Rivalry: Akaashi

Fun Story to Share.

I got my (now 18-year-old) daughter into Ao3 back in 2021. I taught her she should always comment - even if the fic looks old or abandoned or whatever. She did.

Well - she got this email this morning:

The fic was written in 2014 and essentially abandoned.

Bethy read and reviewed in 2021 (and was actually the only person who had commented at all).

Today in 2025 - the final chapter was posted by the author and this was her reply to Bethy’s comment.

———

Never question whether a fic is too old to comment on.

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."

Blushing yuuji please?

u make a compelling argument

Dry humping meian shugo 😈

Literally say less

--

Anon Asks: Meian (NSFW)

He was supposed to be working.

Head down, glasses sliding low on his nose, fingers tapping against the keyboard with focused precision. The glow from his laptop screen bathed him in blue light, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. His hair was slightly tousled from running his hands through it, tension in his shoulders from hours of sitting still. He hadn't said a word in over an hour, only the steady clack of his keys filling the quiet room.

And you couldn’t stop staring.

You’d tried to behave. Really, you had. But every time he shifted in his seat or exhaled through his nose in that sharp, focused way, it made heat curl low in your belly. You watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, how his thigh bounced occasionally under the desk, thick and strong where it stretched the fabric of his joggers.

He was so close. So focused. So completely unaware of how much you were squirming on the couch across from him.

You padded over quietly, slipping behind him with a slow smile.

“Baby,” you whispered, hands gently landing on his shoulders.

He didn’t look away from the screen. “Working, sweetheart.”

You hummed, bending down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. “Thought I could help you relax.”

“You relaxing usually ends with me not getting anything done,” he muttered, though his voice had already dipped a little lower.

“Then you better finish fast,” you teased, sliding your hands down his chest.

Before he could argue, you climbed into his lap, straddling one of his thighs. You didn’t straddle him fully—just perched on the broad muscle of one leg, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck. His fingers paused above the keyboard as your weight settled over him.

“You're distracting,” he said flatly, but his hands found your waist anyway.

You leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow at first, lips brushing his with teasing patience until he tilted his head and deepened it. His tongue slid along yours, slow and claiming. You whined into the kiss, rocking your hips forward just slightly, testing.

The pressure was perfect.

Your thin shorts did nothing to hide how wet you already were. You could feel the fabric of his joggers rough against you in the best way, feel the strength in his leg as it tensed under your movement.

You rolled your hips again. His hands tightened on your waist.

“That needy, huh?” he murmured, breath hot against your lips.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Please, Shugo.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Then—

“Ride it. Go ahead. Take what you need.”

Your breath caught.

You started moving, slow at first, dragging your core along the firm curve of his thigh. The pressure, the heat, the drag of your slick fabric against the muscle he kept deliberately flexing—it sent shivers shooting up your spine. Meian tensed his thigh even harder, locking it in place, and you nearly cried out.

“There you go,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “You feel that? All for you, baby.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you rocked harder, faster, the friction building with every shift of your hips. You couldn't stop the sounds leaving your throat—little whimpers and gasps, punctuated by desperate moans every time he tensed his leg and gave you just a little more.

“Fuck,” you gasped, forehead pressing against his. “I’m gonna—Shugo, I’m…”

“Then do it,” he growled. “Make a mess on my thigh. Let me feel how much you want it.”

It snapped something in you.

You came with a high, breathy cry, body seizing up as pleasure exploded through your nerves. You rode it out, grinding helplessly through the aftershocks, fingers clutching at his shirt like you were afraid to let go.

He held you there, solid and unmoving, breathing heavy as he watched you fall apart.

But even as your body sagged against him, spent and shaking, you felt the tension still coiled in his muscles.

You felt the hard line of him pressing into your hip.

And then his hands were gripping your ass, pulling you against him with a growl.

“You think we’re done?” he muttered, low and dark.

He stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as your legs wrapped weakly around his waist.

“I let you come once. That was me being patient,” he said, mouth brushing your ear. “Now it's my turn.”

Favourite Positions: Kenma

Kenma didn’t mind most positions.

He liked slow sex. Quiet sex. Something easy, something lazy—skin against skin while the rest of the world went quiet. He didn’t like being overwhelmed, didn’t like chaos, didn’t like the kind of intimacy that made him feel too seen. Too vulnerable. Too much.

But then there was you.

And you liked control. You liked watching him blush, watching his breath hitch, watching his hands tighten on your thighs as you rolled your hips just right. You liked when his focus shifted from the glowing screen in his hands to the way your body responded to him. You liked riding his face.

At first, Kenma thought he wouldn’t enjoy it. Not because he didn’t want to please you—he always wanted that—but because he assumed he wouldn’t be good at it. That he wouldn’t know what to do with his hands, or how to breathe, or how to make you come apart just from his mouth. He overthought it, worried he’d be awkward or freeze up.

But the first time you sat on his face? Something changed.

He liked the weight of you on his tongue, the pressure of your thighs trembling around his head, your hands fisting in his hair as you got louder, needier, completely undone. The way you moved, desperate and trembling, grinding down into his mouth like you couldn’t help it—it awakened something in him.

It felt powerful.

It felt intimate in a way he didn’t expect.

And that’s what made it his favorite.

Tonight, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his monitor left on in the background, some menu music humming quietly in the silence. The air was warm, still, thick with tension as you straddled his chest, slowly shifting forward until your thighs framed his face.

Your knees hovered above him, thighs already trembling from anticipation, slick dripping down onto his waiting tongue as you tried to hold back—tried to be gentle with him.

Kenma wasn’t having it.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you down, anchoring you right where he wanted you.

You gasped, spine arching, one hand flying back to the headboard to steady yourself. “K-Kenma—!”

He groaned into you, eyes fluttering shut, tongue lapping firm, slow stripes from your entrance to your clit, flicking it with just enough pressure to make your hips buck.

“Sit,” he murmured, voice muffled against you. “Don’t run.”

You whimpered at the command. The heat pooling in your core flared violently, and you dropped your weight onto him with a moan. His fingers tightened in approval, guiding you to rock your hips slightly, grinding into his mouth at a pace he set.

That was what he wanted.

He didn’t need to see your face. Didn’t need to speak. He wanted your thighs around his head, your breath hitched and stuttering, your body twitching every time he dragged his tongue in just the right way. He wanted to hear the way you lost yourself.

You gripped the headboard harder, panting, your thighs starting to quiver. "Kenma, f-fuck, I can't—"

He moaned into you, nose nudging against your clit as his tongue moved faster, more deliberate, savoring every whimper you gave him. The vibrations of his groan made your hips jerk, your eyes fluttering shut as you got closer.

You were close. He could feel it.

Your thighs tensed, hips jerking, and suddenly your fingers were yanking at his roots, grounding yourself as you cried out, back arching. Your body bucked against his face, and Kenma didn’t stop. Not even when your orgasm surged through you, not even when your voice broke from how hard you were panting. He kept going, working you through it, tongue relentless, until your thighs twitched around his head.

Only when your hips tried to lift away did he ease up, licking you through the aftershocks like he was savoring dessert, mouth sticky with you, breathing heavy but content.

Your entire body was trembling.

You collapsed onto the bed beside him, flushed and panting, eyes glazed over and lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath.

Kenma wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gold eyes flicking over to meet yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse but laced with quiet amusement.

You nodded quickly, still catching your breath, then whimpered when your thighs twitched again. Your skin was buzzing, hypersensitive, your body limp with exhaustion and pleasure.

Kenma smirked faintly, eyes soft but smug. “Good. You were loud.”

You let out a breathy laugh, covering your face with one hand, still dazed. “Shut up.”

He pulled the blankets over you, kissed your cheek softly, and curled in beside you like he hadn’t just ruined you with his mouth.

Lazy. Soft.

Still your favorite gamer boy.

But now?

He had a favorite position, too.

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.

You must have a lot of notepads in your place

A fair assumption but I'm just a freak who just uses one single word doc to write all my stories. sorry to disappoint lolol But as always thank you for the send!! <33

HIII can i request something abour Aone and Kunimi! Id love to see how you woukd write about them!

Oooh I can definitely do that heheh Thank you for your ask!! --

Aone was used to people avoiding him.

It wasn’t personal—at least, he didn’t think it was. He knew what he looked like. Tall, broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable even when he tried to seem approachable. And, of course, there was the fact that he had no eyebrows, which only seemed to add to the whole 'intimidating presence' thing. He had overheard people whispering about it before, speculating whether he was just naturally that way or if something had happened. He never corrected them. It wasn’t worth the effort.

He didn’t mind it, not really. It wasn’t like he needed constant conversation. If anything, he preferred the quiet. But that didn’t stop the occasional pang of irritation when someone flinched at his presence or whispered about how scary he was. He never let it bother him for long. It wasn’t worth dwelling on.

But then there was you, who never seemed to get the memo.

You greeted him every morning with a bright “Good morning, Aone!” as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You sat next to him during team lunches, never asking if it was okay, never making a big deal out of it—just plopping down beside him, completely unfazed. When the team joked and teased each other, you always made a point to include him, nudging his arm playfully or throwing in a comment like “Right, Aone?” as if it was obvious that he was part of the conversation.

At first, he thought maybe it was an accident. That you just hadn’t realized how others saw him. But when weeks passed and nothing changed, Aone started to realize something.

You weren’t scared of him. Not even a little bit.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that made his chest feel warm.

It started during practice one afternoon.

The team was running drills, the gym buzzing with the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor and volleyballs smacking against hands. Aone was focused, blocking each spike that came his way, his body moving on instinct. He wasn’t paying much attention to anything else until he heard a sharp gasp from the sidelines.

He turned his head just in time to see you stumble, tripping over someone’s stray bag. It was one of the first years', carelessly left near the edge of the court, and you hadn’t noticed it in time. Your arms flailed slightly as you lost your balance, and Aone’s body moved before his mind could catch up.

In an instant, his hands were on your arms, steadying you before you could hit the ground. His grip was firm, grounding, keeping you upright with ease. You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, caught off guard by the sudden proximity. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, to his surprise, you laughed.

“Wow, you’re really strong,” you said, your voice light, as if you hadn’t just nearly faceplanted in the middle of practice.

Aone swallowed. He wasn’t used to compliments—especially not ones directed at him. His ears burned slightly, but he managed a stiff nod, gently letting go of you once he was sure you were steady.

You dusted yourself off, still grinning. “Guess I should stick close to you, huh? Might need you to save me again.”

Aone blinked.

Most people avoided standing too close to him. You were… different.

Slowly, he nodded again.

Your smile widened. “Good. That settles it.”

And just like that, you carried on, moving as if nothing had happened, as if Aone catching you had been the most natural thing in the world. But Aone felt a little different now, his hands still tingling from where he had touched you. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Later, when practice ended and the team started gathering their things, Aone noticed you walking in his direction. Without thinking, he shifted slightly, making space for you beside him. It was subtle, instinctive, but you noticed immediately, plopping down next to him with an exaggerated sigh.

“I think today’s the day I finally die,” you groaned dramatically. “Tell my family I love them.”

Aone huffed a quiet breath through his nose. It was barely anything, but you must have caught it because you turned your head and grinned at him.

“Was that a laugh?” you asked, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh, we’re making progress.”

Aone shook his head, but he didn’t deny it.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him curiously. “You know,” you mused, “most people get freaked out by you, but I don’t see why. You’re like… a human security blanket.”

Aone blinked at you, unsure of what to say to that. He had been called many things before—scary, intimidating, weird—but never a security blanket. He felt his ears burn again.

“I mean it,” you continued, stretching your arms above your head. “It’s nice having you around. Makes things feel a little more solid.”

He swallowed, staring down at his hands. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but before he could even try, you stood up, stretching out your back with a groan.

“Anyway, I better go before they make me do more work,” you said, nodding toward the rest of the team. “See you tomorrow, Aone.”

And then, like always, you left just as easily as you had appeared, leaving Aone sitting there, his mind spinning with thoughts he wasn’t sure how to process.

Maybe, for the first time, he didn’t mind having someone stick close to him after all.

Jealousy: Atsumu

The celebratory buzz of victory still lingered heavy in the air, blending seamlessly with the steady hum of the dimly lit bar. Neon lights glowed softly overhead, reflecting off half-empty glasses and illuminating faces flushed from laughter and excitement. The MSBY Jackals had just secured another victory, and the night was young—filled with endless possibilities for celebration.

You excused yourself briefly, slipping away to the bathroom to freshen up, confident Atsumu would manage fine for a few minutes without you. After all, he was your boyfriend, and everyone on the team knew it.

But apparently, not everyone in the bar did.

Returning a few moments later, your eyes instantly zeroed in on your boyfriend, who was leaning against the bar, drink in hand, politely nodding at something a pretty brunette was enthusiastically telling him. Her gestures were exaggerated, her smile bright and flirtatious, eyes gleaming with undisguised interest.

Atsumu, ever the people-pleaser, was wearing his usual easy smirk, clearly indulging the conversation while keeping it just polite enough to not be rude. He wasn’t uncomfortable—just looking for the right opportunity to leave without making a scene. You, however, were not nearly as patient.

The sharp twinge of jealousy that shot through your chest was unexpected, hot, and immediate, intensifying further when the girl boldly reached out, her delicate fingers lingering on his bicep as she laughed at something he said. Your eyes narrowed sharply, irritation prickling beneath your skin, making your pulse quicken.

You moved forward before you fully processed it, steps deliberate, chin held high. Without hesitation, you reached Atsumu’s side, sliding your arm firmly through his and pressing yourself close, your chest intentionally brushing against him. You felt him tense slightly in surprise before relaxing instantly when he recognized your touch.

"Hey, babe," you purred softly, voice dripping honey as you leaned up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just beneath his jawline, lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. Atsumu stiffened again, but this time it was from something entirely different, a shiver rippling down his spine as you let your lips linger just a bit longer than necessary.

Pulling back with a possessive little smile, you turned your attention to the woman whose hand had fallen awkwardly away, eyes wide in stunned silence.

"Oh," you said innocently, tilting your head just slightly. "Who's your new friend, 'Tsumu?"

Atsumu cleared his throat, clearly biting back an amused grin. "Honestly, I didn't catch her name."

The woman laughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing pink as she waved a hand in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were... together."

"Oh, no worries," you smiled sweetly, your eyes glittering with playful sharpness. "He’s a pretty polite guy, isn’t he? Almost too nice for his own good sometimes." You chuckled lightly, your fingers tracing gentle circles along his arm. Then, as if remembering something, you turned to Atsumu, voice light and casual, "I think I’m done for the night. Wanna head out?"

Atsumu barely hesitated before flashing you a lazy grin. "Yeah, sounds good."

You turned back to the woman, still smiling as she swallowed thickly, her face now a shade darker. "Are you a fan? It's always lovely to meet his fans."

The woman opened her mouth—then closed it, nodding mutely.

"Well, we’re heading out. Hope ya have a great night!" you chirped before steering Atsumu toward the exit, satisfied with how quickly the situation had turned in your favor.

The second she was out of sight, Atsumu glanced down at you, eyebrows raised, a mischievous grin slowly spreading across his lips. "Ya okay there, sweetheart?"

You sighed, lips pursed in annoyance. "I’m fine."

His grin widened knowingly. "Ya sure? Seemed a little territorial back there."

"I was not territorial," you huffed defensively, fingers tightening unconsciously around his arm.

Atsumu chuckled warmly, leaning in until his lips brushed teasingly against your ear, breath warm as he whispered, "Sure felt like it."

Heat spread across your cheeks as you shoved at his shoulder lightly, embarrassment mixing with lingering irritation. "Shut up. You weren’t exactly doing a good job of making her leave."

He laughed, the rich sound rumbling through his chest as he wrapped an arm securely around your waist, guiding you gently toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps ya sleep at night."

Rolling your eyes fondly, you leaned into him, smiling despite yourself. "You're impossible."

"Mhm," he hummed, pressing a teasing kiss to the top of your head, his voice dropping to a low, amused murmur. "But ya love it."

Then, in a lower, rougher tone, he added, "And, not gonna lie, kinda turned me on."

You blinked, heat spreading to your ears now as you gave him a side glance. "Are you serious?"

Atsumu smirked, tugging you just a bit closer as his lips barely grazed the shell of your ear. "Wanna head home and find out?"

The weight of his words settled between you, thick and charged. You exhaled softly, your fingers brushing along the hem of his jacket. "You’re really impossible."

"Mhm," Atsumu hummed, mischief dancing in his golden eyes as he leaned down, lips hovering just over yours. "But I’m yours."

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.”