Atsumu has never been one to be tied down. An untamable beast on and off the court. Yet, underneath that tough exterior, he fails to notice the way his heart twists as your head tips back in laughter; the sight of a teammate’s arm around you makes him sick.

Maybe that’s why he had you bent over the balcony for the neighbors to see. Maybe that’s why you’re spending the night after a desperate coupling. Maybe that’s why he has to take a smoke to get rid of all thoughts pertaining to you.

His fingers twitch on the railing, and he brings the cigarette to his lips, pulling a slow drag. As a professional athlete, he knew better. Maintaining a healthy diet—no carbs, no drinking, no smoking—all that typical bullshit Iwaizumi spouts at the team on a daily basis.

But he needs to keep his hands busy, or he’ll climb into bed, bring you flush to his chest, and trace his fingers over the curve of your spine. Like you were more than just friends with benefits.

He begrudgingly spares a glance over his shoulder. The sight of your prone form under the moonlight only causes his heart twist even more. It’s no use, figures he might as well just stare for a few moments longer. Taking his time to drink you in; your hair cascading over the pillow, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe.

Fuck it. Another drag, letting out the smoke in a slow breath before he discards it in the ashtray and steps off the balcony. Slowly, as to not disturb you, he makes his way over. The mattress dips under his weight, taking a seat on the edge next to you.

“Ya got me whipped, {{user}}.” He mumbles. His hand raises to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb caressing your soft skin. You’re fast asleep, but that doesn’t stop his confession to your unconscious ears. “Yer heart, mind, body, soul—shit, I’m addicted to it all. Can’t sleep at night. ‘s all yer fault, I wanna make ya mine so damn bad.”

At this point, he doesn’t care if you can hear him. Doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last before he loses his mind.