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odetosugas · 2 months ago

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a/n; friends!! so sorry this took a while. work has been busy so I only have time on the weekends mostly. this is just chaotic energy and crackheads together hehe, very long too, but I hope you like!

a momager and her silly olympic team.

2x spicy buldak… and ref, do something! fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

team japan tries the spicy noodle challenge on their lunch break... only to realize they have a game against the team that gave them the buldak... sabotage—?!

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

It was lunch time for Team Japan, and the chaos should have ended with the final whistle.

Keyword: should have.

Because if there was one thing Team Japan excelled at, besides volleyball, it was turning carbs and free time into absolute freedom-fueled delinquency—like ‘our mamas ain’t here, so we can do whatever we want because our manager’s an angel’ energy.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The match against Canada had just wrapped—gritty, sweaty, loud—but a win was a win. With no immediate press or post-game debrief, most of the boys lingered near the sidelines of the court, sprawled out across the floor, jerseys half on, hair messy, all basking in that post-victory energy and ready to ruin lives with their ‘flirt for fun’ faces for no reason whatsoever.

You and Iwaizumi remained near the bench area, cleaning up athletic tape, recovery wraps, and empty water bottles while muttering about how no one ever put their towels back in the ‘need to be washed’ duffle bag.

“Why are there three banana peels under this seat?” you grumbled, holding one up by the neck.

“Bokuto,” Iwaizumi said flatly.

Of course.

You let out a long-suffering sigh and raised your voice just a little. “Bo…?”

There was a pause before Bokuto poked his head around the bench, already wearing his best ‘I didn’t mean to’ face.

“I told you to use the trash bag,” you said gently, walking over with the peels still dangling. “I even labeled it for you.”

“You… did?” Bokuto blinked.

You nodded, holding up the clear plastic bag with the words ‘Team Japan’s BANANA GRAVEYARD’ written in bold marker and covered in dramatic doodles of haunted fruit.

“Oh… I thought that was a joke!” Bokuto said, genuinely distraught. “Like, I thought it was haunted bananas… not actual trash!”

“It was haunted,” you said pointedly. “By your mess.”

Bokuto let out a tragic little whimper and slumped against the bench like someone had told him the Olympics were canceled.

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, reaching out and gently fluffing up the front of his hair where it had flopped sadly forward. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“You’re not mad?” he asked, peeking up at you.

You grinned. “No. But I am mildly haunted.”

“Haunted by bananas?”

“By your inability to read labels.”

Behind you, Iwaizumi muttered, “And the fact that I stepped on one earlier.”

Bokuto gasped. “Wait—Iwa, are you okay—?!”

“No, thanks to you and your potassium trail of doom,” he grumbled.

You giggled and gave Bokuto’s hair another little spike. “There. Emo mode off. Crisis averted.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

And then it happened.

It started with one sentence from Hinata.

“Let’s do the spicy noodle challenge!”

You and Iwaizumi paused mid-trash bag tie.

“No,” you said immediately.

“I second that,” Iwaizumi added without looking up. “You’ve got a second match in a few hours. Eat something that won’t destroy your stomach lining.”

But did Hinata listen?

Absolutely not.

He was already pulling something out of his gym bag with the sort of smug pride only a man planning his own funeral could wear.

Three big red packets of 2x Spicy Buldak Noodles.

“Where did you even get those?” you asked suspiciously, walking over as the rest of the boys gasped and leaned in.

Hinata beamed, waving the crinkled black and red packaging. “A South Korean player gave them to me! He said they’re only mildly spicy—mostly sweet!”

“Sweet?” Sakusa echoed, eyeing the warning labels printed in bold red across the back. “‘2x Spicy’ doesn’t sound sweet.”

“It’s marketing!” Hinata chirped. “You know, to scare people!”

Atsumu snatched a pack from Hinata’s hands. “I’m in. How bad could it be? I’ve had ramen with, like, loads of red pepper before.”

From beside you, Iwaizumi didn’t even look up from where he was crouched near the bench, dragging out an alarming collection of empty protein bar wrappers with a look of pure disappointment.

“That was chili oil,” he said flatly, flicking a wrapper into a trash bag. “And Osamu made it with extra soy sauce and sugar for you because you’re a wuss.”

Atsumu’s scandalized gasp echoed through the court like he’d just been personally betrayed. “You take that back!”

Iwaizumi stood up, raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and dusted off his hands. “He told me himself. Also said you cried over the level one mapo tofu.”

“I didn’t cry, I sweated with emotion!” Atsumu shot back defensively.

“Oh, yeah?” Suna drawled, shifting just enough to dig into his pocket with one hand, the other lazily resting on Aran’s shoulders. “Because I got a picture.”

“No, you don’t,” Atsumu said instantly, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t—”

Suna had already pulled out his phone, casually flipping it around for everyone to see. “Behold. The moment our local golden boy met his match.”

Atsumu lunged. “DELETE IT—”

But it was too late.

The photo was zoomed in perfectly: Atsumu, hunched over the table, red-faced, eyes glassy, lips visibly swollen from spice overload. A single tear tracked dramatically down one cheek.

“Oh my god,” Komori wheezed, doubling over. “You look like you were going through a breakup and getting pepper sprayed.”

Kageyama let out a little huff. “He deserved every bit of that.”

“I told you to stop slurping,” Aran said, voice muffled with laughter.

“That was an allergic reaction!” Atsumu whined, flailing as Suna tilted the screen toward Ushijima, who blinked and offered a quiet, “You appear to be in great distress.”

“It was emotional damage,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu looked deeply offended, like a man wrongly accused in court. “You guys are dramatic. I’ll prove it. I’ll eat the whole thing. No water.”

“Make it two packs then,” Bokuto grinned, ever the instigator. “For science!”

“You people have zero survival instinct,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

“C’mon, sweets,” Hinata strolled up to you with a bounce in his step and the kind of wide-eyed pout that could shatter nations—certainly your self-control. He gave a little tug on your sleeve, swaying side to side like a pleading puppy.

“You gonna deny your favorite boys one little taste adventure?” he asked, voice dripping with mock innocence as his bottom lip wobbled just a little too perfectly.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I know that tone. That’s the ‘I’m gonna start chaos and pretend I didn’t’ voice.”

“What voice?”

And unfortunately, the rest of the team had already latched on.

“Please?” Komori added with puppy eyes that should be banned by the Olympic Committee.

“Yeah, boss,” Aran chimed in with a grin. “What’s a little spice among national treasures?”

You looked at Iwaizumi, defeated.

He met your gaze, entirely unfazed. “They need to suffer.”

“Iwa!

“They’ll learn.”

Spoiler: they didn’t.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Within five minutes, the entire national team—grown men, national representatives, your supposed pride and joy—huddled in a ‘not-so-hidden’ corner of the athlete tunnel, squatting and whisper-yelling at each other in a circle like some shady back-alley spice cult.

They had procured exactly three items:

A Tupperware container that was unmistakably yours—fished from your purse, thank you very much—now clutched in Kageyama’s guilty hands.

A stream of steaming hot water being poured very seriously from Ushijima’s stainless steel thermos.

And of course, Hinata’s super suspicious packs of 2x spicy Buldak noodles, which he had failed around happily earlier despite it being rather sad-looking because it had also been squashed under Bokuto’s warm-up gear.

You stood a few feet away with Iwaizumi, watching it all unfold with the dulled horror of someone who had simply seen too much idiocy.

Bokuto had taken it upon himself to stir the noodles with a lone chopstick he found in his duffel bag, wrapped in a napkin of deeply questionable origin. No one knew where it came from. No one dared to ask.

He twirled the noodles, grinning, face flushed from the steam. “They need to steep.”

Sakusa let out a slow, exhausted sigh, already pinching the bridge of his nose because this was surely shortening his life span by the second. “Maybe close the lid, so it’ll cook better. Like trapping the heat. Like literally every ramen instruction ever written.”

Bokuto blinked. “Oh. That’s smart.”

“It’s basic,” Sakusa hissed.

Kageyama, ever the eager helper, reached for the lid—your poor, warped Tupperware lid—and attempted to snap it shut with the grace of someone who had never handled Tupperware in his life.

It didn’t fit.

The container had puffed up from heat and noodle expansion, and Kageyama just sat there frowning at it, trying to push one corner down. But when he got one side to settle, the other popped up. He kept pressing it down over and over, like that would suddenly solve the problem through sheer brute force.

Eventually, he just gave up and gently placed it on top like a sad little hat.

“Perfect,” he said confidently.

“That’s not even secure,” Sakusa muttered.

“It’s a metaphorical lid,” Komori offered helpfully.

“For what? Failure?” Sakusa snapped.

But before the said metaphorical lid could settle, Bokuto had already popped it off again—completely disregarding whatever steam had managed to build—and eagerly jabbed at the noodles with his lone chopstick. “Hey, they’re… kinda soft now.”

“They’re crunchy,” Aran said flatly. “Still literally crunchy. That’s not cooked.”

“They have texture,” Bokuto argued.

“They have resistance,” Sakusa corrected.

“That’s called ‘al dente,’ right?” Atsumu added, peering in and instantly tearing up from the rising steam. “Ow, it bit me.”

You pressed your hand to your forehead. “It’s just steam, ‘Tsumu.”

“It’s violent steam, like steam with knives, ya feel?”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Regardless of common sense, they had declared the noodles done, which meant it was time for the sauce.

A moment of triumph hung in the air. Bokuto was bouncing. Hinata had already torn open the terrifyingly red sauce packet with his teeth.

And then—

A real question suddenly emerged.

“Alright, smartasses,” Iwaizumi said dryly, watching them prepare to stir in the sauce. “You think that’s how you prepare Buldak noodles?”

The boys paused.

“...What do you mean?” Kageyama asked, blinking.

“You gonna strain it?” Iwaizumi prompted, raising a brow. “Before adding the sauce?”

“...Strain?”

“We need to strain?”

“What do you mean strain?”

“What’s strain?”

There was a beat of silence as all of Team Japan collectively realized they had, in fact, not thought that far ahead.

“That’s a really good point,” Aran muttered, squinting down at the sad, floating noodles sloshing weakly in the Tupperware.

Then—

“I have knowledge,” Ushijima said gravely.

Everyone turned.

“Of course you do,” Sakusa muttered under his breath, folding his arms.

Ushijima stood up and took a step forward, hands behind his back like a professor about to give a lecture. “I have watched multiple mukbangs on South Korean noodle preparation. You must leave approximately three tablespoons of cooking water in the container and strain the rest. This particular flavor, 2x spicy Buldak, is intended to be eaten as a dry noodle.”

“Dry?” Bokuto asked, blinking. “Like… no soup?”

“It is a stir-style ramen,” Ushijima continued, unfazed. “The concentrated sauce is meant to cling to the noodles. If you eat it as a soup, the spice dilutes and the flavor profile is compromised.”

“Flavor profile,” Suna whispered, staring at Ushijima in awe.

“That was beautiful,” Komori murmured, clutching his chest.

“What the hell do you mean you’ve watched mukbangs?” Atsumu demanded.

“I find them calming,” Ushijima replied without hesitation.

“Ushi-ushi,” Hinata said reverently, mouth slightly open. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“Should’ve led with that,” Aran added, elbowing him.

There was a collective moment of quiet—of respect, of finally realizing Ushijima Wakatoshi was the secret mukbang master of Team Japan.

But then—

“…Wait,” Kageyama said, brow furrowed. “What do we strain it with?”

The second silence that followed was painful.

Until Suna, unbothered as ever, casually leaned over to his duffel bag. “Got it.”

He pulled out a tennis racket.

There was a pause.

A long one.

“…What the actual fuck—?” Atsumu finally whispered.

“Why do you have that?” Aran asked, scandalized.

Suna just shrugged. “Got bored during training week. Komori and I were playing tennis with rolled-up socks.”

“I won,” Komori added proudly.

“It’s… technically a strainer,” Hinata offered. “Holes, surface area, net—”

“No,” Sakusa said sharply. “That’s not how hygiene works.”

Suna walked past him, completely undeterred. “Ushijima, tilt it.”

Ushijima, stoic as ever, picked up the Tupperware and dutifully angled it as Suna positioned the racket over a nearby trash bin.

And to their utter horror, the racket… worked.

Water drained through the strings.

Steam hissed into the air.

One noodle slipped through and plopped into the bin.

“NO!” Bokuto screamed, diving with the kind of desperate reach usually reserved for a match-point receive. “WE COULD’VE SAVED HIM!”

Iwaizumi palmed his face so hard it looked like he was trying to erase it. “This is the dumbest team in Olympic history.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You were about to respond, probably something sweet and patient and undeservedly kind, when a soft murmur rippled through the stadium speakers.

Unbeknownst to Team Japan, the jumbotrons had caught wind of their ‘we definitely know how to cook noodles, like definitely, for sure’ underground operation.

One of the roaming camera crew had been filming filler footage for the Olympic recap stream. That footage now filled the big screen in the arena, streamed live to all in-stadium monitors, and no doubt, broadcasted internationally.

The commentators, already halfway through wrapping up their post-match discussion, paused.

“Uh…” one of them said, blinking. “Can we get a shot of what’s happening back there with Team Japan?”

The camera zoomed in.

On Suna.

Holding a tennis racket like it was Michelin-starred equipment.

“…Is that… is that a tennis racket?” the other commentator asked, voice tilting somewhere between amusement and deep concern. “Why does Suna Rintarou have a tennis racket?”

The first one squinted. “I don’t know, but if he ever plays tennis professionally, I’m betting he’d sweep the league too. Look at that wrist control.”

The feed cut to Bokuto, who was now dramatically mourning the lost noodle with his forehead against the trash bin.

Then it panned to Hinata—wide grin, eyes sparkling—tearing open the fiery red sauce packet and dumping the contents into the still-too-crunchy noodles like he was summoning a demon.

“Oh my god,” one commentator said slowly, as the horrifying realization clicked into place. “Are they doing the 2x Spicy Buldak Noodle Challenge?”

“They have another match in two hours!” the other commentator shrieked. “Who approved this?!”

“Wait a damn—so they use a tennis racket to strain noodles?”

“Holy shit—!”

“Smartest team in Olympic history, don’t you think?”

“I agree. On court and off court.”

Back in the athlete’s tunnel, you and Iwaizumi shared a long, soul-deep sigh as the faint echo of the jumbotron’s live feed filtered into the background.

“We’re on camera,” Iwaizumi muttered, expression murderous.

You patted his arm gently. “Smile. We’re about to go viral.”

From somewhere behind you, Atsumu yelled, “THE SAUCE IS IN! WE’RE EATIN’, BABY!”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Like wolves released into the wild, the boys pounced.

Bokuto was first, poking aggressively at the noodles with the single chopstick he’d been holding this whole time. Aran used two protein bar wrappers he folded into shape, muttering something about “innovation under pressure.” Hinata was just using his fingers, screaming about how it was too hot but refusing to stop. Sakusa stared at them all with the quiet resignation of someone who knew this would end in disaster but had no energy left to fight it.

And then, because chaos had no boundaries, Kageyama dove for your purse again.

“Tobio!” you hissed. “Stop going through my stuff!”

He looked up with absolutely zero guilt. “I’m looking for chopsticks.”

He pulled out the emergency wooden chopstick pack you always kept for lunch breaks. “These’ll do.”

“Tobio—!” you started, hands on your hips, already preparing your Mom Voice™.

But then—then he hit you with it.

Those eyes.

Big, round, slightly panicked but still somehow devastatingly sincere. The classic Kageyama ‘I’m a good boy’ look that you were absolutely not immune to.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he said quickly. “Reusable ones. Pretty. Pink. With… with flowers… or cute little animals on them. Sparkly, if you want.”

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Your heart cracked just a little. “Okay, okay,” you relented with a sigh, trying not to melt. “But only because you offered sparkles.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The second the boys took their first bites, it was as if the air around them combusted.

Disaster.

“Oh—FUCK—!”

Hinata made a noise like a squeaky bike brake, face flushing crimson in an instant. “HOT—IT’S HOT—I CAN’T SEE!”

Bokuto let out a wheeze so dramatic you thought he was choking. “WHY IS IT—WHY—MY EARS ARE RINGING!”

Aran’s whole soul appeared to evacuate through his tear ducts. “I can feel it in my knees, bro—why my knees!”

Even Sakusa, who’d tried to maintain a shred of dignity, looked personally betrayed by life. “I-I shouldn’t have done this.”

Next to him, Ushijima calmly blinked, face flushed but posture unwavering as he chewed… and chewed… and then slowly reached for his water bottle.

Only to remember: the boys had used all of it to cook the noodles.

He stared down at the empty thermos in silence.

Atsumu hiccuped violently, then immediately hiccup-sobbed again. “WHY IS IT SWEET FIRST AND THEN HELL—!”

Komori was fanning himself with a paper napkin. “My tongue is numb. Am I okay? Look. Do I still have a tongue?”

“SWEETHEART, CAN YA CHECK—”

“NO, SHE NEEDS TO CHECK ME FIRST—”

“ME FIRST, BRO!

Meanwhile, Iwaizumi was already sitting down, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with the stone-faced detachment of a man who had absolutely no sympathy left in his body.

“I hope every single one of you remembers this moment the next time I say ‘don’t do it,’” he said evenly.

“WAIT—IWA!”

“No.”

“IWA, I-I DIDN’T EVEN SAY—!”

“The answer’s no.”

“SHIT—”

You were scrambling—scrambling—around them with your emergency napkin stash, a bottle of water, a sports towel, your poor little hands wiping sweat and tears and (unfortunately) snot from your giant, overgrown crybaby athletes.

“Atsumu, blow. Not sneeze—blow. That’s it, there you go.”

“Rin, stop filming and drink something—no, not more sauce!”

“Sho, sit down, I’ll put the towel on your neck—”

“Bo—don’t roll on the ground, you’ll get floor-burns.”

“‘Toya, don’t use your fingers to wipe your eyes!”

“Am I still your superstar? Even all snotty and crying…?” Aran asked, voice hoarse and lips trembling as he wiped at his tear-streaked, spice-traumatized face with the back of his hand.

You winced, hesitating just a second too long. “Uhhh…”

Aran’s bottom lip wobbled. “...No?”

And then—blubbering. Absolute tears. His eyes went wide and glossy, and he let out a pitiful noise that might’ve been a sob or a dying dolphin.

“Nononono, yes!” you panicked, grabbing his face with your hands. “Yes, Aran, my superstar! My bright shining, flame-mouthed, sniffling superstar!”

“Really?” he sniffled, hiccuping into your sleeve.

“Really!” you promised, patting his cheeks and frantically trying to dab his forehead with a napkin. “You’re the MVP of emotional resilience, okay?”

From behind you, Atsumu sniffled too. “I wanna be a superstar…”

“No,” Sakusa rasped.

“Yes,” you said instantly, handing him a tissue. “You’re all superstars.”

“Iwaizumi isn’t crying,” Suna pointed out flatly.

“Iwaizumi also didn’t eat the noodles,” you muttered, still wiping spice-tears off Aran’s chin.

“Iwaizumi is the real MVP,” Iwaizumi added helpfully, arms crossed and smug as hell, until his gaze landed on you.

You were crouched between Hinata and Aran, patting one on the back and dabbing the other’s tears with your sleeve, eyes full of concern and hands full of tissues.

His smirk softened slightly.

Then he sighed. Long-suffering. Tired. Kind of affectionate. “You’re enabling them.”

“They’re suffering, Iwa.”

“They deserve it.”

And of course, right when you walked over to pat Kageyama’s flushed cheeks, cooing at him softly while he stared at you with slightly teary eyes and steam practically coming out of his ears—

The jumbotron caught the whole thing.

Again.

The camera slowly zoomed in on you in full caretaker mode, dabbing at red faces and whispering gentle reassurances to each tear-streaked athlete like the world's most patient angel in a sea of spicy regret.

CAPTION—

TEAM JAPAN: UNITED IN SPICE-FUELED SUFFERING.

Pretty Manager Controlling the Heat Wave.

Iwaizumi Disappointed.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Suna was the first to speak once the chaos died down into sniffly, spice-sweaty whimpers.

“…Hey, Iwa,” he rasped, eyes still red and unfocused, “who are we playing next?”

Iwaizumi, whose only regret in life was saying yes to coaching this exact group of idiots, pulled out the folded match schedule from his pocket and checked it with a sigh.

“South Korea.”

There was a beat.

A long, ominous pause.

Ushijima slowly turned to Hinata, who was curled up on the floor with his head on your lap, trying to breathe through the burn. “Shoyou,” he said calmly, “who gave you the noodles?”

Hinata blinked. “Huh?”

“The noodles,” Iwaizumi clarified, eyes narrowing. “The ones that tried to kill all of you.”

“Oh!” Hinata perked up, then winced. “Right! It was one of the South Korean players. Remember? I told you guys he said it wasn’t that spicy… more sweet...”

There was absolute silence.

Suna sat up straighter—eyes dark, expression calculating. You could practically see the gears in his spice-damaged brain grinding.

“…Wait a damn minute,” he muttered. “They knew. They KNEW.”

“What?” Aran blinked, still crying a little.

“Do you not get it?” Suna hissed, jabbing a finger at the now-empty Tupperware like it was a crime scene. “This was sabotage. Psychological warfare. They wanted us to burn from the inside out before we even hit the court.”

Atsumu stared, slowly putting the pieces together. “Ya think… they tried to weaken us?”

“Poison by spice,” Sakusa mumbled hoarsely. “A very underhanded tactic.”

Hinata’s eyes widened in horror. “Did I get… weaponized?”

“Yes, Sho,” you murmured, gently stroking his hair as he clutched his stomach. “You got used.”

Bokuto gasped, smacking the floor. “This was an international incident!”

Komori looked absolutely scandalized. “Should we call someone? Like the Olympic committee?”

“You can’t prove anything,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because you idiots cooked it yourselves.”

Ushijima nodded slowly. “And now I don’t have hot water for my green tea.”

“Do ya think we can tell the ref?” Atsumu croaked, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jersey. “Like—maybe he’ll go easy on us.”

“He won’t,” Sakusa muttered. “Because that’s not how volleyball works.”

But it was already too late.

Bokuto, eyes wide with a newfound sense of justice and absolutely no impulse control, had taken off down the tunnel at full speed, lungs on fire and pride half-functioning.

“REF!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the walls. “REF, DO SOMETHING! IT WAS A SETUP!”

“No—wait—Bokuto, get back here—” Komori tried, chasing after him.

Iwaizumi didn’t even bother reacting anymore. “Let him go. Maybe they’ll lock him in the penalty box.”

“See?” Atsumu leaned into you, pouting. “We’re unraveling. Spiraling. Don’t you wanna help your favorite setter feel better with, like, a forehead kiss or somethin’?”

Before you could answer, a new presence slid in on your other side.

“Maybe also something sweet,” Suna murmured, voice as dry as ever, “for your favorite middle blocker?”

You gave them both a flat look—one pouting and glistening with sweat, the other looking smug despite the fact his eyes were still faintly watering.

Then you grinned cheekily, sunshine laced in betrayal.

“No.”

Atsumu blinked, tongue poking out, ready to try again. “...Maybe some… spicy love, ya know. For all that spicy suffering?”

You just shoved a napkin at his face and sighed.

And in that moment—faces red, sinuses cleared, and pride thoroughly shattered—Team Japan rose (or more accurately, staggered) as one.

United in suffering.

Bound by noodles.

Ready for vengeance.

Sort of.