Under the Fairy Lights of Inarizaki
Inarizaki Volleyball Team × Third Year!Manager!Fem!Reader
Inclined Shinsuke Kita
× Third Year!Manager!Fem!Reader
HAIKYU!! MASTERLIST
The Inarizaki High School grounds had never looked so alive.
Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed above the volleyball court like a galaxy someone had stapled to the sky. The net had been taken down and replaced with a makeshift DJ booth (courtesy of the audio-visual club kids who’d bribed their way in with free snacks). Folding tables groaned under mountains of convenience-store onigiri, yakisoba, takoyaki, and suspiciously large bowls of punch that no one was asking questions about. Speakers thumped with a playlist that swung wildly between J-pop bangers, old-school enka remixes, and whatever viral TikTok sound was trending that week. The entire school had shown up—third-years pretending to be too cool to dance, second-years already half-drunk on sugar and adrenaline, first-years running around like escaped zoo animals.
They had claimed the center of the court like it was their kingdom.
You stepped onto the court at exactly 7:42 p.m., and the energy shifted like someone had flipped a switch.
High-waisted black shorts that hugged your hips and ass like they’d been painted on, the waistband sitting high enough to make your waist look even tinier. A deep-V lace camisole in soft ivory that dipped low enough to show the perfect hint of cleavage, the lace edges teasing every time you moved. Over it, an oversized cropped hoodie in mint-green (obviously), sleeves pushed up, hem stopping right above your navel. And the pièce de résistance: sleek black calf-length heeled boots that made your legs look endless and added just enough sway to every step. Your long hair fell in loose, glossy waves down your back, catching the fairy lights like it was made to shine. And perched on your nose? Brand-new teal rectangular box-framed glasses that somehow made your eyes look even bigger, sharper, and more devastating.
The moment your boots clicked against the court floor, half the volleyball team collectively choked on their drinks.
Atsumu was the first to recover (barely). He dropped his yakisoba cup so fast it splattered across Riseki’s sneakers.
“[NAME]-CHAN?!” he screeched, voice cracking into a register only dogs could hear. “What the—when did ya get hot like THAT?!”
Osamu smacked the back of his head without looking up from his onigiri. “She’s always been hot, idiot. You just finally noticed.”
Suna, leaning against a speaker with his arms crossed, pushed his phone down from where he’d already started recording. “Holy shit. The glasses. The shorts. The—everything. I’m framing this moment.”
Riseki, still frozen with yakisoba dripping off his shoe, whispered reverently, “[Name]-senpai looks like a magical girl who’s about to dropkick someone…”
Aran coughed into his fist, ears bright red. “Language, Riseki.”
Ōmimi just stared, arms crossed, then muttered to Ginjima, “I need to sit down.”
Ginjima nodded slowly. “Same.”
Akagi was openly fanning himself with a paper plate. “[Name]-chan, are you trying to kill us? Is this revenge for the headshot?”
Kita, standing near the punch bowl like the responsible adult he was, simply watched you walk across the court. His expression didn’t change, but the tips of his ears were scarlet, and he took one very deliberate sip of punch like it was going to save his soul.
You reached the group with a casual wave, that sweet, imperfect grin on full display. “Hey, boys. Having fun?”
Atsumu recovered first (predictably). He launched himself forward, arms wide. “[Name]-chan! Dance with me! C’mon, one song! I’ve been practicin’ my moves!”
Osamu grabbed the back of his collar like he was leashing a dog. “Over my dead body.”
Suna stepped smoothly in front of Atsumu, blocking him with one long arm. “She’s not dancing with you. You’ll step on her boots and cry when she breaks your foot.”
Atsumu flailed. “Oi! I’m an amazing dancer! [Name]-chan, tell ‘em!”
You laughed, adjusting your glasses with one finger. “You dance like a drunk flamingo, Atsumu. I’ve seen the videos.”
The entire team burst out laughing. Atsumu clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Betrayal! From my own [Name]-chan!”
Riseki, brave little first-year, raised a timid hand. “Um… [Name]-senpai? Can I—maybe—get one dance? Just one? I promise I won’t step on your boots…”
Akagi elbowed him gently. “Kid, you’re gonna faint before you even touch her.”
Before anyone could answer, the DJ dropped the opening beat of a remix of “Gnarly” (the same song you’d famously twerked to during the cheer uniform bet). The court erupted.
Atsumu saw his chance. “THIS IS MY SONG!”
Osamu caught him by the hoodie.
Suna grabbed the other sleeve.
They yanked in opposite directions like a tug-of-war rope.
“LET GO, ‘SAMU! SHE’S MINE FOR THIS SONG!”
“Like hell she is, ya tone-deaf disaster!”
Suna, still holding Atsumu’s sleeve, deadpanned over his shoulder at you, “[Name]-chan. Blink twice if you need rescuing from these two morons.”
You were already laughing so hard your stomach hurt, hands on your knees. “Guys—guys—there’s enough of me for one dance!”
Aran stepped in, arms crossed, smirking. “Actually, there’s enough for all of us. Line up, losers. We’re doing this properly.”
Ōmimi cracked his knuckles. “I call first.”
Ginjima immediately protested. “No way! I’ve been practicing the TikTok dance for weeks!”
Akagi raised both hands. “I just want to hold her hand. That’s it. That’s the dream.”
Riseki was vibrating. “I’ll take anything! Even if it’s just standing next to her while she dances!”
Kita watched the absolute circus unfold, then—quietly—walked over and offered you his hand.
The entire group went silent.
Even the music seemed to lower itself out of respect.
You took his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you into the center of the circle they’d unconsciously formed. He didn’t say a word—just started moving with you, slow at first, simple steps that somehow made the chaotic beat feel elegant.
The team lost their minds.
Atsumu wailed. “CAPTAIN?! That’s cheating! You can’t just—!”
Osamu snorted. “He can. He did. Get rekt.”
Suna started filming again. “This is going in the vault. Kita Shinsuke slow-dancing in public. The world must know.”
Aran laughed so hard he had to lean on Ōmimi. “Look at his face! He’s trying to stay serious but he’s blushing like a schoolgirl!”
Kita ignored them all. His hand stayed firm on your waist, the other holding yours, guiding you in a smooth circle that made your high-waisted shorts and cropped hoodie look like they’d been designed specifically for this moment. When the beat dropped, he spun you out, then pulled you back in close—close enough that your chest brushed his, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
You grinned up at him through your glasses. “Didn’t know you could dance, Shinsuke.”
His voice was low, just for you. “I can do a lot of things when it’s with you.”
The team collectively screamed.
Atsumu dropped to his knees. “THE CAPTAIN JUST FLIRTED! IN PUBLIC! I NEED TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER!”
Osamu dragged him up by the collar. “You are the manager of your own dignity and you’re failing miserably.”
Riseki was filming on his own phone now, tears in his eyes. “This is the best day of my life.”
When the song ended, Kita dipped you dramatically—perfect form, steady grip—and brought you back up slowly, eyes never leaving yours.
The beat was pounding so hard the fairy lights overhead seemed to pulse in time with it. The remix of “Gnarly” had looped back around for the third time because Atsumu kept yelling at the DJ to “play it again, it’s [Name]-chan’s song!” and nobody had the energy (or the death wish) to tell him no.
You were in the absolute center of the court, surrounded by the Inarizaki volleyball circus, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. The cropped hoodie had already ridden up twice from all the spinning and flailing, flashing your navel and the high waistband of those sinfully tight black shorts every time you moved. Your new teal glasses were slightly crooked from Riseki accidentally bumping into you during his enthusiastic “senpai appreciation twirl,” and your hair was a glorious, sweaty mess that somehow still looked magazine-ready.
The temperature had climbed from the sheer body heat of fifty teenagers jumping around, and you were overheating in the best way.
“[Name]-chan! You’re glowing!” Riseki shouted over the music, eyes sparkling like he was witnessing a deity descend. “Like—literally glowing! Is that glitter?!”
“It’s sweat, Riseki,” Ginjima yelled back, already fanning himself with his own shirt. “She’s a human sauna in those shorts!”
Atsumu, who had finally escaped Osamu’s death grip, slid up beside you with the grace of a drunk giraffe. “[Name]-chan! Dance battle! Me versus you! Winner gets to—uh—keep the loser’s dignity!”
You snorted, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “You already lost your dignity in the konbini last week, Atsumu.”
Osamu appeared out of nowhere, slinging an arm around your shoulders like a protective older brother. “She ain’t dancin’ with ya. Yer feet are weapons of mass destruction.”
Suna, phone still rolling, leaned in with his signature deadpan. “She’s already carrying the entire team on her back. Literally. Look at Ōmimi using her as a human trophy.”
Ōmimi, who still had you perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot earlier, grinned down at you. “She’s light as a feather. I could carry her all night.”
Akagi swooned dramatically. “[Name]-chan, marry me. I’ll treat you right. I’ll even let you steal my hoodies.”
Aran laughed so hard he nearly spilled his punch. “You’d let her steal your hoodies? That’s your love language? Weak, Akagi. Weak.”
You were laughing too hard to respond properly, the heat and the chaos and the sheer ridiculousness of it all finally tipping you over the edge.
“I’m dying,” you gasped, fanning yourself with both hands. “This hoodie is killing me!”
Atsumu’s eyes lit up like he’d been handed a golden ticket. “Take it off! TAKE IT OFF!”
Osamu immediately smacked him upside the head. “Shut up, pervert.”
Suna didn’t even blink. “Do it. For science.”
Riseki’s face went tomato-red. “[Name]-senpai—wait—uh—maybe keep it on? For—for safety?!”
The hoodie was suffocating, the cropped lace camisole underneath was already doing all the work, and the night air felt too good to resist.
You grabbed the hem of the mint-green cropped hoodie, yanked it up and over your head in one fluid motion, and tossed it into the air like it had personally offended you.
The entire volleyball court went dead silent for 0.8 seconds.
The hoodie sailed in a perfect arc and landed directly on Atsumu’s face.
He froze, arms out like he’d been hit with a stun gun.
The rest of the team lost their goddamn minds.
“OH MY GOD!” Riseki shrieked, hands flying to his cheeks. “SENPAI JUST—SHE JUST—THE LACE! THE CLEAVAGE! THE SHORTS! I’M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS!”
Ginjima fell backward into Akagi, who caught him like a fainting Victorian lady. “My heart—my heart can’t take this—someone call an ambulance—[Name]-chan just killed us all!”
Aran’s jaw was on the floor. “Holy… I need to speak to the manager of perfection. Because that’s what this is. Perfection.”
Ōmimi let out the deepest, most reverent “Damn” anyone had ever heard from him.
Suna’s phone nearly slipped from his hand. For the first time in recorded history, his cool cracked. “Okay. Yeah. This is going in the vault. And the Hall of Fame. And probably my funeral slideshow.”
Atsumu finally peeled the hoodie off his face, eyes comically wide, mouth hanging open. “[Name]-chan… the—the lace… the—the everything… I—I think I just ascended.”
Osamu grabbed the hoodie from his twin’s limp fingers and immediately draped it over your shoulders like a protective blanket. “Put it back on before these idiots have a collective stroke.”
You were laughing so hard tears streamed down your face, the deep-V camisole shifting with every giggle, the lace edges fluttering against your skin. “It was too hot! Sue me!”
Kita, who had been quietly observing from the edge of the circle, finally stepped forward.
The team went quiet again. Even Atsumu shut up.
Kita didn’t say a word at first. He just reached out, took the hoodie from Osamu’s hands, and very gently, very deliberately, slid it back over your shoulders himself.
His fingers brushed your collarbones as he zipped it halfway up—enough to cover the cleavage, not enough to hide how good you looked in the lace.
Then he looked at the rest of the team, eyes flat and deadly calm.
The entire court snapped to attention like they’d been called to formation.
Atsumu gulped. “Y-Yes, Captain…”
Riseki whispered, “I’m looking at the stars. Very interesting stars. Very far away.”
Kita’s gaze swept the group once more, then softened when it landed back on you.
He leaned in, voice low enough that only you (and Suna’s suspiciously close phone) could hear.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “But next time you decide to strip in front of the entire school, warn me first. I need time to prepare my murder list.”
You grinned, pushing your glasses up with one finger. “Noted, Captain.”
He gave you one last lingering look—dark, possessive, proud—then turned back to the team.
The DJ, sensing the shift in power, immediately dropped the bass again.
And just like that, the chaos resumed—but softer this time, sweeter.
The fairy lights overhead were starting to blur into golden streaks as the night wore on, the bass from the speakers rattling the temporary dance floor they’d taped down over the volleyball court lines. The entire Inarizaki student body was either jumping like possessed rabbits or pretending they were too cool to move, but the volleyball team? They had turned the center of the court into their own private war zone of limbs, laughter, and terrible dance attempts.
You were right in the eye of the storm.
The mint-green cropped hoodie was long gone—tossed somewhere into the crowd after the great “overheating liberation” moment—and now you were down to the deep-V lace camisole that clung to every curve like it had been custom-made to cause cardiac events, high-waisted black shorts that left exactly zero room for interpretation about the shape of your ass, and those sleek black calf-length heeled boots that added just enough height to make every spin feel dangerous.
Your hair was a wild, sweaty halo of waves, teal rectangular glasses slightly fogged from the heat, cheeks flushed bright pink, and every time you laughed it came out breathless and a little delirious.
You were at your absolute limit.
And somehow—through sheer chaotic momentum—you ended up chest-to-chest with Kita Shinsuke.
It happened during one of those ridiculous group spins where Atsumu had tried to “lead” everyone in a circle like a drunk conga line. He’d grabbed your hand, Osamu had grabbed his, Suna had latched onto Osamu, Riseki had latched onto Suna, and the whole chain had whipped around until centrifugal force flung you straight into Kita’s steady chest like a magnet finding north.
Your palms slapped against his sternum for balance.
His hands automatically settled on your waist—firm, warm, one thumb brushing the bare skin just above your shorts.
And neither of you moved.
The music kept thumping. The crowd kept screaming. But right there, in the middle of the madness, you and Kita were suddenly in your own quiet pocket of air.
Your forehead bumped his collarbone because of the height difference (even with the heels), lace pressing against his practice jersey, your heartbeat slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break out and run away.
Kita didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.
You tilted your head up, glasses slipping a little down your nose, eyes wide and glassy from laughter and heat and maybe one too many sips of suspiciously strong punch.
“Sh-Shinsuke…” you managed, voice cracking into a giggle that sounded half-hysterical. “I think… I think I’m gonna pass out.”
His dark eyes flicked down to yours, calm as ever, but the faintest flush colored the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose.
“Yer fine,” he said quietly, Kansai accent soft and low, just for you. “Breathe slow.”
You tried. You really did.
But then Atsumu’s voice sliced through the bubble like a chainsaw.
“OI OI OI OI WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”
Atsumu skidded to a halt so fast his sneakers squeaked, blond hair flopping into his eyes, mouth hanging open so wide you could see his tonsils. “CAPTAIN?! [NAME]-CHAN?! YER—YER CHEST-TO-CHEST?! IN PUBLIC?! WITH THE LACE?! AND THE SHORTS?! AND THE—THE EVERYTHING?!”
Osamu appeared at his shoulder like a demon summoned by bad decisions, gray eyes narrowed. “Let ‘em breathe, ya moron. Yer screamin’ like a banshee.”
Suna slid up on your other side, phone already up, deadpan as death. “This is the money shot. I’m getting at least three different angles.”
Riseki popped up between them like a meerkat, eyes huge behind his bangs. “[Name]-senpai… Captain… are you—um—are you hugging? Like… hugging-hugging? In front of the whole school?!”
Ginjima clutched Akagi’s arm so hard the libero winced. “I can’t watch. It’s too pure. It’s too powerful. My heart—”
Akagi patted Ginjima’s hand absently, staring openly. “She’s literally glued to him. Look at that. Look at how he’s holdin’ her waist. That’s—that’s husband grip.”
Ōmimi rumbled from somewhere behind the crowd. “If anyone tries to pull ‘em apart, I’m breakin’ fingers.”
Aran crossed his arms, smirking like a proud older brother. “Well damn. Guess the captain finally staked his claim in front of witnesses. Respect.”
You buried your burning face against Kita’s chest, shoulders shaking with laughter that was starting to sound suspiciously like sobs. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”
Kita’s hand slid up your back—slow, steady, protective—until his palm cupped the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair.
“No one’s killin’ ya,” he murmured against your temple, voice so low and steady it cut through the noise like a blade. “Yer safe. Even when yer actin’ like a fool.”
Atsumu threw both hands in the air. “ACTIN’ LIKE A FOOL?! SHE’S PRACTICALLY CLIMBIN’ HIM LIKE A TREE! AND HE’S JUST—JUST STANDIN’ THERE LIKE IT’S NORMAL?!”
Osamu snorted. “It is normal now, dumbass. Get used to it.”
Riseki started bouncing on his toes. “[Name]-senpai! Captain! Can I—can I get a picture? For the team group chat? Please? It’s for morale!”
Suna didn’t even wait for permission. The flash went off three times in rapid succession.
Kita’s eyebrow twitched—the Kita equivalent of a full-blown glare.
Suna didn’t flinch. “Already backed up. Cloud. External drive. My mom’s phone. It’s immortal now.”
You peeked up at Kita through your lashes, glasses crooked, cheeks flaming, but still grinning like an idiot. “Yer not mad?”
He looked down at you, expression softening in that rare, devastating way only you ever got to see.
“I’m mad that half the school is seein’ ya like this,” he said quietly, thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. “But I ain’t mad at ya. Never at ya.”
Atsumu wailed dramatically. “STOP BEIN’ ROMANTIC IN FRONT OF US! SOME OF US ARE SINGLE AND SUFFERIN’!”
Osamu grabbed him in a headlock. “Suffer quietly.”
Akagi started chanting softly. “Kita! [Name]! Kita! [Name]!”
Soon half the court was yelling it.
Riseki joined in with jazz hands.
Ginjima was filming now too.
Ōmimi just stood there like a silent guardian, arms crossed, nodding approvingly.
Aran laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Ōmimi’s shoulder. “Y’all are hopeless.”
You were still pressed chest-to-chest with Kita, heartbeat thundering against his, laughing so hard tears leaked from the corners of your eyes.
“Shinsuke,” you wheezed, “I think… I think we broke them.”
He exhaled through his nose—the Kita version of a chuckle—then leaned down and pressed the softest, most deliberate kiss to your forehead, right between your glasses and your beauty mark.
“Let ‘em break,” he murmured against your skin. “They’ll survive.”
Atsumu finally escaped the headlock and dropped to his knees in mock despair. “I can’t! I can’t handle this much romance! Someone get me a Pocari! I’m dehydrated from all the feelings!”
Osamu kicked him lightly in the ribs. “Get up, drama queen.”
Suna zoomed in on Atsumu’s crumpled form. “New thumbnail. ‘Local setter defeated by captain’s PDA.’”
You finally peeled yourself off Kita’s chest—just enough to breathe—but his hands stayed on your waist, steady, grounding.
“Ya okay?” he asked quietly, eyes searching yours.
You nodded, still giggling, cheeks flushed, heart racing.
He gave one small, satisfied nod.
Then—because the night was already ruined for dignity—he pulled you back in, arms wrapping fully around you, chin resting on top of your head.
The chant reached fever pitch.
And somewhere in the chaos, under the fairy lights and the thumping bass, with the entire school screaming your names, Kita Shinsuke held you like the world could fall apart around you both and he still wouldn’t let go.
This was comedy platinum.
And the Inarizaki volleyball team would never, ever let either of you live it down.
(But they’d also fight anyone who tried to take this night away from any of you.)
