Spikes & Strings (Asahi Azumane x Reader)

1

The art room has always been your sanctuary. In the chaos of Karasuno High, it was the one place where time seemed to slow down. The faint smell of paint and paper, the faint hum of the lights above, and the way sunlight streamed in through the tall windows—all of it made the space feel separate from the rest of the school.

Here, you didn’t have to pretend to be someone you weren’t. You could lose yourself in the strokes of a paintbrush or the sharp edges of a paper cutter, letting the rest of the world fade away. Most afternoons, you worked quietly, the only sound heard were the soft scratching of pencil on paper or the gentle swish of a paintbrush.

But today was different.

The room felt uncharacteristically crowded—not with people, but with the weight of an impending deadline. The volleyball showcase was coming up, and as part of the event committee, you’d volunteered to create the banners and decorations. The task wasn’t exactly difficult, but the sheer scale of it was daunting.

Still, you were fine. Or at least, you thought you were—until the delivery of oversized fabric rolls made it clear you couldn’t handle this alone.

Coach Ukai had insisted on sending help.

You’d protested, of course, but he’d waved you off with a gruff, “You’ll need it. Don’t argue.”

And now, standing awkwardly in the doorway was Asahi Azumane.

You recognized him instantly. Who wouldn’t? Asahi Azumane, the ace of the volleyball team, was as much a part of Karasuno’s identity as the gym itself. His height alone made him impossible to miss, but there was something about his presence that commanded attention even when he wasn’t trying.

But standing there now, his shoulders slightly hunched and his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, he seemed… different. Out of place. Like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Oh,” you finally said, your voice coming out quieter than you’d intended. “You’re here.”

Immediately, you winced. Not the warmest of greetings.

“Uh, yeah.” Asahi’s voice was low, rough around the edges, and surprisingly hesitant. He lifted a bag slightly, as if showing you a hall pass. “Coach said to help.”

“Right,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Asahi shuffled inside, ducking his head slightly, as though worried the doorway wouldn’t accommodate his height. He set the bag down on the nearest table with exaggerated care, and you caught yourself holding your breath.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said, his voice almost too quiet for his size. His eyes roamed the room, landing on the banner spread across your workstation.

“Wow,” he said after a moment, his tone soft with genuine surprise. “That’s… cool.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. “Oh. Thanks. It’s not done yet, though.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable, and rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit you were quickly starting to notice.

“So, uh,” he began, glancing at you and then quickly away. “What do you need me to do?”

You hesitated. This was the tricky part. As much as you appreciated the extra help, you couldn’t quite picture someone like Asahi—who could send volleyballs flying with a force that left audiences gasping—delicately stitching fabric.

“Well…” You gestured toward the banner. “Have you ever used a sewing machine?”

His eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head quickly. “No. Never.”