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Atsumu’s never considered himself much of a relationship guru, but surely he can’t be the only one who notices there’s something real fuckin’ weird about your relationship with Hinata.
Admittedly, the first few times he met you, he wasn’t paying all that much attention. Sure, you were hot, and he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t snuck a peek every now and then; but his focus has always been on the game, on his teammates. On himself as a setter. It’s why he’s got a strict no girlfriends policy during the season. Atsumu doesn’t do distractions.
And he likes Hinata. On the court, the little dude’s a monster for him to unleash and he’d love him for that alone, but somehow despite being a 5’7” excitable ball of crazy intensity off the court as well, the redhead’s impossible not to get along with.
There’s a few guys on the team that have partners – fuck, Meian’s even married, his wife five months pregnant with their second kid. But it doesn’t hit him until maybe three or so weeks after Hinata joins the team that he’s never seen any of them (or the ones that came before them) show up at every single training session.
You do.
Rain, hail or shine, no matter how early Hinata starts or how late he stays, you’re there, sitting in the stands, just… watching. It’s not a bad thing exactly. He knows Bo thinks it’s cute, gets all moony eyed and sappy about it and Hinata certainly doesn’t seem bothered by it, beaming up at you after every point scored, every successful spike, every receive.
But it’s just– they train six days a week. It’s long hours and a lot of it’s just drills and exercising till they’re dead on the floor, and even hardcore volleyball fans would find it boring to sit through day in and day out. You don’t take a book or sit there on your phone; you just watch idly as they train.
Day in, day out.
There ain’t a rule against it; their practices are closed to the public but the team have a few passes they can hand around on the odd occasion. It’s more of an unspoken understanding; you can invite who you want, so long as you’re focused and they don’t make a fuss.
You never do though, quiet as a mouse as you wait for Hinata to finish up.
“Don’tcha think it’s weird though?” he asks Sakusa one afternoon, wiping the sweat from his brow as he watches Hinata slump down beside you after practice wraps up, pulling you into a nuzzling embrace.
Sakusa makes a noncommittal noise, but dark eyes regard the two of you nonetheless. “She moved with him from Brazil, didn’t she?”
Atsumu shrugs, “And?”
“She doesn’t have any friends or family here, no roots, no job, just Hinata,” he says – slowly, like Atsumu’s an idiot.
And he tries to put himself in your shoes for a minute, imagine what it would be like to follow someone halfway across the world (further actually, because he’s pretty sure you weren’t from Brazil to begin with) but it’s not the same. Even without Samu, or his friends or his family, even in a country with weird customs and a language that wasn’t his own, Atsumu’s always been good at finding his feet.
But he supposes he can understand why you cling to Hinata. Though it’s really more a case of Hinata clinging to you, ‘cause whenever he turns around, it’s the redhead who’s the one all over you, pulling you into cuddles, twining his fingers with yours, peppering your face with butterfly kisses. Like he’ll just die if he’s not touching you every second you’re together.
It’s either sickeningly cute or revoltingly excessive, and for the life of him Atsumu can’t figure out which.
You’d think it’s his first relationship or something, that he’s stuck in some weird puppy love honeymoon phase, but from what he’s heard the two of you have been together for years now – that’s just the way Hinata is, apparently.
He shouldn’t be too surprised; the guy’s always first in line to jump on his back or try and tackle him to the floor after any successful play. Between him and Bokuto, he’s got more bruises littered over his body than a linebacker, but they’re a tactile team, and he usually gives as good as he gets.
You’re not one for excessive PDA though. You never fight against the overbearing affection, don’t shrug it off or shrink away – at least, not from what he’s noticed – but Atsumu hasn’t seen you initiate anything more than a quick peck to his cheek when Hinata’s got you all bundled up in his arms.
And he gets that not every relationship has to be equal in that sense, different love languages and all that crap, but while you don’t fight it, you never seem… entirely comfortable with it either. Not in the ‘stop, we’re in public, please don’t’ kinda way, but–
He can’t put a finger on it.
You smile at Hinata, cheer when he scores, let him pet and kiss and pull you around wherever he wants, but you never seem to relax properly, and it bothers him. He doesn’t know why it bothers him.
If he hadn’t met you, hadn’t known that you’d been with Hinata since he was dirt poor and moonlighting as a delivery boy in Brazil, he’d be tempted to think that you were only in it for the money. It’s not a bad plan, as far as these things go – find some up and coming athlete to place all your bets on, get him wrapped around your finger before success goes to his head. And he doesn’t know you all that well and has absolutely zero fucking justification to back it up, but you don’t strike him as the money hungry type.
You don’t strike him as anything, and maybe that’s part of the issue.
Hinata’s like a sun; he’s gonna eclipse anyone standing too close. That’s normal. The team; him and Sakusa, Bokuto, the others – they have their own talents to stand on, to push through and shine on their own, but you…
Fuck, why does it even matter?
Why does it bother him? It ain’t his relationship. You never complain, you make Hinata happy – he’d have to be blind not to see how much that guy loves you – and he dotes on you, spoils the shit out of you, so why can’t he shake this feeling in his gut that something ain’t right there?
It ain’t his relationship, and Atsumu’s not stupid enough to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.
It ain’t his relationship.
It’s not, and he has more important things to focus his time and energy on.
You aren’t his problem. Fuck, you’ve barely spoken more than a few sentences to him! There’s no reason for why he can’t get you and your stupid relationship with his wing spiker outta his mind.
“Just admit ya wanna fuck her and stop bitchin’ about it,” Samu groans one night when Atsumu stops by the restaurant after training. “Yer looking for a problem between the two of them so ya don’t feel guilty about it.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Shut yer trap, wouldja, Samu? I said it ain’t like that!”
He’s not gonna stand there and deny that he thinks you’re hot, but that’s not what this is about. Never has been.
It’s quiet between them for a moment, Atsumu angrily stabbing at the onigiri on his plate, but he feels it when Osamu looks at him. Really looks, dark eyes flickering across his face, reading him like an open book. Samu might enjoy giving him shit and winding him up just for the sake of it, but there’s nobody on earth who knows him better.
Eventually he sighs, and the air feels different between them. Heavier, somehow. “What’re ya saying, Tsumu? Ya think Hinata’s hurting her or somethin’?”
Yes.
No.
He knows Hinata. Well, for a few months at least, but peripherally for years. Ever since high school. And Atsumu’s had the displeasure of knowing guys like that, guys who liked to feel big and tough and strong and would gladly slap around some pretty thing just to feel all manly and shit, and Hinata’s not–
He doesn’t treat you like you’re made of glass or anything, but every time he touches you, so much as looks at you with those bright eyes, it’s with this kind of intense, burning love that Atsumu just doesn’t understand, that honestly freaks him out a little. He’s never seen bruises littering your skin – at least, not the kind that Samu’s worried about. You don’t flinch away from Hinata’s touch.
(You never look comfortable though. Never happy – not like Hinata is.)
No. He’s a good guy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and despite the lingering unease Atsumu has about the two of you, he doesn’t doubt for a second that Hinata is head over fucking heels in love with you. He wouldn’t hurt you.
He wouldn’t.
“No, ‘course not! I just…” he breaks off, shaking his head. And he chews on his lip for a moment, debating with himself whether he should actually admit what he’s been thinking the past few weeks or whether Samu’s just gonna call him a pussy or something and tell him to knock it off. “I get the feeling she doesn’t wanna be there. She’s smiling and sitting there all pretty, but it’s just… I dunno, it’s just weird.”
Osamu doesn’t say much after that, but he doesn’t really need to. He knows what his brother’s thinking. If you weren’t happy, you’d leave. If Hinata wasn’t treating you right, you’d leave. You’d tell someone. But it ain’t that simple, is it?
Atsumu’s always had a problem sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.
The first game of the season’s a slam dunk, and while they’re usually pretty tame during the season, beating Kageyama and Ushijima, last year's undefeated champs is cause for celebration. He’s not surprised to see you there at the club, tucked under Hinata’s arm in some little black dress, all dolled up. You smile at him, a hollow, fleeting thing, and Atsumu hates how the sight of it makes his stomach clench.
Sakusa, Bokuto and Inunaki arrive moments later, a drink’s shoved into his hands and he forces himself to think of other things. You aren’t his problem, you aren’t his girl, and he’s definitely not watching you dance, your back flush with Hinata’s front, the wing spiker’s hands splayed across your hips, his mouth trailing greedily along your neck.
And for the first time since this whole stupid thing started, Atsumu recognises the ugly feeling stirring in the pit of his gut. It’s jealousy.
He’s played one of the best games of his life today, his team’s fucking amazing, the music’s good and the alcohol is free flowing – he should be happy. And there’s absolutely no reason he should be watching you out of the corner of his eye, waiting for an opening.
It shouldn’t make his heart skip a beat when Hinata leans down to whisper something in your ear, passing you his glass as he heads off to find the men’s. He’s midway through a conversation of his own with Adriah and Bokuto that he’s barely paying attention to, and there’s a voice in his head (one that sounds suspiciously like Samu’s) that tells him to just let it go, but his feet are already moving, a half hearted excuse spilling from his lips as he slips past them both to make his way over to you.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is too quiet, too breathless to carry across over the music, but he’s taller than you, taking up your space and he isn’t imagining the way that your eyes widen, a flicker of something passing your face before you school your features back into that same fake, pleasant smile.
He doesn’t imagine the nervous look you dart over his shoulder in the direction Hinata walked off in.
You take a delicate sip from your glass, the very same one you’ve been nursing since you arrived and he watches – watches – as you force yourself to relax, the tension easing from your shoulders, your posture softening. “Miya,” you greet, raising your voice just enough to be heard. “Congratulations on the win.”
It’s so polite, so fucking fake that it makes him wanna hurl.
“Atsumu,” he corrects before he can help himself. Sakusa calls him Miya, but nobody else – nobody who knows him – does. He can’t bear the sound of it on your lips, like you’re nothing more than strangers.
He’s talked to you before, right? Surely.
You’re just standing there, perfectly at ease around him and the others – if not for the finger tapping anxiously against the stem of your glass, a tic he wonders if you’re even aware of. You might be able to fool the others – admittedly, they’re probably not paying you too much attention – but he’s used to picking up on the smallest details.
And he’s become real good at reading you these past few weeks.
“So tell me, how’d the two of ya meet?” he asks instead, because he’s rushed in here with no game plan and it’s the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t even care about the answer; now that he’s finally here, finally has you to himself for a moment, he just wants to hear you talk.
“Oh, um,” you swallow, ducking your head so you’re not meeting his gaze anymore. “It’s a little embarrassing–”
A familiar, bright laugh cuts you off, and Atsumu’s heart hammers when Hinata slaps him on the shoulder, “It’s not embarrassing, babe, it’s cute!”
Deep brown eyes meet his; wide, glittering and freakishly intense and he fights the urge to recoil. He’s done nothing wrong, he knows that, but Hinata’s staring at him like every thought he’s ever had about you is written right across his face, plain as day.
And you – you look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, like Hinata’s stumbled on you shoving your tongue down his throat rather than just having an innocent, friendly conversation with his teammate. It’s a split second that stretches a lifetime, but when he dares to look over, you’re rigid, eyes wide and full of panic and he knows, he fucking knows that he’s right.
“Tell him,” Hinata urges, wasting no time in slipping past Atsumu to take his place by your side.
His arm wraps around your waist, squeezing you gently, and after a single, tense beat, you comply. “O-on the first week of my trip to Brazil, I was mugged. Shoyo saw it all happen and chased after them – got my purse back for me, even walked me back home to make sure I was okay, patched me up and everything.” You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you gaze up at Hinata, “He was my knight in shining armour.”
Hinata preens as you smile, but it’s still wrong. Atsumu’s seen what hero worship looks like, what real love looks like, and he’ll hand it to you; you have the basics down pat, but you can’t fake everything.
With bitterness and disgust eating away at his gut, it becomes suffocating, standing there trying to carry a conversation and pretending that whatever there is between the two of you is in any way fucking romantic–
It’s too much, like somebody has a grip on his lungs, viciously squeezing out the last of his breath, and he barely remembers to excuse himself before he’s shoving his way through the crowd, knocking Meian’s concerned hand away as he flees for the balcony.
The late summer night air’s warm and humid, but he gulps it down in big, gasping heaves, clinging to the rail like it’s a lifeline.
You’re fucking with his head and he hates it. He hates that he can’t let this go, can’t get you out of his goddamn head no matter how hard he tries. Atsumu’s always been a selfish, arrogant bastard, why should he give two shits about some girl whose last name he doesn’t even know?
He wants to despise you. He wants to forget you, to shove you aside like he has every other distraction in his life. It’s not his problem you’ve found yourself in some fucked up relationship.
But he squeezes his eyes shut, and all Atsumu can see is your face.
He stays out on that balcony until his body stops shaking, until the sweat on his forehead cools and he no longer feels like he’s gonna throw up. The beat of the music, spilling muted from the glass doors, wraps around him now that the pounding in his head’s subsided, tempting him back inside. Any other night, and he’d follow it, get absolutely shitfaced and party till he doesn’t remember his own name.
And as he stands there alone, staring up at the Tokyo city skyline, part of him almost wants to give in – to drink himself to oblivion. Because at least that’d be easier.
But he won’t.
Instead, Atsumu shoves his feelings down, musters up a lazy smirk and walks back inside. He has every intention of saying goodbye to at least a few of his teammates before heading back to the hotel room to crash, but as his eyes scan the crowded floor, he catches sight of something that stops him cold in his tracks.
Hinata has you pinned to the wall, his face buried in the crook of your neck, but that’s not what makes his heart skip a beat. It’s the way your dress is hiked up, your panties shoved to the side, Hinata’s hand between your thighs, fucking you on his fingers.
It’s the look on your face, screwed up in pleasure – or pain – biting down on your lip to stifle your cries. It wouldn’t make a difference. Nobody would be able to hear you over the music, and even if they could he doubts anyone would give a fuck.
His mouth dries out, every thought eddying from his head as he watches you cling to Hinata, your hands gripping his arms tight. Your makeup’s smudged, a tear spilling down your cheek catches the glittering lights of the club, but when your head tilts back he knows it’s a moan that leaves your lips. He can almost hear it, picture it in his mind. You’re shuddering, shaking your head even as your eyes are squeezed shut and the only sound Atsumu can hear is the restless thumping of his own heart.
And then your eyes flutter open and find his. He watches, frozen in place, transfixed in the worst possible way as mortification flashes across your features and your lips move–
Whatever you say to him, Hinata doesn’t stop. He just shifts a little, angles his body in a way that gives Atsumu a better view of your pussy and the attention he’s paying it. He can’t look away even if he desperately wants to, utterly enthralled by the slickness coating the digits, the way your thighs tremble and quake as those fingers curl inside of you, the little jolt you give when Hinata’s thumb rubs at your puffy clit.
Atsumu watches, equal parts horrified and mesmerised as he pushes you over the edge and you cum for him, a pleasured cry drowned out by the music, shaking and breathless and beautifully wrecked in his teammate’s arms. And as you all but collapse against him, Hinata finally turns to glance over his shoulder, meeting Atsumu’s stare.
And with his eyes fixed on the blonde, he whispers something into your ear that Atsumu doesn’t have a hope in hell of hearing, presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek and grins.
It’s enough to rip him out of his stupor, stumbling back with a gasp as his blood runs cold. Hinata knew, he knew he was watching – put on a fucking show for him, and suddenly the nausea returns, bile creeping up his throat and Atsumu can’t do a single thing but turn and flee.
Alone in his hotel room and not nearly drunk enough, he falls into a fitful sleep, the image of your face, tear stricken and beautiful as you fell to pieces on Hinata’s fingers, burned into the back of his eyelids.
—
He doesn’t utter a word about it when Boktuo gives him shit for ducking out early the next day at training. He doesn’t so much as meet Hinata’s eye, though the redhead seems no different than usual, all but bouncing on his heels when the Coach runs through the game against the Adlers set by set.
He still gushes when Atsumu gives him a perfect set, beaming up at him with that thousand watt smile. He still offers to be paired off with him when they run two-on-two games, isn’t ruffled when Atsumu instead grabs Sakusa and goes up against Adriah and Barnes.
And you’re still sitting in the stands, fingers twined on your lap, smiling dutifully whenever your boyfriend glances up.
Atsumu tries his best to ignore you and focus on training. He can’t afford to let you distract him any more than you already have, but in the quiet moments between sets, on their breaks, every second he’s not thinking about the game and his performance and his team his thoughts drift back to you. The way you’d bitten down on your bottom lip. Your eyes, pupils blown wide as pleasure crashed through you. Your glistening cunt, swallowing up Hinata’s fingers. The cute little noises you made – the ones he couldn’t hear but spent all fucking night imagining.
And the moment those thoughts enter his head, he can’t stop himself from darting a quick glance towards you, like he’s making sure you’re still there, that you’re okay. Even if you stiffen almost imperceptibly every time he does.
He can’t help himself, and he’s not the only one who notices.
“Dude, you good?” Bokuto asks, pulling him aside a week or so later during one of their water breaks. And for a second there, there’s a flicker of indignation – whatever’s going on with his head, his performance is beyond question; he’s killing it.
It’s not until the wing spiker’s attention shifts, risking a glance over his shoulder to where he knows you’re sitting that he realises that’s not what Bokkun’s worried about.
“Look, I get it, she’s cute and all, but…” Bokuto trails off, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. Every ounce of discomfort is written clear as day across his face. “You might wanna tone it down a bit, you know? For everyone’s sake.”
The irony of it all doesn’t escape him. And he probably should feel some kinda shame, because if Bokuto’s noticed then that means every goddamn one of the others has too and they’re all just too uncomfortable to say anything, but he can’t seem to muster it.
“Yeah,” he croaks out instead.
Two days later he’s halfway through a shower when the stall beside his bursts open and he hears that familiar, sunny laugh, the sound of two bodies clambering into a space too small, and his heart stutters in his chest.
“Sho, no. I-I don’t wanna–”
“Shh, be good for me, alright baby? Please?”
A drawn out hiss followed by a breathy moan, and Atsumu’s bracing himself against the tiled wall squeezing his eyes shut.
The spray of the shower isn’t loud enough to drown out the sounds of you swallowing down Hinata’s cock. And he can’t move, can’t make a sound for fear of making this worse, but with every lewd, messy gluck from your throat, every obnoxious moan that spills from his teammate’s lips, Atsumu feels that telltale stirring in his gut.
His eyes are closed and the image comes unbidden to his mind.
You on your knees, looking up at him with those big, wide innocent eyes. You, pressing soft, teasing kisses to his cock, your tongue slowly trailing along the thick vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. The way it’d swirl around his flushed head, eagerly lapping at his precum. Fuck, his cock’s already throbbing, aching.
He’s only human, he thinks as he wraps a hand around his member, teeth sinking into the flesh of his forearm to stifle his groan. You’re making a mess of him, he wants it so fucking bad. Wants you; to fuck you, have you, hold you, he doesn’t give a shit anymore, you’re driving him to the brink and he’s helpless to stop this.
He can see it so perfectly in his head, how you’d look with those soft lips wrapped around him, the way you’d massage his balls as he fucked your face, how you’d choke on it. You’d be good, so fucking perfect as you sucked him off–
Hinata’s chanting your name and Atsumu picks up his pace, strokes turning into pumps, his fist tightening as he hisses with pleasure. Distantly he wonders whether they can hear it too; his heavy breathing, the slick, wet sound of him jerking off less than a foot away.
He doesn’t care anymore, can’t hold himself back. It’s blinding, the pleasure that rips through him, shaking him to his very core as spurt after spurt of thick, hot cum paints the shower walls.
His knees buckle, his cock still twitching as aftershocks jolt through him, stealing his breath. For a blissful moment, Atsumu lets himself sag against the tiles, a lazy smirk coating his face as he basks in the afterglow, his heartbeat slowly coming down from it’s racing high.
And yet as the warm water of the shower cascades down his toned body, his breathing returning to normal something unpleasant begins to unfurl in his stomach, toxic and cloying, seeping through his veins. All that bliss, that heady, addictive pleasure fades away and Atsumu’s left with the weight of what he’s just done.
Distantly, he registers that it’s quieter now in the stall next to his. Hinata’s murmuring something to you, but Atsumu can’t make sense of it over the dull roar in his head, the disgust and shame that coils like a noose around his throat.
He should hate himself.
He just might, actually.
And it’s not enough to scrub until his skin’s raw and he doesn’t feel it crawling anymore, doesn’t matter that he stays in the shower until the two of you leave, until the water runs ice cold and it physically hurts to stand under the spray.
Hinata’s still in the locker room when he gets out, slowly gathering the last of his things and shoving them into his duffle bag. For once you’re not by his side, and Atsumu can only thank whatever godly beings might be out there for this one, tiny mercy, because he doesn’t think he can bear to see you after what he’s just done.
But Hinata just smiles, bright and cheerful and all too knowing, “Seeya tomorrow, Atsumu!”
And he feels filthy all over again.