Miya Astumu - Blog Posts

senpai is furthering his education

atsumu remembering the very alive aran

kita the savior! & bonus samu:

"Draw me a fox!"

said the person taking this picture to members of Inarizaki's volleyball team. Who is no one in particular, could be you, could be me, could be my Haikyuu OC.

Started as a doodle of me just wanting to draw the 3rd years interacting with my OC that just devolved into its own thing. Sorry if it's cringe I did this all in the wee early hours of the morning listening to Project Zomboid gameplay

captions for written words in Alt. Text.

Taken from the perspective of a different character that could be you, your OC or someone else. Originally I wanted to do it from the perspective of my Haikyuu OC but then reading the captions I realized that it's too nice for the way I wrote her so just take it like it's a classmate, your character or someone else writing it.

I love the 3rd years so much I can't explain why but yes

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 5

The sharp clang of the school bell signaled the end of class, jolting you out of your thoughts. You blinked, realizing you had barely absorbed a single word of the lecture. Your fingers mindlessly traced the spine of your textbook as students shuffled around you, chairs scraping against the floor, the din of conversation rising as everyone spilled into the hallway for lunch.

Your body moved on autopilot, gathering your belongings and slipping into the throng of students, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. The past few days had been a blur, a tangled mess of secrets, frustration, and moments you couldn’t quite categorize. Your lips tingled at the memory of his mouth on them, your skin still seemed to burn where he had touched you, and no matter how much you tried to shake it, you felt restless.

Lost in thought, you barely noticed when you stepped into the cafeteria—

Until a loud, unmistakable voice cut through the noise like a whip.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

You barely had time to process before Hana Yoshida came barreling toward you, her long dark hair swaying dramatically behind her, eyes narrowed with accusation and concern.

You winced. Shit.

"You have been straight-up ghosting me, and I swear to god if you say it's because of some stupid schoolwork, I will lose my mind."

Her hands found her hips as she planted herself in front of you, blocking your path with the kind of intensity only Hana could manage. She was radiating energy, a force of nature wrapped in an oversized school sweater and a skirt she had definitely rolled up against dress code.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she immediately cut you off, her sharp brown eyes narrowing further. "No. Don’t even try to make an excuse, because I know you. And I know when you’re hiding something."

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. "I—uh—"

"Yeah, uh-uh, my ass." Hana scoffed, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward your usual lunch spot with zero room for argument. "Spill. Now. Before I start making up my own theories, and trust me, you won't like them."

You swallowed hard.

"I've just been busy," you tried weakly, avoiding her piercing gaze. "You know, school, club activities, the usual."

Hana’s eyes narrowed even further as she leaned in closer, scanning your face with an almost predatory level of scrutiny. And then, as if something suddenly clicked, her jaw dropped.

She gasped so loudly that a few students actually turned their heads in curiosity. Then, without missing a beat, she pointed an accusatory finger directly at your chest.

"Oh. My. God. You’ve been having sex!"

Your stomach plummeted.

Panic shot through you at lightning speed, your hand flying up to clasp over her mouth before she could blurt out another humiliating declaration for the entire cafeteria to hear.

"Shut up!" you hissed, your face heating up so fast you thought you might combust on the spot. "Would you keep your voice down?!"

Hana’s muffled laugh vibrated against your palm before she wrenched your hand away, eyes practically sparkling with glee. "Oh, I knew it! I knew something was up! And judging by how flustered you are, I’m right!"

She smirked, leaning in even closer, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "You look so mellow and relaxed lately. And honestly? You’re glowing. Whoever is dicking you down is doing a great job."

Your face erupted in flames. "Will you just shut up?!" you hissed, mortified beyond belief, your eyes darting around to make sure no one else had overheard.

Hana only grinned wider, clearly having the time of her life. "Oh, I am so not shutting up. I need details."

You stuttered, scrambling for a way out of this conversation. "T-there's nothing to say. It was just a fling," you lied through your teeth, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

Hana's eyes narrowed like a predator locking onto its prey. "Oh, sure. Just a fling? You, Miss ‘I Don’t Do Hookups’? You expect me to believe that?"

Before she could press you further, a loud voice cut through the cafeteria noise, pulling you from Hana’s relentless interrogation.

"Hey, manager!"

You turned, internally sighing in relief, as Osamu, Atsumu, Aran, Suna, and Hitoshi made their way toward you. The group moved with familiar ease, their casual bickering bleeding into the air like background static. Even before they reached your table, you could tell they were in the middle of one of their stupid arguments.

"God, you guys can’t leave me alone, huh?" you teased, forcing yourself to sound as normal as possible while shifting slightly in your seat. You could still feel Hana's gaze boring into the side of your head, but for now, she was momentarily distracted.

Hana huffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, you guys get her before and after school. Can't I reserve her for lunch?"

"Don't worry, we only need her for a quick second," Suna added with a smirk, earning a roll of your eyes.

"We got a serious debate," Hitoshi declared, arms crossed, his expression dead serious. "Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?"

Osamu sighed, shaking his head. "A hundred duck-sized horses, obviously. A horse-sized duck would be terrifying."

Suna scoffed. "Nah, you’re thinking too hard about it. A horse-sized duck would have hollow bones. It wouldn’t even be that strong."

You blinked, deadpan. "That’s what you’re arguing about?"

Atsumu grinned, leaning forward, his golden eyes glinting with mischief. "C’mon, we need a tie-breaker."

You rolled your eyes, already feeling the familiar urge to snark back. "Knowing you, Miya, you’d lose to both."

Atsumu’s smug expression instantly dropped, replaced with mock offense. "Excuse me? I’d destroy that oversized poultry."

"Doubt it," you shot back. "You’d probably trip over your own ego before you could throw the first punch."

Atsumu’s golden eyes gleamed with challenge, his smirk widening as if he was ready to throw another quip your way. He leaned in slightly, opening his mouth—

"Oh, sweetheart, you really gotta work on your comebacks. That one barely stung."

"Oh, up yours, you insufferable—" you began with a sweet smile, voice dripping with venom, but before you could finish, Aran cut in with a sigh. "Okay, okay, let’s get food before this turns into another screaming match."

You raised your hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm the one with self-control."

Atsumu shot you a glare, clearly not amused, his mouth opening to retort, but you only grinned wider. "That being said—a horse-sized duck."

Half the boys erupted into a small but silent victory celebration, their smug grins a stark contrast to the ones rolling their eyes in annoyance. With that, the group turned and began heading toward the lunch line, still bickering about the logistics of fighting oversized poultry.

Atsumu threw you one last smirk, his golden eyes flashing with something too smug, too knowing, before turning on his heel to follow the rest of the team.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but there was something in that fleeting glance—a silent challenge, a lingering amusement, a spark of something neither of you wanted to name. Your stomach twisted at the way his smirk lingered even as he walked away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the lunch crowd.

You barely had time to process it before Hana's nails dug into your arm with newfound intensity.

"Oh. My. God. Miya Atsumu?!"

Your stomach dropped, the cafeteria suddenly feeling too bright, too loud, every sound around you fading into a dull hum compared to the sheer horror of what had just left Hana’s mouth.

Hana’s voice was barely a whisper, but the absolute horror and uncontainable glee in her tone made your face burn hotter than the sun, the heat creeping up your neck and settling into your ears.

"What?! You are out of your mind—" you sputtered, words tumbling out before you could even think of a solid defense. Your hands instinctively gripped the edge of the table, like you needed something to ground yourself before you keeled over in embarrassment.

But Hana just grinned, completely unfazed, watching you with a predatory kind of giddiness, like she had just unearthed the juiciest gossip of the century.

"I mean, it makes sense," she continued, tapping her chin as if she were solving a grand mystery, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He’s stupid pretty, and you both hate each other’s guts."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to tell her she had completely lost her mind, but then—

Hana’s expression shifted.

As if a switch flipped.

Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and then—

She gasped, loud and dramatic, clutching your arm so tightly you thought she might dislocate your shoulder.

"You’ve been having hate sex and didn’t tell me?!"

You winced, her words cutting through the already overwhelming noise of the cafeteria, but to you, they felt magnified, exposed, like she had just put you on trial in the middle of lunch hour.

A groan ripped from your throat, your hand dragging down your face as if you could physically wipe this moment from existence.

"Goddamn it, can you stop being so perceptive?" you gritted out, your voice half a plea, half a curse, the mortification settling deep in your bones.

Hana, however, looked delighted, her grin only stretching wider, eating up your suffering like it was the most entertaining thing she’d ever witnessed.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat, your head dropping onto the desk with a resigned sigh.

"What do you want to know?" you mumbled, knowing full well you had just opened the floodgates to hell.

--

You told her everything—from the late-night encounters to the insults exchanged between breathless moans, the ridiculous tension that neither of you acknowledged in daylight, the way he was just so frustrating even when he wasn’t talking. Every stupid detail, every infuriating moment, all of it. The way his smirk made your skin prickle with annoyance, how his hands always seemed to leave behind an unbearable heat, the way he had this infuriating ability to push every single one of your buttons. And yet, somehow, you kept going back. Again and again.

By the time you finished, Hana was just staring at you, blinking slowly, like she needed a moment to actually process the sheer absurdity of the situation you had just described. Then, she leaned back, exhaled slowly, and with the most deadpan expression, simply said:

"Wow. I'm so jealous."

A snort escaped you before you could stop it, your body tensing and relaxing all at once. "Only you would be jealous of this kind of situation."

Hana shrugged, her lips pulling into a lazy, knowing grin. "I mean, what’s not to like? The sex is good, he’s not bad to look at—"

"I hate his guts," you cut in, scowling, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table. There was no way in hell you were letting her finish that sentence.

Hana just stopped, her eyes scanning your face with undisguised skepticism, her head tilting slightly like you had just said the dumbest thing imaginable.

"Right." She dragged the word out, voice drenched in disbelief, as if she was humoring a child who just declared they didn’t like sugar.

Your teeth clenched, frustration flaring hot in your chest. "I’m serious, Hana. I can’t stand him."

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk only growing, clearly unimpressed. "But you can stand him inside you."

Your mouth fell open in horror, your entire body locking up before you slapped her shoulder—hard enough to make her burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh my god, shut up!" you hissed, your face burning.

Hana just grinned, completely unrepentant, rubbing her arm with mock injury. "I’m just saying. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a thing for him."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Absolutely not. I could never see myself with him. It’s just physical. That’s it."

"Mmhmm," Hana hummed, tapping her chin dramatically, like she was filing away her own private analysis of your situation. Then, after a few seconds, she tilted her head, as if casually remembering something.

"Then you shouldn’t care that Ayumi Tanaka is planning on asking him out."

Your entire body tensed before your head snapped toward her so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

"What?" you blurted out, voice sharper than you intended.

Hana blinked, her lips quirking as if she knew exactly what she was doing. "Oh, yeah. She was talking about it in the locker room the other day. Said she’s been into him for a while and figured she’d shoot her shot."

Your jaw locked, a strange heat curling in your chest. "And… he said what?"

Hana shrugged. "Dunno. She hasn’t asked him yet. But she was pretty confident."

You hated the way your stomach twisted at that. Absolutely despised it. Because it shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t. This thing with Atsumu? It wasn’t real—just something to get out of both your systems. That’s it. That was the agreement. And yet, the thought of him with someone else, letting someone else touch him, whisper things into his ear, run their hands over his skin—

No. Absolutely not.

Wait. Why do I care?

Hana leaned forward, watching your expression with obvious amusement. "Oh, wow. You hate him so much, yet here you are, looking like you just swallowed a lemon."

You tore your gaze away, forcing yourself to breathe. "I don’t care."

Hana smirked. "Right. Totally buying that."

Before you could snap back, the sharp ring of the school bell split the air, signaling the end of lunch. You shot up from your seat so fast it nearly knocked your tray over.

"Oh wow, the bell! Gotta go!" you rushed out, grabbing your bag and making a beeline for the exit like your life depended on it.

Hana, still seated, only crossed her arms, watching you flee with an exasperated shake of her head. "This isn’t over!" she called after you, her voice carrying over the cafeteria noise.

You barely heard her as you pushed through the hallway, her words still rattling in your head. Your stomach twisted as you replayed the conversation, the image of Atsumu with someone else digging its claws into your brain like an itch you couldn't scratch. The idea of another girl sliding her hands over his skin, pulling those same groans from his throat, whispering in his ear—it sent a fresh, unwanted wave of irritation crawling through your veins.

You trudged down the hallway, weaving through the clusters of students lingering outside their classrooms, your mind still clouded with the lingering conversation you had barely escaped from. Hana’s words played on a loop in your head, irritating and persistent, no matter how much you tried to shake them off.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 4 (NSFW)

Two months had passed, and despite every rational part of you screaming that this was a terrible idea, you had found yourself tangled up in a routine that made it impossible to stop.

Atsumu had become a habit—one that was filthy, consuming, and utterly reckless. The secrecy of it all only made it worse. Late nights, locked doors, hushed whispers, and rough hands in dark rooms. You hated him. He pissed you off. And yet, here you were, again, back in his bed, completely at his mercy.

Your thighs trembled, muscles tight with anticipation as you gripped the sheets, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as his mouth worked you open. Wet, hot, relentless.

"Fuck, Tsumu—" your voice broke as his tongue flicked over your clit, teasing, taunting, making you feel like you were unraveling at the seams. Your fingers tangled into his messy blonde hair, pulling him closer, but the bastard hardly needed the encouragement.

He was devouring you.

He hummed against you, sending a delicious shiver through your core. Atsumu lived for this—for the way you twisted beneath him, for the way you couldn't stop yourself from falling apart in his mouth. His grip on your thighs tightened, spreading you wider, giving him full access to ruin you.

"Missed me, huh?" he murmured between slow, deliberate strokes, his voice thick with amusement.

You wanted to smack that smugness off of him, to snap back with something sharp and cutting, but when his tongue pushed inside, any semblance of thought vanished.

"Oh, fuck—"

His chuckle was dark, pleased, vibrating against your sensitive skin. "That's it."

You should have kicked him in the face. Should have. But all you could do was arch, pressing yourself closer, giving in to the intensity, letting him take whatever he wanted—because fuck, you wanted it too.

The pleasure built fast, coiling tight in your stomach, every nerve burning with overstimulation. He knew exactly what he was doing, and worse, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed keeping you on edge. Enjoyed the messy, breathless moans spilling from your lips, the helpless way you moved against him.

Atsumu was playing you like a damn game, and he was winning.

"Tsumu—" you gasped, back bowing off the mattress, hands fisting into the sheets. Your thighs shook, dangerously close to clamping around his head, but he wouldn’t let you—his grip was iron.

"Let go," he murmured, his voice rough with hunger, his tongue swirling slow and deep, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking.

And that was it.

The tension snapped.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as you shattered, pleasure crashing over you in hot, violent waves. Blinding, overwhelming, too much. Your body locked up, then trembled, your release hitting you so hard you nearly saw stars.

Atsumu groaned against you, his fingers digging into your hips as he licked you through it, his tongue still fucking teasing, dragging out every aftershock until you were whimpering, too sensitive to bear it.

Your body felt like liquid, your limbs useless, your mind still floating in the aftermath when the bed shifted. Through half-lidded, hazy eyes, you watched as Atsumu sat up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, golden eyes dark, hooded with satisfaction.

He was so fucking pleased with himself.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice thick with satisfaction as he reached for the condom on the nightstand, rolling it on with practiced ease. "Ya look so good when ya come."

You barely had time to glare at him before—

The front door swung open.

Your entire body froze.

"Oi, 'Tsumu! You home?"

Fucking Osamu.

Atsumu cursed, already moving, his reflexes sharp as hell as he grabbed your wrist and yanked you off the bed. Your half-fogged brain barely caught up before you were being shoved toward the only hiding place available—

Under his damn bed.

You scrambled beneath it just as Osamu’s footsteps approached the room, your skin still burning, every nerve still buzzing from your orgasm. Still fucking naked.

And worse? It was disgusting under here.

A layer of dust clung to the floor, a few stray socks shoved against the far wall—probably unwashed—and your stomach turned when your elbow knocked into a bottle of lotion next to what was clearly a magazine filled with dirty pictures.

Oh, my god.

Your jaw clenched in horrified realization, but there was no time to react because above you, Atsumu was scrambling.

You heard the distinct sound of fabric being yanked as he snatched the nearest shirt off the floor, shoving it over his head in record time. The bedsprings groaned as he moved, no doubt trying to cover his raging hard-on with a blanket before his brother walked in.

"Yeah, I'm here. What d'ya want?" Atsumu called, his voice just barely holding its usual casual edge.

From your position on the goddamn floor, your heart hammered, breath caught in your throat.

This was a fucking disaster.

Osamu stepped inside, his gaze immediately narrowing in suspicion as he took in the sight of Atsumu sitting stiffly on the bed, a blanket haphazardly draped over his lap, hair ruffled, and his shirt clearly thrown on in a panic.

"What are you doing?" Osamu asked, crossing his arms, his tone carrying the weight of deep skepticism.

Atsumu floundered for a response. "Uh—just—nappin’."

Osamu raised a brow, his eyes flickering to the blanket, the slight tension in Atsumu’s posture, the way his twin wouldn’t meet his gaze. Slowly, a look of realization—followed by deep, profound disgust—settled over his face.

"Oh, gross." Osamu took a step back like he’d been personally offended. "The bathroom exists for a reason, ya know."

Atsumu’s eyes widened in horror. "What? No! That’s not—"

"Dude, I don’t wanna know!" Osamu cut him off, throwing up a hand. "I walked in on ya once when we were kids and I still haven’t recovered. I ain’t doing this again."

Atsumu groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I wasn’t jackin’ off, dumbass!"

Osamu, looking entirely unconvinced, took another step toward the door. "Hey, look, I don’t care what ya do in here—just let me know when you’re done and I’ll come back." His lip curled in mild disgust before he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

The front door clicked closed a moment later, signaling that Osamu had left the house.

Silence.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding before crawling out from under the bed, glaring at Atsumu as you brushed dust and questionable particles off your skin.

"That," you said, voice flat, "was humiliating. And disgusting. Can you vacuum under your bed once in a while? I think I inhaled ten years' worth of filth."

You plucked a lint ball from your hair in disgust, shaking it off your fingers as Atsumu flopped dramatically onto the mattress with a groan.

"Not my fault ya had to go crawlin’ under there," he shot back, smirking despite himself. "Bet ya got real acquainted with my side of the world, huh?"

You scowled. "I got real acquainted with the fact that you're a goddamn slob."

Atsumu scoffed, propping himself up on his elbows. "Ya got outta there alive, didn’t ya? No harm done."

You folded your arms, leveling him with a hard stare. "Listen, that was way too close. We need to be more careful."

Atsumu hummed, tapping his fingers against his stomach in thought before flashing that infuriating smirk. "We could always get a motel."

You snorted, shaking your head. "And be seen in public with you? Not a chance."

Atsumu laughed, but there was something too satisfied in the way he looked at you, eyes dark and knowing. "Talkin’ a lotta shit for someone who just came on my tongue, sweetheart."

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your neck at the way he said it, like he was ready for another round.

And judging by the way his gaze dropped to your still-naked body, he was.

Atsumu sat up, moving toward you, fingers skimming over your thigh, his intent crystal clear. "C'mon, we still got time."

You caught his wrist before he could get any further, leveling him with a pointed glare. "No. I need to shower."

His smirk deepened. "You need an extra set of hands?"

"I'd rather stick forks in my eyes."

Atsumu laughed as you stormed off toward the bathroom, ignoring the heat lingering in your stomach, ignoring the fact that a tiny, stupid part of you was tempted.

The moment you shut the door behind you, you exhaled sharply, bracing yourself against the sink as you stared at your reflection. Your face was still flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses, and your neck—God, your neck—was littered with faint marks that were dangerously close to being noticeable. Scowling, you turned away, peeling off the remnants of the night before and stepping into the shower.

The warm water was a relief, soothing your aching muscles, washing away the sweat, the scent of Atsumu, the overwhelming reminder of what had just happened. But no matter how much soap you scrubbed into your skin, you couldn’t erase the feeling of him—his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on you, the way he had looked at you like he knew he’d ruined you.

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the tiled wall. What the hell were you doing?

This was supposed to be a one-time thing. A mistake that you could brush off, pretend it never happened. But instead, it had become a habit, a reckless, intoxicating cycle that neither of you seemed willing to break.

By the time you stepped out, towel-drying your hair, you dressed quickly, shoving your clothes on with every intention of getting the hell out of there before anything else happened.

You cracked open the door, listening for any signs of Osamu’s return, but the house was quiet. Atsumu was probably still in his room, lounging around like he hadn’t just forced you into a near-death situation under his bed.

With careful steps, you grabbed your bag and slipped out of his house, the cool night air hitting your skin as you finally felt like you could breathe.

That was, until you ran right into Osamu, nearly sending a bag of gas station snacks flying from his hands.

He looked like he had been killing time, dressed casually in a hoodie and sweats, the plastic bag in his grasp rustling as a bottle of tea and a pack of chips shifted inside. His hair was slightly mussed from the evening air, his expression easygoing at first, clearly not expecting to bump into you.

"Oh, hey," he greeted, his tone friendly, his expression relaxed at first. "Didn’t expect to see ya ‘round here."

You cursed internally, forcing a casual smile. "Yeah! Uh—just had some errands to run."

Osamu tilted his head slightly. "Errands? Thought ya lived on the other end of town."

Your brain scrambled for an answer, anything that wasn’t oh, just fucking your brother senseless and then hiding under his bed like a cockroach.

"Uh—dentist appointment."

Osamu blinked. Once. Twice.

"At this time?"

You hesitated, painfully aware that it was nine at night, and absolutely no sane dentist operated at this hour. "Yeah, my dentist is a night owl," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows pulled together, his expression shifting from friendly curiosity to mild confusion. "...A night owl. Right."

You could feel the weight of his slowly dawning suspicion as he took another look at you—at the way you were a little too quick to answer, at how your shirt looked slightly ruffled, at the fact that you were clearly in a rush to leave.

Abort. Abort. Abort.

Before he could press you for details that would only dig you deeper into this stupid-ass lie, you rushed out, "What about you? What are you doing out here?"

Osamu sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Just gettin’ some air. My brother's bein' gross. Well… you would know."

Your entire body seized up, but you forced a light, slightly awkward laugh, as if that wasn’t the most terrifying statement you’d heard all day. "Ha. Yeah."

The silence that followed was excruciating, stretching far too long as Osamu watched you, his gaze weighing heavier by the second. He wasn’t stupid. The Miya twins might have been frustrating, but they weren’t clueless. He was piecing things together, connecting dots that you desperately needed to keep apart.

Time to go.

"Okay, bye! See you at practice!" you said a little too quickly, spinning on your heel and scurrying away before he could say anything else.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you walked, resisting the urge to sprint as you put as much distance between yourself and Osamu as possible.

As soon as you were far enough, you yanked your phone out of your pocket, typing out a single text to Atsumu:

Find a motel.

Helloooo another request because I absolutely love your Favourite position series! Can you write one about Atsumu because you write him so well. Not just him honestly all the characters you write are so accurate and well written. Take your time and thank your for blessing us with your writing!!🩷🩷

Heheh I've had this one cooking for a long time. Thank you for saying I write him well that makes my day since he's like my husband 😩🩷

Enjoy <333

--

Favourite Positions: Atsumu

Atsumu Miya was a performer.

On the court, in front of a camera, with strangers or friends—he knew how to put on a show. He thrived on reaction, on praise, on the high that came from being watched and admired. And in bed, it was no different.

He liked it when you were loud.

When you praised him with gasps and whimpers, when your nails dragged down his back and your voice cracked saying his name. When your legs trembled, when your thighs clenched, when you said—again and again—that no one made you feel like he did.

But one night, in the quiet hush of your shared bedroom, you laughed—soft, teasing—and said something he couldn’t let go.

“You’re good, Tsumu,” you purred, voice sugary sweet, brushing your lips against his ear. “But I don’t think you’ve ever made me scream.”

He went still. Blinked once. And then he smiled.

Not just any smile. That one. The cocky, infuriating, competitive smile he only wore when he took something personally.

“Oh, is that a challenge?” he asked, voice deceptively light.

You shrugged, smirking. “I’m just saying…”

And that was how you found yourself like this.

Laid on your side, one leg lifted and draped over his shoulder, the other pinned beneath his weight. His hand was anchored under your knee, firm and steady, keeping you stretched open for him, keeping you exposed and exactly where he wanted you.

He was already deep inside you, hips grinding in slow, devastating strokes that had your breath stuttering and your mind unraveling. The angle? Perfect. He hit that spot—your spot—over and over, like he had it memorized, like he could find it with his eyes closed.

But what got you most—more than the rhythm, more than the stretch—was the way he watched you.

Eyes locked on your face. Focused. Determined.

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t playful. He was proving something.

“Y’re not gonna be able to talk when I’m done,” he muttered, voice thick with effort, lips brushing against your jaw. “Gonna make you scream so loud, the whole fuckin’ neighborhood’s gonna know.”

You gasped, your hand flailing to grip the sheets as his cock hit that spot again, again, again. Every thrust angled perfectly, timed like he was syncing it to the beat of your pulse, to the rhythm of your gasps.

Your voice cracked. “T-Tsumu—”

“Oh, now y’can’t talk?” he chuckled, dark and pleased, hand dragging down to press your belly. “Thought y’had somethin’ smart to say.”

Your leg trembled on his shoulder. Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the way he kept striking that same devastating spot inside you. It was blinding—white-hot heat coiling tighter and tighter, an ache that started deep in your belly and spread like fire under your skin. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through your nerves, your muscles drawn so tight you thought you might snap. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

The only thing you could feel was him—Atsumu, filling you completely, dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips. Your walls fluttered around him, desperate and pulsing, your vision starting to blur at the edges. Tears prickled in the corners of your eyes, pleasure cresting into something dizzying, something raw.

And still, he didn’t let up.

His pace quickened, hips snapping forward with more force, each movement sending a shockwave through your body. The pressure was unbearable, unbearable—and yet, you craved more. You needed more. Your hands clawed uselessly at the bedspread, searching for something, anything, to hold onto.

“Say it,” he growled, voice right by your ear now, his breath hot, cock still driving into you at that perfect, devastating angle. “Say who’s makin’ you scream.”

You barely managed it.

“Atsumu—oh my god, Atsumu—”

You shattered.

Your cry echoed off the walls, louder than you’d ever been before. It ripped from your chest, raw and helpless, your entire body locking up. Back arched, fingers clawing at the sheets, thighs quivering violently as your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Raw. Messy. Loud. It didn’t stop—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, pulsing around him with a force that left you sobbing.

Atsumu groaned, curse muffled into your neck as he fucked you through it, hips stuttering before he came hard, hot and deep inside you, his own orgasm pulled from him with a strangled moan. He rode out every last pulse of it, buried deep, clinging to your thigh like his anchor.

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there, your leg still draped over his shoulder, chest heaving against the back of your thigh, his hand still gripping you like he didn’t want to let go. His face nuzzled into the curve of your chest, lips ghosting over the swell of your breast as he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses there—gentle and slow, a quiet contrast to the way he’d just wrecked you.

When he finally leaned back to look at you, his smile was smug, but his eyes were warm—staring down at the wrecked mess he made.

“Still think I can’t make you scream?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too far gone—eyelids fluttering, mouth parted, body twitching with the aftershocks.

And as he looked down at the wrecked mess of you—eyes glassy, hair clinging to your forehead, body limp and trembling—Atsumu realized something.

This position?

Yeah. It was his favorite now.

Jealousy: Atsumu

The celebratory buzz of victory still lingered heavy in the air, blending seamlessly with the steady hum of the dimly lit bar. Neon lights glowed softly overhead, reflecting off half-empty glasses and illuminating faces flushed from laughter and excitement. The MSBY Jackals had just secured another victory, and the night was young—filled with endless possibilities for celebration.

You excused yourself briefly, slipping away to the bathroom to freshen up, confident Atsumu would manage fine for a few minutes without you. After all, he was your boyfriend, and everyone on the team knew it.

But apparently, not everyone in the bar did.

Returning a few moments later, your eyes instantly zeroed in on your boyfriend, who was leaning against the bar, drink in hand, politely nodding at something a pretty brunette was enthusiastically telling him. Her gestures were exaggerated, her smile bright and flirtatious, eyes gleaming with undisguised interest.

Atsumu, ever the people-pleaser, was wearing his usual easy smirk, clearly indulging the conversation while keeping it just polite enough to not be rude. He wasn’t uncomfortable—just looking for the right opportunity to leave without making a scene. You, however, were not nearly as patient.

The sharp twinge of jealousy that shot through your chest was unexpected, hot, and immediate, intensifying further when the girl boldly reached out, her delicate fingers lingering on his bicep as she laughed at something he said. Your eyes narrowed sharply, irritation prickling beneath your skin, making your pulse quicken.

You moved forward before you fully processed it, steps deliberate, chin held high. Without hesitation, you reached Atsumu’s side, sliding your arm firmly through his and pressing yourself close, your chest intentionally brushing against him. You felt him tense slightly in surprise before relaxing instantly when he recognized your touch.

"Hey, babe," you purred softly, voice dripping honey as you leaned up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just beneath his jawline, lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. Atsumu stiffened again, but this time it was from something entirely different, a shiver rippling down his spine as you let your lips linger just a bit longer than necessary.

Pulling back with a possessive little smile, you turned your attention to the woman whose hand had fallen awkwardly away, eyes wide in stunned silence.

"Oh," you said innocently, tilting your head just slightly. "Who's your new friend, 'Tsumu?"

Atsumu cleared his throat, clearly biting back an amused grin. "Honestly, I didn't catch her name."

The woman laughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing pink as she waved a hand in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were... together."

"Oh, no worries," you smiled sweetly, your eyes glittering with playful sharpness. "He’s a pretty polite guy, isn’t he? Almost too nice for his own good sometimes." You chuckled lightly, your fingers tracing gentle circles along his arm. Then, as if remembering something, you turned to Atsumu, voice light and casual, "I think I’m done for the night. Wanna head out?"

Atsumu barely hesitated before flashing you a lazy grin. "Yeah, sounds good."

You turned back to the woman, still smiling as she swallowed thickly, her face now a shade darker. "Are you a fan? It's always lovely to meet his fans."

The woman opened her mouth—then closed it, nodding mutely.

"Well, we’re heading out. Hope ya have a great night!" you chirped before steering Atsumu toward the exit, satisfied with how quickly the situation had turned in your favor.

The second she was out of sight, Atsumu glanced down at you, eyebrows raised, a mischievous grin slowly spreading across his lips. "Ya okay there, sweetheart?"

You sighed, lips pursed in annoyance. "I’m fine."

His grin widened knowingly. "Ya sure? Seemed a little territorial back there."

"I was not territorial," you huffed defensively, fingers tightening unconsciously around his arm.

Atsumu chuckled warmly, leaning in until his lips brushed teasingly against your ear, breath warm as he whispered, "Sure felt like it."

Heat spread across your cheeks as you shoved at his shoulder lightly, embarrassment mixing with lingering irritation. "Shut up. You weren’t exactly doing a good job of making her leave."

He laughed, the rich sound rumbling through his chest as he wrapped an arm securely around your waist, guiding you gently toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps ya sleep at night."

Rolling your eyes fondly, you leaned into him, smiling despite yourself. "You're impossible."

"Mhm," he hummed, pressing a teasing kiss to the top of your head, his voice dropping to a low, amused murmur. "But ya love it."

Then, in a lower, rougher tone, he added, "And, not gonna lie, kinda turned me on."

You blinked, heat spreading to your ears now as you gave him a side glance. "Are you serious?"

Atsumu smirked, tugging you just a bit closer as his lips barely grazed the shell of your ear. "Wanna head home and find out?"

The weight of his words settled between you, thick and charged. You exhaled softly, your fingers brushing along the hem of his jacket. "You’re really impossible."

"Mhm," Atsumu hummed, mischief dancing in his golden eyes as he leaned down, lips hovering just over yours. "But I’m yours."

I’m being greedy here,

but it would be funny if Inarizaki was trying to figure out if their manager has a secret admirer. With all the snacks, food and encouraging notes being given to them, but it just turned out to be their (platonic) girlfriend

No greed at all! I love it ehehe

Hope you enjoy! and thanks for the ask <333 I love doing these --

It started small. A sports drink left on the bench, a protein bar tucked neatly beside your clipboard, a sticky note with a simple Good job today! scribbled in neat handwriting.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. Maybe someone had left the drink behind by accident, maybe the protein bar was a spare someone had tossed your way. The note? Probably just an afterthought. No big deal.

But then it kept happening.

Snacks. Energy drinks. Even small bento boxes labeled with your name, left in the exact same spot every single time. The notes became more frequent too—little words scrawled on post-its, ranging from Eat something before practice, idiot. to You better be drinking enough water. and Take a break before you pass out.

By the end of the week, the team had noticed.

And by the end of the next, they had declared a full-blown investigation.

“I’m tellin’ ya, this is definitely the work of a secret admirer.” Ginjima crossed his arms, nodding as if he were uncovering something straight out of a mystery novel.

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the gym wall. “Or, y’know, it’s just someone bein’ nice.”

“No way, ‘Samu! This is classic romance material.” Atsumu leaned in, eyes alight with interest. “Secret notes? Snacks? Somebody’s tryna woo our manager.”

“‘Woo’?” Suna repeated, unimpressed. “Who the hell says ‘woo’?”

“You get what I mean.”

Aran, ever the voice of reason, sighed. “Maybe it’s just a fan. Not everything has to be a romance novel, guys.”

“No way.” Ginjima shook his head. “This is deeper than that. It’s been weeks. This is a long game play.”

Osamu scoffed. “So what? You think it’s some secret, undyin’ love confession?”

Atsumu nodded, smirking. “Or maybe it’s someone right under our noses.”

That’s when they all turned their heads toward Suna.

He blinked. “No.”

“You’re bein’ awfully quiet about all this,” Atsumu pointed out, grin widening. “Kinda suspicious.”

Suna didn’t even blink. “I don’t care enough to do all that.”

“Suspicious,” Osamu agreed, just to mess with him.

Suna sighed. “Go to hell.”

But the team wasn’t done. They spent the rest of the week staking out the gym, watching like hawks every time you left your clipboard unattended. They devised shifts. Shifts. They trailed behind you in the hallways, whispering conspiracies amongst themselves. At one point, they even considered interrogating Kita—only for Osamu to firmly shoot that idea down because “If ya bother him with this nonsense, we’re all dead.”

Their investigation escalated. They started tracking patterns—when the notes appeared, the exact minute snacks were placed. They cross-referenced schedules, trying to narrow down suspects. Ginjima even went so far as to create a messy suspect board in the clubroom, red strings connecting completely unrelated names, post-it notes containing unhinged theories.

“Alright, so if we rule out known variables—” Ginjima began, tapping the board with a marker.

“Did ya seriously make a conspiracy wall?” Osamu asked flatly.

“It’s called evidence, ‘Samu.”

“It’s called insanity,” Suna corrected, lazily eating a rice cracker.

And then, just when tensions were reaching their peak—when Atsumu was this close to breaking into your locker just to “gather more clues”—the answer came crashing down on them in the form of a very cheerful visitor.

“Hey, loser, I got your favorite snacks again!”

You barely had time to turn before a familiar arm was slinging around your shoulder, a plastic bag dangling from their other hand. The entire team froze. You could feel the sheer intensity of their collective stare boring into the back of your head.

Your best friend—your very, very platonic best friend—blinked at the awkward tension in the gym. “Uh. What’s with them?”

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “They think I have a secret admirer.”

Your friend snorted. “Pfft—you? Please, who would want you?”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Atsumu, standing dumbfounded beside Osamu, made a strangled noise. “You? It was you this whole time?!”

“Duh.” Your friend rolled their eyes. “What, you guys thought someone was trying to date them?”

Ginjima sputtered. “So—wait—you were just—just doing all this platonically?”

You deadpanned. “Yes. That is what friendship is.”

Osamu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y’all are idiots.”

Suna, who had been unfairly accused, leaned back smugly. “Told you so.”

Atsumu looked personally betrayed. “Weeks—weeks—of stakeouts, of investigation, of tracking patterns—for this?!”

Your friend snickered. “God, you guys need a hobby.”

Kita, passing by without even stopping, simply muttered, “I told you all to drop it.”

Aran chuckled, shaking his head. “All that effort, just for nothing.”

Atsumu groaned dramatically, dropping onto one of the benches as if the weight of the world had just crushed him. “This is devastating.”

Osamu patted his shoulder. “Ya brought this on yerself.”

Ginjima, looking up at his massive evidence board, sighed. “Guess I should take this down.”

Suna, still smug, pulled out his phone. “No, keep it. I’m sending this to the group chat.”

And just like that, the case was closed.

Managerial Duties: Inarizaki

The gym hummed with the familiar sounds of practice—sneakers squeaking against the polished wooden floor, the rhythmic thuds of volleyballs being passed, the sharp whistles from the coaching staff calling out drills. Despite the usual intensity, one corner of the court stood out, where a first-year was repeatedly failing to receive a serve. Every time the ball came hurtling over the net, it ricocheted off his forearms awkwardly or skidded away in an uncontrolled direction. His frustration was palpable, his shoulders tense as he shook his head and muttered under his breath.

You had been watching from the sidelines, arms folded as you observed the way his stance shifted just before contact. His weight was off, and his timing was a fraction too slow—small errors that compounded into one big problem. With a sigh, you stepped forward, motioning for him to pause.

“Try widening your base a little more,” you instructed, tapping your foot against the floor to demonstrate. “If you keep standing so stiff, the ball’s just going to knock you off balance. Loosen up, shift with it, don’t fight it.”

The first-year hesitated before nodding, adjusting his stance as you had suggested. Before he could attempt again, however, a familiar voice cut through the air, dripping with smug amusement.

“She may be the manager,” Atsumu drawled from across the court, his golden eyes glinting with mischief, “but try takin’ advice from an actual player.”

A ripple of laughter followed his words as he sauntered closer, spinning a volleyball between his fingers. His smirk was lazy, self-assured, the kind of expression that made you want to wipe it clean off his face. You slowly turned to face him, leveling him with an unimpressed stare.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a PhD in receiving,” you shot back, voice laced with dry sarcasm. “By all means, Miya, please educate us lesser beings.”

The gym’s atmosphere shifted instantly. A few players who had been in their own drills slowed, turning their heads with interest. The rest of the team wasn’t going to let this pass unnoticed. Osamu, who had been idly refilling his water bottle, perked up from his spot near the bench, already smirking as he anticipated the banter that was about to unfold.

Atsumu’s grin widened, his cockiness unshaken. “Ain’t about havin’ a PhD. It’s about experience. And last I checked, ya ain’t the one out there servin’ in nationals.”

A slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. "You're right, I'm not. But then again, you spend all your time servin’, while I actually learned how to receive."

The reaction was instant. Aran let out a low whistle, Osamu barked out a laugh, and even Suna's smirk twitched slightly. Atsumu tilted his head, clearly amused, but you caught the flicker of something sharper behind his expression—curiosity.

“Oh yeah?” he mused, tapping the volleyball lightly against his palm. “Then how ‘bout ya prove it?”

The words barely left his mouth before the other players reacted. Suna, who had been casually stretching nearby, sat up straighter, his gaze flicking between you and Atsumu like he had just stumbled upon something far more entertaining than practice. The rest of the team quickly caught on, whispers and murmurs spreading like wildfire.

Atsumu ignored them, eyes locked on you. “C’mon, manager. Think ya can handle one?”

The challenge hung between you like a taut wire, the weight of every gaze in the gym settling on your shoulders. Most of them, you knew, were already betting against you in their heads. Atsumu was known for his ruthless, pinpoint-accurate serves, the kind that left even the best liberos struggling.

But that’s exactly what made this fun.

You exhaled slowly, reaching up to unbutton your team jacket before sliding it off in one smooth motion. A hush fell over the court as you folded it over your arm and set it aside. Without a word, you walked to the opposite side of the court, rolling your shoulders as you moved. Along the way, you grabbed a pair of spare knee pads from the equipment pile, sliding them over your track pants. Then, with practiced ease, you crouched into a libero’s ready stance, feet planted, knees bent, weight balanced perfectly.

“Bring it,” you said simply.

Osamu groaned, already sensing where this was going. “Don’t be stupid. Ya know his serves are hell.”

You didn't talk much, getting into the zone. "I know."

Osamu’s brows lifted. “You know?”

Atsumu’s smirk twitched slightly, something unreadable flickering across his features. “And what exactly do ya know?” But you don't respond.

You didn’t move, didn’t blink—just stared at him, completely unfazed, waiting for him to serve.

You rolled your shoulders, shaking out any stiffness, meeting his gaze. “That your serves are fast. That they’re heavy, deceptive. That if I blink, I’ll miss it. That you’re expecting me to screw this up.” You smirked slightly. “That about sum it up?”

A beat of silence passed before Aran let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Atsumu tilted his head, his usual smugness fading into something else—interest. He bounced the volleyball once against the floor before catching it, eyes gleaming. “Alright, then. Let’s see what ya got.”

Aran crossed his arms, letting out a slow sigh. "This ain’t a smart move."

Osamu clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Hope ya like bruises."

The court stilled as Atsumu took his place at the baseline, rolling his shoulders before tossing the ball in his usual pre-serve routine. The tension was palpable now, a mix of disbelief and anticipation.

Most of them thought you were about to get wrecked.

"Ten bucks on the manager eatin’ dirt," Ginjima muttered, arms crossed as he glanced at the others.

"Nah, I’ll say she gets a hand on it but doesn’t control it," one of the first-years chimed in.

"I got five on Atsumu embarrassing her," another snickered.

"Idiots," Aran sighed. "At least bet somethin’ interesting."

Suna, however, leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a smirk.

“Put me down for a win,” he said, voice calm.

Osamu looked at him like he was insane. “Ya serious?”

Suna’s smirk widened. “Yeah. I’ve got a good feeling.”

Atsumu, unaware of the exchange, exhaled deeply before tossing the ball high into the air. In the split second before he made contact, everything seemed to slow.

Then—

A sharp, deafening crack as his palm connected with the ball, sending it screaming over the net with vicious speed. It was a perfect serve—fast, cutting, barely losing momentum as it hurtled straight toward you. Gasps rang out as everyone braced for the inevitable.

But you were already moving.

Your feet pushed off the ground with practiced precision, body reacting purely on instinct. Time snapped back into motion as you lunged forward, reading the spin in a split second, dropping into a perfect tumble to absorb the impact. The ball met your forearms with a loud thwack, and for a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then, impossibly, the ball arced upward—clean, controlled, perfect.

It landed precisely where a setter would need it.

The gym erupted.

“What the hell?” Ginjima gawked, eyes wide.

“No way,” one of the first-years breathed.

Osamu just stood there, mouth slightly open before slowly dragging a hand down his face. "Well, damn. I should’ve bet against ‘Tsumu."

Atsumu, still frozen at the baseline, blinked at you in genuine disbelief. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again, but all that came out was, "How—?"

A pause. His brows furrowed, his brain visibly short-circuiting. "But ya—?"

Silence. A deep inhale, then a third attempt. "There’s no way—"

Nothing coherent followed.

Atsumu looked genuinely betrayed by reality itself, struggling to reconcile what had just happened with everything he knew about volleyball.

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. A sharp, satisfied sound, the kind that made the stunned silence in the gym even more ridiculous. "Oh my god, you look like you just saw a ghost," you teased, shaking your head.

You rolled your shoulders, exhaling slowly as you straightened up. "I played libero in middle school, and I still play casual games." A brief pause, then you nodded toward Suna. "We went to the same middle school. Suna knows."

Every head in the gym turned to Suna, who simply smirked, arms still folded. He let the silence stretch for a moment before tilting his head toward the rest of the team.

“So,” he said smoothly, “who owes me what?”

Before anyone could react further, a new voice cut through the noise. "What’s everyone standing around for?"

The entire team turned to see Kita standing in the doorway, his usual composed expression tinged with mild disapproval. The court immediately fell into silence, the players straightening unconsciously as if caught slacking.

"Uh," Ginjima cleared his throat. "Just—observin’ somethin’ important, Kita."

Kita’s sharp gaze swept over the court before landing on Atsumu, who still hadn't moved from the baseline, then flicked toward you, standing composed and unruffled. "Hm." His eyes narrowed slightly before he simply nodded. "Get back to work."

Without another word, the gym broke back into motion, though murmurs still floated around, disbelief lingering in the air.

With that, you dusted off your hands and turned toward the exit. "Alright, I'll be back."

As soon as you stepped past the gym doors and out of their line of sight, the composure you had held so effortlessly cracked. A sharp, searing ache radiated through your forearms, the sting of the brutal impact catching up to you all at once. You sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to cradle your arms like they had just been run over.

"Holy shit," you hissed under your breath, shaking out your wrists in a futile attempt to lessen the throbbing. Atsumu really didn’t hold back. The ball had practically dented your bones.

You glanced down at your skin, already seeing the faint beginnings of bruises forming beneath the surface. Yep, no way you were getting through the next week without feeling this.

Forcing yourself to walk straight despite the radiating pain, you took a sharp turn down the hallway and made a beeline for the nurse’s office.

"Long sleeves for the next week, it is," you muttered to yourself, resigned to your fate as you pushed the door open, fully ready to drown in an ice pack for the next hour.

Rivalry: Sakusa

The camera clicks, the flash reflecting off the sheen of sweat on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face as he stares down at you from behind his mask. Even in victory, there’s a sharpness to him, a quiet tension crackling beneath his cool exterior, and it’s aimed directly at you.

“Your defense wasn’t as sharp as usual tonight. Were you struggling to keep up, or was there another reason for the misreads?” you begin, voice steady as your pen glides across your notepad.

The press conference room is thick with anticipation, the air charged with a static-like tension. Reporters lean forward in their seats, pens poised, some shifting uncomfortably while others exchange intrigued glances. The bright overhead lights cast stark shadows on the players, emphasizing the sharpness of Sakusa’s features as he stares you down. They know what you’re doing. More importantly, he knows what you’re doing.

Sakusa’s gaze narrows slightly. Sakusa’s gaze doesn’t waver. "I adjusted to their offense. If that looked like struggling to you, maybe you should take another look at the final score."

You don’t relent. “I'm aware of your team's victory, Sakusa-san. Are you relying too much on your teammates?”

The silence stretches longer this time. You know you’re poking the bear. Sakusa is known for his perfectionism, for his unshakable self-discipline, and you’re prodding at the cracks just to see if they’re there.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. "If trusting my teammates to do their jobs is a problem, then maybe you don’t understand how a team sport works."

The room seemed to inhale at once, a murmur rippling through the crowd. Some reporters exchanged knowing glances, while others scribbled frantically in their notebooks, sensing that this was the kind of soundbite that would be making headlines by morning. Cameras clicked in rapid succession, the bright flashes punctuating the thick tension in the air. A few journalists whispered to each other, gauging the reaction of the MSBY players, but none of them spoke up to break the moment.

Atsumu let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. Bokuto, who had been grinning just moments before, straightened slightly, his golden eyes flicking between you and Sakusa like he had just caught wind of something interesting. Even Meian, typically unfazed by media antics, raised an eyebrow at the way Sakusa’s fingers curled slightly against the table, his entire frame wound tight as if forcing himself to stay still.

You? You simply smirked, tapping your pen against your notebook before lifting your chin slightly. "No further questions."

That pisses him off more than anything. Because he knows—he knows—you got exactly what you wanted.

Sakusa clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring just slightly beneath his mask. It wasn’t just the question that irritated him—it was the way you delivered it, the way you smirked, the way you dismissed him like you had already gotten what you needed and he was no longer worth your time. The fact that you didn’t even look at him again as other reporters jumped in with their far more standard, predictable questions made something coil tight in his chest.

Sakusa forced himself to focus on the next question, but his grip on the microphone was just a little too firm, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of your pen scratching against paper as you took notes from the other players, like he wasn’t even worth your time anymore.

From then he knew who you were.

Knows your name, your face, the way your voice always cuts straight through to him no matter how many journalists crowd these post-match briefings. You’re a nuisance, an irritant, and yet—he never ignores your questions. Never brushes them off with the indifference he grants others.

You challenge him. And deep down, you both know he likes it.

~~

The first time you wrote about Sakusa Kiyoomi, your article had been direct and biting, dissecting his play with ruthless precision. Where others hailed his natural talent, you highlighted the flaws—the inconsistency in his service pressure, the occasional lapse in his blocking reads. Not to degrade him, but because you saw the potential for more. And apparently, so did he.

Since then, every time you covered an MSBY match, there was an unspoken expectation—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. But it wasn’t just that.

Sakusa remembers the very first time he noticed you. The first time you called him out in a press conference, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade, sharp and deliberate. He remembers how his fingers clenched under the table, how the irritation simmered low in his chest—not because of what you said, but because it made him feel something. It should’ve been just another question, just another reporter, but it wasn’t.

And it never has been since.—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. Over time, the rivalry evolved into something else, lingering in the way his gaze would flicker toward you during games or how his answers in press conferences were always a little sharper when you were the one asking the questions. Something neither of you had acknowledged.

The away game had been intense, but MSBY had emerged victorious. The final set had been a test of endurance, forcing the team to dig deep against an opponent determined to push them to their limits. The last point had come from a perfectly executed block—Sakusa reading the setter and shutting down the cross-court spike with a decisive palm. The crowd erupted, the whistle blew, and the scoreboard solidified their win.

Post-game adrenaline still ran through Sakusa’s veins as he walked into the media room alongside his teammates, their jerseys still damp with sweat. The moment they sat down at the press table, cameras flashed, and the room filled with a cacophony of voices as reporters fired off questions left and right.

“Your blocks were key in the third set! How did you adjust so quickly?”

“What do you think made the biggest difference against the opposing team’s hitters?”

“Your receives looked more inconsistent compared to last game. Do you think fatigue played a factor?”

Meian, as captain, answered first, offering the usual post-match reflections on team effort and strategy. Bokuto, beaming from ear to ear, leaned into the microphone and laughed about how ‘every game should be that intense!’ Hinata, still buzzing, nodded along, interjecting whenever he got the chance.

Sakusa answered each question he was asked with measured precision, keeping his responses brief but informative. He had done enough press to know how to maneuver through them without revealing much.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Shinohara was dominating the net in the second set, and you looked like you were scrambling to keep up. Would you say he got the better of you?”

Sakusa’s eyes snapped to the crowd of reporters, and there you were—standing among them, notebook in hand, your expression composed but sharp. The same way it had been earlier, when you had watched him from the sidelines and smirked before scribbling something down.

“Or was it frustration? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were second-guessing your reads more than usual. Did he force you to change your approach?”

The room held its breath, the shift in atmosphere nearly tangible. A few reporters traded quick looks, some leaning forward slightly, eager to see how Sakusa would respond. The usual rustling of notepads and scribbling of pens slowed, all eyes trained on the exchange.

His jaw tightened, fingers pressing into the table with restrained force. "Is that what you saw?" His voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, like a rope pulled too tight. The question wasn’t dismissive—it was a challenge. He adjusted his mask, fingers pressing into the fabric before exhaling slowly. “I was focused. Not frustrated.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind that said you knew exactly what you were doing. That you had dragged him into this, and he had walked right into it. Without another word, you lowered your pen and let the other reporters take over, shifting their questions toward Meian and Bokuto instead.

At the table, Atsumu and Bokuto shared a look.

“Didja see that?” Atsumu muttered under his breath.

Bokuto grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Sakusa ignored them, but he could feel their eyes on him, burning with interest.

The banquet hall is grand, an opulent display of polished marble floors and cascading chandeliers that bathe the room in warm, golden light. The scent of decadent dishes—slow-roasted meats, rich pastas, fresh seafood—intertwines with the subtle notes of fine wine and aged whiskey. Servers weave gracefully through the throngs of athletes, journalists, and executives, their trays balancing crystal goblets and plates laden with gourmet delicacies. The atmosphere is both relaxed and electric, the hum of voices, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain blending into an effortless symphony of post-match revelry. It was a post-match tradition for away games—a chance for players, staff, and members of the media to unwind.

At the MSBY table, Sakusa swirled his drink lazily in his glass, only half-listening to the conversation between his teammates.

“You got grilled again,” Bokuto laughed, nudging him. “Man, she’s relentless.”

“Pretty sure she enjoys making your life difficult,” Meian added, smirking over the rim of his beer.

Hinata grins. “She really goes for you in those press conferences. Think she’s got a thing for you?”

Sakusa scoffs, setting his drink down. “Doubtful.”

Atsumu, who has been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Nah, I think you got a thing for her.”

Sakusa tenses, shooting him a glare. “Shut up.”

“Oooh, he didn’t deny it,” Bokuto teases, laughing as he throws an arm around Hinata’s shoulders. “Kiyo, you like the attention, don’t you?”

Meian shakes his head. “I’d believe that if he wasn’t always so pissy after talking to her.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just doing her job.”

Atsumu grins. “So are you, but ya sure get all riled up when she’s around.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. Not one he wants to say out loud, anyway.

His teammates exchange looks, sensing that the teasing has gotten under his skin more than usual. But before any of them can make another comment, Sakusa stands abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hinata asks, blinking up at him.

Sakusa doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flickers across the room—to the bar, where you’re seated, nursing a drink while scrolling through your phone. His fingers tighten around his glass.

Atsumu follows his line of sight and grins. “Ah. Interesting.”

Sakusa ignores him and walks off.

You notice him before he even reaches the bar, that unmistakable presence making your pulse pick up just slightly.

He slides onto the stool beside you, his mask now tucked under his chin. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You’re hovering."

He mirrors your words from earlier, tone dry. "I haven’t said anything yet."

"You’re about to."

Sakusa exhales through his nose, gaze flickering briefly toward the drink in your hand before settling back on you. The air between you is thick, the usual sharpness in his stare now laced with something else—something unreadable.

You tilt your head slightly, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before speaking again. "You seemed irritated earlier."

"I wonder why."

You smirk. "I’d say it’s part of my job, but you already know that."

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans back against the bar, fingers tapping idly against his glass. "You enjoy it, don’t you? Getting under my skin."

"If it gets me the truth, then yeah."

His jaw tightens slightly at that, and for a second, you think he might say something else. But instead, he just watches you, eyes dark, expression unreadable.

You swirl the last of your drink in your glass, tilting your head as you watch him. Then, with a half-smirk, you say it—mostly as a joke. "You know, if you’re that desperate to defend yourself, I could offer you a private interview."

You don’t expect anything to come of it. In fact, you’re already preparing for him to scoff and dismiss the idea entirely.

But instead, Sakusa blinks, his fingers pausing on his glass. "When?"

That one word nearly makes you choke on your own drink. You open your mouth, close it, then recover with a casual shrug. "My recorder’s upstairs."

His gaze sharpens. "You’re still looking for an angle."

You shrug. "I’m looking for an answer."

Sakusa exhales, slow and measured, before finally nodding. "Fine. Let’s go." Neither of you move for a second. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, you both stand at the same time. The air between you tightens with something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name yet.

Across the room, Meian lets out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that."

Atsumu elbows Bokuto, barely able to contain his excitement. "Oh my god, Kiyoomi is getting some."

You weren’t expecting him to agree so easily, but you mask your surprise, finishing your drink before sliding off the stool. The walk out of the banquet hall is silent, the tension between you threading tighter with every step. You don’t look at him as you press the elevator button, and he doesn’t look at you when the doors slide open.

But the weight of his presence lingers, undeniable and electric.

The two of you walk toward the elevators in silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s charged, simmering beneath the surface. Neither of you say a word, but every step forward feels deliberate, like a move in a game neither of you are willing to lose. The walk is silent, tension threading between you, thick with something unspoken.

The moment the door to your hotel room clicks shut behind you, the atmosphere shifts—becomes something heavier, charged. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts elongated shadows along the sleek, modern furnishings, bathing the space in an intimate warmth. The distant murmur of the city beyond the window seems inconsequential compared to the weight of the silence stretching taut between you and Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately. He lingers near the entrance, his hand still resting lightly on the door handle, as if debating whether he should turn around and walk away. A flicker of hesitation ghosts across his face—so brief that most wouldn’t catch it, but you do.

Why is he here?

The easy answer is the interview. But deep down, he knows that’s not the truth. It hasn’t been for a while. You get under his skin in ways no one else does, and despite how much it infuriates him, he’s still here, standing in your hotel room, waiting for a reason not to be.

But you don’t give him one. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately, just lingers near the entrance, as if deciding whether he regrets agreeing to this. You, on the other hand, are already setting your recorder on the desk, flipping open your notebook with practiced ease. There’s no hesitation in your movements, no indication that you’d been thinking about the way he reacted back in the press conference.

But he knows you have.

He watches as you click your pen once, twice, before finally meeting his gaze. "Take a seat, Sakusa-san."

His jaw flexes, but he steps further into the room, pulling out the chair across from you with just a little more force than necessary. The scrape of the wood against the floor is sharp, punctuating the air between you. He doesn’t slouch, doesn’t let himself sink into the seat—no, he sits with his back straight, arms crossed, like he’s bracing for impact.

You hit record.

"So, let’s start with the game," you begin, voice even, measured. "Despite your win, Shinohara’s attack percentage was noticeably higher than yours. Do you think his presence on the court pushed you to your limits?"

Sakusa exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tensing. "He’s a strong player, but I wouldn’t say he ‘pushed me to my limits.’ I adjusted accordingly."

"You adjusted, but his success rate didn’t drop. So was the issue with your defense, or was he just the better player tonight?"

A pause. A sharp inhale from Sakusa. The muscle in his jaw twitches again.

"I don’t recall losing."

You tilt your head slightly. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Sakusa’s fingers curl against his arms, his nails pressing into the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes narrow, but there’s something else there too—something almost like intrigue beneath the irritation.

"If you’re looking for a soundbite, you’re not getting one."

You smirk, tapping your pen against your notebook. "Oh, I already got one."

His eyes flicker over your face, scanning, analyzing, before his irritation shifts into something else. Something darker. More intent.

The recorder sits between you, capturing every word, but neither of you are really thinking about the interview anymore. The weight of the tension settles thick in the air, lingering in the space between your crossed arms and his unwavering stare.

Sakusa exhales through his nose. "Next question."

You hesitate.

It’s barely a second—just long enough for your fingers to falter on your notepad, for your breath to catch as you take in the weight of his stare. And he sees it.

That single moment of doubt.

It fuels him more than anything else.

But you both know—this interview isn’t ending the way it was supposed to. He leans against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“So,” you start, keeping your voice even. “How do you think the game went?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You saw it.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Sakusa leans forward slightly. “You always want to hear it from me.”

You smile. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. “That’s my job.”

“Is it?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your notepad. There’s something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. “You tell me.”

For the first time, his mask is completely gone—not just the physical one, but the carefully measured distance he keeps between himself and the world. His gaze dips to your lips for half a second before snapping back up, something sharp and intent in his expression.

And then, he’s moving.

That night, nothing else matters. Not the rivalry, not the press, not the game. Just Sakusa Kiyoomi and the way he finally lets go—just for you.

Nosedives (Miya Astumu x Reader) Pt. 1

You were startled awake by a sharp knocking at your door. It was persistent, loud, and you instantly knew who it was.

But that didn’t make you any less angry.

You stumble out of bed, eyeing the clock as you read the ungodly time of 2 am, infuriated. You pull on your robe, trying to make yourself look somewhat decent before ultimately deciding that you shouldn’t have to, then marching to your door to whip it open.

“Atsumu, it’s too late for your shit. Someone better be dying.” You look down at your best friend (tentative at the moment) with utter dismay and annoyance.

He barges pasts you and into your apartment, making way to your kitchen. You sigh deeply, already being able to tell this was going to be a long night. As he rummages through your fridge, you glare at him with narrowed eyes, waiting for an explanation. You watch in disbelief as he opens your fridge and grabs a beer from one of the shelves, opening it and taking a long slug. You watch as Atsumu chugs down the beer, feeling a mix of frustration and slight concern for him.

“Hey, dipshit. We have places to go get drinks, they’re called bars. Go there instead of bothering me at two in the goddamn morning.” You hiss, walking to face him across your kitchen island.

He gives you a long look, and it gives you time to really drink him in. Atsumu was wearing a black leather jacket with a nice, albeit tight sweater (The kind that really showed off his broad shoulders) and some trousers. His smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he takes another swig from the bottle, completely unfazed by your frustration.

You deduce that, most likely, the man in question had a date. Which wasn’t surprising for you; Atsumu had always been somewhat of a ladies man. Even back in high school he had girls begging at his feet to go on dates. You personally never really understood the obsession. Sure, he was good looking, but with his personality…

Eh, you could understand everyone had their preferences.

Though, now as an adult, dates had turned into one night stands, but whatever. You weren’t one to judge, unless they started ransacking your kitchen.

Then you’d judge plenty.

“I’m pissed.” He finally says, slamming back the rest of the beer and searching for more in your fridge.

“Join the club. I got a best friend whose an asshole and is drinking all my well earned booze. What’s your problem?” Atsumu turns back to you, drink in hand.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Atsumu pounds back another beer, and you squint your eyes at him, knowing him too well for this bullshit.

“You came all the way over here, at two in the morning, might I add, just to not talk about it?” You cross your arms. You honestly just wanted to get this over with, so you could go back to sleep and have him crash on your couch like he normally did when he came over. He usually just needed a little coaxing to get his true intentions out. Then he’d spill (more like whine) and you could both move on.

“And for the beer.” He smirks, taking another sip, trying to be funny. You snatch the can away from him.

“Hey! I was drinking that!”

“And for that you owe me 7 bucks. Now what are you doing here? I got work in the morning you know.” He rolls his eyes, as if you were the problem here.

You were finding it difficult to remember why you hung around him so much.

“My date was a bitch.” He grumbled out, not looking at you. You only scoffed, failing to notice the growing redness around his cheeks and ears.

“And that’s what’s got you so wound up? I figured you’d be too mellowed out to care if she was a bitch after the fucking.” You said bluntly, taking a sip of beer you stole from Atsumu.

Well, it was technically yours, so it wasn’t stealing. He let out a long sigh.

“We never really got to that part.” You felt your jaw clench.

“So is she a bitch for not sleeping with you? I’m telling you, I’m finding it really hard to like you right now-“

“No, that’s not it.” He still refused to look at you, and you couldn’t help but become curious. Because not a lot of things flustered Atsumu, hell you could even say the man had no shame, so to find him this shaken…

It was interesting.

“We- We were in the middle of some foreplay, and she said…” Atsumu paused dramatically. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“She said?” You continued, taking another sip.

“That I didn’t know how to finger her.”

You couldn’t help but choke on your drink, not able to stifle your laughter. Atsumu shot you an annoyed glare as you continued to chuckle, gasping for air between fits of laughter and attempting for the alcohol to go down the correct pipe.

“It’s not funny!” Atsumu yelled your name, furious, as you continue to cough and laugh, the two actions intertwining.

“I’m sorr-sorry,” You coughed a couple more times. “I’m sorry its just- You were moping because she hurt your precious ‘wittle’ ego? What are you, 12?” He glared at you.

“It’s more than that!” He says, not even denying it. “This is about pride, and I’m completely justified! To say that is like saying I’ve got no skill, and lord knows I’ve. Got. Skill.” He ranted and you couldn’t wipe the smirk off your face. For as long as you knew him, Atsumu had always strived to be the best. At whatever he set his mind to. Whether it be volleyball, beating his brother, or even fucking, once he decided to be at the top, almost nothing could stop him. So seeing him being infuriated at the idea of not being the greatest at something he actually cared about, however stupid and shallow, made the dark part of you want to tease him a little but more. “I’ve satisfied countless women! You know!” You snorted.

“How would I? I’ve never been finger fucked by you. By all means she could be totally right.” You could tell that by the look on his face you struck a nerve. It gave you a little more satisfaction than it should’ve. You chalk it up to the slight buzz you felt from the alcohol.

“Alright then! I’ll prove it!” The statement gives you pause. Like, serious pause.

“Again, I must ask. How, exactly?” There’s a silence that follows that question, and one that fills your stomach with butterflies.

Suddenly, you see your best friend start walking around the island and towards you, grabbing your arm and dragging you to your couch, and practically shoving you on your back. He’s quick to follow, getting close enough to smell the strong fumes of alcohol on his breath.

Just how much had he drank before he came over?

You see him go for your robe tie, and you stop him there, pushing against a chest that shouldn’t feel that hard. This is where you draw the line. You could deal with a lot of things, but you don;t think your self-worth could handle the major repercussions of what you think is about to happen.

“Atsumu, what are you doing?”

“I said I’d prove it.” You deadpan.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You’re drunk and I’m not interested.” He raises a brow at you, and you have to force your face to stay passive and unimpressed. He smirks, leaning in closer, ignoring your resistance and determined to prove his point.

“Oh come on. Everyone’s interested in me.” It’s your turn to raise a brow.

“This is bringing out a lovely colour on you.” He clicks his tongue.

“Think of this as an experiment.” Your answer is immediate. Maybe because you don’t want to actually consider it.

“Nope.” You push further, but he doesn’t budge. You’re now very aware of just how close he is. You can feel the warmth ebbing off him in waves.

“A bet?” That question catches your interest. You’re almost ashamed of how you’re beginning to fall for it.

“… How much?” You can’t believe the words that come out of your mouth, but you watch as Atsumu’s face brightens. You’re not sure if it’s because of the approval, or the challenge.

“500?” You honestly think about it. Weighing your morals and values about whether this would be ethical. Whether you really wanted to show your best friend of almost a decade that level of intimacy…

But then again, 500 bucks is 500 bucks.

“Deal.”

That’s all the conformation Atsumu needs, going to untie the knot of robe, when you go to stop him again. He actually whines. You squint at his impatience.

“What now?”

“It’s my body you’re groping here. I call the shots. We need to establish some ground rules.” He sighs heavily, but removes his hand, showing that he’s willing to listen.

“Nothing else but your hands, that means no kissing or anything close to that.” You wait for approval and he nods. “You’ll have ten minutes?”

“Five. I’ve never needed any more than that.” He smirks, and you stick your tongue out at his arrogance.

“Pretty cocky for someone who gave himself blueballs.”

“Not funny.”

“Humor is subjective.” You shrug, smirking at his distaste. “Oh yeah, go wash your hands before we start.” With that he goes to your bathroom and does what you ask. In those few minutes you had half the nerve to call it all off, with something in your gut telling you this was probably a bad idea, but you couldn’t make the decision fast enough before he came back, look in his eyes similar to when he was playing a game.

For some reason you felt a little out of your element.

“Alright. All washed. Ready to lose?” You roll your eyes, all the while trying to control your breathing.

“Please.” You couldn’t think of a proper comeback, which should’ve already told you you were in over your head, but you couldn’t even consider it as he finally removed your robe, showing your very ugly sleep attire. Which consisted of an extremely large, beaten up t-shirt.

And nothing else.

You felt your skin turn to fire as Atsumu trailed his leg up your thigh, gentle, precise.

Like a lion scoping out a gazette to kill.

“Start the clock.” He doesn’t ask, but demands, and you can’t even think to say anything as you start a five minute timer on your phone; Within the same breath he parts your thighs, just as soft and gentle. Like you were made of glass that he wouldn’t dare break. You almost get lost in the feeling, but jerk back to reality when he rubs against your lips with a light, feather like touch. You notice his eyes widen a fraction, but quickly return to half lidded as a smile begins to grow.

You can’t control your flinch, which causes him to smile deeper.

“No panties to bed? Didn’t think you were the type.” His voice is quiet, but powerful. The baritones cause your soul to shake in ways you never thought it could. It was unlike any tone you’ve ever heard him speak in. You have to stop yourself from covering yourself in embarrassment, but can’t stop the red that spreads across your cheeks.

“Shut up.” It’s said in the meekest voice you’ve ever heard. To be honest, if it wasn’t you, you’d have a hard time believing it was.

“None of the rules included no talking. So no, I don’t think I will.” You stay quiet, trying to avoid eye contact as he continues rubbing, tracing the lips of your cunt. It stays like that for a couple seconds, and you swear you begin to feel fuzzy.

The touch was like nothing, yet it felt like everything. You choose to look at the ceiling, trying to ignore the growing pulse in your lower belly, and the sudden lump in your throat.

“You’ve wasted about thirty seconds now… Do you need a picture of the woman anatomy? I don’t mind you using a cheat sheet…” You cringe at the slight shake in your voice, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice it.

“You fail to realize that the start of anything half decent is the anticipation of it.”

You stiffen at sentence. Not because of the words, but because of the sheer determination in his voice.

This fucker was serious about this.

Shit, you were so screwed.

“Which is why…” His thumb suddenly parts you, and you lightly hiss at the attack of cold air rushing against you, feeling exponentially stronger than you would have ever assumed.

“You’re absolutely soaked right now.” You hated how right he was, how you could hear your lips parting, but you couldn’t say anything as he wasted no more time, going directly for your clit, using the rough, calloused pad of his thumb to draw a large, slow circle. You jump at the direct contact, the juxtaposition from the light touch to the heavy rub, and you can’t stop the squeak that escapes you. You can feel his smugness ebb off him, poor deflated ego slowing have air be pumped back in.

You felt warm. Too warm.

“You’re pretty sensitive. Am I actually doing you a favour with this bet?” You realize just how close he is to you, his voice tingling the canal of your ear, and you squirm at it. He doesn’t stop his movements, still opting for slow full circles, and you try to focus on the walls of your apartment, all the while stopping yourself from moving your hips.

You’ve gone way too deep to stop this obvious bad idea. If you wanted to save face, you needed to beat him.

“I’ve had much hotter men do much better, so I wouldn’t be so sure.” You purr, only a little breathless, trying not think of the obvious lie you just told in favour of watching Atsumu’s jaw clench. But if you were being honest, Atsumu had always been attractive to you, and he wasn’t doing that bad a job.

Plus, you hadn’t had a date in months, let only a boyfriend. But there’s no way you’d let him know.

Though, you should’ve thought twice about riling him up. He was the more than determined now to make you eat those words.

He doesn’t say anything, opting for harsher treatment. He switches to smaller, tighter circles, and every once in a while a figure eight is drawn on your clit, rubbing that little pearl all the right ways. You don’t have time to think when you put your hand to your mouth, attempting to stop the whines that are desperately begging to come out. You fight against yourself to stop your eyes from rolling to back of your head, but you’re fighting an uphill battle.

You don’t even realize you’re rolling your hips until you feel the warmth of his hand on you, trying to keep you steady. If you weren’t floating on metaphoric nirvana right now, you’d be mortified.

“Would you like it if I did this?” He basically whispers, all too sensually, you add, pinching your clit right at its most sensitive. You jerk.

“Shit.” You hiss, automatically grabbing for his deltoid, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to mold half crescents into his muscles. You start to audibly hear your breathing. And Atsumu’s.

“I think that’s a yes.” He chuckles, but there’s no longer a smug tone to his voice, more like curiosity or… enamour.

“Let’s take it up a notch, yeah?” Your eyes widen when you feel his fingers leave your clit, embarrassingly puffed and engorged, to your even more embarrassing twitching hole. He circles it, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

You couldn’t watch your unraveling.

Your breath hitches when he enters a single digit, it practically glides in with the teasing he had done.

“God damn.” Atsumu mutters, but there’s no hint of a teasing or smug tone, seemingly way too focused with how you gripped his finger, sucking him in when he tried to pull back.

He starts slow, but the pace increases with every thrust of his finger. Though he wasn’t doing anything special persay, the girth of Atsumu’s fingers compared to yours was one you were not accustomed to, and one you definitely couldn’t handle silently. When he added a second, the stretch was so welcomed you couldn’t stop the sounds that broke through your mouth.

“F-fuck.” You strain, arching your back unconsciously. You were too far gone to notice just how intensely Atsumu is watching you. Or the very obvious tent forming in his pants.

The timer was long gone at this point, with both of you being more interested in the tempo at which his fingers moved. At some point you realized that with every thrust he would curl his fingers, and you immediately realized what he was trying to do.

You knew for sure you wouldn’t last if he kept that up. Your hand went from his deltoid to his wrist in an attempt to stop him.

“Wai-wait! Don’t-Don’t press-!”

Then he found it. That spongey flesh that made you see stars. His first press was hard, and you swear you almost came from that one move. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, unable to think of anything else.

Your visions too blurred with sudden tears to see the look on Atsumu’s face whether it was filled to brim with smug satisfaction or not.

Either way, he had found what he was looking for.

With his palm to your clit, he moved even faster than before, fingers slamming into you, curling his fingers with more and more accuracy each time. You no longer tried to contain your moans, focusing on the strange sensation of a growing pressure deep in your abdomen.

Something was telling you that it wasn’t a good sign for you.

You tried to formulate a sentence, words even, but all you could make out was a garbled version of his name, that he would most likely never let you forget.

The pressure was growing, and you started to panic. It was like a rubber band growing taught, and it was going to snap any second.

“You’re pretty close aren’t you? You’re twitching like crazy.” The murmur in your ear, along with the heat of his breath along the side of your neck, becomes way too much.

You whined in response, trying to let it be known that you were about to burst.

“Cum for me.”

And that was it. The band snapped and it snapped hard.

You saw literal white, a pressure being released that felt so great you almost ascended. It lasted a long while, and you still felt the aftershocks when he removed his fingers.

You felt boneless, not even caring about the point of whatever you two were doing. But what surprised you is the fact that Atsumu was quiet.

He was never quiet. Never.

Your eyes flutter open to a have lidded position not having the energy to open it any further. You get a look at him, but he isn’t looking at you, he’s looking down at his hand.

You blush, feeling only a little dose of reality come to smack you.

“Hey… Don’t be a perv and just gloat already-“

“You squirted.”

You freeze at his words, face feeling all that much brighter, as you go to check out the damage you hadn’t even realized you caused. You bend over to see, low and behold, a puddle of wetness sitting on your couch along with your best friends hand dripping in the essence of you.

It was… a lot. And had never happened to you before.

You both continue to stare, silence pretty much deafening, both of you unsure what to say. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

When the timer rang. Three prongs of sound filling the room, and slapping you into high gear.

This was too much for you.

You stood upright, a little too fast for your head or legs, feeling the shake in your muscles from the prolonged strain of tension.

“I-I should-… Clean the couch. You can sleep on the other one for now.” You refuse to make eye contact with the still quiet Atsumu, tying your robe as fast you could, heading for your nearest towel and wipes. You do the cleanup rather quickly, still not mentioning the extremely awkward situation. Once finished you try to tie up any loose ends.

“You know where the blanket and pillows are, help yourself. And I’ll uh… send you the money in the morning.” You mumble before rushing to your bedroom, slamming the door and clutching your heart in a panicked manner.

What. The. Fuck.