— you twist your ankle, one phone call later iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer storms in ready to amputate the floor.
ts!iwaizumi hajime x olympic!f!reader
fluff | requested
I’M ALIVE!! everyone gets a forehead kiss! YAHOO!
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the universe has two moods: indifferent or sitcom writer on espresso. today it picked the second. one moment you’re sticking a perfect landing off the beam, next moment the mat folds like a petty crepe and your ankle makes the crunchy sound of stepping on baby carrots. pain flashes white. someone screams—turns out it’s you. coach sprints over like a caffeinated emu. teammates circle, forming a human privacy fence. through the blur you hear the magic words: “call iwaizumi.”
you try to protest, but the universe already hit send on its group chat.
enter iwaizumi hajime: 5’11”, built like a vending machine that punches back, currently abandoning a libero mid-stretching. he doesn’t ask questions, just pockets his keys and leaves the head of sports medicine talking to an empty chair. the drive that normally takes twenty minutes collapses to nine. red lights are mere suggestions when your brain is playing the gif of your sweetheart crumpling on loop, soundtracked by his heartbeat doing drum solos on his ribs.
he storms into the training complex still wearing his laminated trainer badge, hair windswept like he head-butted the air on the way in. the room parts for him the way grocery aisles part for a toddler holding scissors. you’re sitting on the examination table, ankle already ballooning to brioche size, and the second your eyes lock he forgets how to breathe like a normal human.
“haji,” you start, aiming for casual, but it comes out squeaky.
his name on your voice flips a switch. professional mode activated. he kneels, gentle yet clinical, fingers hovering above your shin like you’re made of spun sugar. “what happened?” low, calm, the tone he uses on spooked horses and dramatic setters.
“the mat and i had a disagreement about gravity.”
he doesn’t laugh—too busy cataloguing every bruise, every freckle, every place he wants to kiss better but legally shouldn’t mention. his palms are warm, thumb brushing the swelling. you swear the pain dips 20% just from contact voltage.
“can you wiggle your toes?”
you do. little piggies still operational.
“good. pain scale?”
“somewhere between ‘stubbed toe’ and ‘apocalypse bingo.’”
his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile, then he’s all business again. “we’re getting imaging. no arguing.”
you’d argue anyway for sport, but the way his jaw is clenched makes obedience feel weirdly romantic and hot woohoo. he slides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you like you’re the championship trophy he’s been chasing since high school. the entire gym watches, mouths forming little o’s. someone starts a slow clap; he glares them into silence so fast the sound folds in on itself like a bad origami crane.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
x-ray confirms a grade two sprain—no surgery, just three weeks of behaving. behaving is your kryptonite. he knows this. that’s why he fills your apartment with enough medical supplies to open a pop-up clinic. crutches, ice packs shaped like penguins, compression socks in embarrassing neon. he stocks your fridge with pre-cut fruit and labels the containers like a mom on pinterest: “eat me, idiot ♡”.
you prop yourself on the couch, leg elevated on a throne of decorative pillows. he kneels on the rug, wrapping your ankle with the focus of a bomb technician. every loop of the bandage is a love letter he’ll never recite out loud. when he finishes, he doesn’t move away, just rests his forearms on the coffee table, chin inches from your knee.
“you scared ten years off my life,” he mutters.
“i’m sorry..”
“don’t apologize. just…” he exhales through his nose. “next time you want to reorganize your bones, give me a heads-up.”
you poke his cheek. “yes, sir.”
the sir breaks him a little. color climbs his neck. he catches your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse—checking for what, you’re not sure. maybe he needs proof you’re still here, still whole.
“hajime,” you say softer, “i’m okay. you got here fast enough to scare the injury itself.”
he looks up then, eyes dark, fierce, fond. “you think i’d let anyone else touch you?” voice rough around the edges. the possessiveness should be terrifying; instead it wraps around you like heated fleece. you’ve seen this man bandage scraped-kneed kids and grumpy veterans with the same patience, but right now his control is hanging by a thread spun from your name.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
night one is the hardest. pain spikes whenever you shift; sleep keeps slipping through your fingers like tiktok trends. he stays on the carpeted side of the couch, laptop open, finishing paperwork by the glow of netflix asking “are you still watching?” every twenty minutes. at 2 a.m. you whimper without meaning to—tiny, pathetic. he’s up before the sound finishes leaving your throat.
“meds?”
“taken. just… can’t get comfy.”
he disappears, returns with a hoodie fresh from the dryer, still warm. helps you change, careful not to jostle the ankle. when he eases the sleeve over your cast-bound foot, putting it in the hoodie so that it has enough pressure, you catch him staring at the faded olympic logo on your shirt like it personally offended him for surviving when you almost didn’t.
he tucks blankets around you, then hesitates. “can i…” he clears his throat. “need to elevate higher.” without waiting for permission he slides onto the couch, lifts your leg, and drapes your calf over his thighs. the new position kills the throb instantly. you sigh; his whole body answers, shoulders loosening like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of correctly screwed bottle caps.
you drift, waking periodically to find him still there, hand resting lightly on your shin—guardian mode on autopilot. once, you open your eyes to see him texting one-handed:
to: coach
she’s sleeping. no practice tomorrow. fight me.
the three dots appear, disappear. he smiles, feral and satisfied, locks the phone.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by day four you’re cranky, hopping to the bathroom like a caffeized flamingo. he meets you in the hallway, scoops you up bridal style without breaking stride. you yelp, arms around his neck.
“i can crutch.”
“you can also fall. not happening.”
he sets you on the counter while he runs the shower, tests the temperature like you’re incapable of feeling heat. you watch steam curl around his temples and something molten pools in your chest. when he turns, you catch the front of his shirt, tug until his face is level with yours.
“haji.”
“hm?”
“kiss me before i dive head first somewhere because well–i’m touch-starved.”
he does—soft, cautious, like you’re both sixteen and the world might catch you. but the second your lips part he groans, presses closer, banded arms caging you against tile. it’s the kind of kiss that invents new colors. when you pull back you’re breathless; he looks dazed, pupils blown.
“for medicinal purposes,” you whisper.
“repeat dosage hourly,” he answers, voice gravel sweet.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
week two, he lets you return to light conditioning—upper body only, him spotting like a bodyguard sniffing for danger. every time you reach overhead he shadows the motion, palms hovering an inch away as if ready to catch rogue gravity. the other athletes tease you both mercilessly. he doesn’t flinch; your face feels hot. at lunch someone asks if you’re “back to full speed.” before you can answer he cuts in: “she’s perfect at any speed.” the table erupts in kissing noises. you hide your face in his shoulder; he stands there, solid, chin lifted, daring anyone to keep joking.
later that night you find his old college notebook in the medicine bag. tucked between ankle protocols is a page of scribbles: your name in every font imaginable, tiny boxes checked—ice, elevation, compliments delivered, hands kept respectful. at the bottom he wrote:
rule #1: never be the reason she stops flying.
rule #2: if she falls, be the net.
your throat closes. you walk (well, crutch) over to where he’s washing dishes, slip the page in front of him. he goes still, water running over sudsy forearms.
“you weren’t supposed to see that.”
“good thing i’m nosy.” you kiss the corner of his mouth, salt and lemon dish soap. “hajime, you’re my net and my launchpad. stop worrying.”
he shuts off the tap, dries his hands, then cups your face. “you’re olympic gold. i’m just the guy who keeps the podium steady.”
“podiums don’t hug back.”
his smile cracks open, small, blinding. “damn right.”
he lifts you onto the counter again, “atta girl.” and kisses you until the crutches clatter to the floor in surrender.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
three weeks blink by. the doctor signs off with a grin: “cleared.” you’re tying your shoe when iwaizumi appears in the doorway, arms crossed but eyes shining hopeful.
“pickup game?” he asks, trying for casual, failing.
“race you to the gym,” you tease.
he doesn’t move. “loser buys ramen.”
you sprint—well, jog tenderly. he shadows every step, not to restrain but to witness. at the court you pivot, plant, launch into a perfect aerial. land clean. no crunch. just the squeak of sneakers and your heartbeat syncing with his exhale. teammates cheer. he stays on the sideline, quiet pride written across every angle of him.
practice ends. lights dim. you find him gathering cones, pretending not to wait. you sneak up, snake arms around his waist, press forehead to the valley between his shoulder blades.
“hey, podium boy.”
he turns, envelopes you. “hey, sky girl.”
“take me home. i’m starving—for ramen and other things.”
he swallows, nods, keys jingling like sleigh bells. in the parking lot he opens the passenger door, but before you climb in you tug him down, whisper against his ear: “i’m cleared for everything, hajime.”
the door shuts. he rounds the hood faster than an olympic relay, slides in, starts the engine. hand finds yours on the center console, fingers locking like velcro stitched by fate.
as he pulls out, you catch his reflection in the windshield: same fierce protector, same devoted net, but now the look is mutual, gravity reversed. you’re not falling; you’re flying together, altitude set to whatever height lets you keep kissing without oxygen masks.
and when he lifts your joined hands to kiss your knuckles at the red light, you realize the injury wasn’t a detour—it was the universe’s sloppy way of handing you the fastest route home.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: there’s a slight change in my writing yes yes, i totally did not forget how to write 😞 so i had to reread my other fics for a bit, i also reread a whole dictionary. mercy pls.
Hajime Iwaizumi has always been private; so, it didn't come as a surprise when he mentioned keeping y'all's relationship a secret. And it works... until it doesn't. Because one afternoon, you overhear just enough of a conversation to spiral.
wc: 5.2k
a/n: sooo I broke this into two parts. This one-shot is supposed to be centered around miscommunication (with a good ending, dw everyone!). And I really wanted to give background as to why Iwaizumi would say the things he did/act the way he did. Hopefully, this set-up of how you met and how... some teammates act around you... gives lead way into his reasonings in part two.
❀ all images are found off of pinterest! I do not own them.
The first time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were in second grade.
You’d wandered into the school gym after classes like you always did, mind filled with anticipation as you pictured the small square scooters lined up against the wall — the very ones Mr. Nakamura let you ride while you waited for your parents. It wasn’t anything special, not really. But it was yours. A moment in time that was quiet and predictable.
Except that day, it wasn’t.
Because two boys, who appeared older (not to mention louder), were dragging a long white net across the floor, stretching it right through the space you’d claimed as your own for the past few weeks. And honestly, the scrape of it against the worn down scooters made something ache in your chest.
Maybe it was because your once predictable atmosphere had turned incalculable. Maybe it was because you couldn’t fathom how the gym teacher would allow such preposterous energy to enter this space during your quiet time. Or maybe it was because you were wholeheartedly, unexpectedly, thrown into a lion’s den; mind racing with possible conversations the two boys could conjure up.
I mean, of all days for someone to take over your spot. Of all people for Mr. Nakamura to say yes to. You were irritated; Infuriated, even. So rightfully vexed that you were preparing yourself to turn around, maybe even say something — something dismissive, something that would make it clear the situation irked you.
Until one of them looked up.
His short hair was a mess, eyes narrowed in concentration as if the world around him didn’t matter as much as the unfolded net. There was something almost stubborn in his expression. A flicker of indignation that gleamed in the rounds of his eyes.
And just like that, the irritation fizzled out as quickly as it had come, replaced by something far worse — heat creeping up your legs, blood quickening through your veins.
He was cute.
“Hey!” You flinched at the sudden outburst, irises glancing over to his friend. It was odd, the way they differed so distinctly from each other. The taller one was clean-cut; an innocent smile glued to his face. There were no narrowed brows, no sense of exasperation. Just a young boy oozing with confidence. “Think you can toss some balls for us?”
Your heart jumped at the query — shit, this wasn’t part of your scenarios. Not once did you anticipate that they’d ask you to join. But rehearsed or not, it didn’t matter. Because that meant staying. That meant being closer… and maybe, just maybe, the cute boy would look at you again.
But then the voices echoed. The cynical notions that would always find a way to etch itself into the grooves of your brain, replaying at a constant rate until every pragmatic counter argument became nothing but fibs: What if you messed up? What if your throw was awful? What if you embarrassed yourself? What if he noticed — and not in a good way?
Your throat tightened. “I—” Yet nothing came out. All that remained was the suffocating silence and utter confusion written on both of their faces.
So, you did the only thing you could at eight years old: You turned on your heel and bolted. And by the time you made it outside, your vision had blurred, tears slipping out before you could stop them — frustration and embarrassment were the sole embodiments of your existence. I mean, why did something so small feel so overwhelming?
All you could discern was the fact that you hadn’t even learned his name. And next time — next time you weren’t going to freeze up. In fact, you’d never let a situation like that cause such panic ever again.
Which was why the second time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were different. You had spent the past nine years of your life forcing yourself to talk more, smile more, throw yourself into conversations before doubt could catch up. And it worked, mostly.
At least, until he appeared again.
You were mid-conversation, attention narrowed entirely on the blonde in front of you — the one currently rambling about the science project you’d just been paired on. Normally, you wouldn’t have given such undivided attention to a mundane conversation. But he was cute. And you’d be damned if you got another A- in this course.
“I was thinking we could do reaction times,” Haru continued, completely unaware of the advantage he had just by existing the way he did — longer strides, effortless pacing. You noticed it immediately, the way you had to step forward, then quicken, just to stay beside him. “Like, testing how different stimuli affect reflex speed. It’d be fun. There’s a ton we could do with that!”
You nodded, keeping pace as best as you could. “I agree.”
“Oh good! I knew choosing you as a partner would be a good idea…” You didn’t notice the chair. Nor did he. At least, not until your shin collided with cold metal; the impact sent a sharp jolt up your leg, your balance pitching forward before you could catch it, allowing a sliver of moment to let your head collide with the edge of a table. The pain was instantaneous; a flourish of heat ruminating the left hemisphere of your forehead.
“Oh fuck, are you alright?” You tilted your head upwards, vision spotting at the edges as you forced your eyes open… Oh. Weird. This guy’s hair looked so similar to the same unruly mess you took note of in 2nd grade. “I’m so sorry,” he was already crouching beside you, voice tight in a way that didn’t quite sync with his otherwise steady movements. “I should’ve made Lazykawa push his stupid ass chair back in.” His hands came up without hesitation, steady and warm as they framed the base of your neck, tilting your head just enough to check you over. Haru hovered somewhere beside him, still mid-panic.
But it was too much: The noise. The neverending cycle of murmurs building around you, the sharp inhales, the shifting bodies, the way attention became positioned at every angle. You wanted it to go away. You wanted this whole ordeal to be a forgotten memory. So, you braced your palm against the boy’s shoulder, pushing just slightly to give cue of your pending sense of rise. “I’m,” your first word was hoarse, a hint of agony still laced deep in your throat no matter how hard you tried to smooth it over. “I’m okay, don’t sweat it.”
Haru leaned further into your line of sight, his expression warping as he took in the small stream of crimson cascading down your brow. “You’re bleeding!”
No. No, no… Please no.
Your right hand removed itself from the student’s broad shoulder; fingers brushing up toward your forehead. The second you felt it, the damp slick, you froze. “I’m so sorry.” Honestly, you didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.
“Sorry?” The boy’s tone shifted after that; his sentences now edged with something closer to irritation as if that was the last thing you should be saying. “Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.” And before you could respond, before you could even explain your reasoning behind such nonsensical verbiage, his arm slid behind your back, the other hooking beneath your legs. You gasped at the sudden lift, your hand instinctively grabbing onto the front of his shirt as he adjusted your weight against him. “I’m taking you to the nurse.” He said, already moving, stride steady as he turned down the hall.
Haru scrambled after him, still talking — still panicking. But you barely registered it; too fixated on the drops of red pooling in your palm.
“If you’re just going to ramble, get out.” Haru blinked, clearly caught off guard, his mouth parting as if he had some sort of rebuttal towards the boy’s directness. Still, he didn’t seem like the type to delve into confrontation. So, Haru just nodded, demeanor a little more flustered now, bowing once toward where you sat.
“Sorry — yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll text you later. Make sure you’re okay.” His words tripped over themselves on the way out, fading as he backed toward the door. And just like that — he was gone.
Honestly, you felt bad for Haru. Anyone in this situation would’ve panicked. One second you’re talking about a project, the next there’s blood running down the side of your face like something out of a thriller. So Haru wasn’t wrong for freezing up. If anything, he handled it well for most people’s standards.
Which is why you were already opening your mouth — ready to say something, anything, to the boy in front of you. Because did he really have to be so… taut about it?
But then the door clicked; and everything else went with it. The chatter outside dulled, footsteps became distant. Even the weight of people watching seemed to be categorized as unimportant — peering eyes blocked by the tall wooden door. All that remained was the faint hum of the cheap fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of fabric as you eased your palms back onto one of the beds.
Finally… you could breathe.
“That your boyfriend?”
You blinked, lifting your head slightly despite the dull throb that followed. “What?”
“If it is,” he continued, tone more matter-of-fact than anything else. “Sorry for grabbing you like that in front of him. He didn’t look like he was going to handle the situation well.”
Your brows knit together, confusion flickering through the lingering haze. You shook your head. “No. He’s just my new science partner.”
“Oh.” The brunette leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest as his eyes dragged along the curve of your cheek. “Alright.”
Alright?
The corners of your lips tipped downwards, canine dug deep against the tissue of your cheek as you observed the boy in uniform. Truthfully, something about him was weird. Not in a bad way — just… off. Like trying to recall a dream you know you had, but can’t quite piece together no matter how hard you focus. But you didn’t dwell on it. You did just have your head slammed into.
“Well,” you started. “Thanks for bringing me.” Your gaze soon flicked toward the door, subtle but intentional, giving him a clear out to the situation he had unexpectedly found himself in. Except, he didn’t take it. Didn’t even move, really. He just continued to lean, still watching you in that same quiet, almost absent way — like he wasn’t trying to stare, but couldn’t quite stop himself either. Honestly, it was making your demeanor border diffident more than anything else. A sense of unease that hadn’t appeared in your vocabulary since you were eight. “Guess I should really watch where I’m going, huh?” You added, a weak attempt at humor slipping through.
Fuck. Why was he making you so… Awkward?
His expression remained stoic, a slight sigh escaping his nasal. “Yeah.” You almost whined in pure embarrassment at his response. I mean, that was it? Not even a courtesy laugh — just that dry, practical agreement like your attempt at easing the situation hadn’t even registered as a joke.
“C’mon man. The least you could do is pretend that was funny.” You muttered, warmth already creeping up the base of your neck.
Sadly, he didn’t bite. “But I agree. Watching where you’re going would definitely help.”
Yep, you wanted to disappear; drag the thin, crinkling sheet over your head and hope that somehow, miraculously, you’d phase out of existence. Because what was this? Why was this happening? And more importantly — where the hell was the nurse?
She’d stepped out not long ago; something about a call, leaving you behind with gauze pressed to your forehead and that stupid wrap snug around your head. Frankly, her being here would’ve helped. At least then there’d be something to focus on. Something to fill the thick stretch of silence that made every aching second worse.
Your fingers twisted into the sleeves pooled around your hands, fabric bunching as you tried to steady yourself; tried to find that version of you that didn’t get like this. Because you didn’t — not anymore. You’d worked too hard for that: You knew how to hold conversations, how to stay present, how to keep your thoughts from spiraling into something unmanageable. You were good at it.
So why was it unraveling now?
Your gaze flicked up before you could stop it. And of course, he was still looking at you. “You seemed like you were pretty into that conversation.”
“Huh?”
“With him,” he clarified, nodding vaguely toward the door. “Before you ran into the desk.”
Normally, a query like that would signal some underlying intention. A sliver of inquisitive wonder to get some sort of information. But for some reason, his tone didn’t have an ounce of accusation to it. “Oh — yeah. We were just discussing an upcoming project.”
“What kind?”
“Reaction times,” you said; voice a little steadier now that the topic made sense. “We’re thinking of doing experiments on reflex speed. Different stimuli, stuff like that.” He hummed once: Not fully impressed with the reasoning behind your lack of awareness, but not dismissive either. “I think we need people for it, though,” you added. “Like actual participants. Not just me and him. And I’m not sure how we'd even round anyone up for that.”
The boy cleared his throat, back straightening as his shoulders returned against the wall. “Volleyball players would work.”
“What?”
“They’ve got fast reflexes,” he said simply. “More consistent results.”
Huh. That actually… made sense. But how in the hell would you get a whole team to participate in such a random quest? You opened your mouth to respond, ready to dig deeper into his thought process, yet the door slammed open, a soft voice quickly following suit. “Iwa-channn, I got wind from Hanamaki that you snapped and started hitting people other than me. I’m impressed. But also a bit annoyed because I thought I was the only one—” The boy faltered, eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he peered down at you. It was Oikawa. Now he, you knew — your friends could never really shut up about him and his unparalleled beauty. “Oh,” he said, goaded tone immediately shifting to intrigue. “It’s you.”
You scrunched your nose. “Me?”
“Mhm.” His smile came easily, a sense of confidence etched into his stance as he rested an elbow atop of his friend’s shoulder. “You’re friends with Matsuda, right? I noticed you always hang around her in the hallways whenever she drops by my classroom.”
Yeah, this was not helping your current state of mind. Your fingers lifted, the pad of your pointer pressed against your temple as you tried to recall moments of passing. But everything seemed fuzzy; at least, everything regarding Oikawa. The only faint memory was Matsuda goggling at a few of the volleyball teammates in class 3-6, but you didn’t really pay much mind to that. I mean, why would you? You only ever stayed around that room for a few minutes before darting off.
Iwa-chan (at least, that’s what Oikawa called him) exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiver of irritation evident in the way his nostrils flared. “Why are you here, Oikawa?”
“To visit my dear teammate, obviously,” Oikawa alleged, sliding his elbow away and stepping further into the cramped room without a hint of hesitation. “And to meet the head-injury victim.” His gaze flicked back to you, lingering just a second too long for your comfort.
“Oh. I’m fine.” You said quickly.
“Good,” he replied. “You’re pretty, so I'd hope you were okay.”
Your brows pulled inward immediately at that. For two people who seemed so different, they both had this same problem — talking like their thoughts didn’t need filtering. The difference was that Oikawa’s bluntness landed somewhere between observation and flirtation, which only made your posture tighten, shoulders drawing in slightly as heat prickled the tips of your ears.
“What?” he said innocently, hands lifted in mock surrender. “It’s true.” The air notably shifted at his reluctance to back down. Subtle exchanges between the two boys had become increasingly common. Like something in the room had been recalibrated, off-center, and they didn’t quite know how to work it out yet (with words, at least). But you could see the way Iwa’s jaw tightened. And you could see the way Oikawa noted it immediately. His expression changed — camera-ready grin softening into something more calculated, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Anyway,” he resumed. “I did happen to hear something about the volleyball team. If you ever need the team, I can make that work: The team… Me… Whatever you need!”
Iwa-chan’s patience visibly snapped. “Shittykawa,” he said flatly, stepping forward just slightly. “We’re trying to help her. You offering yourself up sounds less like helping and more like you just want attention. Fucking idiot.” His hand raised, palm smacking against the back of his friend’s scalp.
Oikawa gasped dramatically, clutching his skull in effort to dull the radiated pain. “How cruel. I’m offering resources.”
“You’re saying you are the resource.”
“And a very valuable one!” Oikawa added immediately. You stared between them, unsure where you were supposed to land in this conversation — if you were even meant to be part of it at all. But Oikawa’s attention drifted back to you again.
“As I was saying. Think about it.”
The third time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, it was in the high school gym.
And boy was it… different. Your once solidified memory of predictability and contentment had no longer meshed with the word gymnasium. Because this one was louder: Shoes screeching against the once polished floors, sharp echo of volleyballs colliding with hands at each corner.
This wasn’t your space. Not like before, at least. And yet — you had still walked in. Because, somehow, you had agreed to this. Agreed to the arrangement that now had you standing just near the entrance, fingers curled back into your sleeves, eyes trying hard to ignore the chaotic movements of rowdy boys.
Yeah…No. This wasn’t going to work.
Your heels dug into the wood, fully prepared to swivel your body out the door before anyone could take note of your appearance. But you could feel it; the vibrations of Haru behind you. And there was no way in hell he was going to let you walk out. “This is perfect,” he beamed, already pulling out his notebook. “Do you see their form? Their reaction speed? This is exactly what we needed.”
Of course it was. Of course he was thrilled. Easy volunteers, controlled environment, data that would probably carry the entire project on its back.
Oh, Haru had won. And he knew it.
You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting across the gym in reluctance — only to catch something familiar. Or, more accurately, someone: Iwa-chan stood across the court, a volleyball resting loosely in his palm as he listened to something one of his teammates was saying.
Yet, for a second, his gaze flicked up, meeting yours in an instant. And you couldn’t help it; the center of your chest tightened, warmth shedding your entire body. It was the same feeling you had at eight years old.
Oh god, please don’t run away and cry.
But his lingering gaze soon turned into a subtle gesture; a small tilt of his head toward the court, like he was telling you to come closer without making a big deal out of it. And this was what you had prepared for all those years ago. The rare moment that would allow you to refine your past into something more ameliorate. You took a big gulp and pushed your weakening feet forwards.
It was difficult though; finding a reason not to bolt. The sounds only sharpened the deeper you got in the gym: Their voices became more disordered, their serves became a little less predictable — near misses to the side of your head inevitable. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly, gaze flicking from one player to the next, trying to map out where you were supposed to stand — where you were supposed to even exist in this environment.
“Oi, Iwaizumi…” The voice drifted off the second he saw you. And there was no subtlety to your intrusion anymore — just pure dubiety written across everyone’s faces as you turned to the brunette for any sort of repose. “Uh, who’s that? New manager?”
“No,” Iwaizumi shifted his jaw around, thumb hooking around the collar of your shirt as he tugged you forward slightly. “She’s here for a project.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to settle his teammates' questions before it could spiral into a mountain of more queries. The group nodded in understanding, attention fixed neatly on you as they awaited more clarity on their pending participation. Yet, you couldn’t move. I mean, who knew volleyball players could be so… intimidating. Iwaizumi stepped closer, finger still hooked within your fabric while the ball in his right hand tapped once against his palm before he stilled it. “Head okay?”
“Yeah.”
His irises narrowed, a look of uncertainty engrained in the crease between his brows. But he didn’t push it. That wasn’t really his place. “Alright,” he noted, glancing past you briefly — probably toward where Haru was still hovering near the entrance. “Get whatever you need to set up.”
Right. Setup.
You turned slightly as you waved Haru over. And he didn’t need much convincing (unlike you) — already halfway across the floor before you fully gestured, notebook still clutched in one hand, the other digging through his bag for whatever materials he had insisted on bringing.
“This is fantastic,” he breathed, eyes darting everywhere at once. “We can start with baseline reaction tests, then move into variable stimuli: auditory, visual—”
“Keep it simple today.” Iwaizumi cut in.
Haru stuttered. “Simple?”
“Yeah. Don’t overcomplicate it.”
Haru nodded quickly. “Right. Yes, okay, we can do that.” You glanced between them, then back toward the rest of the team who were still watching, some more subtly than others. It was peculiar, observing the intensity Iwa possessed when discussing with Haru. For anyone on the outside, it would seem as though the volleyball player harbored hatred towards the blonde.
Huh, maybe it was because of the way he reacted this morning.
No matter the cause, it would appear that you had, unbeknownst, become the best mediator in the situation, the one who would oversee communication between the players and Haru. Although, one particular team member deemed it a necessary obstacle you’d have to overcome.
“Hey l/n-chan!” You turned, watching as Oikawa stood just a few steps away — one hand rested on his hip, the other lifting in a small, easy wave. “You made it. Nice bandage too. Looking cute!” It was a simple comment; a declaration followed by his warm and inviting smile. But that wasn’t what caught you: It was your name, and the way it came out so easily for him. Not to mention the honorifics he added to the end of it. “Oh, wait,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “It is l/n, right? I asked Matsuda earlier.”
Yeah, Matsuda was definitely going to give you an earful about this later.
Iwa, however, looked like he was two seconds away from combusting. His finger, still hooked lightly beneath the collar of your shirt, tightened just enough to tug you back — to pull you out of the center like you didn’t belong there in the first place. It was subtle: Controlled. But it still made you feel like a ragdoll being repositioned without warning.
“Yeah. It is.” You answered, slower this time. Honestly, you weren’t sure if that was the right response. Or if you were supposed to correct him, say something about the honorifics, tell him not to use it so casually. But maybe that’s how Oikawa was. So who were you to shut down his playful mannerisms? Yet with the way Iwaizumi lingered, the way his finger kept a firm grip on your clothes, it felt like that was the wrong decision. And it was becoming painfully clear that Iwa wasn’t going to be your sense of relief anymore.
Unfortunately, that left Haru. Who, completely oblivious, was already across the court trying to line up a ruler with one of the players’ hands like none of this was happening.
“Perfect!” Oikawa continued, completely unfazed to his teammates' death glares. “For a second I thought I had it wrong. That would’ve been embarrassing, huh?”
You let out a polite laugh, something to fill the uncomfortable silence that threatened to build. “Yeah.”
Iwa didn’t budge to the fibbed innocence. He placed his right leg in front of yours, the ball resting in his hand thrown roughly against the chest of the captain. “Unbelievable,” Oikawa squealed, hand pressing to his sternum. “You always resort to violence!”
“I wouldn’t have to if you were smart.”
Yeah, you needed this to end — It was becoming painfully uncomfortable. “Why don’t we start?” You asked, palms clasped together in an effort to cut through whatever that was trying to become. “We’ll just start with something simple. Reaction timing.” A few of them straightened slightly, attention shifting back. “We’ll start with you all catching the ruler when it drops. That way, we can measure the distance and convert it into reaction time.”
“Cool. Sounds easy enough.” Someone mentioned.
“I can go first.” Your head turned instinctively: Iwaizumi. He stepped forward without hesitation, rolling his shoulders once before holding his hand out, palm hovering just below the ruler. “Like this?” he asked.
You nodded, stepping closer to position it properly. “Yeah, just don’t grab it until it falls.”
“Got it.”
You adjusted the height slightly, trying your hardest to ignore his bicep brushed against your shoulder. But with the way the tension in his arm pressed against the fabric, muscles set in preparation — you almost let the ruler slip. “You, uh, ready?” He nodded once and that was all the confirmation you needed; anything to get him and his body away. So, you let go, observing as his fingers snapped shut around the ruler instantly.
What the fuck. That was fast.
A small scoff came from somewhere behind you two, a tall figure looming within your peripheral vision. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want accurate data, y/n.” You shivered at Oikawa’s address: It was one thing to add honorifics to your last name. But your first name? That was something you were definitely going to have to get used to. “Right, Iwa-chan?”
Iwaizumi’s posture shifted, tongue pressed tight to the inside of his cheek as your name echoed within the group. He needed to control himself, to restrain himself from smacking Oikawa so hard he’d forget his own birthday. So, he resorted to gripping the ruler, knuckles white from the tension. “Shut up, Shittykawa. Or I’m making you run laps.”
Yep. You were absolutely turning red — you needed Haru, and stat.
“You can’t do that! I’m captain!” Iwa-chan narrowed his gaze, earning a small whimper from the boy to the side. “How about I just try?” Oikawa puffed his chest out as if that statement alone justified everything that had come out of his mouth — hand already reaching for the ruler like he had every right to take over. Iwaizumi, however, was swift to smack it away before his fingers could even brush the plastic.
“No.”
“Wow. Again, violent. In front of a girl too,” Oikawa muttered, rubbing the back of his hand before flashing you a grin that didn’t quite rival the look of irritation in his eyes. “See what I deal with, y/n?”
There it was again: Your name. You swallowed, ignoring the grunt that escaped Iwa’s throat at his incredulous friend. “I’ll adjust. Hold it higher to match inconsistencies in height.” You stated, stepping back half a pace — anything to create space from the touch of Iwa’s bicep.
“Do it again.” Iwa stated.
Your head lilted innately, a few blinks fluttering at the newfound abruptness. “What?”
“The test,” he clarified, holding his hand out again. “Do it again.”
Oikawa dragged his tongue across his lower lip, cheeks puffed out at the frustration iwaizumi was putting him through. “You’re acting like you didn’t just ace it.”
“I said do it again.”
The tone was enough to silence Oikawa, forcing him to back away, hands pressed against his shorts while his lips thinned into a tight line. “Fine, fine. I’ll wait my turn.”
Yeah, the hit to your head was definitely getting to you. “Alright then, ready?” A nod. And just like before, his fingers caught it instantly. “Okay, yeah. That’s, uh, consistent.”
“Told you.” Oikawa chimed in from behind, far too pleased for someone who hadn’t even participated yet.
But you ignored his commentary, your focus now fixated on the line of participants you needed to get through. How many rounds of experiments until you were able to escape such a fever dream. “Oikawa.” you waved him up, stepping a full pace away from the wing spiker before he even had the chance to pull you back into whatever invisible radius he seemed to keep you in.
And just like that, the rhythm picked up. Haru scribbled frantically beside you, muttering calculations under his breath as he eyed the measurements. It wasn’t until dusk had arrived, most members of the team gone, that time had caught up with you.
“I’m going to go home and get this data written out coherently before I forget,” Haru tipped forward, blonde hair framing the sides of his ears. “Please get home safe. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too much.”
You gave a smile, a gentle reminder to your science partner that you were, indeed, feeling loads better than the last time he saw you. Haru gave a weak thumbs up after that, scrambling out the door and into the night.
It was funny, really. The way you’d somehow ended up back in a gym alone. Only this time, the walls weren’t lined with those chipped scooters you used to wait for. No quiet corners carved out solely for you. Just buckets of volleyballs stacked along the edges, the faint scent of socks and varnished wood lingering heavier than it did a few hours ago.
“You’re still here.” You whipped around, watching as Iwaizumi stood near the bathroom door, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges, shirt clinging slightly from the perspiration of today’s training.
“Sorry,” you started, already backing up on your heels, fingers curling tight around the strap of your bag as the exit crept closer behind you. “Haru and I were just going over the results — like a debrief. I was about to leave.”
His gaze didn’t follow the explanation, though. It stayed on you; traced your face like he was looking for something specific — before dropping, settling on the bandage still stuck stubbornly to your skin. “I’ll walk you home.”
Your brows pinched together. Walk you home? He didn’t even know where you lived. What if you were on the complete opposite side of town? You opened your mouth, ready to question it, to at least clarify, but he already grabbed his bag in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second thought, no reason for you to decline his declaration.
So, the fourth time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi — it was intentional.
soft domesticity with iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer <3
you find him in the kitchen.
he’s standing there, hair a little messy from sleep, sweatpants low on his bare torso, his muscular figure on full display. he has your coffee already poured into your favorite mug. he knows how you like it. always has.
you lean against the doorway, watching him for a second longer before he notices you. his eyes soften instantly.
“mornin',” he says, voice all warm and scratchy. “didn’t mean to wake you.”
you shake your head, padding over to him, toes cold against the kitchen tile. he hands you the mug and you take it with a quiet smile, fingers brushing his. he doesn’t pull away.
“couldn’t sleep without you,” you mumble, sipping the coffee. it’s perfect, as always.
he smiles, that small, lopsided one he saves just for you. “yeah? missed me that much?”
you roll your eyes but you’re already sliding into his arms, coffee cradled between your palms as his arms wrap around your waist. his chest is warm and solid and home.
he rests his chin on top of your head and you feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing, steady and sure.
“i missed you too,” he says, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret. “every second. always do.”
"you're such a sap," you snicker. despite your tease, you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into him.
the morning light spills in through the window, soft and golden. the world feels far away.
but here, in his arms, you feel safe. like maybe you don’t need anything else.
iwaizumi hajime, who is your best friend but has been pining for you since your high school days.
and you're so so so oblivious. even now, at the ripe age of 24, you still consider his lingering touches as friendly, the way he wipes at the corner of your mouth when you had just gone out to eat.
you never considered these interactions to be romantic. because it all felt so natural with hajime, as if it was supposed to be that way. you thought it was just how your friendship worked.
this changes when you're 26, tipsy and absolutely drunk on hajime's cock.
you finally realized there was purpose in his touch, in his words. in the way he made you feel so good.
this was only after you were settled on iwa's couch, cuddling up against him, a few glasses of wine in your system, and finally, a sweet whisper of his confession.
so you spent the rest of the night making up for lost time and lost touch, that was blatantly not in a best friend way.
wc: 2.0k
content warning: post-timeskip, established relationship, smut, hehe bf iwaizumi x reader, i present virgin iwa, creampie, not proofread... might be butt but i miss iwa chan
ৎ୭ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ .
"truth or dare?"
"mmm.. truth"
"are you a virgin?"
"...yes."
playing a little game of truth or dare, your boyfriend, iwaizumi, can't help but get caught in your mischievous truths that reveal more insight about himself personally.
you two may have had a little more than just a talking or situationship stage.. as in you two were exclusive and everyone knew it. but you two haven't talked about this before. and it just so happens that ever since you said yes to his official "proposal" to ask you if he could be your boyfriend, those types of questions have started to creep into your mind, causing your genuine curiosity to spike.
"no way haji.. are you kidding me?" you gasped at the shock.
i mean, look at the guy. he's tall, a pretty face constantly burrowed in thick furrowed brows, a tight and well-built body that can probably fling a wrecking ball across a whole football stadium. no way he's never cracked a girl before, but turns out he's never had sex.. even once?
"i'm serious. i've never had sex before," his chocolate eyes look everywhere but you, his fingers brushing against the back of his neck in shyness.
"hmmm..." leaning in to study his facial expressions to indicate if he was lying or telling the truth, again.. he ignored making eye contact like the plague as he starting to stare at the ceiling, "hmph, you wanna try it?"
catching his attention, his whole body's burned a bright red with wide eyes that stared right through yours. iwaizumi doesn't even know what to say, his mouth is just dangling open while yours deviously curled into a mischievous smile.
shifting your body weight onto his, making him get lower on his back as you sat on his tender thighs he can't help but stare at your breasts encased in your bra from the way the collar of your shirt dragged down.
"i—i mean.." losing focus of what to study, the curves of your breast or the way you were making him feel.
"...you mean?"
"i want to try it," iwaizumi swallowed hard, placing his sweaty big palms on both sides of your ass.
smiling at the fact that you already got him hard—iwaizumi's cock was more than just erect from the erotic scenes playing in his head, wondering how you'll look naked, tits bouncing, and how your walls would flutter around his cock.
you've got yourself emitting heat from your core, dripping in your undies as you slowly grind yourself into his while brushing your lips against Iwaizumi's for an intimate kiss. iwaizumi's gradually built up his hardness to the point where he needed more than just the way your lazy hips moved, firmly grasping onto the flesh of your ass through your shorts, he dragged you on him.
at the subtle change came bigger waves of pleasure stimulating him, iwaizumi's already got his breath hitching a bit as the room briefly spun. your tongue was driving him crazy, massaging and playing around in his mouth.
hands roaming all over his fit figure, you rubbed him all over... using your senses to find the bottom hem of his shirt to slip your fingers under and feel him up. and good god.. his body's warm, his chest rising and falling, and the way you could feel every chisel of his torso made you even more aroused. reaching deeper down his shirt, to his pecs, to his collarbone, to his neck—you paused to pull yourself off him.
"ugh haji, you're so cute" you giggled on instinct, looking at his flustered face, "take off your shirt."
doing like you said like the obedient boyfriend iwaizumi was, he ripped off his shirt and flung it over your shoulder while he gazed at the way you did the same. you've got him analyzing every lacy pattern on your bra, the way it cupped your breasts and gave it that lift, and the way he wanted to unbuckle it so bad.
"...you're pretty" feeling his hands on your waist, voice full of primal urge while he bit his bottom lip.
iwaizumi's different.. a moment ago he couldn't even look you in the eye, but now he can't help but watch your every moment intensely with wide eyes. his large hands slowly pushed themself upon your skin till they hit the clasps of your bra—unbuckling them with a simple click as you felt the relief of the tightness disappear.
intently iwaizumi watched your breasts free from their restraints and while you slid off the straps and showed your boyfriend your bare chest, nipples hard, looking right back at him. giggling, you felt his cock twitch in his pants beneath you. he's flushed, eyes analyzing the shape, size, and color of your nipples, he wanted to rub his fingers on.
"what do you wanna do now.. hm?" you teased, whispering into his ear, kissing the contour of his jaw while moving lower—making him shiver and develop goosebumps.
"wanna fuck you" iwaizumi slithered his hands between your shorts, underwear and groped your ass with a nice firm squeeze.
holding you from the bottom, iwaizumi easily flips you onto your back and takes the initiative, catching you off guard when you realized. breasts all flat from being on your back, legs in the air, while he hiked your shorts up and off to expose your needy cunt.
gasping at the cold breeze brushing against your clit combatting the warmth of your bodies, he's got his fingers separating your folds to reveal how wet from arousal you've become from all the kissing and thought of getting stuffed by his cock.
"i can feel you twitching around my fingers" iwaizumi said under his breath, eyes focused on the way your cunt sucked in his fingertips when he pressed on your entranced.
"maybe it's cuz i want you inside, ever think about that?" you smirked, peering at his furrowed brows to his bulge that looks ready to explode.
fingers drawing lines up and down to evoke satisfying sensations on your pussy, iwaizumi recalled seeing this in a porno oikawa made him watch—slowly he massaged circles on the top where your clit was. clenching at the fact that iwaizumi knew somewhat where the clit was, you were surprised and aroused.
slick was dripping out your needy hole, preparing itself for him to shove his cock in while his fingers took and spread it all over your clit, making it slippery and your body quiver with each touch.
"does it feel good?" his deep, raggedy voice asked while he eyed the way your legs started to tremble and enclose themselves.
"s-so good haji," throwing your head back into the mattress with an arm over your eyes that you closed so tightly, feeling you become undone with his fingers, "need more.."
responding to your neediness, iwaizumi's plunges both his fingers to stretch out your hole. the sounds of your wetness mixed with the way your plush walls clung to his fingers were so erotic, he couldn't help but feel the need to make you cum on the spot. mind you, this guy doesn't even know where to find your sweet spots, he's just pistoning his fingers inside you and it's working regardless.
"is this okay?" asking for reassurance, like your body wasn't twitching on its own from the way pleasure rippled throughout your body in ecstasy.
"i-i might, cuum" you whimpered, pushing his hand away for a brief moment while you caught your breath.
closing your legs above your chest, you heaved for air while your boyfriend took off his shorts, followed by his boxers. peering at his lean figure, lower to his dick—it was girthy, good length, and good circumference that's going to definitely split you in half but in the best way possible.
"wait haji, i think i'm ready" you gulped between your heavy breathing, spreading your legs once more to take a better look at his cock he jerked in his hand.
"are you sure?" iwaizumi asked
"yes.. put it in" your voice dripped with lust, hands running up his chest to pull him closer.
muttering an 'mkay,' slapping his tip on your clit and dragging it lower towards your entrance as you watched with impatient eyes. a hand around the free reign of his neck, and the other guiding him inside.
feeling that little push as he breaks into you made you moan as he slowly used his hips to stuff you full of him to the brim. his girth was filling you all the way up, even the little crevices in your womb and tailored your walls to his cock, every inch and vein.
"you're s-so tight.." he breathed shakily, but with a slight smirk on his lips feeling the way your walls are fluttering around him, “..are you okay though?”
you can’t even lie, having his whole girth inside you damn nearly knocked all the air out of your lungs. it was like you were suffocating in his embrace, taking the shortest breaths of air as you adjusted to him.
“yeah, just keep going” you panted, “i can feel you all around me.. you feel so good haji.”
slithering your hands around the free reign of his neck as he lowers himself onto you, his searing lips catching onto your tender skin on your collarbone as he intoxicates himself with your scent. your walls clench around his circumference with every peck, slowly, slowly, till your plush walls lowered their guard.
iwaizumi's got himself handling you like an ancient artifact, just barely thrusting deeper inside you as you let out soft moans with each movement. he's absolutely drinking up the way you sounded in his ears, the way your pussy clung so tightly onto him, and the way you were begging for more.
"fa-faster haji, i want you deeper", fingers twisting into his short locs of dark brown hair as he nods to your request.
iwaizumi bucks his hips in with immense impact, making your body ripple with ecstasy as your eyes roll back. he's got himself thrusting deeper, stronger, mindlessly into your cunt, finding all the little cracks and passages inside you that made you lose your mind while you went: ah, ah-aah..! as you praised him.
"fuck, you—you're m-making get so close..!" your boyfriend groaned between each plapplapplap sound of his balls hitting your ass.
nails digging straight into his shoulders while you clung onto any purchase of him, creating crescents in his beautiful tan skin. you were moaning so erotically in his ear, he could bust at any moment whenever you murmured his name in between ragged breaths and lewd squelches of your mixed fluids.
him finding your cervix was like sweet bliss. he probably didn't even know what it was before you started arching whenever he "accidentally" found it and began to rut his cock into it, essentially bullying it for your own pleasure while it built up his.
"i'm—i'm gonna c-cuu-cummm" iwaizumi moans breathlessly in your ear.
spilling his white paint, he covered your walls with his seed all over while you collapsed his body that was sheen with a layer of sweat right on top of you.
your vision was white and blurry like iwaizumi's cum inside of you before you regained your composure from reaching your climax. yet, he was still inside, his cock stopping his seed from flowing out of your womb as you felt hot and full of him.
with his big body caging you from escaping or moving, you've got yourself tapping on his heat-emitting body for some cool air when he moves himself to the side by the teeniest inch.
can't keep himself off you though, he's got you circled with his bicep while turning his head to look at you with half lidded tired eyes, but with a slight smile on his lips.
synopsis. Oikawa Tooru has a hopeless crush on his best friend’s older sister — and he’s doing a terrible job hiding it.
- Oikawa fell for you way earlier than he’ll ever admit—probably around his second year, when you dropped by the gym to bring Iwaizumi an umbrella and told him to “don’t be dumb and get sick.” You weren’t even talking to him, but he was completely wrecked.
- He’d never met someone who could shut down his dramatic little speeches with just a look. The first time you raised an eyebrow at him for being too loud in the gym, he went quiet for a full three seconds. Iwaizumi thought he was broken.
- Still, he plays it cool. Or at least tries to. Around you, he switches to this very obvious polite version of himself—bowing a little too perfectly, speaking just a bit more formally than usual, like:
“Ah, Iwa-chans sister! Always a pleasure.”
Iwaizumi throws a volleyball at him every time.
- He makes excuses to hang around you. If Iwaizumi’s walking home with you, suddenly Oikawa is too.
“Oh? You’re going that way? Haha, what a coincidence!” He totally wasn’t waiting around for fifteen minutes or anything…
- He gets flustered so easily and tries to play it off with that usual smirk. You tell him his hair looks nice, and he nearly walks into a streetlamp.
“I mean, it always looks nice,” he mumbles, ears turning flush pink.
- He has this secret little habit of memorizing your favorite snacks or drinks from the vending machines. He’ll act like he just “happened” to grab an extra and offer it to you all casual—but inside he’s screaming.
- You once ruffled his hair and called him a good kid. He didn’t sleep that night. He laid awake thinking, I’m not a kid. I could be boyfriend material. Real boyfriend material.
- He actually does get jealous, makes it known in his own way. If someone else flirts with you, he suddenly starts talking louder, cracking more jokes, throwing in little humble brags like,
“Oh yeah, I’ve had scouts looking at me lately. No big deal.” (It definitely was though.)
- But the second you smile at him, he softens. Completely. It’s obvious in his gaze—he looks at you like he’s trying not to get his hopes up.
- Iwaizumi definitely knows. He just hasn’t said anything. Yet. He gives Oikawa a death glare every time he gets too close to you, but deep down… he can tell Oikawa’s actually serious about you.
- Oikawa jokes around a lot—calling himself the “future brother-in-law” just to rile Iwaizumi up. But if you ever took him aside and said,
“Do you really like me?”
He’d go completely still. Look you right in the eyes.
