mikan has logged back in

​it wasn’t just the sock though. it was the way he’d walk into the apartment after a ten-hour day of jumping and sweating, look at you sitting on the couch, and collapse onto your lap like a felled redwood tree. he merges into your very soul. and now, he’s currently trying to achieve some sort of biological symbiosis where your skin ended and his began.

​“yer heart’s beating real fast,” he mumbled, his face pressed so firmly into the crook of your neck that his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “is it ‘cause i’m home? did ya miss me that much? i bet ya did. i bet ya were cryin’ at the door like a lonely puppy.”

​the irony was thicker than his hyōgo accent. atsumu was the one who had sent forty-seven line stickers of a weeping bear while he was in the locker room. he was the one currently on top of the moon with the sheer intensity of being within grabbing range.

​“‘tsum, you’re literally crushing my internal organs,” you teased, though your fingers were already tangled in those bleached-blonde locks, scratching at the scalp where the sweat had dried.

​he let out a sound that was half-purr, half-whimper, a pathetic little noise that had no business coming from a man who could serve a volleyball at speeds that caused sonic booms. he shifted, crawling upward until he was straddling your lap, his massive frame dwarfing the cushions. his hands—those famous, expensive setter hands—didn’t go for your waist. no, he went straight for the hem of your shirt, slipping his palms underneath to feel the heat of your lower back. his skin was always scorching, like he was perpetually running a fever of 110 percent devotion.

​“can’t help it,” he whispered, nipping at your jawline with a desperation that was frankly embarrassing for his brand deals. “i spent all day dealin’ with bokuto’s screamin’ and shō’s energy. ‘m depleted. ‘m a battery at one percent, darlin’. need ta recharge.”

​he started trailing kisses up your neck, each one sounding like a suction cup. he was so needy. he wanted to consume your entire essence. he was simpy in the way a victorian poet was simpy—just absolute, unadulterated brain-rot for the person he loved.

​“did ya notice the missing sock?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you with those hooded, dark eyes.

​“the one you stole from the laundry basket? atsumu, that’s theft. i’m calling the police.”

​“call ‘em,” he challenged, a lopsided, arrogant grin breaking through his sad puppy facade. “tell ‘em yer boyfriend is a criminal for lovin’ ya. tell ‘em he’s got a fetish for cotton blends that touch yer ankles. see if they care.”

​he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. atsumu was a tactile glutton. even when he wasn’t kissing you, he had to be touching you. a toe on your foot, a finger hooked in your belt loop, his chin resting on your shoulder. he was a human ivy plant, and you were the sturdy brick wall he was intent on overtaking.

​“i’m takin’ ya to the game tomorrow,” he murmured, his hands wandering lower, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your pajamas. “i want everyone to see ya. i want ‘em to know why i’m playin’ so good. ‘cause i gotta get home to this. to you.”

​the devotion in his voice was enough to make your teeth ache. it was sweet, sticky, and utterly relentless. he pulled you closer, if that was even physically possible, and buried his face in your chest.

​“yer so soft. why’re ya so soft? it’s unfair. i’m all muscle and angles and yer just... perfect.”

∞ྀི

​the msby black jackals locker room smelled like deep heat, expensive cologne, and the lingering scent of victory. the game had ended twenty minutes ago, and while the rest of the team was busy shouting about post-game yakiniku, atsumu was a man on a mission.

​he had spotted you in the stands—obviously, he’d spent half the warm-ups staring at your section until barnes told him to focus—and the moment the final whistle blew, his clingy meter had redlined.

​you barely had time to step into the hallway before a large, sweaty hand shot out, grabbed your wrist, and hauled you into the darkened secondary locker room. the door slammed shut with a heavy thud!, and suddenly, you were pinned against a row of cold metal lockers.

​but the lockers weren’t cold for long. atsumu was a radiator.

​“missed ya,” he growled, and he didn’t wait for a reply.

​his mouth crashed onto yours with the force of a man who had been wandering a desert for forty days. it wasn’t a gentle ‘hello’ kiss. it was a ‘i haven’t seen you in three hours and i’m losing my mind’ kiss. his tongue pushed past your lips with an impatient flick, demanding entry, demanding everything.

​he tasted like gatorade and pure hunger. his hands were everywhere—one tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back to give him better access, the other wandering down, gripping your thigh and hitching it up around his waist.

​“‘tsumu—” you gasped into his mouth, the sound immediately swallowed by another deep, wet slide of his tongue.

​“shut up,” he breathed, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your lips. “just let me... god, i’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout this since the second set. you in my jersey. lookin’ all cute. makin’ me want to jump the rails, carry ya off, and bend you over on the shower room.”

​he broke the kiss only to attack your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right below your ear. he wasn’t being careful, not at all. he left a mark—a dark, blossoming hickey that screamed property of miya atsumu—and he did it with a smug little hum of satisfaction.

​his hand slid under your top, lifting it with his palm hot and calloused as it cupped your chest, his thumb raking over it through the lace of your bra. you let out a sharp, jagged breath as he starts squeezing, licking, and sucking through the lace, your fingers digging into the damp fabric of his jersey. the contrast was insane—the high-octane professional athlete out on the court, and this desperate, trembling mess of a man in the dark.

his touch heavy and possessive, he wanted to feel every curve, every inch of skin he’d been deprived of during the match. his kisses moved back to your mouth, sloppier now, more frantic. you could hear the wet, rhythmic sounds of the both of you making out echoing off the lockers—the slide of tongues, the hitch of your breath, the low, needy groans he kept making in the back of his throat.

​he pulled your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, hard, before soothing the sting with a slow, agonizing lick. he was acting like he wanted to climb inside your ribcage.

​“ya taste so good,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted for air. his eyes were blown out, dark and glazed with a terrifying amount of affection. “i’m gonna go home and i’m gonna keep ya awake all night. i’m gonna kiss every single inch of ya until ya forget yer own name. ya hear me?”

​you couldn’t even form a sentence. your brain was mush. atsumu took your silence as a challenge, leaning back in to suck on your pulse point, his hands firmly kneading your hips as if he were trying to mold you into a shape that fit him better.

​“miya! we’re leaving! don’t tell me you’re still lookin’ for that sock!” sakusa’s muffled, disgusted voice drifted from the hallway.

​atsumu stiffened, letting out a frustrated hiss. he didn’t pull away, though. instead, he pressed the tent of his shorts against you one last time, a heavy, grounding pressure that made your heart do backflips.

​“i’m never lettin’ ya go,” he whispered, a promise that sounded a lot like a threat to your personal space.

​he pulled back just an inch, his eyes scanning your face with a look so tender it was almost painful. he reached out, thumbing a stray drop of saliva from the corner of your mouth then putting it in his, his expression shifting from feral predator back to hopelessly devoted boyfriend in a heartbeat.

​“go wait by the bus, darlin’. i’ll be out in two minutes. and if i see any guy lookin’ at that mark i just gave ya, i’m hittin’ ‘em with a jump serve.”

​he gave you one last, quick peck on the nose—a jarringly wholesome contrast to the debauchery of the last five minutes—and watched you walk out with the gaze of a man who had just won the lottery and was terrified someone would steal the ticket.

​atsumu was a lot of things: a champion, a twin brother, a fatty, a public figure. but mostly, he was just a guy who would happily live in your pocket if the laws of physics allowed it. and as you walked toward the bus, feeling the tingle on your lips and the weight of his mark on your neck, you knew there wasn’t a single place in the world he’d rather be than stuck to you like cosmic glue.

​he was already texting you before you reached the exit.

slave: “should we try the sturdiness of every furniture again? we’re buying new furnitures with your favorite color if we stain them too much.”

n: awooga, this was kept in my drafts for my eyes only. but i reached a milestone, so there goes my selfish desires.

ps. suggestive fics are in between smut and fluff, no one can torch me for this.

masterlist - the art of haikyū!!

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.

Without realizing it, Ushijima's world had long since begun to revolve around her. Every aspect of his life was intertwined with hers, and he had never once questioned it. Sharing everything with his best friend seemed as natural as breathing. But now, with the seeds of doubt planted by his teammates, he couldn't help but wonder if there was more to their bond than he had initially believed.

A soft sigh escaped his nose as his phone buzzed with a message from Tendou, inquiring about the keys to the gym. Tendou... he was the one who had first sparked this internal conflict, causing Ushijima to question the depth of his friendship with her. With a snap, he closed his phone and placed it back on the nightstand, settling against the headboard once more. As if sensing his unease, she stirred, and Ushijima instinctively reached out to card his fingers through her luscious locks, gently lulling her back to sleep.

This was their normal, and he couldn't understand why his friends couldn't see that.

His mind drifted back to their first year of high school, when he had initially introduced her to Tendou and Semi. Ushijima had breezed through the practice match set by his seniors, even though he had forgotten his application form. His reputation preceded him, and they already knew who he was.

"Woah, who's that chick?" one of his seniors had whistled lowly, his gaze fixed on the gym entrance. Ushijima followed his line of sight, curious as to what had captured the attention of his teammates. His eyes widened slightly as he spotted her peeking out cautiously from behind the door. Without a second thought, he abandoned the ball and jogged over to her, oblivious to the questioning stares of his teammates.

She held out his forgotten application form, explaining that he had left it in her classroom that morning. Ushijima nodded appreciatively, his expression unchanging. What baffled his teammates, however, was the way he leaned down to peck her lips, just as she instinctively tilted her head up to meet his. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it was far too long to be considered purely platonic.

"Ushi-waka, is that your girlfriend?" Tendou teased, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He seemed almost proud that the seemingly robotic Ushijima had managed to catch the attention of such a cute girl.

To everyone's surprise, Ushijima appeared genuinely confused by the question. "No, she's my best friend," he stated simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

As time went on, the team struggled to wrap their heads around the nature of Ushijima and her relationship. She would often drop by the gym, delivering small items that the seemingly scatterbrained Ushijima had left behind. Each interaction followed the same pattern: Ushijima standing too close for comfort, though she never seemed bothered by it, and the two sharing a kiss that lingered just a bit too long to be considered friendly.

The team eventually came to the conclusion that Ushijima was simply shy and unable to admit his true feelings. They reasoned that, given his stoic nature, this must be his first relationship, and he was struggling to come to terms with it.

"I'm not in a relationship. She's my childhood friend. We're neighbors too," Ushijima insisted, his tone firm and unwavering. The team decided to drop the subject, realizing that he was far too stubborn to convince otherwise.

It became clear that Ushijima spent his lunches in another classroom, never appearing in the cafeteria or his own classroom. Semi deduced that he must be visiting her, and so he and Tendou decided to investigate. They weren't surprised to find Ushijima sitting across from her, engrossed in reading something while she occasionally fed him small bites of food. When he failed to pay attention, she would lean in and gently wipe away stray rice from the corner of his mouth. The intimate moments they shared seemed far too personal for mere friends, yet Ushijima remained steadfast in his assertion that she was nothing more than his best friend.

The final straw came when Ushijima, with genuine curiosity, asked Tendou if he liked her. His sincerity was enough to make Tendou reluctantly agree that perhaps Ushijima truly did see her as just a friend. But what about her feelings?

Semi took it upon himself to approach her, befriending her and welcoming her into the club as an unofficial manager. Once she seemed comfortable enough, he finally asked the burning question: "Are you and Ushijima-san dating?"

She blinked, confusion evident in her expression as she tilted her head to the side. "No, he's my best friend. We've been together since we were kids since our parents are also friends."

It dawned on the team that perhaps both Ushijima and she were equally dense when it came to matters of the heart. From that point on, they found themselves more invested in the pair's relationship than in volleyball practice itself.

One evening, they stumbled upon Ushijima and her in the gym after practice. She was helping him perfect his spikes, tossing the ball up for him to slam down onto the other side of the court. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until Ushijima accidentally sent a ball straight into the net, which then bounced off and hit her square in the face. She let out a soft yelp, crouching down and clutching her bleeding nose.

Ushijima was by her side in an instant, kneeling mere inches away and gently prying her hands away from her face. He clicked his tongue as he watched the crimson blood cascade from her nose and over her lips. With an apologetic look, he scooped her up like one would a toddler and carried her to the bench. Kneeling between her legs, he tore a piece of cloth and tenderly wiped away the blood, his palms smoothing up her thighs in a comforting gesture. Once the bleeding had stopped, he remained in his position, seemingly unwilling to move away. When she assured him that she was okay, he kissed her lips once more before standing up, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The team confronted Ushijima about the incident later. "I like kissing her. Is it wrong to?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.

Tendou and Semi exchanged a knowing look. "No, it's not wrong. But it is something that people who are dating do," Semi explained gently.

"Dating? But she's my best friend," Ushijima countered, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Well, yeah, but haven't you ever felt like you wanted something more with her?" Tendou pressed.

"Why would I want something more? It has always been like this between her and me." Ushijima's bewilderment was palpable, and Semi and Tendou decided to let the matter drop, realizing that he was not yet ready to confront the depth of his feelings.

The team's suspicions were further confirmed when they witnessed Ushijima and her saying goodbye before he left for a two-week training camp that coincided with her birthday. Ushijima pulled her aside, apologizing for missing the special day they usually spent together. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close and nuzzling his nose into her hair. They stood mere inches apart, gazing at each other with a look that the team could only describe as love, even if the two were too oblivious to recognize it themselves.

Throughout the training camp, Ushijima spent every free moment texting or calling her. When he couldn't do either, he would prop his phone up on the bench, leaving her on a video call so she could watch him play. It became increasingly clear to the team that the two were emotionally dependent on each other, their bond so deep that they struggled to spend even a moment apart.

Their theory was proven correct when Ushijima fell into a state of depression after she stopped answering his calls. Her grandmother had passed away, and she had retreated into her room, shutting out the world in her grief.

As soon as the training camp ended, Ushijima raced to her house, desperate to be by her side. He arrived to find the house empty and dark, the only light filtering through the curtains coming from the moon above. He made his way upstairs, his heart heavy with worry, only to discover her bedroom vacant. A soft sound coming from the bathroom caught his attention, and he gently pushed open the creaky door.

There, in the darkness she so feared, he found her lying in the bathtub, staring blankly at the moldy ceiling as tears streamed down her face. The water was frigid, but Ushijima paid it no mind as he knelt beside her, brushing her wet bangs away from her forehead. Without a word, he reached into the water and gathered her into his arms, cradling her close and not caring that her bare, wet body was soaking his clothes.

He wrapped a towel around her shivering form, holding her tightly and rocking back and forth in a subconscious attempt to soothe her pain. Gently, he removed the towel and dressed her in one of his shirts before slipping under the covers with her, holding her close throughout the night.

When Ushijima recounted this story to Tendou, the redhead was left speechless. Not only was it the most emotion he had ever seen Ushijima display, but it was also a testament to the profound love and connection the two shared, even if they couldn't put a name to it.

During their third year, the arrival of new first-year players brought about a shift in the team's dynamic. Coach Washijo had specifically requested her presence to take notes, and she had obliged, her keen eye for detail and understanding of the game making her an invaluable asset.

Among the fresh faces was Goshiki, a boisterous and attention-seeking young man who seemed to gravitate towards her warm and nurturing demeanor. She found his enthusiasm and charm endearing, and she readily showered him with compliments, knowing that it was exactly what he craved.

The rest of the team, however, could only watch in trepidation as they noticed the darkening expression on Ushijima's face. It was a look they had never seen before, a mixture of jealousy and possessiveness that seemed to radiate from his very being. Tendou, ever the opportunist, seized the chance to probe Ushijima about his feelings, but the stoic captain remained tight-lipped, refusing to acknowledge the green-eyed monster that had taken hold of him.

It came as no surprise to the team when Ushijima, in a display of his newfound authority as captain, suddenly banned her from entering the gym. The self-satisfied look on his face was unmistakable as he watched Goshiki's crestfallen expression upon realizing that the object of his affections was nowhere to be found.

The crushing defeat against Karasuno had been a blow to the entire team, but none felt it more keenly than Ushijima. He had maintained his composure in front of his teammates, his stoic mask never slipping, but she knew better. She had been there, watching from the sidelines, her heart aching for him as he shouldered the weight of their loss.

That day, Ushijima had actively avoided her, and she had returned home with a heavy heart, wondering how she could ease his pain. It wasn't until the middle of the night that she was roused from her sleep by the sound of her window sliding open. She watched as Ushijima's familiar form slipped into her room, his shoulders hunched and his eyes downcast.

Without a word, she lifted the covers, inviting him into the warmth and comfort of her bed. As he settled beside her, she wound her arms around his neck, holding him close as he nestled his cheek against her breast, inhaling the soothing scent that was so uniquely her. His hand found its way to her waist, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her soft skin as they both drifted off to sleep, entwined in each other's embrace.

Ushijima had never given much thought to the nature of their relationship, content in the knowledge that she was his best friend, his constant companion. But that all changed the day he received a confession letter from a girl in his class. Unlike the countless anonymous notes that flooded his locker, this girl had mustered the courage to approach him directly, her handwritten letter trembling slightly in her grasp.

As he stood there, the delicate paper in his hands, Ushijima found himself at a loss. His eyes remained fixed on the letter, but his mind was elsewhere, filled with thoughts of her—his best friend. He couldn't understand why, in this moment, when faced with the prospect of a romantic entanglement, all he could think about was her.

The girl before him was undeniably pretty, but she paled in comparison to the one who had captured his heart so completely. He couldn't fathom a future where he devoted his time and attention to anyone else, where he shared the same intimate moments and unspoken understanding with another woman. The very idea felt like a betrayal, a violation of the bond they had spent a lifetime cultivating.

With a heavy heart, Ushijima had rejected the girl's confession, his words gentle but firm. To her credit, she took the rejection in stride, as if she had already prepared herself for this outcome. As he walked away, Ushijima found himself inexplicably drawn to her, his best friend, his other half.

That night, he had taken her home with him, and they had fallen into their familiar routine, laying side by side in his bed as they had done countless times before. But sleep eluded him, his mind racing with questions and doubts that he had never before entertained.

As the first light of dawn crept into the room, Ushijima found himself propped up against the headboard, his gaze fixed on the woman slumbering peacefully beside him. In the stillness of the early morning, he allowed himself to imagine a future where he woke up to her every day, not just on weekends. A future where he could kiss her for as long as he desired, hold her close and never let go. A future where their outings were no longer just hanging out, but proper dates, filled with romance and intention.

His mind wandered further, to visions of making love to her, of joining their bodies and souls in the ultimate expression of their devotion. He pictured marrying her, watching her walk down the aisle towards him, radiant and resplendent in white. He imagined her round with his child, her belly swelling with the life they had created together. He saw them growing old side by side, their love only deepening with each passing year until they took their final breaths, forever entwined.

With sudden clarity, Ushijima understood why Tendou and Semi had been so persistent in their questioning of his relationship with her. He had always known that he loved her, but he had never fully grasped the depth and magnitude of that love. It was a love that transcended friendship, a love that encompassed every aspect of his being.

He realized that if he were to wake her now and ask for her hand in marriage, she would say yes without hesitation. Their love had become so ingrained, so fundamental to their existence, that the idea of marriage, which held such significance for others, seemed almost trivial in comparison. It was simply the next logical step in a journey they had been on since the very beginning.

And if he were to express his desire to make love to her, would she react with the same easy acceptance as she did to his kisses? Would she welcome him into her body just as readily as she welcomed him into her heart?

Ushijima's heart swelled with the weight of his realization, the full extent of his love for her crashing over him like a tidal wave. He knew, with unshakable certainty, that she was his past, his present, and his future. She was the one constant in his life, the one person who understood him better than he understood himself.

As he watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, her face serene in the golden light of dawn, Ushijima made a silent vow. He would cherish her, protect her, and love her with every fiber of his being, for as long as he drew breath. And when the time was right, he would make his intentions known, laying bare the depths of his devotion and asking her to be his, now and forever.

Until then, he would continue to hold her close, to bask in the warmth of her presence and the unbreakable bond they shared. In the end, it had always been her, and it would always be her, his best friend, his soulmate, his one true love.

bonus:

As the morning sun began to filter through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room, Ushijima remained lost in his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the woman who had captured his heart so completely. The revelation of his true feelings had left him both exhilarated and terrified, the weight of his love for her settling deep within his chest.

Suddenly, he felt her stir beside him, her eyelids fluttering open as she slowly emerged from the depths of sleep. Her gaze, still hazy with the remnants of her dreams, met his, and a sleepy smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Good morning, Toshi," she murmured, her voice soft and slightly raspy from sleep. The sound of his name on her lips, spoken with such tenderness and familiarity, sent a shiver down his spine.

"Good morning," he replied, his own voice thick with emotion. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, her eyes drifting shut once more as she savored the gentle caress. "What time is it?" she asked, her words slightly muffled as she nuzzled into his palm.

"Early," he answered, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone. "The sun's just coming up."

She hummed in acknowledgment, her body shifting closer to his, seeking the warmth and comfort of his presence. "Why are you awake?" she questioned, her eyes opening once more to meet his gaze.

Ushijima hesitated, the words he longed to say dancing on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to tell her everything, to pour out his heart and lay bare the depths of his love for her. But something held him back, a flicker of uncertainty that whispered in the back of his mind.

"I was just thinking," he said instead, his voice low and hushed in the stillness of the morning.

She tilted her head, a curious expression on her face. "About what?"

"About us," he admitted, his heart hammering in his chest. "About our relationship."

Her brow furrowed slightly, a hint of confusion clouding her features. "What about it?"

Ushijima took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation to come. "I've been wondering if maybe... maybe there's more to us than just friendship."

Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise dancing within their depths. "More?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "I love you," he said, the words tumbling from his lips with a fierce intensity. "I've always loved you, but I'm starting to realize that it's more than just the love of a friend."

She remained silent, her expression unreadable as she processed his words. Ushijima felt his heart constrict, fear and uncertainty gripping him as he waited for her response.

"Toshi," she breathed, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, mirroring his earlier gesture. "I love you too. I have for as long as I can remember."

Relief and joy surged through him, a small smile breaking across his face as he pulled her closer, their foreheads touching as they shared the same breath. "So, what does this mean for us?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his emotions.

She smiled, her eyes shining with a love that matched his own. "It means that we've always been more than just friends," she said softly. "It means that our love has been there all along, waiting for us to recognize it for what it is."

Ushijima felt his heart swell, the warmth of her words washing over him like a soothing balm. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both familiar and new.

As they parted, their eyes locked in a gaze that spoke volumes, Ushijima knew that this was just the beginning. Their love, which had been the foundation of their lives for so long, had finally been given a name, a purpose, and a promise.

With a contented sigh, he gathered her into his arms, holding her close as the morning light bathed them in its golden glow. They had a lifetime ahead of them, a future filled with love, laughter, and the unbreakable bond they had forged through years of friendship and devotion.

And as they lay there, wrapped in each other's embrace, Ushijima knew that he had found his home, his haven, and his forever in the woman who had always been by his side.

the thing about miya atsumu is that he has never been subtle.

you should’ve known back when he was eight years old and cried so hard when you told him you liked osamu’s rice balls better than his. or when he demanded your teacher move your desks together in third grade, citing “teamwork strategies.” or when he loudly announced in front of your entire junior high homeroom that you were off-limits and anyone who liked you had to go through him first the teacher gave him detention, but not before everyone stared at you like you were the lead in some bad romance drama.

but you don’t notice things like that. to you, atsumu’s always just been… atsumu. a little loud, a little dumb, but your best friend. and best friends, in your mind, just do these things.

so when he shows up to your house at 7 a.m. with coffee from your favorite café, you thank him sweetly and never question how he memorized your exact complicated order years ago. when he insists on walking you to class every day of university, backpack slung over one shoulder like some overworked bodyguard, you chalk it up to him being “protective.” when your mom jokes about saving your wedding dress receipts, you laugh it off—because obviously she means it as a joke.

meanwhile, atsumu is one “haha bestie :)” away from throwing himself into traffic, poor boy.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

“ya really don’t get it, do ya?” osamu sighed one afternoon, watching his twin sulk at onigiri miya.

you tilted your head, chopsticks hovering. “get what?”

atsumu shot his brother a glare so sharp it could cut glass. his cheeks were already pink, his knee bouncing wildly under the table. “nothin’! he’s talkin’ nonsense!”

but osamu just smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “that boy’s been makin’ goo-goo eyes at ya since kindergarten. ma’s already plannin’ the weddin’ menu.”

you nearly choked. “‘goo-goo eyes’? what does that even mean?” you turned to atsumu, who was now choking on his miso soup, ears as red as traffic lights. “wait—you’ve been makin’ goo-goo eyes at me?”

“NO,” he blurted out immediately, his voice cracking. “what the hell even are goo-goo eyes? sounds stupid. i don’t do stupid things.”

from behind the counter, osamu coughed loudly, his voice dripping with mockery. “ya literally do nothin’ but stupid things.”

you just shook your head, amused, and sipped your tea. “you guys are so weird.”

atsumu, love-struck and miserable, sank further into his chair.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

to the rest of the world, it was laughably obvious.

the way his head snapped toward you any time you walked into a room. the way he hovered at parties, pretending he wasn’t guarding you like some overzealous bodyguard. the way he refused to date anyone, scoffing about how “no one measures up.”

even suna—who normally minded his own business—pulled you aside one day and muttered, “you know he’s in love with you, right?”

you laughed so hard you almost spilled your drink. “atsumu? in love with me? he’s just my best friend.”

suna just stared at you blankly, expression flat as a pancake, like you were the densest person alive. “…okay,” was all he said, and then he walked away. suna is also ready to throw a rock at you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

atsumu’s version of subtle affection was, of course, not subtle at all.

he always picked the green gummy bears out of every pack, because you once said they were your favorite. you didn’t even remember saying it.

he kept a stash of hair ties in his pockets, because you were always losing yours.

he told his volleyball teammates in high school to stop cussing around you because “she’s delicate.” you were not delicate. you once elbowed him so hard during an argument that he couldn’t laugh without wincing for two days.

and then there was his phone: his lock screen was your graduation photo. whenever people pointed it out, he claimed it was because you looked funny in it. the truth was that you didn’t look funny at all—you looked happy.

and yet, you never noticed. or rather, you noticed, but you thought it was just him being… him.

you once gushed to your friends, “atsumu’s so nice to me. he even saved me the last dumpling yesterday!”

outside the door, atsumu fist-pumped like he’d just won nationals.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

sometimes he wondered if you were doing it on purpose, driving him insane without realizing it.

like when you casually looped your arm through his in public, smiling like it was nothing. or when you crashed on his bed during study sessions, hogging the blanket and mumbling his name in your sleep. or when you cheered for him at games, wearing his jersey like it belonged to you. it did belong to you—he’d given it to you himself—but that didn’t make it any easier on his heart.

he was dangerously close to losing his mind, and the only thing stopping him was the certainty that you’d figure it out any day now.

any day now.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

one afternoon, you sighed happily, leaning against him. “atsumu, you’re literally the best best friend ever. what would i even do without you?”

he screamed internally: husband. not best friend. husband.

out loud, though, he just said, “uh, yeah. best friend. that’s me. haha.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

it wasn’t until one particularly dramatic sunday dinner with both your families that the truth finally, finally came out.

“ya know,” his mom said casually, ladling soup into bowls, “atsumu’s been in love with you since he was six.”

the table went silent.

you blinked. “…i’m sorry, what?”

atsumu dropped his chopsticks with a loud clatter. “MA—”

osamu leaned back in his chair, smirking like the cat that got the cream. “finally. someone said it.”

“atsumu’s what?” you laughed nervously, searching the table for confirmation. surely this was just another of those running jokes everyone liked to make—

but every single adult nodded. your dad. his mom. even osamu, traitor that he was.

you turned to atsumu, who looked like he was about to pass out. “…is that true?”

he groaned and buried his face in his hands. “…maybe.”

“maybe?!”

“fine! yes! okay? i’ve been in love with ya since forever, ya absolute dumbass. everyone’s right. i’ve been makin’ goo-goo eyes, i’ve been plannin’ the weddin’, i—i like ya, alright? more than a best friend. way more.”

the silence that followed was deafening.

you just stared at him, heart pounding, brain scrambling to catch up.

softly, you asked, “…why didn’t you just tell me?”

he dropped his hands and stared at you like you’d said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “i did! every damn day for the past ten years! ya just—ya just never noticed!”

and that’s when it finally clicked. all the coffee runs. the protective arm around your shoulders. the ridiculous fights he started in middle school with boys who so much as looked at you. the way he always, always put you first.

oh.

oh.

“...oh my god,” you whispered, face heating up. “you’re in love with me.”

“that’s what i’ve been sayin’!” he groaned, throwing his hands up. “ya finally get it, sunshine?”

you couldn’t help laughing, because of course this was how it happened—years of obliviousness, only for his mom to casually spill the beans at the dinner table.

but then you looked at him again. really looked at him. red-faced, pouting, hopeful in a way that made your stomach flutter. and your laugh softened into a smile.

“…good,” you murmured, voice shy but steady. “because i think i love you too.”

for a moment, the entire world seemed to freeze.

then atsumu launched himself out of his chair so fast he nearly knocked over the table, his voice echoing through the house as he yelled, “HA! I TOLD YA SO!”

his mother scolded him for almost spilling the soup. osamu groaned and muttered, “unbelievable.” but you were too busy laughing, cheeks sore, because atsumu had wrapped his arms around you right there at the dinner table, lifting you half out of your seat like he’d just won the lottery.

“yer mine now,” he whispered fiercely into your ear, like he hadn’t already decided that when you were both six years old.

he kissed your temple with a grin so wide it hurt, already thinking how easy it would be to break the hands of anyone stupid enough to touch what was his.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: i write what i want to experience, TO BE LOVED LOUDLY AGQUQYWW ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

ps. i do not want to get rocks thrown at me.

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

your life should not be this dramatic over fruit juice. it should not involve thirty-box towers, pinterest boards of orchard weddings he won’t admit he made, or tendō whisper-narrating like he’s hosting a nature documentary about “the rare wakatoshi in mating season.”

and yet here you are.

dating him now.

if “dating” is the correct word for someone who looks at you like you’re oxygen, hydration, the sun, the moon, and the entire periodic table condensed into a single juice carton with legs.

ushijima wakatoshi is many things—focused, literal, terrifyingly earnest—but now that you’ve said yes to him, he’s something else entirely: lovesick in a way that defies every law of physics, anatomy, and emotional health.

he walks beside you like your shadow. he sits beside you like your chair has magnetic pull. he hands you juice boxes with the reverence other men reserve for diamond rings.

and honestly?

it’s a miracle your heart hasn’t burst like over-shaken grape juice.

𓏵

he’s upgraded his shoebox of saved cartons. it started as a humble cardboard box under his bed—cute, weird, vaguely concerning.

now it’s a drawer.

an entire drawer, organized by flavor, date, location of gifting, and—god help you—“emotional significance.”

you discover this because he opens it for you one afternoon with the solemnity of a monk unveiling holy texts.

“this is the strawberry one you gave me the morning after my away match,” he says, tapping it gently with one giant finger. “you smiled before handing it to me. different from usual.”

your breath catches. “different how?”

“it looked like you were thinking of me,” he answers plainly.

you’re done for. you’re paper-thin puddle. you’re absolutely melted sugar.

his voice stays low, steady, grounding—but every word is a straight shot to your chest.

“and this one,” he continues, showing you a grape carton, “you didn’t look away when i drank it. that meant something.”

you press your hand to your mouth because he says it so calmly, so certainly, like he’s discussing blocking technique.

to him there is no difference between the mechanics of volleyball and the mechanics of loving you. they are both simply things he commits to fully.

your face feels warm. he doesn’t notice. or he notices but doesn’t know it’s because of him.

he keeps going.

“and this apple one,” he says, voice softening, “you touched my hand longer than usual.”

longer than usual.

you have to sit down. reality can wait.

𓏵

the stalker-level devotion is not loud or violent or cliché with him.

no—his brand is worse.

it’s quiet. it’s steady. it’s him watching you across the hallway with that weighted, unblinking gaze that shouldn’t be allowed in public because it feels like he’s holding your heart in his hand.

it’s him memorizing your drink preferences, walking you to class, standing too close because he wants to and because he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

it’s him looking at people who flirt with you like they just handed him a volleyball made of wet bread—useless, offensive, disappointing.

you’ve never seen him glare before. he doesn’t even glare at opposing teams. but the moment someone called you cute in passing, ushijima stared that boy down so powerfully the poor guy apologized to you for existing.

and ushijima?

he blinked at you and said, “i thought he was bothering you.”

your chest nearly combusted.

𓏵

one day, tendō corners him with a grin that could start wars.

“sooo, wakatoshi,” he singsongs, “how’s the juice-wife?”

you smack tendō with a rolled-up magazine. “don’t call me that.”

“but it’s accurate,” ushijima replies without hesitation.

your soul leaves your body. tendō’s soul leaves his body. half the team dies instantly from secondhand romance.

you manage, “we’re not— i’m not anyone’s wife.”

“not yet,” he says.

you have to physically sit down again. tendō has to be escorted out of the gym because his laughter is causing a disturbance.

ushijima isn’t joking. he doesn’t know how to joke. he’s simply stating a long-term fact the way one might observe the sky or gravity.

you’re going to be his someday. in his mind, it’s a certainty as solid as the court under his feet.

and it should be terrifying—this sheer level of devotion, this burning singularity of affection aimed solely at you—

but instead it’s warm. comforting. overwhelming in a way that makes your ribs feel too small for your heart.

𓏵

when he holds your hand, he does it like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve.

when he hugs you, it’s gentle but absolute, like he’s learned exactly how to bend himself around you without crushing you.

when he walks with you, his shoulder brushes yours every few steps, deliberate and protective.

and then there’s the thing he does that you still can’t believe is real:

he kisses your forehead every morning before class.

not tentative, not shy, not rushed. no—ushijima leans down with slow certainty, cups your cheek with fingers warm from early practice, and presses his lips to your skin like he’s sealing a vow on parchment.

“good morning,” he murmurs in that low, steady voice. “i’m glad you’re here.”

you nearly collapse every time.

𓏵

and yet he’s clueless about how intense he is.

completely, gloriously unaware.

“toshi,” you say one afternoon, breathless with affection you can’t contain, “why do you… you look at me like i’m the only person in the universe.”

he doesn’t blink.

doesn’t hesitate.

doesn’t soften his voice.

“you are.”

you make a sound no human language has a word for.

he tilts his head. “are you unwell?”

“yes,” you gasp. “because of you.”

he nods once, satisfied. “good.”

𓏵

the turning point—the moment you realize he’s so far gone for you he’s never coming back—happens after practice.

you’re waiting outside the gym, twirling the straw of a juice box he gave you earlier. he walks out, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, jersey sticking to his chest.

and when he spots you, his whole expression changes.

barely—but enough for you to feel the shift.

his eyes soften, shoulders ease, stride quickens by a fraction.

“you waited,” he says quietly, almost reverently.

“yeah.” you smile. “i wanted to walk home with you.”

he stops. blinks. breathes once, deep.

something in his face cracks open just a little, like sunlight breaking through stone.

“then i will walk you home,” he says. “every day.”

it isn’t flirtation.

it isn’t exaggeration.

it’s a promise.

and when he takes your free hand, sliding his fingers between yours with that gentle, deliberate devotion—

your heart flips like a gymnast.

“toshi,” you whisper, unable to help it, “you’re… so sweet.”

he looks down at you, eyes warm, steady, achingly sure.

“only to you.”

the world tilts.

the air thickens.

it feels like the sky leans in to listen.

“you’re my person,” he adds simply. “i want to keep you close.”

your chest clenches in that wonderful, painful way reserved only for him.

you squeeze his hand, leaning into him as you walk.

he squeezes back with quiet certainty, as if anchoring you both to the earth.

the evening sun paints long shadows behind you, but his hand in yours is warm, solid, and steady—like gravity, like faith, like a promise he’ll never break.

and as you walk together, fingers intertwined and hearts practically tripping over themselves, you don’t feel like you’re falling.

you feel held.

held completely.

held gently.

held like he’s decided, in that deep unshakeable way he decides everything, that you’re his always.

and the truth is—you kind of love that.

you love him.

you love the way he looks at you.

you love the way he gives everything with that slow, serious intensity.

you love how he loves.

you love all of it.

and him?

he loves you more than the sky has room to hold.

n: why do people love this sm? idk but it’s fun

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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

the stadium was roaring, cameras flashing, announcers losing their collective minds at MSBY’s victory—but none of them were louder than miya atsumu.

he stood there, blond hair damp with sweat, jersey clinging to him, chest puffed up like he’d just discovered the cure for heartbreak and seasonal allergies. the trophy sat glittering behind him, completely forgotten, because atsumu had already snagged the nearest mic like he was about to propose to the entire nation.

“LISTEN UP!” he bellowed, voice booming so loud the feedback shrieked. half the crowd winced, half cheered. “I DID THIS FER YA, Y/N—YA HEAR ME? I WON THIS WHOLE THING FER YA! PLEASE—”

there was a dramatic pause. osamu, watching from home, probably knew he was about to regret ever letting his twin out into society.

atsumu gripped the mic with both hands like a man begging for divine intervention, “PLEASE BEAR MY CHILDREN!!!”

you would think, in a moment like this, the crowd would go silent. shocked. appalled, even. but no.

the stadium exploded. fans shrieked like he’d just promised them free front-row tickets for life. banners with your face (how did they even print those so fast?) were suddenly hoisted, and chants of “say yes! say yes!” echoed in waves. the announcer at the desk was wheezing, one cameraman muttered something about “ratings gold,” and poor sakusa looked like he was planning to defect to another team.

atsumu, however, was euphoric. triumphant. drunk on both victory and the idea of you.

and you? sitting at home, watching the broadcast with a bowl of strawberries in your lap, you nearly choked on one. but only because he said it so… passionately.

like sure, he’d told you before in private—half-joking, half-dead-serious—that he wanted a dozen little miya-yn lookalikes running around the house, but shouting it into a stadium mic, broadcasting it live to millions? that was peak atsumu.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the aftermath was ridiculous.

you stepped outside the next morning and the neighborhood aunties gave you the look. the “oh, you lucky girl, marry him fast before he combusts” look. random people at the grocery store whispered behind shelves, debating if your beauty really justified miya atsumu going feral on international television. (spoiler: it did.)

some fans, emboldened, had the audacity to comment things like “y/n i could treat you better ;).”

atsumu saw one of those comments and immediately threatened to fist fight the internet. like actually. he livestreamed himself pacing his living room, hair sticking up, ranting, “come say that ta my face, coward! i’ll spike yer head inta the ground faster than a volleyball!”

you had to gently pry his phone out of his hands before he challenged half the population to 1v1 duels.

but it was also… sweet. terribly, unbearably sweet. because beneath the dramatics and theatrics, there was this big, golden retriever of a man who was so painfully in love with you that he didn’t know how to function without telling the world every five seconds.

he’d come home from practice, sweaty and starving, and collapse onto your lap with a groan.

“yer my whole reason fer livin’, y/n,” he’d mumble, muffled by your thighs. “every jump serve, every win, every toss—just ta make ya smile.”

and you, with your soft hands and softer patience, would card your fingers through his damp hair, handing him snacks like he hadn’t already eaten three protein bars.

he purred. actually purred. that’s the only word for it. like a dangerous, six-foot puppy who would break bones for you but also needed constant pampering or else he’d sulk.

you knew people called him dramatic, arrogant, sometimes even insufferable. but when he was sprawled across you, whining about how lonely he got when you weren’t in the front row, or how he couldn’t sleep without your hoodie, you knew the truth.

miya atsumu was devoted. terrifyingly so.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that one team dinner when a rookie had nervously asked you a question about your job. nothing flirty. literally just “what do you do for work?” and atsumu immediately slammed his chopsticks down like he’d been personally insulted.

“oi,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “watch yerself. that’s my wife yer talkin’ to.”

you weren’t married. not yet, anyway.

bokuto nearly choked on his ramen, hinata was crying laughing, and sakusa muttered, “god, he’s unbearable.”

you had to pat atsumu’s hand and whisper, “baby, it’s okay, he’s just curious,” before he sat back down, arms crossed, grumbling like a toddler denied dessert.

another time, a reporter asked him what inspired his win that season. perfectly reasonable question.

and atsumu, without missing a beat, leaned into the mic and said, “y/n’s face when she wakes up. that’s it. that’s the reason.”

sakusa actually walked off-camera that time.

but you… you couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. not really. because behind every exaggerated declaration, every over-the-top claim, there was something earnest.

he wanted you. every version of you. the sleepy, messy-haired you in the morning, the polished, radiant you at events, the you who scolded him for forgetting to stretch, the you who kissed his knuckles when he hurt his hand.

and maybe he was loud about it. maybe he was borderline unhinged about it. but it was real.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

atsumu didn’t just love you—he lived for you.

when you texted him “good luck” before a game, he played like he had a personal vendetta against the ball. when you clapped in the stands, he preened like a cat. when you so much as glanced his way after a match, sweaty and beaming, he would sprint across the court just to scoop you up in front of everyone.

“mine,” he’d say, shamelessly, into your neck, while the cameras kept rolling.

and the thing was—he was yours just as much.

because even though the world saw the loud, cocky, star athlete miya atsumu, you knew the truth.

you knew the boy who curled into your side at night, mumbling nonsense about baby names he’d already picked. the boy who carried your groceries just to flex but then kissed your hand after. the boy who acted like he’d die if you so much as frowned, immediately scrambling to fix whatever upset you.

atsumu wasn’t just whipped. he was drowning. gloriously, happily drowning in you.

and you? you loved him enough to hand him a towel, feed him strawberries, and tell him he was ridiculous before kissing him breathless anyway.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the championship mic incident lived on in memes, replays, highlight reels, and internet compilations titled “athletes losing their minds over their partners.”

atsumu rewatched it more than once, grinning ear to ear, sighing like a man who’d successfully carved his love confession into the history books.

“baby,” he told you, eyes gleaming with mischief. “it was iconic. i should do it again next season. but bigger.”

you raised an eyebrow. “bigger?”

“yeah,” he nodded, completely serious. “skywriter plane. fireworks. maybe a marching band.”

you groaned, throwing a pillow at him.

he caught it, hugged it, and then promptly smothered you with it before kissing you all over your face like the world’s most affectionate menace.

because that was miya atsumu—your golden-haired, microphone-stealing, fight-picking, stadium-screaming, utterly devoted man.

ridiculous? yes. dramatic? always.

but he was yours. completely, entirely, irrevocably.

you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: gosh i love him sm, he needs to come home in hfh

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@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @briestrom94 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @tetsurae @asyaacia @rabbitcola @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

there are many terrifying things in this world. darkness. heights. ghosts. but nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to the looming presence of your parents sitting stiffly across a small dining table like two government officials ready to interrogate a criminal mastermind.

and unfortunately… the criminal mastermind tonight is miya atsumu.

he’s wearing his best shirt—which is admittedly just a button-up that he ironed three times because osamu told him wrinkles were a “sign o’ weakness”—and he looks like he’s about to either propose or perish. potentially both.

your parents had made it very clear for your Entire Life™ that boys were a mythical threat, like dragons or bad grades: never let them near you.

so naturally, atsumu is here. determined. unstoppable. a golden retriever with the unwavering confidence of a man who has decided you are the love of his life … and your parents simply do not know it yet.

𓏵

you try not to look nervous, even though your entire soul is screaming like a kettle on the stove. meanwhile, atsumu is smiling like this is the best day ever.

“mr. and mrs. l/n,” he says in his thick kansai accent, echoing with way too much enthusiasm for someone under a death ray, “thank ya for havin’ me. ya’ve raised the most amazin’ person on this whole planet. i’m honored ta breathe the same air.”

your mother blinks. your father does not blink at all. he stares like he’s trying to unlock atsumu’s brain with laser eyes.

you kick atsumu gently under the table. slow down. breathe.

he beams even brighter, thinking you’re encouraging him.

“yer home is lovely too,” he babbles. “smells like peace… and fabric softener.”

your father clears his throat—one of those intimidating coughs that sound like thunder. “what… are your intentions with our daughter?”

oh no. The Question™.

atsumu doesn’t flinch. not a twitch. he straightens his back, suddenly a man ready to fight every deity ever.

“ma intentions?” he repeats. “simple. i plan ta marry her, give her the happiest life in the whole universe, and treat her better than anybody alive.”

you choke on your own oxygen.

your mother’s hand pauses mid-reach for her teacup. “marry?”

atsumu, unaware of your soul leaving your body: “yes ma’am. already got the whole thing planned in ma head—venue, vows, honeymoon. oh! and grandkids that’ll be star athletes too, maybe.”

your father blinks once. slow. like a predator.

“aren’t you two… in high school?”

atsumu nods wisely. “yep! perfect time ta plan the future when yer brain is still at peak imagination.”

you want to crawl under the table and befriend dust bunnies.

𓏵

the dinner proceeds. and to your utter shock… atsumu is winning.

like, actually winning.

he eats politely (osamu probably drilled him for hours), compliments every dish like your mother invented food, and listens with wide puppy eyes every time your father talks about his job.

he even laughs at the dad jokes. convincingly. loudly. passionately. as if the jokes cured his seasonal depression.

your parents soften little by little. tiny cracks in their concrete armor.

but then dessert arrives. and dessert is where everything could fall apart. because it’s your favorite—and atsumu knows that.

when your mother places a plate of cheesecake in front of you, atsumu watches you with the focus of someone studying ancient scripture. his entire expression warms, cheeks burning soft pink.

he looks at you like someone staring at the sun.

like loving you is not a choice—it is gravity.

your father coughs again. “son, why are you staring?”

atsumu doesn’t even pretend. “sorry sir, she’s just… the prettiest sight ma eyes have ever seen. it’s a bit distractin’, y’know?”

your heart does a whole gymnastics routine. your parents… look away. embarrassed? flustered? confused by this level of devotion?

yes.

success.

𓏵

after dinner, your parents move to the living room. “just a chat,” they say. more like a final review.

you stand behind atsumu, lightly touching his sleeve—a silent i’m here. and for a moment, his shoulders relax. just a moment.

“tell us,” your mother says, “what do you like about our child?”

atsumu doesn’t pause. not even a second.

“everythin’.”

the word lands with the weight of the world.

he continues, voice softer than you’ve ever heard:

“i like the way she laughs like she’s surprised by happiness. the way she holds her pencil like she’s signin’ autographs. the way she gets nervous but still tries her hardest. the way she talks ta everyone so kindly. the way she cares for people even when they don’t deserve it.”

he swallows, eyes dropping to his hands.

“i like how she keeps goin’. even when life tries ta knock her down.”

then he lifts his gaze—steady, glowing.

“i wanna be part o’ that reason she smiles every day.”

your mother inhales sharply. your father shifts forward, no longer a fortress—more like a man trying not to cry.

atsumu fidgets once, then blurts:

“and i… i’d do anythin’ ta protect that smile.”

your breath escapes in a rush. warmth spreads through your chest, too intense, too much, too good. your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking.

your parents look at you—really look—and see the way you lean toward him like your entire existence is pulled by a magnetic field named miya atsumu.

your mother sighs. “well. he certainly… loves you.”

atsumu’s cheeks burst into red fireworks. “love—?! yeah. yeah, yer right. i do. so much my heart feels like it’s doin’ jump serves.”

your father finally cracks a grin. “if you ever hurt her—”

atsumu jumps in. “sir, if i hurt her, i’ll march straight ta jail myself. no need ta call the cops.”

your mother actually laughs. your father chuckles. the world does a cartwheel.

approval. granted.

𓏵

later, outside your house under the streetlight glow, you both stand quietly. atsumu’s hands hover awkwardly until you take one first, lacing fingers.

he nearly short-circuits.

“did ya see that?” he whispers, awe-struck. “they smiled at me. twice. yer dad even patted ma shoulder! i think we’re basically family now.”

you laugh, leaning closer. “you did amazing, tsum.”

his face deepens in color—a full strawberry spectrum. he bites his lip, eyes flickering between your hand in his… and your lips.

“uh… can i… maybe—maybe i—”

you roll onto your toes and kiss him first.

it’s soft. warm. gentle enough to melt winter. his breath hitches against your mouth, fingers tightening around yours like he’s anchoring to reality.

when you part, his brain is clearly rebooting. “ohhhh… wow… ya kissed me like i just won nationals.”

you grin. “you did. you won against my parents.”

he beams so bright he might power tokyo.

then he suddenly gasps. “wait—if they're okay with me bein’ yer boyfriend now, does that mean i can visit anytime? like… every day? forever?”

your brows lift. “forever?”

his voice is a whisper of absolute devotion:

“m’never lettin’ ya go. not in this lifetime, not in any.”

your heart flips like it's auditioning for the olympics.

“that sounds like a plan,” you murmur.

his smile turns dopey. “best plan i ever made. even better than that time i tried ta invent volleyball pancakes.”

“volleyball pancakes?”

“don’t ask. osamu banned me from the kitchen for a month.”

you laugh into his chest, and he wraps his arms around you like he was built to hold you.

and right there—under the stars, with a boy who ironed his shirt three times because he wanted your parents to like him—you realize something:

love doesn’t always arrive quietly.

sometimes it shows up wearing a poorly buttoned shirt, swearing oaths of eternal affection, and smiling at you like you’re the entire world.

𓏵

atsumu leans back just enough to look at you, eyes shimmering with that ridiculous, cinematic intensity.

“next step,” he whispers, “i’m learnin’ how ta cook so yer parents love me even more.”

you giggle. “tsum, they already do.”

he shakes his head, dramatic as ever. “nah. i’m gonna make ‘em adore me so much they’ll start invitin’ me over without ya.”

you pat his chest. “don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“too late,” he says proudly. “i already planned our fifty-year anniversary speech.”

you kiss him again, because what else can you do when someone loves you with the power of a thousand shōnen protagonists?

and as you walk back inside, hand in hand, you know this:

miya atsumu may not always be smooth.

but he is yours.

and he is perfect.

n: i’m feeling very miserable right now, so sorry everyone 🦧

tsumu’s taglist [1/2]

@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @briestrom94 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @tetsurae @asyaacia @rabbitcola @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @han0vyc @meikstv @babybird-meena @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @fiannee @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @griffincorn @snowstormsandavalanches @starzlytoetsie @ceramic-raven @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67 @lov3shin @thinc0ck @zombikittykat @jadorejuni @theylovekay

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !