Miya Twins - Blog Posts

My roman empire is that I totally believe Miya twins have matching tattoos, they get them before moving out, so whenever they miss each other, they would rub their tattoos and let themselves be comforted 😭

It could be cute little foxes holding volleyball and onigiri, or omg maybe the moon and sun matching tattoos because they actually complete each other. I imagine them on their wrists cuz they would subconsciously keep rubbing it :((((

Ps: Atsumu cried, we all know :) It was Samu's idea tho ;)

Pregnancy: Atsumu

You’re two months pregnant and absolutely glowing. There’s a nervous excitement in your every breath, your hand constantly drifting over your still-flat belly as if to check that it’s real. That there’s really a little life growing inside you. A little Miya, curled up and getting bigger by the day.

You’re in the passenger seat of the car, heading toward your very first ultrasound appointment. The windows are down, and the soft spring breeze is curling through your hair as the late morning sun streams through the windshield. Everything feels light. Hopeful. Surreal.

Atsumu is driving one-handed, his other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against your leggings. He hums quietly to the radio, lips twitching into a smile every time he glances over at you.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, “I been thinkin’ about what kind of nose they’ll have. Hopefully yours. Mine’s too pointy.”

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “As long as they don’t have your drama.”

“Hey!” he protests, though he’s still smiling as he squeezes your leg. “They’re allowed a little flair. They are mine, after all.”

You roll your eyes fondly, fingers tangling with his at the next red light. He lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before driving on.

When you pull into the clinic parking lot, your nerves start to set in—low and creeping. It’s your first time seeing the baby. Hearing a heartbeat. It makes everything feel suddenly, painfully real.

The waiting room is quiet, with soft instrumental music playing and the smell of hand sanitizer hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Atsumu, your knees bouncing ever so slightly as your mind races ahead. His hand is still in yours, firm and grounding.

When the nurse finally calls your name, you squeeze his fingers a little tighter.

The exam room is dimly lit, calm, with a monitor beside the table and soft instructions given as you lie back. You wince slightly at the cold gel, heart pounding in your ears as the technician glides the wand over your stomach.

She squints at the screen. Tilts her head.

Then her eyes widen slightly.

“Oh.”

You stiffen. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”

She’s quick to reassure you. “No, no—everything looks good. It’s just... you’re having twins.”

Silence.

Atsumu leans in closer, eyes squinting at the screen. “Twins?”

“Twins,” the technician repeats, pointing to two distinct little shapes. “You see here? Two sacs. Two heartbeats.”

Your gaze locks onto the screen. Two. Not one. Not the tiny flutter you’d been preparing for, but two.

A sudden wave of panic crashes over you.

“Two?” you echo, your voice a shaky whisper. “Like... two babies? At the same time?”

The technician gently clears her throat. "Well, it’s a little early to know for sure if they’re fraternal or identical, but yes—twins."

You feel your breath hitch, the room growing smaller around you. “That’s two car seats. Two cribs. Two births. Two newborns crying at once—”

Your hand grips Atsumu’s forearm, eyes wide as your mind races. “I don’t—I wasn’t ready for two. I barely wrapped my head around one.”

You’re still staring at the screen when Atsumu shifts closer to the bed, his hand still resting lightly on yours.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe for me, okay?”

You turn toward him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “Tsumu... that’s two babies. That’s two of everything. What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough for both of them?”

“You are,” he says instantly, without hesitation. “You will be. We will.”

But your hand flails toward his forearm like it needs something to latch onto. “This is your fault. You and Osamu. You cursed me with twin genes!”

He stares at you, stunned. “What?! How is this my fault?”

“Because you’re a twin! That’s how!”

The technician offers a gentle smile, still watching the monitor. “Actually, twins are likely influenced by the mother’s genetics. So if anyone ‘passed it down,’ it’s likely you.”

You blink slowly. “So... it’s me?”

Atsumu exhales—relieved. “See? I didn’t do this! You doubled down on your own.”

Your head snaps toward the technician, eyes wide and blinking rapidly, a storm of disbelief swirling behind them. You don’t say anything—but your look says plenty.

The technician catches the expression immediately and offers a placating smile, lifting her hands lightly. "I’ll give you two a minute," she says gently, already stepping toward the door, and quietly slips out of the room, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.

You drop your head back onto the exam pillow with a muffled groan. “I don’t know how to do one baby. Let alone two. That’s double the crying. Double the diapers. Double the college funds.”

Atsumu leans down until his forehead presses softly to yours. His hand finds yours again, grounding you with the warmth of his palm and the way his thumb strokes soothingly across your skin.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t answer right away, eyes still locked on the monitor where two flickering heartbeats pulse in rhythm.

He kisses your forehead, slow and reassuring. “We’ll go one diaper at a time. One bottle at a time. One late-night rocking session at a time. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your lip trembles. “Are we?”

He smiles, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not lettin’ you do this alone. You’re stuck with me, baby. Me, and the two little monsters we made.”

You laugh wetly, a mix of shock and affection tangled in your chest. He leans down and kisses you again—cheek, then jaw, then temple—before turning to look back at the screen.

And in the glow of that monitor, with two tiny heartbeats tapping out the rhythm of your future, Atsumu squeezes your hand and whispers:

“They’ve already got the best mom in the world. The rest’ll be easy.”

You sit up slightly and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, your chin resting against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that.”

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.

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 3

The morning sunlight streamed through the cracked window, golden rays spilling over the tangled mess of sheets and the scattered remnants of the night before. Outside, birds chirped in the early quiet, their songs a stark contrast to the utter wreckage inside the room.

You groaned as consciousness pulled you from the depths of exhaustion, a dull, persistent ache spreading through your body. Every muscle protested as you attempted to move, soreness radiating from the very core of you. Fucking hell.

Shifting slightly, you became aware of the steady rise and fall of someone else's breathing beside you. Your gaze flickered to your left, and sure enough—Atsumu Miya, sprawled out, snoring like a chainsaw, one arm flung over his head, the other lazily draped across your waist.

That smug bastard.

You blinked, your brain still foggy, your limbs still heavy with exhaustion, and then—

Oh. Right.

Your eyes darted around your bedroom, the aftermath of last night coming into focus. Condom wrappers littered the floor, some torn open in haste, others carelessly discarded. Tied-off condoms rested in evidence of just how many times you had let him ruin you. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat, sex, and something undeniably Atsumu.

You clenched your jaw. You let this happen. Multiple times.

Your body throbbed in agreement. Yeah. No shit.

Gritting your teeth, you slowly pushed his arm off of you and began the excruciating process of getting up. The second you sat up, white-hot soreness shot through your thighs, your stomach tightening from the sheer ache of overuse. A hiss escaped you as you gingerly swung your legs over the bed, muscles screaming in protest.

"Goddamn it, Miya," you muttered under your breath, wincing as you stood. Your legs wobbled dangerously, knees threatening to buckle before you caught yourself on the edge of your desk.

That cocky asshole fucked you stupid.

You cursed him again, more viciously this time, before dragging yourself toward the bathroom, muttering a string of colorful profanities as you went. A hot shower was the only thing that might save you now.

The sight in the bathroom mirror was humiliating.

Your hair was a tangled disaster, barely clinging to the remnants of the ponytail you had thrown it into at some point last night, stray strands sticking to your forehead and neck. Tugging the elastic free, you ran your fingers through the knots, hissing slightly as you tried to tame the mess. And then your gaze caught the deep, bruise-like hickey from your very first encounter, still staining the side of your neck, dark and undeniable.

Fucking fantastic.

Rolling your eyes, you reached for the shower handle, twisting it until steam began to rise. The second the warm water hit your skin, your muscles sighed in relief. You let out a breath, resting your forehead against the cool tile as last night replayed in your head.

How the hell had this happened?

More importantly—why the fuck had it been so good? It had been so long since you’d had genuinely good sex, since someone had touched you like that, made you come apart so completely. And it just had to be him. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Atsumu Miya.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. He had been too good—an irritatingly smug bastard with a filthy mouth and a body that knew exactly how to work yours. He had torn you apart, left you in shambles, ruined you, and the worst part? You wanted more.

Shaking your head, you rinsed the suds from your hair, trying to push the thought away as you finished up. When you stepped out, fresh and clean, you felt marginally better—until you walked back into your room.

He was still there. Still sprawled out, still snoring, dead to the world like he had no intention of moving anytime soon.

You scowled.

The audacity of this man.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped up to his side, glaring down at him. With a sharp flick to his forehead, you muttered, "Hey, this isn’t a bed and breakfast. Go home."

Atsumu groaned, shifting slightly but refusing to open his eyes. His golden hair was an absolute mess, strands sticking up in chaotic tufts, evidence of how thoroughly you had pulled at it throughout the night. His broad shoulders flexed lazily as he rolled onto his stomach, the curve of his back leading down to the sheets pooling dangerously low at his waist. The way his muscles shifted with the movement sent an unwanted spark of heat through you—fucking unfair.

His voice, thick with sleep and laced with satisfaction, rumbled through the room. "God, for how well I fucked you, you’d think you’d be less of a bitch," he mumbled, barely lifting his head before burying his face into your pillow, exhaling deeply like he had all the time in the world.

Your nostrils flared. Oh, hell no.

With zero hesitation, you ripped the blanket off of him, exposing his very naked form to the cool morning air. He let out a disgruntled noise, blindly reaching for the covers, but you had already thrown his underwear at his face.

"Get dressed and get out before your brother starts wondering where the hell you’ve been."

Atsumu groaned into the mattress, arms tucked under his head like he didn’t have a single care in the world. "S’too early for this," he grumbled.

Your glare intensified. "Miya. Get. Up."

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, that lazy smirk creeping onto his face like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Y’know, sweetheart, ya didn’t seem too eager for me to leave last night. If I remember correctly, ya were beggin’ me to stay inside ya."

You saw red.

Lunging forward, you smacked him upside the head with a pillow, sending him coughing into the sheets. "Shut the fuck up and put your pants on!"

Atsumu wheezed out a laugh, rubbing his head as he sat up, his toned body stretching with a satisfied groan. "Aight, aight, I’m goin’—no need to get violent."

You rolled your eyes as he slid into his clothes, his stupid smirk never leaving his face. As soon as his shirt was on, he strolled up to you, eyes raking over you in nothing but your towel.

"Y’know," he mused, cocking his head, "I could just stay. Help ya recover."

Your eye twitched. This man had no shame.

Grabbing his hoodie from the floor, you shoved it into his chest. "Out."

He chuckled, stepping through the doorway before pausing, glancing over his shoulder.

"See ya at practice, sweetheart. Try not to miss me too much."

You crossed your arms. "Oh, suck my dick."

Atsumu’s smirk widened instantly. "I’ll do that next time."

Your face flamed as his words registered, but before you could react, he was already laughing, dodging your attempt to shove him as he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there, breathless, flustered, and ready to launch something at his retreating figure. That bastard.

~~

The morning sun had risen higher by the time Atsumu finally dragged himself out of your house, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket as he walked back home. The crisp morning air did little to clear his head. His body ached—not in a bad way, but in that thoroughly-used, completely-spent kind of way, muscles sore from hours of exertion. Every step sent a reminder of exactly what he had been doing all night, and with whom.

And his mind?

It was a fucking mess.

He wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly what this was. You hated his guts, and he gave you just as much shit in return. That wasn’t changing anytime soon. You were bossy, relentless, always looking for a way to put him in his place—and goddammit, it infuriated him.

But last night?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as flashes of you—your legs tangled with his, the way your breath had hitched every time he pushed deeper, how you had fought him for control—flooded his mind.

Fuck.

He could still feel you, phantom traces of your nails scraping down his back, the warmth of your body, the way your thighs had locked around him like you were daring him to stop. And that look on your face when you finally gave in? Yeah, that shit was burned into his memory.

And damn it all, it was the best sex he’d ever had.

Atsumu wasn’t naive—he’d been with girls before, and sure, he liked to think he was good in bed. No one had ever complained. But with you?

It was different.

Not just the sex—though, fuck, it was phenomenal—but the build-up. The tension, the aggression, the way you had fought him every step of the way, and still melted under him just the same. It made his blood run hotter, his instincts sharper, like every second with you was some kind of battle he was dying to win.

And now? Now he had fucked you senseless, and instead of feeling satisfied like he normally would, his body was already itching to do it again.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as his house came into view. His entire body felt heavy, spent, and the only thing on his mind now was crashing into his bed and sleeping for the next eight hours. Maybe then he could stop thinking about the way your breathy moans had completely wrecked him.

"Shit."

The front door creaked open as he stepped inside, toeing off his shoes. The kitchen was quiet, but a note caught his attention, stuck to the fridge with a volleyball magnet.

Went to grab groceries. Be back later. Try not to destroy the house.

Atsumu huffed a small, tired laugh and crumpled the note in his fist before heading down the hall, desperate for the sleep he hadn’t gotten. His bed was calling him, and he could already feel the exhaustion creeping up his limbs, finally ready to crash.

But the second he stepped into his bedroom, a familiar voice made him pause.

"I covered for you last night, you know."

Atsumu barely spared his twin a glance, too tired to argue. "Uh huh. Thanks."

Osamu was sitting up on his own bed, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "So, you’re just not gonna tell me where you were last night?"

Atsumu groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair before flopping face-first onto his mattress. "Samu, I swear to god, I’m too tired for this."

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the headboard, watching his twin like he could see through his bullshit already. "That so? ‘Cause ya look like ya got hit by a truck."

Atsumu grunted into his pillow. Yeah. A truck named you.

Osamu let the silence stretch between them before sighing. "Was it a girl?"

Atsumu tensed for half a second before he forced his body to relax, rolling onto his side, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"It does when yer actin’ all weird about it." Osamu's tone was far too knowing for Atsumu's liking. His twin wasn’t one to pry, but he was also damn observant, and Atsumu had no doubt that if he wasn’t careful, Osamu would piece everything together before the day was over.

Atsumu exhaled heavily. "Can ya just let me sleep?"

Osamu narrowed his eyes, something clicking into place behind them. "Wait a second... You were actin’ weird as hell yesterday, and the manager didn’t even show up to practice in the afternoon..."

Atsumu forced his expression to stay neutral, shoving down the immediate impulse to react. "What? You think I was with her?" He scoffed, shaking his head as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Relax, Samu. It was just some girl from class—Airi Sakamoto."

Osamu didn’t say anything for a second, but Atsumu felt him still watching. Weighing his words. Judging his reaction.

"Huh." Osamu finally leaned back against the headboard. "Didn’t think ya liked Airi."

Atsumu shrugged, doing his best to sound unaffected. "Nothin’ serious. Just some fun."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

The way Osamu said it made Atsumu’s skin itch. Like he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he also wasn’t going to push—yet. His twin was perceptive as hell, but thankfully, he wasn’t nosy unless something really bugged him.

Atsumu exhaled slowly, trying to let his body relax. Good. This’ll blow over.

Osamu didn’t push any further, but Atsumu knew better than to assume this was over. His twin had that look, the one that said he wasn’t entirely buying it but was willing to let it sit for now. Atsumu could only hope that was enough to keep him from digging further.

But as he finally closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, the image of you still wouldn’t leave his head.

This was gonna be a problem.

~~

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, the weight of the weekend still lingering in your muscles, your thoughts, your everything. The cold air bit at your skin as you made your way toward the gym, your feet dragging slightly despite your best efforts to act normal. You had spent the entire weekend trying—desperately trying—to push everything that had happened with Atsumu to the back of your mind. But now, with practice looming ahead, it felt like all of it was crawling right back up your throat.

How the hell were you supposed to pretend like nothing had happened?

It had been two days. Forty-eight hours since you had let Atsumu ruin you, and now you had to walk into practice and act like you hadn’t spent half the weekend moaning his name. Like he hadn’t touched you in ways you could still feel.

Fucking fantastic.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you took a deep breath. It was fine. You just had to do what you always did—be civil enough to get through practice without anyone suspecting a damn thing. You could ignore him. You could pretend that nothing was different.

You had to.

But it wasn’t just about ignoring him. No, that would have been too easy. Because the thing with Atsumu was that he wasn’t the type to just let things go. He was an asshole, a relentless one at that, and you had no doubt that the second he saw you, he was going to say something. He was going to look at you with that stupid fucking smirk, that self-satisfied, cocky-ass grin, and you were going to have to find a way not to strangle him in front of everyone.

Up ahead, you spotted Kita unlocking the gym doors, his usual composed demeanor unchanged. He glanced up as you approached, his sharp eyes immediately settling on you as he gave a small nod in greeting.

"Mornin'. Feelin' better?" he asked casually.

You froze mid-step. What?

Your brain went completely blank for a solid second before the realization slammed into you.

Oh. Right.

You had told Kita you were sick to get out of afternoon practice on Friday. Shit.

You forced your face into neutrality, schooling your features as quickly as you could. "Uh—" you blinked, then cleared your throat. "Yeah. Head cold."

Kita gave a small, approving nod, his expression unreadable. "Good. Glad you’re back."

You exhaled, relieved that he didn’t press further, though the reminder of your flimsy excuse only added to the pile of things to stress about today.

The real problem wasn’t Kita.

It was stepping into that gym and seeing Atsumu again.

You could already feel it, the weight of his presence, the way the air would shift the second you walked in. You knew him too well. You had been fighting with him for years. And now? Now you had to pretend like his hands hadn’t been all over you, like you hadn’t spent the weekend letting him fuck you in every way imaginable.

And the worst part? You had no idea how to handle it.

With one last deep breath, you squared your shoulders, plastering the most neutral expression you could manage onto your face, and followed Kita inside.

The gym was empty, still wrapped in the early morning quiet, save for the distant hum of the overhead lights flickering to life as Kita stepped ahead, checking the locks and switches with his usual efficiency. You made a beeline for the storage room, the familiar echo of your footsteps bouncing off the polished floors, each step grounding you in the routine—a routine you needed now more than ever.

Pulling out the cart of volleyballs, you set about your usual tasks, rolling out the net, setting up the poles, unfolding the mats in the corner of the gym—all movements embedded in your muscle memory, allowing your mind to drift even as your body worked.

But your thoughts weren’t cooperating.

Each small motion felt heavier today, like every act of normalcy was forcing your mind to ignore the very obvious elephant in the room: Atsumu fucking Miya.

The past weekend had unraveled something you weren’t ready to confront. The sharp, burning pull of hatred, desire, competition, frustration—it was still there, coiling beneath your skin like a live wire. How were you supposed to erase the feeling of his body against yours? The way he had looked at you in the dim light of your bedroom, golden eyes dark with something you refused to name? The way he had made you come undone over and over until you had lost track of time?

Your fingers curled around the net, gripping it too tightly.

You had to get a grip.

You gave your head a sharp shake, forcing the thoughts down, deep, deep down where they wouldn’t interfere with practice. Because that was all it was—practice. A normal morning, a normal routine. You just had to act normal.

And more importantly, you had to act like Atsumu didn’t still linger in the ache between your thighs, in the phantom press of his fingers along your waist, in the way your pulse picked up just thinking about him.

You scowled at yourself. Pathetic.

Straightening, you grabbed a volleyball from the cart, tossing it idly from one hand to the other, trying to reset your mind. The doors would open soon. The team would pile in. Atsumu would walk through that door.

And you needed to be ready.

It wasn’t long before the distant echo of voices signaled the arrival of the team, the usual mix of early morning grumbles and lighthearted banter filling the space as the gym doors swung open. You kept your focus on the net, adjusting its tension with a practiced ease, but it was impossible to ignore the way their presence shifted the atmosphere—the way his presence shifted the atmosphere.

A few of the guys greeted you as they passed, their voices casual, unaware of the storm inside your head.

"Hey, you feeling better?" one of them asked, pausing briefly near the cart of volleyballs.

You nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Yeah. Just a head cold."

"Glad you're back. Kita was worried."

That surprised you. Kita worried? You glanced toward the captain, who was already overseeing warm-ups with his usual composed expression. He must have noticed your hesitation because he gave a small nod of acknowledgment, as if to confirm the statement. Huh.

But then, you made a mistake.

Your gaze drifted across the gym, landing on him.

Atsumu had just stepped inside, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled as if he hadn’t bothered fixing it properly before rolling out of bed. The second your eyes met, he smirked.

Not just any smirk.

That smirk. The one that sent heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, the one that made you clench your fists just to stop yourself from reacting. It was lazy, self-satisfied, and undeniably knowing—like he could still feel you on him, like he could still hear the way you moaned his name in the quiet of your room.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

A rush of heat, a sudden tightening in your core, a traitorous pulse between your legs that sent panic flaring through your mind. No. No, no, no.

You locked up, fingers tightening around the net’s frame, every ounce of rational thought crumbling beneath the weight of that goddamn smirk.

"Uh—earth to manager?"

You jolted slightly, blinking rapidly as Suna waved a hand in front of your face, his sharp eyes flickering with mild amusement. Shit.

"You good? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I—" You cleared your throat, willing yourself to snap back to reality. "Yeah. Just—distracted."

Suna’s gaze lingered for a second too long before he shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "If you say so."

You exhaled sharply, heart still hammering against your ribs as you forced yourself to focus.

Practice was starting. You needed to get it together.

The drills started off as routine as ever, the rhythmic sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, volleyballs slamming against the net, and voices calling out sets filling the gym. You went about your usual duties, keeping water bottles filled, retrieving stray balls, observing. Everything was exactly as it should be. Almost.

Because you were noticing things you had never noticed before.

Atsumu had always been an impressive player. You knew that. His skill was the reason he was the starting setter of Inarizaki, the reason scouts were always eyeing him for future prospects. But you had never let yourself notice him like this before.

The way his muscles flexed every time he set the ball, the way his strong arms held complete control over the game, the sheer power behind every calculated move—it all felt too familiar. His body was built for this sport, lean but strong, his movements fluid and commanding, just like that night.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze to shift anywhere else. No. Absolutely not.

And yet, your thoughts kept circling back to him, back to the way he had moved over you, with the same precision, the same power. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to snap yourself out of it. This was insane. This was Atsumu. The same Atsumu who had spent years annoying the shit out of you, pushing your buttons, picking fights just to rile you up.

You needed to leave. Now.

The second practice ended, you grabbed your things and bolted, moving toward the exit before anyone could stop you. The last thing you needed was more time around him. You just had to make it to class, shake off whatever the hell was happening in your head, and forget—

A hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into the shadow of the gym just as the rest of the team filtered out. Warm, calloused fingers wrapped around your skin, familiar and firm.

Atsumu.

You barely had time to register his presence before he was speaking, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"My place'll be empty tonight," he said, his tone so damn casual you could have punched him. "Samu's got a project."

You scowled, immediately tugging your wrist from his grasp. "And why should I care?"

Atsumu didn’t answer right away, just raised a brow like he knew something you didn’t. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your head. And then, with that insufferable smirk, he said, "Come over after practice."

And then he walked away, leaving you pissed—because you knew in your heart that you were going.

Confessions: Atsumu

You’ve known the Miya twins for as long as you can remember. They were the loudest boys on the playground, all scuffed knees and sunburned cheeks, their laughter carrying across the schoolyard like a war cry. Atsumu, the loudmouth with a cocky grin that drove teachers insane, and Osamu, the quieter one who always seemed two seconds away from dragging his brother out of trouble. You were caught in the middle—sometimes willingly, sometimes not—but you never complained. Being with them was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

“Yer too slow!” Atsumu had whined once, standing at the edge of the sandbox with his hands on his hips while you struggled to keep up. “Then go ahead without me!” you’d huffed, kicking sand in his direction, cheeks flushed and breathless.

But he never did.

No matter how many times you fell behind, no matter how many times Osamu rolled his eyes and threatened to leave you both behind, Atsumu always waited. And somehow, that pattern never changed.

Years passed. Middle school turned into high school. The three of you didn’t hang out as much anymore—between club activities, exams, and life pulling you in different directions, it was harder to find the time. But you still showed up. For them.

You never missed a game, sitting in the stands with Osamu’s mom and cheering as loud as the rest of the Inarizaki fans. You watched Atsumu serve with impossible precision, eyes narrowing with focus before the ball left his hand. You watched Osamu spike with terrifying accuracy, his smirk barely contained afterward. You were proud of them both, proud to see them rise, proud to be part of the crowd that supported them.

“Yer comin’ to the next match, right?” Atsumu asked one afternoon after practice, leaning against the fence with his bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, a few stray strands sticking to his forehead, and his uniform was loose, hanging casually over his broad frame. The sun was dipping lower, casting warm orange hues across the field where a few stragglers still kicked a soccer ball around. You glanced up from your phone, pretending to be nonchalant. “I always do, don’t I?” His grin stretched wide—cocky and confident, just like always—but there was something in his eyes. Something… uncertain. Hidden beneath the bravado. “Just checkin’.” He kicked at the dirt, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement. “Ya don’t gotta, y’know. Betcha got better things to do than watch us all the time.”

Osamu was the one who noticed it first, the subtle shift in Atsumu’s behavior. It was after another win, and the three of you had gone out to grab a bite. Atsumu was unusually quiet, barely picking at his food while you and Osamu bickered over the best dipping sauce for karaage. “Oi,” Osamu had muttered under his breath when you went to the counter to grab more napkins. “What’s with ya?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu had mumbled, poking at his plate, but Osamu’s eyes had narrowed. “Ya never shut up. Now yer quiet? Somethin’s up.”

“Nothin’s up,” Atsumu insisted, but Osamu didn’t look convinced. He shot his brother a look but didn’t press further. Later that night, as you waved goodbye and promised to see them at the next game, Osamu lingered behind. “He’s actin’ weird,” he muttered, watching Atsumu walk ahead. “Ya notice?”

You had laughed, brushing it off. “When isn’t he weird?”

It wasn’t until you started talking about someone else—Takahiro, a guy from your class—that things started to change. He was smart, funny, and polite in a way that seemed almost too perfect. You didn’t even realize how often you were mentioning him—how your eyes lit up when you talked about how he made you laugh during group projects, how he texted you after class to ask if you understood the material. At first, Atsumu barely reacted. Just a quirk of his brow and a half-hearted, “Huh. Cool.” But then it happened again. And again. And suddenly, Takahiro’s name was slipping into conversations more often than not, and Atsumu noticed. Every. Single. Time.

He didn’t say anything to you about it. But he did talk to Osamu.

“He likes her, don’t he?” Atsumu had muttered one afternoon, his voice low, barely audible as they sat in the back of the gym after practice. His knees were drawn up, elbows resting loosely on them while he picked absentmindedly at the tape around his fingers, pulling at the frayed edges like they held the answers to his problems.

Osamu raised a brow, glancing sideways at his brother. “Who? Takahiro?” His tone was neutral, but the way he looked at Atsumu was anything but.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s jaw clenched as he peeled another strip of tape from his skin, eyes fixed on the floor. “She’s always talkin’ about him lately. Laughin’ at his dumb jokes. Her face lights up when she talks about him.”

“Since when do ya pay attention to that kinda thing?” Osamu’s tone was teasing, but there was something careful underneath it, something that probed deeper.

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s answer was too fast, too defensive. His fingers stilled against his knee, tape forgotten as he shifted, posture rigid.

Osamu tilted his head, watching his brother closely. “Right.” Silence stretched between them for a beat, thick and unspoken. “So, why do ya care?”

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s voice was quieter this time, almost too quiet. But his jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something Osamu didn’t need to ask about.

Osamu exhaled softly, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “Yer full of shit, y’know.” He didn’t push, didn’t ask any more questions. But his words lingered in the air, hanging heavy between them. Atsumu didn’t respond, and Osamu let it go—for now. But the silence that followed spoke louder than anything Atsumu could’ve said.

You started noticing the shift after that. Atsumu was different—quieter around you, shorter with his words. His usual sharp remarks didn’t carry the same playful edge anymore. They were clipped, like he was forcing himself to stay distant. At first, you thought he was just tired. Volleyball took its toll, and with nationals approaching, it wasn’t unusual for the entire team to be running on fumes. But this was different. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by something colder, something heavier that settled in the pit of your stomach. His eyes didn’t linger on you the way they used to, and when they did, there was something in them you couldn’t place. Frustration? Hurt? You weren’t sure, but it left a bad taste in your mouth.

It all came to a head during the next game.

It was an intense match—one where every point mattered, the air thick with anticipation. You were in your usual spot in the stands, cheering louder than most of the crowd, but this time… you weren’t alone. Takahiro was beside you, leaning in close, his shoulder brushing yours as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. You didn’t notice the way Atsumu’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and fleeting, but he saw it. He saw the way you smiled—soft and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners—and it knocked the air out of his lungs.

It burned.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling a little too tightly around the ball as he lined up his serve. He tried to shake it off, to focus on the game, but your laugh echoed louder than the roar of the crowd in his ears. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, faster, harder, until it drowned out everything else. The whistle blew. He tossed the ball, went through the motions—but his mind wasn’t in it. His focus was shattered, replaced by a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with.

The ball sailed too far.

Out of bounds.

By a mile.

The murmur that rippled through the crowd was deafening in his ears. Atsumu’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breathe through the frustration. He didn’t look at you after that. He couldn’t. But he felt it—your eyes on him, concern etched into your features, even as you turned back to Takahiro. The tension settled like a weight in his chest, suffocating and inescapable.

Throughout the rest of the game, Atsumu was off. His sets were technically perfect, but they lacked their usual precision. His timing was a second too late, his movements a little too forced. The fire that usually burned in his veins, the one that made him relentless on the court, was barely a flicker. And no one noticed but Osamu.

“Get yer head outta yer ass, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu muttered under his breath during a timeout, his voice low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “Yer messin’ up, and I know why.”

Atsumu didn’t respond, eyes locked on the floor, jaw clenched. But Osamu wasn’t done. “If ya don’t fix it, we’re gonna lose. And if we do, it’s on you.”

By some miracle, Inarizaki still scraped by with a win—but barely. Atsumu was the first one off the court when the final whistle blew, not bothering to stick around as the team lined up to thank the crowd. His skin was crawling, frustration boiling beneath the surface as he tore off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it into his bag. He needed to clear his head. He needed to breathe.

And you? You noticed.

“Where’s Atsumu?” you asked, concern lacing your voice as you turned to Osamu while everyone congratulated the team. Osamu’s eyes flickered toward the gym, his expression neutral but his tone softer than usual. “Needed some air,” he muttered, his voice quiet but knowing. “Ya know how he gets.” And that was all it took.

Your chest tightened. Something told you this wasn’t just about a bad game.

“Oi, Miya!” Takahiro’s voice broke through the hum of post-game chatter as he stepped forward, flashing a bright smile. “Hell of a match out there. You guys pulled through in the end.” His words were polite, his tone smooth, but the second they left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.

Ginjima, who was standing nearby, narrowed his eyes, barely masking his distaste as he gave Takahiro a once-over. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something. "So, ya think—"

But before he could finish, Aran stepped in, his usual easy-going demeanor firming up as he gave Takahiro a curt nod.

“Thanks,” Aran cut in smoothly, his tone polite but clipped just enough to send a message. “Appreciate it.”

Takahiro, oblivious to the silent exchange, just smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “No problem. You guys really pulled through.”

You felt the tension rolling off Ginjima, and even Kita’s usually neutral expression was unreadable as his eyes flickered between Takahiro and the team.

You lingered with the team for a little while longer, standing by Aran as he exchanged a few polite words with Takahiro, who was blissfully unaware of the underlying tension. You nodded along, adding the occasional "yeah" or "for sure" as Takahiro talked about how intense the game had been and how impressed he was by Inarizaki's performance. But your mind was elsewhere.

Atsumu’s absence gnawed at you. The way he’d left the court so quickly, the frustration rolling off of him in waves—it didn’t sit right. Something was wrong, and no matter how much you tried to focus on the conversation happening around you, the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

Eventually, as the crowd began to thin out and the post-game buzz started to fade, Takahiro turned to you with that same easy smile. "We’re all gonna grab something to eat after. You coming?"

You hesitated, your heart tugging you in a different direction. "Hey… I think I’m gonna head home," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I’m kinda tired."

Takahiro’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across his face. "You sure? We were all gonna hang out for a bit."

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you replied, offering him a quick, reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright… text me when you get home, yeah?"

“Of course.”

But you had no intention of going home.

As Takahiro rejoined the group, you slipped away, weaving through the crowd without a second glance. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you back toward the gym, where you knew exactly where Atsumu would be. Something gnawed at your gut, telling you this wasn’t just about a bad game. You could feel it, a weight settling in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

As you got closer to the gym, the familiar sound of volleyballs slamming against the floor echoed through the quiet night. The steady thump reverberated through the empty halls, each hit carrying a frustration that was almost palpable. Your steps slowed as you approached the entrance, the muffled grunts of effort and the sharp sound of rubber meeting wood growing louder with each step.

When you reached the doorway, you stopped, heart hammering in your ears as you took in the sight before you. Atsumu was there, just as you’d known he would be. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his hair damp and sticking to his skin. His jersey was clinging to his back, soaked through, and the gym floor was littered with scattered volleyballs, some rolling lazily across the surface after missed targets. But Atsumu wasn’t slowing down.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on an invisible target as he tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, body coiling with raw power. The crack of the ball echoed through the gym as it slammed into the floor, and a grunt of frustration escaped his lips, reverberating off the walls.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, watching him pour every ounce of frustration and anger into each serve. He didn’t notice you. Not yet.

“You're gonna break the damn floor at this rate.”

Your voice echoed across the empty gym, but Atsumu didn’t stop. He tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, slamming it with a grunt that reverberated off the walls. The ball ricocheted off the floor and hit the back wall with a loud thud. His breathing was heavy, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged inhale.

“Go home.” His voice was clipped, laced with exhaustion and something sharper. He didn’t turn to look at you, eyes locked on the next ball he was already lining up.

“Atsumu,” you said softly, stepping further into the gym. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” He tossed the ball, and another loud thwack echoed through the gym as the ball hit the floor. “Go home.”

But you didn’t move.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Your voice was firmer this time, crossing your arms as you stood your ground. But then, as Atsumu lined up another ball, ready to serve, you couldn’t take it anymore. Your feet moved before your brain caught up, and you stepped forward, planting yourself right in front of him.

“Atsumu, stop.”

His eyes widened in surprise, the ball still gripped tightly in his hand, but you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, heart pounding as you met his gaze head-on.

“Move,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no real heat behind it.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m not moving until you talk to me.”

“Why even bother?” His voice was sharper now, but there was something raw beneath the anger. “Go back to yer boyfriend. Bet he’s waitin’ for ya.”

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his words. “Boyfriend? You mean Takahiro?”

“Yeah, him.” He finally turned, eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place—hurt, frustration… jealousy? “Bet he’s real smitten with ya, sittin’ in the stands, watchin’ ya smile at him like that.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Atsumu snapped, his voice rising. “I saw ya. Laughin’ at his jokes, lettin’ him get close. Ya looked real happy. Real fuckin’ happy.”

“That’s what this is about?” Your voice sharpened, anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re pissed because I was talking to Takahiro?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Atsumu drawled, his tone dripping with mock sweetness as he dropped the ball and crossed his arms. “‘Takahiro’s so nice,’” he mimicked, his voice going higher, mimicking yours in an exaggerated, sing-song way. “‘Takahiro helped me with my assignment.’ ‘Takahiro said the funniest thing today.’” He scoffed, his expression darkening as he took a step closer, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to jealousy. “Ya never shut up about him.”

If you weren't pissed before, you sure as hell were now.

Your jaw clenched, heat rushing to your face as your hands balled into fists at your sides. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” He let out a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just sick of listenin’ to ya gush about him like he hung the damn moon.”

“Are you serious right now?!” You raised your voice, the frustration bubbling over. “You’re actin’ like a damn child, Atsumu!”

“Maybe I am!” Atsumu’s voice shot up, matching yours as his face flushed with anger. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your pulse race. “But at least I’m not the one actin’ blind to what’s right in front of me!”

“Blind to what?!” You threw your hands in the air, voice sharp and cutting as you took a step toward him, closing the space between you until there was barely any room left. Your chest brushed his as you tilted your chin up to meet his fiery gaze. “Why do you even care so much, Atsumu?!”

“Why do I care?!” He was practically towering over you now, his breath hot and ragged as his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with frustration. “Because ya never stop talkin’ about him! ‘Takahiro this, Takahiro that!’ It’s all I ever fuckin’ hear!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like you don’t give a damn about me!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down, standing your ground even as the tension between you became suffocating.

“I don’t give a damn?!” Atsumu’s voice was louder now, the frustration bleeding into his tone as he stepped even closer, his chest brushing against yours. “You’re the one who’s been actin’ like I’m invisible! Like I’m just—just some guy while yer out there with him!”

“Then why didn’t you say something?!” You screamed, voice echoing through the gym, your frustration boiling over. Your hands were trembling now, knuckles white from how hard you were clenching them at your sides. “Why do you even care so much?!”

“Because I love you!”

The words erupted from him, loud and raw, his voice breaking as the confession echoed through the gym and filled the space between you. His chest heaved, his face flushed from a mix of anger and desperation, and his eyes—wide, vulnerable, and filled with something you hadn’t seen before—were locked onto yours.

You froze, the weight of his words crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. The world went silent, and for the first time since you’d stepped into that gym, neither of you had anything left to say.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you stared at him, his chest still heaving from the force of his confession. The air felt thick, suffocating, as your mind raced to process what he had just said. Seconds stretched on, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then, without thinking, without giving yourself a chance to second-guess it, you stepped forward. Your eyes locked on his, your expression unreadable, and before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him down.

"You’re so fucking stupid," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was fierce, fueled by weeks—no, months—of pent-up frustration, confusion, and feelings you had pushed down for far too long. Your lips crashed into his, and Atsumu froze for half a second before he was kissing you back with just as much desperation. His hands found your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the world around you blurred until nothing else existed.

The anger, the yelling, the unspoken words—they all melted away, leaving only the two of you, tangled in the heat of the moment, finally giving in to everything you’d both been too stubborn to admit.

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.

Hiii!!!! I cant tell you how much I absolutely love your writings! I was wondering if you could do a part two for managerial duties for Inarizaki!! Maybe where the manager has serious bruising and the team finds out... and theyre genuinely worried! Id be cute if Atsumu would apologize too!! But you dont have to! Hehe, thank you for making my day! I appreciate your writings so much!

YES I LOVE THAT IDEA! And you've made my day with your kind words <33 thank you so much for reading!! Here we go :D --

You had expected some bruising.

What you hadn't expected was for your forearms to turn into a full-blown patchwork of dark purple and deep red, an angry mess of tender skin that ached every time you so much as brushed against something. It had started subtly enough—just a faint soreness the day after the bet. But by the time midweek rolled around, it was impossible to ignore. Even writing with a pen sent sharp pangs up your arms, and carrying the team’s water bottles felt like lifting bricks.

Which is why, in a moment of sheer desperation, you’d dug through your old volleyball gear and fished out your compression sleeves. They weren’t a fix, but they helped stabilize your arms and dull the constant ache, allowing you to function without wincing every time you existed. The compression kept the swelling down, made the bruises feel less noticeable, and at least provided a thin barrier between your damaged skin and the outside world.

You hadn’t really thought much of them beyond that.

Until you pulled off your jacket in the middle of practice and heard the gym fall silent.

The first thing you noticed was that every single pair of eyes had locked onto your arms. It took you a second to realize why—black compression sleeves, pulled taut over your forearms, standing out starkly against your skin.

"Uh…" you started, blinking as the weight of their attention settled on you.

"What’s with the sleeves?" Aran asked first, brows furrowed. "Didn’t know you wore those."

Your brain short-circuited. "Oh. Um. They’re just… comfortable."

"Comfortable?" Osamu repeated skeptically. "Since when do ya need sleeves to be comfortable?"

Suna, who had been lazily leaning against the wall, suddenly pushed off from his spot and started toward you. "They look kinda tight." Without hesitation, he reached out, fingers brushing over the fabric. "Lemme see."

Atsumu, who had been drinking from his water bottle, glanced over and smirked. "Damn, manager, if ya wanted to show off yer arms, ya could’ve just—"

Before he could finish, Osamu smacked the back of his head hard enough to make him stumble. "Read the damn room, ‘Tsumu."

"Ow! What the hell?!" Atsumu grumbled, rubbing the spot Osamu had hit.

The moment Suna applied even the slightest pressure, a sharp, searing pain shot through your arm, and you yelped, whipping your hand to your chest as if you’d been burned. "Shit!" you hissed through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut as the sting radiated up your arm.

The reaction was instant.

"What the hell was that?" Osamu frowned, his teasing dropping immediately.

"What’s goin’ on?" Ginjima asked, concern lacing his voice.

Atsumu, still rubbing his head, now had his attention completely on you. "What'd you scream like that for?"

"I-It’s nothing," you stammered, holding your arm protectively. "Just—Suna caught me off guard."

"Bullshit," Suna drawled, eyes narrowing. "Take ‘em off."

"No! I mean, really, it’s not a big deal—"

"Take. Them. Off." Kita’s voice cut through the chatter, calm but final.

You hesitated. His gaze didn’t waver. And you knew, knew, there was no getting out of this. With a resigned sigh, you slowly rolled down the sleeve, flinching slightly as the pressure eased off your skin.

A collective gasp rippled through the team.

"Dude…" Osamu muttered, voice even quieter than usual.

Even Suna, usually unfazed by everything, looked taken aback. "Holy shit."

Ginjima let out a low whistle. "That’s gotta hurt."

The bruises looked worse under the gym lights, the deep purples and reds blending into a mess of tender skin, mottled and swollen in some places. It was bad. You could feel how bad it looked, just from their expressions alone.

Atsumu visibly paled. "That…" He swallowed thickly. "That’s from me?"

Kita exhaled slowly, his posture rigid. "You should have said something earlier."

"It’s fine," you tried. "I asked for it. I knew what I was doing."

"That’s not the point," he said, voice eerily even. "You let it get this bad and didn’t bother telling anyone? How exactly is that taking care of yourself?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because, honestly? He had a point.

"Go home," he ordered, folding his arms. "You’re done for the day. And don’t come back until that heals up."

"What? No, I’m fine—"

"No, you’re not." Aran frowned. "That looks painful as hell."

"I can still help—"

Kita said your name like a father would, the tone alone made it clear there would be no arguing. "Go. Home."

You huffed, crossing your arms—then immediately regretted it when pain flared up again. Scowling, you turned on your heel, grabbing your things and storming toward the clubroom.

The moment you stepped inside and shut the door, you let out a long breath, flopping against the lockers. Your arms throbbed. Maybe they were right. Maybe you should take it easy.

You had just started gathering your things when the door cracked open.

"Oi."

You turned, only to find Atsumu standing awkwardly in the doorway, eyes flickering between you and the floor. He looked… unsettled. Which, for him, was weird.

"Uh. Hey?"

His mouth opened, then closed. He shifted his weight. Fidgeted.

You squinted. "Are you… okay?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I—uh. Shit. Look, I didn’t—ya know—mean to…" He gestured vaguely at your arms, as if that explained everything. "I wasn’t tryna actually hurt ya."

You blinked. "Atsumu. I asked for this."

"Yeah, but—" He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Ya look like ya got run over."

You let out a short laugh. "Well, your serves do feel like getting hit by a truck."

Atsumu winced. "Shit."

For a moment, he was quiet. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he muttered, "I’m sorry."

It was quiet. Stiff. A little clumsy.

But genuine.

You raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Never thought I’d hear you apologize."

He scowled. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, shaking your head. "It’s fine. Really. I’ll be okay."

Atsumu eyed you, lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah. Just… don’t be dumb about it next time."

Then, after a brief pause, he exhaled sharply. "You know you could've just told me you played."

You snorted. "Yeah, right. Where’s the fun in that?"

Atsumu groaned. "Yer impossible."

You grinned. "And yet, you all keep me around."

With an exasperated sigh, he turned on his heel, muttering something about stubborn idiots as he left.

You exhaled, shaking your head fondly.

They were all idiots. Loud, nosy, exasperating idiots. But maybe, just maybe, they were your idiots. --

The next morning, you woke up feeling slightly better, though the soreness in your arms still lingered like a dull throb. The bruises were darkening, but at least the swelling had gone down. You figured that maybe—maybe—you could get away with showing up at morning practice. If you just sat on the sidelines, surely Kita wouldn’t make a big deal out of it… right?

You stretched, rolling your shoulders, before heading to the door to grab your shoes. But the moment you opened it, you froze.

Sitting right outside was a neatly arranged little basket. Ice packs, your favorite snacks, a tube of aloe vera gel—and a folded note resting on top.

Your stomach twisted as you picked it up, already knowing exactly who it was from. Unfolding the paper, your eyes skimmed over Kita’s neat handwriting.

Rest. I meant it.

Take care of yourself first. We’ll be fine until you’re back.

P.S. Don’t make me come over there.

You sighed, rubbing a hand down your face before looking back down at the basket. It was thoughtful. It was so Kita. You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head before stepping back inside and closing the door behind you.

Guess morning practice would have to wait.

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.

Jealousy: Osamu

The scent of rich broth and fresh noodles hung thick in the air, filling Osamu’s restaurant with a warmth that, under any other circumstance, he would have appreciated.

But tonight? Tonight, it was the smell of betrayal.

Osamu leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with thinly veiled irritation as you happily slurped down another bite of Atsumu’s ramen.

His twin sat across from you, looking way too pleased with himself, arms folded as he watched you enjoy his so-called cooking.

Osamu hated that look.

It was the same damn smirk Atsumu had worn their whole lives—whenever he managed to piss Osamu off, whenever he got away with something he shouldn’t have, whenever he won by sheer bullshit luck.

And now? Now he was wearing it in Osamu’s own shop.

"Damn, ‘Tsumu," you sighed, tilting the bowl to sip the broth. "This is amazing. I didn’t know you could cook like this!"

Osamu felt a deep, personal offense settle in his bones.

His entire career revolved around food. He had spent years perfecting his recipes, testing flavors, fine-tuning every last detail. He had trained under some of the best chefs, built this restaurant from the ground up.

And now, here you were, gushing over a bowl of glorified college survival food.

Atsumu leaned back, smug. "Told ya. I got talents."

Osamu let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose.

"You put a packet of dried seasoning into hot water," he said flatly.

You blinked. "Yeah, but the broth is really flavorful! What did you put in it, ‘Tsumu?"

Atsumu smirked, tipping his head like he was about to unveil some grand chef's secret. "Oh, ya know, just instinct—"

"It’s instant."

You didn’t even catch the shift in energy, completely oblivious to the deadly stare Osamu was leveling at his twin.

Atsumu sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Technically, yeah," he admitted, "but I added some stuff—”

“Oh, yeah?” Osamu lifted a brow, arms still crossed tight. “And what’d ya add, exactly?”

Atsumu suddenly found the ceiling very interesting. “Uh. A soft-boiled egg.”

Osamu’s eye twitched.

Silence stretched between them.

Tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

You, utterly unaware, stretched with a satisfied sigh. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick.”

You leaned down to press a quick kiss to Osamu’s cheek—normally enough to calm him down—but he was too busy staring daggers at his brother to even register it.

The second the door shut behind you, Osamu turned to Atsumu.

“What’s your deal?”

Atsumu blinked, mouth half-full of noodles. “Huh?”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. “Ya woke up today and decided to piss me off?”

“For makin’ ramen?”

"She liked it."

Atsumu stared, then—as if the realization physically smacked him across the face—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, like he was witnessing something life-changing. His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Are ya—jealous?"

Osamu stiffened.

"Shut up."

"No. No way." Atsumu clutched his chest like he had just been blessed with the funniest joke in history. "Yer seriously mad ‘cause she liked my ramen?”

"Ya don’t cook," Osamu shot back, glaring. "That’s my thing."

Atsumu laughed. Full, loud, obnoxious cackles that echoed through the kitchen.

“Oh, ‘Samu,” he wheezed, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. "I promise, yer the only chef in my heart."

Osamu grabbed a dishtowel and launched it straight at his face.

Atsumu barely dodged in time, still laughing like a damn hyena.

By the time you returned, Atsumu was half-wheezing into his bowl, Osamu was murdering a pile of green onions with his knife, and the air was thick with something way more intense than sibling rivalry.

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh… did I miss something?"

Atsumu, struggling to breathe through his grin, pointed a dramatic finger at his twin.

Osamu, without looking up, muttered, "He’s banned from my kitchen."

Rivalry: Atsumu (Pt.2) NSFW

You barely remembered the trip home. Your body moved on autopilot, the mortification from earlier fogging your brain to the point that you couldn't focus on anything else. The second you made it through your bedroom door, you slammed it shut behind you and slid down against it, your legs giving out as you collapsed onto the floor.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

The words came out in a strangled whisper, as if saying them too loudly would make the situation even more real. You pressed your hands to your face, groaning into your palms as every moment replayed itself in your head like a sick joke. The shouting, the insults, the way he kissed you like he was trying to win—as if any of this was a game.

And worse? The way you kissed him back.

You wanted to blame the heat of the moment, the sheer exhaustion that had worn you thin, the suffocating tension that had been building up for years. But that didn’t excuse the fact that you had wrapped your legs around him, pulled him in, let yourself get so lost in him that you had completely forgotten where you were.

You smacked your forehead against your knees. "I am such an idiot."

The embarrassment made your skin crawl. You had let Atsumu Miya kiss you. And not just kiss you—practically devour you in a damn supply closet. You had been seconds away from—

No. No, you weren’t even going to think about that.

You forced yourself to stand, limbs still shaky as you shuffled toward your dresser, pulling out your sleepwear. Maybe if you went to bed and didn’t think about it, this entire thing would disappear from your memory by morning.

Right. Because that’s how trauma worked.

You peeled off your shirt, letting out a sigh as you tossed it into the laundry pile. Your fingers ran absentmindedly through your hair, eyes barely focusing on your reflection in the vanity mirror—

And then you saw it.

Your entire body went rigid.

There, on the side of your neck, just below your jawline, was a hickey.

Not just any hickey—a big, obnoxiously dark mark staining your skin, bold as fucking day. The kind that wasn’t going away anytime soon. The kind that was going to be impossible to cover up without half the school noticing.

Your eye twitched. Your pulse spiked.

That bastard.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, a fresh wave of fury searing through your veins.

"I’m gonna kill him."

___

The moment you stepped into the school building, your body was on edge.

You had taken extra time getting ready, draping a scarf around your neck despite the warm weather, just in case. The last thing you needed was for anyone to see the evidence of last night’s catastrophe.

But the second you stepped through the gym doors, you could feel him watching you.

Atsumu was already there, leaning lazily against the lockers, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk already in place.

“Yer all bundled up today,” he drawled, golden eyes flickering to the scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. “Ain’t it a little warm for that?”

You didn’t respond. You marched straight toward him, grabbing him by the arm before he could react and dragging him toward the back of the building, away from prying eyes.

“Oi—what the hell?” he complained, but he didn’t resist, letting you pull him along with a smug chuckle.

The second you were alone, you spun around, fire in your eyes. “You have a lot of goddamn nerve.”

Atsumu raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Me? What’d I do?”

You ripped off the scarf and pointed at your neck. “Care to explain this?”

His gaze flickered downward, and when he saw the mark, his smirk grew into something far too pleased for your liking. “Huh.”

“Huh?! That’s all you have to say?!”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “What? Looks good on ya.”

Your blood boiled.

“Where did you find the gall and the nerve to mark me like some sort of animal?!” you seethed. “Do you even care?!”

Atsumu sighed dramatically, rubbing the back of his head. “Aww, sweetheart, didn’t know ya were that ashamed of me.”

Your eye twitched.

“Ashamed?! Oh, please—”

“Oh, so ya liked it?”

Your breath caught, your brain short-circuiting just long enough for him to chuckle. “I knew ya weren’t as immune to me as ya act.”

Your fists clenched, the fury behind your eyes nearly burning holes through him. “I swear to god, Miya, if you don’t wipe that smug look off your face, I’ll—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice low and taunting. He took a step closer, invading your space. “Ya gonna hit me? Scream at me? Oh, wait—ya already did plenty of screamin’ last night.”

Your stomach twisted into a violent knot. “Go to hell.”

Atsumu smirked, tilting his head. “Only if you join me, sweetheart.”

Red. All you saw was red.

Your hand shot out, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely stumbled, his smirk widening as if he’d expected it—wanted it. His eyes burned, dark and taunting, daring you to push him further.

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shaking with rage. “Stay the hell away from me.”

Atsumu let the silence hang, watching you, unreadable—until his lips curled, voice dropping to something dangerous, something hungry.

“That’s not what I was gettin’ last night.”

Your breath hitched, your entire body locking up.

He leaned in just a fraction, enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. His voice was nothing but a rough murmur. “In fact, from where I was sittin’… ya couldn’t get enough of me.”

You snapped. Without thinking, your hand whipped out, aiming to smack that cocky look off his face—but he caught your wrist before it could land. His grip was firm, tight, and the moment your skin met his, something flared in the space between you. A live wire, electric and burning.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your chest heaved, his fingers tightening around your wrist, his golden eyes locked onto yours, daring, challenging, waiting for your next move.

And then, just as quickly, he released you, stepping back with that damn smirk still in place. “See ya at practice, sweetheart.”

He turned and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms.

You hated him. Hated him.

And you hated the fact that your skin still burned where he touched you.

__

The moment you stepped onto the court, the entire atmosphere had shifted. The usual lightheartedness was replaced by something else—something charged, something that even the others could feel. The tension between you and Atsumu was palpable, filling every space between you like static before a storm.

You did everything you could to ignore him, keeping your focus locked on the drills, on making sure everything ran smoothly as usual. But even as you busied yourself with tasks, taking inventory, filling water bottles, making sure the practice schedule was followed, you felt him. His presence, his gaze. And every single time you so much as glanced his way, you caught it—that smug, infuriating smirk, the one that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

Osamu was the first to crack. “She's even more pissed off than usual. What’d ya do to her?”

Atsumu’s head snapped toward his brother, jaw tightening. “Why do ya always assume I’m in the wrong?”

Osamu raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Dunno, maybe ‘cause ya usually are?”

Atsumu scoffed, gripping the volleyball tighter in his hands before tossing it up and setting it with too much force. “Fuck off, ‘Samu.”

Suna, from across the court, watched the exchange with mild interest, his usual lazy expression barely concealing the amusement behind his eyes. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. The shared glance between him and Osamu said enough.

Even Kita had noticed. “Focus,” he called out flatly, directing the attention of the team back to practice. “Don’t need anyone actin’ stupid today.”

Your jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the clipboard in your hand. The fact that it was so obvious was frustrating enough. You’d hoped that whatever happened between you and Atsumu could be contained, that it wouldn’t seep into practice, but it was everywhere—in the way his passes came off just a little harder, in the way your own movements felt stiff and mechanical. In the way your stomach twisted whenever you so much as thought about the night before.

The second the whistle blew, signaling the end of practice, you didn’t hesitate. You were gone, out the door before anyone could stop you, barely pausing to acknowledge the rest of the team as they wrapped up.

You didn’t care. You just needed to get away.

You tried to go about your day. You really did. You sat through your classes, eyes locked on the board, scribbling down notes that you knew wouldn’t make any sense later. You went through the motions, completing assignments, answering when spoken to, doing everything you were supposed to do.

And yet, despite all of it, your mind refused to let you be.

It kept circling back to him.

The way he looked at you. The way his hands had felt gripping your waist. The heat of his breath against your skin. The smugness in his voice when he threw your own reactions back in your face, like he knew he was getting under your skin. Like he thrived on it.

You shook your head, frustrated, dragging a hand down your face as you sat in the back of the library, books open in front of you but nothing sinking in. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And the worst part? He knew it.

Because Atsumu Miya was the absolute worst.

And you hated that, deep down, he knew it too.

It was like an itch under your skin, a pressure in your chest that refused to ease. No matter how much you told yourself you could push it away, forget it, move on—it lingered. Every time you blinked, you could still feel the way his hands had gripped you, how his breath had ghosted over your skin, how he had smirked like he had won.

You weren’t going to let him take up another second of your time.

Fuck this. And fuck him.

Jaw tight, you yanked your phone out of your pocket, fingers moving faster than your thoughts as you typed out a message to Kita.

Not feeling well. Can’t make it to afternoon practice.

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a split second before pressing down. As soon as the message was out, a weight lifted from your chest. There was no way in hell you were going to spend another hour in that gym, breathing the same air as him, pretending like everything was normal when it wasn’t.

You tossed your phone onto the table, running both hands down your face, exhaling slowly. You needed to clear your head. You needed space. One day—just one day—where Atsumu Miya wasn’t in your fucking mind.

A small vibration broke the silence, and you glanced at your phone again.

Kita: Okay. Feel better.

You stared at the message for a second before locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket.

You weren’t sick. But he sure as hell was making you feel like you were.

__

After spending the rest of the day trying to distract yourself—hanging out with friends, grabbing food, doing anything to keep your thoughts away from him—you finally made it home. The moment you stepped inside, the silence was welcoming, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

Your parents were gone for the weekend. No one was home. Just you, an empty house, and, finally, some peace.

You exhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders as you set your bag down by the door. The tension in your chest had begun to fade, little by little, replaced by the relief of knowing you didn’t have to see him, didn’t have to deal with his bullshit. You could relax, unwind, maybe even—

A knock at the door shattered the peace into a million fucking pieces.

Your head snapped toward the door, heart lurching into your throat. No way. It couldn’t be—

A second knock.

You stood frozen for half a second before irritation overtook any disbelief. Of course, it was him. Of course.

You stomped forward, already feeling the irritation claw its way back up your spine. The second you yanked open the door, your glare could’ve burned holes through his head.

Atsumu Miya, standing on your doorstep, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Your instincts kicked in immediately. Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved to slam the door shut.

But his foot jammed in before the door could close, wedging itself into the gap, keeping it wide open. He stepped forward, forcing his way into your space with that same smug arrogance he always carried. You glared at him, voice low, venomous.

“I didn’t invite you in.”

Atsumu turned, stuffing his hands into his pockets, completely unfazed by your hostility. “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t.” You crossed your arms tightly, shifting your weight as if physically bracing yourself for whatever ridiculous excuse he was about to pull from his ass.

He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing in determination. “I think we do. This whole thing between us? It’s screwin’ with the team.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “And whose fault is that?”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is fixin’ it. And I got a solution.”

You narrowed your eyes, already regretting even entertaining this conversation. “I swear to god, if this is some dumbass idea—”

“Let’s just fuck and get it outta our systems.”

Silence. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

Your brain stalled for a moment, your mouth parting as if waiting for an explanation that would somehow make his words less ridiculous.

“…Excuse me?”

Atsumu leaned against the doorframe, completely relaxed, completely serious. “You heard me.”

You blinked. Then a sharp, disbelieving laugh tore from your throat. “You are actually out of your goddamn mind.”

“Think about it,” he continued, as if he were suggesting something completely logical, completely normal. “All this pent-up tension? It ain’t gonna go away on its own. We fight like hell every time we’re near each other, and it’s makin’ shit hard for the team.”

You scoffed, arms crossing even tighter. “Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

His smirk sharpened. “You sure it’s just mine?”

Your fingers twitched, itching to strangle him. “Yes, Miya. It is. And I don’t know what kind of delusional fantasy you’ve been living in, but I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it.”

Atsumu’s grin widened. “Oh yeah? That’s not what it felt like the other night.”

Your blood boiled instantly. “I hate you.”

“Good,” he said, voice dropping slightly, gaze darkening. “Makes it easier.”

You hated that your breath caught. Hated that there was something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something that sent a sharp, electric pulse straight through your stomach, tightening like a vice, making your breath come just a little too short. He was standing too close, the heat radiating from him brushing against your skin, tangible, suffocating. It was infuriating—how he took up space, how he filled every damn inch of it like he belonged there, like this moment was inevitable.

Your mind screamed at you to slam the door in his face, to push him away, to tell him to go straight to hell where he belonged. But you knew, deep in the marrow of your bones, that it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d still be there, in your head, smirking, taunting, winning.

Because he was right about one thing.

The tension? The energy? The pull between you? It wasn’t going away. It had been festering, simmering beneath every argument, every pointed glare, every sharp-edged word exchanged over the years. It had always been there, a wildfire waiting for a spark.

You sucked in a sharp breath, trying—desperately—to rein in the rage, the irritation, the heat that was threatening to consume you whole. Every logical part of you screamed to shove him out, to not give in, to refuse him like you always had. But the rest of you? The part that was tired of the fight, of the push and pull, of resisting something that never truly went away? That part just wanted relief. “You’re serious about this?”

His smirk faded slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “Dead serious.”

A battle waged inside you, every single nerve in your body screaming for you to shove him out, to tell him to rot in hell.

And yet, somehow, the words never left your lips.

Instead, you held his gaze for a long moment before exhaling sharply, tilting your chin up in defiance. "Leave your shoes near the door," you said, voice firm, unwavering. Then, without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked toward your bedroom, every step deliberate, controlled—as if daring him to follow.

Behind you, Atsumu's smirk widened. He toed off his shoes without hesitation, stepping inside with the confidence of someone who had already won.

Every rational part of you screamed that this was a terrible idea, that giving him even this was playing into exactly what he wanted. But another part of you—the part that had felt the full force of his mouth on yours, the part that still burned from the way he had grabbed you,—told you this was inevitable.

The moment the bedroom door shut, the air thickened, charged with something electric, something volatile. Hands clashed in a war of dominance, tearing at clothing like this was less about passion and more about proving a point. Fabric hit the floor in a frenzied, heated mess, discarded in a battle neither of you planned to lose. His grip was rough, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt before yanking it up and over your head with no patience, no hesitation.

You weren’t any gentler. Your hands fisted his hoodie, dragging it up his torso with force, exposing tanned skin and hard muscle, your nails scratching over his ribs just to hear the sharp breath he sucked through his teeth. It was satisfying, watching his composure waver, watching him react to you instead of the other way around. But his eyes burned when they met yours, something dark and dangerous flashing through them as he let the hoodie drop to the floor and stepped closer, pressing you backward, swallowing any satisfaction you might have felt.

His lips found the base of your throat, hot, biting, a stark contrast to the cool air against your flushed skin. He kissed like he fought—ruthless, demanding, relentless. His teeth scraped over your pulse point, lips dragging along the sensitive skin before sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“When are your folks gonna be home?” he muttered against your throat, voice rough, half-amused, half-starved.

The question barely registered, your mind already dizzy from the way his hands slid down your sides, gripping at your waist like he was staking a claim. “Monday,” you managed to breathe out, your voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Atsumu grinned against your skin, that cocky smirk pressing into your flesh, making you want to shove him away just as much as you wanted to pull him closer. “Good.” His breath was hot against your ear as he dragged his lips to your jaw, his voice dropping lower. “Means you can be loud.”

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, pressing against your throat just enough to make you dizzy, gripping your waist hard enough that you were sure you'd feel it tomorrow. His smirk never faltered, even as his rhythm stuttered when you clenched around him, even as you matched his energy, dragging your nails down his back, leaving marks that would remind him exactly who he was dealing with.

Before you could register it, he pushed you back, guiding you toward the bed with a roughness that sent a pulse of heat down your spine. Your knees hit the mattress, and as you fell back, you reached behind you, flicking open the clasp of your bra and letting it slide off your shoulders. Atsumu's gaze darkened, his hands immediately finding your bare skin, his thumbs swiping over your nipples in a slow, testing motion.

A sharp breath escaped you, and before you could bite it back, he grinned. "Sensitive, huh?" His voice was low, teasing, full of wicked amusement as he leaned in, dragging his tongue over the already aching bud before his teeth grazed it—just enough pressure to make you arch slightly.

The sting made you hiss, your hand shooting up to tangle in his hair, yanking hard. He groaned, the sound reverberating against your skin, but instead of annoyance, his smirk only widened. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips curving against your breast as he let out a breathy chuckle. "That all ya got?"

Heat crept up your neck, a flash of irritation mixing with something else—something dangerous. You could feel the smirk against your skin, smug and insufferable, and without thinking, you decided to wipe it off his face.

Your hand shot down between you, fingers deftly working at his belt, yanking it open with a confidence that made his breath hitch. The sound was satisfying, nearly as much as the way his smirk flickered for half a second when you popped the button on his jeans and dragged the zipper down in one smooth motion.

His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, and the second you wrapped your fingers around him, Atsumu let out a ragged groan, his forehead briefly pressing into your collarbone.

You shouldn’t have looked. You should not have looked. But curiosity got the better of you, and the moment your eyes flickered down, something inside you stuttered.

Fuck. He was bigger than you thought.

Atsumu felt you hesitate. You knew he did because when he looked up, there was something knowing in his gaze, something amused and all too smug.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he drawled, voice thick, teasing. "Bit off more than ya can chew?"

Your grip tightened instinctively around him, wiping the smirk off his face just as quickly as it had returned. But inside, your thoughts were spiraling.

Then, without missing a beat, you scoffed, tilting your head as your fingers gave an almost lazy stroke along his length. "Please," you murmured, voice dripping with defiance, "don’t flatter yourself."

Atsumu’s jaw ticked, the teasing glint in his eyes sharpening into something darker, something more challenging. But before he could throw back one of his usual cocky retorts, you surged forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was all teeth, all aggression, all sheer willpower to stay in control. Your hand still worked him over, slow but deliberate, and you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

For once, he wasn’t smirking.

And that was exactly what you wanted.

His breath came heavier now, his body betraying him even as he tried to maintain his usual smug composure. You didn’t give him time to recover. Your hand kept working over him, stroking slow and firm, and you could feel the way his cock twitched against your palm, how his muscles tensed beneath your touch. He let out a low groan into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, like he was trying to steady himself.

But you weren’t done proving a point.

Atsumu’s grip tightened, and in one swift movement, he pushed you back onto the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The sudden shift sent a shiver through you, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through hooded eyes as he reached for the waistband of your pants, fingers toying with the fabric.

He paused, gaze flicking up to meet yours, almost as if he was waiting for you to protest.

You didn’t.

His smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "Knew ya wanted this," he muttered, more to himself than you, and then he hooked his fingers into your pants, dragging them down along with your panties in one slow, torturous motion.

The cool air hit your skin, and that was when it fully sank in—how wet you were, how badly you had needed this despite every ounce of denial you had fed yourself. Atsumu’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, that self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth again.

“Well, well,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement as his fingers trailed along the inside of your thigh, not touching where you needed him most, just teasing. “Guess I’m not the only one enjoyin’ this.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, an involuntary reaction you hated, and Atsumu caught it instantly, his smirk deepening with the kind of satisfaction that made your blood boil. Your breath came out sharper than you intended, but you refused to let him get the upper hand.

Grinding your teeth, you quickly recovered, tilting your head with a defiant glare. "Just shut up and fuck me."

Atsumu’s smirk faltered for a split second, and you caught it—the flicker in his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his grip on your thigh tightened ever so slightly. He tried—tried—to act unfazed, but the way his cock twitched against your leg told you everything you needed to know.

You only smirked, fingers reaching up to drag through his hair, tugging him down until his mouth crashed against yours. If he wanted to act like you weren’t affecting him, you’d just have to prove otherwise.

But then he pulled back, breath ragged, eyes dark with something unreadable. Without a word, he reached for his discarded pants, fishing in the pocket before pulling out a condom. He tore it open with his teeth, rolling it on with a practiced ease that had your stomach flipping.

Atsumu’s gaze flicked to yours as he crawled back over you, spreading your legs apart with both hands, his touch firm, demanding. The tension crackled between you, heavy and intoxicating, his gaze drinking you in like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

And then, finally, finally, he pressed into you—slow, deliberate, stretching you inch by inch until you could feel every bit of him. The sensation was overwhelming, a deep, aching stretch that made your breath falter, your fingers tightening around your sheets as your body adjusted. It felt impossibly slow, like time had deliberately decided to crawl just to make you feel every single inch of him sinking into you, filling you more than you had anticipated, more than you had prepared for.

Your walls clenched involuntarily, the pressure making your body thrum with a mix of pleasure and tension. A choked sound escaped you, something between a gasp and a whimper, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck, pooling behind your eyes as the sheer fullness of it sent a shiver down your spine. Tears pricked at the corners of your vision, unbidden, unexpected, as if your body was trying to process how completely he had taken over your senses.

You almost didn’t dare to look at him. You expected his usual cocky smirk, a teasing remark, some smug comment about how he knew you’d struggle to take him. But when you forced yourself to peek up at him, what you saw made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

Atsumu was wrecked.

At first, you thought he was in pain. His whole body was trembling, jaw locked so tight you could see the tension ripple through him. You blinked, suddenly unsure, shifting slightly beneath him, instinctively moving to push at his chest, to tell him to stop if it was too much—

But the second you moved, Atsumu let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a curse, his hands clamping down hard on your thighs as he all but growled, "Don’t move."

You froze, lips parting in confusion. "Why—"

Then, you saw it.

The way his forehead dropped against yours, the way his entire frame shook with the effort of keeping himself together. His breath was ragged, his nails digging into your skin, his control hanging by a thread so thin you could almost see it snapping.

He wasn’t in pain.

He was holding back.

Holding back from cumming.

The realization sent another wave of heat through you, something dark and wicked unfurling in your chest. He was barely holding on.

And something about that made the heat in your stomach coil tighter, deeper. Seeing him like this—wrecked, struggling, trying so damn hard to hold himself together—was intoxicating. You had spent so long thinking of him as smug, as unshakable, as someone who never let anything get to him. But now? Now he was unraveling above you, and it was because of you.

Your breath caught, and you swallowed hard, trying to shove the thought down as far as it would go. That’s so ridiculously hot.

No. No, you couldn’t let yourself think that, couldn’t let yourself dwell on it, couldn’t let yourself enjoy it. Not with him. Not like this.

You forced yourself to focus, to ease the tension in your body, to relax just enough so it wasn’t as tight, wasn’t as overwhelming for either of you. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, feeling the way his grip tightened just slightly, like he was waiting, like he was barely managing to hold himself back.

And then, without warning, he thrust into you.

A sharp, unrestrained scream tore from your lips, your entire body jolting at the sudden movement. The sensation of being stretched even further sent a shockwave through your system, a mix of pleasure and sheer overwhelming fullness that made your breath stutter. Your back arched instinctively, hands flying up to cover your mouth, eyes blown wide in disbelief at the abruptness of it.

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, your pulse roaring in your ears. The shock took precedence over everything else, and before you could think better of it, you swung your hand out and smacked his shoulder—hard.

“Maybe let me know when you start?!” you half-yelled, voice sharp, breath tumbling out in a shaky exhale as you tried to regain some semblance of composure. Your body was still reeling, trying to adjust to him, and the last thing you needed was to be caught off guard like that.

Atsumu only grinned, completely unbothered by the slap, looking down at you with that insufferable, golden-eyed amusement. His breath was uneven, his jaw tight, but that cocky smirk still curled at his lips like he had all the control in the world.

“What? Thought ya liked surprises, sweetheart,” he teased, voice thick, a little wrecked despite his best efforts to hide it.

As he spoke, he started moving—slow at first, but deep, each thrust deliberate and unrelenting. Whatever sharp remark you had locked and loaded in your brain was lost instantly, the words dying in your throat as a broken moan escaped instead. Your fingers dug into his arms, gripping hard enough to leave marks, your body already responding despite every stubborn effort to resist.

His smirk widened, golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "What was that?" he taunted, his pace steady, unhurried, like he was enjoying watching you struggle to hold yourself together.

You tried—tried—to find your voice, to glare at him, to force something cutting past your lips, but all that came was another breathy moan, your head tilting back against the pillow as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach.

Atsumu chuckled, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear. "Guess ya don’t got much to say now, huh?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers twitching, half a second away from smacking him again. Smug bastard.

But if he thought you were just going to lie there and take it, he had another thing coming.

Your walls clenched deliberately around him in retaliation, squeezing tight just to throw him off his rhythm. The reaction was instant—his breath hitched, his smirk faltering as his jaw clenched hard enough to make his muscles twitch. You felt the tremor that ran through him, the way his fingers dug just a little deeper into your hips, his control barely holding on by a thread.

A satisfied smirk flickered across your lips as you rolled your hips up to meet his thrusts, matching him, challenging him. If he wanted to play smug, you could play harder.

"Fuckin’ hell," Atsumu groaned, voice strained, his movements stuttering before he caught himself. His golden eyes, usually filled with amusement and arrogance, were darker now, hazed over with something dangerously close to desperation.

He exhaled sharply, trying to recover, trying to push past the way you were throwing him off, but you knew. You could see the effort it was taking him to keep control, to not let it slip, and that only made you push more.

His thrusts picked up in response, deeper, more desperate, like he was trying to wrestle back the upper hand. But even he was struggling now, and when he tried to open his mouth for some cocky remark, all that came out was a low, broken moan.

The tension snapped like a live wire between you, the push and pull combusting into something raw, something reckless. His movements grew sharper, more relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to drag both of you under with him. The heat pooling in your stomach grew unbearable, white-hot pleasure licking up your spine, making every nerve in your body hum.

Your head tilted back, lips parting as the sensation overwhelmed you. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, the words tumbled from your lips, breathless and pleading.

"Tsumu... harder."

Something inside him snapped.

A sharp curse tore from his throat, his control completely disintegrating as he buried himself deeper, his rhythm shifting from teasing to ruinous. His pace turned brutal, driving into you with a force that sent you arching into the sheets, your fingers clawing at his back, nails dragging down his skin as you lost yourself to the sheer intensity of it.

Every thrust sent you spiraling higher, the coil in your stomach twisting impossibly tight, your entire body trembling from the mounting pleasure. It was too much, too good, each snap of his hips pushing you closer to the edge until—

You shattered.

A choked cry ripped from your throat, pleasure slamming through you in waves, body tensing, back arching, your walls clamping down around him like a vice. The sensation ripped a strangled groan from Atsumu, his movements growing erratic as he chased his own release, barely holding himself together before he followed, spilling into the condom with a deep, shuddering moan.

For a long moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing, heavy silence, the lingering heat of everything that had just happened wrapping around you both like a smothering fog. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours, the weight of him grounding you in the aftermath of the storm.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you exhaled shakily and muttered, "Well... what now?"

Rivalry: Atsumu

It had been years of this.

Years of Atsumu Miya being an unrelenting, aggravating presence in your life.

From the moment you met, he had been insufferable. Smug, fiercely competitive, and persistently irksome, he thrived on pushing every button you had. Every interaction with him was a battle—whether it was a disagreement over training schedules, a critique of his technique, or a casual observation about his erratic setting. He never let anything slide, twisting every word into an argument, every comment into an opportunity to outmaneuver you.

The worst part? You never backed down.

If he provoked, you retaliated. If he smirked, you sneered. He could infuriate you faster than anyone else, and he knew it—and he reveled in it.

And now, in your third year as the Inarizaki team manager, you had mastered the art of tolerating Atsumu Miya—

Until tonight.

Tonight, he’d finally gone too far.

The entire team had long since caught on to your dynamic.

Atsumu didn’t merely annoy you—he made a sport out of it.

If you walked into practice? He was already waiting, arms crossed, a cocky grin stretching across his face as he prepared some quip guaranteed to get under your skin.

“Yer late, manager,” he’d say, despite the fact that you never were.

If you so much as tried to correct something? He’d smirk, feigning surprise. “Oh? Maybe I should just hand ya my setter position, huh?”

And the worst part? The others loved it.

Osamu, Futakuchi, and even Kita occasionally leaned back and observed your fights like a live-action drama, amused by how predictably you two clashed.

“Ya know, at this point, I think ya like the attention,” Atsumu teased one afternoon, casually tossing a volleyball between his hands. “Yer always gettin’ worked up over me.”

You scoffed, arms crossed. “Oh, please. The day I enjoy anything about you is the day hell freezes over.”

Futakuchi nudged Osamu. “Tension’s thick today.”

Osamu smirked. “Give it five minutes. They’ll be yellin’.”

And five minutes later, Atsumu had said exactly the right thing to set you off, and the shouting commenced.

Practice had gone as usual, with only a few sharp remarks exchanged between you and Atsumu before it was over. You were exhausted, your muscles aching from running errands for the team all day, your patience wearing thin. All you wanted was to head home, collapse into bed, and forget that Miya Atsumu existed for a few blessed hours.

The team packed up in the club room, their chatter filling the space as they slung their bags over their shoulders. You barely noticed that Atsumu wasn’t among them as they filed out, too focused on getting the final tasks done so you could lock up and leave.

But when you walked into the gym, your plans crumbled.

Atsumu was still there, alone, setting balls into the air with effortless precision. His expression was intense, brows drawn together in concentration, jaw tight, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. The only sounds in the gym were the rhythmic thud of the volleyball meeting his hands and the slight squeak of his sneakers against the polished floor as he adjusted his stance.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. Of course. Of course he couldn’t just leave like a normal person.

His shirt clung to his body, damp with sweat, emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders and the way his forearms flexed every time he made contact with the ball. He moved with precision, power behind every motion, muscles tensing and releasing like a well-oiled machine. As much as you hated to admit it, he was good. Infuriatingly good.

But you didn’t care about that right now.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and sighed. "Seriously, Miya? Go home."

He barely looked at you before responding. "Suck my dick."

You scoffed. "You wish. Now pack up, or I’m locking you in here."

He ignored you, setting another perfect ball into the air. That was the last straw. Marching onto the court, you grabbed the nearest volleyball and chucked it at him. He caught it effortlessly, smirking.

"You gonna help, or just be a pain in my ass?" he taunted.

You turned on your heel and stormed toward the supply closet, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. The overhead light buzzed faintly as you stepped inside, the scent of disinfectant and old volleyballs filling your nose. Without hesitation, you grabbed a laundry basket full of towels and shoved it into Atsumu’s chest the moment you returned.

“You’re gonna help clean up tonight,” you said sharply, your voice edged with exhaustion and frustration.

Atsumu scoffed, letting the weight settle against his chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You stayed late to practice, and I have the keys to the gym. That means you’re packing up before I lock up for the night.”

Atsumu smirked, that lazy, infuriating smirk that made your blood boil. "But you're so much better at those kinds of things, ya know? We all have our strengths."

“Oh? And what's yours?”

He shrugged. “I score points.”

You wanted to strangle him. “I mean off the court, Miya. You brainless egomaniac.”

That smirk widened. "Damn, sweetheart, say it like ya mean it."

Your entire body tensed. If there was one thing—one thing—that set your blood boiling faster than anything, it was that nickname. The way he said it, like it was his own personal joke, a word meant to patronize, to needle at you in a way that no one else dared. It was never affectionate, never playful—not in the way others might say it. No, when Atsumu called you sweetheart, it was dripping with arrogance, a smirk wrapped around syllables meant to get under your skin.

And god, did it work.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, jaw tightening so hard it ached. "Don't. Call. Me. That."

His smirk only grew, as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction. "What? Don't like it? Thought ya might warm up to it by now."

"I'd rather set myself on fire."

Atsumu chuckled, slow and smug, like he'd already won this round. "Now that is dramatic."

You threw a towel at his face, and he caught it effortlessly, his smirk widening. "Temper, temper," he taunted, shaking his head like you were the one being unreasonable. "Y'know, if ya wanted me to get all sweaty cleanin' up, ya coulda just asked nicely." You only roll your eyes in disgust.

“Take those to the supply closet. And don’t start with your usual bullshit, just do what I say for once.”

Atsumu tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something sharp. “Bossy.”

You inhaled sharply, jaw clenching. The way he looked at you—like he thrived on how easily he could rile you up—made your skin prickle. “Miya, I swear to—”

“Fine, fine,” he drawled, rolling his eyes as he slung the towels over his shoulder. His smirk deepened as he eyed you, a flicker of amusement dancing behind those infuriatingly sharp eyes. "Must be exhausting bein’ so uptight all the time. Ya ever tried just... relaxin'? Oh, wait, guess that'd require ya to actually remove that stick from  yer ass."

Your blood boiled instantly, a sharp sting of irritation spreading through your chest. Exhaustion and frustration swirled together into something combustible, something that snapped your already frayed patience. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you fought the urge to throw something harder than a towel at his smug, insufferable face. Without thinking, you stomped past him, heading into the supply closet, letting out a frustrated breath as you grabbed another piece of equipment to throw at him if necessary.

"Maybe if your setting was as reliable as your big mouth, I wouldn’t have to waste my breath on you,” you spat, voice cold and cutting.

Atsumu went rigid. His smirk flattened into something unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, burning eyes—flashed with something dark, something livid.

In an instant, he was storming after you. Before you could react, he followed you into the supply closet, his movements sharp and full of barely restrained anger. The door slammed behind him, the echo bouncing off the walls.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" His voice was low, lethal, his usual teasing edge completely gone.

You whirled around, arms crossing over your chest. "You heard me, Miya. Maybe if you focused on actually being consistent instead of running your mouth, you wouldn't have to work overtime trying to convince people you're the best."

His nostrils flared, jaw clenched so tight you could practically hear his teeth grinding. "You think I got this far by bein' inconsistent? By bein' a fuckin' joke?"

"I think you got this far because you talk so much shit, people actually start to believe it," you bit back. "But I'm not like the rest of your fangirls, Miya. Your act doesn’t work on me."

Atsumu let out a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer. Too close. "Ya really think you know me, huh?" His voice was dangerous now, quiet and sharp like a blade pressed just beneath your skin. "Yer full of shit."

"And you're full of yourself."

The air was thick, charged with something volatile, something unstable. His hands were curled into fists, his breath coming in sharp exhales. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his fury rolling off in waves.

You scoffed in disgust, shaking your head as a bitter smirk pulled at your lips. "You're pathetic."

Atsumu’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening dangerously, but you were already turning away, reaching for the door handle to get as far away from him as possible.

Then your stomach dropped.

The knob refused to turn.

Atsumu frowned. "The hell are ya doin’?"

You twisted the knob again, harder. Still nothing.

Your throat went dry. "The door is locked."

Atsumu snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure it is." He reached out, confidently twisting the handle—

Nothing.

Atsumu frowned, twisting harder. Still nothing.

Silence.

Then, without missing a beat—

“Yeah, like I didn’t try that,” you deadpanned.

Atsumu’s scowl deepened, his frustration crackling in the air between you. "You’ve gotta be fuckin' kidding me. This is all your fault."

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. "Oh, right, because I totally planned to lock myself in a closet with you of all people."

"Yer mouth sure makes it sound like ya did." His voice was low, edged with something sharp. "Maybe ya just wanted me all to yourself."

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Please. If I wanted something all to myself, it sure as hell wouldn’t be you."

Atsumu took a step closer, his presence closing in on you like a storm. "Keep talkin’, princess. Let’s see if ya can keep that smart mouth runnin’ when we’re stuck in here all night."

"Oh, fuck you, Miya," you snapped, stepping forward to meet his glare head-on. "You are without a doubt the most infuriating, self-obsessed asshole I have ever met."

His lips curled into a sneer. "And you’re the most uptight, high-strung pain in the ass I’ve ever met."

"Oh yeah? Well, at least I don’t have to spend every waking second convincing everyone I’m the best. News flash—if you actually were, you wouldn’t have to try so hard."

His eyes darkened, his entire body stiffening at your words. "You wanna talk about trying too hard? How ‘bout ya take a fuckin’ look in the mirror? Always actin’ like ya hate me, but yer always up in my business. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think ya like this."

You scoffed, tilting your head in disbelief. "God, you’re delusional."

"And you’re a fuckin’ hypocrite." He was even closer now, his breath hot, his voice tight with rage. "You always act like ya can’t stand me, but here ya are, pushin’ up against me like ya wanna make this somethin’ else."

The worst part?

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

Your chests were nearly brushing, your ragged breaths intermingling. Your skin was burning, your hands clenched at your sides, every inch of you wound too tight. The anger, the frustration, the way he always got under your skin—it was all-consuming.

And then, suddenly, neither of you were talking anymore.

Atsumu’s mouth was on yours before you could process it, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was just as furious as your fights. You yanked him down by the collar, fingers tangling into the damp fabric of his shirt, pulling him in hard enough to hurt. He groaned into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you back against the closet shelves as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was years of pent-up aggression and frustration, a battle neither of you wanted to win. Teeth clashed, hands grabbed, nails dug into skin. The heat between you was unbearable, suffocating, and neither of you had the willpower to pull away.

Atsumu nipped at your bottom lip, his breath hot against your mouth as he muttered, "Knew ya wanted me."

Shut up, Miya." You bit back.

And then you kissed him again, drowning out whatever cocky response he had left.

Atsumu wasn’t satisfied with just kissing you. His frustration, his irritation, his hunger bled into every movement as he pushed forward, backing you up until your spine hit the cold surface of the supply closet door. The impact barely registered, not when his hands were gripping at your waist, fingers digging into your sides like he was trying to mark you, claim some kind of dominance even here.

You gasped against his mouth, the moment of vulnerability only spurring him on. His lips left yours for half a second—just long enough for him to smirk. “Told ya,” he murmured, voice husky, breath hot against your skin. “You just needed me to shut ya up properly.”

You barely had time to react before he was kissing you again, harder, more desperate. Your hands found their way to his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck and pulling—a move that ripped a deep, guttural groan from his throat. The sound shot straight down your spine, heat pooling in your stomach, making your breath hitch.

His hands slid down, gripping the backs of your thighs, and without a second of hesitation, you wrapped your legs around his waist. He held you effortlessly, as if supporting your weight meant nothing to him. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, making you shudder. He lingered there, his teeth scraping before his mouth latched onto your skin with deliberate pressure. You barely registered the sensation, too caught up in the heat of the moment, too focused on the way his body pressed against yours. But his smirk against your neck said otherwise—like he knew exactly what he was doing, leaving his mark before trailing his lips back to yours.

The warmth of his touch burned through the thin fabric of your clothes, his fingers pressing into your skin in a way that made your head spin. His hands started to wander, moving up beneath your shirt, his touch searing—

And then the door burst open.

Atsumu lost his balance. With a startled grunt, he stumbled forward, dragging you with him as you both spilled out of the closet and onto the hard gym floor.

“What the hell?!”

You barely had time to register the situation before a voice rang out above you.

“The fuck are you two doin’ in here?”

Your eyes shot up to see the janitor, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, face twisted in the most unimpressed expression you had ever seen.

Silence.

Neither you nor Atsumu moved. You were still on top of him, his hands still on your thighs, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders. The position was beyond compromising.

The janitor raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t cleanin’ up after this.”

Atsumu let out a breathless chuckle beneath you, his smirk returning full force. “Guess we got caught, huh, sweetheart?”You shoved him off you so hard he hit the floor with a thud, scrambling to your feet, face burning with embarrassment. “Shut up, Miya!”

Happy birthday to my lovely babies s o b s

Osamu may seem like the reliable one between the twins but in the end, he is still big brother Atsumu's baby brother.

Reblog means invitation to the miya twins bday party.