shxxn_n
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Summary
Kageyama Tobio was not at all what his brother mentioned.
For one, he didn't mention the blue eyes that reminded him of the intensity of a raging ocean and the calm before a storm.
For two, he didn't mention, the goody-two-shoes was not to be taken lightly.
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Suna leans in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, shots fall under that umbrella, right?”
“I suppose ya could say that.”
“Then shouldn’t body shots be in your repertoire, too?”
Osamu looks at him like he’s weighing his options. Keep playing along or end this before it goes too far. Suna is content either way, of course, but he sure is hoping for the former.
“Never thought of it that way. Guess I ought to take that into consideration.”
Suna smiles. The former it is.
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“He’s also famous, did you know?” She exclaims with a sigh, “He told us he used to be a setter, daddy.”
Kiyoomi looks down at her from his cup of water. “Is that so?”
“Yes!” God, she’s completely smitten. “I think he said he used to play for the black something…”
Oh, now Kiyoomi’s skin has definitely bloomed into full goosebumps.
“Black… Black Jackals!” She practically jumps in her seat, snapping her big wondering eyes back at him. “Daddy, coach Miya said he used to play setter for the black jackals, isn’t that where you used to play too?”
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“We aren’t lovers,” Atsumu protested.
“We’re not even friends,” Kiyoomi added.
“Regardless, a photo of you two—” Foster paused, seemingly searching for words. “Canoodling, to put it lightly, is splashed all over the news and social media —”
“Canoodling,” Atsumu repeated. “It was a drunken mistake—”
“It was a moment of weakness,” Kiyoomi interjected.
“We cannot afford another scandal,” Foster said with finality. “We’re telling everyone you’re in a relationship.”
(Or: A scandalous photo of Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi taken during an ill-advised one night stand goes viral. To save face, it's agreed that they should pretend they’re in a relationship.)
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Summary
Suna Rintarou isn’t quite sure how he ended up like this.
There’s a clatter as his back hits one of the shelves, bottles of alcohol rattling against one another as Osamu kisses down the expanse of his neck, leaving red marks blooming in his wake. Fuck.
Scratch that. He knows how he ended up like this.