I do think Yamaguchi would rock an undercut too!
Heya btw! It’s me ❤️😅

The morning after (if you know what I mean 🤭🙂‍↕️)
#miyaosamu #haikyuu #ineedhiminwaysthatareconcerningtolesbianism

So…
Do you take commissions?

That's a wrap! Thank you, @sktsweek.bsky.social, for hosting, reposting all the fun stuff last week, and providing these fantastic prompts.
I feel so happy being a part of SakuAtsuNation 🥰😘

Then they were gone, slipping into their own doors, leaving only footprints behind. Tiny, messy, perfect reminders that some adventures are too good to keep forever.

For a moment, the world felt enormous and lonely, and maybe that was why the night smelled so sweet; plums, mud, and the quiet promise of tomorrow.

Atsumu peeked over his shoulder. Kiyoomi was already disappearing around the corner, small, pale in the moonlight. His little smile lingered, and Atsumu couldn’t help but grin back.

Then, almost reluctantly, they turned, one left, the other right. Mud squelched under each footfall, each step sounding louder than it should, like the night didn’t want them to leave.

Kiyoomi nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “You too. And… thanks. For the fun.”
Atsumu grinned, just a little too big for the quiet street. “Yeah. Fun.”

They laughed softly, a hushed little sound, carrying too much pride and too much worry all at once.
“Okay,” Atsumu whispered, stepping back. “See you tomorrow, Omi. Don’t tell anyone about… the tree.”

Atsumu plucked a tiny plum from his hoodie pocket and held it out. “For later. You know… in case your stomach gets lonely.”
Kiyoomi blinked, taking it. Their fingers brushed, a brief, electric touch, and he pulled back quickly, cheeks warm.

They paused at the corner where the street split, a small, quiet space between them. Mud squelched under their shoes, the evening holding them in that moment, neither wanting to move first.

Atsumu tugged gently at Kiyoomi’s sleeve. “You… you don’t have to walk all the way home with me, y’know.”
Kiyoomi frowned, lips twitching. “I know. You don’t have to sneak me past my dad either.”

Two tiny warriors pressed close together, sharing stolen fruit like it was treasure.
By the time they reached the edge of their street, the sun sat deep and almost red, casting long, soft shadows over their plum-stained hands and muddy shoes.

Kiyoomi snorted, flicking a small blob of mud at Atsumu’s cheek. “Gross! You’re gross!”
“GROSSLY DELICIOUS,” Atsumu whispered, nudging a bitten plum between them, their faces mere inches apart. Kiyoomi yelped, shoved him, and laughed. Unrestrained. Free.

Kiyoomi huffed, flopping down beside him. The tarp sagged around them, the weight of two tiny bodies settling together. “Fine. You’re impossible.”
Atsumu’s grin stretched wider, his eyes gleaming. “But you like impossible, don’t you?”

“You always do this! I’m really telling your Mom.”
Atsumu groaned, flopping back against the soft, wet earth. The mud oozed between them, pressing their small bodies closer than necessary. “She’ll never believe it. You asked me to climb the tree first, remember?”

Atsumu shrugged, fingers sticky. “They were right there. How could I resist? You snooze, you lose, Omi.”
Kiyoomi scowled, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. He squatted beside Atsumu, pressing his palms to the soggy ground, feeling the slick coolness under his skin.

Kiyoomi sat up slowly, brushing mud from his hoodie, the cold earth still clinging to his fingers. “We’re so dead if he comes back and sees how many plums are missing.” He held a half-eaten fruit like it was a treasure, small and perfect. “And you ate three more!”

The farmer’s shouts had finally faded, swallowed by the soft evening, leaving only the chirping of crickets and the sticky squelch of wetness beneath their hands.
Atsumu peeked out from under the tarp first, cautious. “Okay… he’s gone. For now.”

Atsumu leaned back, careful not to squish him. “No promises. But maybe… maybe I’ll share.”
“You liar!” Kiyoomi elbowed him lightly, heart racing at the contact, the damp earth squishing between them.

Kiyoomi’s hair brushed Atsumu’s cheek, and for a long moment, everything else disappeared.
“Promise you won’t eat the rest alone,” Kiyoomi whispered, trying to sound serious, voice shaking slightly from the closeness.

They laughed into the damp tarp, hearts skipping, the world outside fading, the shouting farmer, the sinking sun, the chirping of crickets. Fingers sticky from plums, the slick soil smeared across their hands, their bodies pressed close in a quiet, conspiratorial bubble.

Kiyoomi shoved him, small but fierce. “Screw you! I’m not asking. And I will tell your Mom!”
Atsumu froze, eyes wide, then smirked. “She’ll never know. We’re invisible.”

Atsumu wriggled a little closer, the tarp shifting, pressing them together. “So what? I’m faster. Deal with it.”
“You’re mean,” Kiyoomi muttered, narrowing his eyes.
Atsumu leaned in, whispering, his breath warm against Kiyoomi’s ear. “Ask nicely next time.”

“I saved half the plums!” Atsumu said triumphantly, though a giggle escaped him anyway.
“You ate half before I even got one!” Kiyoomi poked him in the ribs, unable to hide the grin tugging at his lips.

“Relax,” Kiyoomi whispered, cheeks pink, heart thumping. “If he comes back, we’re toast.”
Atsumu pressed his cheek against Kiyoomi’s shoulder, the warmth of him startling, but he didn’t move away. “I could’ve fallen!”
“You’re fine,” Kiyoomi shoved him lightly, laughter bubbling in his chest.

A forgotten tarp sagged nearby; Atsumu yanked it over them, flattening their small bodies against the soggy earth.
Kiyoomi squirmed, the sticky ground squishing into Atsumu’s hoodie.
“Oi! You’re getting me all muddy!”

Two boys bolted with arms full of plums, the sticky weight slipping slightly as they ran.
“Quick!” Atsumu hissed, grabbing Kiyoomi’s sleeve. “Over here!”
They tumbled onto the wet rice paddy, the wet earth cold and sucking at their clothes.

@sktsweek.bsky.social #SakuAtsuWeek2025
Day 8
SakuAtsu Week – Day 8 – Forced Proximity / Crime / “Ask nicely” / “Screw you!”
SakuAtsu are Childhood friends and around 8 years old

The farmer’s shout cut through the evening like a sharp crack.