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hello my most darlingest beloathed i will do this for you and only you. come and get your man.
no pronouns used, reader is shorter than atsumu.
"Why is it yellow."
Kita doesn't look up. He's got his glasses perched low on his nose; they don't hide the sunset of his eyes, the amber deepening to a soft, sweet brown in the dim of the izakaya.
"Atsumu's hair is blond," he says mildly.
On his other side, Aran laughs, a low billow of warm smoke. His nose is wrinkled, a lingering reaction to the shot he's just downed. He flips the shot glass over and lines it up with the others in front of him. He gives himself a little shake before grinning at Kita.
Kita doesn't hesitate. He taps his own shot glass against the bartop before shooting it back, his throat working in one long pull. He doesn't flinch. He flips it over and lines it up with his own row.
Aran groans. "Again?" he asks.
"Appears so."
"C'mon, Shinsuke," Aran grumbles, already waving down someone for the next round. "How much can you put away, anyway?"
Kita shrugs. Aran grumbles again, but fondness lights his face, a full moon on a perfect summer's eve.
"He's not blond," you say.
It's true. It's always been true, and tonight is no different. You've barely looked away from Atsumu since he came in, the light catching in his hair like brassy stars. Even from across the room, his expressions are crystal clear, theatrical despite their sincerity. He laughs, comet-bright, and you huff.
"He is," Kita says.
"His hair is piss yellow and you know it," you tell him. Aran huffs out a soft laugh, leaning back with easy grace. The little smile caught in the corner of his lips warms something in you.
"...It's supposed to be blond," Kita allows.
"I'm telling him you said that."
"Please don't," Kita says mildly. "He'll take it real personal."
"Who cares?" you ask. "I think he thrives when his blood pressure is sky-high."
“I care when it’s my turn on Miya duty,” Aran says, shifting to take the shot glasses the bartender slides across the bar.
“’s Omimi’s night,” Kita says. He spins the shot glass between his strong hands, careful and precise. It doesn't spill a drop.
Aran leans back again, his smile a sparkler flaring through the night. “Oh. That’s fine then.”
You glance between them. “You have assigned Miya wranglers?”
Kita hums. “Sometimes.”
“Oh my god.”
“He’s really a good guy,” Aran tries, nudging at your hand to steal away your beer for a refill. “Underneath it all.”
Across the room, Atsumu lets out a bray of laughter that fades into an annoyed noise.
“Way underneath it all.”
“He’s so stupid,” you say. “He has stupid hair and a stupid laugh and he’s obnoxious and proud and—“
“And you like him anyway,” Kita says, glancing at you. It's not unkind, really, but it's got the same surety of a mid-winter frost.
That’s the thing—you do. You do like Atsumu. He’s brash and he's dramatic and he can be a real dick but there is a sparkle that never leaves his eye. He loves big. He loves big; he loves true. Atsumu gave so much of his love to volleyball and still never ran out. You're not sure he ever could.
He loves big; he loves loud. But sometimes he leans up against you on the balcony of Aran's apartment and doesn't talk. It's rare. Usually the words tumble from him like shooting stars in a meteor shower, but sometimes he simply is.
Sometimes he simply loves.
You pause for too long.
“See?” Kita says. “You like ‘im.”
He says it with finality, a stone dropped onto the scale and tipping the balance.
You glance back at Atsumu again. He’s limned with gold, Midas-touched with joy, and your gut twists. You look away.
“His hair’s still not blond," you say. "You should tell him that."
Kita's smile curls secret in the corner of his lips; Aran laughs again, sweet-mouthed.
"What?" you ask.
Aran nods behind you. "Tell him yourself," he says.
The warm band of Atsumu's arm settles against your shoulders, hearthstones still holding heat. Heat blooms in you, too, flowering in your cheeks, your chest, your stomach.
"Tell me about what?" Atsumu asks, giving you a little squeeze.
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ngl every time i see cyrene rn i am reminded of my recent revelation (12 hours ago) of the fact that i'm stuck on cycles fic bc i need to write cyrene in the original era and well. okay.
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genuinely funny that you guys are like "i know this is about atsumu but your kita" on the atsumu drabble bc i wrote it, read it for typos, and was like everyone is going to be like juni it is so obvious that kita is your fave and i was Right
hello my most darlingest beloathed i will do this for you and only you. come and get your man.
no pronouns used, reader is shorter than atsumu.
"Why is it yellow."
Kita doesn't look up. He's got his glasses perched low on his nose; they don't hide the sunset of his eyes, the amber deepening to a soft, sweet brown in the dim of the izakaya.
"Atsumu's hair is blond," he says mildly.
On his other side, Aran laughs, a low billow of warm smoke. His nose is wrinkled, a lingering reaction to the shot he's just downed. He flips the shot glass over and lines it up with the others in front of him. He gives himself a little shake before grinning at Kita.
Kita doesn't hesitate. He taps his own shot glass against the bartop before shooting it back, his throat working in one long pull. He doesn't flinch. He flips it over and lines it up with his own row.
Aran groans. "Again?" he asks.
"Appears so."
"C'mon, Shinsuke," Aran grumbles, already waving down someone for the next round. "How much can you put away, anyway?"
Kita shrugs. Aran grumbles again, but fondness lights his face, a full moon on a perfect summer's eve.
"He's not blond," you say.
It's true. It's always been true, and tonight is no different. You've barely looked away from Atsumu since he came in, the light catching in his hair like brassy stars. Even from across the room, his expressions are crystal clear, theatrical despite their sincerity. He laughs, comet-bright, and you huff.
"He is," Kita says.
"His hair is piss yellow and you know it," you tell him. Aran huffs out a soft laugh, leaning back with easy grace. The little smile caught in the corner of his lips warms something in you.
"...It's supposed to be blond," Kita allows.
"I'm telling him you said that."
"Please don't," Kita says mildly. "He'll take it real personal."
"Who cares?" you ask. "I think he thrives when his blood pressure is sky-high."
“I care when it’s my turn on Miya duty,” Aran says, shifting to take the shot glasses the bartender slides across the bar.
“’s Omimi’s night,” Kita says. He spins the shot glass between his strong hands, careful and precise. It doesn't spill a drop.
Aran leans back again, his smile a sparkler flaring through the night. “Oh. That’s fine then.”
You glance between them. “You have assigned Miya wranglers?”
Kita hums. “Sometimes.”
“Oh my god.”
“He’s really a good guy,” Aran tries, nudging at your hand to steal away your beer for a refill. “Underneath it all.”
Across the room, Atsumu lets out a bray of laughter that fades into an annoyed noise.
“Way underneath it all.”
“He’s so stupid,” you say. “He has stupid hair and a stupid laugh and he’s obnoxious and proud and—“
“And you like him anyway,” Kita says, glancing at you. It's not unkind, really, but it's got the same surety of a mid-winter frost.
That’s the thing—you do. You do like Atsumu. He’s brash and he's dramatic and he can be a real dick but there is a sparkle that never leaves his eye. He loves big. He loves big; he loves true. Atsumu gave so much of his love to volleyball and still never ran out. You're not sure he ever could.
He loves big; he loves loud. But sometimes he leans up against you on the balcony of Aran's apartment and doesn't talk. It's rare. Usually the words tumble from him like shooting stars in a meteor shower, but sometimes he simply is.
Sometimes he simply loves.
You pause for too long.
“See?” Kita says. “You like ‘im.”
He says it with finality, a stone dropped onto the scale and tipping the balance.
You glance back at Atsumu again. He’s limned with gold, Midas-touched with joy, and your gut twists. You look away.
“His hair’s still not blond," you say. "You should tell him that."
Kita's smile curls secret in the corner of his lips; Aran laughs again, sweet-mouthed.
"What?" you ask.
Aran nods behind you. "Tell him yourself," he says.
The warm band of Atsumu's arm settles against your shoulders, hearthstones still holding heat. Heat blooms in you, too, flowering in your cheeks, your chest, your stomach.
"Tell me about what?" Atsumu asks, giving you a little squeeze.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
