a/n; hii... I am alive (＞ｍ＜) I'm so so sorry for disappearing! real life took over and I am still really busy working, but I have been writing in my free time (think I lost some of that spark though but i hope it shall come back, I hope you like one (o^ ^o) and I do have your ideas in mind I promise!
a momager and her silly olympic team.
why you should never stand near atsumu's serves and how team japan babies you. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.
cue the most dramatic apology in volleyball history (inspired by yuji nishida =^ ◡ ^=).
more olympic team shenanigans here!
more reads!
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The gymnasium echoes with the sharp thwack of volleyballs and sneakers squeaking against polished floors. You're crouched beside Hinata on the sidelines, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you work on the disaster of his shoelaces.
"Sho, how do you even do this?" you mutter, unlooping what appears to be some kind of thing masquerading as a knot.
"Ehehe, sorry!" Hinata grins, that sunshine smile never faltering even as you shake your head. His orange hair is already damp with sweat from warm-ups, and he's practically vibrating with energy. "I was in a hurry and—"
"You're always in a hurry," you say fondly, attempting to get the lace straightened out.
“—and I threw it in the washer, so the laces probably got fucked—”
"Sho!" You look up at him, and he has the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "Volleyball shoes are delicate! You can't just throw them in the washer!"
"But they were really dirty from yesterday's practice!" he protests, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, a nervous habit he's never quite broken. "And I thought if I just put them on the gentle cycle—"
"There is no gentle cycle for sports shoes," you say, trying to sound stern, but it comes out too soft. You hold up the mangled lace. "Look at this. The agitator tangled them all up, and the heat probably damaged the material. See how stiff this part is?"
He leans down to look, genuinely curious despite being scolded. "Oh. Ohhh, you're right."
"And the padding inside—"
You press gently on the insole, and it squelches slightly.
"—is still damp. You could get blisters, or worse… fungal infections."
"Ew."
"Exactly. Ew."
You cup his face with one hand, thumb brushing over his warm cheek, and he immediately leans into your palm. “Next time they get dirty, just wipe them down with a damp cloth, okay? Maybe use a shoe cleaning solution if they're really bad. No washing machine. Promise?"
"Promise," he says earnestly, brown eyes wide and sincere. He turns his head just slightly and presses a kiss to your palm—except his aim is adorably off, and he ends up kissing more of your fingers than anything else. That irrepressible grin breaks through again. "You're the best manager ever, you know that?"
"Flattery won't untangle these laces faster."
"Worth a try!"
You shake your head, biting back a smile as you return to the knot, still feeling the warm tingle where his lips brushed your hand. "Okay, I'm going to have to completely re-lace these. The knots are too tight to work out."
"Can you make them look cool? Like, with a pattern?"
"Sho, I'm trying to make them functional."
"Functional and cool?"
“Functional, period.”
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Around you, the practice court is alive; Coach had booked the entire venue for a closed practice session, but somehow word got out (of course), because this is Team Japan's Olympic roster, and now there's a modest crowd of fans pressed against the barriers, phones out, calling encouragement.
Bokuto's booming laugh carries across the court as he spikes another ball past Sakusa, who looks mildly annoyed behind his mask. "HEY! Did you see that cross-shot, Omi-Omi? That was at least a 10 out of 10!"
"It was a 6," Sakusa replies flatly, already positioning for the next ball. "And don't call me that."
"Aw, c'mon! You're just grumpy because I scored on you three times in a row!" Bokuto does a little victory wiggle, and you can see Sakusa's eye twitch.
"I'm allowing it for your confidence. You need the encouragement."
"Omi! That's so mean!" But Bokuto is grinning because they both know Sakusa's particular brand of affection comes wrapped in blunt honesty.
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On the other side of the court, Ushijima is practicing his serves with precision, each one a controlled missile. He pauses between serves to adjust his grip fractionally, tilting his head as he analyzes his own form. It's almost meditative, the way he approaches it, like he's having a quiet conversation with the ball about the optimal trajectory.
"Ushiwaka!" Bokuto calls out. "Bet you can't hit the same spot twice!"
Ushijima considers this. "Which spot?"
"Uh—" Bokuto looks around, then points at a water bottle someone left near the endline. "That one!"
Without a word, Ushijima serves. The ball rockets across the court and clips the water bottle, sending it spinning. He serves again. Same result, this time knocking it over completely.
"WHAT!" Bokuto shrieks. "That's not fair! You're a robot! A volleyball robot!"
"Thank you," Ushijima says seriously, completely missing the fact that it wasn't a compliment.
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Meanwhile, Kageyama is setting for Suna, the two moving in that effortless rhythm that makes volleyball look like art. Suna barely has to call for the ball—Kageyama just knows where he'll be, when he'll jump, the exact angle of his approach.
"Little higher next time," Suna says casually after spiking one down.
Kageyama's eye twitches. "That was perfect."
"Almost perfect."
"It was perfect, Rintaro."
"If you say so, Your Majesty." Suna's smirking now, lazy and knowing, and you can see Kageyama's competitive instinct flare.
The next set is so precisely calibrated to Suna's request that the ball practically hangs in the air, and Suna's spike is devastating. He lands and gives Kageyama the most subtle nod—acknowledgment and apology and approval all at once.
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Near the back, Komori and Aran are running receive drills, and Komori's are... creative.
"Motoya, you don't have to do a full layout for every ball," Aran says, exasperated, as Komori dramatically sprawls across the floor to dig up what was honestly a very manageable receive.
"But it looks cooler this way!" Komori calls from the ground, not even bothering to get up yet.
"We're not being graded on style points!"
"Everything is style points if you believe hard enough." Komori finally rolls to his feet, brushing off his knee pads with a cheeky grin. "Besides, the fans love it." He gestures to the crowd, where indeed several people are taking photos.
Aran pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing!" Komori bounces on his toes, ready for the next ball. "Okay, okay, hit me with your best shot. I promise I'll—"
Aran sends a spike his way, and true to form, Komori executes a completely unnecessary diving receive with a little spin at the end.
"MOTOYA!"
"What? I got it, didn't I?" Komori's grin is unrepentant as he pops back up. "Perfect receive. You should be thanking me."
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And Atsumu—
"Oi, sweetheart!" Atsumu's voice rings out, that Kansai drawl thick with amusement as he bounces a ball, setting up for a serve. "Watch this one! Gonna make it so pretty ya'll wanna frame it!"
You glance up just in time to see him toss the ball, that familiar cocky smirk on his face—
The serve goes horribly wrong.
Horribly.
You don't even have time to process it. One second you're threading a lace through Hinata's shoe in a neat criss-cross pattern, and the next—
SMACK.
White-hot pain explodes across the side of your face as the volleyball connects with your cheek. The impact sends you stumbling sideways, stars bursting behind your eyes. Hinata's hands shoot out to steady you, his startled yelp mixing with the collective gasp from the team.
"Oh my god—!"
"SHIT, BABY!"
Atsumu's voice cracks on the last word, pure panic bleeding through.
You blink away the tears automatically springing to your eyes, hand pressed to your stinging cheek, and look up to see: Miya Atsumu launching himself into a full-speed dive across the court.
Not a controlled athletic slide—a genuine, panicked, completely graceless belly-flop that sends him skidding across the polished floor on his stomach. He slides a good ten feet, the squeak of his jersey against the court echoing through the suddenly silent gymnasium, until he comes to a stop right in front of you in the deepest, most desperate dogeza you've ever seen. His forehead is pressed so hard against the floor you're worried he's going to leave an indent, his whole body prostrate, like he's begging the earth itself for forgiveness.
Even the fans have stopped taking photos, mouths open in shock.
"'Tsumu—" you start, torn between laughing and crying, because your face hurts but also he looks absolutely ridiculous and oddly touching and—
"'M so sorry!" His muffled voice comes from where his forehead is literally pressed to the floor. "'M so sorry, ‘m the fuckin’ worst, I—"
"Oh my god, get up," you say, but your voice comes out wobbly. You're not sure if you're about to laugh or cry or both.
Suna has his phone out, recording the entire thing with amusement. "New wallpaper," he deadpans. “This is gold."
"You fucked up, Miya," Kageyama observes with his usual bluntness, earning an elbow from Hinata.
"Not helping, Tobio!"
Bokuto looks at you with a pout and winces sympathetically. "Oof, that's gonna bruise.”
Atsumu finally lifts his head, and the look on his face is pure devastation. His brown eyes are wide, almost glassy, and he scrambles to his feet with none of his usual grace, practically tripping over himself to reach you.
"Sweetheart, oh my god, princess, I'm—" His hands hover around your face, not quite touching, like he's afraid he'll hurt you more. His Kansai accent is so thick right now you can barely understand him, words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean—I wasn't lookin'—I mean I was, but the ball just—yer face, oh god, yer pretty face—"
"'Tsumu, I'm okay," you try to say, but he's already cupping your cheeks with trembling hands, tilting your face this way and that to inspect the damage.
"Yer not okay, look at ya!" His thumbs brush just below the impact site, feather-light. "It's already turnin' red, I'm such an idiot, I'm so sorry—"
And then he's kissing your cheeks: soft, desperate little pecks scattered across your face like apologies. Your forehead, your nose, your uninjured cheek, the corner of your mouth.
"’M sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry—"
Kiss.
"—so sorry, baby—"
Kiss.
"—never gonna forgive myself—"
Kiss.
For all of Atsumu's swagger and bravado on the court, for all his cocky grins and sharp-tongued banter with the team, this is how he really loves: desperately, completely, with his whole body. He's never been good with the soft words, always stumbling over declarations and getting embarrassed by genuine sentiment.
But his touch?
That's where all his tenderness lives. Every kiss a promise, every gentle hold a vow. He shows what he can't always say, pouring everything he feels into these moments—the careful way he cradles your face, the reverent press of his lips against your skin, the way he's literally trembling with the need to make sure you're okay.
He nuzzles against your jaw, and you can feel how tense he is, practically vibrating with guilt and stress.
"Atsumu," you say more firmly, wrapping your fingers around his wrists. "Breathe. I'm fine."
"Yer not fine, I hit ya with a volleyball—"
"It was an accident."
"Doesn't matter!" His voice cracks again. "I hurt ya!"
From behind, you feel warm arms wrap around your shoulders as Hinata drapes himself over your back like a human blanket. "You sure you're okay?" he asks, his voice soft and warm against your ear.
He tilts his head, and suddenly his face is right next to yours, upside down and grinning that impossible sunshine grin despite the concern in his eyes. "That was a pretty hard hit."
"Sho, you're—" You can't help but laugh, even though it makes your cheek throb, because he looks so silly hanging over you like this, his orange hair flopping everywhere, his face completely upside down. "You look ridiculous."
"But did it make you feel better?" His eyes are sparkling with mischief and warmth, and he nuzzles against your uninjured cheek.
"...Maybe."
"Mission accomplished!" He squeezes you tighter, a proper back-hug now, and sways you both gently side to side. "See, 'Tsumu? She's smiling. She's okay."
You glance over at Atsumu, and your heart clenches. He's still sitting there looking absolutely wrecked—his bottom lip trembling slightly, eyes red-rimmed and glassy like he's two seconds away from actually crying, and his hands hovering uselessly in the air.
"'Tsumu, stop it," you say, reaching for him and pinching his ear softly.
He makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat and immediately pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair.
“Don’t get your snot on her hair, ‘Tsumu.” Suna appears on your other side, slouching against you with ease.
“Go’way, Rinrin,” Atsumu blubbers.
"Lemme see," Suna says, ignoring him. His fingers ghost over your reddening cheek with surprising gentleness. His touch, something about the intimacy of it—the way he's pressed his face against yours, the warmth of his breath, the surprising tenderness from someone usually so blasé—makes your chest feel tight. It tingles where he touches, half from the bruise and half from the sweetness of the gesture.
"Rin," you breathe.
"What?" He's already nuzzling into your neck shamelessly, but you can feel the small smile against your skin. "Medical assessment."
"That's not—"
A large hand lands on top of your head, and you look up to find Ushijima standing over you. He gives you—one, two, three—slow, deliberate head pats.
"You should ice it," he says in that deep, measured voice. Another pat. "Head injuries are serious."
"It wasn't a head injury, it was my cheek—"
Pat. Pat. Pat.
"Wakatoshi-kun, I don't think more head contact is the solution here," Suna points out, still draped over your shoulder.
Ushijima's hand pauses. "Ah. You're correct." But he doesn't move it.
"Okay, everyone back up, give her some space!" Komori's voice cuts through the chaos as he jogs over, medical kit already in hand. "Team mom mode activated!"
"I'm fine—"
"Uh-huh, sure." Komori gently but firmly extracts you from the tangles of the team, shooting Atsumu a look that makes the setter step back reluctantly. "Let me actually check. Open your eyes wide for me?"
You comply, and he checks your pupil response with a small flashlight, then carefully prods around the impact site.
"Any dizziness? Nausea? Ringing in your ears?"
"No, no, and no. It just stings."
"Mmm." He pulls out an instant ice pack, cracks it to activate it, and wraps it in a towel before pressing it gently to your cheek. "Hold this. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."
"‘Toya—"
"Doctor's orders. Well, libero's orders, but same thing."
Sakusa has drifted closer, maintaining his usual distance but watching with those sharp eyes. "Maybe Miya should practice his serves away from our manager for the remainder of practice," he observes dryly.
"Omi-kun!" Atsumu looks wounded. "I said I was sorry!"
"Saying sorry doesn't prevent repeat incidents."
"It was an accident!"
"A preventable one."
"Okay, okay, break it up." Iwaizumi's authoritative voice cuts through the bickering as he strides over, clipboard in one hand, whistle around his neck. His athletic trainer credentials give him just enough authority to boss around even this chaotic roster, and he uses it liberally.
You instinctively lean toward him as he approaches, and his free arm comes around your shoulders automatically, pulling you against his solid warmth.
"Let me see," he orders, and you tilt your face up obediently. He examines the mark with a critical eye, jaw tight. "Oof. That's gonna be colorful tomorrow."
"It's fine, Iwa."
His arm tightens around you briefly in reassurance. "Miya!"
Atsumu snaps to attention. "Yes, sir!"
"Fifty penalty serves. Far corner. Away from anyone with a functioning brain."
"Iwa-chan—"
"Iwaizumi-san," he corrects sharply, and Atsumu deflates.
"Yes, Iwaizumi-san," he mumbles, shooting you one more apologetic look before trudging toward the corner.
You can't help but giggle at the sight, even though it makes your cheek throb. "Don’t go so hard on him."
"Yeah, no. Can't have my manager getting concussed because someone can't aim." His tone is stern, but his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, thumb rubbing small circles at the base of your skull. "You good to keep up with stats, or you need a break?"
The combination of his solid presence and the soothing motion makes you melt a little. "I can work."
"Atta girl." It's said quietly, almost absently, as he scans his clipboard. "Okay, you idiots, back to drills! Everyone opposite end from Miya, please, for the love of—"
"Got it, Iwa-chan!"
"It's Iwaizumi-san!”
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The team starts to scatter, but before they can get too far, Bokuto hesitates, golden eyes flicking between you and the court. He's bouncing on his toes, that telltale sign that he wants something but isn't sure if he should ask.
"Bo?" you call out, and his whole face lights up.
"Can I—" He gestures vaguely at you, then at himself, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I mean, everyone else got to check on you, and I just—"
"Get over here," you say, opening your arms, and he's there in an instant.
Bokuto's hugs are all-encompassing, warm and solid and safe. He's careful with your face, tilting his head to nuzzle into your hair instead, and you can feel the tension in his shoulders ease as he holds you. "Scared me," he mumbles into your hair. "That was a really loud smack."
"I'm okay, Bo."
"Promise?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, those owl-like eyes searching your face for any sign of pain.
He grins, then dips down to press the gentlest kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. "Good. Because if you weren't okay, I'd have to fight Tsum-Tsum, and Omi-kun says fighting teammates is 'counterproductive.'" He does air quotes with one hand, the other still holding you close.
"Very counterproductive," you agree, laughing.
A shadow falls over you both, and you look up to find Kageyama standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking supremely awkward but determined. His ears are already turning pink.
"Kageyama?" you call softly.
He doesn't say anything—he never really needs to—but he steps closer, and before you can blink, he's leaning down and bonking his forehead against yours. He stays there for a moment, blue eyes serious and searching.
"You're okay?" he asks, voice low.
"I'm okay, Tobio."
Another gentle head bump, this one with the barest hint of a nuzzle, and you can't help but smile because Kageyama's come so far from the awkward, touch-starved setter who used to freeze up at any sign of affection. He's still not great with words, still gets flustered and red-faced, but he's learned—slowly, carefully—that it's okay to show he cares.
He bumps his forehead against yours one more time, softer now, almost playful, and you can see the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
"Good," he mutters.
"My turn." Aran appears besides Kageyama, arms crossed but eyes soft. "Some of us are actually worried, you know."
"You're always worried, Aran," Kageyama points out, but he steps aside.
Aran's affection is quiet, steady. He cups your uninjured cheek in his large palm, thumb brushing just below your eye as he examines the damage himself. "That's gonna hurt tomorrow," he says, voice low and warm. "You need anything, you tell me. Okay?"
"Okay," you whisper, leaning into his touch.
He gives you one more gentle pat on the head before stepping back and nearly crashes into Sakusa, who's been hovering at a careful distance, hands in his pockets.
"Omi?" you ask, surprised. Sakusa's not usually one for physical affection, especially not in public, especially not when he's in practice mode and hasn't showered yet.
He's quiet for a moment, dark eyes assessing. Then, with measured steps, he closes the distance between you. He doesn't touch your face—doesn't need to, you suppose, since everyone else already checked—but his hand comes up to rest on the top of your head, fingers gentle in your hair.
"Miya's an idiot," he says flatly.
"We've established that, Omi-Omi!" Bokuto calls from where Iwaizumi is already herding him toward the court.
Sakusa ignores him, his attention still on you. Then, in a move that surprises everyone—including, it seems, himself—he leans down and presses a quick, soft kiss to the crown of your head. It's over in a second, but the tenderness of it makes your chest ache.
"Don't let him hit you again," Sakusa says, pulling back. There's the barest hint of a smile hidden at the corner of his mouth. "It's unsanitary."
You burst out laughing, and even Sakusa's lips twitch upward before he turns and walks back to the court, pulling his practice mask back up.
"Did Omi-kun just—" Bokuto's voice carries across the gym, delighted and incredulous.
“Oh my god! That was s’cute!”
"Bokuto! Drills!"
"Going, Iwa-chan! But did you see that!"
Iwaizumi looks like he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment, but his hand is still warm on your shoulder, grounding and steady.
You settle back against his side, ice pack held to your cheek, and watch your team across the court. Hinata and Bokuto are already bickering about spike approaches. Suna has his phone out again, showing the screen to Kageyama, probably uploading that video of Atsumu's slide to every social he has. Ushijima is back to his meditative serving practice. Sakusa is pointedly not looking in your direction, but you catch him glancing over every so often. Komori and Aran are back to their drills, though Komori adds an extra little flourish to his next receive and shoots you a wink.
From the corner, Atsumu catches your eye and mouths another apology, looking so genuinely distraught that you blow him a kiss.
The smile that breaks across his face is blinding, and his next serve actually goes where it's supposed to.
"Stop acknowledging the guy who gave you a contusion," Iwaizumi mutters.
"It's barely a bruise!"
"Uh-huh. Ice. Twenty minutes. Timer starts now."
You sigh but comply, holding the ice pack to your cheek as the practice resumes around you. The fans are definitely getting their money's worth today—Olympic-level volleyball and drama.
You wouldn't have it any other way.
<3
