Kindaichi Yuutarou - Blog Posts

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."

Rule the Court Windowsill

Aka the Seijoh as plants AU that nobody asked for ~

[left to right: Rose Oikawa, Cactus Iwaizumi, Hemlock Yahaba, Onion Kindaichi, Thistle Kyoutani, Edelweis Watari, Ikea(TM) Palm Matsun, Dandelion Hanamaki, Venus Fly Trap Kunimi]

Art made by me, brought to you with the brainstorming power and moral support of the IwaOi BigBang server <3

Never Change A Running System

Fandom: Haikyuu (My contribution to the @ngczine) Type: Short-Story (5.1k words) / Canon-Compliant Focus: Next Generation Seijoh Ships: no explicit mentions (but feel free to imagine the classics) Rating: General/Teen Up (for occasional swearing)

Summary:  Watari is starting to think something went wrong when all the new first years are coming to him instead of Yahaba - but maybe, considering that his best friend is busy taming a certain Mad Dog, the underclassmen's fear is justified.

Or: A story about how Yahaba, and with him all of Seijoh, struggles to fill out some big footprints 

Read on Ao3 -> Never Change A Running System

Download the zine for free -> Devoted

Preview:

“Watari-Senpai!?”

He looks up at the five first-years, presenting him with an assortment of items. The suction cup for uncovering the holes in the gym floor that harbour the net poles. The hand-full of pins used to secure the net. A whistle. An empty drink caddy. And a clipboard with nothing clipped to it.

“Yeah?”

“Where should we put this?”

Watari opens his mouth, then he stops, furrowing his brows, and looks around the gym.

Sure, he is a third-year now and technically a senpai, but still—there are other people better suited to ask such things. The captain for example. Or the vice-captain.

In retrospect, Watari should have been able to deduce the cause of their absence by simply listening.

After all, Yahaba is yelling at near peak volume, which is not nothing, but to Watari, yelling in the Aoba Johsai volleyball gym has become just another form of white noise after spending two years under the care of Iwaizumi Hajime.

His best friend has Kyotani in a headlock, shaking him viciously. The Mad Dog looks relatively unimpressed, face turned away, arms crossed over his chest, lips pursed in a silent ‘tsk’, giving short, snappy comments in response to the dressing down, which do nothing other than sprinkle oil into the fire.

Watari sighs—oh not again!

If he were a first-year, he’d not go anywhere near that either.

The Loyalty of a Traitor

author:

DeathBelle

summary:

Iwaizumi Hajime was an undercover officer with a single objective: Infiltrate the Seijoh Syndicate of the Yakuza and tear them down from the inside out. His primary target was the boss, Oikawa Tooru. The job itself was simple enough, until Iwaizumi got in too deep and absconded not only from the mission, but from the city itself.

Now, two years later, he’s dragged back into Tokyo’s unsavory underworld. A grisly string of murders is plaguing the city, and the culprits are most definitely Yakuza. The problem is discovering which Syndicate is responsible, and Iwaizumi – the leading expert on Yakuza affairs – is the man most suited for the job.

Despite his determination to stay away from Tokyo – and from Oikawa – Iwaizumi finds himself right back in the middle of Seijoh, and it feels a lot more like home than he’d care to admit.