not—"

"You will apologize," he emphasized, his tone brooking no argument, "because he's been instructed to do the same. And for the next week, you’re both staying late every night to clean up the gym together. Since you apparently need time to warm up to each other.""

You gaped at him. "Iwaizumi, if we're left alone together, we will kill each other."

His lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. "Either or—it’s a win-win."

Oikawa lingered for a moment, tilting his head at you with an all-too-pleased smirk. "You know, this is probably the funniest thing that’s happened all week. You having to play nice with Mad Dog? I might just have to stick around and watch."

You shot him a glare, but before you could fire back, Iwaizumi grabbed him by the collar, dragging him toward the exit. "No, you won’t."

Oikawa laughed, waving over his shoulder. "Good luck! Try not to get mauled!"

And with that, Iwaizumi yanked him out of the gym, leaving you standing there, seething. __

The morning air was crisp, and players filtered into the gym one by one, stretching and murmuring in hushed conversations about the previous day’s events. In the back of the building, hidden away from curious eyes, you and Kyōtani stood rigid, staring each other down like caged animals, with Iwaizumi standing between you both, arms crossed and absolutely fuming.

“Now,” Iwaizumi started, his tone flat and deadly, “apologize. Both of you.”

You scoffed, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “I have nothing to apologize for—”

“Neither do I,” Kyōtani snapped immediately, jaw locked tight.

Iwaizumi’s glare was sharp enough to cut steel. “That wasn’t a request.”

The weight of his voice left no room for argument, but that didn’t stop you from trying. “Fine,” you muttered begrudgingly, narrowing your eyes. “Sorry for calling you a brainless lunatic. No matter how accurate that name is.”

Kyōtani gritted his teeth so hard you could hear it before muttering, "And I'm sorry for calling you a raging bitch behind your back."

A tense silence stretched between you both, the mutual death glare unwavering. Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow, controlled exhale. "Not great, but whatever. I’m done babysitting you both. Just remember—you’re staying late tonight. Every night. Until you actually learn how to work together."

Your lips curled in frustration, and beside you, Kyōtani’s nostrils flared in irritation. But there was no use arguing with Iwaizumi when he was like this. You both knew it.

Instead, you stomped off toward morning practice, shoulders tense, eyes locked in a wordless standoff with Kyōtani. His glare was like a challenge, sharp and unyielding, but you refused to be the first to break. If anything, you held his gaze harder, your jaw clenching as if sheer force of will could make him combust.

It was infuriating how he just stood there, equally stubborn, like he could go on all day. The tension between you two felt suffocating, thick like the summer heat just before a storm. Every second that passed only made it worse, only made you more determined not to give him the satisfaction of winning something as stupid as this.

The moment you stepped into the gym, you grabbed the clipboard harder than necessary, scowling as you checked off drills. Every muscle in your body was wound tight, and no matter how much you tried to focus, you could still feel him. Every movement Kyōtani made was too loud, every breath too noticeable, like he was doing it on purpose just to annoy you.

When he slammed a ball into the floor a little harder than necessary, you snapped.

"Could you not act like you're trying to break the court? We actually need it to play."

Kyōtani whipped his head toward you, scowl deepening. "Maybe if you stopped staring at me, it wouldn’t bother you so much."

Your fingers twitched. "Oh, please. Your presence is just naturally irritating."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you."

Iwaizumi, watching from the sideline, let out a deep sigh, already regretting his life choices.

Oikawa strolled up beside you, hands casually tucked into his pockets, and leaned in slightly. "Remember to take a deep breath."

You turned to him immediately, eyes still blazing. "You're not helping."

Oikawa straightened, backing away quickly. "Right. Sorry."

The day dragged on, and your irritation refused to fade. Every small thing set you off—Kyōtani’s heavy footsteps, his reckless spikes, even the way he existed just within your space. By evening practice, your patience was nonexistent. Your responses were sharper, your glares colder, and everyone in the gym could feel the storm brewing.

As the team filtered out for the night, Matsukawa cast a sideways glance at Iwaizumi. "Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave them alone together? I’m not confident I won’t wake up and find out there’s been a homicide."

Iwaizumi grunted, arms crossed stubbornly. "They’ll be fine."

Matsukawa didn’t look convinced, but with one last wary glance, he left with the others, leaving just you and Kyōtani standing on opposite sides of the now-empty gym, the tension still thick enough to choke on.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, rolling your shoulders and trying to shake off the irritation that had clung to you all day. "Let’s just get this over with," you muttered, moving toward the storage area. "We’ll split the work. You pick up the stray balls on the court, and I’ll handle the gear." You turned back toward him, narrowing your eyes. "Think you can handle that?"

Kyōtani’s scowl deepened instantly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." You turned on your heel before he could bark back another response, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.

He muttered something under his breath, but you didn’t catch it. Instead, you focused on sorting through the practice gear, trying to ignore the obnoxious way Kyōtani stomped across the gym, each step somehow louder than the last. You could hear him roughly snatching up the scattered volleyballs like they had personally offended him, his movements jerky and aggressive. Then came the sound—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic slam of volleyballs hitting the ground as he hurled them over the net, one after another. It was like a slow, torturous metronome designed specifically to piss you off.

You gritted your teeth, trying to ignore it. Thud. Thud. Each impact echoed through the empty gym, grating on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Thud. Thud.

"Can you not?" you snapped finally, voice tight with irritation.

Kyōtani didn’t even look up. "What?"

"Quit throwing them like that. Just pick them up and put them in the cart like a normal person."

He scoffed, grabbing another ball and slamming it down even harder than before. "Get off my ass. It’s faster this way."

Your fingers curled into a fist, your nails pressing into your palm as you inhaled sharply through your nose. "I swear to god—"

"What? Gonna throw another tantrum? Go ahead, maybe Iwaizumi will pat you on the head and tell you what a good little manager you are," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. Another ball crashed against the floor with an especially sharp, echoing thud, rattling against the empty gym walls.

You stiffened. Thud. Again. Thud. Your eye twitched. Thud.

"Honestly, it’s almost cute how obsessed you are with what I do. Maybe if you focused more on your actual job instead of breathing down my neck, you'd get through this week without crying," he drawled, lazily tossing another ball over the net.

That was it.

Before you could stop yourself, you snatched up one of the stray volleyballs and hurled it straight at his head. It hit dead-on, bouncing off with a sharp thunk that was deeply satisfying.

Kyōtani froze mid-motion, shoulders locking up.

Then, slowly, he turned to face you, expression dark and dangerous. His breath was heavy, nostrils flaring, and for a second, the silence was deafening. Then—

He lunged.

Before you could react, his hands gripped your wrists, shoving you back against the gym wall with enough force to send a sharp jolt up your spine. Your breath hitched, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs, but you barely had time to register it before you were pushing right back.

"What the hell is your problem?!" you snapped, struggling against his hold.

"You," he growled, his voice low and rough, pressing in closer until his breath fanned against your skin. His grip was tight, keeping you in place even as you tried to shove him off.

"Let me go, you psycho," you hissed, jerking your wrists, but he only leaned in harder.

"You throw a ball at my head and expect me to just let it slide?" His voice was a snarl, but there was something else underneath it—something sharp, hungry.

And, of course, you pushed back.

"Yeah, actually," you bit out, lips curling into something close to a smirk. "Considering you deserved it. You’re lucky I don’t throw another."

Something in him snapped.

His hands shifted, and before you knew it, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was a clash of teeth and frustration, of fury and heat, like neither of you could decide if you wanted to keep fighting or tear each other apart.

Your hands shot up to shove him away, but instead, they curled into his jersey, yanking him closer. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a sharp bite that made you gasp, and he took full advantage, pressing in harder, deeper.

His hands dropped to your waist, gripping you tight, like he was staking a claim, and you met him head-on, pulling his hair, dragging your nails down his neck, taking just as much as he was giving.

Everything blurred into heat and rough touches, the way his body pressed against yours, the way your hips shifted instinctively, the way neither of you were thinking—just reacting.

Kyōtani pulled back, panting, his forehead pressing against yours, his grip still firm on your waist. His breath was hot against your skin, his eyes blown wide with something between rage and hunger.

"This is a bad idea," you muttered, voice breathless but defiant.

His fingers tightened on your hips.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Then tell me to stop."

You didn’t.

"You always run your fucking mouth," he growled, voice sharp, jagged. His hands were rough, unforgiving as they gripped your thighs, spreading them apart with purpose. "Let’s see if you can still talk after this."

You huffed a laugh, fingers yanking down his shorts, not bothering to be gentle. "Bet you won’t last long enough to find out."

That was all it took.

Kyōtani didn't waste a second—he slammed inside you in one punishing thrust, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. It was too much, too fast, too deep—but fuck, it was exactly what you wanted.

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs. The second had you arching, dragging your nails down his back, marking him, spurring him on.

"Fucking tight," he gritted out, his buzzed hair scraping against your jaw as he bit at your neck, your shoulder—anywhere he could sink his teeth into. He was holding you like he owned you, like he needed to break you apart just to put you back together.

It was raw, messy, desperate. Each snap of his hips was brutal, slamming you harder into the wall, forcing pleasure and pain to blur together.

It should’ve been a fight for dominance, but neither of you were losing—you were meeting him with everything you had, clawing, grinding, biting.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, yanking hard. He snarled, gripping your hips so tight it would leave bruises, slamming into you harder, deeper.

"That all you got?" you taunted, voice breathless, challenging.

Kyōtani laughed—a dark, wrecked sound. "You really wanna test me, huh?"

His pace turned brutal, every thrust hitting deep, devastating. The sharp drag of his cock against your walls, the angle, the overwhelming pressure— it was too much. Too good.

You felt yourself unraveling, the heat coiling tight, pleasure pooling low in your stomach, ripping through you like fire.

"Fuck, I—"

He could feel it. The way your body tightened around him, trembling, desperate, right on the edge. And he wanted to push you over.

"Come on," he rasped, voice strained, his rhythm stuttering as he chased his own release. "You talk all that shit—let me hear you now."

That was all it took.

Pleasure slammed through you, violent and overwhelming, tearing a moan from your lips as you came, clenching around him, dragging him down with you.

Kyōtani cursed, low and guttural, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his breath ragged, sharp teeth sinking into your shoulder like he needed to leave proof of what just happened.

For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged mix of your breathing. Your body was wrecked, trembling, weak—but so was his.

Kyōtani didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just gripped your jaw, tilting your face toward him, his forehead resting against yours as he panted through the aftershocks.

And then, voice rough, breathless, still full of that bite, he muttered—

"Still got something smart to say?"

You panted, barely able to catch your breath, a smirk tugging at your swollen lips. "Yeah—" you exhaled, voice rough, body still trembling. "I know what we're doing tomorrow."

Rivalry: Oikawa

Oikawa Tooru was used to attention.

From the moment he stepped onto the court, eyes followed. Girls sighed when he passed by in the hallways, classmates lit up when he so much as looked in their direction. He had charm, he had skill, and he had a smile that could make anyone—anyone—melt.

Except for the manager.

And it drove him insane.

When she became Seijoh’s team manager, Oikawa expected the usual routine. A few flustered glances, maybe a nervous stammer or two when he spoke to her. Instead? She barely gave him the time of day. Her eyes never lingered, her voice stayed firm, and when he flashed one of his award-winning smiles, she only responded with a flat, unimpressed stare.

At first, it was amusing. A fun little challenge. But as weeks passed, that amusement turned to frustration. Why wasn’t she falling for him like everyone else? Why did it feel like the harder he tried, the more indifferent she became? It was unnatural—Oikawa had spent years perfecting the art of attention, the delicate balance of charm and arrogance that made people gravitate toward him. And yet, she stood there, unmoved, like he was just another player on the team.

It gnawed at him. It wasn’t just that she ignored his flirtation—it was that she treated him exactly the same as she treated everyone else. It made him feel… ordinary.

Oikawa made it a point to test her patience.

“Manager-chan, be honest,” Oikawa mused lazily, twirling a volleyball between his fingers, his tone laced with smug amusement. "Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re immune to my charm?"

She didn’t even look up from her clipboard, her fingers flying across the page as she made notes. "Do you ever get tired of being a desperate attention-seeker?"

Iwaizumi choked on his water, while Hanamaki and Matsukawa outright cackled, exchanging wide-eyed looks of glee. Even Kyōtani, who usually ignored their antics, raised an eyebrow, glancing up from his shoe-lacing. Oikawa, however, was left standing there, momentarily stunned by the sheer disrespect.

“That was uncalled for,” he gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.

She finally spared him a glance, her gaze flat and unimpressed. "So is your existence, and yet, here we are."

The team erupted. Hanamaki practically slid to the floor from laughing too hard, Matsukawa was bent over the bench wheezing, and even Iwaizumi wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head. "She’s got a point, though."

Oikawa scowled, gripping the volleyball just a little too tight. "Unbelievable. I slave away on the court, leading this team, and this is the gratitude I get? A cruel, heartless manager who refuses to appreciate my many, many talents."

"Oh, I appreciate your talents," she responded coolly, flipping to another page in her notebook. "Just not the ones you want me to."

His mouth opened, then closed, irritation flickering behind his eyes. She had played him—so effortlessly, so ruthlessly, and in front of the whole team, no less. He hated how easily she dismissed him, like he was some annoying background noise. It wasn’t just about her brushing off his flirting anymore—he wanted to rattle her, to break through that ridiculous indifference she seemed to have toward him.

And for the first time in a long while, Oikawa didn’t know how to win.

And that was how it started.

Oikawa made it his personal mission to get a reaction out of her. He turned up the charm, exaggerating his requests, leaving his jersey in the most inconvenient places just to force her to interact with him. And through it all, she remained perfectly unbothered.

Which only made things worse.

During practice, Oikawa's patience had started to fray. What once had been playful teasing was now laced with something sharper, something almost mean. He leaned in too close, his voice lower, more clipped. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get exhausting pretending I don’t bother you?"

She barely spared him a glance. "Not nearly as exhausting as listening to you grasp at straws for my attention."

His fingers twitched at his sides, irritation flaring. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one getting under her skin—not the other way around.. Whenever she’d pass by with the clipboard, he’d throw an arm over her shoulder, lean in just a little too close, and sigh dramatically. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get tiring, pretending you don’t like me?"

"Not as tiring as listening to you talk," she quipped back, shaking him off effortlessly.

That made the rest of the team howl with laughter, much to Oikawa’s dismay.

But the more she dismissed him, the more he found himself noticing her.

How she always had a spare towel ready for anyone who needed it, how her lips twitched when she held back a smile, how she somehow always knew exactly where to be, exactly what needed to be done. The way she’d mutter under her breath when the gym got too chaotic, how she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows when she was in full focus mode.

Even worse, he noticed that she laughed at other people’s jokes. Not his.

It was infuriating.

The way she treated him—like he was just another player, no more important than anyone else—made something coil tight in his chest. It was wrong. He should matter.

As the season went on, their dynamic became something of a spectacle. Matsukawa and Hanamaki kept a running tally on how many times Oikawa failed to get a reaction from her. Even Kyōtani, normally disinterested in team antics, had muttered once, "Why does he even care?"

Practice was no different.

One day, he strolled in late, expecting to slide by unnoticed. Instead, the manager barely glanced up from her clipboard before sighing dramatically.

"And the king has graced us with his presence," she drawled, flipping a page without looking up. "Should we all kneel? Maybe throw some rose petals while we're at it?"

Oikawa's expression twitched. His fingers flexed around the strap of his bag before he forced a scoff. "You wound me, manager-chan. I’d expect at least a little appreciation for my presence."

She finally looked at him, unimpressed. "I’d appreciate it more if you actually showed up on time."

The snickers from the team were immediate. Matsukawa nudged Hanamaki, both grinning like they had front-row seats to the best show in town. Iwaizumi just shook his head, barely hiding his smirk.

Oikawa exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching slightly before he tilted his head, voice dropping just a fraction. "Careful, manager-chan. One of these days, someone’s going to mistake that attitude of yours for something else."

She arched a brow. "Oh? And what’s that?"

"Repressed admiration." His smirk was sharp, eyes locked on hers like he was waiting—daring her to react.

She let a slow smirk creep onto her face. "That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."

Oikawa stiffened for a half-second. It was barely noticeable, but she caught it. And it infuriated him.

Hanamaki snorted. Matsukawa muttered a quiet "brutal" under his breath, and Iwaizumi, ever the opportunist, smirked as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, Oikawa. You expecting a parade or something?"

Oikawa rolled his eyes, adjusting the strap of his bag. "I was—"

"Stretching starts now," she cut him off smoothly, pointing at the mats without even sparing him a second look. "If Iwaizumi yells at you for skipping, I’m certainly not covering for you."

Iwaizumi clapped a hand on Oikawa’s back, grinning. "Yeah, Shittykawa, stretching starts now."

Oikawa groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. "You just like bossing me around."

"Someone has to." She finally looked at him, gaze neutral, unimpressed. Then, before he could respond, she turned and walked off, already shifting her attention to something else, like he wasn’t even worth her time.

He scowled. Why did it feel like he lost that exchange?

The next few weeks were much of the same. The team noticed, amused by the ongoing battle. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore.

"Oikawa, just accept defeat," Matsukawa teased one afternoon, leaning against the gym wall as he watched her deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, clipboard in hand, discussing strategy. She was nodding at something Iwaizumi said, her brow furrowed in concentration, flipping a page in her notes. Oikawa barely heard the words being exchanged, too focused on the way she looked—completely absorbed in the discussion, giving Iwaizumi the full weight of her attention. It was so effortless for her, this back-and-forth, the way she actually cared about his vice-captain’s input, about the game.

His grip on the volleyball tightened. Why did it feel like she never talked to him like that? "She’s immune. It’s kind of inspiring."

Oikawa scoffed, crossing his arms. "I will win. Just wait."

But the truth was, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about charming her or getting a reaction—Oikawa realized, somewhere between watching her scribble notes on the clipboard and catching glimpses of her tying her hair back, that he wanted her attention. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the others, wanted to hear her laugh because of him.

And that was unacceptable.

The breaking point finally came after a game.

The team had secured another victory, but the entire time, Oikawa’s mind wasn’t on the match. It wasn’t on his perfectly placed serves, on the points he racked up, or even on the cheers from the crowd.

It was on her.

She had celebrated, high-fiving Kyōtani, clapping Iwaizumi on the back, beaming as she praised the team for their effort. The smile she wore was bright, uninhibited, the kind of happiness he had never seen from her before. She was laughing—actually laughing—carefree and glowing as if this win meant the world to her.

And she hadn’t looked at him once.

He hated it.

Hated how effortless it was for her to shower attention on everyone else, how easily she smiled at them, joked with them, treated them as if they were worth her time. But him? She barely acknowledged his existence, acting as if he was nothing more than a passing nuisance.

His grip on his jersey tightened. Something inside him burned, sharp and unsettled, curling hot in his chest like an ember waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t fair. He had worked harder than anyone for this win, pushed himself beyond exhaustion to make sure they came out on top. And yet, when she smiled, when she laughed—it wasn’t because of him.

And that was the moment Oikawa snapped.

So when he saw her alone in the hallway after the match, clipboard in hand, he didn’t think.

"Why do you act like that?" His voice was tight, laced with frustration that he couldn't contain anymore.

She glanced up, brow raised. "Act like what?"

Oikawa stepped closer, his jaw clenching, heat simmering beneath his skin. "Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t exist. You joke with them, you celebrate with them, but with me? It’s like I could disappear and you wouldn’t even notice."

Her smirk was slow, taunting. "Oh, is that what this is about? You need me to fawn over you like everyone else? Poor Oikawa. Is it finally sinking in that I don’t care about stroking your over-inflated ego?"

His eyes darkened. "That’s not—"

She cut him off, stepping forward so the space between them all but disappeared. "You think I didn't know about you before I joined the team? You think I didn't know you'd try with me? I will not swoon and kiss your feet, Tooru."

Oikawa opened his mouth, but the words tangled. He wanted to refute it, to tell her it wasn’t about that, but the way she was looking at him—bold, unshaken, challenging—knocked the thoughts from his head.

He groaned in frustration, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave up fighting it. Before she could say another word, his hands shot up, gripping her waist as he yanked her toward him, lips crashing into hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was messy, desperate, filled with months—years—of unresolved tension. His fingers curled against her hips, pulling her closer, his kiss carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say. It was a demand, a declaration, a fight in its own right.

And the worst part? She kissed him back.

Her fingers curled into his jersey, yanking him closer as if daring him to take it further. He could feel her heartbeat, hammering against his own, and suddenly, nothing else mattered—not the game, not the team, not the rivalry that had defined them for so long.

Just him.

Just her.

When he finally pulled away, both of them breathless, Oikawa rested his forehead against hers, his hands still gripping her waist. He exhaled sharply, lips curving into something between a smirk and disbelief.

"You looked at me just now," he murmured, voice rough.

She huffed a laugh, fingers still tangled in his jersey. "Shut up," she whispered, then pulled him down and kissed him again.

It was just as desperate as before, just as fevered, but this time, there was something else—acceptance. She wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t stopping to argue. She was right there with him, matching his intensity, giving as much as she took. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. It was everything.

And then—

Footsteps.

A sharp intake of breath.

Both of them froze just as Iwaizumi and Matsukawa turned the corner.

Iwaizumi stopped mid-step. Matsukawa, wide-eyed, blinked once, then twice. The hallway fell into a suffocating silence.

Then, slowly, in perfect synchronization, both of them took a single step backward.

Another.

Without a word, they turned around and walked the other way, as if they had just stumbled into something forbidden.

Matsukawa exhaled as they rounded the corner. "Damn. He really did get her."

Iwaizumi nodded. "Yeah."

A beat of silence.

"I hate him," Iwaizumi muttered.

Matsukawa sighed. "Me too."

Unrequited Love: Oikawa (Bonus)

The team was loud, as always.

Oikawa, now freshly showered and looking somewhat like himself again, was in the middle of being teased by Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

“So, Captain, let’s talk about your tragic love life,” Matsukawa said, slinging an arm around Oikawa’s shoulders.

Hanamaki took a dramatic sip of his drink. “Yeah, we all knew she was gonna break up with you before you did. What does that say about you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Oikawa groaned, smacking Matsukawa’s arm off him, though there was no real heat behind it. You could see his mood rising with every passing moment.

“Hey, at least you still have volleyball,” Matsukawa said, raising his glass like he was making a toast.

“Right, the one true love of your life,” Hanamaki added with a smirk.

Oikawa sighed dramatically. “You guys are the worst.”

You watched from the side, letting their banter wash over you. The ache from earlier was still there, a dull weight in your chest, but at least Oikawa wasn’t sulking anymore. That was the important thing.

A presence appeared beside you, and you didn’t even have to look to know it was Hajime.

“I’m impressed,” he admitted, crossing his arms as he watched Oikawa shove Hanamaki. “I tried to get him out of bed earlier, but he wouldn’t budge.”

You smirked, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “That’s because you don’t know how to sweet-talk him, Hajime.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. If I tried sweet-talking Oikawa, I’d never hear the end of it.”

You snickered. “Yeah, he’d probably take that as an invitation to propose.”

Hajime shook his head, amused, before glancing at you, his expression shifting into something more knowing. “So,” he said casually, “are you going to make a move, or are we just going to keep going in circles?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Please, you should’ve seen what he told me earlier.”

Hajime raised an eyebrow.

You turned to him, pressing a hand to your chest mockingly, and sighed dramatically. “He looked me in the eye, Hajime. And do you know what he said?”

Hajime waited.

“You’re a good friend,” you deadpanned, voice dripping with bitterness.

Hajime winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “So, no, I’m not making a move. Not when he clearly doesn’t see me that way.”

Hajime was quiet for a moment before shrugging. “You never know. He’s an idiot. You might have to spell it out for him.”

You huffed, watching as Oikawa dramatically whined about something to the others. “Yeah, well… I think I’ve done enough for one night.” Then you hear a whine of your name. You look over to Oikawa's pleading face along with Matsun's and Makki's devious ones.

“You promised me they would give me a break!” Oikawa suddenly called out, his voice carrying over the chatter of the team. His eyes locked onto yours, pleading dramatically, though the glint of betrayal was exaggerated.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “C’mon, guys, give him some slack,” you called, raising your hands in surrender.

Hanamaki gasped in mock offense. “Oh, so now you’re defending him?”

“She’s going soft,” Matsukawa said, shaking his head.

“I am not going soft,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

Hajime, beside you, smirked before stepping forward. “Actually, now that I think about it… didn’t Oikawa almost cry in first-year when he lost his favorite knee pads?”

Oikawa whipped around. “Iwa-chan.”

“Oh, right!” Hanamaki’s eyes lit up. “The ones with the little stars on them?”

“You guys swore to take that to the grave!” Oikawa cried, scandalized.

“I don’t know, man,” Matsukawa said, leaning back with a grin. “Kind of sounds like a moment that deserves to be remembered.”

As the teasing escalated, Oikawa slumped in his seat, arms crossed, pouting like a child. “I hate all of you.”

You laughed at the whole exchange, and when you glanced back at Oikawa, expecting him to still be sulking, you caught something different—something small, almost imperceptible.

He was smiling.

It was barely there, just a slight tug at the corners of his lips, but it was real. And for a brief moment, as his gaze lifted, he met your eyes.

The world around you blurred, and warmth spread through your chest. You swore you felt your heart stutter, just for a second.

And then, as quickly as the moment had happened, you cursed yourself for it.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away.

Oikawa was still laughing with the others, completely unaware of the effect he had on you.

You exhaled, shaking your head, willing the butterflies away.

Hajime, still standing beside you, didn’t say anything, but when you glanced at him, he was looking at you with a knowing expression.

“Not a word,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder, but he only chuckled in response.

Husbandry: Iwaizumi

It was the dead of night. Your shared bedroom bathed in the night, light speckling from the nightlife in Tokyo. It was perfectly peaceful, and ever since you had found out you were pregnant with Hajime's child, was the perfect condition for you to have a restful sleep. The temperature exactly how you wanted it, the right amount of blanket, and of course, your sleeping husband's chest to rest your head. And yet, you lay wide awake.

You sigh, turning the other way, hoping it would magically put you to sleep. It didn't. All you could focus on was your stomach eating itself in hunger. You hadn't expected your appetite to increase this much so fast, but instead of eating for two you, it was more like a small villiage. You curse yourself, giving into temptation of the beast in your stomach and move to get up. "Hm? Where are you going?" Your husband's voice is rough with sleep as he squints at you. You look at him somewhat sheepily before whispering back, "I'm just getting something to eat, go back to sleep" With a kiss to his forehead. You, thinking that would be all, are shocked when you still feel his hand pulling you back. "Hold on." He grunts as he also moves to get out of bed. You're quick to stop him, "Oh, no you don't have to-"

"Can I not feed my wife and kid?" He asks gently in your ear, giving you a kiss on the side of the head before taking you to the kitchen, heart fluttering in your chest so hard you could feel it.

You Can't Be Serious NSFW (Reader x Iwaizumi)

High school is an extremely short era in people's lives. The choices you make don’t really matter, and the friends you made in that time usually wash away in the memories that overtake you in the cruel hours of early morning.

For most people at least.

In life, you’d guess that the world was split in two with these drastically different, but equally true opinions. But for you, it’d definitely be the first one. Had you not randomly joined the Seijoh High School boys' volleyball club on a whim as manager in your first year, you were very sure that your life would be completely different than it is right now.

You wouldn’t have four best friends that you keep in contact and chat with almost every day, and even more so, you wouldn’t being engaged at this very moment.

Yes, you were in fact engaged to your first crush and one of your very best friends. You weren’t high school sweethearts, and it wasn’t love at first sight, but more of a gradual thing that had started by the start of college and grown into something that you wouldn’t trade for the world. The ring adorning your left hand was a weight you’ve gladly grown accustomed to, having the ability to make you smile whenever the glimmer of the diamond caught your eye.

Of course, smiling to yourself in a random café was a little embarrassing, but hell if you couldn’t stop yourself. Instead, your smiling turned from the ring to the man you called out your name. You wouldn’t' be surprised if the people sitting in nearby tables thought that the man coming towards you, seemingly intimidating with the number of piercings and tattoos he had, however canceled out with the lazy grin slapped on his face, was your husband-to-be. But you both knew better.

“Hey there, Iwaizumi-san.” Matsukawa’s voice is light and teasing as he approaches your table, with you standing to greet him properly, head shaking slightly at his antics. You give him a quick hug, smiling up at him.

“You don’t have to call me that Issei. Though I will admit it does have a nice ring to it.” He hums as you both go to sit at the table again. “Also, you’re twenty minutes late. What’d you do, crawl here?”

Matsukawa clicks his tongue.

“I came here as fast as I could. It takes a lot of effort to look this good you know.” His arm raises to gesture at himself, jacket slipping down a little ways down his wrist where you could see the beginning of his most recent tattoo that you were against him getting. (What, 14 aren’t enough for you?) You snort.

“Believe me, I know.” He raises his pierced brow at you.

“Hey, it's just chance Hajime got to you first. I could’ve had you if I wanted you.” Its’ your turn to raise a brow.

“Issei... You’re gay.” His response is immediate.

“And he’s goddamn lucky I am. You would’ve fallen for me in an instant if I turned it on back then.” If this wasn’t considered a nice place, you’re sure he would’ve put his feet up on the table, confidence and pride just oozing off him, in the way you admittedly loved.

“Really now? Well, I’m sure my personal trainer fiancé would love to hear that.” A beat of silence hits the table.

“You play dirty.”

You shrug. “Where’s the fun in playing fair?”

“You gotta point.” You chuckle, finally looking at the menu given to you when you were first seated at the table. Matsukawa had actually invited you to lunch, for what you had assumed would be a mini celebration of yours and Hajime’s engagement, but only problem is...

Hajime wasn’t invited. In fact, you were told not to tell him you were going at all.

And, to your knowledge, he was a supposed to be a pretty important aspect of the celebration. When you had initially asked the reason to this impromptu lunch, and why you were told to keep it a secret from your fiancé, Matsukawa had been danced around the question, saying something along the lines of ‘What, I can’t ask one of my best friends to a random lunch? What is up with this society?’

Needless to say, you were suspicious.

You conspicuously look up from your menu, watching Matsukawa as he read his casually. As though this meeting was truly innocent, like there was nothing up his sleeve.

You’d known this man much too long to think for any second he’d do anything with innocent intent.

A server comes and takes your orders quickly and tells you that your food should arrive shortly. In this time, you figure out a proper strategy to try and find out what the hell this man is planning.

“So...” You start, fingers lightly circling the wooden table separating you two. “Mind telling me why you brought me out here so suddenly and why I was sworn to secrecy?” Matsukawa looks to you with half lidded eyes like he usually does, smile light and playful. Truly, an amazing poker face. Had you known him any less you

would’ve been none the wiser, but thankfully, you knew him all too well.

“I can’t take some time out of my very busy work life to see my favourite person in our ragtag group? Do you trust me that little?” You deadpan.

“Yes, I trust you that little. And what busy work life? Takahiro literally just told me you went out and bought as many RubberDucks with sunglasses you could find two days ago. For fun.” He scoffs.

“Well, excuse you, my work is very tiring. I need to find some ways to relax.” You can’t stop the roll of your eyes.

“You work at a funeral home and part time.”

“One could argue I’m doing the Lord’s work.” You fail to mask your face with the veil of annoyance, letting your smile take away any intensity you might’ve had. Chats with Matsukawa definitely didn’t get old.

“Then being the Lord’s helper, don’t you think you could cut the bullshit and tell me what it is you want from me?” He snickers, then goes silent. His face turns deadly serious in an instant, and his eyes meet yours. His stare was so intense you started to get a bit frightened. Was there actually something going on?

“I’m pregnant.” The tightening you felt in your chest was lifted as your tired sigh filled the air surrounding you. You wonder if this lunch was actually worth your time, in the moments that Matsukawa tries to contain his laughter to small chuckles.

“Issei...” He raises his hands in the air in surrender.

“Fine, fine. I brought you out here because I wanted to give you a little engagement present.” Your mood significantly lightens up at his words, mostly because the tiny anxieties in the back of your head of something bad really happening was finally put at bay. The sound of a ruffled paper bag hits your ears as he pulls your present from under the table and on top. (Really, how did you not notice it earlier?)

But you were still a little confused.

“And Hajime couldn’t know because?” Your question trails on as you grab the bag, peering over the table to a smaller white box in the bag. The box was unmarked, and you wondered what it could be.

“He’d beat the shit outta me.” Matsukawa said matter of factly. “He told us no gifts, remember?” Come to think about it, you do remember that. After he announced that you two were engaged to Matsukawa, Hanamakki, and Oikawa you vividly remember Oikawa over video crying about the things he could send from Barcelona, and Hajime saying that’d he punch him the next time they met if he did.

Hajime didn’t really like gifts all that much and it was understandable. He was the kind of guy who appreciated your company more than materialistic objects, which is something you did find really sweet. And he wasn’t alone in his opinion either, since you didn’t really like gifts either, but your reasoning was much shallower; In all honesty, having to remember who gave what and try to reciprocate the level of quality that person had given you before is a hassle.

You’d rather just be given money and be done with it.

But you would be lying to say that it didn’t feel nice to have someone go through the trouble of doing this.

“Aw, Issei... You didn’t have to...” He smiled again, slightly more genuine than the last. “It’s not a problem.” You thanked him, before enthusiastically looking at the box, attempting to open it.

“Actually, I’d refrain from opening it now.” He stops you dead in your tracks, and you look up confused.

“Huh? Why?”

“Let’s just say it's something you definitely wanna open alone.” Your expression makes him laugh but he doesn’t say anything further. You have half the nerve to throw caution to wind and open it anyways, but something deep inside your conscience tells you to listen to him. You hold your slightly concerned gaze, as you gently place the box back into the bag.

“Alright then...” You say cautiously, putting the bag next to your chair. “Can you at least tell me what it is?” His grin turns Cheshire.

“I’m bound by the law of my own unwillingness, and it has extremely strict regulations. So, unfortunately, I’m unable to tell you at this current moment in time. You’ll just have to see for yourself.” He says causally as he watches you slump back in your seat like a child with a laugh. You give him a side glance.

"So, you really just called me out here to give me this?”

“Yup.”

“With no other allterior motive?”

“Nope.” You sigh again, right as your food is being delivered. You both give a quick thanks.

“And you couldn’t have told me this over the phone?”

“What fun is that?” He says, mouth now full of food. You scoff as you begin to eat

your own, still slightly annoyed for being worried over seemingly nothing. Matsukawa notices.

“Aww, are you mad? What can I do for you to forgive me?” His mock pleading voice makes you smile again despite yourself. You click your tongue.

“You can start by treating me.” And with that you drop it. _________________________

The rest of the meal was quite pleasant, with Matsukawa paying for your meal just like you asked and congratulating you once again. You make plans to have lunch again with him and Hanamakki sometime soon, then finally leave for home.

During the meal, you mostly forgot about the present Matsukawa got for you. Sure, the delivery was weird, but Matsukawa was just weird in nature, so you didn’t really think much of it. You loosely held the bag in your hand as you took the train ride home. Your walk back was calm, and everything was ordinary until you returned to the small one-bedroom apartment that you and Hajime shared.

“I’m home!” You called out, taking off your coat and shoes. You hear no response. You crinkle your nose. Hajime should be home by now. You walk into the living, looking for your fiancé, to find a small note on the little table you have your meals on.

Had to pick up someone's shift at the gym, so I’ll be home late tonight. Don’t worry about food I’ll get some on the way. Love you, Hajime

You feel warmth race through you at the note. You always teased him about stuff like this, saying that he should text you instead, but he still did it anyways.

Not that it matters anyways, he knows you like it.

You let a little exhale as you place the note back down. Looks like you're on your own for the rest of the evening. You decide that today would be the perfect time to do nothing but lazy around, since you haven’t done that in a long time and it’s a Friday night damnit. Living an adult lifestyle can be so tiring sometimes, and you deserve a break.

You nod to yourself and prepare for a day of relaxing, throwing your clothes into your hamper and taking the necessary items for a long hot shower. You take your time, letting the warm water ease your tense muscles, and calm you down entirely.

By the time you finish, the bathroom is full of steam, and you know that you’re going to cringe at your water bill this month, but at the moment you didn’t care. You wrap

yourself with your towel and exit filled with bliss. Mind free of all ailments. At least until your eyes land on that paper bag.

You stare at it, and you swear it stares back at you. Every second that passes, you feel your curiosity peak more and more until you can barely stand it.

“Let’s just say it's something you definitely wanna open alone.”

Matsukawa’s words bounce around in your head, and it is his words that make you grab the bag and move to your bedroom, setting it on the bed before removing the unmarked box from its confinements.

You’re eager yet weirdly cautious as you open the box, seeing nothing but coloured tissue paper on the surface. Removing that you find a smaller package. Picking it up you instantly recognize it as the weight of clothes.

Seems normal enough. Why would I not want to open this in public?

You rip the packaging open, to be met with the reason as to why he didn’t want you opening this in public. Your jaw dropped.

It was the sluttiest lingerie set you’d ever seen, in fact, lingerie would be an overstatement.

Lingerie had more fabric than this monstrosity.

It came with a thick light pink collar, and you wish that the was the worst of it. The top was completely pink mesh, made to show everything except the nipples, which even then didn’t do that job correctly because you knew there was no way that would be covering anything properly with this material. The panties, if you could even call them that, were just three pink strings, not even covering what underwear was supposed to cover.

And of course, there were some thigh highs. Because why not add more to this shitshow.

Your face grows more and more red as you stare at the ‘clothes’ in your hands. You stare and stare, and stare... Until your embarrassment of holding such an item turns to pure rage and bitter resentment towards the person that is Matsukawa Issei.

You dial his number in anger and shame, getting more pissed for every ring you hear. Finally, he answers. You don’t even give him time to say hello.

“You perverted son of a bitch.” There’s a pause.

“Hi, you’ve actually reached the boyfriend of the aforementioned ‘perverted son of a bitch’. Can I be of service to you?” Hanamakki’s tone is mockingly serious, amplified over the crispness of the phone audio, and you’re really not in the mood.

“Where the hell is Issei?”

“I’m afraid he’s occupied with a couple dozen RubberDucks and a bath. Perhaps I can solve your issue?” You scoff.

“My issue is that your boyfriend is a sick fuck.” You practically spit. There's another pause.

“Didn’t we establish this? Like a long time ago?” You let out an exasperated sigh. You don’t know why you’re even bothering at this point, there are two peas of the same pod; they were practically made for each other.

“Takahiro, I’m serious. You won’t believe what that rat bastard gave me as an ‘engagement present’.” You use the term present lightly. Like anyone would ever want this.

“Yeah, I know. Can you believe I owe his dumbass a 1000 yen now?” Your eyes narrow in confusion, letting out another scoff unintentionally.

“You knew?”

“Please, I was the one who picked it out.” You tried multiple times to make sensible sentences, but your frustration was getting the better of you. Hanamakki listens to you stumble over your sentences patiently. You take a couple of deep breaths, not wanting your blood pressure to rise.

“Why?” You stress, after realizing that you wouldn’t be able to form anything coherent.

“I’ve actually prepared a whole presentation on this subject matter. It mostly concentrates on, ‘Why the hell not?’” He snickers.

You could swear you saw read.

“Takahiro.” Your tone is clearly conveying your current emotions because you swore you could hear Hanamakki gulp nervously. “Look, it was only a gag gift. No harm, no foul. If you don’t want to use it-” You cut him off with another of your scoffs.

“I’m sorry, ‘Use it’?! What on earth would I use this abomination for?!” There's a beat of silence between you two.

“...Do we really need to have this conversation?” Your nose unintentionally wrinkles.

“You’re not really saying, that either Hajime or I would enjoy this?” You raise the items in your hand, as though Hanamakki could see.

“You, maybe not. But Hajime, most definitely.” You blink, once, twice, slowly.

It’s you who doesn’t say anything for a while, as you stare at the lingerie in your hand.

Hajime would like this? Really?

You could hear Hanamakki sigh on the other end.

“I can practically hear you contemplating your life choices. I am actually sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” You narrow your eyes.

“Are you really?”

“No, this conversation has been really fun. But,” You roll your eyes. “What I’m telling you is true. That thing is maddening I’ll say that much.”

“Yes, because your advice on me and my fiancés' sex life is much appreciated.” You hear his laugh.

“I’m only saying that if Issei came out in something like that, we wouldn’t be leaving the house for days-”

“Ew, ew, I’m hanging up now.” You abruptly end the phone call upon the images of your best friends doing things in certain outfits infiltrate your mind.

You sigh heavily, all the work you put into relaxing dissipating into nothing after a single phone call. You lay back on your bed, eyes trailing to the fabric still in your hand.

That thing is maddening I’ll say that much.

You wince at the fresh memory bouncing in your head, unable to think about anything else.

You sit up straight, a newfound sense of frustration and throw fashion’s version of the spawn of Satan back in its box.

You had more self-respect than this. You had more pride than this.

You would never, ever, put yourself in a position where someone could ever see you like that. It was gross, weird and something you’d never do.

Never, ever.

_________________________

You can’t believe you’re doing this.

Your head is bowed in shame as you slide the thigh highs on your legs. For as shady as it looked, the material felt surprisingly good.

Whether you liked it or not, Hanamakki knew his shit.

You gave the socks one final tug before standing up and slowly looking at yourself in the mirror, full of fear and distaste that you caved into the words of your idiotic friends.

Your eyes widened at what you saw. You quite literally couldn’t believe it was you.

The bra seemed to fit you perfectly, and you had half a nerve to call up Hanamakki and ask him how he got it so accurately, but a part of you felt it was better to not know the answer. The underwire fit directly into the contours of your breasts, knowing exactly how to push them up and close, creating more cleavage than you’d ever seen on your self. Of course your nipples were showing from the transparency of the fabric, and sheer lack of it showed the bumps of your buds, leaving nothing to the imagination. The underwear hugged tugged your hips downward in the magical ratio of accentuating your waist, really showing off your figure. The string that went directly down your ass also somehow managed to make it look nicer, and you aren’t even sure how.

All in all, you were shocked to say the least. You couldn’t take your eyes off yourself, and you completely understood what Matsukawa and Hanamakki were talking about.

But obviously that didn’t mean showing this to Hajime. You have no idea how he’d react, and honestly, you’re too much of a coward to try and find out.

But apparently, you wouldn’t have much of a choice.

You jump from your trance at the sound of a door opening and closing, your heart jumping up to your throat in pure anxiety.

“I’m home.” You hear Hajime call out from the living, and you immediately start to panic, the sound drying up in your throat. Truth be told you weren’t the best at handling things under pressure, and while there were dozens of possible solutions to your problem, none were coming to mind.

Your name is called in question, your fiancé used to having you welcome him home. You squeak, stumbling to the door.

“I’m in our room, Hajime! I’m just trying something on!” You yell out, all the while

hopping on one foot trying to remove the socks as quickly as possible.

“Oh? You went shopping?” Your heart sinks. On any normal occasion, you’d show him what you’d bought if you did go shopping, so it’d look even more suspicious to hole yourself in your room.

“Oh trust me, this isn’t something I’d ever buy. Ever.” You chuckle nervously.

“What is it?” His voice was clearer now, you could tell he was on the other side of the door. For some reason, you stop undressing.

This thing is maddening I’ll say that much. There’s a pause, but before you know it words are flowing out of your mouth. “Nah, you don’t want to know...” Hajime hears you mumble, embarrassed. He was intrigued.

“Then why would I ask?” A silence follows, consisting of you finding the courage to actually show him this abomination. “You have to promise to not get mad, okay?” Hajime raises a brow.

“...Alright?” You take a minute to get the nerve.

“Issei and Takahiro got us a gift for the engagement-Well, not really it was more of a joke, a gross joke-But I just got curious and-“ You realize that it’d be more embarrassing to explain it rather than show it, so you take a deep breath, hike up your socks and slowly turn the knob. You cautiously open the door to find Hajime standing there, eyes widening the second you came into full view, his breath stuttering. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Please don’t laugh.” You sigh out, defeated.

He didn’t say anything, not being able to see his face but peeking high enough to see his Adam’s apple bob.

A couple of seconds felt like hours, and when there was absolutely no response, with your anxiety rising, you quickly tried to diffuse the situation.

“This was clearly a mistake. I’ll just go take it off—“ As you go to turn around, Hajime grips your arm.

Almost desperately. Without a single word spoken. You turn back around, scared and confused.

“Hajime?” You’re barely able to get his name out before he kisses you. Hard enough to make you stumble back into your shared bedroom, almost falling over. He’s quick to catch you though, hands immediately reaching to grab your ass, pressing so firmly

you’re sure it’ll leave marks. His mouth hasn’t left yours, completely dominating you as his tongue licks yours, making your whole body shiver. Your bodies are pressed firmly against each other, with everything happening so fast you don’t realize he had pushed you to the bed.

When his lips finally leave yours, they don’t go very far, travelling down your neck only to lick and bite at it. You could already feel the bruising happening, trying to get a word out before his fingers rubbing over your thinly clothed nipples rendered you unable to talk, only letting out surprised moans and whimpers. He plucks at them until they’re at straining attention, so sensitive you can’t stop the quakes going through your body. You start to feel hot, feeling his warmth come off in sudden waves as you feel the pressure of his chest against your stomach, realizing that he’s travelling downwards.

You aren’t given any warning before the flat of his tongue licks you. You jump up, yelping your fiancé’s name, immediately gripping his hair. This only seems to spur him on, a growl ripping through his throat, vibrating against you as he licks and sucks at your clit with such intensity. You can barely hold yourself together, grip only getting tight and you only getting louder. When he started to point his tongue to make figure eights on your pearl, you swear you began to see stars.

“Hajime—“ You whined, not being coherent enough to say anything else, beginning to feel yourself get closer to climax. With Hajime most likely sensing this, he stops, giving you the first proper look at him.

He looked crazed. More crazed than you’ve ever seen him.

His hair was destroyed (mostly your doing), eyeing you like you were a piece of meat waiting to be devoured, his mouth covered in the essence of you.

“I didn’t say you could cum.” His voice was coarse, his adam’s apple bobbing intensely and you felt yourself shiver.

Something tells you you’re going to be sore in the morning. _________________________ Hours had passed, and the two of you had finally gone to bed. At around 6 in the morning when you both had been fucking since 8 pm.

Needless to say, you were both sleeping rather soundly, in each other’s arms as the afternoon sun shone through your bedroom windows, when Hajime stirred awake from a buzzing,

Groaning, he blinked his tired eyes as he annoyedly searched for the source of the noise, finding your phone on the nightstand, buzzing in a rhythmic tune, and seeing a rubber duck appear on the screen.

Immediately, he knew who it was.

He reached over you, grabbed the phone and answered, only slightly pissed off.

“What do you want?” Issei chuckled. “Man, your morning voice is really rough [Name],” Hajime only grumbled. “You woke me up and almost woke her up. What do you want?” He repeated. Course, Issei only asked the questions that were bound to annoy Hajime. A specialty of his.

“It’s almost 1 pm, what’re you guys doing sleeping in this late?” Hajime went to answer, before going red, looking down next to you sleeping peacefully, covered in hickeys and blemishes. All caused by him.

His silence was all Issei needed.

“Enjoying our gift? Maybe we’ll grab you guys a different pair for your honeymoon?” Hajime turned red, but of course he didn’t want Issei to know that.

“Shut up.” Was all Hajime said before hanging up. Issei chuckled, looking back to Takahiro, also very amused. “I told you they would. You owe me.”

Boi why everyone make iwaizumi the athletic trainer be a personal trainer. They’re different things dafuq don’t disrespect the sports medicine 😾

Bro is partially the reason I’m studying what I am…

guys i’m seriously contemplating on making a separate blog for iwa cause that man gets NO love. no one write full fics for him and it makes me so sad :(

bakugou is still numero uno cause he’s just so 🥰😚😜🤩💜💍yk? let me know what u guys think or if you’re feeling nice send me and iwa fic I WILL LOVE YOU FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!!!!

(i would obvs still post on this one but i have really been in my iwa era these past few days, letting the bakugou fics pile up while i’m gone. so when i come back…. boy oh boy am i in for a treat!)