pairing: Atsumu Miya x gn!Reader
cw: swearing
word count: 5.7k
Summary: Atsumu Miya was sick, and all he wanted was some extra attention — who knew his plans to get it could backfire so heavily.
Three days had gone by since Atsumu first came down with a cold, and he was already at his limit. It wasn’t the liquid meals or the snotty nose, the wobbly legs or the stuffy head — it couldn’t be the night sweats or the sneezing — and it wasn’t even the sore throat. The problem was the lack of attention he got from you for being sick.
Granted, he didn’t want you to catch the cold, but he was antsy for some time with you. He’d try and talk to you in the morning while you made him breakfast, but would get into a coughing fit and be sent back to bed. When you brought him his meals, he’d sneeze and send the tissues littering the bed in your direction, making you jump back at minimum three whole feet. He tried to watch a movie with you, even if it was in the living area and several feet apart, but his constant sniffling, sneezing, and blowing of his nose ruined any focus you could have possibly had on the film, so he just shut it off. Thanks to all of this, you’d gotten into a good routine when it came to caring for him: doing what you had to do, and then booking it out.
If he were to get you to come in the room — and stay in the room — he’d need a new plan.
He let out a tired, slightly whiny but thoroughly exhausted call of your name. In seconds, he was met with the quiet thump thump thump of your feet hitting the ground, and your head poking out from behind the door frame.
“Yes?”
It took everything in him not to break his act then and there and bust out into some dopey smile. You looked so silly, like a cartoon character in the way you stood, and yet you had an expression that practically radiated care and concern.
He was lucky — which meant he definitely shouldn’t be doing this. But, desperate times call for desperate measures. Taking in a breath, he deepened his pout and sunk into the pillows.
“I don’t feel good…”
You raised a brow, and finally stepped fully into the doorway.
“I’m fairly certain that’s the definition of being sick, Atsumu.”
He shifted his gaze to the side, realizing he probably should have thought about this more before jumping into action. Oh well — too late now.
“I mean… ya know… really not good.” He paused, nodding his head as he collected the pieces of his half-baked plan. “Yeah. A lot worse than before.”
“Worse?” you repeated, concern instantly gripping your features. Oh, was he awful for making you worry. Though, he couldn’t deny it: he was excited to have those worried eyes on him.
“Yeah…” he mumbled, eyes drifting down sadly. He was playing it up, and it was working; just as he let out a long breath of air, you were taking in a short one and rushing over. He heard you mumble a quick “poor thing” to yourself, before sitting down at the edge of the bed, your fingers already raking down his arm.
“What’s wrong? What feels worse?” you asked, the concern practically dripping off your tongue.
“My throat…” he said meekly. “It hurts.”
You frowned, slowing the rhythm of your fingers down, resting your hand on top of his. You flipped his hand over so you could trace circles across his palm, then going up and down each finger with your own. At this point, he didn’t care if lying was bad — this was great.
“It does? Do you want me to make you some hot tea?” Your eyes drifted over to the clock, thinking about the numbers that reflected back in them. “Or, it’s getting close to lunchtime… Are you hungry? I could make you some soup!”
The expression you wore was so proud, like you’d just masterfully solved an intense problem. Which, technically, you would have if he was telling the truth — unfortunately, he was a big fat liar. His real problem was about to be left unsolved once more.
“I’m a little hungry…” he mumbled, a hint of a grumble, and you smiled and went to stand up.
“That’s settled, I’ll be just a few minutes — ”
“Wait!” he exclaimed, and you stopped in shock, the worry instantly settling back on the lines of your face as you drifted back down to where you sat before. OK, that’d gotten him a bit of time. Quickly, he turned his hand, reaching to lace his fingers with yours. “Do I have to wait here?” he asked pitifully.
Instantly, your expression softened, and you looked down at him with a warm look.
“Sweetheart, you need to rest.” You gave his hand a small squeeze. “I can make you some soup by myself, you know.”
“I know…” he whined, rubbing his thumb against yours. “But I’m tired of staying in bed! I think it’s what’s makin’ me feel worse.”
You let out a soft laugh, and scooted closer as he fidgeted with your thumb.
“Really? The rest and taking care of yourself is making you feel worse?”
He gave you a pitiful nod, and clearly you couldn’t fight the warm, caring smile that came onto your lips.
“Alright,” you breathed out, “Just this once. You’re going to bed right after though, you hear?”
Atsumu nodded as fast as he could, an eager tight-lipped grin sprouting.
You parted from him and stood up, your fingers trailing as you did. He wanted to spring up from the bed and run to the kitchen, but sick people usually don’t get the kind of energy to move mountains, so he slowly and carefully swung his legs over, wobbling a bit with each movement. When you reached your hand out to help him, he gratefully took your hand again, this time making sure to not let go as you walked together to the kitchen.
Though, it didn’t last long, since he had to let go once more so you could work.
“I’m not Osamu,” you’d stated. “I’m a decent cook, but I’m not good enough to make this with one hand like he probably could.”
Atsumu grumbled a bit, but complied.
So, he ended up sitting at the table while you went to work. He didn’t sit like a normal person though, no, you made sure to wrap a big blanket around him that, despite being wrapped around him alone, still took up the seats adjacent to him. He could hardly move, and you were darting back and forth across the floor.
He took to watching you for a while, the way you handled everything. You said you weren’t like Osamu — thankfully in more ways than one — but you weren’t bad at cooking. At least, you knew more than Atsumu did. He’d be the one to mess up boiling an egg; you’d be the one to step in and turn it into an egg salad.
From where he sat he could watch you peel and chop potatoes, shred carrots, and slice mushrooms — these were tossed into a pot where you had some sort of tomato base — then you drained a bowl of kidney beans that had been soaking on the counter (he remembered you saying something about them needing to soak overnight — had you been planning on making this?), tossed the beans in the pot, and filled the newly empty bowl with frozen corn and peas: all of which went into the pot as well. He had no clue how you knew what to do, but damn, did it smell good.
When you finally got to a still, just stirring a hot pot, Atsumu decided to stand up and hobble in the fluffy blanket over to you. Standing behind you, he wrapped blanket covered arms around your waist, leaning his head on top of yours.
“Atsumu,” you sighed, “I said you could come, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need to take it easy anymore.” Your stirring slowed as you glanced up at him. “Sit down, I’ll bring it to you when it’s done.”
He frowned, not giving up so soon.
“I’m tired of sitting. I need to stretch my legs, ya know?”
You hummed, changing the temperature on the stove.
“Now, do you?” You patted the hand on your waist, and let out a small laugh. “Good thing I need to go to the spice rack, then. Let's get those legs moving.”
So, you started heading that way, and not wanting to get left behind, Atsumu trailed along right behind you. Halfway through, tired of jamming into your feet thanks to the difference in stride at such close quarters, he lifted you up slightly, placing you on his feet. The two of you did your awkward dance, the kitchen’s linoleum your ballroom floor, your own stumbling waltz to the spice rack. You picked out the containers and shakers you needed, laughing at the predicament you were in, and he happily hefted you back to the simmering pot.
As you dashed spices he didn’t even know the name of into the mixture, Atsumu soon became your own spice rack, holding all of the ones you’d finished with or would need later so you could measure, pinch, and sprinkle.
“I’m planning on eating some of this too, you know,” you said, passing one spice to him as you grabbed another. “I think your brother would pass out if he realized I was letting a sick man handle the ingredients.”
Atsumu groaned, leaning his head down into the crook of your neck. Focus on me, he was practically shouting. All this work to keep your attention, and here you were, talking about Osamu.
“Can we stop talking about him, please?”
You let out a soft laugh, and he pouted against your skin.
“Fine, fine. Instead, how about we talk about how someone so sick shouldn’t be burying their snotty nose so close to my face,” you teased, but he lifted his head and returned it to the top of yours with a frown. “It’s worrying just how fast germs can spread, Atsumu…” you continued, and he let out a huff of air.
“What use do ya have worrying about germs on the top of yer head?” he whined, and you were laughing as you stirred the pot.
“All kinds of worries,” you mocked. “I could have a sensitive scalp, you know.”
He grinned, and instantly placed a loud, wet, smack of a kiss on the top of your head, his grin only widening as you let out a squeal in shock.
“Oh no. Guess yer hair’s gonna get sick. Ya better lay down and rest,” he teased. “Preferably with me, since we’ll both be sick.”
You had to catch your breath before replying, laughing as you finally turned the stove off.
“I’ll let you know if I start getting symptoms. Until then — ” you poked at his arms, signaling to let go, “ — soup’s on.”
Stepping away from him as he dropped his arms, you grabbed a ladle and two bowls, filling them both with the soup. Its scent wafted to him, and he realized just how much he missed being able to be near you when you were preparing food. Not only did he get to see you work, but he got to experience all the senses of the leadup to the product, not just getting it handed to him all at once. Plus, the fact that he could smell it was a good sign — maybe his nose was finally clearing up.
He wouldn’t dare mention that, though. As much as he wanted to compliment your cooking, he needed to be the sickliest Atsumu he could possibly be. Settling back down at the table, you placed the bowls with their spoons in spots across from each other, and went back to get something to drink. While you were gone, Atsumu quickly grabbed yours and slid it right next to his. When you came back, you had two glasses of a golden, fizzy drink, and an eyebrow raised that seemed it couldn’t be surprised anymore. With just a sigh, you slid into a chair, an empty one covered by the blanket between him and you.
“Make sure to drink all of this,” you said, ignoring the pout that was practically radiating off Atsumu, and slid the glass towards him. “It’s ginger ale. It should reduce any swelling and congestion, and help your throat feel better as well.”
He grumbled something incomprehensible, but took the glass and slid it next to the bowl under his blanket fortress. After a moment of watching you take peaceful bites of your meal, he got tired of eating so far apart. He grabbed the end of the blanket, yanking it over your head, ignoring the surprised shriek you let out and smiling to himself proudly.
“Whoops,” he said innocently, and contently took small, tender bites of his meal.
A moment later, he heard a loud sigh, and felt the blankets shifting as you moved into the seat directly next to him now, getting rid of the weird dip from where the blanket sunk between you. He tried his best to hide his shit-eating grin, but you solved it for him, jabbing him with your elbow as you snuggled closer underneath the smothering blanket.
“Whoops,” you mocked, sidling up next to him. He went to toss back a remark about attacking a sick person, but stopped himself when he saw the warm smile on your lips, and settled for eating instead. You won this time — for now.
He brought the spoon to his lips again, savoring in the heat of the meal. As much as he wanted to gulp it down at once, sick people usually don’t do that. They’re usually weak and tired — which meant he couldn’t drink it like a bottle of water in the middle of a game.
So, he took slow, slow bites. You were done with your bowl by the time he’d gotten through half of his, finishing off your glass and preparing to get up.
“This is really good,” he said, watching you shift the blanket to the side. “Are ya gettin’ more?”
“No,” you replied, smiling down at him. “I’m full, and I made it for you, anyway. Help yourself to as much as you’d like.”
He couldn’t hide his visible pout as you stood up from the table, moving to the sink to wash your dishes. As much as he tried to think of a reply to get you to come back, he was coming up empty — his repertoire of excuses was running low.
Letting a wash of silence fill the room, Atsumu poked and prodded at his dish while waiting for you to finish. Eventually, you put them on the rack to dry, turning around for your eyes to meet his pouting lips. You looked like you didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh — after a moment, a small laugh seemed to win the battle. Stepping back to the table, he watched as you sat down and clambered back under the blanket, slipping in next to him.
“Need some help?” you asked, and he gave you a confused look.
“What’re ya gonna help me with?”
You let out another small laugh, picking up his spoon and holding it up to his lips.
“Open up!” you teased, and shock came over Atsumu’s features. His eyes darted between you and the spoon; when he noticed your reflection was in the spoon’s handle, he focused on the part with food — which he noticed was millimeters from his lips, and meant your hands weren’t that far away either.
“Huh?!” he finally burst, unable to take it anymore. In the moment’s notice, you slipped the spoon in, your thumb nearly brushing his lips in the process. Atsumu felt like his face was going to set on fire, while you laughed to yourself and let go of the spoon, now dangling from his teeth. Refusing to open his mouth again for fear of you pulling something else, he hastily threw the blanket completely over himself to hide his rapidly heating cheeks.
Of course, he didn’t think about the fact that you were also under the blankets; just as he tossed it in the air and over his head, you were caught in the motion, sealed under the blanket with him. You squealed as the sudden darkness enveloped you both, and he nearly let out one even higher pitched than yours as he realized his mistake. Scrambling for any semblance of control, he pulled the spoon out of his mouth and blindly grabbed for the bowl.
“I can — ” he shouted, stumbling on his words already.
“You can?” you teased, and he grumbled as he finally grabbed the bowl and slid it to himself.
“I can eat by myself! I don’t need ya t’feed me!” he finished, and you burst out laughing.
Atsumu was embarrassed — probably karma for what he’d been doing — but you were laughing so hard he was worried you might pass out. Chest rising and falling, he loved the sound of your laugh, but he also appreciated the breaths you usually took between them.
Suddenly you clamped a hand on his shoulder, and the lack of breaths between your laughs made him breathless. He felt you shaking and squeezing him, and momentarily thought it was a sign that you actually couldn’t breathe. He got ready to jump up and drop the act completely, about to dash across the house for the inhaler you kept in your bag, until you calmed down seconds later. He could hear your deep breaths, feeling your shoulders move with each breath as you leaned slack against him, and his tense muscles relaxed back into you.
“Sorry to get you so worked up,” you eventually mustered out between giggles and deep breaths. “I saw the opportunity and just couldn’t resist.”
Atsumu couldn’t even find it in himself to groan or pout — not with you smiling at him like that. He was just glad he got worried over nothing. Instead, he let out a puff of air, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer, taking another bite with his other hand.
Then, you were nudging him away all over again, worming your way out from the blanket.
“Now what’s the problem?!” he ended up shouting, and you laughed as you wriggled out from under the blanket’s darkness.
“You’re going to actually get me sick acting like that, ‘Sumu.”
That’s it. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“So it’s a problem when I do it, but fine when you do?!” he hollered out. Despite the fact that he was yelling, when he threw the cover off from over his head, he found you clutching your stomach again, having moved to lean against a counter — your lips were pressed together, trying not to let out a laugh. After a moment of breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, you looked at him with a cheeky grin.
“When you act and I end up sick, it’s your fault. When I act and end up sick, I’m sick by choice!” you said proudly, as if you’d just answered the easiest question you’d ever heard.
Oh, he was going to get you. By the time he was done with you, you’d be sick as a dog.
But, he wouldn’t be able to yet. Just as he was ready to get up, you were back in action. He realized as you grabbed the bowl in front of him that he’d emptied it in a fury while you were laughing.
“Oh, are you done?”
“Yeah — ”
“Do you want any more?”
“No — ”
“Alright, you go on back to bed then and I’ll wash this up.”
“But — ”
“Atsumu,” you warned, and he realized his chance was up. Flushed down the toilet in an instant. Slipped down the drain. Completely, utterly, destroyed. And now, as he slowly stood up to hobble back to your shared room, he realized he needed a new plan — again.
He was never the best at thinking before he acted, though, so before he knew it he was in the bedroom, fake coughing as loud as he could. His vocal cords would hate him later, but for now, he focused on jumping into bed and throwing the covers over himself, just in case you came in too soon. He couldn’t just make it a few coughs though, he needed to make it like he was fighting for his life if he wanted you to come check. So, he coughed as if it were more natural than breathing for him.
Moments later, you rushed into the room, a deep look of concern as you came to his side.
“Hey, hey…” you soothed, hand reaching behind him to help him sit up as he hacked imaginary mucus from his lungs. Your palm drew shapes on his back, circles and stars littering across his muscles.
“Throat… hurts… worse…” Atsumu choked out, drinking in the gaze that fell solely on him, your touch reserved for the dips and curves of his spine.
“Still?” you remarked, brows knitting together enough to make a sweater. You sat down on the bed, scooting closer to him and looking him over. “Is it just sore, or is it itchy as well? Tight?”
“Yeah…” he mumbled, pouting, “All of those,” he added, aiming for the sickest of the sick effect.
You stilled, before scooting a tad closer, your thigh bumping against him as you pushed further onto the bed.
“How’s your chest? Does it hurt?”
Your free hand gently placed itself against said area, right under his heart. He’d asked for this attention, but he wasn’t prepared for the rising and falling of your hand as it slid up and down the muscle, the other stilled against the small of his back.
“Uh — yeah — ” he stumbled, before covering up his shock with a few more coughs.
“How so? Like there’s a pressure on it?”
His eyes drifted down to your fingers, soft digits rising closer to him, the hardness of a nail gently scratching with each trip down.
“Ya could say that,” he said mindlessly, cheeks heating as he finally broke his focus.
When his eyes met yours, they were closer than before. Your hair was tickling his forehead, drooping down as you hung over him. He couldn’t be upset — he wanted this — but it was getting to be more than he planned for. He hadn’t prepared for you to be inches away from him: he prepared for soothing words and pouty lips of concern.
He covered his mouth with a fist to cough quickly, hoping it’d make you back up for a moment so he could recover. Instead, you stayed in place, and he felt his face reddening more with each second you remained. He kept glancing between you and your fingers, mesmerized by the way they ebbed and flowed against him. The more it went on, the more his chest kept rising and falling faster and faster, as if he were the tide and you were the moon pulling against him. Soon your hand came to a standstill, planted like a rock in the middle of the crashing waves.
“Your breathing is rapid, Atsumu,” you pointed out, before pulling the hand behind him out and placing it against his forehead. “And look at you — you’re sweating!”
“…Yeah? Aren’t those… ya know, symptoms of bein’ sick?” he waffled, talking out of his ass. You gave him a serious look, hand trailing down from his forehead to his cheek.
“Is your breathing difficult, at all?”
He panicked, and knew you could tell he was panicking. This only made you look more concerned, as you waited for his answer.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he blurted, but before he knew it something told him he’d gotten himself into trouble with this. You were more than concerned now — you had a scared look on your face.
Suddenly, you rushed up and off the bed.
“Atsumu, I — I think — ” You stuttered, pacing back and forth, and Atsumu frowned as he noticed that you were gnawing the inside of your cheek.
“Babe, hold on — ” he started, nearly prepared to confess, but this time an actual cough came through and cut him off. Your eyes shot to him, worry encapsulating your whole expression.
“I’m getting my inhaler and calling the doctor,” you stated, matter-of-factly. “Stay here.”
You raced out of the room, leaving Atsumu sputtering in confusion. Before he could even ask himself what you meant, you were back, shaking the tiny object up and down as fast as you could. Placing yourself back on the bed, you stretched your arm out, the opening of the inhaler now mere inches from his lips.
“What’re ya doin’ with that?!” he shouted, leaning back and away from the device.
“Atsumu, what do you think?” you said, scooching yourself and the inhaler closer. “Take a puff of this.”
“Why should I?! What’s with the sudden peer pressure to do drugs?!”
You frowned, sitting still and focused, while he floundered around wildly.
“Because you’re showing symptoms of the onset of an asthma attack, Atsumu!”
His jaw dropped, eyes as wide as the moon.
“What do ya mean asthma attack?! I don’t have asthma, yer the one with asthma!” he shouted, pointing at you energetically. So much for the act, he didn’t have the time to uphold it.
“Some people have asthma that flares up from colds or the flu!” you yelled back, and he crossed his arms in front of you like an X.
“Well I don’t!”
“How do you know that?!”
“I just do!”
The two of you stopped, waiting for the other to pipe up and throw in the next attack in your vicious battle of “to inhale or to not inhale.” Eventually, you let out a breath and calmed your tense fighting stance.
“I’ve done the research, Atsumu,” you started calmly. You help up the inhaler, tapping on the label of the canister inside. “I take albuterol. While it’s not recommended to share medication, albuterol is unique in that it has relatively low risks compared to other types of medication. For someone to take it, even if they don’t have asthma, it should pose no harm. This is simply a matter of precaution until I can get the doctor on the phone.”
Atsumu squinted at you, not standing for the explanation.
“You said low risk, but that’s not no risk! There’s a chance something could happen to me!” he argued.
“It’s practically zero for you!” you retorted, arms thrown up. “You live a healthy lifestyle, with lots of exercise and food that’s good for you, with no other major health concerns.” “What about the concerns of my health now?!” he whined. “I’m sick! And that’s yer inhaler! That you use!”
“You’re also not breathing correctly! And I, oh I don’t know, don’t want you to die!”
“What if I overdose and die more!?” “How is that even a possible outcome in this situation?!”
Atsumu couldn’t do this. You were fervently holding the inhaler out to him, but he rolled his head side to side, dodging you with each thrust like a child who didn’t want to eat their veggies.
“Atsumu, please,” you begged, and the tone of your voice had him sweating even harder. “Just one puff, here, let me — ”
You stopped, brought the inhaler to your lips, and let out a breath. He watched as your lips puckered against the plastic, the last bit of air in your lungs forced out. Then, you pressed the canister down, sucked in the air, and held it as it settled. He noticed the way your back arched unconsciously, moving in tandem with your breaths, before softening as you pulled the inhaler away from your lips and let out a sigh.
“Your turn.”
He froze, his face instantly turning a whole different shade of red as heat traveled all the way up from his stomach, through his lungs, and then out of the pores on his cheeks.
“No way.”
“Why not?” you groaned, the tension released in your high-pitched, drawn out vowels.
“It’s too…” he mumbled, and you frowned.
“Too…?” you pushed.
“Too…”
“Atsumu,” you warned, and he fumbled with the covers on the bed, looking away from your face.
“It’s too intimate…” he murmured shyly, blushing like this was your first time out together. When he looked up, he was not met with the flustered look of a shy date who had their hand held by him for the first time, but the blank, dead eyes of someone who looked like they wanted to pass out into a nap on the spot.
“Atsumu,” you finally spoke, his name parting dryly from your lips. “Don’t tell me you’re fighting this for the reason I think you are.”
“I don’t know what yer talkin’ about,” he said, ignoring the blush that covered his cheeks as he thought of the idea of placing his lips onto the plastic ring, still warm from where yours had been only moments ago. You both were nearing your last straw — yours was threatening something completely different, though.
“Atsumu fucking Miya,” you huffed, “if you don’t take a puff of this inhaler I’m leaving you for your brother.”
Atsumu went stock still and silent. Every atom of his being was frozen in place, every brain cell buffering as it tried to process this new unforeseen outcome. There was no way you’d do something like that — not over an inhaler. But the determination in your eyes had him sweating harder than five full sets of a game.
“…You wouldn’t,” he breathed out, gravely.
“Try me,” you countered.
An apprehensive intake of air. A slightly quivering lip. Eyes that flickered from one side of the room to the other. Atsumu wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it — if he could take it anymore. He probably wouldn't have a problem faking being sick longer — he’d come up positive for a fever at this rate — but your stone gaze was unrelenting, and he felt his willpower draining. This would be the moment his games and tricks had consequences: he had to come clean.
“Let’s just take a moment to think about this,” Atsumu stated, hands out in front of him in surrender. “Just put the inhaler down. We can talk this out,” he added, his tone as if he were talking down an intruder holding a weapon to his head.
You gave him a hard look, but eventually complied. The device rolled limply across the bed, settling a few inches away. He let out a breath of relief, and moved to sit up straighter, while you pressed him with a stare.
“I may have… a confession.”
--
Several days had passed, and Atsumu had since overcome his “severe” cold. You were mad for a moment after the truth, but soon it became the funniest thing you’d heard all week. You spent plenty of time with him thereon out, but he eventually learned to stop asking what was so funny each time you’d randomly start giggling out of nowhere: he knew what it was.
Now he felt right as rain, standing in the kitchen humming to himself as he made a sandwich. You’d been tired this morning, so to let you sleep he handled what simple cooking he could. That is, until he heard the deathly moan behind him.
“Atsumu…”
He whipped around, worried he’d made the wrong decision, but that didn’t last long as he saw the ghostly figure wobbling towards him, eyes red and droopy and bedhead a mess.
“I don’t feel good…” you moped, sniffling as you rubbed itchy eyes. “I think these are the symptoms we talked about…”
He let out a huff of a laugh, ignoring your instant frown as he sauntered over to take you in his arms.
“Let's get ya to bed, then. I made breakfast, so go lay down.”
You peered around him, uncaving your face from his chest to look at the table.
“Sandwiches for breakfast? Really?” you said with a laugh. Atsumu wore an embarrassed smile, but at least a fraction of one had graced your grumpy, tired features.
“I think yer supposed to kiss the cook, not complain about ‘em.”
You pouted, but he laughed as you returned to him, warming your face against his chest and placing a weak, half-ass kiss against it, too tired to stand up on your toes.
“Is it at least egg salad or something?” you asked, and he turned you around to start walking you back to bed, hands on your shoulders.
“You put too much faith in me,” he said bleakly, and you let out a tiny giggle-cough, little smiles in between hacking up whatever gross stuff Atsumu had given you.
Soon, you were tucked into bed, covers tight and pillow fluffed, with Atsumu raking his hand through your hair.
“What do you want for lunch? I’ll make it for you,” he said, eyes glittering with pride. This time he’d be able to care for you, and he knew he’d do just as good of a job as you did him.
“Can I have some soup?”
His resolve cracked, the sparkle in his eyes going dull. There was no way he was going to feed you canned or boxed mix soup after you made it for him homemade just days ago.
“…I’ll call Osamu.”
You smiled, closing your eyes, and he left the room to let you rest. He’d just bring you the “breakfast-in-name-only” sandwich later with the soup.
As he paced around the couch, snatching his phone off the charger to call his brother, he made a pit stop at your bag. Digging through, he retrieved your inhaler — which had luckily been returned to its designated place after the commotion he caused. Grumbling about how he wanted to cook for you and show how he could be a cool, self-sufficient, caring boyfriend, he punched Osamu’s name into his phone and put the small medical device in his pocket.
He’d stay by your side until you got better, just like you did for him, and it’d stay by him the whole time for safekeeping, just in case.
pairing: osamu miya x reader
cw: none
word count: 1.3k
summary: Osamu loves to pick you up like a sack of rice, so it is only fair you return the favor.
Osamu jumped a bit when you wrapped your arms around his torso. Tall and muscular as he was, you had to firmly press yourself against his back to get both of your arms around him, using your right hand to grab the wrist of your left.
“Dinner’s ready soon, just gotta wait for the rice.” Osamu chuckled at your clinginess, drying his hands on the towel hanging next to the sink. “Did you finish your work, or just taking a break?”
Your response was to tighten your grip, take a deep breath, and exclaim a hearty “The time for revenge has come, Osamu Miya!” With all the strength you could muster, you squeezed your arms harder against his torso and pulled them upwards.
Your boyfriend let out a surprised grunt and you repeated the motion. Despite your best efforts—you already started to feel a bit dizzy from the lack of oxygen—the only thing that seemed to move was Osamu’s shirt being pulled slightly upwards.
“What are you-”
Osamu’s confused laughter was cut short as you released your hold for a brief second, crouching down instead and repositioning your arms on his hips.
“Vengeance will be mine!” You shouted, a bit more strained this time, but just as threatening. Another deep breath and up your arms went again, using your whole body as support. This time, not even his shirt moved, firmly trapped between your grip and his body.
“Just you wait!” You managed to squeal, feeling even more fired up when you heard him laugh.
Osamu Miya was the sweetest man on this planet. It was something you needn’t waste time debating with anyone, as it would be just as useless as trying to debate whether the sun was hot or if lemons were sour—it was a simple fact of life.
One of the many things that earned him that title, was his belief that the best way to get you out of the way, whenever you were standing in his path, is to simply lift you off the ground. Either placing you a few centimeters away or keeping you up in the air while he finished whatever task needed to be done.
“You could never be in the way, sweetness!” Had been his response when you asked why he doesn’t just ask you to move. He had sounded almost offended at the mere suggestion of you being anything close to a bother to him. Years of playing volleyball, followed by the daily heavy lifting of supplies, meant Osamu had no problem whatsoever carrying you around like a sack of rice.
It was obnoxiously attractive, of course. The way he just swept you off your feet like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way his muscles moved underneath your palms when you placed your hands on his shoulders, scowling as he returned your pout with a crooked grin. The way he sometimes only needed one arm, tugged right underneath your butt, as he lifted you off the ground with no problems, other hand holding whatever tool he needed at the moment.
It was also awfully charming. As he always made sure to press a small kiss against your nose or your shoulder while he let you down gently, teasing smile on his lips as he gave you a small wink and a “Thanks, Sweetness.” As if you weren’t already hopelessly in love with him! Osamu, of course, knew the effect he had on you, so it was only fair to return the favor.
“Sweetness, you’re only going to hurt yourself.” Osamu laughed, finally having caught on to what you were doing.
You ignored him, feeling the blood drain from your head as your arms started to hurt. Still, you weren’t ready to give up yet. Just as you loosened your grip to start another attempt, your whole body moved downwards as Osamu bent his knees slightly.
His firm butt against your crotch,—you were about curse at the fact that he managed to move both of you with such a small gesture when you were fairly sure some part of your brain had died thanks to lack of oxygen—Osamu jumped slightly.
You squealed, tightening your grip to make sure you wouldn’t fall backwards. He only laughed, patting your arms with one hand as he turned his head to make sure you were ok.
“Aha!” You exclaimed triumphantly, readjusting your position to firmly stand on the ground. “That is what you get! How does it feel to get swept up your feet this easily?”
Osamu’s laughter grew louder. “Yup, ya got me good.”
“Don’t think that was it!” Before he had a change to react, your arms released their hold as your fingers shot to his sides. Faster than speed itself, they traveled across his skin, fingertips digging into the firm flesh.
“Ya know I’m not ticklish.” Osamu chuckled. Of course you knew, it was a fact that pained you (and Atsumu) every day. You, on the other hand, not having been born as god’s favorite and blessing to this world, were incredibly ticklish. A fact Osamu liked to exploit every chance he got.
“Oh yeah?” You taunted him regardless, fingers still wandering across his torso. “So why are you laughing?”
Sweet bubbling giggles mixed with low, bemused chuckles as his whole body shook against yours—Osamu was laughing so hard at your antics he had to gasp for air.
“Are you giving up yet, Miya?”
“Never!” He managed to exclaim, though a bit breathless.
“A tough opponent, I see.” Your fingers decreased their speed but maintained their intensity. “Time to use my secret weapon.”
Slipping your hands underneath his shirt, you relished in his sharp inhale. You quickly stood on your tip-toes and leaned forward, whispering a low “Victory is mine,” before gently blowing air onto the back of his neck. Immediately, Osamu arched his back, his hands gripping the sink in front of him.
Osamu Miya might be built like a Greek god, but even he had his weaknesses. Luckily for you, you were well acquainted with all of them. Placing a gentle kiss on that same spot, your hands wandered up and down his chest. You could feel the muscles in his back flex as he gripped the counter harder. You giggled against his skin, biting down before quickly releasing him and taking a few steps backwards.
Before you had time to revel in his flustered form, taunt him for this crushing defeat, he turned and swooped you off the ground in one swift motion.
“Hey!” You scowled and wrapped your arms around his neck for more support, a glint of pride in your eyes at the pink dusting his cheeks. “I won, you’re cheating!”
He lowered you just enough so you were eye-to-eye. Giving your nose a small nibble, he grinned as you scrunched it. “You’re so silly, ya know that?” He laughed against your lips before pressing his own on them.
“Hmm,” You hummed, “I think you’re just a sore loser.”
Osamu’s smile widened as he placed another kiss against the corner of your mouth before pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m pretty sure you used some unfair methods there, sweetness.”
“All is fair in love and war.”
He gave a quick chuckle as he lowered you back down onto the floor. His hands moved to cup your face and he gently squished your cheeks together. “Good thing I love you then.”
“You should, I’m very lovable!” You managed to grumble out, face still squeezed between his hands.
You felt him smile against your lips as he gave you another kiss before finally releasing you. Determined to stay winning today, you quickly got on your tip-toes again and stole another kiss before turning and running away.
“I love you more, Osamu!” You yelled over your shoulder, unable to resist the smile spreading across your face when you saw him grinning back at you—shaking his head, cheeks a warm shade of pink, eyes radiating the same love and affection you knew were in yours.
pairing: Koutarou Bokuto x gn!Reader
cw: slight swearing
word count: 5.3k
Summary: Having Bokuto by your side meant the world to you. He knew how to cheer you up on your worst days, and you wouldn’t give up what you had with him for anything — even the chance to get rid of your days where nothing felt right. Because, at the end of a bad day, he’d always be there to help you put everything back in place.
Bokuto was nothing but sunshine, even when you had the rainiest of days.
In fact, he shone so brightly you couldn’t help but be jealous at times. He was creating an illustrious career for himself; you were creating an illustrious attempt at the “Messiest Room in the Country” award. He had cheers and applause, with fans shouting his name in adoration; you had groans and grimaces, with coworkers shouting your name in annoyance. Even when facing the toughest of opponents, Bokuto faced them all with a smile — your opponents made you want to shrivel up and hide in the corner.
If it’d been anyone else, you might have not been able to take it. He’d have been like any other celebrity — maybe even the whole “never meet your heroes” idea; you look at them with adoration, wishing you could be like them, but speak one word and realize it wasn’t as it seemed, and feel even more down about life. But, Bokuto wasn’t the kind of person to shove all his accomplishments in people’s faces. He wasn’t hiding any ill intentions behind a pretty smile, or some nasty personality behind a wall of achievements. It was this welcoming personality of his that was why he’d moved on from “some celebrity” into someone you know and care about.
The whole ride home was spent with Bokuto babbling about the game. He’d just won in a really close match, and you’d been in the cheering section for him — hoping you were yelling louder than all the others shouting his name. The stadium was crammed with people, but every once in a while he’d glance your way right before a serve, and your heart practically leapt out of your chest. This super cool guy, someone who practically everyone in the room was cheering for, chose to look at you.
You — the person who probably wouldn’t last another week at their shitty retail job.
You shook your head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. Bokuto was right next to you as you rode the train, but you doubted he noticed the few times it happened. He was too busy rambling on about his jump serve as he held the hanging strap, his other hand tightly wound in yours.
Still, it was hard for you to believe someone like him felt the way he did about you. Others would constantly tell you how good you were together: that you were a perfect match, the cutest couple, the sweetest pair they’d ever seen — etc, etc. You smiled and were flattered every time, and yet it still didn’t feel real. Bokuto was a shining star, and you were just… some dust who happened to follow along.
At least, in your eyes you were. And you tried to change that perspective, especially whenever you saw how Bokuto looked at you. He was a massive goof, but he also had the biggest heart you’d ever seen. Even when you were upset and ranting about how horrible this person was and that thing those people did and this and that, he would always listen to the very end. Then, he’d give you a warm smile, and do everything he could to make things better. Sometimes that meant making dinner; sometimes that meant lying next to you as you took a nap. Whatever it was, he found a way.
Part of you felt bad for leaning on him like this. Surely, he had better things to do than to coddle you. And the more it happened, the more this feeling crept up.
“And, we’re home!”
You snapped out of your thoughts to the jingle of Bokuto’s keys. He was opening the door, guiding the two of you inside. You’d hardly even realized when you got off the train — at least you must not have been too out of it for him to say something. He tossed the keys on the table, of which you then picked up to hang in their proper place; your room might be a mess, but if either of you lost the keys to your apartment, there would be bigger problems than a missing sock or underwear.
By the time you looked back, he’d already hopped on the couch, the remote in his hand and the TV flipped on — the news.
You laughed to yourself, this situation so familiar. He just got home, and he was already looking to see the coverage of himself already.
“You really can’t wait to get settled before putting that on?” you asked lightheartedly. You were taking your coat off, but unsurprisingly, he sat on the couch with a coat, scarf, and everything still wrapped in place.
“I’ve got to see it live!” he retorted, grinning wide as he waited for his appearance on the screen — it was still another team’s coverage at the moment.
You laughed out a sigh, heading over to the couch behind him. His eyes were fixed on the screen as you started to undo the scarf yourself.
“You realize you can just pause it, right?” you asked, folding the scarf up and setting it on the couch. “Or did you lose the remote in all these layers?”
He laughed, letting you guide his arms as he wormed his way out of the coat. Conveniently, he’d placed said remote next to him, just in arms reach of you.
“Then it wouldn’t be live!” he exclaimed, and you laughed while laying the coat next to the scarf. “And no, the remote is right — ” He halted, suddenly frantically looking around the couch and the coffee table in front. You raised a brow, not surprised in the slightest.
“Well,” he continued with a proud grin, “it was right here, and I’m sure it’ll turn up after I watch.”
“Or,” you said with a small laugh, holding up the remote, “it’ll show up right before the coverage, as a divine sign that you should pause and slow down.”
Bokuto looked up at you in shock, his eyes wide, as if he were a kid seeing a magic trick for the first time.
“How did you — when did you — “
“The TV isn’t going to explode as soon as your coverage is done. I’ll pause it and even record it for you as a backup.” You hung back, hiding the remote behind you as he reached out to grab it from you, a blank expression on his face, “There are more important things right now.”
He stopped, a pouty expression taking over.
“What could be more important than this?!”
You sighed, setting the remote on a table so you could sit down next to him. Wrapping your arms around him, you pulled him close, letting out a small breath of laughter as you noticed the now pouty and confused face he wore. Gently, you slid back and placed your hands on his shoulders, making sure he was looking at you and not the TV.
“Bokuto.”
He just stared back, lips pressed together in anticipation for what you were about to drop on him.
“Please go take a shower. You stink.”
He frowned a bit, but was still unresponsive. You pinched your nose, adding a bit of dramatics.
“You stink, bad.”
He stared back at you, the blank expression worked in deep, but eventually, like a child, he sighed and you could tell he’d given up. Most people would consider it common sense to shower when you get home from something all sweaty and gross, but not Bokuto. He had his priorities. And you did your best to get him back on track, because if not, he just might be walking around smelling like that for hours.
“I’ll only be there for five minutes! Five exactly!” he shouted from the bathroom, and you laughed, getting up to grab the remote.
“Good boy,” you teased, and could imagine the face of determination he was probably wearing, trying to power through that shower.
You might be a mess, but at least you had this under control.
Once you got back to the couch, you sat down and spread out, getting more comfortable now that you had it to yourself. The team’s coverage would be on soon, so you started recording from there and had your finger on the pause button in preparation.
Though, you hesitated for a bit too long as the team’s logo popped up on screen, and as soon as you saw his face you knew you were done for. You always loved watching Bokuto play, and even if you had just seen this game, you were already itching to watch it again.
Maybe you really couldn’t judge Bokuto afterall.
Though, you weren’t always such an avid volleyball fan. The day you met him was the first professional game you’d ever been to — your friend was a huge fan of the Black Jackals, and had tickets to go with someone else, but something came up and the other person wasn’t able to make it. Your friend invited you to come instead, and you half-heartedly agreed, not expecting much out of it — it was just something to do on an otherwise eventless weekend.
You’d seen professional games on TV, lazily paying attention every once in a while in restaurants when your food was slow, but in-person was different than anything you’d prepared for. You didn’t recognize the other team — you barely knew the Black Jackals, simply because your friend only had eyes for #13, who at the time you only knew as “something Miya” — but everyone on the court was beyond skilled. It was like they were part of a whole different world — one where volleyball was the law of the land.
Still, you didn’t really know anyone on either team. You knew the name of one team, and half of one of their members, but that was the limit of your knowledge. Though, that didn’t take long to change when #12 got to work.
Bokuto was like a whole cheering squad in one person. You didn’t know what was happening on the court, but he was hyping up the whole crowd all by himself. Soon, you were cheering along with your friend, feeling as into the game as a veteran audience member. Bokuto’s energy was outrageous, and you were practically bathing in it.
By the time the game ended, your friend was determined to get an autograph from #13. You went with her, mainly just so you didn’t get left alone, but she gave you a sheet to get one too, insisting you couldn’t waste the opportunity. Though you weren’t sure if you’d go to another one of their games any time soon — you still didn’t really understand anything happening in volleyball — but you took your autograph sheet and went to the one person you knew you’d want an autograph from.
Bokuto was just as cheerful after the game as when it began, signing the autographs with a smile. He seemed to be living in the praise, as if that was recharging him from all that effort. You had expected to stand there, nervously holding the straps of your bag in anticipation, but he had an air that seemed to make the whole crowd match his energy. He made small talk with each fan — the kids especially ate that up — but when he got to you he asked you a simple question.
“Do you like volleyball?”
Part of you wondered why he’d ask something like that — you were at a professional volleyball game. Asking for an autograph from a professional volleyball player. But, on the other hand, you were kind of out of your league here. You didn’t have any of the merchandise other fans had, decked head to toe ready to cheer as loud as they could, walking the stadiums with a feeling of home; you had whatever was most comfortable out of your clean clothes on, wandering the stadium like a baby duck who had lost its mother.
“Honestly, I probably would have said no before today.” You hesitated for a moment, and a bright smile naturally overcame your lips. “But I had a lot of fun. I think watching your game changed that for me.”
He froze for a moment, and part of you worried you’d said something weird, but soon he wore an even bigger smile than yours, signing the autograph with a fury.
“Come back and see another soon, then!” he exclaimed, handing it back to you. The realistic part of you wasn’t sure when you’d be able to take off and see another one of their games, but the other part of you wanted to go ahead and buy tickets for the very next one they played. Unable to say either or, you nodded and thanked him. As you walked off, after putting the paper safely in your bag, he excitedly waved goodbye, and you couldn’t help but laugh and wave back to this practically stranger.
When you left, you took a moment to gather yourself. You knew you might see him again one day, but it wouldn’t be any time soon. Work was busy, and you were still in college — you didn’t even go to see the college games, let alone back to back professional ones. So, as your friend gushed about getting to meet #13, “something Miya,” you accepted that you wouldn’t see the energetic Bokuto again — at least not anytime soon.
Though, you were prepared to not see him — which is why you were so taken aback when you saw him walk into the same place for dinner as the place you and your friend had gone. You didn’t dare go speak to him — that would have been too awkward — but you did make eye contact. Although, not on purpose. You couldn’t help but stare as he walked in with some of his teammates, and suddenly, he was staring back. You both looked dumbfounded, but you were the first to pull away and nervously get back to your food.
After that awkward encounter, even if you hadn’t said a word to him, you just wanted to go home. Your friend, though, wanted to go to some shops and pick up some things, since she wouldn’t be back in this part of town for a while. When you left a store and Bokuto happened to be crossing the street ahead of you, you practically dragged your friend away as you dashed in the other direction. Your friend hadn’t seen him, which made you assume that he hadn’t seen you (and you would be wrong).
Eventually, your friend finished all of her shopping, and you went back to the train station together. You’d be taking different trains, so you exchanged your hugs and agreed to text each other when you each got home. Then, she got on her train and left.
You tossed your phone in your bag, not wanting to see or hear any texts or calls until you got home, and quietly waited for your train. The silence would be great for helping you calm down after so many twists, turns, and surprises over your trip. Though, eventually the silence was broken, and you heard laughter overflowing from the other end of the station. Gravely, you realized you recognized it. Looking over your shoulder, Bokuto was waiting with some of the same members as before. There were fewer this time, but either way, they were all there. At the same station as you. Several hundred feet away. Within earshot.
Against all of your hopes, wishes, and prayers, Bokuto seemed to realize someone was looking in his direction — and turned directly toward you. Your eyes locked for only a moment, before the embarrassment finally topped off for you, and as your face turned pink you quickly turned away. You could still hear them talking — some of them had noticed you and asked who Bokuto was looking at. You wanted to rush over and clear the air that you weren’t some creepy fangirl stalker, but wouldn’t that just make things worse? That’s totally something a creepy fangirl stalker would do.
The longer it went on, the more your body felt like caving in on itself, and once your train finally arrived, it felt like a miracle had happened. Your phone could have been a great distraction, but you were too stressed to pull out and dig through your bag. Stepping through the doors, you hurried to an empty seat, plopping down with a heavy sigh of relief.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting off on the next stop, too.”
Your head jetted up, instantly recognizing the voice.
“…Seriously?” you breathed out, before quickly slapping your mouth and stammering. Bokuto was right in front of you, grinning like an idiot. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way! I’m just — you know — shocked to see you again for like the, uh, fourth time now since the game?” you let out, flustered. “And I definitely haven’t been trying to make that happen! It just kinda ended up happening!” you tried to explain, before putting a hand to your forehead and groaning. “Which definitely sounded better in my head. Please, just, forget like half of what I’ve said, don’t mind me, I’ll move to another train car now — ”
You quickly stood up to move, but stopped in your tracks as the man burst into laughter.
“Calm down already! I didn’t think you were some freak.”
You turned toward him slightly, still beyond nervous.
“…You don’t?”
“No!” he barked out with a laugh. “In fact, I thought each time was a chance for me to come talk to you, but you always seemed so busy, or the others I was with distracted me.”
“You wanted to talk — ” you faltered, facing him fully and pointing at yourself, “ — to me?”
“Yeah!” he exclaimed, full of energy. He wavered, suddenly getting awkwardly fidgety and looking around the train car. You didn’t know the man, but even you could tell it was out of character for him.
“Actually, I couldn’t ask in the stadium,” he continued, “but I wanted to know if — ”
He was suddenly silenced by the rumble of the train, where it’d taken a fast turn and sent everything leaning the other direction. This would normally be fine and under control and not cause any problems at all, if it weren’t for the fact that you had gotten so caught up in standing up and running away that you hadn’t bothered to sit back down or hold onto the strap. Which meant, instead of just slightly leaning and feeling unbalanced, then righting yourself up like any other normal person, you went tumbling down to the ground.
Or, so you thought was the ground. Instead, an arm was looped around your front, holding you up and preventing you from smashing your face into the nasty, dirty, hard floor.
“Hey, hey, are you okay?” Bokuto asked, clearly distraught. Though, you weren’t sure if he was more worked up about it or you; he sounded upset, but your face felt like the shade of a tomato.
“I’m — fine! Yep! Fine!” you babbled out as he helped you back to your feet, and you intently kept your eyes on the window to the outside — far away from his face. He didn’t seem to notice, but he was still holding onto your hand as he held the hanging strap with his other — like he was trying to keep you from falling without even realizing it.
“Are you sure? You look kinda freaked out,” he said simply, and you bit your lip at how obvious you were being, and how oblivious he seemed.
“Yep! All’s good!” you said a little too quickly. Taking a breath, you tried to steer the conversation. “You were asking…? Before all that?”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, but the awkward fidgeting didn’t return. Half of you wondered if your own awkwardness had cured his. “I was going to ask if I could get your number.”
“Oh, yeah, sure — “ you said mindlessly, before your eyes shot wide. “Wait, could you what?!”
“I’m guessing that’s a no?” Bokuto said, rubbing the back of his neck as you sputtered.
“No, no — I mean, that’s not a no!” you fumbled, before pausing to catch your breath and compose yourself. “I’m just kind of, you know, surprised?”
“Surprised?” he repeated, looking confused. “Why?”
You just stared back at him for a moment, but knew this wasn’t a conversation you wanted to get into right now. Especially given he’d just asked for your number — you weren’t going to throw this chance away with any type of pity conversation.
“Never mind,” you said, quickly shaking your head. “Here, let me see your phone and I’ll put my number in.”
A rush of excitement came over him as he hurried to pull his phone out. Only then did he let go of your hand, but you wondered if he even realized he’d been holding it that long in the first place. He finally fished his phone out, and you couldn’t believe how giddy he looked as he put it in your hand. You typed in your name and number, and it was like you’d told him you’d buy him a puppy — that, or he was the puppy you said you’d buy.
Soon, you had everything put in, and handed it back to him.
“Thanks! Can I put my number in yours?” he asked, still just as excited as before.
“Oh, yeah, let me just get my phone out,” you stated, pulling your bag off your shoulders and digging through for your phone. You silently cursed yourself for just tossing it in haphazardly.
But, at the worst possible time, the train was coming to a stop. You quickly grabbed onto the strap, not wanting a repeat of before, but still were digging and digging.
“This is my stop,” Bokuto stated, looking over at the doors with a frown. “Hey, is that the autograph I signed?” he asked, peering over your shoulder into the bag.
“Yeah,” you replied quickly, “But I think my phone should be right about here — ”
“That’s okay!” he exclaimed, and your heart dropped a little, thinking he’d lost interest with your rummaging. “Just let me see the autograph,” he continued.
“The autograph?” you asked, but handed it to him. “Sure.”
Quickly, he pulled out a pen — probably the one he’d been signing things with; it wouldn’t surprise you if someone giving so many autographs would just have one at all times — and added a little something to the bottom of the paper. Capping the pen just as the doors opened, he handed the sheet back and started to rush toward them.
“You’ll know it’s me when you see that! See ya!” he shouted, and then he was gone. Looking down, he’d written a bunch of numbers and a big smiley. Now, you not only had Bokuto’s autograph — he’d written his phone number right next to it.
The rest was history. After that, the two of you talked more and more, and now you were living together. With your relationship growing, your friend had practically begged you in the beginning to get Atsumu — who you learned had been the other half of “something Miya” — to give you his number, so you could give it to her, but she hadn’t come up a good enough reason to convince you yet. Eventually you did get the numbers of most of the team, but you only had eyes for Bokuto; you couldn’t be happier to be with him.
Though, as your eyes flicked across him on the screen, the thoughts from earlier returned to the back of your mind. Swarms of “not good enough” and other intrusive thoughts loomed over you, casting shadows over your happy memories. You wanted to just enjoy the recording, and live in his sunshine, but your intrusive thoughts wouldn’t let you.
The sound of the shower cutting off broke your thoughts, and you rapidly scrambled to rewind the TV. You paused it right before the coverage, sat back, and crossed your arms as if you’d just been sitting and waiting the whole time. Soon, you felt arms wrap around you from behind, as dribbles of water dripped down from clumpy, wet hair.
“Five minutes, told you!” Bokuto said happily, and you leaned your head back to look at his goofy smile.
“Mhm, and did you actually dress afterwards? Please tell me you remembered the importance of putting on clothes, no matter how excited you are.”
“I did!” he replied, a pout settling on his lips. He grabbed one of your hands, pulling it back to rest on his shoulder and feel the fabric of his t-shirt. “See? Clothed. Just who do you think I am?”
You let out a small laugh, running your thumb in circles from where it was pressed.
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“Hey!” he burst, before hurdling over the back of the couch to flop down next to you. “As an apology, I think you should press play.”
“Fine, fine!”
Laughing, you did as he said, and watched as his eyes lit up watching the screen. No matter how many coverages he watched, some things never changed.
“See! Look at that cross shot!” he shouted, pointing at the screen. “Didja see it? Wasn’t it so cool?!”
You laughed, focusing more on him than the screen.
“Yes, Bokuto, I saw it. I was there.” Your gaze lingered a moment, smiling at him with both your mouth and eyes. “They’re always cool when you do them.”
He grinned, not taking his eyes off the screen, though seeming a bit flustered.
“Aw, it was a fluke.”
Nope, he never changes.
You kept watching, but soon the announcer wrapped it up, and moved onto the next segment of the night. You placed the remote between the two of you, expecting Bokuto to grab it to rewind and watch it again, but instead he turned the sound down and wrapped an arm around your shoulder.
“Just reminding you, but…” He tugged you a big closer, “I’m proud of you, you know?”
You hummed a bit in confusion, looking up at him.
“What’s this about?” You grabbed the remote, going to rewind it. “Here, I know you want to watch it again — ”
He reached out and playfully swatted the remote away.
“Don’t act all shocked or try to avoid the conversation,” he stated, poking you in the cheek. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes. You’re thinking again.”
You laughed, trying to play it off by poking him back.
“I’d hope I’m thinking. If not, I might have some big problems going on — we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
He grumbled a bit, moving on from poking to flicking you in the nose.
“You know that’s not what I meant. You're doing the bad thinking again.”
“No I’m not!” you retorted, but he pressed a stare onto you. You frowned, knowing you weren’t getting out of this any time soon. “Okay, okay. I’m guilty. It’s not that bad, though. I just need time to work it out, that’s all.” That was a bit of a lie, but you wanted to move past it. You didn’t want to end up looking pitiful to him. He’d had such a good night — winning the game, seeing the cool coverage of himself — you didn’t want to muddle it.
He sighed, and just when you thought the conversation was over, he suddenly pulled you over into a full hug. You yiped in shock, awkwardly sprawled over him.
“Bokuto?!”
He didn’t need to say anything. He pulled you a little closer, and you knew what it meant. He was there for you, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Soon, you wrapped your arms around him, letting yourself bask in his warmth. He held you tight, letting you lean into the crook of his neck, and made you feel safe. Sure, you were getting vulnerable. But there wasn’t a hint of judgment or pity in his hug — just warmth and love.
“You’re doing your best, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you mumbled meekly, your voice muffled against his skin.
“Then that’s all that matters. You don’t need to compare yourself to anyone else, since everyone else is living their own life and dealing with their own things. All you need to worry about is yourself, and how you can do better.”
“…Yeah,” you reluctantly mumbled out again and you felt his chest rumble as he laughed against you.
“I feel like you’re not listening.”
“I am!” you shouted, pulling your head up and looking him in the eyes with a sharp stare, hands propped against his chest to hold yourself up. “I’m doing my best and that’s what matters because everyone else is doing their own thing so I should just do mine,” you prattled out with speed, faster than you were thinking.
“Close enough,” he said with a laugh, before placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “Remember what I keep telling you, it’s — ”
“ — not ‘impossible,’ it’s just ‘hard,’ ” you finished, and a bright smile came over him.
“See! I don’t even need to remind you,” he cheered, “turns out you were paying attention.”
“I told you I was!” you shouted back, sending light punches to his chest from your position on top of him. They probably wouldn’t hurt even if you tried, and your barrage just sent him laughing with each hit.
“You weren’t paying that much attention to the TV, though…” he said, and gave you a knowing look. You frowned, looking the other direction.
“Well, I saw everything in person, so I was happier just seeing how you reacted — ”
“You’re always so happy to watch with me, though!” he whined. “It’s almost like you’d already seen what they had to say…”
“No!” you shouted back, a little too quickly, and he laughed at your hastiness.
“No need to hide it, I could hear it while I was in the shower.” He grinned as you pouted silently. Noticing your flustered state, he took the opportunity to flip you over and pin you down from above. “All that fuss about pausing and waiting, only to watch it by yourself! I should get some sort of apology for that.”
You wore a faux annoyed look, crossing your arms.
“…I’m sorry.”
“You can do better than that!”
You sighed, pursing your lips.
“I’m super-duper sorry?”
“It’s just not enough…” he hummed, and leaned in close like he was going for another kiss, but instead went on the attack, tickling you in an instant. Teasing you wasn’t enough, he was getting all he could out of this opportunity. You couldn’t help but break your serious look, laughing as giggle after giggle was forced out of you. Bokuto grinned down at you, laughing along as your armed uncrossed, grabbed and pushing at him with each hoot and holler.
“Bo — ku — to! Stop that!” you shouted, kicking your legs and trying to squirm out from under him, all while a big smile took over your lips.
Eventually he got his fill, and slowly started to let you go. Sitting next to him on the couch like before, you leaned into him as he wrapped his arm back around your shoulder. This time was different, though. You didn’t have any thoughts of doubt lingering, or any worries about how tomorrow would go. Afterall, you were there with him, and if the worst of your worries were if he would try to attack you with tickles again, you had to be doing pretty good.
“Meanie,” you blurted out, still unable to wipe the smile from your face.
He ruffled your hair a bit, smiling back and gently planting a kiss on the top of your head.
pairing: Osamu x gn!Reader
cw: swearing
word count: 1.2k
Summary: Osamu's been dealing with a persistent thief for weeks. One who steals his blanket in the middle of the night. Or: You are a blanket-snatcher in your sleep, and Osamu is forced to come to terms.
Osamu is a tortured soul. He knows what pain is, knows what its association is to 3AM. It's waking up to you thieving his blanket in the night. He tells you about this when you're both awake and eating breakfast (that he prepared, you're welcome).
"What?" you say around a mouthful of grilled fish. "You're making that up."
He reaches over to pass you a napkin before returning to the stovetop. It's a relaxed kind of morning. Most of them are. Where panes of sunlight collapse through the kitchen window and streak across the table, outlining you in some angelic halo. But he knows you're not an angel, even though you boast to be one. You take another hungry bite of rice and noisily chase it down with miso soup.
"I'm not," says Osamu. He's not. Every night for the past two weeks you've stolen the blanket. Not that he cares. It's not on the forefront of his mind. It's just an inconvenience to wake up fucking cold. "I have pictures to prove it."
Your eyes widen and you unsuccessfully slide a tuft of hair behind your ear. "Do I look sexy in them?"
"Nope," he says as he again reaches over, but this time to tuck an errant hair behind your ear. He kisses you on the temple. "You look like a car ran you over in 'em."
"Show," you say. "Show them to me."
"Naw."
"I love you please show me the pictures, Osamu." You make grabby hands at him.
He laces his fingers with yours and sits in the seat next to you. "I think I'll keep one of 'em as my phone background."
You look stuck between wanting to yell at him and wanting to finish the food on your plate. You settle for the latter, vacuuming it all down into the pit of your stomach with a pouty scrunch to your face. He watches you, cheek resting against the knuckles of his fingers as you choke down a gulp of water and lean back in your chair.
As per usual, you've left a single bite of food on your plate. He never understood this habit until you told him as a kid you'd sneak the family dog a bite of all the leftovers on your plate. When he asked why, you said it's because you enjoyed how the dog would always come to rest near your feet while you ate. When he asked why again, you had laughed demonically into your hands and told him the dog kept your toes warm.
Because for some reason your toes were always cold. Feet, too. And now since there's no family dog, it's like Osamu has taken on that role. Every night, your cold toes would find his legs—"Crap yer toes are like icicles! Off, off!"—and you'd curl into him, a shivering ball.
Now it's gotten worse. You've grown the audacity to steal his blanket, too.
You clasp your chopsticks around the last bite of food and perch it against his bottom lip. "Open up, babyyyy. Here comes the train. Chugga chugga choo choo and all that shit."
He rolls his eyes and opens his mouth. The food's delicious, because duh, he made it. But then again, most food tastes good. Especially if it's made in his own kitchen, where the taste of home is squeezed into every bite, and where you can observe him, legs swinging like a pendulum, back and forth back and forth, the both of you settling into yourselves.
You withdraw the chopsticks from him after he swallows, pressing a hand against your mouth to shield an infectious yawn.
"If I'm stealing your blanket," you say, after cramming your fingers under your eyes and itching away yawn-bidden tears, "then you can steal it back."
"I'm not gonna play tug of war over a blanket. It's fine."
"Then if it's fine, delete the pictures!"
He laughs. You try not to laugh with him, but you always were an empathetic laugher. "Fine, I'll show you one."
He digs his phone out of the pocket of his chef's apron and opens the photo app for you. Immediately you gasp, cheeks staining a crimson red. You avert your eyes, then look back, then curl an arm over your face and groan.
"I look so not sexy," you say.
"Toldja."
"Couldn't you have captured me at a better angle?"
"There were none."
You kick him weakly under the table. He traps your foot between his legs. You stick your tongue out at him.
"Maybe we should buy another blanket," you say. "We can just have our own! It'll be like camping."
"Or you can stop stealin' the blanket."
"I can't control what I do at night!"
"Looks like we're at an impasse." He squeezes your foot between his legs. Still fucking ice cold. Is your circulation cut off at your ankles? There's some worrying subnormal-temperature-abnormality occurring here. "What should we do?"
You contemplate. "Maybe you could sleep on the floor?"
"Hey."
"Or the couch! The couch works, too. I'm willing to negotiate."
While this banter is somewhat amusing, he's got a job to do. He releases your foot and unties the apron from his waistline. You're too busy cackling to yourself—a weird habit, a byproduct of an overactive imagination—so he knows there will be no goodbye kiss for the day. He settles for flicking your forehead and watching the skin there bunch together in a frown as you continue to laugh.
"Don't set my kitchen on fire," he says as he walks to the hallway and collects his bag and shoes from the genkan.
"It's our kitchen! And I'm just going to wash the dishes," you say. Then you continue laughing into your fingertips. Faintly he can hear you wheeze out the words, "Fuck I bet you'd look so silly sleeping on the floor, haha!"
He's dating someone with a five-year-old's sense of humor. It's no different than dealing with Atsumu sometimes. Gross. Why did he have to equate Atsumu to you? He presses his cap onto his head and steels himself for the day ahead.
It's 3AM. On the dot. He wakes up to you murmuring in your sleep. It's not as endearing as the movies make it out to be. There's nothing cute about you rolling over and over and over, unconsciously stealing his blanket and even curling your toes against his thighs. Pinpricks. Ice cold. He flinches.
Perhaps he's too far gone. He lets you do all these annoying things. His mind is still laden with sleep-fog, and the moonlight is dripping over edges of the bed, setting wrinkles in the mattress aglow. He watches you stifle a laugh, like something in your dream is stupidly funny. He can't help but laugh, too.
It's a lame, breathless kind of laugh. Because yeah, a part of him can't believe he's letting you get away with theft. He should be waking you up, scolding you for doing it yet again. And again. And again. For so many days in a row. For waking him up because you're not a very quiet thief.
You're the kind of thief who laughs because silence is funny. The kind of thief who will sneak him the last bite of food off their plate. It's annoying. An annoying kind of thief. But Osamu always was the one to let someone get away with a crime if that someone was you.
by wobbles
Taglist—
@sexyandcringe
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cw: swearing
word count: 1.2k
characters: Atsumu Miya, Osamu Miya, Shinsuke Kita
Summary: Atsumu where he still calls Kita his captain. Atsumu where he still doesn't know how to love his twin like a brother. Atsumu where he doesn't know how to grow up and yet he's already foisted into the world of adults.
Atsumu realizes his world feels off-axis when he returns to an apartment where time is halted. There's no answering sigh, the floorboards are mute, and the kitchen is lifeless. At first he thinks, I'm getting depressed, and rifles through online forums which all inform him he's going through his midlife existential crisis. Or he has cancer. (What if he has cancer.)
Only Atsumu has not hit the midlife stage yet. He's at the midlife of midlife. There's plenty of time yet, and it's not like he's clinging to some gross hyperawareness about his finite existence. He's alive, he's not unhappy, he might be happy. When he's on the court, and his fingers adhere to the weight of a volleyball, it feels good. It feels right.
This is what he tells Kita of all people over the phone, because Kita's the one person he trusts to not spread his touchy-feely bullshit to the rest of the Inarizaki Alumni.
"Maybe it's cuz so much good shit is happenin' to me," he says around a mouthful of toothbrush. Mint-scented foam spills down his chin and he chases it with the back of his wrist. "I mean I did tryouts, got accepted. I'm not in first string, but, I'm somethin'."
"You're doin' fine," says Kita. There's static chasing after his voice, swallowing it. Atsumu has asked Kita multiple times to repeat himself throughout this 5AM call.
"That's what's wrong! Everything is too fine. But also not fine?"
"Go on."
"I noticed it when I was doin' practice. Which by the way, ya get paid to do practice."
He waits for Kita's affirming, proud hum in response. It makes the roof of Atsumu's mouth tingle, his fingers shiver. It's validating. Atsumu smiles stupidly around his toothbrush. His mood is pleasant, so he decides to cut straight to the point. "I blame Samu."
Kita doesn't miss a beat. "Is blamin' Osamu gonna fix things?"
"Yeah. I think I'm feelin' better already." His sense of gravity is slightly restored, he can breathe a bit easier.
"And you don't know what this 'thing' is that needs fixin', but you know blamin' yer brother is gonna make it all better?"
"Yep." He tries to pop the "p" but the toothbrush bristles are in the way.
To his shock, Kita laughs. It's another burst of static, could easily be mistaken for a gust of wind, but there's a throatiness to it which makes it distinguishable. His stomach performs four Olympic gold-winning flips, and there's warmth rolling under his skin.
"Don't laugh," he says weakly. "I'm bein' serious."
"Talk to him."
"Huh."
Indistinguishable pops of noises are spewed from his speaker. Atsumu spits out a mouthful of spittle-foam, gargles water, and commences his skincare routine. His phone is still resting on his shoulder, clenched between bone and ear. His neck is cramping. "Captain?"
It's not Kita's voice answering back. "Wow, ya still call him 'Captain,' huh? Lame."
Fuck. He's close to wigging out, he has to catch himself on the edge of the sink, fingers curling into the grooves. He should've known not to call Kita at the asscrack of dawn, he should've remembered Onigiri Miya has some disgusting symbiotic relationship with a fucking rice farm in Hyogo. Wherever Osamu is, Kita is not far behind.
"Give the phone back to Kita, Samu."
"Naw, I don't think I will." Osamu's exhale is deafening. Atsumu scowls, rolls the phone off his shoulder, thumbs the speaker icon, and tosses it onto a dry patch of countertop. He cups his hands under the lukewarm stream of water from his faucet, and splashes his face.
"Then I guess I won't be talkin' to ya, then," he says.
"Ya just did, ya goon."
Atsumu's teeth chafe together. He can't come up with a suitable comeback. The gears turn in his head, trying to crank out a response like a fucking capsule machine. Empty. His lips downturn and he glares at himself in the mirror, pretending it's Osamu's dumb face staring back at him. The knobs of his knuckles are white. "This call was meant for just me and Kita."
"Ya mean Captain? Also why am I not allowed to participate in yer secret meetings?"
"Because I didn't invite you!"
Osamu's easy laugh slips through his speakers. It makes Atsumu want to jam a finger down his throat and vomit. It's humiliating being the only one worked up—it's humiliating being on call with Osamu when he's calm and collected, and Atsumu's one breath away from throwing a limb-heavy tantrum in his bathroom.
"How do I get initiated, then?" Osamu says.
"What."
"Into yer meeting, moron."
"Sorry, I'm not takin' anymore applications. Hand the phone over to Kita or I'm gonna hang up."
"Hey."
Atsumu's eyebrows bunch together. "Hello."
(He hears Osamu whisper a mock "hello" in a nasally overexaggeration of Atsumu's voice to Kita, who's throwing more grains of rice into the back of Osamu's ugly pickup truck. There's that familiar groan of metal, the shifting sighs of bags and the tumbling of grain. He hears Kita tell him to "knock it off" through what sounded like a smile. His pulse thunders.)
"Stop makin' fun of me," he says, "I can hear ya talkin' shit with Kita."
"Uh, he goes by 'Captain,' dipshit."
"Yer still makin' fun of me!"
"You haven't hung up, yet."
"I am right now." Atsumu hovers his thumb over the end call button.
"Yer favorite fish is still salmon, right?"
Fuck Osamu and his mind games. "No."
"Come over tomorrow and I'll make somethin' for ya. Teriyaki salmon."
Atsumu relents at the prospect of free food. "Won't sneak veggies onto my plate, will ya?"
"I certainly might not won't do that maybe by chance."
God, he hates his brother. And he hates the smile forming on his face. The stupid sensation of his cheeks lifting.
This could be a good thing. He could make it a good thing. Seeing his brother meant seeing someone who's considerably less successful than him, if they were to measure success in units of monetary gain. Or in units of physical appearance. Maybe Osamu's stacked on several more pounds, his muscles gooifying from extended disuse of not slapping around a volleyball for twenty-eight hours a day. A sight to behold.
"Fine. But I better not be payin' for anything."
"Whatever you say. I'll find a way to squeeze the money out of you. I always do."
"Fuck you," says Atsumu.
"Love you, too."
Osamu makes an obnoxious lip-smacking kissing sound that deafens Atsumu's eardrums and makes him scream in his bathroom until his throat is red and angry. Then the call ends, and he realizes he's smiling, and that is so fucking unacceptable on so many levels. He manually slots his fingers into the corners of his mouth and downturns it.
He'd rather have cancer than a brother who's learned how to love overnight.
But of course, like all things Atsumu-related, this is a lie. He painfully mouths "I love you" to his grimy reflection and pretends the pulse flapping against his ears is not his own.
pairing: Sakusa x f!Reader
cw: swearing
word count: 2.2k
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 forthcoming
The staff building is a godsend. The vending machine is a godsend. And most of all: There's no foot traffic to peel your attention away from your project. For hours you tunnel-vision on your portion, drilling your fingers into your keyboard and painting a tapestry of letters across the document.
It's when the sun is dragging back down under glinting rooftops do you realize how much time has passed, and how your wrist is fucking dying. You retract your hands from your keyboard and massage the pinpricks of pain away.
Not too helpful. You sigh, and in this moment of striking clarity you remember your earlier exchange with Murai. Volleyball, huh. You know a little about the sport. There's a net. Two teams. Don't let the ball touch the ground—that's all about the extent of your knowledge. You pat out a crick from your shoulder and scooch forward in your chair.
There's some more time left until the cafeteria closes.
You put in your first search result: Murai Volleyball.
Immediately there are headlines vying for your attention, and embedded images boxing in the toothy-smile of Murai who raises a clenched fist towards the LED floodlights on the ceiling. Behind him are others dressed in the same colors as him, fighting to get into the frame, but he's in the spotlight, demanding the camera to focus on him.
You click on a video. It's one minute long and it's of Murai two-handedly pushing the ball in the air for a sprawling six-foot giant to spike on the opponent's court.
This is confusing. He's not the one hitting the ball to the other side, so why does his team point at him and offer high-fives when they score? All he does is redirect the ball towards the—
A round of lazy throat-clearing snaps you back to reality and you cram your hands in front of your laptop screen. Oh god. You glance over your shoulder and see Sakusa standing there, hunched as ever, eyes sleep-glazed and lidded.
"You're still working on it," he says, matter-of-fact.
"Ah, yeah, I lost track of time. Did you come up here to check on me?"
He gives you an unimpressed look and shambles forward. The sound of his sneakers scuffing against the ground reverberates throughout the empty corridor as he drops into a chair across from you. He stuffs a hand into his pocket—Probably to stop himself from resting it against the germy desk.
"You got on my case for doing the same thing," he says as he scrolls through his phone.
"It's not that late, and I don't have anything better to do." It's the truth. You had finished your math homework the day before. If you saw one more problem asking you to do integrations by parts then you'd fucking snap.
"Sleeping is a better commitment."
You examine the time on your laptop. "I don't go to bed around this time. It's way too early."
Sakusa grunts. "I don't care for hanging around people who don't know how to prioritize something as simple as their own health."
Wow what a hypocrite. "So it's okay if you do it, but not me?"
"There's a difference."
"Enlighten me," you say. You sit further back in your chair and cross your arms.
"I wasn't tired yesterday, but you nagged at me anyways. Meanwhile you look ready to drop dead."
"Someone is being selectively forgetful about the fact he was yawning like every other minute." You lace your fingers together and rest your chin against them.
Sakusa looks displeased. He straightens up like he's about to abandon the chair and leave you alone, but he drops back down and relaxes his muscles. It takes him considerable effort to soften the ridges and hard lines of his face. "I was not yawning."
"You were. It was very distracting."
"I wasn't. Clearly you were staring too hard at me." His tone is clipped, but there's an underlying presence of uncertainty.
"You're right, I was," you say, nodding.
Agreeing with Sakusa catches him off guard, and he frowns at you. "Maybe stop doing that, then? It's creepy."
Painful. Utterly painful. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and try to quell the burst of nerves intensifying in your stomach, and the fuzzy tingle in your palms. Layers of cultivated confidence sizzle away when he bites back just as hard—If not harder than you. If you can't reap it, don't sow it. That's how the phrase went, right? Fuck. You're tired.
"Alright, I'll stop." For effect, you do stop staring at him and return to your essay. Your fingers fly across your keyboard.
"That wasn't me giving you permission to continue working on the project," he mutters.
From your periphery, because fuck no you're now making a point to not look at him, you could see his face was pinched. You try not to laugh.
"What else am I supposed to do?" you say. "It's either stare at you or work on—"
"Multitasking is a thing that exists." He tucks his phone away. "And also I'd prefer if you didn't overwrite. It'll be a pain to edit later."
"The more I write, the faster we'll complete it, and then the more legroom we have for editing. That's what you said, right?"
"Okay," he says, voice heavy with the weight of annoyance, "I'll delete the essay if you continue working on it."
Oh this fucker of a mother. Now he's flipping the chessboard on you. "You can't use my threats against me."
"It wasn't much of a threat coming from you."
The pitter-patter of your fingers slamming into the keys of your laptop nearly drowns out his voice. You tunnel-vision on the screen because this is how you answer petty. No words. A silence that speaks louder than any halfhearted syllables you could squeeze through your throat.
Sakusa releases an incomprehensible sigh and slumps harder in his chair to the point you were worried he literally melted. His curls bounce against his forehead when the AC vent next to the table kicks on.
"The picture was taken during his last Spring Tournament," he says.
You fumble and recalibrate. Are you both even on the same planet anymore? "Huh?"
"You were looking up articles on Murai." He points at your laptop.
Shamefaced, you incline your head in a silent 'yes, you caught me' as he sits there. It's insufferable because he's not judging you; he's perfectly unexpressive.
Maybe he really, truly, does not care. Perhaps you really, truly, are overthinking things. You stretch out your legs—accidentally bumping into his, to which he retracts them under his seat—and force your heart to stop fighting against the bars of your ribcage.
"I was," you admit, "and I'm glad I did. He's a really good settler."
"Setter," says Sakusa. "You mean setter."
"Oops." You cringe and make a quick mental note of that. Definitely don't want to make the same mistake if you talk to Murai again. Or a volleyball player in general. Or anyone in general. "Thank you. But yeah, his team really seems like to him a lot. He has that really nice quality, you know, approachability? He hypes up his other teammates and is always smiling and congratulating them when they score a point off his throws."
"Sets—Off his sets." Sakusa listens to your every word, gripping onto them and deliberately letting them digest in his brain. It's the kind of spotlight you never asked for, and didn't realize you've wanted for a long time. Someone is listening to you. "Murai's known for creating opportunities for his spikers."
"Is it true? What he's known for?"
Sakusa's mask wrinkles. "I suppose."
A high compliment from Sakusa. You're pulled into the gravity of the conversation, and so you surrender from your laptop and close it. "Have you guys, um, done any spikes? I mean. Have you spiked any of his sets?"
He tilts his head and nods. "Plenty of times. His consistency needs work, but he's good at winging new moves—which is irritating."
"You don't like it when people do new things?"
"I don't like it when they pull a new trick out of their hat without practicing it first, no." His face tugs into a pout.
Guess you hit a nerve on that one. But on closer inspection, he's kind of cute when he openly emotes like this. His fingers fidget with the zipper of his jacket.
"We're volleyball players, not magicians," he says.
"Magicians practice all their stunts before they get on stage. And I mean they practice a lot."
Sakusa pauses. "Oh? I don't really care. Point still stands."
"Are you a setter, too?" This is the only role you know.
"No. I'm an outside hitter."
"What do you hit outside of?"
The impending anxiety hits you harder than the sight of him unhinging his jaw to deliver an answer. You need to start researching this sport if you want to entertain a serious conversation—Sakusa isn't an ordinary college student. He's some semi-pro volleyball player who's listening to you butcher all the related terminology.
At least he's kind and patient enough to correct you. If it pissed him off, he didn't let it show, and if he didn't let it show, he wasn’t pissed off. This is the one absolute truth you've learned about him these past two days.
"Nothing?" he says. "Generally if the setter gets pulled too close to the net, then I'm the one they rely on to receive their sets. Or in other words, if there's a shitty pass, then I'm the one on the receiving end of the upcoming set."
"That sounds tough. So pretty much you're the one dealing with all of your team's trash plays?" Oh crap maybe that was a bit too—
Sakusa half-laughs. It's a simple, airy sound. Not a steady stream of cackles. Hardly a chuckle. It's monotonous, but humored. And you know then and there you're fucked.
"That's a good one." He seizes his backpack and rolls the strap over his shoulder. "I'll have to remember that."
As he stands from his chair, you push your laptop back into your bag and check your phone. Still not late enough to justify crashing in your bed at this hour. Your stomach speaks up for you.
"I told you there's vending machines up here," Sakusa says, fingers fluttering over his phone screen. He's playing some kind of braindead puzzle game.
You gesture to the trashcan two tables away, where your empty cans of coffee were sitting in a graveyard of bottles, notebook paper, and pencil shavings.
Sakusa's nose scrunches. "That doesn't count as food."
"Vending machine food in general doesn't count as food."
"The first wise thing you've said."
You glare at him. "Ouch."
The two of you maneuver through the wave of professors and assistants who had finished their office hours for the day. Sakusa keeps himself largely displaced from them, corralling himself onto the side and maintaining six feet of distance. You join him, because you suffer from sheep mentality.
Just one of his idiosyncrasies. It's easier to not probe him about why he's acting this way.
You realize four floors down, when you reach inside the pocket of your backpack and find the tease of empty space—you've forgotten your phone. Oh well. Not a big deal. You refuse to let the panic creep up your face as you rotate a sharp one-eighty and crawl back up the stairs.
"What"—Sakusa stops and catches you by the elbow. It's a surprising amount of contact, even though it's not skin-on-skin—"are you doing?"
"I left my phone," you say, "don't wait up for me."
Sakusa wordlessly detaches from you and dwarfs your slow climb up the stairs, skipping two to three steps at a time with his long legs.
You halt and look at him incredulously. "What are you doing?"
"Hurry up." He doesn't look back at you, already climbing the next set of stairs. "I don't want to spend all night looking for your phone."
You want to tell him he doesn't have to involve himself, that he's wasting his time, and this is your problem, that you don't need a babysitter for a mundane task such as retrieving a forgotten phone, but he's already far ahead of you and not slowing down.
"Ah—okay!" You pant and lumber after him. "Thank you!"
Guess it really is befitting. A player who's on the receiving end of his team's trash plays. The one who's on perpetual garbageman duty. The one who cleans up messes. It's ingrained in him, maybe? To make the most of a shit situation. A habit to deal with the shortcomings of other players. It translates into him assuming the role of doing the same for others, even off the court, maybe? Just maybe—No.
Sakusa isn't one to selflessly do this kind of thing for anyone. But you can't think of anything you've done to deserve this kind of unprompted reaction from him. It just happened. It's breathing, it's a heartbeat, it's blinking—it's reflex.
You beg the warmth in your cheeks to retreat, but they burn hard and hot.
You are so fucked.
by wobbles
taglist—
@sexyandcringe
a/n: thank you all for the wonderful comments in the tags! someone asked if Murai is an OC and i say yes! this is a canon-compliant fic, and unfortunately we don't know who was on sakusa's college volleyball team. so i had to improvise. a familiar face will be showing up though next part. :)
** If you'd like to be part of the taglist for this series or for this blog's writing in general, please send an ask and we'll add you onto it. This is our system for now.
Yes i know 2 of you are running this blog but idk which one writes what- but in ANY case yall both seem amazing, i'd like to be tagged in all Miya 4 related fics/drabbles/headcannons pls (Miya 4 is Atsumu, Osamu, Sakusa and Suna hehe)
Thank u so much!!♡♡
Noted!! Thank you! We'll start getting into the habit of adding you to the taglist for any Miya 4 related posts! <3 Thank you! If you'd ever like to be taken off the taglist just hit us up again and we can remove, no problem!
Also as a general sidenote for all followers who might be reading this, my friend, Elayndia, and I (Wobbles) have decided to denote which posts are ours at the end! We've updated all our previous spread of works this way to make it easier to differentiate, and have also added an About Us page on our blog which holds our other social media accounts!
pairing: keiji akaashi x reader
cw: none
word count: 1.1k
Blinding sunlight flooded over your closed eyes, a harsh white disrupting the comfortable darkness of your bedroom. Turning your face to escape the light, you were met by a cold pillow—the familiar scent of green apple and vanilla filling your nose as you buried your head into it. The soft fabric muffled your groan, neck at an awkward angle, most of your body still tilted the other way. Distantly, you heard the fridge door open and close, followed by a piercing creak as Akaashi opened the cabinet holding all your pots and pans. Another groan left your lips and you pressed your face further into the pillow, pressing the sides against your ears in a feeble attempt to drown out both sight and sound.
As if determined to not let you get back to sleep, a sudden pressure in your lower body demanded you empty your bladder this very second lest you wanted to risk either a very embarrassing accident that hadn’t happened to you since you were four, or a kidney infection. With the elegance of a drunk goose, you practically fell out of bed—eyes barely open—as you dragged yourself to the bathroom.
Though the splash of water to your face did little to wake you, it at least helped you see better. Grimacing at the cold, tile floor, you quickly walked back into the bedroom, stealing a pair of Akaashi’s house-shoes before making your way to the kitchen.
“Morning, Keiji.” Your greeting came out more yawn than words.
Your boyfriend turned away from the stove, eyes widening in surprise. “Morning, love. You’re up early.”
You hummed in response, dragging your body over to him and falling against his chest. Arms still too heavy to be lifted, you simply let them hang at your sides as you leaned in. Burying your face into his neck, you took a deep breath.
“Sun woke me up,” You mumbled against his warm skin. “Did you know you smell like apple pie?”
“I’m sorry, love.” Akaashi’s voice was low and raspy, not yet ready to spend all day explaining editing decisions and compromising on schedules and deadlines. His soft lips found the top of your head as his arms gently pushed you back until you hit one of the kitchen chairs. Giving your hip a small squeeze, he released you.
“Sorry for smelling delicious?” You smiled at him lazily, plopping yourself down on the chair and watching him turn off the stove.
“I should have double-checked that the curtains were closed all the way.” Akaashi sighed. Filling two bowls with the warm oatmeal, he placed one in front of you.
Small pieces of apple, banana, and a handful of blueberries were arranged on the side, the delicious steam of honey and cinnamon warming your face as you smiled down on your food. Akaashi being an early riser while you were a late sleeper; you rarely got to eat the breakfast he made while it was still hot.
“It’s not your job to close the curtains, Keiji.” You took the spoon he offered and pulled back your bowl to make space for the mug of tea and can of coffee he placed on your small kitchen table. “I should have done it before going to sleep.”
“Mhm.” He responded non-committedly. Irritation contorted his features as he sat down opposite of you. He hated when things deviated from the plan. Already struggling with the stress of his writers never meeting their deadlines, Akaashi was determined to strictly follow his own personal schedule and self-imposed responsibilities—making sure you got as much sleep as possible and won’t wake up before your alarm rang being one of them.
Akaashi poked at his oatmeal (his bowl had a handful of almonds in place of the blueberries and no added honey). The light scowl on his face made you want to reach over and squeeze his cheeks. His glasses sat next to his can of coffee, fogged lenses more annoying than a blurry vision, and you could make out the prominent darkness underneath his tired eyes. Fatigue and stress streaked his features, shoulders pulled high with tension, the muscles of his jaw in rigid motion from how hard he was clenching his teeth.
“Speaking of sleep,” You reached over and took his free hand in yours. “When did you go to bed last night?”
Akaashi cleared his throat and avoided your eyes—a clear sign that you wouldn’t like his answer.
“Keiji.” You sighed. Interlocking your fingers, you gave his hand a gentle tug and he turned to look at you, apologetic smile on his lips.
“I know.” His thumb stroked over your knuckles. “I didn’t get the manuscript until almost midnight and it was supposed to be due two days ago so I really needed to get it all done.”
“Did you get any sleep at all?”
“I did.”
You shot him a skeptical look.
“I went to bed at around five.”
Letting go of his hand, you whipped your head around to look at the kitchen clock. “It’s only 8:30 right now! That’s barely three hours!”
“Three and a half.” He corrected, ignoring the fact that his alarm rang at 7:45 every morning.
“Akaashi!” You scowled at him.
He flashed you a crooked smile—the one he always wore then he thought you were being cute. Clearly amused at your outrage, he leaned over to press a kiss against your pouting lips.
“I know,” He said again. “I promise I’ll be done with everything by the end of this week and then I’ll have some free time to catch up on sleep.”
“You always say that but then you never do.” You grumbled. Now it was your turn to poke around in your bowl.
“Why sleep when I can spend that time with you instead.”
You rolled your eyes, biting your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling. “You need to rest, Keiji.”
“I will.” He reached for your hand again. “How about we finally take that trip to the hot springs. If we go at the end of this month you’ll have time to ask for a weekend off and I’ll make sure to get any remaining work done by then.”
“Really?” You lifted your head, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. It had been something you had wanted to do for months now, something the two of you had talked about for just as long but never found the time or energy to actually do.
“Really,” Akaashi smiled. “One of my coworkers went to one last week and he really liked it. I’ll ask him about it later and book the tickets during my break. It’s a bit farther away but that way I can sleep on the train ride there. Sounds good?”
You have an amazing writing style i love jt sm duehrsbjd i was wondering if perhaps you have a tag list? If yes, can i be added? If not *cries rivers * that's completly fine! *wipes tears *
Of course! My friend and I, the two writers running this blog, are still a little new to this website's culture and workings, so we had to research a bit on what a taglist was--What it comes down to is we'd love to add you to ours!
A question is if you'd like to be tagged on specific kinds of stories (Example: The ongoing what's yours is not mine) or if you'd like to be tagged for all posts! Because we are two different writers there are some differences in writing styles and we just want to make sure we only tag you for what you're interested in <3.
Also thank you so much for the compliment! This was a big blessing to wake up to omg!!
Osamu "Glorified Babysitter of Atsumu And Atsumu's Significant Other" Miya
pairing: atsumu x gn!reader
cw: swearing
word count: 1.6k
Osamu’s a glorified babysitter. Things just work out that way when he’s dumped out of the womb and not long after his dumbfuck twin is vice-gripping his ankle like a lifeline. Then you came along, clutching onto the hem of his shirt, Atsumu in tow, saying: "Osamu? Do I need to boil water for ramen or can I just eat it raw?" — and suddenly he’s your glorified babysitter as well.
It’s the weekend. His one-day weekend. Which he has once a month. He throws his hat on the couch, pushes his fingers through his hair, and sinks into his couch. Before his fingers can even twitch towards the remote, his phone jostles in his pocket. Oh boy. A million different theories come to mind and all of them are in some way related to Atsumu—Because it’s only Atsumu who’d have the audacity to contact him on his weekend.
But when he tugs his phone out of his pocket and thumb-flicks the screen to life, what he sees almost makes him have a heart attack.
You: osa
You: osamu*. how do i make broth
Osamu: what kind of broth?
You: therE are different kinds? :0
Osamu takes in a deep, steadying breath. He then reaches for his cap and shoves it back down on his head.
Osamu: don’t fucking touch anything in that kitchen i’m on my way.
His "Atsumu’s fucked up" senses are tingling before he’s even crossed into the threshold of your apartment. He’s carrying a duffel bag he hasn’t used since High School. It's full of ingredients, because he can't trust you and Atsumu to buy the shit necessary to prepare basic broth. The Inarizaki logo taunts him in the time it takes you for you to crack open the door and peer at him with one wide visible eye.
"Osamu?" you say.
"Atsumu, actually," he says.
Your mouth falls open and you swivel your gaze from him to something behind you. Osamu blinks.
"No you're not." You squint at him. "Atsumu's been here the whole time."
"Y'know," says Osamu, voice twinged with exasperation, "the two of ya deserve each other."
It looks like his joke flew right over your head. You open the door wider for him and ask for him to shed his shoes in the genkan. He waves you off, not needing you to nanny him on basic common sense and societal norms. Unfortunately you take this as your cue to backseat instruct him on where the kitchen is, where all the appliances are, and the status of the cooking utensils.
Osamu releases a breath. "I have literally cooked in yer kitchen more than you have. I know these things."
"It was just in case you forgot," you say, a shadow riding on his heels. You follow him, invading his personal space as he rifles through cabinets and retrieves the necessary equipment.
"Give me some space, will ya?" He scowls at you, but there's not much bite to it. "Why not go hang out with the inferior Miya?"
You shake your head and sigh. "He's not feeling well. That's why I wanted to make him some soup, but I didn't know how."
Osamu tries not to laugh, but the struggle is real. "Idiots don't catch colds."
Before you can respond, in shuffles a zombielike Atsumu. His face is pallid and there's a feverish haze curtaining his temple. A blanket is wrapped around his shivering shoulders—The blanket he'd stolen from Osamu's apartment the last time he spent the night. Guess it's his for good, now.
Atsumu itches at his mask, pouty and whiney. Essentially he's the same, only his personality is amplified to the nth degree. Osamu clings koala-tight onto his patience because he knows he's going to need it for this.
"'re ya gonna make me some macaroni?" Atsumu asks him, eyes owlishly wide and voice muffled by the mask. He coughs scratchily.
You reach over and rub his shoulders.
"No," says Osamu. Change of plans. "I'm gonna make you some fuckin' rice porridge."
"What broth does rice porridge use?" you ask.
"It's." Osamu rubs the nape of his neck and again, inhales, exhales. He tries again, this time exaggerating the syllables of his words as if he's talking to literal children. "It's porridge. There's no broth involved."
"No broth," Atsumu says. His eyes water and Osamu literally can't tell if it's because of his sickness or because he's about to break into tears because of this news. "Why?"
"Because it's porridge."
"What if we add broth to it," you say. "Since Atsumu wants broth."
Osamu realizes this is an uphill battle. Therefore: It's not one he wants to have. He pretends to acquiesce as he lowers the tip of his cap and focuses on the ingredients laid out on the countertop. "Sure."
Atsumu and you celebrate with a double high-five and a secret handshake. "Yay-ee!"
Osamu dies a bit inside.
For a whole hour Osamu hogs the kitchen and tries to keep the two of you out, but you're like lost children in an amusement park. You both wander around, watching him with awed eyes like he's performing magic tricks with his hands.
"Are you sure there's no broth?" you say. "You're using water."
Osamu doesn't want to get behind the technicalities anymore of what constitutes as a broth, so he bites the bullet on this one and lets the porridge cook in the chicken stock he brought with him. "Yup. It's a broth. Want a taste?"
Atsumu perks up and immediately he's trading places with you and opening his mouth. Osamu rolls his eyes.
"You can feed yerself," he tells him while handing over the spoon.
"Yer not gonna do it for me?" Atsumu sniffles. "I'm sick, though. Ya gotta be all gentle and spoonfeed me."
You pluck the spoon from Atsumu, dip it into the broth, and bring it back up to his lips. "I'll feed you, best friend!"
Atsumu pulls a face. "Never mind I fuckin' lost my appetite. Ya gonna pull the friendzone joke on me again?" As an afterthought, and because it's the one phrase he likes to parrot over and over and fucking over again when he's in this state: "I'm sick."
"My best boyfriend," you correct.
Atsumu takes a big bite and yelps when he burns his tongue.
"Alright, shoo. Get outta my kitchen." Osamu herds you both away from the counter and into the living room.
"That's my kitchen, ya dumbass," says Atsumu. You nod your agreement while folding your arms.
"Naw. It's actually mine and ya both are tryna claim squatter's rights. Get out or I'm callin' the cops."
"But I'm siii-iiiiick," Atsumu wails as Osamu shoves him onto the couch.
"He's sick," you say as Osamu then distracts you with a mobile game on his phone and tells you to share with Atsumu.
The two of you huddle together, cheeks pressed, with the phone balanced on your lap. It's a puzzle game. Which means it's a time-consuming distraction to keep the two of you out of his hair.
From his periphery he watches the two of you work together and discuss strategy. He's already made it past level ten and you both are already having trouble in the tutorial stage. God. How the fuck are the two of you still alive? Maybe he's an enabler. But he'd be lying if he said his heart didn't throb in that sickly sweet way when he sees his brother squeeze his arms around you and snuggle into your shoulder.
Or the way you laugh, and tease him for being needy, but still cave to his stupid childlike tendencies.
So he watches, trying to fight the dumb smile off his face, as the two of you lace hands and forget you're being watched—Or maybe, it's the fact he watches that you both felt comfortable enough to lose yourselves in the moment and hold each other impossibly close.
You and Atsumu both lift your hands to win his already-won attention, and beam him shiny, all-tooth smiles. You lift his phone so he could see you've passed the tutorial.
He gives a thumbs-up. "Good job. Now try to get past the first stage."
Atsumu nudges you. "Yer trash at this game."
"Don't be mean I will cough on you."
"I'm already sick!"
"I'll make you cough on me, and then when you're better and I'm sick, I'll cough on you."
Atsumu's eyes glow in that way where he remembers something that no one else gives a shit about. "I watched a documentary yesterday and it said that yer less likely to get sick from the same thing cuz you've already built an immunity towards it."
"That's weird," says Osamu. You both glance at him. "Cuz I've been sick of you for the past twenty-two years."
You and Osamu share an air-high-five while Atsumu yells out a pitched: "'Samu shut the fuck up!" —Before breaking out into a fit of coughs that rends his throat and has you gently rubbing the panes of his back until he's settled.
"Don't get mad at him just because he's right, Atsumu."
Atsumu cringes and coughs on you.
You delete the progress the both of you had made on the tutorial and start from a new game slate. Atsumu shrieks in betrayal.
Yup. Osamu sighs. The two of you deserve each other.
by wobbles
a/n: might write more "osamu observes how you and atsumu play hot potato with a singular brain cell and sometimes he's forced to intervene before you two start a fire on accident" that take place in the same universe since these are fun
Atsumu stumbled out of the elevator, vertigo robbing him of any kind of balance. His stomach felt fucking ulcerated, distended, disgusting, but he couldn't even process feelings of actual disgust because everything sounded like the funniest fucking joke he had ever heard. Including the hiccups he was having a very hard time keeping contained.
A strong hand kept him stabilized, tightening on his hip and mooring him to Sakusa's side. He looked incredibly annoyed, and Atsumu of course was cackling to the point his lungs shivered from overuse and his stomach threatened to upheave its contents.
“You’re not even going to try and walk by yourself?” said Sakusa.
“I have the hiccups!” Atsumu exclaimed, slurred words echoing against the quiet hallway.
Sakusa sighed and readjusted Atsumu's arm over his shoulders. “You can’t walk at the same time?”
“It’s fuckin' hard, Omi-Omi. Don'tcha know how much brain power it takes to walk while–” As if to prove something, anything, Atsumu tripped over air and almost headsmashed into the wall plaster. Sakusa manhandled him, ragdolling his useless body from doing any harm to the building rather than himself.
“We’re almost there," said Sakusa, "move your ass properly or I’m throwing you.”
“You wouldn’t risk hurting your wrists.” Atsumu snorted and laughed. “And you’d get in trouble with MSBY for damaging their property.”
“Try me,” Sakusa mumbled. “I’ll drop you right here in the hallway.”
Atsumu whined, even louder. “You’re so heartless, Omi-Omi.”
Still, he knew Sakusa would not hesitate to leave him on the floor. He summoned all of his strength to make the last few steps towards his apartment. The MSBY sponsored complex used a number keypad to open the door, something a sober Atsumu and his tendency to forget his keys had always appreciated. Still-kind-of-drunk and half-asleep Atsumu, however, could not for the life of him remember what his combination was.
He stared intensely at the numbers, both hands pressed against the wall on either side of the pad. His head slumped forward.
“Smashing your head against the lock isn’t going to get it open.” A cool hand pressed against Atsumu’s forehead, keeping it from hitting the keypad. “Move.”
Atsumu dropped his arms, his upper body falling against Sakusa’s shoulder. The latter scoffed and punched in the numbers. A quick beep sounded from the lock and Sakusa pressed open the door.
“How’d you know my code?” Atsumu practically fell into his apartment. “That’s illegal, you know.”
Sakusa glared at him, taking off his shoes in the genkan as he kept an eye on Atsumu who was doing the same. “Because you never remember it when drunk, you idiot.”
“Oh yeah!” Atsumu snickered, vaguely remembering telling Sakusa his combination, as he kicked his shoes away from him. “I’m glad we’re floor buddies, Omi-Omi.”
Sakusa shot him a look that said he didn't share the same sentiment. Atsumu returned his frown with his own bright, toothy grin.
“Can you at least walk by yourself now?”
“Yes!” Atsumu took one step forward, misjudged how high he needed to raise his foot from the ground to exit his genkan, and went pitching forward.
Sakusa stepped in front of him in one smooth motion, preventing him from eating shit off the floor. A low grunt left his lips as Atsumu’s heavy body fell against him. He kept his legs locked, and body angled to prevent them both from spilling backwards into a mess of limbs.
“Oops," Atsumu said.
“You’re so annoying, Miya.” Sakusa groaned and hoisted Atsumu’s large arm over his shoulder again, turning his body and pushing them both towards the bedroom.
“At least my hiccups stopped!” Atsumu couldn’t see his face, but he knew Sakusa was rolling his eyes.
They stumbled their way across the living room and into Atsumu’s bedroom. His heavy body dropped onto his bed, with a force so strong he was sure Sakusa had thrown him. Atsumu pressed his face into the soft pillows, legs dangling off the side of the mattress. He felt Sakusa kick at them and Atsumu grumbled as he wiggled around, moving his full body onto the bed and turning his head to glare at his teammate. “You’re so rough, Omi-Omi.” His lips pursed into a pout before turning up at the unintended innuendo. He snickered and wiggled his eyebrows.
Sakusa simply ignored him, pulling the small trash can out from underneath the night stand. “I’ll get you some water. Try not to die.”
“You’re no fun, Omi-Omi.”
Sakusa raised an eyebrow at him. “Because I don’t want you to die?”
“Because you never play along with my jokes!” Atsumu let out an exaggerated sigh, his pout returning.
“Maybe if they were funny.”
“They’re fuckin' hilarious.”
With one clumsy motition, Atsumu threw his body around so he was laying on his back. The bed let out a creak so loud, for a second, he worried he might have broken something in the frame.
“You’re so careless.” Sakusa shook his head.
“And you’re so boring.” Atsumu stuck his tongue out at him.
“Just because I don’t like to do stupid or pointless things, doesn’t mean I'm boring, Miya.”
Atsumu glared up at him. “Callin' me ‘Miya’ makes you boring.”
“That’s your name.”
“It’s not.” He whined and turned his head to stare at the ceiling. His arms and legs were spread out like a starfish. “It’s Atsumu. That’s my name. A-tsu-mu.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s mine?”
Atsumu’s lips slowly curled upwards—his cheeks pulled high, creasing the corner’s of his eyes—as he let out a gleeful laugh. “Omi-Omi!”
Sakusa turned to leave, mumbling a bored, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Atsumu was still grinning from ear to ear when Sakusa returned with a large glass of water. “Stop being an idiot and drink this or your hangover will be even worse tomorrow.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu sat up to take the water from him. “Do you have a crush on me or something?”
“I do, yes.”
Atsumu spat the water all over himself, coughing frantically as the liquid drenched his shirt and pants.
“Fucking hell, Miya.” Sakusa grabbed the glass off his hands and replaced it with a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand. Atsumu dabbed them against his cold, wet clothes, suddenly feeling very sober.
“Not funny, Omi-kun.” Atsumu’s words were still choked. He dropped the tissues into his trash can, pulling down his wet pants before throwing them off the bed. Cold air hit his bare legs and he quickly moved under his blanket.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.” Sakusa’s voice was as cold and flat as always.
Atsumu stared at him in confusion, unsure if it was still the alcohol or Sakusa messing with him.
“Stop looking at me like that. I’m just as surprised as you are, trust me.” Sakusa offered him the glass of water again. “Don’t worry, I’ll get over it soon enough.”
Atsumu continued to stare at him, eyes wandering across Sakusa’s face. Ignoring the slight ache starting to build in his head, Atsumu tried his best to make sense of what he had heard. Sakusa wasn’t known to make jokes, ever. A fact Atsumu had made fun of just minutes ago. Could this be his way of teasing him back? If he couldn’t counter Atsumu’s jokes with witty comebacks, maybe Sakusa opted for confusing him instead.
Droopy eyes darted over Sakusa’s pale features, looking for a glint of mockery in his eyes, maybe a small quirk of his lips. But Sakusa only stared back, his expression as disinterested and impassive as always.
“You’re serious.” Atsumu blinked at him.
Sakusa sighed and put the glass on the nightstand. “When am I not?”
“Why’d you never say anything!”
“I just did.”
“So you just fell in love with me two seconds ago?” As Atsumu’s confusion rose, so did his voice. Yelling had always helped him to better understand.
“First of all, I didn’t say love.” Sakusa put his hands into his jacket pockets and rolled his eyes. “Second, it’s only been a few weeks.”
Atsumu's throat clamped up. It made his voice ascend into a painfully high pitch. “A few weeks?”
Sakusa frowned slightly. “Can you stop yelling? It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Atsumu felt like throwing a pillow at him. “How is you havin’ a crush on me for weeks and not tellin’ me not a big deal?”
“Like I said, I’ll get over it.”
“Ya can’t just confess and then say you'll get over it, asshole.”
Sakusa’s frown deepened. Atsumu realized this was the most he had seen him emote tonight.
“I didn’t confess, I simply told you," said Sakusa, "What’s the point in confessing if I know I’m going to get rejected anyways.”
“Who said I was gonna reject ya?” Atsumu’s face scrunched in irritation. The alcohol evaporated in his bloodstream. All humor had died. Long buried and dispensed with.
“Okay. So you like me, too?”
“I don’t know, I never thought about it!”
Surprise yielded to bemusement as Sakusa’s lips quirked just a bit. “That’s a no then. If you did, you’d know, so if you don’t know it means you don’t.”
“What?” Atsumu blinked at him, repeating the words in his head multiple times. Now, Sakusa was definitely messing with him.
Sakusa’s lips rose a bit more. He shook his head and made his way to the bedroom door. “Just forget about it, Miya. Make sure to drink the water.”
A soft pillow hit the back of Sakusa’s head and he turned around with a scowl gnawing on his face.
“Ya can’t just fuckin’ say all that and then leave!”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Sakusa tilted his head at him. “You want me to tuck you in, or what?”
Atsumu threw his other pillow at him, which Sakusa dodged with ease. “You’re an asshole.”
Sighing, Sakusa grabbed the two pillows and threw them back on the bed. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It’s not going to affect how I play or anything.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So what do you want from me, then.”
“I don’t know,” Atsumu’s irritation grew even stronger at Sakusa’s still-bored tone. “Ask me out!”
It was Sakusa’s turn to stare at him in confusion. Eyes slightly squinted and lips pressed into a line—it was the look he wore when he was analyzing a situation, taking in as much information as he could before forming logical conclusions from it. Several seconds passed before he spoke up. “But why?”
“Because,” Atsumu grabbed the pillows and aggressively shoved them behind him again, “I feel like I just lost to ya! You can’t reject me before askin' me out!”
Sakusa blinked at him. For a split second, his features contoured in an emotion Atsumu couldn’t place but made him feel like he had just failed a test. Sakusa shook his head and let out a breathy laugh that had Atsumu biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.
“I’ll see you at practice.” With two quick steps, Sakusa left the bedroom.
“Saturday after practice I’m takin' you out!” Atsumu yelled after him, cringing at the way his voice cracked. “Wait hold on, I mean you’re takin' me out.”
He was met with nothing but the sound of Sakusa putting Atsumu’s shoes to the side of the genkan and the rustling of his jacket as he hung it up.
“It’s a date!” he shouted again. His front door clicked shut, leaving behind a flustered and frustrated Atsumu glowering into the dark.
Atsumu "My Girlfriend Of Five Years Keeps Friendzoning Me And I'm At My Limit" Miya
pairing: atsumu miya x f!reader
cw: implied sexual content - not explicit
word count: 1.2k
He notices it the first time it happens. You're perched on his lap, legs bracketing his hips as his thighs support your weight. It's a clumsy round of kissing, a teasing lower lip bite, some tongue, your hands sliding down the frontside of his shirt, then you say the words: "God, I'm so glad you're my best friend."
Any will Atsumu has to continue this, to take this moment into the next step where you're sprawled out under him with the sheets bunched in your fists and toes curling into the mattress is gone. Its nonexistence leaves him feeling hollow, the thought isn't even hot to him anymore.
"What the fuck," he says, "what the fuck? Huh? Friend?"
You have the audacity to sleepily crack open your eyes and brush your fingertips against the jut of his cheekbone. "Best friend."
He's now facing a mortal quandary where he's questioning his reason for being. Why is he here? What were the last five years for? He stares down at you, speechless.
Then there's the second instance.
You and Osamu are making a tray of egg custards in his kitchen. Atsumu's lounging on the couch, because fuck no he's not going to tempt the possibility of burning his fingers. His fingers that are the single most important part of his body. His fingers that are the deciding factor of the momentum for every game.
"These are coming out so good, Osamu," you say.
Atsumu sneaks a furtive peek over his shoulder. He sees you leaning against the island countertop, eyes alight with a youthful kind of joy which makes him want to puke but because it's stupidly adorable. Osamu seems to think the same, because he's making that affectionately funny face.
"Glad ya think so," he says, "they could be better, though. Definitely added one too many eggs."
"More protein," you say, no teasing lilt in your voice. Genuinely, it appears as if you were proud of royally fucking up the recipe. Atsumu rolls his eyes. Five years he's had to deal with your infectiously positive attitude towards everything.
"Yup, somethin' you need more of. Is your best friend still inhalin' the food off your plate when I'm not around?"
What—"'Samu!" Atsumu cries out as his attention is yanked fully from the television screen. "You're doin' it, too!?"
Both you and Osamu don't pay him any mind.
"Mhm, my best friend is always stealing morsels from me. It's alright, though. I'm always cooking extra in order to adhere to his huge caloric intake. The professional volleyball player diet and all that."
Osamu clicks his tongue, shakes his head, and slots one hand against his hip. "I'll be sure to send ya off with some ingredients I don't need anymore. For yer best friend."
"Gosh, I'd really appreciate that," you say.
The two of you share a laugh, leaving Atsumu groping for any semblance of sanity. He's losing it. He's fallen into an alternate timeline.
It happens again, a third, fourth, fifth, sixth time.
A scene: Atsumu letting you take the last seat on the train as he grips one of the handles. Or as he likes to call it—The oh-shit handle. Because any turbulence, any abrupt halt has him clinging onto it for dear life as you're sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, fucking snoozing.
"Are ya really gonna sleep while I'm the one who's sufferin' here on yer behalf?" he says.
It wakes you up, and you mumble something incoherent as you rub your eyes. "You can sit in my lap, Atsumu. I don't mind."
"I think I'll fuckin' flattin' ya like a pancake." He rolls his eyes. "But thanks."
You shake your head and pout. "No, no. I insist. What are friends for?"
Atsumu's high-pitched whine of frustration is drowned by the train once again screeching to an ear-deafening halt.
Another scene: Atsumu is watching you roll around on the bed, burrito-fying yourself with the blankets as you wear his old Inarizaki sweatshirt. His hands cradle a game controller, but he's hit the pause button a full three minutes ago. Which is three minutes too long. He hates the sickly sweet things you make him feel. It's five years and still the way you paw at the sheets in mid-sleep and drool on the pillow—Which by the way, absolutely disgusting, has him weak.
And because he's an asshole, he doesn't let things that make him feel weak last long. He stretches over and pokes at your cheek.
"Yer an ugly sleeper," he says when you crack open an eye.
"I'm more beautiful than you," is what you say around the dryness of your tongue.
Atsumu rubs his thumb across the small streak of spit on the side of your mouth. You groan and thwack his hand away.
"Gross," you say, finally giving in and blushing, "don't do that."
"What were you sayin' about bein' more beautiful than me? You're the one who's droolin' like a baby in her sleep."
"And I'll drool all over your sweatshirt, too."
He shrugs. He couldn't give less of a shit if he tried. It doesn't fit him anymore. "Go ahead. I'll even buy ya an Inarizaki bib since yer also a messy eater as you are a sleeper."
You try to flip him off but he grabs your wrist and kisses your knuckles.
"Gross," you say again, "best friends shouldn't kiss each other."
"I'll do more than that," he says, finally pushing himself over you and caging you under him. "I'll show you how good of a 'best friend' I can be."
You crack a fond smile, and do that stomach-clenching thing where you brush his bangs aside and trace circles against his collarbone with your thumb.
"Alright," you say, "show me."
Final scene:
The two of you are a pile of limbs. Atsumu's still panting, overexertion gnawing on his muscles. You’re an anchoring weight against his chest, splayed out over him, one side of your face smushed against the base of his neck.
"You're cute," you say.
"Cute? That's a shitty compliment." He's a fucking liar. He's knee-weak for you. It's a disease rotting him inside-out.
"You're cute," you say again, this time blowing in his ear. He shivers. "My cute little—"
"If you say best friend I will push you off the bed," he says.
"—My cute little boyfriend."
He grits his teeth and squeezes you tight. "I hate you."
"You love me more than you hate me," you say.
"Yeah and I hate myself for loving you more than I hate you."
You press a hand against his cheek. It's shaking because you're suppressing your laughter. "I'll love you more than you hate yourself for loving me more than you hate me."
He can't muster the three cells in his brain to fire their synapses in response. The only thing he can do is latch onto you, feeling you laugh against him and the noise being the one thing to guide him into a deep, comfortable sleep.
pairing: Sakusa x f!Reader
cw: swearing
word count: 2.3k
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 forthcoming
Breakfast is a whole ordeal. The queue is a painful zigzag stretching all the way out from the cafeteria doors into a corridor, floundering down, down, down into a slice of space meant for quiet study. Except it's not quiet anymore; students are huddling together in their social groups, a mass of writhing limbs, passing jokes and tired nudges.
You take one look at this, at your phone's clock, and decide a vending machine coffee will suffice.
But even the vending machines have queues. Goddammit. There goes your schedule, your plans, everything. Tossed out the window—Goodbye. Your mood curves, stutters, and spirals down into the floor where it crashes in an inferno and dies. Oh well. Just one of those days. Means the day tomorrow has a higher probability of going right. Right? Right.
You march straight to class as you rub the vestiges of sleep from your eyes. It's a gross kind of crust which embeds into your waterline, and you really have to swipe at it three to four times, using passing windows to ascertain if you've completely removed it.
While you wipe the flakes off your knuckles and suppress a yawn with your other hand, you nearly backend a student. His long legs circumnavigate around you—It's gracefully humiliating because you on the other hand are stumbling and losing balance from the weight of your backpack sucking you to the floor.
"Crap," you say as you reach out to anchor yourself against a hallway chair and regain your footing. When you're certain you won't fall over, you raise an apologetic hand. "Sorry about that. You okay?"
Of course you had a gut feeling about who you almost collided with. Because it feels like any interaction you have with this guy is just a collision in of itself—A disruption, an inconvenience. Unpredictable.
Sakusa stares at you with his permanent resting bitch face, hitches his backpack up higher, and says on a suffering sigh, "Watch where you're going."
"Yeah, that's on me." It's easier to not make enemies with someone you're forced to cooperate with on a shared grade. "I'll watch my feet next time."
"Hmm," he says noncommittally, and retreats into the classroom.
Stellar start to the day. It gets better and better. You follow after him and try to not linger on the aggravation bubbling inside your stomach.
Sakusa is true to his word and doesn't steal your seat again. He ascends up the lecture hall stairs and slides himself into a vacant row. Fuck, he even swabs down the desk surface with an antibacterial wipe before he procures his notebook and writing utensils. Once again, you feel far less prepared by comparison.
The professor drags himself in, his throat-clearing reverberating against the wall panels as he shambles towards the projector. You whiteknuckle your pen, tearing the tip into your notebook paper. Time to release your suppressed anger into cathartic, violent notetaking.
Thirty minutes into the lecture you're experiencing the symptomatic repercussions of skipping breakfast and your morning coffee. Eyelids are solid weights, stomach is shivering and groaning, and your mind has settled into a gelatinous mist. No thoughts, just write. Persevere through this lecture.
And persevere you did. Through the stabbing pain of hunger, and the brain-fuzz, you manage to record every syllable leaving your professor's mouth until he's spreading his arms and banishing you all from his classroom for the day. You pack your things and coalesce with the herd of students with one goal in mind: Cafeteria.
God, please.
"It's still packed," Sakusa says, several feet away from you but walking parallel. His legs allow him to eclipse your pace, and you're staring at his yellow backpack and red duffel bag.
"The cafeteria?" you say.
He gives a curt nod.
"Was it that obvious I was heading over to it?"
He peers over his shoulder, one lidded, brooding eye critically analyzing you. "I could hear your stomach from a whole row away."
Shit. You trail further behind him, maneuvering away from his gaze so he couldn't see the blush on your cheeks. Noted. You'll never skip a meal again. Next time pack a snack to avoid this kind of situation.
"Sorry, I hope the noise wasn't distracting."
Sakusa walks at the same speed—As in, entirely outstripping you. This prompts you into thinking it's his silent way of indicating the conversation is over, but then he slows down, examines his phone, and casts another glance at you.
"It's because there's several road teams staying in the sports dorms."
"Road—Uh, road teams?"
"Visiting teams."
"Question still stands. Sports noob, remember?"
"It means other collegiate teams are visiting to compete against our home ones. Which is why the cafeteria is at max capacity."
Okay. Maybe you didn't need that much information spoon-feeding, but it was entertaining seeing him commit to talking more than usual. He has a distractingly deep voice. Pleasant sounding. It's a shame he doesn't talk more in general. Dude really hit the gene jackpot with everything. Sharp jawline, appealing black curls framing the edges of his face, and two—
"You're staring," he says.
The both of you were now walking in sync. Even though your leg strides weren't mirroring one another, as his were longer, he had slowed down significantly into an easygoing gait.
"Yeah," you admit, "I didn't realize you have two moles."
"Surprise," he says with zero inflection, eyes looking straight ahead.
"Do you get a lot of confessions?"
He answers your question with a question of his own, doused with his usual dose of blunt sarcasm. "Does having two moles have any correlation whatsoever with receiving love confessions?"
"Certainly. They're very eye-catching."
"Clearly not enough. You didn't notice them until now."
"Because I was tired yesterday and this morning—And, and I don't like making eye contact. It's awkward."
Sakusa then decides it is prime time to make eye contact with you. It's flat, devoid of emotion. Just a taught connection between your eyes and—
"There he is!" A tall man carves a path out of the students in front the two of you—An ocean bisecting apart. He raises a hand up in the air.
A high five? Sakusa doesn't indulge him, instead shouldering past, chin collapsing towards his neck and shoulders hunching inwards.
"Murai," he says in lieu of a proper greeting.
You feel distinctly out of place. Especially when this "Murai" person, realizing he's not receiving any high-fives from Sakusa, repositions his palm to face you with a cheeky grin. His other is resting against the duffel bag slung across his shoulder—The same color as Sakusa's. It clicks in your brain. Sports. Volleyball. Road teams.
Sakusa's on the volleyball team, and this must be a teammate of his.
Wanting to make a good first impression, and because the people pleasing side of you of course heeds any request, unspoken or otherwise, you on instinct raise your hand and give him the weakest, floppiest high-five. There's sweat on his palm and it smears against yours when you peel your hand away. Ah. Hopefully the disgust isn't evident on your face.
Murai fingerguns you with a wink. "A team player. You love to see it. A general you, of course."
You have no idea what the fuck he just said but you nod and laugh along like the socially awkward monster you are. "Aha, yeah. I guess?"
"Lay off, Murai. She won't understand your gross eccentricities." Sakusa swings his gaze back towards you. "And don't enable him. He'll never stop. He's like a fucking dog whose behavior is guided by operative conditioning based solely off of positive reinforcement."
"Well I'm in luck since according to a poll taken last year, about fifty percent of the population is comprised of dog people." Murai continues fingergunning you to the point you're worried he's stuck on an infinite loop. "So what's it gonna be? I've got a fifty-fifty chance here. You a dog person?"
"Dogs are nice," you say. What the fuck who words it like that? You sound like you're some alien creature from outer-space trying to assimilate with mankind.
"Gross," says Sakusa.
Murai fist-pumps and salutes you. "Knew it. You had those vibes. Man's best friend, right? What's your favorite breed?"
You have no clue. You've never owned a dog before. When's the last time you've seen one in person? "The Labrador."
"Double knew it." Murai conveniently grows bored of talking to you and returns his attention to Sakusa. "You pumped for today's match?"
"As I'll ever be," Sakusa says simply.
"They've got a talented setter. Knows how to hide his hands." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie for effect. "And their blockers are infamous for stuffing every ball."
"I'll just break through their blocks, then." Sakusa shrugs. "Or go around them. They're not a powerhouse team."
Murai laughs and shakes his head. "Whatever you say, dude. Are you on your way to practice? I'll help you stretch."
"I don't need help stretching."
"I'll take that as a 'yes.' I'll see you at the gym." He nudges his face towards yours and pulls one hand out from his pocket to send you a wave. "Would you like to watch us practice? We don't get much of an audience."
Sakusa heaves a sigh. "Because. It's practice. Nobody watches practice. You don't have to watch us practice."
Before you can pop open your mouth for a response, Murai is huffing out an offended squawk. "We look so cool when we practice! The secret is it's far less tense when we're not playing against an opponent team, so we're at liberty to really pull off some cool, experimental moves. C'mon, c'mon. The stands are all empty. It's lonely. It'd be cool to know someone's observing us!"
There's too much spotlight on you, and you're not sure you have the stamina to watch some dudes play who you're not friends with. Even acquaintances seems like too generous a term. You try to mentally parse through friendly ways of declining his offer, but fortunately Sakusa steps in with the save.
"Stop pressuring her. She's busy with schoolwork." Sakusa lifts his chin up and tampers with his phone. "I won't be able to contribute to the project tonight because of a game. If you could work on the segment I've assigned for today—"
"Yeah! My pleasure, really." Thank youuuu, Sakusa. Absolute life saver. Whether he knew it or not, or maybe he genuinely didn't want your presence anywhere near him more than necessary, this freed you from Murai's pleas for attendance. "I'll go ahead and work on it tonight. I hope you guys have a good game at baseball—I mean, volleyball. Volleyball."
A gasp tumbles from Murai's lips. "Do I look like a baseball kinda guy? That's the most boring sport."
"You'll have to forgive her," says Sakusa, with something reminiscent of a smug grin on his face. It's so tiny, so microscopic, that you think it's the blaring overhead lights playing a trick on you. "She's not a sports person."
"Noted," says Murai gravely. He claps his hands together and bows his head in prayer towards you as he walks backwards. "I pray you one day realize that you're sleeping on the coolest sport to ever exist. And that you look up my name online to watch clips of my nasty dumps."
"Your what?" you say, gut-punched and reeling.
"Again. Not a sports person. Stop throwing terminology at her she won't understand, you idiot."
"It was intentional! The look on her face is hilarious!"
"It's really not," says Sakusa.
Murai's not listening, his bellyfuls of laughter drown out Sakusa's response and he's literally holding his abdomen like he's afraid his internals are going to spill out. Meanwhile your hands feel too inactive, your legs are walking through jelly, and a pulse rings in your ears. This is it. This is pure, unadulterated embarrassment.
What makes it worse is you can tell Murai's not trying to actively make you uncomfortable.
Sakusa rubs behind his ear, fingers assuaging the chafe marks from where the elastic band of his mask meets his skin. He squints at Murai. It shuts him up and he smiles apologetically at you.
"Sorry, did I go too far?" he says.
You nod. "Just a little. But don't worry, it's just hard to match your energy right now."
"Noted, I'll tone it down a notch." He pushes his thumb and index finger together.
"Thanks," you say.
Sakusa and Murai move further away from you as the hallway forks into two different directions. You take the hint, and wish them one last goodbye and a good day.
Murai's eager "You too" overlaps with Sakusa's more quiet "Goodbye." But you don't miss the way your last name falls from lips. His expression is still as uncaring, impassive as ever, but this doesn't stop the way your heart squeezes in an unfamiliar way, or the buzz riding through your veins, and the tightening of your throat.
Of course.
You found him handsome, you found his mannerisms both no short of irritating and also endearing, but did this really have to mean you like him? Then you realize, this is a feeling you haven't had since elementary school. Since you were forced to hold hands with a classmate, and experienced them squeezing onto you like a lifeline. Experienced them laughing at a joke you told, like it was the funniest fucking thing they'd ever heard. Experienced them pushing their crayon box your way when they saw you ran out of blue ones to color in your sky. Experienced them sneaking their food onto your tray with a gleeful smile while the teacher wasn't looking.
That feeling of being the most important person in the world, even if it's for two minutes or two seconds or the time it takes for someone's mouth to form the letters of your name.
You wanted to be Sakusa Kiyoomi's friend.
Not even ten minutes later your phone vibrates with a message.
Chair stealer: Sixth floor. Staff building. Vending machine near room 631 is always overstocked with canned coffee. Sorry about Murai.
Chair stealer: He's a highly acclaimed setter, and like most setters of that kind of caliber he has an infuriating personality.
You: Do all highly acclaimed setters boast about their nasty dumps
Chair stealer: Unfortunately.
You laugh, and finally change his nickname from "Chair stealer" into "Sakusa."
pairing: osamu miya x reader
cw: implied sexual content
word count: 558
a/n: even though it's nothing explicit, if you're a minor please skip this one
A hand reaches out to grab the glasses on your face, pulling them off. Strands of hair fly into your eyes and you turn away from your laptop screen. “Hey!” Voice raspy and thick from not having spoken all day, you squint up at Osamu.
“Hey,” He replies easily. Cheeky smile on his lips, he sits down next to you on the couch. Placing your glasses on the coffee table, his other hand tugs the messy strands behind your ear again. Gentle fingers massage the back of your head as his thumb strokes along your cheek. “Come to bed with me?”
“Not yet,” You lean into his touch. “I really need to finish this tonight.”
Osamu hums, ignoring your whines and placing the laptop onto the coffee table before pulling you onto his lap. “You need to sleep, sweetness.”
“I’m not even tired,” You mumbled, heavy head resting against his chest.
His gentle laugh resonates against your body and he lifts your chin to look at him. Warm lips grace your forehead. “You can barely keep your eyes open.” His thumb taps the dark circles forming underneath your eyes. “See? They’re all droopy and your pupils are tiny.”
“They’re not tiny, you just have large hands so they look small in comparison.” You pout, shifting to press your face into the crook of his neck.
“My hands are normal sized.” Playful fingers tickle your side and you jump in surprise.
“Well, my pupils are also normal sized!” You shoot him a glare, pout intensifying.
Osamu laughs. He leans down for a kiss, giving your bottom lip a quick nibble. Whining, you whack his chest weakly before leaning your head against his shoulder. “Stop bullying me.”
“Am not,” He smiles down on you. “You’re just so cute it makes me want to eat you.”
“Please do.” You sigh heavily. “At least then I don’t have to finish this essay.”
“How about we go to sleep now and I’ll help you finish it tomorrow.” Osamu presses a kiss against your temple. His mouth travels down to your ear as the hand on your side moves to squeeze your thigh. “And I’ll eat you after.” Osamu’s teeth sink into your earlobe and you let out a yelp. The vibrations of his laugh against your ear has you squirming deeper into his embrace. His warm fingers wander up your thigh, caressing and squeezing the bare flesh along the way. His mouth moves further down, leaving a trail of wet kisses until his lips rest right above your collarbone. He bites down again, gentler this time, before pressing a soft kiss against the spot and pulling away. “Alright, time to go to sleep.” Osamu shoots you a bright, innocent smile.
“You fucking suck!”
Osamu laughs, securing his hold on you and getting up from the couch. Your arms wrap around his neck as he carries you to the bedroom, making sure to glare at him the whole way. He winks and puts you down on the bed, draping the blanket over you before slipping in himself. You lift your head to let his arm move under it, snuggling into his chest as his chin rests on top of your head. “Good night, sweetness.”
“Good night,” You grumble into his shirt. “I love you, even though you suck.”
Atsumu has this self-imposed challenge of taking a mirror pic of himself in a different bathroom each time and it drives his partner/friends/family up the wall. It’s always for a cheesy Complete The Heart picture with someone in the background using the urinal, their back turned to the camera.
Every shopkeeper, restaurant owner, every fucking person who owns a building knows him. Because he’s used their bathroom to take a selfie. He walks into his brother’s restaurant and wordlessly goes into the bathroom, sending a Complete The Heart picture not even ten seconds later. Osamu sends him the middle finger back.
Atsumu: i’m gonna vandalize ur bathroom u bitch
Osamu: im gonna vandalize ur boyfriend u whore
Neither Osamu nor Atsumu's S/O complete the heart with him anymore due to him spamming it like every day. Instead they decide to take one together and send it to Atsumu every time he challenges either of them. It has him crying and pouting like a child.
Bonus: Osamu and Akaashi meet up to form a heart with their hands in person to send it as a pic to Atsumu. He’s literally about to scream but they send the pic again, this time here’s text in the middle of their heart-shaped hands spelling “Atsumu” and now he’s screaming from the pain of cringe and love.
Imagining the first time Akaashi really shows the beginning of his, “I care you,” attitude is when he’s watching the MSBY matches and texting Atsumu that he did a good job without Atsumu initiating. Akaashi might even give a critique. That’s when Atsumu just perks the fuck up because he’s so hungry to get better. Akaashi helps him learn about how to bring out the best in his spikers because usually it’s Atsumu taking OUT what’s already existing and making it shine/complementing their style by changing how he does his sets.
Bokuto and Atsumu are both aware that Akaashi is watching their MSBY match, they stuff their faces into the camera and wave but they’re competitive about it and trying to push each other out of the frame. They’ll be like “GOOD LUCK WITH WORK TODAY AKAAAASHIII,” but of course Akaashi can’t hear them because the camera doesn’t pick up noise so they just look like idiots but the gesture is so stupidly sweet it has Akaashi laughing and shaking his head.
They also totally pout over whatever jersey and merch Akaashi wears to their games. Akaashi wears both one day to make them settle down but they STILL get pouty because they care about which jersey he’s wearing on top.
Atsumu: I WANNA BE THE TOP ONE WTH!!!
Bokuto: is doing a victory cartwheel and frontflip
Akaashi: The one below is closest to my heart. :)
Bokuto: crashes. explodes. heart broken. dies inside.
Atsumu: cheers and does a celebratory frontflip but he can’t do a frontflip so he just does a half erect fucking hand stand where his feet never leave the ground
Akaashi: smiles softly, and for the sake of Bokuto’s mental health and Atsumu’s inflating ego says, "Just kidding."
It's a balanced relationship. Atsumu is able to help Akaashi relax, too. He'll pick up on Akaashi's caring gestures and returns them by bringing him coffee and will take care of things in his apartment and do the dishes to help him keep his place clean (Osamu thinks his twin was replaced by an alien).
He also manages to get Akaashi to tag along to small trips with the gang more often and get out of his little stuffed place.
And he helps Akaashi be a bit more selfish? Be a bit more assertive, put his foot down with editing decisions.
Atsumu is the "he asked for no pickles" for Akaashi.
If something doesn’t go right with work, Atsumu is ready to roll up his sleeves and shake someone around and Akaashi is like: “No, Atsumu, you are not going to verbally tear apart my coworkers.” And Atsumu is just so ??? “But that’s what I do at work!” Akaashi says, “First off you should not be doing that at all and we’re going to have a discussion about that, and second off it’s snowing outside and you’re not dressed appropriately.” He takes his hand and rubs some warmth into it.
Atsumu is so fucking mean sometimes he’ll say things in a cruel way by habit and Akaashi squeezes his shoulder and is like: “What did we discuss last night.” Atsumu exhales. inhales. “I am sorry for sayin' I think yer shoes are ugly they’re definitely not the worst but they really don’t match the rest of whatever color scheme you got goin’ on and it’s botherin’ me so fuckin' bad but it’s not yer fault you lack basic sense in color coordination.” Akaashi says, “We’ll get there.” He apologizes to the person and tells them, “He’s all bark and no bite. You can insult him back if he goes too far since he’s an asshole like that.” Atsumu whines and cries.
