pop kettle on ☕️

rose/rosie | she/her | 23 | aquarius | mlist

[rosierin]

welcome! 🤎

trivia | tags i use | self ships

about my blog ;

mostly sfw | any mature or suggestive content will be tagged at the top of each fic!! | mlist | writing, art & other reblogs

about my writing ;

fandom; haikyuu!!

most recent ; shortcut | atsumu miya

crowd pleasers ;

★ traffic light | suna rintarou

★ not so easy | atsumu miya

★ blondes aren't your type, huh? | atsumu miya

personal favourites ;

★ charmed | atsumu miya

★ not so easy | atsumu miya

★ power play | atsumu miya

thank you to everyone who follows, likes and/or reblogs!

dividers by @enchanthings & @saradika-graphics <3

[rosierin]

shortcut | atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu and (y/n) navigate their way through a dodgy alley

She had known this detour was a bad idea. The moment Atsumu suggested it, she’d had her apprehensions—but now? Now that they were shrouded in almost complete darkness between the damp walls of some dodgy ginnel, (y/n) desperately wished she’d been firmer about taking the long way home.

“Tsumu… are you sure you know where we’re going?” The last thing she wanted was to seem like a coward, but admittedly, she was finding it increasingly harder not to jump out of her skin whenever a suspicious rustle echoed in the gloom. She suspected rats or some other nocturnal critter, but her overactive brain wouldn't stop playing the true-crime documentary about men prowling alleys just like this one, snatching women to traffic them on the black market.

Two steps ahead of her, Atsumu kept on walking, unfairly at ease. “Pretty sure,” he answered breezily.

(Y/n) tensed for a second, primed to scold him for leading her into unknown danger—only to relax when she realized he was only joking, his shoulders bouncing with a quiet chuckle. “You asshole. That’s not funny."

“Was from where I'm standin',” he retorted. “And since when did you get so jumpy? Coulda sworn you weren’t this much of a wimp back in high school.”

“That’s ’cause I was in high school.” Her arms crossed over her chest like a makeshift shield. “I was young and naïve and oblivious to how scary the world actually is."

“Why? Whaddaya think is gonna happen?” Atsumu sounded genuinely puzzled. “That we’ll get jumped or somethin’?”

“Or worse,” (y/n) muttered grimly, thinking back to every harrowing headline and news report.

In spite of her dark spiral and the sombre image she'd painted for them, Atsumu remained unflappable. He blew a raspberry, effectively scattering her fears. “That’d never happen,” he assured, not an ounce of doubt in his voice. “Not while I’m here.” Then, as if to prove his point, he slowed down a touch so that their steps fell in sync and their arms brushed as they walked side by side.

If it weren't for the underlying feeling of unease coiling in her gut, she might have felt reassured. Nonetheless, his attempts to reassure her had her smiling. “So you’d fend them off?”

“Easily,” he quipped. “You’ve seen me and ‘Samu fight before.”

(Y/n) stifled a laugh. “Yeah, and I’ve seen Osamu absolutely rock your shit every time.”

“Yer supposed to leave that part out.”

Their laughter mingled, soft and easy, and for a moment the alleyway didn't feel nearly as menacing—her racing mind quieter than before. “Sorry—didn’t mean to bruise your ego. I’m sure it’s just because Osamu eats more. He’s got that extra body mass, you know?” She was absolutely talking out of her own arse, since, in theory, Atsumu’s muscle mass should outweigh any of it, but she hoped he'd buy the excuse.

“No, no, I see what yer doin’. Yer tryin’ to soften the blow but I ain’t fallin’ for it—”

Then, out of nowhere, Atsumu stopped dead in his tracks. His body went rigid, as if every muscle in his body had locked in place. “(Y/n)—“

Every nerve in her body flared in alarm. “What—? Atsumu what’s wrong—“ But before she could finish, Atsumu took a step back with a horrified yelp, one arm raised as if to shield her from—

Her eyes hadn't even adjusted to whatever lurked in the shadows before Atsumu burst into a cackling fit of laughter—first to himself, then loud and unapologetic as he took in (y/n)'s bewildered expression. That's when it dawned on her. He'd tricked her. Again.

Violence seemed like a very fitting answer to his childish antics, so she delivered two sharp whacks—one to his chest, then another to his bicep. “You prick! What the hell’s wrong with you?! Why would you do that!"”

Groaning to herself, she cursed herself for letting him get the better of her twice in one night. What if her heart had stopped right then and there from terror? Then what?

“Aw, c’mon, don’t gimme that face,” he teased, flashing that infuriating grin. “Give it a few days and you’ll find it just as funny as I did.”

Unfortunately, he was right—her reaction would probably age like fine wine, but she wasn't about to say that to his face. Rather than argue, she sighed to steady her rattled nerves and fell back into step beside him.

“Oh, and would ya look at that—” After a few more twists and turns, the two of them eventually emerged into a familiar part of town. Street lamps illuminated the open plaza—warm, golden light, banishing the gloom. And for the first time that night, (y/n) drew a deep breath, her shoulders dropping with relief. “We’re home.”

Her elation must have been obvious because Atsumu took one look at her then offered her a fond, almost sympathetic smile.

“That's the last time we ever take that shortcut,” (y/n) warned as she scuttled toward her apartment, her bed already calling her name. Perhaps she'd treat herself to a hot cup of chamomile tea to soothe her frayed nerves too.

“Told ya I’d keep ya safe,” he said, his footsteps slowing behind her as she dug through her bag for her keys. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. The quirk of his mouth was familiar—teasing and playful like always—but she’d be ignorant not to hear the proud and protective undertones his tone beheld.

“I know,” she said simply, flashing him a smile before turning back toward their apartment. After a click, the door swung open, the warmth of their home spilling out to greet them both.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[rosierin]

doomscroller | atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu drags (y/n) away from her phone to bake cookies

a/n; for the doomscrollers who are tired of all the bad news lately and absorb negativity like a sponge- I see u

It's sometime in the afternoon, or evening—(y/n) isn't sure. She hasn't lifted her face from her phone for the past who-knows how many hours, too busy doom scrolling as the world around her keeps on spinning.

It's a terrible habit, really. And the worst thing is she knows it. She's been caught in this spiral before. She spends all day on her feet: working, finishing up chores, going out with friends. When she gets home, she tells herself she'll do something productive: write, read a book, journal. However her phone is right there, tempting her from her bedside table. It's so easy to just... lean over and grab it. And she does—and she hates herself for it.

Granted it can be fun, at times. There’s days where flicking through reels has her stomach hurting and her eyes brimming with tears of laughter. But moments like those are rare these days, and what she sees on her FYP is nothing short of miserable.

Someone's been murdered in her neighbourhood. Kids are going missing. The government is actually a satanic cult. World War III is right around the corner.

Most times, she ends up putting her phone back down on her bedside table and stares up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell went wrong with the world. Other times, she's left feeling so numb she doesn't even register she's been crying until there’s a terrible throb in her temples and her nose is so stuffy she can't even breath through it anymore.

Tonight is one of those nights.

She's all too focused, eyes unblinking, jaw clenched as she scrolls past one piece of bad news to the next. She doesn't even realise how far gone she is until a familiar voice calls her name and a large hand gently pries her phone from her hand.

"Enough," says the voice.

It's like she's broken out of a trance. She regains awareness of her surroundings and blinks away the fog from her eyes. When she looks up, Atsumu's there with a stern look on his face. He locks her phone and slides it into his back pocket. "Yer just gonna make yerself sad again,” he says—firm, but not unkind. “It ain't worth it."

His words hit her like icy wind. She welcomes the wake-up call though, and takes a deep breath she didn't realise her body had been craving. It's not an immediate fix, but already she feels a little lighter, and her shoulders sag like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

Rubbing her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, she mutters, "I know. Sometimes I just can't help it. I see one article and it feels almost cruel to click away."

That's another thing she struggles with—knowing the line between a healthy amount of knowledge, and feeding herself too much unnecessary negativity. Sometimes it feels almost selfish—the ability to click away and turn a blind eye when she sees something that makes her uncomfortable. Others don't have the luxury of doing that—not when they're currently living the hell she’s lucky she only reads about in articles. Her heart clenches then sinks at the mere thought of it.

Again, she doesn't realise she's welling up until Atsumu runs a thumb beneath her eye and swipes away a single tear before it can fall.

"Yer not bein' cruel. No one’s blamin’ ya for givin’ yerself some space.“

She sits there, blinking up at Atsumu, unsure if she wants to laugh it off, or give in to her sadness and close herself away until tomorrow. Leave it to him to phrase things so plainly, like the world isn’t always ending, like you can just press pause and take step back whenever life gets too heavy. It’s a skill she’s yet to acquire, but it helps to have him remind her from time to time.

“Thanks,” she manages, her voice a little raw. “You’re probably right.”

Atsumu snorts, like he can’t stand gratitude aimed his way. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m puttin’ ya to work,” he says, jerking his head toward the kitchen.

She watches him, bemused, until a thought passes her and her stomach drops. “Not the dishes,” she pleads. “I don’t have the strength for that right now.”

“Not the dishes,” he calls over his shoulder. “C’mon, I made cookies and they look like shit. I need an artiste to help me salvage them.”

Cookies. She can’t help but smile, a twitch she quickly smothers, but there’s a tenderness that lingers even as she trails after him. In the kitchen, the counters are a mess of flour and stray chocolate chips. The smell is comforting, sweet—albeit the tang of something slightly burnt hanging in the air—and she finds herself breathing deeper, letting it fill the hollowness in her chest.

Atsumu walks over to the counter and pulls a tea towel off the cooling tray. He grins, a little sheepish, then gestures like a craftsman showing his pièce de résistance. “Tada.”

She huffs a laugh. The cookies are, in fact, misshapen. Some are ovals, others have melted into strange amoeba-looking shapes. And yet, they are imperfectly, unapologetically, enthusiastically Atsumu. If careless and whole-hearted were a food, it would be these cookies.

“They’re lovely,” she says, and means it.

He brightens, and for a split second she sees the boy he must have been once, bragging about mud pies. “Right? I call this one Ze Blob.’”

“You’re a genius,” she says, and means that, too. Even with his atrocious attempt at a French accent.

“Thank you, thank you.” He puffs out his chest like an all-too-proud-rooster ruffling its feathers, before dumping a tube of icing into her hand. “Now it’s yer turn to add the finishin’ touches,” he says, then gives her a mock-serious glare. “Try not to mess up my hard work, alright?”

She rolls her eyes, but happily obliges.

The next few minutes are quiet, the only sounds being the plastic crinkle of icing tubes and the sporadic clatter of sprinkles. She tries to make each cookie special, drawing crooked faces (a winky one for Atsumu, a smug one for Osamu, and a deadpan one for Suna), and even though her artistic skills are mediocre at best, she tells herself it’s more about the process, about spending time with a loved one—in the real world. She feels her nervous system finally begin to regulate as she focuses on her craft, on Atsumu’s humming—low and a little off-key.

Granted, she’s still not one-hundred percent herself—her mind still reeling with the weight of too many headlines, too much cruelty, the way a bad dream replays itself no matter how many times you try and banish it. But here, in the dim kitchen light, squeezing icing onto a too-dark cookie, she can almost believe in the possibility of okay.

She glances over at Atsumu, who’s gotten more icing on his hands than on the cookies. He looks up and catches her watching. “You good?”

She considers for a moment, then sets her cookie down. She wipes her hand on some kitchen roll and walks over, half expecting him to dodge or question her motives. Instead, he goes perfectly still when she wraps her arms around his waist and presses her forehead into his shoulder.

He stays frozen for a while, until eventually his arms wind around her back, clumsy but sure. He squeezes, a touch too tight, but she doesn’t mind. She likes them best that way.

“Ya big sap,” he says, gentler than she’s used to.

She laughs into his shirt. “Takes one to know one.”

He doesn’t object—just snickers and rests his chin on top of her head, and for a while they just stand there, swaying a little in the middle of their small kitchen.

It’s nothing short of mundane. It’s just cookies. It’s just a hug. They’re such small and simple activities that are so easy to take for granted. Yet for the first time in a long time, (y/n) doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t feel helpless, doesn’t feel defeated. For the first time in a long time, the world doesn’t feel so dark.

In fact, if not for just a moment, the world feels just fine.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[rosierin]

order for miya! | atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu overhears two baristas talking about his latest game

Atsumu is halfway through the glass door when he realises the cafe is nearly empty. Thank God—because today is one of those rare days where he doesn't feel like his usual ten: appearance, and mood-wise.

The squeak of his trainers, the chime of the bell as the door shuts behind him—it's all too loud right now, too overstimulating for what's supposed to be his first proper day off in weeks. He tugs his cap lower, mumbles his order—an iced caramel latte with an extra shot and less ice—then tucks himself into a corner with a clear view of the bar, and where customers have a not-so-clear view of him.

It's unlike him to avoid attention, but bad hair days are no joke, and today was a particularly grim one. Not to mention the mask he's been forced to wear, a damp and stuffy barrier that he resists tearing off his face every ten seconds. His coach insisted he wear it to avoid getting sick before the big game—which is fair enough. Atsumu hates getting sick before a game. Well—he hates getting sick, period, but especially before a game. Plus, if it means less chances of being recognised, he supposes it's a small price to pay.

Now he’s scrolling on his phone, not really taking anything in, when he hears it: a sharp, unmistakable crack—like a whip, or a volleyball being slammed into hardwood, echoing out of some tinny phone speaker.

He slowly cranes his neck toward the sound and spots two baristas huddling behind the counter, peering at a phone propped against a bag of coffee beans. They’ve got the volume up, completely unfazed by the orders popping up on the display system. One of the girls—(y/n), according to her badge—is pouring steamed milk into a mug, too engrossed in the game to notice how the foam domes and threatens to spill over the rim.

How she manages to carry that over to the counter without causing an incident, Atsumu has no idea.

“That was a sick receive,” she says, blissfully unaware of how the customer frowns and grumbles as their latte sloshes all over their saucer the moment they pick it up. “Hang on, watch this—he’s gonna do the thing with his hand again—”

Her co-worker, the one with the curly red hair, glasses and tattoo sleeves, interrupts. “He always does the thing," she scoffs, not nearly as impressed as her colleague. “He’s so extra.”

Atsumu squints. Hang on—he knows those uniforms, those voices, that killer serve. His eyebrows shoot up as he realises what they're watching. It's the game from last week, the one where he dropped three consecutive service aces in a row just to prove a point. He’d played twice as hard that day, pissed off about a question an interviewer had asked right before the match, something about whether he could still "keep up with the new guys—the new gen.” So, he’d make it his mission to put a dent in the opposing team's court, just for fun, just to remind them who's still Japan's number one setter, and how he intends to keep it that way.

Discreetly, he leans in, and lets himself listen.

Clueless and enthusiastic (y/n) bites her lip, the guilty expression of a girl who knows she’s not meant to smile, but can’t help herself. “Oh, he’s extra for sure, but I dunno… Is it bad I kinda like it?”

Curly-hair snorts in response.

“I mean, like—just, look at the way he carries himself,” (y/n) gushes on. “You know he knows he’s hot shit. You can't tell me that's not attractive."

Tattooed co-worker grunts, unconvinced. “He’s still an asshole, though. A pretty face doesn't change that. Now Bokuto—Bokuto is where it’s at. Or Hinata, actually—Hinata’s cute.“

“Mmm, yeah they're cool, but there’s just something about Atsumu…” (Y/n) trails off, flushed and giddy. “He’s cocky, yeah, but it's not like he’s one of those guys that’s all bark—at least he’s actually got the talent to back up all that attitude. I feel like that gives him some bragging rights."

Atsumu huffs out his nose, amused. She's got that right. He hasn't spent his entire life practicing his craft just to stay humble about it. He's earned his spotlight, his fame. Why wouldn't he flaunt something he's worked so hard for, and is proud of?

He watches the highlight again on their phone. His serve—the snap, the clean shot straight into the opponents court. He remembers the way it felt in his chest, the split second right after the ball leaves his hand and the whole crowd hangs on where it’s going to land.

Eventually, his drink come up in the queue. (Y/n) starts it, eyeballing the amount of syrup she douses into his takeaway cup like a mad scientist, or a witch. Then she says, “I can't believe my friend got to see him play in person. Ugh, I'm so jealous. She told me he's, like, disgustingly hot up close." She fakes a sob as she dumps some ice into the cup. "Man, that should've been mee..."

Tattooed co-worker sniggers and gives her a supportive pat on the back. “Girl, don't give him too much credit. He gives me narcissist vibes, anyway. He's probably the type of guy that admires himself in his bathroom mirror, flexing or whatever. Practicing his bedroom eyes."

Atsumu shifts, flexes his jaw. Harsh.

Then again, he does stare in the mirror sometimes. And guilty, he is prone to a little bicep flex in the mirror every once and awhile—notably after a workout—but there’s no harm in a bit of self appreciation, is there?

As for the bedroom eyes…

“He doesn’t need to practice those,” (y/n) quips back, awfully keen. “They’re one hundred percent innate.”

At that, Atsumu tries not to smirk.

“Also,” (y/n) adds, pouring the milk and espresso over ice before passing the cup down the line. “If you looked like that, you’d stare, too. Besides, I think his confidence is entertaining! I mean, some of these athletes can be so… dull. At least Atsumu’s never dull.”

Atsumu perks up at the compliment. That’s the nicest thing he’s heard all week. Although, he’s a little embarrassed by the unexpected flip his heart did upon hearing it from a strangers lips.

Eventually, when his drink is done and (y/n) calls his name, he catches the surprise on her face at the familiarity of it. The “a” at the end of his surname comes out a little higher in pitch, a little inquisitive.

Atsumu steps up, lets her slowly slide the drink toward him across the counter, and raises his eyebrows.

She holds his gaze with intention, her lips parting around a question she can’t seem to get out. Feeling playful, Atsumu decides why not, and tugs his mask down, just long enough to say his thanks. He wants to see if she recognises him, and yeah—her eyes go huge and her jaw drops almost cartoonishly wide. Her colleague elbows her, equally stunned. He winks in greeting, then takes a long, obnoxious sip of his caramel iced latte.

“Good game,” he says, and damn if he doesn't feel smug right now. “Real shame ya couldn't make it."

(Y/n)’s voice is barely a whisper. “No way. You’re—“

"In the flesh," he drawls, then lightly dips his head. "Appreciate all yer support, by the way. You big volleyball fans?"

He watches as (y/n) opens and closes her mouth, floundering, and for a moment he enjoys the silence, lets it hang there as he drinks in her stupor. Thankfully for her, her curly-haired colleague recovers first, and cracks a crooked smile.

"Trust, it's not just the sport she's a fan of," she says, aiming a sly side-eye at her co-worker. "(Y/n) watches all your games. She won't shut up about you—"

"Moz!!" (y/n) yelps, her voice cracking, her cheeks reddening. She whacks the aforementioned Moz' arm, trying to save face, but the latter just accepts the lashing and giggles impishly to herself. "Ignore her," (y/n) urges. "She thinks she's real funny."

Despite her plea, Atsumu laughs, the sound coming out fuller than he expects. "Hey, it's all good," he says with an easy lilt. "From what I heard, it sounds like ya got great taste."

Somewhere, there's a tiny part of him that feels sorry for putting (y/n) on the spot like this, but when her face flushes that furious shade of red and she buries it in her hands with a strained groan, all regret is lost and thrown out the window.

Pleased, that's when he decides that now’s a good note to end it on. He turns on his heel with a polite tip of his cap and a grin wide enough to show teeth, then slips out just before the afternoon rush.

“Hopefully see ya at the next game,” he calls.

The baristas’ farewells follow him out—(y/n)’s voice rising above the rest, bright and cheery, and Atsumu finds himself chuckling again as the door swings shut behind him, the chime of the bell no longer as jarring as when he first entered, his mood no longer so sour.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

[rosierin]

birthdays aren't so bad | suna rintarou

synopsis; the twins and (y/n) surprise suna on his bday!

a/n; just a quick one for the sunarin himself <33

Suna’s never been fussed about birthdays.

He never makes plans, never brings it up once January comes around, never cared for presents or cake. To him, it’s just another day.

That's why, when the door to the apartment swings open after a gruelling volleyball session and a cloud of confetti hits him square in the face, he freezes in the doorway.

“Happy birthday!!!”

The apartment, it seems, has had a makeover. There’s fairy lights twinkling across the wooden beams, balloons bobbing gently against the ceiling, and a handmade banner reading "happy birthday Sunarin!" stretches across the far wall. But what catches him off guard isn't the decorations—but the genuine joy radiating from his friends' faces as they crowd around him.

He stands there for a moment, confetti clinging to his hair and jersey, his lips parting around words he can’t seem to find. The Miya twins look as mischievous as always, impish in their colourful party hats. In front of them stands (y/n), her grin brighter than any old sparkler.

“All this for me?” He aims for coy as he wipes a streamer off his shoulder, but the words land a little clumsily. He can't help it—there's a strange warmth settling under his skin, something that almost turns back into the shy, awkward kid he used to be.

(Y/n) bounds over like a bunny in spring, tilting her head curiously. “You didn’t think we’d forget, did you?”

A faint smile creeps onto his face. “No, I knew you’d remember,” he says, absently plucking a piece of confetti off her sleeve. It’s true that he’d expected something, maybe a cupcake with a single candle it in at practice, a few messages here and there, a bone-crushing hug from (y/n) since she’s been doing that every year since they were children—but this? This, he hadn't seen coming. “I just didn’t expect all of this.”

A flash of teeth appears on Atsumu's face—the kind of grin that means Suna should probably make a run for it. Alas, before he can duck, he's caught in the vice of Atsumu's arm, the latter knuckling his scalp with more force than he probably realises.

"Aw, would ya look at that? Our Sunarin's gone all shy!" Atsumu's voice rings too close to his ear, the arm around his neck tightening to the point of near asphyxiation. "What happened to that poker face o’ yers? Not used to all this affection, are ya, tough guy?”

Osamu creeps up beside him. “Haven’t seen this version of you in a while,” he says with exaggerated interest. “It’s like seein’ a solar eclipse,” he muses, angling his head at Suna like his bashfulness is indeed some kind of rare phenomenon.

Suna elbows Atsumu in the ribs, for oxygen and dignity’s sake, but Atsumu just laughs harder, triggering (y/n) into a fit of laughter of her own. When Atsumu finally releases him, Suna straightens his hoodie and hopes that the heat crawling up his neck might pass for lack of oxygen rather than what it really is—the warm, fuzzy feeling of being caught off-guard by people who know exactly how to tug at your heartstrings.

Suna runs a hand through his hair, pretending to fix the damage from Atsumu's roughhousing. “Yeah yeah. I appreciate it."

He cringes immediately—he did not mean to sound so dismissive. He blames his perpetually flat tone. However, not wanting to sound ungrateful, he tries again. “Honestly, I do.” His hand slides from his hair down to the back of his neck. “I, uh… I feel very spoilt.”

He meets (y/n)'s gaze then, the latter barely containing her excitement. “Wait until you see the presents,” she gushes.

Suna’s heart melts all over again. “There’s more?”

All three nod in unison.

“Because you deserve it,” she says sweetly.

“And because we loove you,” Atsumu croons with sickening sweetness.

Suna’s face twists into a grimace—but before he can verbalise his disgust, the twins flank him from either side. Their arms lock around him, and with their combined strength, Suna finds himself trapped in an inescapable Miya sandwich. He groans, but just as he spots an escape route between their shoulders, (y/n) dives into the fray with a delighted giggle, completing the circle and trapping him in a tangle of limbs and affection that makes his skin itch for all the right reasons.

“You guys are really milking this,” Suna grunts.

“We’re givin’ ya enough love to last until yer next birthday,” Atsumu says.

Osamu nods while (y/n) contentedly hums her agreement.

And even though it’s new, even though being showered with affection is way out of his comfort zone, Suna doesn’t fight them off. Instead, he just stands there, tense, shoulders hunched.

But as he catches a glimpse of the banner through a small gap between his friends’ bodies—the uneven letters, the copious amounts of glitter—he smiles.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[rosierin]

ever heard of knocking? | atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu walks in on (y/n) changing

If someone had asked (y/n) about living with three guys a few years ago, she would have laughed in their face and said, "absolutely not."

She'd heard enough roommate horror stories to know better: used socks and underwear strewn over every floor, mountains of dirty laundry that made the house smell of a sports locker room, and a stack of never-ending dishes in the sink that (y/n) would no doubt have to clean. When Osamu first suggested the idea of sharing a place with him, his brother, and Suna, she'd nearly choked on her school lunch.

Suna she knew well enough, having been friends for so long. And although he kept his room relatively tidy, she knew how... laid back he could be when it came to chores and other responsibilities. As for the twins, if they treated their living space anything like they treated each other—well, it'd be a miracle if the walls were still standing by the end of their tenancy.

Despite her initial reluctance, (y/n) found herself pleasantly surprised after moving in. Suna—once the epitome of teenage laziness—now actually pulled his weight and remembered when it was his turn to take out the bins. But it was Osamu who truly kept the whole place together, filling their apartment with the scent of his cooking, ensuring that the cupboards were never empty, and always knowing exactly when they were running low on toilet paper. With (y/n) handling the deeper cleaning and somehow managing to keep track of four different laundry schedules, their house-share ran pretty darn smoothy.

Most of the time.

One of their roommates, on the other hand, despite eighteen years of sharing space with his twin, still behaved like he was the only one living there. He blasted music from his room like it was nobody's business, left damp towels on furniture, and—most infuriatingly—never knocked before entering rooms.

Exhibit A:

(Y/n) is halfway through swapping into her pyjamas, arms tangled in the sleeves, when her bedroom door swings open.

“Oi, (y/n), didja see my—”

Atsumu freezes in the doorway, slack jawed. His eyes flick down—just once, so quick she’d almost miss it if she wasn’t looking straight at him—to the bare inch of rib peeking before she yanks her shirt down.

They stare at each other. Atsumu’s cheeks bloom a raw, fever-pink that climbs nearly to his hairline. He slaps a hand over his eyes, not nearly fast enough.

“Shit, sorry! Sorry! I thought you were—” He backs into the doorframe, colliding with it so hard the impact rattles the small wooden shelves on her wall. "I didn’t mean to, I swear—!“

Apologies sound funny in Atsumu’s mouth—clumsy and erratic, like they’re something that tumble out rather than enunciated clearly. (Y/n) giggles as he keeps his palm over his face. Gaps in his fingers, though, like he might peek.

She should be embarrassed, but she’s too busy watching Atsumu’s performance: the frantic back steps, the way his free hand glides over the wall behind him as he tries to feel for the exit.

“I’m not, uh, naked anymore. You can stay,” she says, or tries to. The sound gets lost behind all his groaning.

“Ya know, some warnin' would be nice when yer—” He gestures blindly, eyes still covered. “Doin’ that.”

“Doing what?” she challenges. "This is my room."

He makes a noise, like his internal cringe is seeping out. He peeks through his fingers, warily, as though expecting to be hit. “Changin'!?” he says, voice high. “I wasn’t tryna—I mean, I am a gentleman—! Plus, ya left the door open!"

(Y/n) doesn’t bother addressing his first questionable statement. As for the second, "It was ajar," she corrects, which—granted, was probably a little risky in hindsight. Atsumu doesn't argue, instead he looks like he’s about to flee, one foot already out the door.

“Wait,” (y/n) says, softer. “Did you need something?”

Atsumu freezes at the threshold. Just like that, the current of embarrassment reverses. His hand drops, but his gaze sticks politely on the wall above her head, as if her prints are the most fascinating things in the world.

“Oh, right. My protein shake. Ya seen it?” He’s all business now, pretending like he didn’t just walk in on her with her shirt half-off. “It was on the counter, then Suna said he saw ya take it. Do you—” He gestures again, then aborts the motion. “Uh, never mind. I'll just look for it."

She takes pity on him. “I put it in the fridge so it wouldn’t separate.”

He processes this, a long pause that ends with his eyes finally meeting hers. “’Oh—‘course ya did,” he says, a smirk edging in, but not quite making it past his embarrassment. “Thanks.”

He steps back, but not before risking one more glance at her—a quick, sly flicker. Then he’s gone, clearing his throat, his heavy footsteps thudding down the hall.

When the door clicks shut, (y/n) shakes her head and lets herself laugh. It’s not that she wanted to embarrass him, exactly. It’s just—Atsumu Miya never gets flustered. He’s the king of shameless, a known womanizer, always the smooth-talker. Seeing him stammer and flush over something so silly gives her a tiny flicker of pride.

She’s still smiling when she ties her hair into a loose braid and heads for the kitchen. When she rounds the corner, Atsumu is kneeling on the linoleum, squinting into the bottom shelf of the fridge where his protein shake sits, just as described. He turns, sees her, and flushes all over again.

This time, neither of them look away. He holds her gaze, chin tilting up in a dare.

“Maybe next time, knock?” she says, teasing.

He grins, and suddenly the cocky veneer is back. “Maybe next time, close the door?"

(Y/n) shrugs and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Now he’s the one who’s stuck, words slow to catch up with his expression. He finally finds a comeback, sharp and bright, but she’s already halfway out of the kitchen, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[rosierin]

locked out | suna rintarou

synopsis; (y/n) and suna get locked out of their apartment and decide to break their way in through the kitchen window

disclaimer: sexual innuendos, suggestive humour

Suna and (y/n) love a good debrief—especially after meeting up with mutual friends.

City lights flicker beyond their window as they remain nestled in the warmth of the Uber, half an hour deep into a heated discussion about a couple who’ve been on the verge of a break-up for five years but never actually bite the bullet. It's a conversation (y/n) and Suna have had a hundred times before—but then again, who doesn’t love beating a dead horse?

“Honestly, I don’t know how she does it,” (y/n) sighs, shaking her head. “He puts literally zero effort into their relationship. It’s embarrassing.”

Beside her, Suna hums his agreement. “Sad thing is, he probably treats her like that because he knows he can get away with it.”

“Right?” (Y/n) clicks her tongue. “I feel like she just needs to speak up for herself and set some boundaries or something. Before it gets out of hand.”

“She deserves better."

“She really does.”

Debrief concluded, they lean back in their seats with a final, shared sigh. The heat of their conversation still simmers in the air—raised voices, exasperated sighs, wild hand gestures—but as it fades, a comfortable silence soon settles between them. They sit like that until the Uber pulls into their driveway and the car doors unlock with a mechanical click.

"Anyway," she says.

"Anyway," Suna echoes.

“Thank you,” they call in unison as they climb out of the vehicle.

The moment (y/n) steps out, a sharp gust of wind slams into her. She recoils as the bitter winter breeze musses up her carefully styled hair.

Thank God they're almost home.

She’s already picturing herself wrapped in a blanket, steaming cup of tea in hand. The thought of peeling off this dress and oh—the thought of kicking off her heels makes her want to shed a tear of relief. Her feet are killing.

She fishes around in her bag, fingers already half-numb, thinking about the hot shower she’s about to melt into. Then, she pauses.

No. Surely not.

Her heart sinks to her stomach.

She can't feel her keys.

She digs around again, more urgently this time. A cold wave crashes over her, and this time it has nothing to do with the wind. She starts replaying her steps before leaving the apartment. She could've sworn she put them in her bag. She must have. She swears she even remembers unzipping her bag and putting them in their usual compartment.

Evidently not.

Shit.

Of all the times she could've forgotten her keys, tonight is the worst possible night for this to happen. Atsumu and Osamu are both out of town visiting family—not all the way in Hyōgo, but far enough that they’re not getting back any time soon.

They stop at the front door, and Suna looks at her expectantly. “What’s the hold-up, boss?”

It takes her a minute to get the words out. “I…don’t have my keys.”

Suna freezes, head snapping toward her. She looks up and sees the guttering storm in his eyes—the look of a man one second from homicide. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She wishes she was. She really wishes she was.

On the drive home, Suna had gone on about how much he was looking forward to “passing the fuck out.” He was tired. Beyond tired. Not to mention his long to-do list for tomorrow that he'd anticipated getting an early head start on. He needed all the sleep he could get. And now, thanks to her, that endeavour is slipping further and further away.

She feels like a little kid again, fidgeting in front of her parents as she prepares herself for a scolding. “I’m so sorry.”

Suna lets loose a sharp exhale, holding back the frustration she knows she deserves. He’s a patient guy. Super patient, even. But right now, he looks about two seconds away from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her senseless.

He’s a better person than she is, though. Because whereas a cranky (y/n) might’ve thrown her head back with a drawn-out groan and acted like the sky was falling, Suna just sighs and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. When he pulls them away, they're bloodshot and struggling to stay open.

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner," he says. "That’s what you owe me tomorrow."

His voice leaves no room for negotiation. But even if it did, (y/n) wouldn’t have argued. It’s a fair deal, considering he's now stranded outside for who knows how long. It’s the least she can do.

She also has a feeling that if it were anyone but him—Osamu, or worse, Atsumu—she'd be getting one hell of an earful right now.

“Okay,” she mutters.

Accepting his fate, Suna slumps down onto the pavement like even standing is too much effort. With another weary sigh, he stretches his legs out in front of him, tilts his head back against the brick wall, and closes his eyes.

(Y/n) lingers awkwardly for a second before sinking down beside him. “I swear I remember putting them in my bag…”

“Well, clearly,” Suna drawls, emphasising the last word, “you didn’t.”

Her shoulders sag. Poor Suna. If it weren’t for her, he’d be fast asleep in the warmth of his bed right now.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, fiddling with the hem of her flimsy cardigan. In this kind of cold, she might as well be wearing nothing. And Suna's not much better—just a light jacket over a T-shirt.

He shrugs it off when a particularly icy breeze makes her shudder, then dumps the jacket into her lap without sparing her a glance.

“No—you keep it.” (Y/n) dismissively waves her hands in front of her. “I feel too bad.”

“Take it,” he says gruffly.

“But what about you—”

“Wear it. It’s freezing.”

She stares down at the jacket, wrapping her hands around the fabric. It’s still warm. That alone is enough to make her want to give in—that and the fact Suna's probably won’t take no for an answer.

"...Okay." She slips it on and is immediately gratified. The relief is blissful.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, thankful her teeth are no longer chattering.

Suna grunts something that’s probably supposed to mean you’re welcome but can’t bring himself to say it.

Her stomach dips a little when she sees goosebumps rise along his arms. Tentatively, she scoots closer and presses her side against his, sharing a bit of warmth. Suna side-eyes her but doesn't object.

After that, they pass the time by listening to the sounds of passing cars and the soft buzz of the streetlamp overhead. Dinner feels like it happened a lifetime ago. Her makeup’s half worn off, she tugs off her heels and lets them dangle from her fingers, and the night isn’t getting any warmer.

At the very least, she makes sure to send Osamu a message:

You: Me and Rin are locked out Pls don’t hate me I forgot my keys like an idiot I'm soso sorry

“How long will they be?” Suna asks, impatience sharpening his voice. In moments like this, she can’t help but think he sounds a bit like Atsumu.

“Maybe an hour? Possibly more if they stop for food?”

Suna doesn’t say a word, but she can feel him stewing beside her.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, though she already knows the answer.

“Yes,” he replies bluntly.

She pokes at a crack in the pavement. “How mad?”

“Pretty mad.”

She deflates, but doesn’t argue. Fair enough—it’s late, it’s freezing, and it’s all her fault.

When Suna shifts, she glances over. He’s got his arms folded over his knees, head ducked as he runs both hands through his hair.

“How do you even forget your own keys…” he mutters, as if pleading with the universe for an explanation.

(Y/n) drops her head back against the stone wall with enough force to make a dull thud. “I don’t know, okay? I swear I brought them. This has never happened before.”

He gives her a flat stare.

“Well, not in years.”

“Yeah, and you showed up at my door at 3 a.m that time.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she repeats for the umpteenth time tonight. “I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I’ll cook you something you’ll like.”

“No, please don’t do that,” he says quickly, almost urgently.

“Why not?”

“(Y/n), you’re like Gordon Ramsay’s worst nightmare. What do you mean why not?”

Ouch.

She frowns. “I’m not that bad.”

Suna’s silence speaks volumes.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “I’ll get you takeout, then.”

Then, amidst the freezing cold, the tiredness, the crankiness—(y/n) is struck by a sudden wave of blazing clarity.

“Hold on—” she says, springing to her feet.

Gordon Ramsey. Cooking. Kitchen. Yes. That’s it!

“What?” Suna lifts his head from his arms, blinking blearily.

Luckily for him, she has an idea that could potentially save them from turning into human icicles.

“The kitchen window!”

Suna blinks slowly. “...What about it?”

She grins. “I left it open to air out after Atsumu burnt his eggs earlier. I can climb through it.”

Suna does not grin back. “You left the window to our apartment open?”

“Not fully,” she amends quickly. “Come on—I bet I can squeeze through the gap.”

She doesn’t wait for Suna to stand, already rounding the side of the apartment building where the kitchen is.

Lo and behold—the window is cracked open just enough for her to possibly slither through. It might be a tight squeeze, but at this point, (y/n) is ready to fold herself into origami if it means finally being somewhere warm. From there, she can grab her keys and unlock the front door from the inside.

Perfect.

“Gimme a boost.” She points at the small gap, already stepping closer to the wall.

“No offense, but you’re not fitting through that,” Suna replies, squinting up at the window.

“Ye of little faith,” she shoots back, beckoning him closer.

He obeys anyway, lacing his fingers and lowering his hands into a makeshift step. (Y/n) shrugs off his hoodie and her flimsy cardigan to make herself as slim as possible, then plants her bare foot into his hands. She grabs his shoulder for support and, on the count of three, Suna hoists her high enough to grab the windowsill.

“Got it,” she rasps, fingers hooking around the edge.

Suna gives her another boost, and that’s enough for her to plant both elbows on the sill. She ignores the sharp press against her bones and begins to shimmy her way forward.

It’s only when she’s halfway through that she realises—great. She’s stuck.

“Shit—”

She tries to wiggle, but the space is too narrow for her hips. The window digs into her sides, pinching and scratching and making everything impossibly awkward.

“Are you stuck?”

If she could turn around, she’d give Suna the nastiest glare known to man.

“No, not at all. I just fancied a break—yes, I’m stuck!”

Suna’s laugh is merciless.

If it weren't for her less-than-becoming predicament, she might’ve felt relief hearing it after his sour mood. But as it stands—with her backside currently hanging out of the kitchen window—it only adds to her humiliation.

How the tables have turned, she thinks grimly. Now she's the one who feels like committing a murder.

"I feel like I've seen this image before," Suna muses. She may not see him, but the grin in his voice is glaringly obvious.

"Huh?"

It takes her a while to process what he means. Then it dawns on her.

She’s stuck in a narrow space in nothing but a dress. Which—while not exactly short to begin with—has definitely ridden up to her thighs by now, presenting Suna with a premium view of her ass and whatever scrap of underwear she'd thrown on this morning. Perfect. From his point of view, it must look like one of those cheesy, old-school pornos where someone somehow gets stuck in a washing machine. Or something equally stupid.

"You disgusting pervert," she hisses. "Stop gawking and help me!"

He keeps snickering before footsteps sound behind her and his hands settle on her waist.

He pushes. Once. Twice. But she doesn’t budge.

(Y/n) sucks in a breath. God, she’s going to pass out. It genuinely feels like the oxygen might be getting cut off from her brain.

"You're gonna have to push harder than that,” she wheezes.

Suna's fingers dig into her waist as he puts his weight into the push. "I would, but I’m exactly working from an ideal position here,” he grunts.

He doesn’t need to explain what he means. It's not the angle that's the issue—it’s where he’s holding her that’s impractical.

After a little deliberation, she thinks: Fuck it.

"Rin, you have my full authorization to grab my ass."

The silence that follows feels strangely intimate until Suna breaks it:

"And they say chivalry is dead."

"Rin."

Another beat passes. She hears him shift his stance, then mutter, “maybe tonight isn’t so bad.”

She rolls her eyes. She can't see him, but she knows exactly what expression he's wearing.

Typical man.

She kicks her legs slightly, fighting the pins and needles creeping up her calves. "I can hear you, you know," she chides. "And please hurry—this window is about to bisect me."

There's movement behind her, then, “Alright. Hold still.”

He gives her a moment to brace herself, then—without much room for decorum—plants his hands firmly on her backside and shoves.

Nothing. Not even a wiggle.

"Do it harder," (y/n) gasps, trying to make herself smaller by sucking in her stomach. "Don’t worry about being gentle.”

There's a snort of barely contained laughter. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm—Harder.”

He says nothing and obeys, hands gripping tighter. At last, she feels the window frame give slightly.

“Keep going,” she manages between shallow breaths, her cheeks burning from exertion. “I think I feel something.”

The silence that follows makes her suddenly aware of how their exchange sounds. Oh. The innuendo hangs in the air between them, making her want to drag her hands down her face.

Suna's hands hesitate as a low chuckle escapes him. “Do you, now?”

She definitely doesn’t miss his voice dropping an octave.

"You almost there?" he teases, leaning close enough that she can feel his breath on her exposed thigh.

She bites her lip, suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between them, his palms against her backside, the chill air on her exposed legs.

Well. She'd walked right into this one.

“Just a bit more,” she adds with exaggerated breathiness, deciding to lean into the silliness. "I'm so close—!"

Now they’re both laughing.

It takes a few more pushes—one, two—oof—on the third shove, she finally slips through with a graceless thunk.

Her landing isn't exactly gymnastics worthy—half on, half-off the kitchen counter like a dazed raccoon crawling out of a trash can—but she's done it. Her dress is bunched at the knees. Her ribs are sore. Her legs are numb. Suna saw her underwear. But, you know what? Who cares. At least she made it.

She props herself up on the countertop. A final, undignified hop off the counter and—

“I’m in!” she announces proudly, throwing her arms up.

This must be what it feels like to stick a parallel bar landing. Maybe not exactly. But it must be close.

“Nice one, Bond,” Suna deadpans from outside. “Now can you let me in? ’Cause in case you hadn’t noticed—it’s arctic out here.”

Right. The keys.

“On it!”

She flicks on the kitchen lights and begins her search, muttering to herself as she rummages through the usual places. She checks her jacket pocket, the dinner table, her other bag.

Nada.

Then she spots something shiny poking out of the fruit bowl. The fruit bowl? She grabs them, squinting like they'd somehow crawled in there themselves. How the hell did they end up there? She could’ve sworn she—

...Never-mind. Not important.

She sprints to the front door, jams the keys in the keyhole, twists, and yanks the door open.

"Tada!" she sings. "Open sesame."

Suna’s standing there as if he's been waiting for this moment his whole life. He wastes no time brushing past her, muttering under his breath. It's like watching the human embodiment of an ice cube thaw in real time. His arms flail a little as he shudders off the rest of the cold, stomping his feet to life again.

“Thank fuck,” he shudders.

He kicks off his shoes with little ceremony before making a beeline for the nearest couch. He flops down, limbs splayed out like a man on the brink of death, and lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a wail. “Wake me up in ten business days.”

(Y/n) shakes her head as she closes the door behind her, locking it securely. She’s still riding the adrenaline high of her mission-impossible window escapade. Her thighs tingle where the windowsill dug in, and there’s a faint burn where her ribs scraped against the metal. She lifts her dress to check—yep, there’s a red line blooming across her midsection. She can’t wait to tell the twins that story tomorrow.

“That’s gonna leave a nasty bruise,” Suna drawls from the couch. He’s peeking at her from under his forearm, one eye squinting against the lamplight. “Does it hurt?” he asks, nodding at the angry mark.

“Eh. Nothing some hot water can’t fix,” she replies with a dismissive shrug, kicking her shoes into the corner. "Speaking of, I'm gonna run myself a bath.”

"Perfect timing," he calls after her as she moves toward the stairs. "You can marinate on my breakfast options while you're at it. Oh, and lunch. And dinner.”

She freezes mid-step, turning to find him wearing that infuriating half-smile she knows too well. "Our deal," he reminds her, giving her a pointed look. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Her eyes roll skyward as she continues her ascent. "How could I possibly?" she shoots back with deliberate sweetness. In her humble opinion, the window fiasco—and the liberties she'd granted him during it—should have cleared any debts between them.

Alas. Three meals it is. How hard could it be?

Either way, it couldn't be more challenging than contorting her body through a ridiculously small kitchen window.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[rosierin]

Some of you may have noticed but some of my fics are currently unavailable—do not worry!!

I took a break from writing for a bit and when I went back to reread them I was like… hm.

I just wasn’t as happy with them as I was when I initially posted them. For that reason, I’ve decided to rework them as I have with other fics—just so they can be something I’m actually somewhat proud of sharing 🫣

They’ll be back up eventually though (don’t know how long as I’m quite a busy bee) 💗 Just thought I’d give a heads up in case you’re wondering what’s going on 🤯

[rosierin]

mistletoe mischief | atsumu miya

synopsis; "wrong place, wrong time" aka atsumu hides mistletoe all over the apartment but somehow never ends up under it

-> featuring osamu and suna!

a/n; sorry im a little late, but happy holidays!!! <33

Christmas shopping was way more stressful than people made it out to be.

In movies, Christmas shopping looked like what (y/n) would best describe as magical mayhem. Fairy lights twinkling in the trees as people mooched around with a cup of hot chocolate in hand. Excitement fizzling in the air as giddy patrons scrambled through the streets on last-minute missions to find the perfect gift for their loved ones.

Sometimes, though, Christmas shopping looked more like sitting on your sofa at 10pm, hunched over your phone, squinting at a Vinted listing and praying someone accepted your £40-to-£15 price drop offer so you could call it a day and feel a little better about yourself.

“Why is this so hard,” (y/n) sobbed as yet another seller declined her completely reasonable price offer.

Surely, it should have been illegal to charge more than twenty quid for a second-hand jumper. They were in a cost-of-living crisis for God's sake, not a bloody auction house.

When did people get so stingy?

"What's hard?"

Atsumu’s voice cut through the quiet, startling her into fumbling her phone. It bounced off her lap, then her knee, then made a sad little descent as it somehow managed to slip through the cushions, before clattering lifelessly on the wooden floor.

"Holding your phone, apparently,” Atsumu winced.

She was already dangling off the sofa to retrieve it, when a pair of socked feet appeared in her peripheral vision.

She glared up at him, unimpressed. Then, he nudged the phone toward her with his foot in a helpful, if not slightly condescending way.

She snatched it up with a muttered thanks, then righted herself just as the sofa dipped under his weight.

“I’m trying to look for presents,” she sighed, as she half-heartedly reopened the Vinted app.

Your offer for £20 has been declined.

Of course it had.

She closed the app.

“Any luck?”

"No."

“Eh, ya got plenty’a time,” Atsumu shrugged. “Christmas ain’t for another three weeks.”

“Still!” she cried. “I wanna get it done early for my own peace of mind. And the Black Friday deals are still on, so I wanna make the most of them. Thing is—guys are so hard to shop for!”

Atsumu snorted. “Too right. I ain't got a clue what to get ’Samu—let alone Suna. What doesn't that guy have, anyway?”

(Y/n) huffed a laugh.

He had a point. Suna wasn’t exactly shy with his money. He'd buy whatever he wanted the second he wanted it, no questions asked. Meanwhile, she’d stare at her Amazon shopping cart for a week, mentally gaslighting herself that she didn’t need the thing even though she absolutely, undeniably wanted it. But that wasn’t the point.

“I was thinking of getting ’Samu another knitted jumper,” she mused, thumb tapping at her phone screen. “You know—since someone accidentally shrunk his favourite one in the dryer?”

Atsumu promptly avoided her gaze. “Wonder who did that.”

“You,” she deadpanned, prodding him in the chest. “Moron. You put it in the dryer when you were supposed to let it air dry.”

“It was an ugly jumper anyway,” he frowned. “I was basically doin’ him a favour.”

“That’s not the point,” she chided. “In fact, you should be the one to replace it since it was your fault.”

He made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, like the burden of his crimes was simply too great to bear. “I’ll think about it.”

Then, he perked up. “More importantly—what were you gettin’ me?”

He was facing her more fully now, his eyes practically gleaming. “’Cause if ya got no ideas, I could come up with a few. And best of all? None came with a price tag.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, not a monetary one, I’m sure. No doubt I’ll be paying in other ways.”

"Why? Where's yer mind goin'?" he asked cheekily, eyes crinkling at the corners.

She gave him the flattest look she could manage. “Don’t start."

He leaned back into the sofa with an exaggerated sigh, lazily stretching his arm along the backrest behind her.

The fact he didn’t speak afterwards made her grow suspicious.

“You've gone quiet,” she murmured, squinting at him. “That usually means you’re up to something.”

“Hm?” He turned to her and blinked. “‘M just relaxin’. Enjoyin’ the festive atmosphere.”

“There is no festive atmosphere,” she countered. “We haven’t even put the decorations up yet.”

At that, Atsumu sprung to life, shifting in his seat so he could face her properly. It was as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment all evening.

Why, though, was what worried her.

"I'm glad ya bring that up, actually,” he said, sounding far too eager for her liking. “‘Cause I've got a lil somethin' here to brighten the mood. Lemme just—”

Before she could ask what on earth that meant, he held a hand up—and, from heavens knew where—produced a tiny sprig of mistletoe, strung up with a pretty red ribbon.

"Ta-da," he sing-songed. "Merry Christmas, (y/n). Pucker up.”

She stared at it in disbelief.

“Where,” she said slowly, “did you even pull that from?”

“My pocket," he said, matter-of-factly.

A laugh slipped past her lips. "It not even Christmas yet."

“Then call it practice for when the day comes,” he grinned, wiggling it over both their heads.

"Then I hope you believe in Christmas miracles," (y/n) retorted as she pushed herself from the sofa. "'Cause that ain’t happening."

“Scrooge," Atsumu called behind her.

She snickered, grabbing her half-empty mug off the coffee table and heading toward the kitchen.

A hot chocolate refill sounded divine right about now. However, she paused at the doorway when curiosity got the better of her, then glanced over her shoulder.

Atsumu was slumped back on the couch, his hoodie thrown over his head, the collar pulled over half his face. Despite the messy fringe poking out, she could still make out his little frown, and the tiny sprig of mistletoe, now abandoned in the palm of his hand.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning, (y/n) stepped into what felt like an entirely different apartment.

The decorations had gone up overnight. Fairy lights now twinkled across the ceiling beams, casting a dreamy, golden glow across the living room. Tinsel wrapped around every doorway, like the entrance of Santa's grotto itself. But the best feature had to be the Christmas tree that despite its size, stood proudly in the corner next to the TV, decked out with mismatched ornaments and a lopsided star.

“Woah,” she breathed.

It was beautiful. Better than last year’s, even. She glanced around and hummed, surprised at how everything had been done neatly. Meticulous and thought out. Which was... shocking, given she lived in a household of guys.

No offense.

She wandered into the kitchen, where the scent of cinnamon and vanilla greeted her like a warm hug.

Of course, she found Osamu already at the stove, flipping what looked like a fresh batch of blueberry pancakes—an upgraded recipe for the colder season apparently, judging by the dusting of something spiced.

“Morning! I like the decorations,” she greeted with a smile.

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up from the stove, but he sounded just as pleased. “Tsumu did ’em. Think he wanted to surprise ya.”

“He did?” (Y/n)’s smile deepened even further.

Usually, she enjoyed decorating together. Spending an afternoon tangled in fairy lights, listening to cheesy Christmas songs as hot chocolate brewed on the stove. But the thought of Atsumu staying up late, frustrated but still determined to figure out what tinsel goes where just to impress her, was just as sweet.

“Well, I’ll be sure to tell him he succeeded,” she murmured, drifting closer to Osamu’s side.

She peeked into the pan, watching bubbles rise through the thick batter. “Need a hand?”

“Sure,” he replied, flipping the pancake with a practiced flick of the wrist. “Mind grabbin’ the plates? ‘M almost done.”

She sang out a little “yessir” and reached for the cupboard above. As she stood on her toes, something that hadn't been there before caught her eye.

She did a double take.

There, hanging neatly above the archway, was a familiar little plant. One with the same small leaves, tiny white berries, and cute red bow as yesterday.

"Is he serious?" she muttered, huffing out a half exasperated, half amused laugh.

“Hm?” Osamu glanced over.

She grabbed the plates, nodding toward the culprit.

He followed her line of sight, and blinked in surprise. “How’d that get there?”

“Your brother,” she sighed, closing the cupboard with a gentle click. “He tried to get me with one yesterday. Pulled it out of his pocket like some kinda touch-deprived magician."

Osamu let out a quiet snort as he began helping her with the table. The two of them moved easily around each other, falling into a rhythm they had grown to perfect over the years. She laid down the plates while he reached into a drawer and passed her the cutlery.

Soon enough, a high stack of pancakes sat in the centre of the table, still steaming and lightly dusted with icing sugar.

“And?” he asked, that familiar teasing lilt sneaking into his tone.

She lifted an eyebrow. “And I left him hanging, of course.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Yer brutal.”

(Y/n) shrugged. Turning down Atsumu’s advances was nothing out of the usual. Besides, she was more preoccupied with the absolute feast Osamu had prepared for them to think about that right now.

Not only were there pancakes, but the moment he brought out a bowl of honey-glazed berries, it was over for her. Her stomach grumbled impatiently, while her mouth practically watered at the promise of eating herself into a festive coma.

“(Y/n).”

She barely registered Osamu’s voice, only to be pulled out of her thoughts when he gently elbowed her side.

“Hm—yeah?”

“Look up.”

She frowned.

Well, that was never a good sign.

She obeyed anyway, tipping her chin toward the ceiling.

There, hanging right above the table, strung up with neat little twine was another sprig of mistletoe.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she gawked. “How many has he put up?!”

Osamu shook his head, arms on his hips as he looked up at it.

“I can see this one bein’ a pain,” he muttered, reaching up to untie the sprig. “No smoochin’ at the dinner table.”

“Good idea,” she nodded.

She was watching as his fingers deftly worked at the knot when a silly thought passed through her mind.

Was she meant to kiss him?

Not kiss-kiss him, obviously. This was Osamu. Practically family. Most likely, the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

But still. Should she?

They were already standing under the dumb thing. And, well—it was tradition, she supposed.

Ah, what the heck.

Rising up on her toes, she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, grabbing the mistletoe from his hand in the same breath.

“For breakfast,” she said casually. "And every breakfast before that," she added quickly.

Osamu blinked, pausing mid-motion. He looked genuinely surprised. But that surprise quickly softened into something more amused.

“Aw, thank you, darlin’," he cooed. "You know I enjoy cookin' for y'all."

"And we enjoy eating your cooking," (y/n) enthused, twirling the mistletoe between her fingers. She caught Osamu’s smile as she placed it on the windowsill—out of sight and well out of kissing range.

“Mornin’.”

She jumped at the sound of Atsumu’s voice.

He walked into the kitchen with the gait of someone who had slept for days. One hand shoved up his shirt, yawning loud enough to wake the dead.

“Morning,” (y/n) and Osamu called in unison.

He stretched and gave a grunt as his joints audibly popped. The second his eyes landed on (y/n), a wide, sleepy grin spread across his face.

“Like the decorations?”

“Yeah! I love them,” she beamed, before adding: “Well—most of ‘em.”

Osamu shot her a smirk, which made Atsumu’s brows pinch in suspicion.

“Most of ’em?” he repeated. “Why? Which ones don’t ya like?”

(Y/n) glanced up at the ceiling, then toward the windowsill. Atsumu followed her gaze—only for his mouth to drop open. He stared at her like she’d just maliciously kicked over a nativity scene.

"What—Why'd ya take it down!""

"Because 'Samu and I stepped under it,” (y/n) snorted. “Twice."

She bit her lip to smother her grin.

Atsumu's face instantly fell, contorting in horror as he looked between (y/n) and his brother.

“Relax, nothin' happened," Osamu said dryly, clapping a hand on his twin's shoulder. “But I took it down in case ya ended up under there with Suna, or somethin’.”

“Or you,” (y/n) added, nodding at Osamu—who immediately grimaced at the mental image, just as Atsumu pretended to throw up into his own mouth. Charming.

"Yer makin' me lose my appetite," Atsumu shuddered as he pulled out a chair.

"More food for me," she chirped, settling beside him.

And to think, if Osamu hadn't cut down the sprig, it would be her and Atsumu caught beneath the mistletoe right now.

Close call, she thought.

But as her gaze flicked toward the windowsill—toward the abandoned sprig of mistletoe now lying harmlessly in the soft morning light—she found herself wondering if she'd have even minded at all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By mid-afternoon, everyone had settled into their own little routine.

(Y/n) padded into the living room, nursing her third hot chocolate of the day and half a mind to start one of those B-list, overly saturated Christmas movies.

She found Suna exactly where she expected him: curled up in the sofa like a particularly grumpy house cat. Hood up, bored expression, legs propped up on the coffee table.

He looked like he hadn’t moved in an hour. How he hadn’t already moulded and become one with the cushions was a Christmas miracle in itself.

He was slurping on one of those jelly stick things—those lurid, sugar-loaded tubes he’d been obsessed with since he was a kid. His thumb flicked through his phone while the snack hung out of his mouth like a bright purple cigarette. Grape. His favourite.

“Do you ever eat anything solid?” (y/n) asked, flopping into the spot beside him whilst eyeing the two energy drinks on the table.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Shock,” she deadpanned. Then reached for the TV remote. “I’m putting a movie on. You can veto once and only once.”

“Anything but Love Actually,” he muttered.

Rude. (Y/n) actually enjoyed that film.

In the end, she settled for good old Home Alone—a classic for the holiday season. But just as she was about to hit play, she noticed something.

Dangling from the lampshade right above their heads.

This was getting ridiculous.

Her lips parted in genuine disbelief. Suna, following her gaze, took the jelly stick out of his mouth and raised a brow.

“I honestly think Atsumu's lost the plot,” she said, staring at the blasted plant. “He's relentless."

“Honestly, I respect the commitment.”

She grimaced and turned to Suna. Before she could say anything else, he cut in.

"I'm not kissing you."

(Y/n) gawked.

She wasn't sure what offended her more. The fact he assumed she wanted to kiss him in the first place, or the fact he shut down the idea so quickly.

Actually, it was definitely the second reason.

"You said that a little too fast for my liking."

Suna quirked a brow. "Why? Did you want me to kiss you?"

"No,” she scoffed. “I said it was the speed at which you denied it. The speed.”

He hummed and gave her a look that was difficult to place. “You sure? ‘Cause it sounded a lot like you were angling for it.”

(Y/n) lifted her chin. “Gross,” she sneered, all in good fun. If anything, she just wanted to back at him for the no kissing comment. And maybe because he’d caught her a little off guard, too.

“Still, you didn’t have to be so rude about it,” she pouted. “You act like you haven’t kissed me before.”

She’d expected him to completely brush off that comment. To remain perfectly unfazed like he always was. So when it actually made him falter—just a subtle shift in posture, like a cat flicking its tail—she felt just a little bit smug.

“We were eighteen,” he droned. “And you were very much into me."

Her lips pulled into a thin line.

Well, he had her there.

What a classic Suna response at that—straight for the jugular. Never one to cut corners when he could emotionally snipe the person instead.

Still, (y/n) years of knowing him made her bounce back quickly, brows lifting in mock indignation.

“Uh—first of all, you made the first move. I just went along with it.”

That was a big fat lie. She had been obsessed with him at the time. “Going along with it” was a very mild way of retelling history.

“I said you could tell me to stop," he said, lip twitching because—touché—they both knew she hadn’t.

Quite the contrary.

“Who’s the gross one now?”

“Still you," she shot back, then slumped deeper into the cushions. “You know, for someone who loves teasing me about this, you sure have a selective memory—"

She never got to finish her sentence.

One minute she was mid-tangent, growing progressively more riled up as Suna rose his brows at her in challenge. Next thing she saw was his eyes narrowing, the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in—before he shoved the jelly stick into her mouth.

“There,” he said calmly. “That’s your kiss.”

She flinched, speechless, as the sickly-sweet artificial grape flavour coated her tongue.

“I didn’t actually want—“ she cut herself off and forced herself to chew. A bit of the juice trickled down her chin. “And how is that—?”

“An indirect kiss,” he smirked, then used his thumb to swipe the corner of her mouth. “That way I don’t get your weird mouth germs.”

She whacked him with the back of her hand, then wiped the bottom half of her face herself.

He curled up on instinct, laughing into his hoodie as she whacked him again for good measure.

“Prick,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

He peeked out from under his hood, all mussed hair and lazy eyes, his voice growing a touch softer.

“I didn’t upset you, did I?”

She shook her head and flashed him a smile. “No. It’s fine,” she huffed fondly. “You’re just annoying.”

“Good,” he said. Then, bumped his thigh against hers.

She bumped it back for good measure, just a touch harder.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By evening, (y/n) had seen enough mistletoe for a whole lifetime.

How Atsumu had managed to decorate and hang up so many in one night was beyond her. Maybe it was those deft setter hands of his.

Or maybe he was just desperate.

Actually—yeah. That seemed more likely.

She’d found them everywhere. Above the dining table, the couch, in the hallway, in every doorway. There wasn’t a space in the apartment where she didn’t risk an unsolicited smooch.

Well—save for her bedroom. And perhaps the balcony.

Which, thankfully, was where she was headed now to unwind.

Not that the day had been stressful, by any means. Even if she spent a tedious amount of time removing those pesky little sprigs around the house.

It simply felt nice stepping outside every once in a while, watching the world below go by. It was peaceful. Quiet. All things she craved after being cooped up all day.

As she slid open the door, the cold greeted her immediately. She clutched her blanket closer, her breath curling in front of her before dissipating into the icy air.

"It's freezing," she muttered.

She was about to sit on one of the garden chairs they kept out there for evenings like this, when something all too familiar caught her eye. This time, dangling from the fairy lights overhead.

She paused and stared.

At this point, it was less disbelief and more sheer defeat.

"I can't believe him," she sighed, stepping forward to inspect the latest, tactfully placed sprig.

She shook her head and rose to her tiptoes to untie it—cold fingers fumbling with the ribbon. In the same moment, the door slid open behind her.

"Yer persistent, ain't ya?"

She glanced over her shoulder to find Atsumu stepping onto the balcony, a lazy half-smirk plastered on his face.

“You can talk,” she scoffed, still working at the knot. The cold was making the task significantly more difficult, her fingers numb and half as nimble.

He must’ve noticed, because a moment later, he was beside her. “I got it,” he said, gently nudging her hands away. “As much as I wish ya’d keep ’em up.”

She let him take over. From where he was standing, she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. If she leaned back just an inch, her blanket-covered back would hit his chest.

Not that she was thinking about that.

No, no.

It was just cold outside. And Atsumu was practically a human furnace, so...

If anything, it was more of a reflex. A survival instinct against harsh weather conditions.

...That's all.

"Why’d ya insist on takin’ them down?" he asked, fiddling with the ribbon.

"'Cause they’re inconvenient,” she muttered. “And I'm pretty sure nobody actually follows that tradition anymore, so… no point keeping them up.”

She realised the hypocrisy of her words as she thought back to her encounters with Osamu and Suna.

“Plus they'll wilt,” she added.

"Mistletoe keeps for weeks," he argued. "And anyway, it was meant to be a joke. I knew y'all would ignore it." He shot her a sideways glance. "Especially you."

The words what's that supposed to mean? were right on the tip of her tongue when Atsumu plucked a tiny white berry from the sprig, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and said:

"You're berry prudish these days."

He finished his sentence by flicking said berry at her, pinging her square on the forehead.

"I am not prudish," she huffed.

Atsumu chuckled, which only made her more defiant. “If anything,” she said, “you shouldn’t need a plant as an excuse to kiss me anyway.”

She clocked her mistake the moment Atsumu went quiet.

He blinked, clearly processing the implications behind her words, before a sly grin crept onto his face.

"I beg yer pardon?" he teased, all mirth.

Her eyes widened. “No—I didn’t mean—”

Damnit. How was she going to worm her way out of this one?

"I meant, if ever you were going—or wanted to kiss me, or something—then you should at least make it more authentic, you know?"

Smooth.

"Again, I'm not saying you should, or that I want you to," she rushed on. "I just mean if ever you did. Like—hypothetically speaking, then..."

She clamped her mouth shut before she could dig her grave any deeper.

There was absolutely no reason for her to have said that much. Now, Atsumu definitely thought she wanted him to kiss her.

Which she didn’t.

Nor did she want him to kiss her this very second, for that matter.

But then again…

He was standing pretty close already. Hardly an arm’s length away. Plus, it was cold. And there was no doubt she’d feel warmer with Atsumu’s hands running up and down her back—

She banished the thought.

She expected teasing on his behalf. A sly comment. Perhaps even for him to outright turn her down.

Not even close.

Atsumu was rooted in place, flushed, his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite find the words.

Somehow, that was even worse.

His lips parted, then closed again. The tips of his ears reddened as the silence stretched on.

(Y/n) wasn’t faring much better.

Either the temperature had suddenly spiked or her blanket had a heating feature she didn’t know about, because her face felt unbearably warm.

“This is silly," she blurted eventually, forcing the words past her throat. "It’s just a plant. You don’t actually have to—“

“No, I know,” Atsumu cut in, lifting both hands in surrender. “It’s just…”

(Y/n) held her breath.

…It’s just?

Oh no.

Had she come across as too eager?

Had she made him uncomfortable?

Pressured him, somehow, by assuming he might actually want to kiss her?

She didn't push, giving him the chance to find his own words.

And to her surprise, Atsumu didn’t look uncomfortable. Or pressured. If anything, beneath all his usual bravado, he looked… kind of bashful?

“Yer right,” he said quietly. He turned the mistletoe over in his fingers a few times, watching the movement pensively—then lobbed it into the skyline.

“I shouldn’t need an excuse.”

For a moment, his hand just hovered in the air, like it wasn’t quite sure what to do now that it was no longer holding anything. It dropped to his side, rose again, then scratched the back of his neck.

(Y/n) smiled.

She watched him, even as he struggled to meet her gaze. He had the face of someone trying to think his way out of a feeling—the furrow in his brows, the crooked, un-Atsumu-like grin he flashed her a second later.

“It’s okay, ‘Tsum,” she said gently. “There’s no rush.”

Because as flighty as Atsumu was when it came to… well, them—she understood.

She understood that his hesitation wasn’t because he didn’t care. If anything, it was because he cared too much. Because he was scared—of the timing, of the weight of it all. Of choosing her only to fall short later. Of committing to a relationship he wasn’t sure he could properly nurture just yet.

And sure, he was frustrating sometimes. Prone to retreating behind jokes or letting silence do the talking when, really, she just wished he'd speak his mind.

But she’d seen the other side too. The man who always lit up when she entered the room, who was constantly trying to overcome his flaws—for both their sakes.

He didn’t always know how to show it. But deep down she knew that he felt it. Because that was the thing about Atsumu: he felt with his whole heart. Even when he didn’t necessarily have the words for it.

At her reassurance, he finally glanced over. A little surprised, maybe. His eyes roved her face, as though searching for any trace of doubt. But when (y/n) only stared back, her expression open, he nodded, plain and simple.

That was all she needed.

A moment passed between them. They turned toward the balcony, gazing at the twinkling city lights below. And, just to ease what little of the tension remained, (y/n) elbowed his side.

“Don’t worry," she assured, "I know you can be berry cautious about these things.”

Atsumu’s laughter felt like instant gratification. An honest, crinkly-eyed laugh that made her stomach do a little somersault.

“Very funny,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“You mean berry funny."

He side-eyed her. “‘Kay, now yer overdoin’ it.”

“Says you,” she shot back. “You mistletoe fiend. I’m surprised you didn’t hang any over my bed.”

...

“Ya sure about that?”

“No you didn’t—“

“I’m only jokin’,” he grinned. No masks. Just pure, unfiltered affection. “No excuses, remember?”

Warmth bloomed in her chest.

She shifted so that she could see him better. He mirrored her. And for a moment, she simply… looked at him. He was the same old Atsumu, albeit a bit windswept. Handsome—more so, now that there was nothing performative about him.

His eyes softened, and she didn't miss the way they dropped—just a fraction—to her lips.

She parted them, and that was when he seemed to catch himself, flicking his gaze back up, a little too fast. Like he hadn’t meant to look. Like he’d surprised himself.

Then, without a word, he pulled her in. His arm wrapped around her back as he rested his chin atop her head, conveniently hiding whatever expression lingered on his face.

(Y/n) laughed softly and hugged him back.

“I saw that,” she whispered, just as a breeze swept past them.

It must have stolen her words along with it, because Atsumu didn't respond. He just hugged her tighter.

Somehow, (y/n) liked this more than any kiss.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[rosierin]

girl i just read suprise hug and I think u swayed me again. honestly idek what team I'm on anyone SO IMMA PICK BOTH 😛😛😛 honestly whoever you make yn end up with imma enjoy it either way cause ur writing is scrumptious anyways 🤤🤤

🎀

both—both is good 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[rosierin]

hello rosie! if i may ask, do you happen to know any wattpad or ao3 stories that are similar to yours in a way? i was hoping to find a fic that represents platonic relationships with haikyuu characters, especially inarizaki. btw no series can beat the off season quartet for me (its too good!!)

Hiiii!! ☺️

Hmmmmmmm

I don’t use Wattpad so I’m afraid I can’t help there- as for ao3 hmmm.

I haven’t read anything with like roommate vibes, or anything other than romance—however!

This is a fic I’ll always recommend because it’s just so fun and light hearted. I always go back to it when I need something to cheer me up.

It’s called Well Hey There, Neighbour by Antifreeze_at_its_Finest :)

It’s a Sakusa fic (which btw, I personally don’t care for Sakusa like- at all. At all, at all.) but it’s still my fav fic of all time (that’s how you know it’s good), because the writing is rly fun and voicey, the plot is just the right amount of silly and serious, and Atsumu is the second love interest and I love love love the way he’s portrayed!!!

And also, thank you so much!!! I’m glad you like the series!! 🥰🥰🫶🏼🫶🏼

Sorry I wasn’t much help D: I hope you find some fics you like tho!!!

[rosierin]

traffic light | suna rintarou

synopsis; you flirt with a biker at a red light

-> featuring best friend iwa!

a/n: biker!suna yayayayaya

You and Iwaizumi are on your way back from a meal out with friends, cruising through the quiet streets as he drives you home. It’s that in between hour where it’s not quite day, not quite night, where the sky is the colour of cotton candy and the sun is barely peeking out between the clouds.

You’re halfway into a rant about one of your friend’s questionable love life when something—or someone, rather—stops you dead in your tracks.

Literally, because Iwa brakes at the red light.

“So then I told her, why don’t you just dump his ass if he’s so—holy crap he’s cool.”

You barely register Iwa’s inquisitive hum when the low growl of a motorbike creeps up beside the car.

Damn. That’s hot.

He’s like the personification of an eclipse.

Black helmet. Black jacket. Black jeans. Slick black bike. You can’t even see this man’s face, but his demeanour alone is enough to do something to your pulse.

You bite your lip to contain the cheesy grin that’s about to break out onto your face and turn to Iwa. “He is so fine."

Iwa gives the stranger a quick side glance and huffs something close to a laugh. “You into bikers now?”

“Didn’t used to be. I’ve been getting a bunch of videos on my Instagram, though, and I’ve kinda been converted.”

Iwa shakes his head in either amusement, or bemusement—hard to tell. What’s clear is that he’s not fully grasping the appeal of this majestic individual, so you smack his arm like it might knock some sense into him.

“No, Haji, look. I’m serious.” You ball your hand into a fist and gnaw on your knuckles to contain a squeal. Your brain replays the time Maki and Mattsun called you a crazed lunatic and said Hajime was your carer—only to stomp the thought back down.

“What do I do?” you breathe.

“You can’t even see his face."

“Doesn’t matter,” you chide, ignoring Iwa's painfully typical male response. “It’s all about the body language. The aura, you know?"

"Can't say I do."

"Never mind."

You’re leaning forward now, peeking through the side mirror, heart kicking up as you admire the handsome stranger. Iwa’s right—you can hardly see the guy’s face through the helmet visor, but your imagination does all the work for you. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. He’s got a lazy slouch that fits the brooding image you’ve painted of him perfectly. One hand rests on the throttle, the other tapping a rhythm on his thigh like he’s got nowhere better to be.

“Should I say something?” you whisper, rocking in your seat like a kid who just spotted a celebrity and is building up the courage to ask for an autograph.

“Want me to open the window?”

“No—“

Whirrrr.

You stare frantically at Iwa as the window slides down with a mechanical whir, and the purr of the biker's engine fills the silence.

"How could you do this to me—"

Iwa just clears his throat, gaze fixed on the road ahead as if to say, from now on, I am no longer present. Good luck.

Your stomach flips.

It's fine. You're overthinking. Maybe he didn't even hear. Maybe you can play this off. For all he knows, you just rolled down the window for some fresh air.

The biker turns his head.

Annnd you just made eye contact.

Well, you think you did. It's impossible to tell with his visor tinted so dark, but it definitely felt like eye contact. You realise you're still staring when the biker subtly jerks his chin at you in silent question.

Something wrong?

You’ve barely got time to think. The light will turn green any minute and it dawns on you that you might miss your chance.

And so—because you’re well-versed in the art of biker Instagram reels and see these kinds of interactions all the time—you lean out the window just a little and put on your best smile.

“I like your bike,” you call, only to immediately regret it because surely you could’ve said something better than that.

The man tilts his helmet slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the compliment. His voice is muffled, low, and amused when he replies:

“Thanks. You drive?”

Oh. Does he think you’re a fellow biker?

You snort at the thought. “God, no. I don't think that'd be safe for anyone." You wave a dismissive hand before adding, "I'm just the co-pilot."

He rolls his shoulder back, spine straightening just enough to give you a better look.

Hm. He’s broader than you imagined. Taller, too.

Guess being hunched over was hiding all that potential.

“Mm. The hard job,” he says—and if your ears aren't deceiving you, you'd say he was teasing.

Perfect. You can't help but grin. Now's your chance.

"The hard job," you echo. "Are you hiring?"

Iwa lets out a sound caught between a laugh and a groan.

The guy laughs—just a little. Deep and dry and unfairly attractive. Success, you think. At least you made him laugh.

Then, without looking away, he flips his visor up.

You try not to stare.

Dark, tired eyes. Green like freshly picked apples. Strands of messy brown hair falling over his forehead. It feels like a tease—one that has you impatiently wondering what the rest of him looks like under all that gear.

“What’s your name, passenger princess?”

You can hardly believe your ears. As if he's actually going along with this.

“(Y/n).”

“Suna,” he says. “You free Friday?”

Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

“You don’t even know what I like,” you goad, emboldened now that you've confirmed his interest.

He revs the engine once in response—slow and suggestive. “I know one thing.”

Your face warms.

Then he shifts forward slightly, one hand reaching into his jacket pocket. When it re-emerges, he’s holding a phone—already unlocked, already open on the “new contact” screen.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives a little tilt of his head as he extends it toward you through the window.

You take it and blink down at the screen.

Suddenly, you no longer remember your own name.

Your mind scrambles, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard as your brain reboots. When it finally does, your thumbs fly across the keyboard. You add your name, number, and a cute little emoji for good measure (a bike and princess emoji), then you hand it back, biting back a grin like a kid in a candy store.

He glances at the screen. His shoulders bounce, just once, like he laughed under his breath. Then he slides the phone back into his jacket.

The light turns green just in time.

“See you Friday, (y/n),” he says. And somehow, you have a feeling he’s smirking.

He lifts two fingers off the handle in a lazy little salute, then peels off into the night.

You spin in your seat so fast the seatbelt locks in place. “Haji, did you see that?! I got a date in like under two minutes!”

He’s already turning the corner, half smiling at your success. “Sure did. Guess that means I’m dropping you off on Friday?”

You giggle into your palms.

Best. Red light interaction Ever.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

[rosierin]

chocolate mousse | atsumu miya

a/n: a headcanon based off my brother’s niche allergy

Atsumu sneezes every time he eats chocolate mousse.

Every. Single. Time. Without fail.

Now, (y/n) is no doctor, but she’s pretty sure there’s some medical reason behind it.

The first time she noticed this odd little quirk was at dinner one night, and Atsumu sneezed so hard it startled the couple at the next table.

“Jesus, you’re gonna set off the seismic detectors with sneezes like that,” (y/n) had said between mouthfuls.

“It’s the air conditionin’,” he frowned, sniffling. “Makes my nose all itchy.”

The second time, it became less a coincidence and more of a suspicion. Same mousse, same sneeze, same attempt to play it off as nothing.

“It’s the dust,” he’d said.

By the third time, (y/n) was no longer fooled. She just watched him, chin in her palm, waiting for the inevitable.

It took all of five seconds. The moment the spoon entered his mouth, he sneezed—loud and as dramatic as one would expect from a Miya. The kind of sneeze that shook his shoulders and sent his hair flopping over his eyes. And when he looked up, blinking and confused, she couldn’t help it—she laughed in his face.

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“I can’t believe it. You’re allergic to chocolate mousse!”

“Eh? Am not.”

He looked as affronted as he was confused—like the thought of being allergic to chocolate mousse was utterly ridiculous and most definitely beneath him.

He reached for another spoonful like he wanted to prove a point. (Y/n) just rolled her eyes.

Sometimes, Atsumu truly was the human embodiment of the word denial.

(Y/n) lightly shook her head and crossed her arms. “Watch, you’re gonna sneeze again.”

As predicted, he did. Twice.

Atsumu looked genuinely horrified.

“Witch! Ya cursed me!”

“No. I’m telling you, you’re just allergic.”

Now, it’s become a running joke. Every time mousse appears on a menu, she looks at him knowingly, and he insists he’s “grown out of it.” (He never has.)

But (y/n) secretly hopes he never does—because nothing beats the sight of Atsumu Miya, volleyball star, six feet of confidence and muscle, rendered helpless by a dessert that fits in a teacup.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[bizzystraightoffthedome]

Atsumu Miya

Written

arguments by @niceutossu

hold 'em up by @chimielie

wedding date by @sippy--sippy

dodging atsumu by @caelivir

til one of us caves by @mattsundaes

seven gold by flowerpeddler (ao3)

rejection redemption by @freakylina

not so easy by @rosierin

charmed by @rosierin

SMAUs

play dumb! by @piftamere

lost bag meet cute...? by @msbysuperfan

Drabbles, HCs, Etc.

exboyfriend!atsumu by @lowkeyremi

sexiest man alive by @miyasmagnolias

[rosierin]

charmed | atsumu miya

synopsis: you’re failing a class and ask atsumu to help you study

a/n: for the sake of this fic, lets pretend atsumu doesn’t canonically have mid grades and is somehow, annoyingly at the top of his class 😗😗

Your friends had told you it was a bad idea.

“Don’t bother, (y/n). There’s no way he’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, and he’s real foul too.”

“Mhmm. You’re wasting your time.”

“I’m sure you can find someone else to tutor you?”

It was the last statement that got you the most, because that was the thing—there was nobody else.

Your parents, despite their best attempts to help, were a lost cause. You weren’t particularly close to anyone in your class. And the one girl you were vaguely acquainted with had come down with a shockingly inconvenient case of adult chickenpox and hadn’t shown up to class for the past three days.

As for your friends, none of them could help you since they were all currently on holiday—a holiday that you couldn’t go on because you needed to stay behind and study. Not that you blamed them. They’d been planning that trip for months.

So no, you couldn’t find anyone else.

…Except for one guy.

Different class. Top of the leaderboard, some say. Or close enough. An athlete, which frankly felt unfair—because how can someone be both extremely athletic and academically inclined? That goes against the laws of school archetypes. Everyone knows you’re either one or the other.

Apparently, he was one of the rare students in your year who actually understood the material, too. Like, understood understood—not just memorised the prof’s notes and regurgitated them word-for-word like a human printer with zero clue what any of it meant.

And right now, he was your best shot.

Your only shot, really—unless you counted divine intervention or a surprise academic awakening, and neither of those were looking promising.

Plus you kind of knew him. Sort of. Through mutual friends. But it was better than nothing, right?

There was just one small issue.

Because according to your friends, he was—and you quote—

A flaming piece of shit.

“Miya!”

You’re sprinting down the corridor, clutching a precarious stack of textbooks you gave up trying to cram into your bag. Two heads swivel at the call—same face, same build, same bored expression.

For a split second you think you’re seeing double. Then you remember.

Oh, yeah—Miya has a twin.

“Sorry,” you pant, shifting your textbooks in your arms. “The blonde one—I mean, Atsumu. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

He half-turns. Looks down at you like you’re something that’s crawled out of a drain.

“What?”

One word, uttered it like it physically pained him to speak to you.

You tense. Admittedly, the longer he looks at you, the more you’re starting to feel like a bug—small and insignificant, and about two seconds from being squashed beneath his heel.

Crawling into a drain doesn’t sound half bad, actually.

Beside him, his twin winces and offers you a silent, cringing apology.

“Inabit, ‘Tsumu,” the silver-haired one says. “Don’t be late to practice.”

He’s already peeling away from the conversation as Atsumu flails for a response, reaching to hook a finger through the strap of his brother’s backpack to stop him from escaping.

“Oi, ‘Samu—don’t just leave—”

His complaints fall on deaf ears. Osamu just shrugs him off, stuffs his hands into his pockets and strolls down the hallway, disappearing into the sea of wandering students.

Well—at least you’ve got his full attention now.

You’ve yet to decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.

Peeved, Atsumu clicks his tongue and turns around to face you.

You gulp.

Perfect, he’s scowling.

This is going great already.

You take a deep breath and remind yourself that your grades are depending on your performance. You can’t afford to be meek. Somehow, you need to convince this man to agree to your ploy, or else you can kiss your summer goodbye.

Here goes nothing.

“I’m sorry for bothering you—I promise I’ll be quick. I was just wondering if you could, uh…”

The question burns on your tongue. He cocks an eyebrow at you, impatient.

Spit it out, (y/n). You can’t chicken out now.

“Do you think you could help me study?”

The words come out a little jumbled—a bit more high pitched than you’d have liked. You blame it on the nerves.

Atsumu seems to think it’s for a different reason entirely.

“Listen, I ain’t interested in—“

“I don’t wanna date you!”

The words echo down the corridor.

Heads spin around to look at you. Some outright laugh. Some rolls their eyes. You want to the floors to open up and swallow you whole.

It’s a miracle you haven’t bolted with your face buried in your hands. You want to say it’s because you’re brave, when really, it’s more likely that mortification has rooted you in place—like a bunny caught in a fox den.

The fox in question stares at you.

The word “doubt” might as well be etched onto his forehead. He’s squinting at you, clearly unconvinced, despite the fact that you’ve just humiliated yourself in front of the entire year.

“I swear I’m not tryna get in your pants,” you insist, quieter this time. “I’m failing Japanese.”

Finally—you get the words out.

“How are ya failin’ Japanese?” He jeers. “Yer Japanese ain’t cha?”

“I am,” you blurt—then scoff. “Clearly. I just can’t wrap my head around classical grammar and keigo—it’s like my brain shuts off. And the thing is, I need to get a decent grade or else they’ll hold me back this summer.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

You press your lips into a thin line. You’re trying your very best to stay polite—to hold back from throwing your head back and groaning about failing classes, missing out on holidays and spending your free period talking to a guy who would literally rather be anywhere else than in your presence—but he’s not exactly making it easy for you.

“Yes,” you say tightly. “It very much is. But I was hoping you could help me solve that problem.” Then, for good measure—and also because you’re foolishly hoping some of your kindness might rub off on him—you add with your best smile:

“Please?”

Atsumu doesn’t miss a beat.

He jerks his chin at you. “What’s in it for me?”

Crap. You hadn’t thought about that.

Honestly? You hadn’t even expected to get this far in the first place.

“Erm…” You wrack your brain. Not much, you suppose. “I’ll be eternally grateful? And, if word gets out that you’ve helped someone get a decent grade, maybe your reputation won’t be so…”

How to put this delicately…

“Sour?” you offer, smiling in a way you hope comes across as charming rather than desperate.

Atsumu stares you down with a look dry enough to peel paint, and says nothing.

Fair enough. That was probably the lamest response you could’ve given to Atsumu Miya. Everyone knows it: this man could not give two shits about his reputation. Kindness doesn’t exactly top his list of priorities—especially not when it comes to random girls asking him for favours.

He turns on his heel, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Yer on your own.”

“Wait!” The word bursts out before you can’t stop it. Same with the hand you fling forward to latch onto his sleeve.

He stops in his tracks, glancing down at where you’re holding him, then scowls. You let go immediately, like you’ve just touched a live wire.

“I’m sorry,” you wince. “But please. I could really use your help.”

“Ask someone else to—“

“I’ll give you unlimited access to the school gym?”

That gets his attention.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? An’ how d’you plan on pullin’ that off?”

You’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but something tells you there’s absolutely zero chance of the Atsumu doing you—or anyone, for that matter—any semblance of a favour unless there’s some kind of bribe involved.

“I’m friends with the janitor,” you admit. “I help her lock up sometimes—she likes me. I bet I can get her to lend me the spare set of keys if I asked.”

For some reason, Atsumu’s lips twitch.

“Yer friends with the janitor?”

“…Yes?”

It dawns on you that he’s trying not to laugh. Your cheeks redden.

“That’s so lame.”

“Do you want unlimited access to the gym, or not?” you splutter, frowning as he chuckles at your perfectly normal, perfectly wholesome friendship with the school janitor.

“Oi, watch the sass,” he chides. “Remember who’s the one tutorin’ ya.”

Your eyes light up, a grin blooming across your face. “So you’ll do it?”

He pauses, cocking his head from side to side like he’s deep in thought, though you’re almost certain he’s just pulling your leg. You’re feeling hopeful—what aspiring athlete wouldn’t kill for unlimited practice time?

“Sure,” he says at last.

Your heart soars—then plummets as he holds up a hand in front of your face.

“On one condition.”

You brace yourself. “…Go on?”

“I’ll do it. But I decide when and where we meet up, and ya can’t pester me about it. I’ve got nationals comin’ up, so I can’t afford to be playin’ tutor with an undercover fan every evenin’.”

“Not a fan,” you deadpan.

“If ya say so,” he sings, rolling his shoulders like he’s already trying to shake off the rest of the conversation.

It bothers you that he genuinely thinks you’re part of his crazy, borderline cultish fan-club. “I don’t even know what position you play!”

His reaction time is instant. “Setter,” he declares.

Suddenly, he looks like a completely different person. His posture loosens, his eyes brighten. Somehow, it makes him look younger than before.

“Only the best high school setter in Japan,” he adds, full of smug.

You blink.

Wait, what?

You knew he was good—better than good, actually. But you hadn’t realised you were practically talking to a celebrity.

“No way,” you marvel. Your praise is genuine. “That’s amazing. I had no idea.”

Atsumu squints again, only this time, it’s more amused than suspicious. “You sure yer not tryna get in my pants?”

You gape.

Never mind. You should’ve kept your thoughts to yourself. Compliments were clearly a mistake.

“No!” you blurt, scandalised.

He looks surprised.

“As in—yes. I’m sure I’m not.”

The silence that follows is deafening. God—you’re so glad your friends aren’t here to witness this. Even abroad, you can hear them practically cringing their faces off.

“So… you’ll help me right?”

He nods, his expression mellowing into that unsettling brand of bored indifference again. “Uh-huh, sure. But remember—you’re workin’ around my hours. Deal?”

“Deal.” It’s better than nothing.

The two of you part ways shortly after, him down one length of the corridor—you, the other.

You immediately pull your phone out to tell your friends the good (and very much unexpected) news.

All things considered?

You’d say that went pretty well.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The porch light flickers on.

When he said you’d be working around his schedule, you hadn’t expected that to mean showing up at his house on a random Saturday evening.

Turns out—Atsumu’s a pretty busy guy.

So here you are, standing outside the Miya household with a tote bag full of textbooks, your hand hovering mid-air like the door might burn you to touch it.

Why were you so nervous?

Oh, that’s right—you’d never been to a guy’s house before. Not alone. Nor at sundown. And definitely not the house of someone who barely qualified as an acquaintance. Someone with a tongue sharp enough to cut diamond and a sneer sour enough to curdle milk.

That’s why.

You take a deep breath, remind yourself that your summer is depending on this, and clench and unclench your fist a few times before knocking three times.

It takes another try before you hear footsteps on the other side. Then the door creaks open, revealing—

Not Atsumu.

“Oh, hey (y/n),” says his twin. Judging by his expression, he has no idea you were meant to be coming over tonight.

Also—he knows your name?

For some reason, that surprises you more than it probably should.

“Erm, hello,” you say with a sheepish smile. Good start, good start. Why does this somehow feel more awkward than talking to Atsumu?

“Your brother invited me over to help me study?”

A flicker of recognition crosses his face. His mouth forms a small “o” as he steps aside, suddenly looking… bashful? “Sorry, I had no idea. I woulda prepped dinner or somethin’.”

That catches you off guard.

You’re not sure what’s more shocking: how polite he is compared to his brother, or the fact that he’s already offered to cook you food despite this being your first ever interaction.

You wave your hands dismissively as you step inside. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it! I’ve already eaten. Thank you, though.”

You hadn’t really known what to expect from the Miya household—but for some reason, it makes total sense.

It’s nothing grand, but not boring either. The living room is humble, cosy. Bathed in warm light from two tall lamps rather than an obnoxiously bright ceiling bulb. It’s slightly disorganised in a way that makes their home feel lived in rather than chaotic.

You’re still glancing around when a new wave of nerves creeps up your spine—stirred by a thought you hadn’t accounted for. “Are your parents not home?”

“Nah,” Osamu replies, to which you heave a sigh of relief. That’s one bullet dodged. He then reaches out, gesturing to the tote slung over your shoulder.

“Oh—thanks,” you say, a little startled. You let him take it as you shrug off your coat.

“They work abroad,” he adds. “They’re hardly ever home.”

Something about that makes you a little sad. You’re pretty sure they’re not even eighteen yet.

“Oh.”

He’s showing you where to put your coat and shoes when a heavy thump suddenly echoes upstairs. The staircase creaks and groans under thundering steps as Atsumu comes stomping halfway down, peeking over the banister to see what’s going on.

“Oh, yer here,” he says, by way of greeting.

You give a little wave.

Osamu frowns up at him. “Ya coulda told me she was comin’ over.”

“I did,” Atsumu argues. “You just weren’t listenin’.”

“Then ya coulda at least answered the door for her.”

Atsumu shrugs. “I knew you’d do it.”

You’re pretending to dig around in your tote bag as the twins bicker over nothing. Eventually, Osamu disappears back into the kitchen—presumably where he was before you arrived. You wonder absently if the delicious smell curling through the living room is his doing.

“You comin’?”

Atsumu’s voice draws your attention. He’s still at the top of the stairs, watching you expectantly. When you don’t move right away, he jerks his head for you to follow.

You comply.

You scuttle up the steps to join him, trailing behind as he leads you down a narrow hallway that—judging by the layout—must lead to his bedroom. The walls are lined with picture frames, along with various sports awards you assume belong to both brothers.

“Wow. You’re both so talented,” you say breezily, smiling as you glance over the displays.

Atsumu nudges his door open with his foot and, to your surprise, steps aside to let you walk in first.

“Uh-huh,” he replies. For a moment, you think that’s all he’ll say—but as he shuts the door behind him, you hear him mutter a brief, almost begrudging, “Thanks.”

It’s only now—standing in his room, past 6 p.m., in the quiet hush of early evening—that it truly hits you:

You’re alone in a guy’s bedroom.

You try not to stare too much.

It’s a pretty simple room. Maybe on the smaller side. There’s a desk pushed up against the window on which lays a few textbooks; an Xbox sits in the corner underneath a small TV; a volleyball of course. But the most obvious, and cutest part of his bedroom in your opinion, is the rickety old bunk bed tucked away on the far end of the room.

“You share a room with your brother?”

You hadn’t meant it as a tease, but the smile on your lips could’ve easily made it seem otherwise.

Atsumu’s gaze remains fixed anywhere but your face as he nudges something (a magazine, you think) underneath his bed with his foot.

“Unfortunately,” he grumbles. And… what’s this? You could’ve sworn you saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

That’s when your second realisation of the night hits you:

Hang on a minute—Atsumu Miya is actually kinda…

Cute.

You hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe because the school’s fluorescent lights were criminally unflattering, or maybe because his attitude had been so off-putting that it clouded your entire perception of him.

But now that you were looking at him under warm lights, almost boyish, stood there in a pair of flattering grey sweatpants and oversized t-shirt that did nothing to hide the toned arms peeking out from the sleeves, you had to admit you could see the appeal.

“You allergic to chairs, or somethin’?”

The questions snaps you back to reality.

He’s pulling out two seats when you realise what he means—you’re still stood in the middle of his room like a confused Sims character. He plops down onto his and nods to the one beside him.

“Right,” you mutter. You take the seat and shuffle the chair forward, pretending not to notice the way your thigh bumps his in the process.

He flips open a textbook, planting his elbow on the table. “So. What don’t cha understand?”

You hesitate before answering. “…Everything?”

Atsumu gives a slow exhale, like you’ve just physically taken years off his life with your incompetence. “Aight,” he mutters. “Let’s do this.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re about one hour into your study session when his words just… stop registering.

“Yer not listenin’.”

“I am listening—!”

“So how come ya just wrote the exact opposite of what I just said?”

You blink down at your notebook. Oh.

“Did I? Oh yeah—ugh, I’m sorry.”

Atsumu exhales sharply through his nose. You can tell he’s trying to keep from snapping again—thankful when he doesn’t. “It’s fine,” he mutters eventually. “I’m gonna be real, I’m not the most patient guy ya coulda picked as a tutor.”

You press your lips together. You’re inclined to agree. Atsumu’s a good teacher: clear instructions, smart, surprisingly attentive. But his patience is about as thin a cheap convenience store tissue.

Still, you shake your head. “No, it’s okay. I really appreciate what you’re doing. Especially with how busy you are and stuff.”

He’s quiet for a second, flipping back a page. Then, as if the thought’s just occurred to him, he goes, “How come ya asked for my help anyway? Don’tcha have any friends who could help?”

You nod, staring at the notes again. You retain none of it.

“I do. But they’re all on holiday.”

That makes him pause.

“Without ya?”

You nod again, a little more solemn this time. “I’d be there too if I wasn’t failing.”

“So yer tellin’ me… ya coulda been loungin’ somewhere sunny—drinkin’ cocktails or whatever—but instead yer sittin’ here, studyin’ keigo with me?”

“I know,” you say, letting out a pointed sigh. “Sucks to be me, right?”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. The sound makes your ears perk up—it was faint, but it definitely qualified as a laugh. You realise it’s the first time you’ve seen him in a good mood all evening.

“Watch it,” he chides. He spins the pen between his fingers before reaching over to underline something in your book. His brows furrow, completely focused again.

You are not.

You’re too busy replaying the way he just told you off—with that dry tone and barely-there smile.

Uh, no. You are not allowed to get butterflies over that. You have exams to pass. Focus.

“Didja wanna take a break?” he asks suddenly without looking up.

“Hm? Oh—”

Your mouth opens, closes. He glances at you then, one eyebrow raised like he already knows the answer. Had you really been that obvious?

“You’re not rememberin’ any of this, are ya?”

“I am,” you lie cheerfully.

He doesn’t react.

“Okay… maybe not all of it. I know I’ve made some progress though.”

You don’t want him to think his tutoring efforts are going to waste, but it’s been over an hour of verb conjugations, passive structures and Atsumu being the strictest teacher you’ve probably ever had in your life. Your brain’s melting. And you can already feel the early stages of a headache settling behind your eyes.

“I think I just need to let my brain process all this,” you say, motioning vaguely to the mess of textbooks and uncapped highlighters, “and then we can start again. Is that okay?”

Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t protest. Instead, he sets his pen down and leans back into his chair, draping his arms over the backrest.

“I dunno how ya can do that,” he mutters, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. “Stop halfway through learnin’ somethin’. It’d drive me nuts.”

“Why? Do you usually just work yourself to the bone, without taking any breaks?”

“Pretty much,” he drawls. “I feel restless unless I get whatever it is I’m learnin’ down straight away.”

That explains a lot.

“That’s some serious OCD behavior,” you say jokingly.

“Eh.” Unbothered, he stretches his arms over his head with a loud yawn. You do your best not to let your eyes stray to the sliver of skin that flashes beneath his t-shirt. “I’d like to think it’s paid off,” he says, glancing not-so-subtly at the shelves on his wall.

You follow his gaze to the neat little shrine of athletic achievements there, secretly thankful for the distraction. Medals, trophies, certificates… Some photos too. Your eyes snag on one where he’s holding up a championship banner, mouth open mid-cheer, eyes scrunched in a grin.

“I can see that,” you smile. “How long’ve you been playing volleyball for?”

“Since I could hold one,” he shoots back.

“Hmm.” You nod, part acknowledgment, part awe. “That’s really cool.”

There’s a pause after your compliment that you don’t think much of, still busy admiring the various trinkets on his wall. When you glance back, you’re surprised to find him looking at you.

Not in a distracted, yeah-yeah-what-were-you-saying kinda way. But like you’d somehow managed to get his attention. His full attention. His eyes are a little hooded, lashes low. It’s a stare that feels… deliberate. Or maybe curious is a better word. Like he’s only just now realising you’re a person and not just some academic liability.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and there’s a small smile on his face. One of those lopsided ones that doesn’t look like it gets much use.

It lands like an arrow to the chest.

…What’s with this sudden vibe shift?

You blink fast, trying to clear the weird warmth spreading across your face. You remind yourself over and over that you barely know him and minutes prior he was flaming the utter crap out of you for not understanding his notes. There’s absolutely zero reason for you to be getting all goo-goo eyed with him now.

But he is kinda cute though, your brain provides unhelpfully.

You push the thought down like it’s a pop-up ad.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. For a second, the air feels… still. Too still. Silences aren’t meant to feel this heavy.

You flounder, trying to think of something to break the tension—even if that involves Atsumu slamming his palm down on the table and telling you to get back to studying.

He does no such thing. Quite the opposite.

Your gaze, previously trained on anything but his face, flickers back to him. Unlike moments ago, where he seemed keen on devouring you with those chocolate eyes of his, now he seems uncharacteristically intent on avoiding all forms of eye contact.

“So…” he starts, pursing his lips like he’s unsure whether to let the words loose. “What do ya wanna do? After you graduate, I mean.”

Huh.

The question renders you speechless. As if the self-centred flaming piece of garbage is suddenly taking an interest in you.

You feel like a fish gaping at the surface of a pond, mouth opening and closing as your brain tries to remember how to function in social settings.

Atsumu’s eyes eventually land on you again—and when he sees you buffer, he quirks an amused brow and picks up your slack.

“What do you wanna study? Business, literature, music..?”

“Huh,” you repeat, intelligently. “I didn’t expect you to ask me anything like that.”

He scoffs. “Don’t go readin’ into it. ‘M just curious.”

You glance at him. You’ve got to hand it to him—if he’s faking curiosity, he’s doing a good job. One elbow propped on the desk, cheek resting in one hand, eyes fixed on you like he’s actually waiting for a real answer.

So you shrug, a little sheepishly. “Honestly? I just want to be able to afford rent and groceries without freaking out every time my bank app sends a notification.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him.

“I don’t need to be crazy rich or anything. I just want a job that lets me live peacefully. Get a cat. Maybe grow a few plants. Buy the good oat milk without feeling guilty. That’s all, really.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Simple.”

“Some would say boring.”

“Some would say smart,” he counters.

You blink at him again. Why is he being so… un-jerky all of a sudden?

“Well, you’re set, aren’t you?” you say, steering the spotlight away. “With volleyball and everything. You’re probably gonna forget all about the struggling student you once graciously tutored in your youth.”

Atsumu scoffs, but he’s grinning again. A small part of you subconsciously wonders if you’ll ever grow used to the sight, or if it’ll knock the wind out of you every time.

“If yer lucky, I might get ya an autograph.”

You brighten instantly and slap your hands together once. “Perfect. I’ll resell it to a diehard fan and use the money toward a flat deposit.”

“Crafty,” he says, impressed. “Ya sure yer not considerin’ business or somethin’?”

“No,” you grin. “But if I do, and you’re looking for a manager…”

“I’ll know who to call.”

“Exactly.”

He leans back against his chair, arms folded smugly over his chest. “First time meetin’ me properly and yer already findin’ ways to worm your way into my life,” he drawls. “And ya still claim yer not a fan.”

Your frown is instinctive, but there’s no real heat to it. You suspect he’s not actually being serious—but that you being a closeted fan has somehow become a running gag between the two of you.

“Once again, I am most definitely not a fan.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

You roll your eyes. “Being a sports manager just makes a decent amount of money, okay? Excuse me for being business savvy.”

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the laugh that escaped him this time. Loud. Genuine. head tipped back and eyes crinkled at the corners.

Uh oh. This can’t be good. Your cheeks feel warm and your heart is doing some crazy flutter you rather not acknowledge.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

It’s loud in your ears—almost drowning out the sound of Atsumu suggesting to get back to studying.

“Anyway,” he says, “let’s try this again. And this time, actually listen, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah—sure,” you say primly, hands hovering numbly over your array of notes and annotated textbooks.

Well, shoot.

It had not been your intention to be charmed by Miya Atsumu.

Your intention had been to study. To pass your exams and get a decent grade.

And yet here you are, on a random Saturday night—confused and flustered, being charmed by none other than Miya Atsumu.

[rosierin]

atsumu ‘ghost’ miya | atsumu miya

synopsis: atsumu dresses up as simon riley (aka ghost) for halloween and (y/n) loses her shit

characters involved: osamu, suna, bokuto, kenma, kuroo

disclaimer: sex jokes & overall suggestive themes, very light choking, (y/n) is v horny

a/n: happy halloween, guys!! 🧛‍♀️🎃

for more off-season quartet :)

(Y/n) took one final look in the mirror as she smoothed over the skirts of her costume. She wanted to go all out this year—she really did—but alas. Rent existed. So did groceries. And—okay, maybe she splurged on a few blind boxes here and there. So what?

Point was: she was broke and couldn’t afford to splash out on an expensive costume.

Still, she did a pretty good job at making it work.

A decent dress from Vinted, along with a cute pair of kitten heels that—yes—she would only wear once, but looked too good for the occasion to pass up on. She’d even ventured to one of those dodgy, possibly money-laundering costume shops to buy a cheap pair of white satin gloves and a golden crown to pull everything together.

So sure—a budget Princess Peach she may be, but a darn princess nonetheless.

Besides, it was all on the hair and makeup, anyway.

And so, after applying a touch more gloss and fluffing up her hair some more, she grabbed her questionably stained pink purse (another Vinted purchase) and stepped out her room to join the others downstairs.

She laughed the moment she laid eyes on them.

To their credit, the guys had done well sticking to their video game theme this year.

Suna turned first, one hand in the pocket of his oversized hoodie, the other fiddling with a lollipop. For a moment, she’d wondered if he’d even dressed up at all.

Blue hoodie, white tee, black gym shorts… the only thing out of place was his fuzzy pink slippers and cyan contact lens.

“Wow, it’s like you barely tried,” she snorted. “This is pretty much what you wear everyday.”

She nodded to his footwear. “Except for those.”

He shrugged, tugging the hood over his mess of brown hair. Now, he truly looked the part. “Hey, Sans is a good costume. Don’t call it a cop-out.”

“No—I mean, I guess it’s pretty smart,” she admitted. “It’s not like you had to buy much.”

Suna nodded his agreement. Beside them, Osamu cleared his throat.

“Did someone say smart?”

She snapped her gaze toward him, only to almost keel over in hysterics.

“Oh my god—!”

Yes.

The brown slacks. The green grandpa jumper. The tan belly patch he safety-pinned onto his stomach.

It was truly, a work of art. But the pièce de résistance was the pair of felt raccoon ears perched atop head, hanging on for dear life via the world’s dinkiest headband. She feared that sneezing, or even looking at it for too long might cause it to snap.

“How do I look?” he asked, giving a cute little twirl.

Honestly? He looked fire. More than anything, she admired the confidence. It took a certain level of attractive to rock a full-on furry look and still somehow be attractive. Osamu had that level.

“Dashing,” (y/n) declared, smiling broadly. “Tom Nook would be proud.”

Beside them, Suna rolled his lollipop in his mouth so it sat in one side of his cheek. “So we’ve got Sans, Princess Peach and the furry.”

“Say what you want about Tom Nook,” Osamu replied, adjusting his raccoon ears, “ya can’t deny he’s a business icon.”

(Y/n) was busy poking his glorious fake belly when she heard footsteps upstairs.

Atsumu. Finally.

He was the only one that hadn’t told her about his costume.

“I wonder what he’s dressed as this year,” she mused, more to herself than anyone else. “Did he tell you guys?”

Suna shook his head. Osamu nodded as he failed to hold back a grin.

“Yer gonna like it,” was all he said.

(Y/n) suddenly grew very suspicious, but also very curious. “Oh?”

As if on cue, Atsumu appeared at the top of the stairs.

It took her a minute to register what she was seeing—if this was even Atsumu at all.

“There’s no way.”

It felt like a slap to the face.

He entered the room with the confidence of a man who knew he looked good, dressed head-to-toe in none other than a full tactical Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley costume.

Ghost, for fuck sake. Of course.

The camo fatigues were heavily detailed, hugging his arms like they’d somehow been made-to-fit. A heavy-duty vest was strapped across his chest, loaded with fake grenades and gear that looked far too authentic. Skeletal gloves. Heavy boots. And, of course, that iconic skull mask.

The stark, bone white against his all-black attire was just as striking in person as it was in game, and holy-fucking-shit he had no right looking this fine.

Was that real military-grade material?

Where the hell did he even find that costume??

Certainly not Temu, which she strongly suspected was where his twin had found his shoddy getup. (No shade, though. She genuinely adored his costume.)

Suna was the first to react, perking up the second he laid eyes on him.

(Y/n) hadn’t seen this amount of enthusiasm from him in months.

That’s when she remembered—ah, yes. He and Atsumu had recently started playing Modern Warfare together.

“You look insane,” Suna said, circling him like a turquoise, slipper-clad vulture.

‘Insane’ wasn’t exactly the word (y/n) would’ve used. Hot, sexy, jaw-dropping, all seemed like far better adjectives. But who’s she to say?

She was so distracted ogling him that she almost didn’t notice Osamu giving her the world’s most obnoxious side-eye.

“Told you,” he snickered.

That, he did.

She felt like someone had turned the thermostat up twenty degrees. Her cheeks were already flushed, and she suddenly became very, very interested in the clasp of her purse. Anything to keep her from staring.

“Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

If Atsumu heard, he didn’t comment. He just sauntered over with that same casual swagger that often made things worse, and gave her a quick once-over.

“Cute outfit,” he said.

It was all she could do not to combust right there on the spot.

Of all the iconic video game characters, trust Atsumu to choose one of the most thirsted-over male characters of all time.

“Thanks,” she replied, the word coming out a little fast and high-pitched. “Shall we get going?”

She spun on her heel before he could see the flush creeping up her neck, practically power-walking to the door like her life depended on it.

It felt like she was starring in some kind of Greek retelling—except Atsumu wasn’t Medusa so much as a tactical vest-wearing demigod, and eye contact wouldn’t turn her to stone, just into a blushing, giggling mess with a sudden, overwhelming desire to climb him like a jungle gym.

Suna sauntered up beside her as they made their way to the car, hands stuffed in his pockets, his lollipop stick poking out the corner of his mouth. His single cyan contact caught the glow of the streetlamps, making him look a little unsettling.

“You’re so obvious it hurts.”

Never mind.

Not unsettling. Just annoying.

“Nobody asked you, Rin.”

“The secondhand embarrassment,” he groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “S’too painful to watch.”

She smacked him with her purse before the twins could overhear his teasing. One of the seams gave way with a pitiful rip.

She stared at it and let out a quiet, broken sob.

Thanks for nothing, Vinted purse.

And thank you to whatever game developers decided to create one of the sexiest men in video game history.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Bokuto’s house was already glowing when they pulled up. Orange fairy lights were wound around the porch. A fog machine puffed clouds over the lawn, mist curling around her ankles. A plastic skeleton dangled beside the door, and a cardboard sign read: “WELCOME TO THE BOKUTOMB” in messy red ink.

Bless. He’d really gone all out this year.

The door flew open before they even knocked. Bokuto gasped animatedly from the entryway, dressed as the world’s friendliest Dracula.

“YOU CAME!!!” he bellowed, flinging his arms open.

“Hi, Bo—“

Her greeting was cut short as Bokuto scooped her off the ground and trapped her in a bone-crushing hug.

“You look amazing,” he gasped, setting her down with an award-winning smile.

She laughed and adjusted the crown he’d knocked askew just as his eyes drifted to her roommates. “So do you guys! Tsum Tsum, you look awesome.”

Atsumu chuckled, reaching out to squeeze Bokuto’s hand and clapping him twice on the shoulder. “Back atcha, Bokkun. Just missin’ the fangs.”

Bokuto grinned broadly in response, revealing that he did, in fact, have two pointy fangs glued to his teeth.

The three boys cheered enthusiastically at the sight. (Y/n) giggled behind her hand. He looked more happy golden retriever than he did vampire.

The inside of the house was even more gaudy. In a good way. Someone clearly had a field day with decorations: cobwebs, giant spiders, LED candles, blood splatters on the wall. (She hoped Bokuto checked if they weren’t the water resistant kind. Perhaps she’d bring that up later.)

A Halloween playlist was blaring. People were already dancing in the living room. Drinks were being passed around in the kitchen. Kenma was in the corner dressed as a Minecraft creeper. Kuroo was pouring shots and declaring himself “Liquor Lord.”

(Licker Lord, being the double meaning. And while (y/n)’s three roommates had snickered at the joke like they hadn’t mentally grown past the age of twelve, she found his Lickitung costume to be rather horrific.)

“He’s gonna give me nightmares,” she muttered to Osamu.

The latter was already beelining for the party food like a man under a spell. “S’what Halloween’s for, darlin’.”

She watched, mildly concerned, as he began piling an unreasonable number of mini quiches onto a paper plate like the rodent he had committed to being.

“I feel like we’ve really embodied the different kind of Halloween costumes tonight,” she thought out loud.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well,” she started, gesturing vaguely, “you’ve got the people like me, who just wanna look pretty. Then you’ve got the ones who wanna be funny.”

She gave him a pointed look, then glanced over to Suna on the other side of the buffet. “The ones who put their costume together last minute, and…”

Her eyes drifted across the room.

To Atsumu, who was already surrounded by a group of girls in Totally Spies-themed costumes.

One was pretending to inspect the strap on his utility vest. Another was giggling as she tried to feed him a jello shot.

He took it, of course, and threw it back in one fluid motion—then met her gaze from across the room.

(Y/n) forgot what she was saying.

“Then there’s the attention seekers,” Suna dryly provided.

Yep. That would be Atsumu.

And he had it. All of it.

She inhaled slowly. Tugged at Suna’s sleeve so she could whisper in his ear.

“Whatever you do, don’t let me make a fool out of myself.”

He nodded slowly before straightening himself back up. “Sure thing, Your Highness. Just stay away from the tequila.”

She nodded back. No tequila—right. No problem.

Then came Kuroo—the Licker Liquor Lord himself with his Cheshire Cat grin, brandishing a tray of colourful little concoctions.

“Who wants tequila shots!”

Suna’s eyes pointedly slid over to her.

Yeah—she was definitely gonna make a fool out of herself tonight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A round of shots and two solid hours of dancing later, (y/n) decided she needed a breather. Bokuto’s parties had a way of chewing her up and spitting her out—affectionately, of course.

She stepped out onto the porch just as the motion-sensor light blinked on above her. The night air hit her like a blessing. Cool, crisp, refreshing in that post-storm type of way. She, unfortunately, was still sweaty and perhaps even a little bit tipsy. (Suna had given up trying to peel her away from the tequila.)

Behind her, the party kept going. The bass thudded through the walls like a distant heartbeat, interrupted every now and then by bursts of laughter or someone screaming about a beer pong comeback.

Strangely enough, it made for a pretty relaxing soundtrack.

She leaned back against the siding with a soft sigh, tilting her head toward the porch light. It buzzed quietly, casting a muted yellow glow over the walls. A few moths circled lazily around it, bumping into the bulb like they still hadn’t figured out it wasn’t the moon. She got it. She too had made poor choices based on blind attraction.

Her limbs felt warm and heavy now, the tequila settling in her bloodstream. She closed her eyes for a moment. Let her shoulders drop. Let the quiet settle over her like a shawl.

When she opened her eyes again—

Someone was standing in front of her.

She flinched, a gasp catching in her throat.

It only took a second to register the stance. The broad shoulders. The cock of the head. The skull-like mask.

Oh, thank God—

“It’s just you,” she breathed, pressing a hand over her heart.

Atsumu chuckled, the sound slightly muffled behind his mask. “Did I scare ya?”

A breathless laugh escaped her. “Yeah. You did, you asshole.”

He raised both gloved hands in mock surrender. She was not fooled.

“Out here for a breather?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.” He rolled his neck from side to side, then hooked a finger into the collar of his tactical vest and tugged at the fabric. “Hot as hell in this thing.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. Because that’s what polite people did, not because she was currently imagining peeling that vest off with her teeth.

“You could always take the mask off, you know.”

His shoulders dropped in mock disappointment. “Aw, but ya love it,” he said, tilting his head.

And, unfortunately, he was right. She smiled—because what else could she do? She wasn’t the one strutting around in an army vest and combat pants that emphasised way more features than it ought to.

No. That was all him. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy every second of it.

She’d also be lying if she said she hadn’t fantasised about it. All of it.

The vest. The gloves. The mask. The image of sinking to her knees in front of him, fingers hooking into the buckles of his utility belt while he looked down at her through that God forsaken skull-clad mask, giving her orders like a proper lieutenant.

Which was not something she should be thinking about right now. Or ever, for that matter.

But definitely not right now.

“I like your real face more,” she blurted, more fact than flirtation. Still, it appeared to have landed like a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

He stilled. Blinked at her like she’d spoken in tongues. But the surprise faded just as quickly as it came. His body relaxed. The corners of his eyes crinkled with mischief.

“Take it off me, then.”

She gave him a look. “You have a way of saying that that makes it sound like you’re talking about something else.”

And then, unintentionally, traitorously, her eyes flicked downward—just for a second. A stupid, shameful second.

He noticed, of course, because apparently, Atsumu thrived off the idea of being shamelessly ogled.

His smirk radiated through the mask like heat from an open oven.

“I mean, if yer offerin’…”

She made a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “Let’s stick to the mask.”

“Suit yerself,” he shrugged, but he was already leaning down—pausing just as he reached eye level.

The reduced proximity made her freeze.

Her heart fluttered in the way that made her feel girlish and sixteen again. And, worse, she could now smell the cologne he’d sprayed earlier that night. That kind of warm, spicy cologne that clung to the heat of his skin.

The thought materialised into words before she could prevent it.

“You smell nice.”

He laughed.

Her cheeks burned.

Yeah. Definitely too much tequila.

…Anyway. Her fingers hesitated only briefly before reaching up. She didn’t remove the mask right away. She just… touched it. Let her fingers ghost along the edges, admiring the skull design like she hadn’t already burned the image into her brain a hundred times over.

She hummed thoughtfully. Pity. He really did suit the outfit.

Then, after a beat, she hooked her fingers beneath it and gently lifted it off.

The sight had her smiling instantly.

His face was flushed—cheeks pink, hair sticking to his forehead in messy blond tufts. She’d mussed the rest pulling the mask and balaclava off, and when she brushed it back, he didn’t stop her.

“There’s that handsome face,” she murmured.

Atsumu’s smile flickered into something lopsided, and fond. His eyes were soft, sleepy—almost like those of a cat. She resisted the urge to scratch him under the chin.

“Someone’s full of compliments tonight,” he purred. “I was half expectin’ disappointment.”

She huffed a quiet laugh at that. Then, thoughtlessly, her hand drifted back up, brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“Not even a bit.”

She didn’t know where the boldness came from—if it was the alcohol in her system or the heat curling low in her abdomen—but her fingers lingered before she could think better of it, tracing the lines of his face like she was trying to memorize them. Or maybe relearn them. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what he looked like, but something about the way he was standing here now—warm, flushed, eyes soft under the porch light—made him feel… different. Less guarded, perhaps.

She let her touch trail down the slope of his neck, her gaze following. Then lower, over the hard line of his shoulder, the edge of his vest, down to his chest where she pressed her hand lightly.

Right over his pounding heart.

“You’re nervous,” she said, like it was a casual observation. But there was absolutely nothing casual in the way his eyes, glazed over with want, dipped down to her lips. Nor was there anything casual in the way she parted them for him.

The sight alone had his jaw flexing. His body went still, like he was trying really hard not to give her the satisfaction.

Too bad for him—his chest rose a little higher on the next inhale. Not to mention the way that fast heartbeat of his was betraying him.

“Yeah?” he asked finally, voice a touch hoarse. It wasn’t fair. She was already warm from the party. The last she needed was for him to use his stupidly sexy bedroom voice on her.

His hand came up slowly next, fingers brushing her cheek. She didn’t shy from his touch. Just watched him, curious, let him touch her like it wasn’t rousing a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

Then his thumb slid lower—mimicking her path. First along her jaw, then down her neck—until she finally realized where this was going.

Oh.

Oh.

His hand settled around her throat. Hardly. But his fingers curved around it just enough to make her gasp.

Then his thumb pressed, just a little, right over her pulse point.

The sound that came out of her wasn’t even a word. It was a noise. A very embarrassing, very real, criminally aroused noise.

“So are you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

She shivered.

Not good. Definitely not good.

Or maybe it was? Hard to say with the severe lack of oxygen in her brain.

“I don’t think lieutenants are supposed to choke Princesses,” she breathed, trying to land somewhere between a smirk and a plea for mercy.

Atsumu pretended to think, fingers drumming lightly on her pulse. “Guess not,” he mused. Just when she thought he might let go, his grip tightened—just a touch.

“Only the ones who ask for it.”

Mother Above.

She was hyperventilating. Her legs were growing impractically weak.

Her fingers curled into a fist on his vest, part frustration, part something else entirely.

Shit. Fuck. Balls. He was going to kiss her. She could feel it.

Then, like a prayer answered by the Gods, the porch door slid open.

“Hey, Bokuto wants to play Twister, you two game—what the fuck are you doing?”

They broke apart with eyes wide as saucers, shoulders stiff as rock. Less “kinky lieutenant disciplining a subordinate” core and more like two soldiers snapped to attention.

Suna gave her an accusing stare.

“Atsumu was choking me non consensually.”

“WHAT?!”

He deserved it. He really did.

Her stare said it all: Take that, asshole. That’s what you get for giving me the worst emotional whiplash of my life.

Suna’s face remained painfully blank. He looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh, scold, or call for help.

He settled for a simple sigh.

“…Right, well. When you two are done roleplaying, come join us. Or don’t. I heard there’s a guest bedroom upstairs if you need it.”

She should’ve clapped back. Normally, she would. But her brain short-circuited somewhere between “guest bedroom” and “roleplaying” and now her cheeks were on fire. Her whole body was overheating, and she was pretty sure her brains might have scrambled a bit.

The only thing tethering her to Earth was Atsumu. He nudged her with his elbow, eyes glinting with trouble.

That alone was enough to annoy her back to the present.

“Twister, right?” she muttered, already brushing past him. “I’m down.”

Down to play. Down bad. Both were true.

Even now, she was definitely not thinking about the way he’d looked with his hand around her throat.

Nope. Not at all.

And the mention of Twister definitely hadn’t made her picture herself being bent in half by a man in a skull mask.

God, she needed to get a grip.

…Preferably not on his utility belt.

[rosierin]

atsumu ‘ghost’ miya | atsumu miya

synopsis: atsumu dresses up as simon riley (aka ghost) for halloween and (y/n) loses her shit

characters involved: osamu, suna, bokuto, kenma, kuroo

disclaimer: sex jokes & overall suggestive themes, very light choking, (y/n) is v horny

a/n: happy halloween, guys!! 🧛‍♀️🎃

(Y/n) took one final look in the mirror as she smoothed over the skirts of her costume. She wanted to go all out this year—she really did—but alas. Rent existed. So did groceries. And—okay, maybe she splurged on a few blind boxes here and there. So what?

Point was: she was broke and couldn’t afford to splash out on an expensive costume.

Still, she did a pretty good job at making it work.

A decent dress from Vinted, along with a cute pair of kitten heels that—yes—she would only wear once, but looked too good for the occasion to pass up on. She’d even ventured to one of those dodgy, possibly money-laundering costume shops to buy a cheap pair of white satin gloves and a golden crown to pull everything together.

So sure—a budget Princess Peach she may be, but a darn princess nonetheless.

Besides, it was all on the hair and makeup, anyway.

And so, after applying a touch more gloss and fluffing up her hair some more, she grabbed her questionably stained pink purse (another Vinted purchase) and stepped out her room to join the others downstairs.

She laughed the moment she laid eyes on them.

To their credit, the guys had done well sticking to their video game theme this year.

Suna turned first, one hand in the pocket of his oversized hoodie, the other fiddling with a lollipop. For a moment, she’d wondered if he’d even dressed up at all.

Blue hoodie, white tee, black gym shorts… the only thing out of place was his fuzzy pink slippers and cyan contact lens.

“Wow, it’s like you barely tried,” she snorted. “This is pretty much what you wear everyday.”

She nodded to his footwear. “Except for those.”

He shrugged, tugging the hood over his mess of brown hair. Now, he truly looked the part. “Hey, Sans is a good costume. Don’t call it a cop-out.”

“No—I mean, I guess it’s pretty smart,” she admitted. “It’s not like you had to buy much.”

Suna nodded his agreement. Beside them, Osamu cleared his throat.

“Did someone say smart?”

She snapped her gaze toward him, only to almost keel over in hysterics.

“Oh my god—!”

Yes.

The brown slacks. The green grandpa jumper. The tan belly patch he safety-pinned onto his stomach.

It was truly, a work of art. But the pièce de résistance was the pair of felt raccoon ears perched atop head, hanging on for dear life via the world’s flimsiest headband. She feared that sneezing, or even looking at it for too long might cause it to snap.

“How do I look?” he asked, giving a cute little twirl.

Honestly? He looked fire. More than anything, she admired the confidence. It took a certain level of attractive to rock a full-on furry look and still somehow be attractive. Osamu had that level.

“Dashing,” (y/n) declared, smiling broadly. “Tom Nook would be proud.”

Beside them, Suna rolled his lollipop in his mouth so it sat in one side of his cheek. “So we’ve got Sans, Princess Peach and the furry.”

“Say what you want about Tom Nook,” Osamu replied, adjusting his raccoon ears, “ya can’t deny he’s a business icon.”

(Y/n) was busy poking his glorious fake belly when she heard footsteps upstairs.

Atsumu. Finally.

He was the only one that hadn’t told her about his costume.

“I wonder what he’s dressed as this year,” she mused, more to herself than anyone else. “Did he tell you guys?”

Suna shook his head. Osamu nodded as he failed to hold back a grin.

“Yer gonna like it,” was all he said.

(Y/n) suddenly grew very suspicious, but also very curious. “Oh?”

As if on cue, Atsumu appeared at the top of the stairs.

It took her a minute to register what she was seeing—if this was even Atsumu at all.

“There’s no way.”

It felt like a slap to the face.

He entered the room with the confidence of a man who knew he looked good, dressed head-to-toe in none other than a full tactical Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley costume.

Ghost, for fuck sake. Of course.

The camo fatigues were heavily detailed, hugging his arms like they’d somehow been made-to-fit. A heavy-duty vest was strapped across his chest, loaded with fake grenades and gear that looked far too authentic. Skeletal gloves. Heavy boots. And, of course, that iconic skull mask.

The stark, bone white against his all-black attire was just as striking in person as it was in game, and holy-fucking-shit he had no right looking this fine.

Was that real military-grade material?

Where the hell did he even find that costume??

Certainly not Temu, which she strongly suspected was where his twin had found his shoddy getup. (No shade, though. She genuinely adored his costume.)

Suna was the first to react, perking up the second he laid eyes on him.

(Y/n) hadn’t seen this amount of enthusiasm from him in months.

That’s when she remembered—ah, yes. He and Atsumu had recently started playing Modern Warfare together.

“You look insane,” Suna said, circling him like a turquoise, slipper-clad vulture.

‘Insane’ wasn’t exactly the word (y/n) would’ve used. Hot, sexy, jaw-dropping, all seemed like far better adjectives. But who’s she to say?

She was so distracted ogling him that she almost didn’t notice Osamu giving her the world’s most obnoxious side-eye.

“Told you,” he snickered.

That, he did.

She felt like someone had turned the thermostat up twenty degrees. Her cheeks were already flushed, and she suddenly became very, very interested in the clasp of her purse. Anything to keep her from staring.

“Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

If Atsumu heard, he didn’t comment. He just sauntered over with that same casual swagger that often made things worse, and gave her a quick once-over.

“Cute outfit,” he said.

It was all she could do not to combust right there on the spot.

Of all the iconic video game characters, trust Atsumu to choose one of the most thirsted-over male characters of all time.

“Thanks,” she replied, the word coming out a little fast and high-pitched. “Shall we get going?”

She spun on her heel before he could see the flush creeping up her neck, practically power-walking to the door like her life depended on it.

It felt like she was starring in some kind of Greek retelling—except Atsumu wasn’t Medusa so much as a tactical vest-wearing demigod, and eye contact wouldn’t turn her to stone, just into a blushing, giggling mess with a sudden, overwhelming desire to climb him like a jungle gym.

Suna sauntered up beside her as they made their way to the car, hands stuffed in his pockets, his lollipop stick poking out the corner of his mouth. His single cyan contact caught the glow of the streetlamps, making him look a little unsettling.

“You’re so obvious it hurts.”

Never mind.

Not unsettling. Just annoying.

“Nobody asked you, Rin.”

“The secondhand embarrassment,” he groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “S’too painful to watch.”

She smacked him with her purse before the twins could overhear his teasing. One of the seams gave way with a pitiful rip.

She stared at it and let out a quiet, broken sob.

Thanks for nothing, Vinted purse.

And thank you to whatever game developers decided to create one of the sexiest men in video game history.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Bokuto’s house was already glowing when they pulled up. Orange fairy lights were wound around the porch. A fog machine puffed clouds over the lawn, mist curling around her ankles. A plastic skeleton dangled beside the door, and a cardboard sign read: “WELCOME TO THE BOKUTOMB” in messy red ink.

Bless. He’d really gone all out this year.

The door flew open before they even knocked. Bokuto gasped animatedly from the entryway, dressed as the world’s friendliest Dracula.

“YOU CAME!!!” he bellowed, flinging his arms open.

“Hi, Bo—“

Her greeting was cut short as Bokuto scooped her off the ground and trapped her in a bone-crushing hug.

“You look amazing,” he gasped, setting her down with an award-winning smile.

She laughed and adjusted the crown he’d knocked askew just as his eyes drifted to her roommates. “So do you guys! Tsum Tsum, you look awesome.”

Atsumu chuckled, reaching out to squeeze Bokuto’s hand and clapping him twice on the shoulder. “Back atcha, Bokkun. Just missin’ the fangs.”

Bokuto grinned broadly in response, revealing that he did, in fact, have two pointy fangs glued to his teeth.

The three boys cheered enthusiastically at the sight. (Y/n) giggled behind her hand. He looked more happy golden retriever than he did vampire.

The inside of the house was even more gaudy. In a good way. Someone clearly had a field day with decorations: cobwebs, giant spiders, LED candles, blood splatters on the wall. (She hoped Bokuto checked if they weren’t the water resistant kind. Perhaps she’d bring that up later.)

A Halloween playlist was blaring. People were already dancing in the living room. Drinks were being passed around in the kitchen. Kenma was in the corner dressed as a Minecraft creeper. Kuroo was pouring shots and declaring himself “Liquor Lord.”

(Licker Lord, being the double meaning. And while (y/n)’s three roommates had snickered at the joke like they hadn’t mentally grown past the age of twelve, she found his Lickitung costume to be rather horrific.)

“He’s gonna give me nightmares,” she muttered to Osamu.

The latter was already beelining for the party food like a man under a spell. “S’what Halloween’s for, darlin’.”

She watched, mildly concerned, as he began piling an unreasonable number of mini quiches onto a paper plate like the rodent he had committed to being.

“I feel like we’ve really embodied the different kind of Halloween costumes tonight,” she thought out loud.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well,” she started, gesturing vaguely, “you’ve got the people like me, who just wanna look pretty. Then you’ve got the ones who wanna be funny.”

She gave him a pointed look, then glanced over to Suna on the other side of the buffet. “The ones who put their costume together last minute, and…”

Her eyes drifted across the room.

To Atsumu, who was already surrounded by a group of girls in Totally Spies-themed costumes.

One was pretending to inspect the strap on his utility vest. Another was giggling as she tried to feed him a jello shot.

He took it, of course, and threw it back in one fluid motion—then met her gaze from across the room.

(Y/n) forgot what she was saying.

“Then there’s the attention seekers,” Suna dryly provided.

Yep. That would be Atsumu.

And he had it. All of it.

She inhaled slowly. Tugged at Suna’s sleeve so she could whisper in his ear.

“Whatever you do, don’t let me make a fool out of myself.”

He nodded slowly before straightening himself back up. “Sure thing, Your Highness. Just stay away from the tequila.”

She nodded back. No tequila—right. No problem.

Then came Kuroo—the Licker Liquor Lord himself with his Cheshire Cat grin, brandishing a tray of colourful little concoctions.

“Who wants tequila shots!”

Suna’s eyes pointedly slid over to her.

Yeah—she was definitely gonna make a fool out of herself tonight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A round of shots and two solid hours of dancing later, (y/n) decided she needed a breather. Bokuto’s parties had a way of chewing her up and spitting her out—affectionately, of course.

She stepped out onto the porch just as the motion-sensor light blinked on above her. The night air hit her like a blessing. Cool, crisp, refreshing in that post-storm type of way. She, unfortunately, was still sweaty and perhaps even a little bit tipsy. (Suna had given up trying to peel her away from the tequila.)

Behind her, the party kept going. The bass thudded through the walls like a distant heartbeat, interrupted every now and then by bursts of laughter or someone screaming about a beer pong comeback.

Strangely enough, it made for a pretty relaxing soundtrack.

She leaned back against the siding with a soft sigh, tilting her head toward the porch light. A few moths circled lazily around it, bumping into the bulb like they still hadn’t figured out it wasn’t the moon. She got it. She too had made poor choices based on blind attraction.

Her limbs felt warm and heavy now, the tequila settling in her bloodstream. She closed her eyes for a moment. Let her shoulders drop. Let the quiet settle over her like a shawl.

When she opened her eyes again, someone was standing in front of her. She flinched, a gasp catching in her throat.

It only took a second to register the stance. The broad shoulders. The cock of the head. The skull-like mask.

Oh, thank God—

“It’s just you,” she breathed, pressing a hand over her heart.

Atsumu chuckled, the sound slightly muffled behind his mask. “Did I scare ya?”

A breathless laugh escaped her. “Yeah. You did, you asshole.”

He raised both gloved hands in mock surrender. She was not fooled.

“Out here for a breather?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.” He rolled his neck from side to side, then hooked a finger into the collar of his tactical vest and tugged at the fabric. “Hot as hell in this thing.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. Because that’s what polite people did, not because she was currently imagining peeling that vest off with her teeth.

“You could always take the mask off, you know.”

His shoulders dropped in mock disappointment. “Aw, but ya love it,” he said, tilting his head.

And, unfortunately, he was right. She smiled—because what else could she do? She wasn’t the one strutting around in an army vest and combat pants that emphasised way more features than it ought to. No. That was all him. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy every second of it.

She’d also be lying if she said she hadn’t fantasised about it.

The vest. The gloves. The mask. The image of sinking to her knees in front of him, fingers hooking into the buckles of his utility belt while he looked down at her through that God forsaken skull-clad mask.

Which was not something she should be thinking about right now. Or ever, for that matter. But definitely not right now.

“I like your real face more,” she blurted, more fact than flirtation. Still, it appeared to have landed like a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

He stilled. Blinked at her like she’d spoken in tongues. But the surprise faded just as quickly as it came. His body relaxed. The corners of his eyes crinkled with mischief.

“Take it off me, then.”

She gave him a look. “You have a way of saying that that makes it sound very suggestive."

And then, unintentionally, traitorously, her eyes flicked downward—just for a second. A stupid, shameful second. He noticed, of course, because apparently, Atsumu thrived off the idea of being shamelessly ogled.

His smirk radiated through the mask like heat from an open oven. “I mean, if yer offerin’…”

She made a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “Let’s stick to the mask.”

“Suit yerself,” he shrugged, but he was already leaning down—pausing just as he reached eye level.

The reduced proximity made her freeze. Her heart fluttered in the way that made her feel girlish and sixteen again. And, worse, she could now smell the cologne he’d sprayed earlier that night. That kind of warm, spicy cologne that clung to the heat of his skin.

The thought materialised into words before she could prevent it. “You smell nice.”

He laughed.

Her cheeks burned.

Yeah. Definitely too much tequila.

…Anyway. Her fingers hesitated only briefly before reaching up. She didn’t remove the mask right away. She just… touched it. Let her fingers ghost along the edges, admiring the skull design like she hadn’t already burned the image into her brain a hundred times over.

She hummed thoughtfully. Pity. He really did suit the outfit.

Then, after a beat, she hooked her fingers beneath it and gently lifted it off.

The sight had her smiling instantly. His face was flushed—cheeks pink, hair sticking to his forehead in messy blond tufts. She’d mussed the rest pulling the mask and balaclava off, and when she brushed it back, he didn’t stop her.

“There’s that handsome face,” she murmured.

Atsumu’s smile flickered into something lopsided, and fond. His eyes were soft, sleepy—almost like those of a cat. She resisted the urge to scratch him under the chin.

“Someone’s full of compliments tonight,” he purred. “I was half expectin’ disappointment.”

She huffed a quiet laugh at that. Then, thoughtlessly, her hand drifted back up, brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“Not even a bit.”

She didn’t know where the boldness came from—if it was the alcohol in her system or the heat curling low in her abdomen—but her fingers lingered before she could think better of it, tracing the lines of his face like she was trying to memorize them. Or maybe relearn them. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what he looked like, but something about the way he was standing here now—warm, flushed, eyes soft under the porch light—made him feel… different. Less guarded, perhaps.

She let her touch trail down the slope of his neck, her gaze following. Then lower, over the hard line of his shoulder, the edge of his vest, down to his chest where she pressed her hand lightly.

Right over his pounding heart.

“You’re nervous,” she said, like it was a casual observation. But there was absolutely nothing casual in the way his eyes, glazed over with want, dipped down to her lips. Nor was there anything casual in the way she parted them for him.

The sight alone had his jaw flexing. His body went still, like he was trying really hard not to give her the satisfaction.

Too bad for him—his chest rose a little higher on the next inhale. Not to mention the way that fast heartbeat of his was betraying him.

“Yeah?” he asked finally, voice a touch hoarse. It wasn’t fair. She was already warm from the party. The last she needed was for him to use his stupidly sexy bedroom voice on her.

His hand came up slowly next, fingers brushing her cheek. She didn’t shy from his touch. Just watched him, curious, let him touch her like it wasn’t rousing a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

Then his thumb slid lower—mimicking her path. First along her jaw, then down her neck—until she finally realized where this was going.

Oh.

Oh.

His hand settled around her throat. Hardly. But his fingers curved around it just enough to make her gasp.

Then his thumb pressed, just a little, right over her pulse point.

The sound that came out of her wasn’t even a word. It was a noise. A very embarrassing, very real, criminally aroused noise.

“So are you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

She shivered.

Not good. Definitely not good.

Or maybe it was? Hard to say with the severe lack of oxygen in her brain.

“I don’t think lieutenants are supposed to choke Princesses,” she breathed, trying to land somewhere between a smirk and a plea for mercy.

Atsumu pretended to think, fingers drumming lightly on her pulse. “Guess not,” he mused. Just when she thought he might let go, his grip tightened—just a touch. “Only the ones who ask for it.”

Mother Above.

She was hyperventilating. Her legs were growing impractically weak. Her fingers curled into a fist on his vest, part frustration, part something else entirely.

Shit. Fuck. Balls. He was going to kiss her. She could feel it.

Then, like a prayer answered by the Gods, the porch door slid open.

“Hey, Bokuto wants to play Twister, you two game—what the fuck are you doing?”

They broke apart with eyes wide as saucers, shoulders stiff as rock. Less “kinky lieutenant disciplining a subordinate” core and more like two soldiers snapped to attention.

Suna gave her an accusing stare.

“Atsumu was choking me non consensually.”

“WHAT?!”

He deserved it. He really did.

Her stare said it all: Take that, asshole. That’s what you get for giving me the worst emotional whiplash of my life.

Suna’s face remained painfully blank. He looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh, scold, or call for help.

He settled for a simple sigh.

“…Right, well. When you two are done roleplaying, come join us. Or don’t. I heard there’s a guest bedroom upstairs if you need it.”

She should’ve clapped back. Normally, she would. But her brain short-circuited somewhere between “guest bedroom” and “roleplaying” and now her cheeks were on fire. Her whole body was overheating, and she was pretty sure her brains might have scrambled a bit.

The only thing tethering her to Earth was Atsumu. He nudged her with his elbow, eyes glinting with trouble.

That alone was enough to annoy her back to the present.

“Twister, right?” she muttered, already brushing past him. “I’m down.”

Down to play. Down bad. Both were true.

Even now, she was definitely not thinking about the way he’d looked with his hand around her throat.

Nope. Not at all.

And the mention of Twister definitely hadn’t made her picture herself being bent in half by a man in a skull mask.

God, she needed to get a grip.

…Preferably not on his utility belt.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️