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#atsumu
jhiw0 · 5 months
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⟢ tweets about you ! hq
synopsis: just lovesick boys 🤭
ft. atsumu tanaka noya suna oikawa sugawara kuroo kenma bokuto hinata
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natriae · 10 months
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DILF! Atsumu who meets you at his brother's Onigiri shop
DILF! Atsumu who comes in early to help with the ingredient shipment from kita to show of his muscles
DILF! Atsumu who makes constant sexual innuendos
DILF! Atsumu who brings you gifts everyday you come into work
DILF! Atsumu who tells you everyday while you prepare onigiri to quit and for you to live with him
DILF! Atsumu who on a particular bad day asked you to run away with him and you did
DILF! Atsumu who wears a swim trunks with a 3" inseam at the beach with you to show off his thighs
DILF! Atsumu who begs you to take off your cover up and show him the pretty bikini you wore under it
DILF! Atsumu who shocks you by telling you him and osamu are turning 47 this year
DILF! Atsumu who jokingly asks you to give him a show in your skimpy bikini
DILF! Atsumu who stayed sat and quiet during your lap dance once the two of you got back to the hotel
DILF! Atsumu who was stuffing hundreds in the tiny strings of the bikini for you
DILF! Atsumu who asks through his thick accent for you to marry him with a love stuck look in his eyes
DILF! Atsumu who got super excited like his highschool self when you said maybe you would let him marry you after your graduate college
DILF! Atsumu takes you on surpise trips with gift bags full of designer bags and expensive lingerie
DILF! Atsumu who you didn't let fuck you till after you graduated college just to tease him
DILF! Atsumu who spent the whole night just pleasing you not giving a flying fuck abt his hard on
DILF! Atsumu loves seeing you in white
DILF! Atsumu who had to pay his brother to not make you uncomfortable by asking abt your relationship at work
DILF! Atsumu who told osamu's kids to call you aunt y/n
DILF! Atsumu who had a soft spot of you and opened up about his dreams of always having children
DILF! Atsumu who finally got to put his dick in you on his 48th birthday and came like a virgin
DILF! Atsumu who models with you for magazines with your face hidden from the public
DILF! Atsumu who lets you and your best girl friend fuck as long as he gets to watch
DILF! Atsumu who got to hold his set of twins when he turned 49
DILF! Atsumu who purposefully wears tight t-shirts while playing with the kids so you see him as daddy and not just a dad
DILF! Atsumu with a super high libdo and accidentally gets you pregnant again
DILF! Atsumu who doesn't let you sleep in a separate bed even when you mad cuz he's absolutely smittin for you
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introloves · 3 months
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atsumu
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onnie-giri · 11 months
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melon bread 🍈
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fushisagi · 7 months
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miya atsumu and the chronic lovesick disease
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୨୧ ━━ ❛ what am i to you, atsumu? ❜
word count ⋆ 12.6k (12,607) genre ⋆ fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, college au ━ gn!reader
the question comes to him one autumn night, surrounded by his friends and the chilly november breeze, asked by, who he assumes to be, just another nobody looking for money: what is it that you desire most, boy? the psychic asks, her saccharine smile forgotten when he looks into the crystal ball and all he ends up seeing is you. alternatively: miya atsumu is not in love. what the hell? who would ever suggest something like that?
warnings ⋆ alcohol consumption, mutual pining, denial of feelings!!! lots of it!! and with this denial comes some stupid decisions!!! author’s note ⋆ ive actually like never been to the psychic before so if its inaccurate im so sorry ..... it’s not really a big part of the plot though so hopefully u can overlook it 😭
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o. Desire
This is a scam, is Atsumu’s first thought when he takes a seat inside the tent and finds himself face-to-face with a crystal ball.
People like this are dangerous — his twin brother never lets anyone forget it. They take advantage of an individual’s fear of the unknown and they make money off it. It’s genius, because even the strongest people can become weak to something as mundane as self-proclaimed clairvoyants setting base near a college campus.
Atsumu supposes he’s no exception. Even if Bokuto was the one who forced him to do this in the first place.
“Hello,” the woman greets, her hair pinned into a tight bun. “You’re here for a reading?”
“Sure,” Atsumu huffs, shivering when the cold breeze sneaks into the tent. He really should’ve worn a thicker jacket.
When he looks up from the table, the woman gives him a smile. It’s analytical, as if all he needed to do was sit down for her to know everything about him. He fidgets in his seat, growing more uncomfortable under her gaze.
“So,” she says, clasping her hands together and resting them on the table. “What is it that you desire most, boy?”
 “I’m sorry?”
“Your greatest desire,” she repeats patiently.
Atsumu blinks before tilting his head. “Um, I’m not—”
“I’m sure you know,” she says. “Is it strength? Power? Love?”
All colour drains from Atsumu’s face. The psychic smiles wickedly.
Atsumu thinks this may be the end of him. He never liked it when people acted like they knew more about his intentions than he did, and it only took mere minutes before the woman figured him out.
His hand twitches. He would feel a lot better if you were here—
“Ah,” she clicks her tongue, “bingo.”
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i. Strength
After a borderline homicidal game of rock, paper, scissors, Sakusa lands himself a new roommate.
Move-in day comes two weeks later and Atsumu sits in the lobby of the building, waiting for your car to pull into the parking lot.
He notes the time — it’s five minutes past 8:30, making you more than half an hour late — before grumbling under his breath and continuing to scroll through his feed. When Instagram notifies him that he’s all caught up, he exits the app and opens Twitter in hopes that something will be able to entertain him until you show up. He likes some tweets, retweets a few more, and terrorizes Suna before he grows bored at the lack of anything interesting on his timeline.
Another glance at the time. He scowls. It’s only been two minutes.
Atsumu debates asking Sakusa if he knows what’s happened to you. When he opens their message thread, he raises an eyebrow at how unbelievably one-sided their conversations are, but he decides that’s a problem for another day. Your absence is more important to Atsumu than Sakusa’s terrible conversational skills ever will be.
(He’ll bother Sakusa about it later).
He’s about to send a long string of emojis when an incredulous voice reaches his ears.
“Tsumu?”
He looks up and immediately pockets his phone with a grin. “You’re late.”
You adjust the box of donuts in your hands and squint at him as if his smile is as blinding as the sun. “I slept through my alarm. What the hell are you doing here?”
Atsumu gestures to his outfit. “What does it look like?”
You stare blankly.
“Seriously?” he scoffs. “I told you last night I’d help you move in. How’d you forget? Am I that forgettable? You wound me, I—”
“Shut up,” you say, shifting your weight. Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the sticker on the box, and he tries his best not to frown when he notices you’ve written Sakusa’s name in calligraphy with a heart at the end. “Of course I remember you offering to help because I spent my entire night telling you it was fine.”
“You expect me to believe that you can bring all your shit in by yourself? You look like you just rolled out of bed.”
“Thank you, Tsumu, I can always count on you to make me feel like I’ve been shot by Cupid’s arrow,” you quip, brushing past him to get to the elevator, and as if it’s second nature, he follows. “I can’t believe people walk around campus calling you sweet.”
“I never said you looked bad,” he says. “I think the dried drool on your chin is pretty cute, actually.”
“Whatever,” you hurriedly wipe your face. “Speaking of bad, what on Earth are you wearing?”
Atsumu knows full well you’re not complimenting him, but he decides to treat your comment as if you have. He beams, picking at the sweatpants you eye with disgust before walking into the elevator with you.
“It’s my mover outfit!”
“Your mover outfit,” you deadpan. “Disregarding whatever that means — those sweatpants are baggier than Kenma’s eyebags. And they do nothing for your ass.”
He smirks. “You were checking out my ass?”
You avoid eye contact, feigning indifference, but Atsumu’s known you for too long and immediately recognizes your fluster by the way you tug at the hem of your clothing.
“No,” you deny curtly, straightening your posture when the elevator doors open to show Sakusa’s floor. “It’s just hard not to notice when those sweats are ridiculously baggy. Seriously, are you trying to put something in there? I could fit a month’s worth of groceries in those.”
You’re walking swiftly, eager to get to your new apartment and end the conversation. The both of you are well aware that Atsumu’s more than capable of catching up with you, but he hangs back, preferring to watch you babble while he trails behind.
You clutch the donuts closer to your body as words tumble out of your mouth — a list of things that could fit in his sweats, including two jugs of milk and a family size pack of chips — and Atsumu can’t stop the lopsided smile from appearing on his face.
“Maybe a carton of eggs, too,” he suggests.
“Oh, I wouldn’t trust you with eggs,” you say sharply.
“Why not?”
“Are you really asking me that? Last month I lent you my blanket and you gave it back to me with a hole in it.”
“For the last time,” Atsumu begins, quickening so he’s side-by-side with you, “that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”
“…Alright.”
“Y/N,” he whines. “I’m serious! None of that was on me — I even bought you a new blanket! Would Samu have done that? I don’t think so—”
“Actually—”
“The point is,” Atsumu interrupts, throwing you a glare before continuing, “blame Samu. Whenever something bad happens, blame him. That’s what I always do.”
“Spoken like a true, responsible individual.”
“Hey!” he protests. “I’m responsible!”
You open your mouth to deny his claims, but the pout he plasters over his face is enough for you to give in. Too tired to give him something as golden as a verbal agreement, you opt for changing the subject. “Do you think Sakusa will like the donuts?”
Atsumu frowns. “Why does it matter? They’re donuts.”
You grow annoyed at his impertinence. “I want him to like me, you moron.”
His expression sours further. “He’s your friend.”
“And I won a game of rock, paper, scissors, so now I’m his roommate,” you remark. “There’s a difference between being friends with someone and living with them. I mean, would you want to live with Bokuto?”
Atsumu’s answer is swift. “Hell no.”
“Exactly,” you say, “I need us to get along.”
You stop in front of a door and begin searching your pockets for your key. There’s a pinch between your eyebrows, the box trembles as you struggle to balance it with one hand, and your clothes are a mess, but underneath the fluorescent light of the hallway, Atsumu can’t help but think you almost look angelic.
He shakes the thought away, squashes it beneath his foot until the remnants of it have been absorbed by the carpet.
“The last time I saw you this nervous was when you asked out that barista,” he muses.
You dig your hand into the breast pocket of your shirt and huff when you find nothing. “What are you implying?”
Atsumu stares pointedly at the sticker on the box. Your face morphs into one of horror.
“Are you dense?”
“Calligraphy, Y/N. I’ve never seen you write calligraphy in my entire life.”
“I was trying something out!”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
You smack him on the shoulder. “I was being thoughtful,” you grunt, softening when Atsumu winces and rubs the spot where you hit him. “He’s my friend, and that’s all he ever will be.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
Your eyes leave him for a millisecond, flickering to somewhere else on his face before returning his gaze once more. “Of course,” you say softly, “Besides, I—”
The door swings open.
“You’re loud,” Sakusa deadpans in the doorway. His eyes travel down to the donuts. “Are those for me?”
You hand them over to him. “Yeah, I didn’t know what you liked, so they’re all assorted.”
Sakusa hums in thanks before tilting his head at Atsumu. “Why’re you here?”
“To help them move in,” Atsumu grins, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it. “I know you’re going to the drycleaners, and I couldn’t let Y/N do this all by themselves.”
Sakusa shrugs and turns to go further into the apartment. “Sounds good to me. I’d rather not have to press those nasty elevator buttons multiple times just so I can come down and get your stuff,” he gives you the best apologetic look he can muster. “Have fun, though.”
Before you can go on a tangent about how Sakusa should be more welcoming, Atsumu pipes up, “Yeah, don’t worry! ‘S all in good hands,” he nudges you with his elbow. “Right? Your stuff can’t be that heavy.”
Atsumu, not for the first time and certainly not the last, stands corrected.
Not only is your stuff heavy, but there’s much more than he expected.
With each trip down to the parking lot, his muscles grow strained, and he feels the fatigue threaten to droop his eyelids shut. But, in the corner of his eyes, he sees your persistence to get this over and done with, and Atsumu decides it won’t hurt to push through.
His complaining and wailing can wait until later.
After you place the last box into your new bedroom, you turn to him while wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly.
He goes to tease you, to say that you owe him now, that you’ll be indebted to him for life.
But what comes out of his mouth instead is: “‘Course. Call me whenever you want, and I’ll be there.”
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Atsumu calls it a housewarming gift. Sakusa says there is hardly anything warming about it.
It referring to the group of boys gathered in the living room — your friends on good days, the bane of your existence on all the others — with their limbs strewn about and their soda cans sitting too close to the edge of the coffee table. It’s an odd sight for Sakusa to have this many people over on a Thursday night, but Atsumu insisted, and he caught Sakusa on a good day when he asked if he could hold a movie night at the apartment to celebrate your new accommodations.
You’re sure Sakusa regrets it now. He sits in his armchair with a permanent scowl, swatting Hinata away when the boy reaches to fix the crease between Sakusa’s brows. If looks could kill, Atsumu would’ve been dropped dead ten minutes ago.
He covers his fear with a grin, but out of the corner of his mouth, he says to you, “Help me.”
You snicker. “You’re on your own, dude.”
“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”
“What? But Bokuto calls you that, too!”
“Yeah, but it’s Bokuto.”
“I have no idea what you mean by that.”
Atsumu only tsks, forcibly ending the conversation by suggesting to the room that they should all play a game to decide who’ll prepare all the popcorn. A chorus of agreements is what he gets in response, along with someone complaining about how he should be spared due to his gruelling volleyball practice, and another person expressing his sympathies for the future loser.
Atsumu prepares the ladder game, and after he’s done, he looks at everyone with fiery hot intensity, an expression similar to one he wears during a match. “Remember,” he declares, “whoever loses can’t complain.”
Luck isn’t on his side tonight.
“What the hell!” he screeches once the reality of his defeat settles in.
Osamu, far too smug for Atsumu’s liking, quips, “I thought you said no complaining.”
The noise that leaves Atsumu’s mouth is something akin to a pathetic but animalistic growl. He goes to protest, even raising his hand to list off reasons why he’s been wronged — someone must’ve cheated, or maybe everyone in this room has a ruthless vendetta against him — but just as the words are about to leave his lips, his eyes land on you.
You challenge him to complain with a look, and he suddenly gets a much better idea.
“Y/N,” he says sweetly, growing pleased at your uneasiness. “As the host of this housewarming party, it’s only fair that you help me, too.”
“What?” you squawk, leaning forward as if you’ve misheard him. “But you were the one who suggested doing all of this! How is it now on me to help—”
“Well, he wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t for you,” Sakusa muses.
You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you taking his side? What happened to roommate solidarity?”
“You just made that up,” Sakusa replies. “Besides, this thing will go by faster if two people prepare the popcorn, and I don’t think Miya wants anyone else other than you.”
Atsumu shifts uncomfortably at the implication, and he involuntarily commits your surprised expression to memory.
(When he goes to sleep later that night, your surprise is all he sees against the darkness of his eyelids).
“Other than me—?”
“To make the popcorn,” Sakusa drawls matter-of-factly.
You blink. “Right.” You look at Atsumu, and he shrugs dumbly, unsure of how else to react to your sudden change in behaviour.
To him, you have always been easy to read, but right now, he’s not entirely sure if there’s a word for the expression on your face. He yearns to press a hand to your cheek to melt the malaise away, to be rid of it forever so he can see you smiling again.
Something in his chest twists.
“Right!” you repeat, more loudly this time, and startling the rest of your friends. You slap your hands on your lap before standing and grabbing Atsumu’s wrist to pull him away. “I guess I’m helping you make popcorn. You owe me one, Miya.”
Your skin is warmer than usual, threatening to burn him until your fingerprints are marked onto his skin.
(Behind him, Suna stage-whispers, “You are so whipped, Y/N.”)
Your touch disappears the moment you’ve both crossed the threshold into the kitchenette. Atsumu flexes his hand, trying to get rid of an urge in his veins he can’t quite explain.
“Hey,” you say casually, back turned to him as you dig through the cabinets for the popcorn packets. “Did you finish that essay for literature class?”
Atsumu awkwardly clears his throat and begins playing with the settings on the microwave. “The paper?”
“Yes, the paper,” you say. “The one I told you to start two weeks ago so you wouldn’t end up sending a half-assed essay two minutes before the deadline?”
“Why are you talking like you think I didn’t start it yet?”
“Because I know you, Tsumu,” you reply, shutting the cabinet with your elbow and ungracefully dropping the packets onto the counter beside him. “And I lost faith in your ability to listen to me a long time ago.”
“How rude. I always listen to you,” he sticks his nose in the air like a scorned, evil, cartoon antagonist, “I just don’t take all your suggestions. There’s a difference.”
“You make my life so much harder,” you huff, inputting a minute-thirty into the microwave. “I honestly think I lose ten years of my lifespan whenever you tell me you’ve gotten yourself into another dilemma.”
“Don’t be dramatic. I’m sure you only lose, like, three at most.”
“No, it’s definitely ten,” you say. “You worry me too much, Miya.”
The smile on Atsumu’s face, previously smug and confident, softens.
“Seriously, though,” you continue, jabbing a finger into his sternum. “The paper? It’s due tonight.”
He flicks your nose, snorting when you pull a face. “I sent it in this morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Hey! Don’t act so shocked!”
“Well, this is, like, the first time you’ve ever done something even remotely responsible, so—”
“I thought we both agreed I’m a generally responsible person.”
Your silence is enough of a response.
Atsumu gasps just as the microwave beeps, allowing you to ignore his stunned expression in order to begin preparing another bag of kernels.
“Give me one reason—”
“The blanket—”
“—that isn’t the blanket,” he says sourly. “That doesn’t count. I told you that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”
“Do you want a list? Because I have one.”
“Are you serious or are you just fucking with me?”
“Osamu and I have a Google Doc.”
Another gasp. You roll your eyes.
“Now you’re in kahoots with my brother? What’s next? Planning my downfall with Suna?”
“I’m sure he’s fine doing that himself without my help.”
He whines, stomping his foot when you only stare back in amusement. “Don’t be so unrepentant, Y/N!”
You dump the contents of the hot popcorn bags into a large bowl for everyone to share. “Unrepentant? Was that the word on your word-of-the-day calendar?”
“Shut up. You know only Kuroo has lame stuff like that,” Atsumu grumbles, throwing the last popcorn packet into the faulty brick of power you and Sakusa call a microwave. “I used it in my essay. Thesauruses are a godsend. It really came in handy when I was writing about the flower symbolism in the book. Y’know what’s even better, though? SparkNotes.”
You tilt your head, studying Atsumu with furrowed eyebrows. “Huh.”
“What d’you mean huh?”
“Nothing,” you say innocently. “I just didn’t think you’d choose that essay topic, that’s all.”
“It was the easiest one,” he states. You hum in agreement, but he can sense you falling into a state of pondering before it even happens, so he lightly pokes your shoulder in hopes it’ll be enough to keep you from drifting too far from his reach. “Why, what did you think I picked?”
He can tell you’re debating what to tell him, letting a few seconds pass before you give in. “I thought you’d do the one that centred more around…” you trail off, clenching and unclenching your jaw, “the love aspect of it all.”
He blinks. “Why?”
Childishly, you retort, “Why not?”
Atsumu licks his lips. “Well, you’re always telling me to write what I know. And I may not know a whole lot about flowers, but I know more about those than, y’know, love.”
Something passes over your face, the same thing he saw when Sakusa said something — implied something — in the living room. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “I’ve had relationships, sure, but none that made me feel anything like— like that.”
You drum your fingers against the bowl. “None at all?”
“None at all.”
You click your tongue and stare at the microwave. Its buzz has become more prominent in your silence, a mocking hum hanging over the air as you contemplate and Atsumu stares, waiting impatiently for a word to slip past your lips.
But there’s nothing. Instead, the microwave beeps again, indicating that the last of the popcorn is ready.
“That’s good to know,” you say lightly. At least, that’s what you attempt, but you sound different, like a parasite has found solace in your vocal cords and fiddled with everything Atsumu’s familiar with.
“It is?”
“Yeah,” you nod, handing the bowl over to him. Popcorn threatens to spill but Atsumu can’t bring himself to care. “Hey, be careful. What, is it too heavy? Are you too weak to carry it?”
“It’s popcorn,” Atsumu rasps.
You eye him oddly, as if he’s the one whose behaviour should be examined under a microscope. “Don’t spill it everywhere. Sakusa’ll get pissed, and we’re already pushing it with this movie night thing.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Of course,” you agree. “But if you need me—”
“I know,” he interjects.
Simple promises are often uttered during private moments between you and Atsumu — an oath to be there for the other, to stand by their side no matter what. The words soothe him when they’re said aloud; he knows, underneath all the teasing and the bickering and the irritated eyerolls, is your pinky and his, intertwined.
And despite the voice in his head taunting him about a secret he’s unaware of, he allows the promise to enchant him.
I’ll be there for you.
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“Do you need help?”
Atsumu grunts, adjusting your arm around his neck as he opens the car door. “No, I’m fine.”
“Thanks for picking them up,” Aran says, voice loud above the frat house’s music, “I know you were tired from practice, but—”
“It’s fine. I probably would’ve killed you if you didn’t call me, anyway.”
“Osamu said you’d say that.”
Atsumu expertly brushes off the statement, gently ushering you into the passenger’s seat and putting your seatbelt on with gentle fingers. Behind him, Aran watches the movements with thoughtful eyes and a quirk of his eyebrows.
“The last time they got this drunk was at the fall festival last year,” he muses. “For your sake, I hope it doesn’t happen again.”
“What does that mean?”
“Hm?”
“For your sake,” Atsumu echoes, turning to face Aran once the door’s been shut and he’s made sure you’re sleeping soundlessly with your head resting against the cold window. Atsumu stands pin-straight, his posture contrasting the way Aran stands opposite him, relaxed with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “What’s that mean?”
Aran laughs, like he’s unsure if this is a serious question. “Well, I mean… they’re always asking for you whenever they get drunk like this.”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“That’s why you got here in record time, right?” Off Atsumu’s questioning gaze, Aran continues, “I called you five minutes ago, and your place is a fifteen-minute drive away. And you’re not in your pajamas, even though you said you’d change into them the moment you got home.”
“I was in the area,” Atsumu says weakly.
“Doing what?”
“Getting dinner.”
“Why didn’t you just get something delivered to your apartment?”
“Is it illegal to want to pick up the food myself?”
Aran raises his hands up in defence. “No, it’s not, but it’s also not illegal to say you knew this would happen,” he shrugs. “You knew they’d need you Atsumu, so you came. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Before Atsumu can force a response from his throat, Aran has already slipped back into the party, leaving Atsumu alone on the street. With an annoyed huff, he stomps to the driver’s side, muttering irked questions under his breath about what Aran could possibly mean. He opens the door with more aggression than necessary, only softening when he sees you stir underneath the jacket he’s draped over you to keep you warm.
He unlocks his phone when he feels a buzz in his pocket.
[00:30] Atsumu: are you still awake?
[00:48] Sakusa: Yes. Why?
Atsumu knows that your apartment’s farther from here than his, and he’s sure that by the time he arrives, Sakusa won’t answer the door because he’ll grow tired of Atsumu’s lack of response and go to bed.
The decision is made when he takes a right instead of a left, when he pulls into a parking lot that isn’t yours, when he carries your body up the stairwell and into his bed with ease.
Everything else comes as routine. He tucks the blanket under your chin, moves the glass of water so it’s too far for you to accidentally knock over in the morning, and leaves a change of clothes at the foot of the bed.
Atsumu likes routine. He likes the predictability of it all.
A groggy voice stops him from leaving the room.
“Tsumu?”
“Hey,” he whispers, crouching so he’s eye-level with you. “I hope you don’t mind I brought you back here.”
You blink sleepily at him, too inebriated and fatigued to acknowledge his words. “You’re a really good person, y’know,” you say languidly.
He smiles, amused. “Really?”
“Yeah. Thank you for picking me up.”
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs.
“It’s not.”
“I’m sure you would’ve been fine without me. Omi could’ve picked you up, couldn’t he? Samu could’ve, too.”
“I know, but you’re the one who always does,” you respond, nuzzling further into the pillow. “You’ve—you’ve helped me a lot.”
You shakily reach a hand to his face, playing with the strands of hair that fall to his forehead. He relaxes, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of your featherlike touch against his cool skin.
“You’ve brightened up my life, I think,” your voice is muffled, but it rings in Atsumu’s ears clear as day, almost as loud as his quickening heart rate. “I appreciate you a lot more than you know.”
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ii. Power
He watches with bated breath as the ball cuts through the air while gravity begins to pull Hinata back to Earth. Everything unfolds in slow motion; everything has faded into white noise.
With a slam, the volleyball connects with the ground, and it’s only when he’s pulled into a hug does the reverie shatter. Like being hauled out from underwater, the roars of the crowd flood his ears as Bokuto begins jumping on the balls of his feet and Hinata comes rushing over to them with a triumphant shout.
On the other side of Bokuto, Sakusa smiles, rolling his eyes fondly when Hinata and Bokuto begin making post-game plans to celebrate their victory. Atsumu, on the other hand, is uncharacteristically silent as he searches the bleachers with a cloudy look in his eyes.
He’s snapped out of it once again when Bokuto tugs on his wrist so they can go and listen to what their coach has to say.
Atsumu isn’t a stranger to winning — he used to get drunk on this sort of stuff, the exhilarating rush that shot through his veins after every successful game. He basks in the crowd’s excitement and admiration, because to be fawned over is the closest to love he’s ever been (if he could even call it that), but once the adrenaline cuts him off and he’s left alone in the locker room, it all fizzles out.
Something’s missing at the end of all this. Usually, the void in his chest is insignificant enough for him to brush off. However, today is different.
It’s abnormal for the power of the win to dwindle into nothingness only minutes after the game ends, but the blue moon has risen tonight, and now everything feels weird. The cheers aren’t enough to keep him from searching the gymnasium for a familiar face, and he itches to get to his phone in the locker room when he can’t find who he’s looking for.
“Why do you look like we’ve lost?” Bokuto asks. “C’mon, man! Smile! We just won! Aren’t you happy?”
“Of course I am,” Atsumu grunts.
(But…)
But.
The adrenaline shoots through him again when a voice he knows all too well catches his attention over the noise.
“Hey!” you rush towards them, dishevelled. “Before you get mad, I know I missed the game, I took a nap and slept through it, fuck, I am never going to stay up late playing Fortnite with you again, Tsumu, you’ve ruined my sleep schedule, but—” you huff, trying to catch your breath as you hand Atsumu a bag, “I’m sorry that I didn’t come. Congrats on winning, I heard the shouts from down the street.”
Atsumu smiles and peers into the bag. “What is this?”
“Mochi,” you answer. “A celebratory gift for my favourite setter.”
“I’m the only setter you know.”
“Which is why you’re my favourite.”
Atsumu snorts but hugs the bag to his chest, like it’s his most prized possession and he’d drag it along to the grave with him. “Thank you.”
If someone were to ask Atsumu if he liked the pedestal he’s put on after a match, he’d say yes. Of course he does. He quite likes it on top of the world.
But you match his joyful smile with one of your own and Atsumu finds himself rethinking his answer. “Anytime.”
The top of the world may be nice, but it is nothing compared to being on the ground next to you.
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“You know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Would you relax?” Sakusa snarls. “You’re in charge of us for a day. Get your head out of your ass.”
On the floor, Hinata lays like a starfish as he stares up at the ceiling, cheeks tainted a bright pink hue. “I think power’s gotten to your head.”
Atsumu waves him off. “I think this is the best practice we’ve ever had.”
Their captain had to run out five minutes into practice — relationship problems is what he grumbled to Atsumu before leaving him in charge without a second thought, much to the rest of the team’s dismay.
“I hope you’re never put it in charge again,” Bokuto complains before downing the rest of his water.
“Don’t be dramatic—”
“Do you know how gruelling this practice must be for Hinata to be tired?”
“Give us a break,” Hinata pleads, shifting his position so he’s on his knees. “Please. I’ll buy you lunch for the rest of the month if you end our suffering.”
Atsumu pretends to ponder the offer and grows more amused as Hinata begins to twitch nervously. “Okay, fine,” he relents.
Hinata cries with glee, hugging Atsumu’s legs before pushing himself off the floor and rushing out of the gymnasium — whether it’s to refill his water bottle or hide until he’s found, Atsumu may never know. With a snort, Atsumu grabs his own bottle amongst the rest on the bench, promising Bokuto absentmindedly that he’ll go easy on them for the rest of the day.
“I want to have at least a little energy left for the party at Kuroo’s tonight,” Bokuto adds, his smile widening when Atsumu nods in agreement. “See, I knew you’d get it!”
Sakusa takes a seat on the bench. “Are you going to the party, Miya?”
“Yeah, Y/N’s forcing me to come with,” Atsumu says. “How about you?”
Bokuto answers for him. “I’m making him come!” he exclaims. “You’ll have so much fun, Omi, you don’t have to worry.”
Sakusa deadpans, “I’m only staying for five minutes.”
Bokuto waves off his iciness with a flippant hand. “I’ll convince you to stay longer.”
“I really doubt that.”
“Don’t underestimate me!” Bokuto huffs. He turns away from Sakusa before he can continue to argue and focusses on Atsumu. “It’s good that you’re coming too, Tsum-Tsum! Maybe you can finally meet the guy Y/N’s going on a date with.”
Atsumu halts, hand tightening around his bottle. “What?”
“Some guy from their Psychology class asked them out a few days ago,” Bokuto says obliviously. “I think it was the night you picked them up? I don’t know. I think he was nice, though. Y/N probably already told you about it.”
You didn’t.
Atsumu forces a grin on his face. “Right, they did.”
Sakusa studies his expression with pinched eyebrows.
Atsumu’s cheeks hurt for the rest of practice, a consequence of the cheerful façade he’s plastered, but the pain subsides — if only for a moment — when he sees you outside the gymnasium, carrying your favourite boba drink in one hand, and his favourite in the other.
“Hey!” you greet, handing him the drink. “How was practice?”
“Awful,” Hinata mopes with a pout. “Your boyfriend here was running it like the navy.”
You frown. Atsumu blanches. “My boyfriend…?”
“Yeah!” Hinata slaps Atsumu on the back. “Him.”
All colour drains from your face. Your grip on your cup loosens for a split second before tightening it again in panic. You look from Hinata, the picture of innocence, to Atsumu, who only stares back, just as bewildered.
Hinata seems to take the hint as his eyes flicker between the two of you in confusion. “Sorry, I… I overheard Bokuto saying you were going on a date with someone, so I assumed—”
“Date?” you interrupt frantically, arms flapping to deny the words that have recklessly tumbled from Hinata’s mouth. “With who— with Atsumu? He’s not— we’re not— I’m not— we’re—”
“We’re friends,” Atsumu finishes, saving you from your stammering. You look at him gratefully, and he can only offer a weak smile in return. “I don’t know why you’d think we’re dating, Shoyo.”
“Sorry—”
“They’re going on a date with someone else.”
You narrow your eyes. “What do you—?”
“Oh, hey,” Sakusa says as he walks out of the doors. He tugs on the string of his mask to make sure it’s secure before nodding at you. “Did you stop by the grocery store yet?”
Atsumu’s words are long forgotten when realization engulfs your figure at the speed of light. “Oh, no! I took a nap and—”
“You really need to fix your sleep schedule.”
“I’ll have you know I slept four hours last night.”
“…That’s not a good thing.”
“It’s an hour more than usual.”
The genuine concern is evident in Sakusa’s eyes before he rubs his temples with a sigh. “Okay, whatever. Let’s go to the store before we head home, I need to buy more protein powder.”
“Ay, ay, captain.”
“Don’t call me that.”
You snicker then turn to Atsumu with a smile he’d move mountains for. “I’ll see you later, Tsumu?”
“Yeah, sure,” he murmurs. “Don’t take too long to get ready.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, patting his cheek. “Thanks for agreeing to drive me there and back.”
He finds himself involuntarily leaning into your touch. “Don’t mention it.”
Your touch lingers for a second too long before you salute him in goodbye and rush to follow Sakusa to your car. Atsumu watches as your figure gets smaller and smaller, a smile on his face as you glance over your shoulder and stick your tongue out when you catch him staring.
He flips you off and makes sure to stick his tongue out, too, in hopes that it’ll make you laugh loud enough for him to hear.
(He doesn’t notice the mischievous glint in Sakusa’s eyes, nor does he catch his name slipping past Sakusa’s lips).
(But he does notice you tilt your head, lost in thought, before you look at him again, attempting to figure him out despite the distance.
He thinks nothing of it).
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Just after his 9am lecture, someone asks Atsumu out on a date.
She’s nice and easy on the eyes; a little timid, but he supposes that’s just the affect he has on people. Big man on campus is what he’s always referred to as, until they realize that he’s nothing if not a goofball off-court. Still, the girl — Miwa is what she said her name was — doesn’t know that yet, so Atsumu gives her the benefit of the doubt.
And he says yes.
At 11:00, the whole team has caught wind of his evening plans, and Sakusa texts him to tell him he’s an idiot. Atsumu frowns, asks why, but Sakusa doesn’t reply.
At 6:00, an hour before his date, he shows up on your doorstep with a bag of clothes and a tie loose around his neck. His left pant leg is tucked into his sock and the other is haphazardly cuffed; his hair is all over the place, sticking up at the back as the result of a hair-gel disaster.
You stare at him with pinched eyebrows. “What do you need?”
“I’ve got a date,” he explains frantically. “I need your help.”
You hesitantly let him in.
At 6:15 is when the argument occurs. The reason why is something Atsumu can’t recall, only that it was something so small and insignificant that the argument shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. He thinks you may have been in a bad mood before he even arrived, but that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t talked to him in the past five hours.
Oh, right. And the power goes out at 6:45.
He texts Miwa to cancel, promising to reschedule on a day where they won’t be talking to each other in the dark, but his phone dies before he gets a response. With a shrug, he tosses it onto the coffee table and makes a mental note to charge it as soon as the power comes back on, knowing full well that he’ll forget the reminder the second he makes it.
He should feel more guilty about the fact that he cares more about your absence than his postponed date.
Atsumu stares at your door for far too long before deciding that he’ll apologize to you — for what, he doesn’t know, but apologize first, ask questions later is his motto — once you’ve left your room. He’ll grovel and get on his knees and even humiliate himself if he has to, as long as it gets you to talk to him again, because God knows he’ll never survive this outage by himself.
(Also, you’re his best friend, and — Atsumu has never told anybody this — the last time you gave him the silent treatment, his chest physically hurt from not speaking to you that he vowed to never anger you again).
It’s 11:35, and you still haven’t left your room.
For the past few hours, you’ve been watching Netflix without headphones to torture a bored Atsumu, but the noises stopped about ten minutes ago, meaning your phone must’ve died too, so it’s only a matter of time before you leave your room in hopes of finding something to do.
Atsumu’s almost giddy at the thought.
At 11:50, he makes his move.
He hears the creaking of your door and your socked feet softly padding in the hallway. Atsumu’s always tried going to sleep early so he can hit the gym before it gets too busy the next morning, so you must’ve waited the latest you could bear with the assumption that he had fallen asleep on the couch.
Atsumu tiptoes to the end of the hallway, teeth bright compared to the darkness of the apartment, and his grin only widens when you finally see him.
You blink before scoffing, brushing past him to enter the kitchenette.
“Y/N,” he says, attempting to be stern but it comes off as a whine in his desperation. “Look at me.” You spare him a glance. Atsumu deems that’s good enough. “Listen, I’m sorry.”
He watches you open a cupboard and fill your glass with water. The seconds that pass by are agonizingly slow and Atsumu shifts uncomfortably when the silence drags on.
Finally, you look at him, unamused, and say, “What exactly are you sorry for?”
He purses his lips in thought. “Uh…”
Rolling your eyes, you turn to make your way back to your room.
“Wait! Wait,” Atsumu shouts, rushing over to block the exit. His eyes dart all over the kitchen in hopes the walls will have the answer to your question. You tap your foot impatiently, and it’s only when you go to open your mouth to tell him to move that he blurts out, “I’m sorry for eating the rest of your chocolate cake.”
You look at him incredulously. “That was you?”
“Yeah, I— wait, you’re not mad about that?”
“I am now!” you huff, using an arm to try and shove him out of the way, but he catches your wrist.
“Then I don’t get it!” he groans. “What did I do?”
You give him a once-over. “Well, what didn’t you do?”
“This is about the outfit?”
“You’ve cuffed your slacks, Tsumu. They’re cuffed. No sane person cuffs their slacks.”
He struggles to wrap his head around your response. “You’re mad,” he repeats, then gestures to his outfit confusedly, “about what I’m wearing.”
You seem to realize just how ridiculous it sounds uttered out loud, because you pout. “Not just that.”
“Then what else?”
You stumble over your words before you coherently state, “You’re going on a date.”
He frowns. “Yes.”
“You’re going on a date,” you say again when it’s obvious he’s not catching on to what you mean. When all Atsumu can manage is a perplexed sound, you add frustratedly, “You’re going on a date, which I don’t understand, since Sakusa told me that I didn’t need to worry anymore, but I guess he’s wrong because you came here asking for my help with looking nice on your night out with Miwa and—”
“Wait,” Atsumu interrupts, still puzzled. “What did Sakusa tell you?”
“He told me not to worry.”
“Worry about what?”
That snaps you out of it.
You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. Then, you cross your arms over your chest, muttering out a response with feigned nonchalance, “Whatever.”
Atsumu protests, “Hey, I—”
“Where were you even going to take her?” you swiftly change the subject, and Atsumu decides that he’ll let it go — that’s what he’s been doing for a while, anyway, and another day really couldn’t hurt, could it?
“Dancing,” he says.
“Dancing?”
“Yes,” he responds, relaxing at the sight of your amusement. “I searched up unique date ideas and Google told me to take her dancing.”
“You should’ve just taken her to dinner,” you say. “Because you can’t dance.”
“That’s not true at all.”
“You were born with two left feet.”
“Quit lying, you’re only saying that because you’re mad at me.”
“I’m only telling you the truth!”
“I’m a good dancer!”
“You really aren’t. I thought that was established two weeks ago when we were playing Just Dance and you knocked over Aran’s vase.”
“That says nothing about my ability to—”
“Yes, it does.”
“I’ll prove it.”
“Yeah, okay, sure.”
“I’m serious,” he says, stretching his hand out for you to take.
You look at his palm and back up at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Not in any way, shape, or form.”
“We don’t even have music—”
“I’ll sing,” he shakes his hand. “C’mon, hurry up, my arm’s getting tired.”
Without a second thought, you interlace your fingers with his as he whisks you around the kitchen, his laugh loud when you yelp at his fast movements. He places his other hand on the small of your back to keep you from slipping on the tile as he leans to whisper into your ear.
“Any song requests?”
“None. You’re an awful singer,” you retort, bristling at the warmth of his breath.
“So, what are you saying? You’d rather waltz in silence?”
“Yes. And I wouldn’t even call this waltzing. We’re just sliding around the kitchen.”
“We’re waltzing,” Atsumu says firmly, daring you to argue. You only sigh, letting him pull you closer as you two clumsily move around the room. He sings your favourite song despite your insistence for him not to, humming the parts he doesn’t know and doing his best to hit every note.
You laugh into his chest, and he makes sure the sound is trapped in his ribcage so he’ll never have to go a day without it.
When the song reaches its end, you place your head on his shoulder, your breath piercing through his blazer and skin. “I’m sorry that I got mad at you,” you whisper despite the quiet, as if making your voice any louder will shatter the atmosphere. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs.
“It’s not, but thanks for trying to make me feel better,” you say timidly. “I guess I just got my hopes up.”
Atsumu tries to get the information out of you again, the very thing that’s been bothering you — and, as a result, him — for weeks. “About what?”
Your fingers tighten around his. “Nothing,” you answer, and if you notice just how much his posture deflates then you say nothing of it. “Can we stay like this for a little while?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand. “We can stay for as long as you want.”
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iii. Love
“You’re gonna get it in my eye!”
“Then stay still!”
“Just promise not to poke me.”
“I’ve already promised five times.”
“Then promise again!”
“Tsumu—” you sigh, slumping your shoulders as you meet his defiant gaze. “I promise I won’t get anything into your eyes or your mouth or your nostrils. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Atsumu narrows his eyes. “For some reason that doesn’t make me feel much better.”
You groan. “We’ve been over this millions of times—”
“Sue me for thinking you’re still mad at me.”
“I told you—”
“Sakusa got into my head,” he explains for the umpteenth time that evening, “he keeps on saying I’ve done something wrong, but he won’t tell me what, and he keeps looking at me as if I’ve committed a felony. His face keeps me up at night, it’s the reason why I’ve had so many nightmares recently—”
“Sakusa’s being a nuisance. Trust me, you haven’t done anything wrong,” you assure, your voice echoing off the walls of your tiny bathroom. “You have nothing to worry about, so stop acting like I’m trying to kill you with this face mask.”
He stares pointedly at the tub sitting next to you on the sink. “It’s scarily green,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Like, it’s Hulk-green. Nothing should be that green.”
“If you’re implying it’s poisonous, it’s not.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you grumble, spreading the mask across his cheeks, ignoring his murmured whines about how cold it feels on his skin. “You weren’t acting like this last time.”
“You were using a different face mask last time,” he rebuts. “I liked the other one better than this one.”
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I go to the store,” you hum. “Maybe I’ll even take you with me, so you can choose the face mask. It’ll save me from your complaining in the future.”
“You love my complaining,” he replies quickly. “But I really should. I’d make your grocery trips so much more fun.”
“You’d get us kick out.”
“Would not!” Atsumu scoffs when you don’t even bother to hide your unconvinced mien and places his hands on either side of the marble countertop, trapping you against him and the sink. “I’ll prove it this weekend.”
You shake your head. “I’m not going this weekend. The fall festival is on Saturday, remember? I’m holding off spending money this week so I can buy a ton of cotton candy without feeling guilty.”
“Really?” he snorts. “You’re not gonna get wasted this year?”
“Definitely not. Last year was a nightmare.”
“You don’t even remember what happened.”
“Exactly,” you say, smoothing out the mask. “And you’re always taking care of me when I’m drunk, it makes me feel bad.”
Despite his proximity, you don’t seem to feel the intensity of his stare. His demeanour has softened in the past five minutes, smiling warmly at the pinch between your brows and the way your lips have twisted into a focussed frown.
This has happened countless times before — on all the other self-care nights, Atsumu finds himself in the four walls of your bathroom, free to admire you all he wants without the company of his friends and their teasing remarks. Though he’d never admit it, he prefers the quiet, because here, the both of you aren’t brushing off comments made about your relationship; here, it’s just you and him, pressed against the bathroom sink, worries left behind on the other side of the door.
Here, it’s so peaceful that Atsumu believes, for a few short moments, that everything will be okay.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says breathily, dreading the moment when you finish and he’s forced to pull away. “I like taking care of you.”
“You’re required to do it because we’re friends.”
“No, I like doing it,” he says again, ingraining the statement into your brain so it’ll stay there forever. “You don’t see me letting Bokuto or Hinata — hell, even Suna, stay over at my apartment and sleep in my bed.”
You pause your movements, eyes flickering to his. “What does that make me then?”
“Huh?”
“Bokuto, Hinata, and Suna are your friends, but you don’t pick them up from parties and let them say the night at your place.”
“Well, that’s cause I can’t be bothered most of the time, since they’re usually going to on-campus parties and my place is so far from—”
“But you picked me up a few nights ago,” you interrupt, and Atsumu is drawn to the determination in your irises more than he wants to admit. “And a couple weeks ago too, I think. You’ve been picking me up before I even moved in with Sakusa, and my old place was thirty minutes away.”
“What are you saying, Y/N?”
“What am I to you, Atsumu?”
He grips the countertop so tightly his knuckles are as white as the marble. His heart drums against his ribcage, so loud in the cavity of his chest that he wonders if you can hear it too.
“You’re my friend.”
“Like Bokuto? Or Hinata, or Su—?”
“No, of course not,” he scoffs. Comparing yourself to them is absurd. “It’s diff— you’re different.”
“Different how?”
Suddenly, everything feels stuffy. Tension floods the room until he’s neck-deep in it and drowning, all while you stare up at him, awaiting an answer.
“I—”
Someone knocks loudly on the door.
“Hey!” Bokuto. “Is someone in here?”
You don’t answer. The ball is in Atsumu’s court.
There’s an answer that lingers in his mind, one that he wants to give you despite the risk that it could destroy everything he’s ever known. But as his hesitation grows, the ring buoy that is Bokuto’s voice becomes more tempting — something to save him from this situation where he’s flailing in hope and what-ifs. Something to save him from your want and his dread and all the other sharp objects that could slice your friendship in two.
(Aren’t you the one who’s always saying he should be more responsible?
Doing this is the most responsible thing he could do, isn’t it?)
“We’ll be right out,” he responds, and just as he replies, you pull away from him in defeat.
Everything in his body tightens.
You turn to wash your hands. Through the mirror, he can see you blink rapidly and clench your jaw.
When he finally goes to exit, Bokuto stands impatiently on the other side. His eyebrows rise when he spots the hairband keeping Atsumu’s blond strands out of his face.
“That’s cute,” Bokuto coos, poking at the heart that sticks out from the material.
“Thanks,” Atsumu says, adjusting the band and letting his fingers brush against the plush heart. “It’s Y/N’s.”
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The sun had set a long time ago.
In its absence is the moon, its light barely sufficient to lead you and Atsumu home — home being his apartment, but you’ve been there so much it might as well be your own. It’s alright, though, he thinks; your arm is interlinked with his, and that’s all he’ll ever need to guide him.
Your hips bump his as you both walk down the sidewalk, the air a melody of your laughs as he retells a childhood story about him and Osamu. You fail to refrain the teasing comments that fall from your lips about how he’s always been a troublemaker, long before you ever met him.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he’d said a couple minutes ago. “Since I’m your favourite and everything.”
You smile, and every time you do so, the more he believes that the bathroom incident has been forgotten.
But Atsumu’s not stupid. He senses your discomfort — it’s miniscule, but it’s there, and deep down he knows it’s all because of what happened last night.
Every Tuesday, you wait for his evening lecture to finish before you both walk back to his place to watch a movie. Some nights you leave before the clock strikes ten, most nights you stay over. It’s a routine that’s been implemented since he first met you, and never once has it ever felt tense.
Atsumu itches to fix it.
“Hey,” he pipes up, hoping to avoid any uncomfortable lulls in conversation. “You never told me how your date went.”
“My date?”
“Yeah. Bokuto says some guy from your Psychology class asked you out.”
“What?”
“At the party.”
You crinkle your nose in thought before a light bulb goes off in your head. “Are you talking about Kuroo?”
Atsumu’s eyes may as well bulge out of the sockets with how much they’ve widened. “Kuroo asked you out?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. But he didn’t mean it. He only did it to get someone to stop bothering him.”
Atsumu frowns. “Then why did Bokuto say—?”
“Bokuto was drunk,” you snicker. “Plus, you know how much of a lightweight he is, and Hinata just kept on giving him drinks, so you can imagine how that went.”
“Not good, probably.”
“Nope,” you say. “Just imagine everything that could’ve gone wrong then double it.”
“Did he puke on Akaashi?”
“Yeah, and on Kuroo too.”
“See, that’s why I never let him stay the night.”
Your smile wavers and he pinches himself for saying anything in the first place.
“That’s probably the only good idea you’ve ever had,” you eventually say, but your voice is weaker than you intend it to be.
Atsumu can’t find the energy to argue.
He allows himself to be pulled down the street, your footsteps hasty compared to how he tries to drag his feet along the cement. Atsumu assumes you want to get this night over with, to spend only an hour — maybe two — with him before bidding goodbye, and the thought causes an ugly feeling to root itself into the pit of his stomach.
The wind whistles in warning. He should’ve expected something like this.
All good things come to an end is something he’s heard far too many times to count, but Atsumu is nothing if not an optimist, and even so, he never thought a saying such as that could ever apply to his friendship with you. Despite the hardships, the two of you have always pulled through.
But the clouds begin to drift over the moon, hindering its light, and his stomach churns at what’s to come.
Your voice, disguised as a remedy to soothe his unease, carries him forward. “Listen, I think I’ll head home after the movie.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight, y’know?”
“You can sleep in mine,” he suggests, his tone bordering on a plea. You always sleep in mine. “I can sleep on the couch.”
“It’s okay, Tsumu,” you reply. “You’re probably tired of seeing me all the time, anyway.”
“I’m not,” he insists.
You give him a tight smile in response.
Atsumu’s always believed he was good with words. His voice has failed him before, sure, and it’s not like it’s a secret that sometimes his carelessness lands him in undesirable situations, but he’s usually so quick on his feet. He knows what to say, and if he doesn’t, he can crank up the charm until everyone in the vicinity begins to suffocate on his charisma.
Miya Atsumu is rarely ever speechless.
But then you started acting different, and suddenly he couldn’t decipher your expressions or predict your every move. You would dance with him in the kitchen and tenderly apply skincare products on his face, but no matter how much he pulled you close, you would drift further away. You’d open up before brushing everything off as if he had nothing to worry about.
It's like you haven’t been paying attention at all. If it involved you, Atsumu would always worry.
The question slips out of his mouth too quickly for him to control. “Are you ever gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
“What?”
He stops walking, and as a result, so do you. “Something’s been bothering you,” he says hoarsely. “And I was waiting it out because I thought you’d tell me, but… I feel like you never will.”
You lick your lips — to stall, he thinks, but doing so only spares you a second. “Do you have any guesses?”
“Huh?”
“You’re not an idiot,” you sigh. “You must have some idea.”
(And, perhaps, maybe a small part of him does. You’re his best friend, and he is yours, and you each earned that title by knowing the other like the moon knows the stars, like the stars know the sky, like the sky knows the sun.
He knows, you know he does. But this is irresponsible. It threatens everything).
“I don’t,” he lies.
“Atsumu,” you exhale, as if he’s entangled in your system, “do you really need me to say it?”
He doesn’t answer. You continue, anyway.
Three words are whispered into the dead of night, and the world tilts on its axis.
This was never part of the routine.
“Maybe I should just go home,” you murmur when he doesn’t speak. His fingers twitch, screaming at him to reach out for you as soon as you pull away. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Y/N—”
“Just let me go,” you say — you beg. “Please.”
His body screams, his nerves flare, but the messenger between his spinal cord and his brain fails to relay the message that he should do everything in his power to prevent you from leaving.
“Okay,” he responds. His voice sounds like it hasn’t been in use for years, tainted with defeat.
You turn to leave, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Atsumu doesn’t follow.
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Atsumu’s moody, he has been for a while, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to realize it’s because of you.
Or, more specifically, the absence of you.
You’ve been spending more time by yourself than you have been with anyone else, cooped up in the safety of your bedroom and listening to — according to Sakusa — music that ranges from soft, heartbroken ballads, to hardcore fuck-you anthems. The lack of your presence is strange; you’ve always been a constant in Atsumu’s life, and to live without it leaves a lingering emptiness in his chest.
He'll catch glimpses of you sometimes on campus, and he feels, what he assumes to be, the same emotion people feel when they claim they’ve spotted Bigfoot.
For a moment, everything feels a little more bearable.
But then you disappear, leaving sorrow in your wake, and reality washes over him like an ice-cold bucket of water.
His moping is how he ends up tagging along with Bokuto and Hinata at the fall festival, trailing after them like an upset puppy while they frolic down the streets, gawking at all the stands and taste-testing every snack they come across. The plan was to have them cheer him up, to make him smile even if it’s only for a second, because when Atsumu is upset, it becomes everyone else’s problem.
Hinata offers him some funnel cake and Atsumu absentmindedly murmurs about how it’s your favourite. They all buy friendship bracelets and Atsumu buys one for you too because he knows how much you’d want one. They all clamber onto the carousel and Atsumu wonders if you’d fall off if you rode the horse.
Bokuto and Hinata get tired of it all eventually.
“He’s hopeless,” Bokuto cries when they reunite with Suna and Osamu. “He won’t stop whining.”
Atsumu opts for standing on his toes to look over the crowd in hopes of finding you instead of replying to his friend. His eyes drift first to the ring toss, then to the man selling cotton candy, then to the spinning teacups.
Nothing.
Osamu says something that finally catches his brother’s attention. “Well, Y/N’s not coming,” he waves his phone in the air, which is open on his message thread with you. “Said they were busy.”
Hinata huffs. “They’re only saying that cause Tsumu’s here.”
Bokuto slaps his arm. “Shoyo!”
“What? It’s true!” he exclaims defensively. “You know how they’re always on top of their assignments, I doubt they’re doing anything but watching TV and—”
“Yeah, but still, don’t say that! Isn’t Tsum-Tsum heartbroken enough?”
“I am not heartbroken,” Atsumu snarls.
Suna gives him a look. “Well…”
“I’m not!” he flails, frantically gesturing to himself to show that he’s perfectly fine. “I mean, yeah, am I a little upset? Yes. But heartbroken? You guys are just saying anything at this point, like—”
Osamu interrupts him before he can continue rambling and digging himself into a bigger hole. “What did you even do, anyway?”
The Miya twins are notorious on campus for their bickering, but Atsumu thought that in this situation, at least his own brother would be on his side. “What makes you think this is all my fault?”
Osamu raises an eyebrow, mocking and patronizing. “Well, for one—”
“If anything,” Atsumu continues, hurriedly cutting him off, “I should be the one avoiding them. Not that I’d want to, I’d never want to, obviously, but if we were getting technical then they should be the one worrying about me and not the other way around.”
Hinata speaks, mouth full of the last of his funnel cake. “Who says they don’t worry about you?”
“I— wait, what?”
“They’re always asking me and Shoyo about how you’re doing,” Bokuto chirps. “How screwed up could things be that you won’t talk to each other?”
Atsumu inhales, and he feels the world begin to collapse into him. Unsure of what to say, unsure of what to think, unsure if it’s fair of him to reach for his phone and hope you’ll answer his calls. He knows why the two of you have found yourselves here, standing on opposite sides of a field of regret and hurt. He knows, that in his attempt to dodge change, he blew something up in the process.
Suna tilts his head in question. “Atsumu. What happened?”
Atsumu exhales. “They told me that—” the words lodge themselves in his throat, unwilling to leave.
But they all understand.
“Huh,” Suna hums. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”
“What did you reply with?” Osamu asks.
Atsumu prepares himself for their rage. “Nothing.”
He’s met with silence. Then, incredulously, Suna asks, “Are you stupid?”
Osamu answers for him. “Chronically so.”
Atsumu doesn’t have the heart to respond to the jab, and the severity of the situation significantly increases.
Hinata bites the inside of his cheek in thought. “I think he’s broken.”
Bokuto leans forward to study Atsumu’s expression as much as he can before the latter waves him off. With a frown, Bokuto steps back and looks around the grounds, hoping to find something that’ll cheer Atsumu up and make tonight not a complete bust.
A tent, flashy and sparkly and enchanting, lures him in.
Osamu looks like he’s about to say something, but before he can utter a word, Bokuto tugs on Atsumu’s sleeve and drags him to the tent, ignoring his protests. “I have an idea,” he says reassuringly, but it does nothing to calm his friend. “Trust me on this.”
Atsumu snatches his arm back and rubs it as if Bokuto’s harmed him. He cranes his neck around to look at the sign just outside the tent, and scowls at the pink and yellow doodles on the chalkboard.
“This is a psychic.”
Bokuto nods vigorously. “Yes.”
“Your idea of cheering me up is having me scammed?”
Bokuto pouts. “You love stuff like this.”
He’s not wrong. If it were any other day, this place would be Atsumu’s first stop. He’d be the one begging people to join him despite the fact that he knows the consequences involve a dent in his bank account, but today, predictions of his future are the last thing on his mind. Today, convincing people to get their fortune read is the least of his desires, because you aren’t trying to convince people with him.
There’s no point being here without you.
Atsumu moves to get out of line.
“Hey, dude,” Bokuto whines and holds onto his arm to keep him in place. “Just give it a try. It can’t hurt, can it?”
“Boku—”
“It’ll be fun!” he says cheerily. “Maybe it’ll give you some insight on how to apologize to Y/N.”
Atsumu wants nothing more than to move — to leave — but Bokuto mastered the art of the puppy dog eyes long before he could talk, and the moment he flashes them Atsumu realizes he has no other choice but to stay.
When he steps into the tent, the atmosphere changes.
He tugs on the sleeves of his windbreaker when the autumn air threatens to pierce his skin, and reluctantly sits down on the chair across from the psychic. She eyes his every move, trying to figure out what type of customer he might be — someone who’s just doing this for fun, or someone who’s going through a rough patch, or someone who needs a stranger to light the path they need to walk down.
Atsumu fidgets in his seat.
“You’re here for a reading?”
A shrug and feigned indifference are what she receives as an answer. “Sure.”
His mask of nonchalance begins to slip when the reading starts, growing restless as he checks the time on his watch and calculating the probability of you still being awake. He glances over his shoulder, praying to whichever deity who’ll listen that Bokuto will come in and drag him out once he’s realized that this is the last thing Atsumu wants.
You are not here, and his body stings whenever the reminder worms its way into his mind.
His uneasiness must amuse the psychic, because when he finally looks back at her, she’s grinning, knotting his stomach in worry.
She asks him a dreadful question, made of nuts and bolts and things that rub salt in the wound of his heart.
What is it that you desire most, boy?
Atsumu freezes, plastering a confused smile on his face. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m sure you know. Is it strength?”
Definitely not, Atsumu wants to say. He’s more than capable enough to lift heavy boxes, he doesn’t have to take multiple trips to move things from point A to point B, he doesn’t struggle carrying his friends’ slump and inebriated bodies into a bed.
Atsumu is strong. He’s proved it during his frequent trips to the gym and by winning arm-wrestling contests. He wears the trait like a badge of honour, a reminder.
He does not need any more physical strength.
He checks his watch and wonders if you’ve brushed your teeth and dragged yourself to bed.
The psychic pushes. “Power?”
Atsumu briefly shakes his head, a movement so miniscule it’s a surprise the woman catches it.
It used to be such a thrill, the popularity that came with his volleyball reign. He used to ride that horse and sit in that throne with pride, he let the excitement course through him and, for a while, let himself believe the squeals that came with victory was interchangeable with love.
But power does not compare. He was foolish to believe nothing could beat the rush that came with the admiration — the shouts of his name in the bleachers, the ever-growing follower count, the people confessing their infatuation whenever they caught him alone.
They do not know who he is underneath the volleyball uniform. They don’t know that he likes to go to the diner after games and order a strawberry milkshake, or that his bottom drawer is filled to the brim with spare clothes for you, or that his favourite nights are spent with you applying a face mask to his skin.
They will never know him as much as you do.
The psychic leans forward. “Love?”
Atsumu clenches his jaw. Yes, would be the short answer, but to say that without an explanation would mean to lie, and he’s never been a good liar. Because Atsumu’s always been loved — not by the crowds or the student body — but by his friends, his family, you.
You gave your heart to him, and he noticed too late that the bleeding organ resided in the palm of his hand, cracked and yearning and brave. And after he realized this, he selfishly craved for more, even though he knew it scared him. He has been in relationships before, but none of them crossed the threshold of what truly mattered — the intimate conversations, the dances in the kitchen at midnight, the confessions murmured under the duvet.
So, perhaps, yes, Atsumu desires love, but the one thing he supposes he wants more is courage.
The psychic smiles. “Ah. Bingo. So—”
“Miya.”
Atsumu whips his head around to find Sakusa standing at the entrance, skillfully ignoring the protests behind him to get in line and wait his turn. Sakusa raises an eyebrow at the situation Atsumu’s found himself in, but saves him from his judgement to state, “Bokuto told me you were in here.”
“Excuse me,” the woman chirps. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“If you think a scam is what’ll solve your problems, then you’re stupider than I thought,” Sakusa says.
Atsumu sighs. “You came here just to tell me that?”
“Well, yeah,” Sakusa shrugs. “There’s a simpler solution to all of this.”
“Okay, well—”
“Talk to them,” Sakusa interrupts, exhausted. “Before they give up.”
Atsumu kisses his teeth, changing his position in his chair so he’s fully facing Sakusa. “Since when were you the type to give advice?”
Sakusa ignores his retort with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes.
“I have never seen you cower before, Miya,” Sakusa says, and the words are like needles on his skin. “Don’t let the first time you do so be now.”
Atsumu inhales shakily. “I don’t—”
“They got Hinge a few days ago,” Sakusa deadpans. Atsumu stiffens. “Don’t lose to some hack they found on a dating app.”
Atsumu looks from his friend to the clairvoyant before flashing her a sheepish smile and shooting clumsily out of his chair. The words that tumble from his mouth are barely coherent, and the last thing he hears before he exits the tent is Sakusa mumbling moron under his breath.
The journey from the festival to your apartment is a blur. He vaguely recalls running past his friends and returning their questioning shouts with a wave of his hand and getting angry at least two cars who cut him on the road, before he ends up in front of your door, nose tinged red from the cold.
His knocks are insistent.
“I’m coming, God, be patient,” he hears you say before you open the door to see him, and your annoyance is wiped away in seconds.
“Hi,” he says, out of breath from running up three flights of stairs after he got impatient waiting for the elevator. His eyes land on the blanket you’ve wrapped over your shoulders, and his lips quirk up at the familiar pattern. “Didn’t I get you that?”
You tug on the material defensively. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “And what the hell are you wearing? Did you not look at the weather before you left the house? It’s freezing outside, you idiot, you should be wearing a thicker jacket. And your face is so red! And your hands! They’re gonna get all dry if you don’t wear gloves! How many times do I have to tell you to dress for the weather otherwise you’ll get sick and…”
Atsumu rasps, “And?”
You gulp, taking a step back to distance yourself. “And you shouldn’t be here,” you say, sending a knife to his chest. “I thought you were at the festival.”
“That’s why you didn’t come,” he concludes. “Because I was there.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do?” you snap. “I told you I loved you and you looked at me like I was crazy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Whatever,” you bark. “My point still stands. You shouldn’t be here.”
He nods. “I know.”
“Then why are you?”
Eight letters are whispered into the darkness of the entryway, and the world is thrown off-balance.
“I love you,” he says, surprising himself with just how easy the words escape after he lets them, “and I’m so, so sorry.”
Your lips part in surprise. “What?”
“I love you,” he repeats. “And I should’ve told you sooner, but I— I was scared—”
“Then why are you telling me now?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Love conquers all, I guess. My fear included.”
“You came all the way here to tell me that?”
He risks a step towards you and his heart flutters when you don’t move away. “I ran out of a psychic’s tent, too.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he murmurs. “That’s not important right now.”
“It sounds pretty important, I mean, you mentioned it and everything.”
“It’s not.”
“What exactly is more important than that?”
“Your forgiveness, actually.”
You huff. “Believe it or not, forgiveness doesn’t come so easily, Atsumu.”
“Can I kiss you, then?” he questions innocently, placing a hand against your cheek. “Will you take that as an apology?”
You still, licking your lips as you try to maintain your defiant stance. “…That won’t work every time you make me mad, you know.”
He tries his best not to smirk. “Is that a yes?”
“I hate you.”
He lets his lips hover over yours, and he’s not sure if the loud heartbeat ringing in his ears is his or yours (or maybe a mixture of both). “Is that yes?” he asks again, searching your eyes for any signs of discomfort.
Your eyes flicker to his mouth and then you mumble, “Yes.”
Atsumu pinches himself before capturing his lips with yours, eager and desperate, to kiss you with enough pent-up want and need to cause you to stumble. He’s gentle in the way he cradles your face, as if the world has found itself in his hands, still beautiful despite how much he’s hurt it.
He’ll make up for hurting you later, but for now he’ll allow himself to be selfish.
I love you, he whispers into your mouth, and you capture the confession with your own and let it live in your beating heart.
I love you, he whispers into your neck as you both stumble into the kitchen, making sure to tattoo the words into your skin so you’ll never forget.
“I love you,” he whispers one last time as the blanket covers you both and he’s sure you’ve lulled to sleep with your ear against his chest and his thumb drawing hearts on your shoulder, “so, so much.”
Slumber takes over you both, blanketing your smiling figures with hope and love.
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© fushisagi, 2023. do not translate or plagiarize my works.
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dictearchive · 4 months
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hqbaby · 8 months
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fuck ur instincts — suna x reader & atsumu x reader
you and suna are just fooling around—so why does he care so much when you start falling in love with someone else?
genre. love triangle type. 18+ series content. college au, fwb, explicit sexual content, slow burn
completed.
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chapters.
oh cool — still winning — yours — not not serious — burn — best — kinda nice — sorry, my bad — fan favorite — rin — of course — an agreement — wreck his world —somebody's losing — need it — this is real — alone — all along — no idea — more than — bad — ily — real talk — get it now — you don't mean it — how much changed — knowing — maybe — fuck it — do what you do — right here
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extras. — [ ao3 crosspost coming soon ]
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yandere-sins · 2 months
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Do you think the miya twins would ever "mess around" with their darling at the same time? Ik they usually don't touch her like that unless they have her to themselves. Idk, I think it'd be fun to have the two crazies fighting over her as they have sex.
Oh yeah, totally!
[Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content]
Osamu is gracious, almost lenient. He knows Atsumu needs his alone time with you after a hard day of training, to celebrate his victory, or to just shut him up for a while. Having you bounce on his cock until he's satisfied is sure to knock Atsumu out for a while, as he'll be sleeping like a baby after a good fuck. And, to be honest, Osamu doesn't always want to deal with his brother's whining because you moaned the "wrong" name or because you've been kissing Osamu for too long. He just wants to be concentrating on your and his pleasure, knowing his brother can get off just fine by slamming into you but Osamu likes taking his sweet time. Also, Osamu is fully aware that his presence and extra stimulation could overwhelm you (although he enjoys that).
Regardless, that means he'll be the one to back off 7 out of 10 times, whisking you away after Atsumu is done for some fun in the bathtub and to help clean you up. Or he enjoys the rare time he has alone with you, bending you over the kitchen counter or taking you into the twin's room for somewhere more comfortable. There's also the delayed gratification in listening to your moans coming from the other room while he's cooking, his cock throbbing and waiting for his own chance of release that Osamu so likes. And he really likes being the one to pick up the you in pieces that Atsumu leaves behind, making sure you know he's the one to rely on in this weird relationship.
But there are times it can't be helped. I mean, look at you; how can anyone resist you?!
Surely not those two!
It's mostly when Osamu and you are getting frisky, and Atsumu comes home too early and catches you. He really has no shame, and there will be an unoccupied spot he can squeeze himself into. There's so much excitement in his eyes when he sees you, already hot and heavy, dazed, crying, or otherwise deliciously pleasured, and he can't help himself from asking you if you're enjoying his brother's dick and if you want to feel even better. He'll be so vocal about how pretty you are and how well you are taking Osamu's cock. How you'll be able to fit one more and take Atsumu as well, looking absolutely brilliant like this. If your mouth isn't occupied, Atsumu will make you tell him all about how you're feeling, asking you to say where his brother is making you feel good and apply some more stimulation that Osamu might have missed. Atsumu is always a little rougher with you, but he knows where to twist and pull to make your back arch, and he's the best when it comes to praising and degrading you, depending on what you need at that moment. And he knows. He always knows where you're itching to be touched, and if not, he'll make you tell him, kiss you feverishly when you speak up, and do everything you need him to do.
The twins might nag a bit at each other, but you know better than anyone that their teamwork is dreamwork. If they get together, you'll be drowning in pleasure until you no longer feel like the trapped darling you are. They'll make you feel like you belong. Like you are their lover and as if you want to be their bitch, chasing just one more height. The two of them are as addicting and devastating as drugs, but you'll never find anyone who knows your body better. Who's touch will make you cry from joy and who controls you from your thoughts to your orgasm, allowing you to let go of any worry or fear.
Although more rare, there are also times when Osamu joins you and Atsumu. Interestingly, Atsumu does give out an invitation every time Osamu walks in on you and his brother cock-deep inside you. It might be a jest, but Atsumu is unpredictable and mischievous in that way, and Osamu, too, can't resist his pretty darling, writhing and moaning in front of him, desperately in need of his attention. (It's what he tells himself, at least.) Sometimes, it's enough to watch you and his brother go at it as he jerks himself off, but on the very good days, Osamu will do anything to worship you, putting your pleasure before his, especially after seeing his brother rough you up. Isn't it nice of him to kiss all those bites and scratches? Osamu's hands can be so amazing as they dance across your skin, leaving trails of his touch from one hickey to another that make you gasp while his palms almost seem to burn when they settle. You'll want to nod and confirm any of his questions because you know he'll treat you to mind-breaking stimulation when you do. Of course you'll suck his fingers, push out your tongue for him and let him play with your hair as he rearranges you into new positions, making you feel things even deeper to the point both you and Atsumu are trembling and moaning.
Having the full attention of one twin can be exhausting or quite one-sided. But once you have both, you'll start to forget that you never wanted any of this.
Because in those moments, you'll only want more.
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iinoruu · 9 months
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skts maid day aftermath 🤭
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haztory · 2 months
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['sex' by the 1975]
⤷ atsumu miya x f!reader; best friends, references to infidelity, pining, sexual content (w.c 3.1k)
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“it’s not sex.” he insists between mouthfuls. a drop of mustard dots the corner of his mouth. you stare incredulously.
“are you joking?” you ask. atsumu just shrugs his shoulder, intense focus saved for the burger held in his hands. practically inhaling a third of it in one bite as he brings it up to his mouth.
“‘s not like it’s the real thing.” he bobs his head side to side in consideration of the sandwich before he’s grabbing at the fries in your lap, “can i haf some.”
the carton lays practically emptied from his pilfering next to your abandoned chicken nuggets. three remaining, absent of consumption in favor of a bewildered stare at the man seated beside you on his bed. 
“fingering is penetration, that’s sex.” you say simply.
atsumu raises a brow, “yer gyno having sex with ya?”
“that’s different.” you level a stare at him, one that’s serious and fierce and that communicates everything you mean in the single look alone. he meets it with one of his own, familiarity and uncommunicated languages all the rage between the two of you. “she doesn't make me cum.”
“neither does yer boyfriend.” he shrugs, taking another large bite of his burger as you screech in offense. your hand meets his bicep with a sharp slap and he grabs at it in pain. “ow! ya were the one that told me that!”
”some people take a minute to figure it out.”
”sounds like its taking a lot longer than a minute.” he mutters to himself. “look, its a lost cause. just dump the guy before it gets anywhere. ya haven’t had sex yet, he’s got a weird face, dude cant tell a fake orgasm from a real one. why are ya fighting me on this?”
“fingering is sex! your body count would be zero if fingering didnt count.” you insist loudly and atsumu rolls his eyes. he crumples the foil his burger came in and throws it across the room, cheering loudly when it makes it into the bin in the corner of his room. 
his room is much the same since the last time you visited. photos of passing years sit framed on the desk— an image of he and osamu with their arms wrapped around each other, taken right before atsumu left for the olympics. another of you and atsumu placed right next to it, you leaning over his shoulder and him laughing loudly, beer bottles held deftly in hands and drunken flushes decorating your faces. momentos of faded high school memories, interspersed with flashes of young adult realities. 
its more sophisticated than it once was. minimal in furniture, and of the items that decorate the room they’re the perfect reflection of a twenty-four year old athlete. his closet is lined with designer gifted clothes, but his desk chair remains stacked with undone laundry, the basics of his everyday life found in the plush cushion more than on the hangers. the jacket you’re currently wearing was stolen from the top of that pile just after delivering a pointed comment at how cold he keeps his apartment. 
its a far cry from the bedroom he used to share with his brother, the one you remember at the dusk of previous memories. it was cramped and contained, lines between the two boys constantly blurred and you having to learn rather quickly where to step and when. but even now, as he lives on his own in a city a bit further from you than you’re comfortable with, not much has changed. you still sit on the left side of the bed and he takes the right; you still eat burgers on his bed and steal his jackets, and he throws papers into trash bins and insists he could’ve made it professional were he not already in volleyball; you still moan and complain about the woes of daily life and he still listens to them endlessly, interjecting the same amount of dumb enthusiasm as you know him to have. 
there is still much in common that remains between he and you. trusted familiarity, endless comfort; a bubble that remains whole and precious, unaltered despite life dealing its hand to you. you’re convinced there’s no one else in the world that gets you quite like atsumu does. 
there’s also no one in the world that works you up, quite like atsumu does.
atsumu stands from the bed, retrieving your own trash from your lap and chucking the rest of it in the bin. lithe and lean, he moves with a body that is sculpted to perfection as he turns off the overhead light and instead turns on the desk lamp, submerging the room in the lowly warmth of its glow. days are shorter now and the sun has just made it return home, leaving you to the dim luster of a pleasant comfort. 
its quiet, intimate. words entirely inappropriate to describe the weekly hangout with your best friend of seven years. 
pushing thoughts aside, you fight to remember what the whole point of the conversation was about. a boyfriend, right. your boyfriend.
right. 
“and he does not have a weird face, he’s just… interesting. it’s what i liked about him.” 
“revolting. i’m this close to spiking a ball in his face. it would be plastic surgery for the dud.”
“you’re being mean.” you tell him. 
atsumu scoffs loudly, “and yer being stupid! yer the one that’s complaining to me about it. yer really gonna date a guy who can’t figure it out when he fingers ya? what happens when ya actually have sex with the bozo?”
“it takes practice. i don’t blame him for not being able to get me there on the first try. i see him later tonight so i’ll talk to him about it. it’s hard to figure out how to turn someone on and then try to, you know, get me there—“
“woahwoahwoah—timeout.” atsumu hold his hands perpendicular to one another, forming a ‘t’. his eyebrows practically touch the hairline of his bleached hair. “he doesn't even turn you on?”
“not everyone is good at everything, like you.” you mean it sarcastically, but it comes out short and meek. it’s embarrassing to have to cover for the misgivings of your current beau, but there’s an obligation to. a point to make, especially to the man in front of you. 
you’ve met the ex-girlfriends, heard their feedback for the man before you. an average of six out of ten in boyfriend material, but he knocks the ball out of the park when it comes to the bed—or so you’ve heard. 
(aya, the most recent girl to have made her grand exit, followed you on instagram and asked you to not be a stranger. whether that was so she could have her in for atsumu or because she really wanted to be friends is still up for debate, but the gesture ended with a message in your directs.
[9:17] it sucks, he’ll always be more in love with volleyball than any girl he could ever date. and even if he didn’t, you’re his number two anyway, so there’s really no way i can win.
[9:20] i’m super sorry, aya. if it’s any consolation, i really liked you two together. he’s just slow, i’m sure you guys will figure it out.
[9:20] you were our biggest argument. 
[9:20] so no, i don’t think we will.
[9:21] i’ll miss that dick tho, best orgasm of my life. rip
there’s not much you can say to a message like that. there’s not much you can say to the surge of smugness that courses through you either, so you don’t.
you don’t tell atsumu about it.)
“alright. sit up then.”
his voice startles you. “what?” 
suddenly, he stands before the side of the bed, looming horribly tall over you as he peers down at you. he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, the fabric unintentionally pulling down ever so slightly and the waistband of his black boxers peeking out in greeting. the light of the desklamp casts a halo over his silhouette.
your attention is drawn upward and it’s hard to deny the familiar pang that tends to strike through you every so often in times like this. the simple effect of being near him. atsumu is unfairly handsome, and while it’s hard to put a name to the feeling that pulses inside of you when the light catches him just right or when a smile is even more charming than usual, the ache is always the same.
it’s fleeting, you convince yourself. something you refuse to settle on for too long. contexts and suppressed hopes pushed to the back of your mind along with the other unspoken things.
“come on.” he gestures two fingers upward. “i’ll show ya how easy it is to turn a girl on.”
its curiosity that has you standing up on your knees on the comforter, nothing more. its the wonder of how exactly your best friend makes his move on women that leads you to be so close to him, chests practically touching. breaths intertwining as atsumu stares a kind of serious into you that you’ve never been in the receiving end of before.
“im gonna touch ya.” his voice is low and your heart beats erratically in your chest. you nod. 
lifting his right hand, cold fingertips run across the heated skin on the back of your arm. digits trailing upward as he paints a pathway up. and it’s nothing—just his hand on your arm, nothing new or different, and yet your breath hitches. innocent in theory, but something solidifies on atsumu’s face, the familiar signs of determination playing out on his face. it’s less babied now, more formed and angular with the growings of an adult man, but it’s the same focus in his eye, the same clench in his jaw. 
his fingers trail up then down, repeating a circular figure on your skin. the sounds of your mingling breaths the only whispers between you two. your eyes dart down to his lips, but his stay fixed on you. studying every flicker of your eye, every inhale. 
his fingers break from their pattern and trails down to your wrist, then your palm, then your own fingers. tracing them, dancing with them, intertwining them slightly only to pull them away. 
“we should stop.” you whisper after a moment of his caress.
“why?” he asks and a quick glance to his gaze reveals that he knows why. he’s just making you spell it out.
it’s unfortunate that the only reason you want to stop is out of principle, and not because you truly have any reservations about any of this. your boyfriend of three months all but an annoying buzz in your ear.
“this feels like cheating.” you tell him simply. atsumu cocks his head to the side, charming smirk pulling across his lips. 
“i’m touching yer arm. this isn’t anything, yet.”
“you shouldn’t be touching my arm like this.”
“why? cause it’s working, right?” his voice drops to a low rumble, words vibrating through you and shooting straight to your core. “see how easy it is?”
“that means this is cheating then, right?” the question is posed, but it’s obvious it’s more to convince yourself than him. because all that he’s done is touch your arm and you’ve felt the bubbling of that unnamed something heat within you. it feels the exact same as it did seven years ago when you met him; feels identical to the moment four years ago when a drunken night led to a drunken kiss that was forgotten about the next day; feels the exact same whenever he looks at you like he does now, like you're open for the taking. a pointedly very different response to the dread that comes when getting intimate with your actual boyfriend. 
and while atsumu may be doing this to prove a point, to rub it in your face that he was right and you were wrong, you don’t trust that you’ll be able to not carry this with you. to not want more than you should. 
“nah.” he says simply, knowingly. “if i kiss you then it’s a problem.”
“oh, so kissing is cheating, but fingering isn’t?”
“can you shuddup? always runnin’ that damn mouth.” he renders you quiet. 
satisfied with your silence, he brings his left hand to cup your jaw, thumb and index finger grasping your chin and tilting your head to the left, leaving your neck exposed. he leans in, nose tracing a line up the column of your neck until he meets the juncture between that and your jaw. it’s a simple movement, and yet it feels like eternity in his hands. his breath hits steadily against the expanse of your cheek as he whispers into your ear.  “does he touch ya like this?” 
the gasp you release is guttural.
the arm previously fiddling with your fingers quickly wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him. you have no choice but to embrace him with your own arms, hands cupping the back of his neck to steady yourself. it’s impulse to run them down the expanse of his back, to feel the muscles that he’s worked so hard for, but you resist. keeping yourself locked on his neck and nothing more, as though you being pliant to his ministrations wasn’t jeopardizing enough.  
his thumb inches upward, stroking the corner of your lips sweetly. “does he take his time with ya? cause i would.” 
its then that his lips meet the skin of your neck, tingles erupting from the connection. all of its effects causing an inadvertent clench within you. “it’s not about shoving fingers inside and just doing it. its about doing it the way you like it. and i’d make ya tell me how ya like it. since yer always runnin’ that damn mouth, might as well put it to good use.”
its all-encompassing, the traitorous burn between your thighs. and yet, this is the unnamed something, all that you’ve pushed away.
“astumu—” you whine and its in that exhale of yours that he releases a sigh of his own. one that almost sounds restrained.
“tell me to stop.” he says quickly, lips mouthing against your neck as he utters the words. 
and you don’t want him to. not really. the desire is feverish, unlike anything you’ve felt before and to end this is to end the sweetness of something you’ve yet to taste. if it were to be with anyone you would want it to be with him.
you could take the teasing, the “i-told-you-so” from osamu, the obliteration of a friendship for the uncertain promise of something more. but it isn’t right. not like this. if mountains were to come to a head, you want it to happen because they were gravitated to each other, not because the earth told them to do so.
“stop.” you tell him, and it’s like a hot brand that strikes him. he’s immediately pushing away from, untangling his limbs from you and stepping back into the swath of darkness in the room. 
his breaths are deep and heavy, that much you can tell from the distance. shuttering exhales that wrack his chest. you can hardly make out his irises, only see the intensity of dark pupils. it’s hard to believe that he could be feeling the way you do, just from the simple touch alone. a quick glance down to his grey sweatpants proves otherwise. 
a moment, then two, pass by. ragged breaths filling the distance, words spoken in the silent language you’re both fluent in. 
“does this mean i’m easy then?” you ask quietly, an effort to ease the wall of tension. 
“no.” he shakes his head gently, “just means i know ya.”
he knows what he means to say, the words and all of their yearning practically knocking against his teeth to escape. it’s the long haul, almost a decade long game of carefully advanced chess pieces to get to this point. blocked, temporarily, by the appearance of the new guy. a boyfriend of yours that atsumu met once, a guy he barely attempted to learn the name of. for reasons of his own, their knowing pertinent only to him. held deeply within the urges of being seen, the desires of having you wholly, completely.
there are plenty of other ways that he could do this—probably be more eloquent about it. admit pushed away feelings when you’re not in the midst of ranting about how your boyfriend just can’t get you off. 
but the tension irks him. thick enough to cut a knife, always following the two of you in the long held stares and closeness in which you two gravitate towards each other. the answer to your boyfriend problem is standing right in front of you. he knows what he wants you to do when you see your boyfriend later tonight. 
there are certain shoes that atsumu is convinced he could fill better than your boyfriend.
your face is flushed, and the desk lamp makes you look angelic under the lowlights, and you're wearing his jacket like you always do in a way that makes him believe it was always meant for you. and he’s not entirely convinced, even without the cloud of lust that hangs over him, that you don’t want this just as bad as he does.
osamu once said that atsumu wouldn’t admit his feelings to you even if they hit him over the head. they’re here, now. settling in the distance between you two, bobbing in the capsizing waves of want. they ache to be spoken, knock repeatedly against his gritted teeth. 
but a choice is made in that moment, with you looking at him as wild as you are. atsumu will admit to the selfish and prideful part of himself, but this—you— aren’t something to just take. the taste of your neck, the feel of your body against him, it must be given to him, earned. not because he needs to make a petty point, but because you want him to. 
he cares for you too much to be reckless in how he plays his cards. even if osamu will bust his balls for it later.
you have a boyfriend. and he can’t force you to change that. it wouldn’t be right, he’s given you the taste, he hopes it will be enough.
“like that.” he says after a moment, pushing down his pride and long held desires for you. “tell him ya like it like that.”
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a/n: why is it that whenever i stop writing for kuroo, the one i always want to write for is atsumu. also big ups for my beta who entertains me and proofreads me at all hours of the day. i love you sanju!!!!!!
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puppy377 · 8 months
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qwq
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hlxtn · 1 year
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natriae · 9 months
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10:23pm
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"can i tell ya a secret"
"sure" you whispered in response as you snuggled deeper into Atsumu's neck. The two of you had just gotten home from a long day at work and were ready to fall asleep in each other's arms.
"i thought," he started, giggling a bit, "i thought ya had a crush on sunarin for a long time" you felt him shake his head back and forth lightly before continuing, "i was stupid though"
Without seeing his face clearly you could tell he was scrunching his nose remembering how oblivious he was to your love.
"nah he's not my type," you teased as you moved your body completely over his using him as a bed.
"oh yeah, what is your type?" 'tsumu questioned, wanting to see you face flush from embarrassment. His hand reached for your hair petting it to convince you to lean up and look at him in the face. You lifted your arms up and used your forearms to keep you lifted above his head. Subconsciously, his hands wrapped around your waist keeping you stationed over his lean body.
You giggled as you leaned down so your noses touched as told him, "i like boys who are loud and kinda annoying," you watched his face pout at the comment before leaning down and giving a soft kiss on his lips, "and i like boys who are twins, and love to play volleyball," you furthered your reasoning with your hands playing with his hair.
"oh well that doesn't set me apart to much," he prodded. You moved your legs so they rested on each side of his waist and felt the beginning of a boner form in his boxers. You shook your head and kept talking knowing how much this was fulling his ego.
"i like boys who seem come off as gay," you commented, reminding him that you thought he had a thing for Sakusa before you really knew him. You smiled at his reaction before whispering, "i like boys who have really pretty brown eyes that look a little yellow in the sunlight. I like boys who get pouty when someone does something kind for them," immediately thinking of when he started tearing up at the fact that you and osamu worked hard to make him nice lunches for the Olympics.
"i love boys who have big egos even though it gets on my nerves sometimes," you watched his pouty lips turn into a smirk as red flooded his face in pride. You smiled back and grinded lightly into him as you spoke your next words, "i love boys who are such gentlemen, but whisper dirty comments to me when we're supposed to be serious," you couldn't help but let out a big smile thinking about all the times he's ruined professional dinners by accidentally making you blush to hard. You leaned down and left little kisses up his neck to his jaw, "i looovvee boys who have big bushy eyebrows,"
kiss
"boys who have big meaty thighs"
kiss
"boys who always have a big smile on their face just to cheer everyone else up"
kiss
"and i especially love boys who are super protective and possessive,"
"still can't tell if yer describin' me" he teases with his hands interlocked behind his head and his eyes closed.
"oh really," You leaned up, "i like boys who are lowkey perverts, but won't admit to it,"
His body immediately shot up and held you on his lap, "hey! that's not nice," he shouted with his eyebrows drawn together. You laughed at his reaction before holding his face in your hands.
"i love boys who love their family," you said to cool him down leaving a light kiss on his nose.
Reaching down between you body you pulled his hard cock out of his boxers and moved your panties to the side before inserting it.
You left the joking aside and continued your affirmations as you tried to sink further down his cock without being prepped. "i love boys who's name's start with A, and who love dying their hair because it sets them apart"
"i love boys who love animals and will always swerve on the road if it means the animals are safe." you moved further down his cock, but the moment wasn't sexual. He turned the two of you over so you were on your back as he held himself on top of you. It was nothing more then two people in love.
You stared into his eyes and said, "my type is you and only you". The strong man leaned down and left a small kiss on your lips before letting himself relax complete over your body. He was like a big soft weighted blanket. One arm you had wrapped around his back while the other messaged his hair. "'sumu," you whispered into the night air of the master bedroom, but there was no response just quiet snores from the man on top of you. You giggled and continued to message his scalp.
Moments like these were important, moments where Atsumu was recognized for himself. Miya Atsumu a man who loves his mom more than anything, and would drop everything if his brother needed him, not Miya Atsumu MSBY star setter, not Olympic champion Miya Atsumu, not Osamu's twin, or the golden fox, but his own ordinary person. Who was important for just being himself. <3
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lowkeyremi · 4 months
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BF texts with the inarizaki trio <3
Atsumu:
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Suna:
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Osamu:
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sassycheesecake · 3 months
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Osamu walks out of Physics class, happy that his classes are over and all that is left is volleyball practice.
He walks down the familiar path towards his twin brother’s class, basically collecting him on the way to the gym hall.
When he gets closer, he hears multiple sounds of something banging against the lockers and when he gets closer to the noise, he squints his eyes before they widen in shock at the sight of Atsumu Miya, second-year high school Setter of the Inarizaki volleyball club banging his forehead constantly against his locker door.
Now, he has two options.
One, move along and pretend he didn’t see any of this and make it to practice on time without his brother. But the big downside is that Atsumu would probably be late for practice if Osamu doesn’t say anything to him, which will end up in Osamu getting an earful from their mother later on at home.
Or option number two, ask what Atsumu’s deal is and hopefully they both still make it on time for practice.
Since Osamu doesn’t want to get yelled at later on by their mother, he begrudgingly chooses option two.
"Tsumu, if ya keep smashin' yer head against the locker, yer gonna lose the two braincells ya have left." Osamu says when he walks closer to his brother.
For a split second, Atsumu looks at his brother through his peripheral vision with a pissed look and then continues to bang his head against the locker.
'Wow, not even a comeback.' Osamu thinks while he continues to watch him.
"Stop it." Osamu barks as he is getting annoyed by the noise.
"'M tryin' ta forget bout earlier. Ya remember (Y/N)?" Atsumu stops and just leans his forehead against his locker door, a sorrow expression rests on his face.
Osamu frowns in confusion and looks to the ceiling for a second before returning his gaze back to his twin.
"Ya mean (Y/L/N) (Y/F/N)? The one that shared her lunch with ya and ya sweared ya tasted heaven?" Osamu raises a brow.
"Yes." Atsumu confirms.
"What about her?" Osamu doesn’t get it, if Atsumu looks so miserable, surely something devastating must have happened.
"I wanted ta confess my feelings ta her, so I made her favorite dessert and when I went ta see her, yannow what I saw?"
"What?" Osamu sighs.
"She was talkin' ta Riseki!"
"Is she suddenly not allowed ta talk ta other people besides ya? Tsumu I don’t know if yer brain registered it yet but this is a high school. There’s more people than ya she can talk to. And so what if Riseki was talkin' ta her? What’s the big deal?!" Osamu is getting impatient since he doesn’t understand Atsumu‘s point of view.
"That’s not the point dipshit! Riseki asked her out and she said no because she said she is in love with another guy." Atsumu almost wails.
"And?… Does your story have an ending or is this it?"
"Be patient asshole, I was gettin' there. So after I heard that, I was devastated….an' I didn’t realize (Y/N) came outta the room seconds afterwards an' I was so mad that I squished the dessert outta anger. She was confused an' asked if I was alright and I replied 'Shouldn’t ya ask yer crush?' and then I just left!" The Setter explains and gets angrier by the second, talking to his long-time crush in such a tone was just childish and rude as hell. You didn’t deserve that at all but Atsumu just felt his heart shatter at that moment, so he was angry and let it out on you. Now he is just highly disappointed in himself on how disrespectfully he talked to you.
On the inside, Osamu facepalms himself at the sheer stupidity of his brother‘s unawareness of your affection towards the blonde.
The signs are all there that you like Atsumu and vice versa but of course something complicated like the shit Atsumu pulled just pulled moments prior ruined his chance of confessing his feelings towards you.
"Well, (Y/N) finally talked ta ya. That’s sorta awesome."
"No Samu! Not 'awesome'! I ruined ma only chance at talkin' ta (Y/N) and I ruined it. RUINED IT!" Atsumu slams his head against the locker and the whole locker clutters by the force of it.
Osamu can’t help but feel bad for his brother, knowing Atsumu has been having a crush on you since the first year of high school.
Students who pass them are giving them weird looks but the gray-haired twin is not fazed by it.
"Tsumu, yer startin' ta get looks. Quit yer dramatic act and move alon'. There’s pleny of fish in da sea."
The Setter was quiet for a few seconds and Osamu was quite worried Atsumu got a concussion from all that banging of his forehead against the locker.
But then he speaks again, in a voice so sad and soft, it sounds like Atsumu is truly heartbroken.
"But I don’ wan' other fish. I want (Y/N)." He is actually getting teary-eyed.
Osamu gives out a big annoyed sigh and knows he is already regretting his words.
"Want me ta help ya win (Y/N) over?"
Atsumu whips his head in his brother’s direction, a hopeful gleam in his hazel-brown eyes.
"Yer not screwin' with me?"
"No. Twin promise, cross my heart and all that shit. Come on, let’s find (Y/N)." Osamu starts to move to the gym for volleyball practice and he hears a locker door shut and a rushing steps of feet follow him.
A/N: You guys want a part 2?😊
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rijhi · 3 months
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geto, gojo, toji, sunarin, atsumu, oliver, reo + ur faves
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atsumu, yuji, meguru + ur faves
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gojo, atsumu, sae, oikawa, reo, + ur faves
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nagi, that’s it
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TOJI LMFAOOO
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