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badb1tchbokuto · 4 years ago

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Ch. 2 Alone, Together - Miya Atsumu x You

chapter 1: here

(crossposted on ao3)

warnings: mild smut, alcohol, mentions of time skip

wc: 3.7k

As if you had sensed his worries, your eyes flutter open. “You okay?” You groggily whisper. Knowing he’s on borrowed time, he scoots down to level his face with yours and kisses you deeply. “Yeah baby, no worries.” He breathily responds as your hands begin to wander from his chiseled abdomen to his navel and down to the tufts of hair trailing to his boxer briefs.

At this point Atsumu knows he’s completely, utterly, royally fucked.

⳾⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅⳾

Atsumu tried. He really, really did.

Standing on the tiny kitchenette of his shared hotel suite with Bokkun(who was off spending time with Akaashi), he hangs up the phone after a long Facetime session with Samu guiding him on how to make the best onigiri and miso soup.

It really shouldn’t have taken that long. All he had to do was wash the rice, pop it into the mini rice cooker stowed in the counter, cut some fresh tuna, sear the rest, then assemble it all into balls along with the seasoning, condiments and nori.

He’d know how to make miso soup even if he was blindfolded. All he had to do was mix in the ingredients he bought on a small pot of water. Dashi, miso paste, diced silken tofu, sliced green onions, some more nori, all dropped in at different times and simmered to get the perfect taste. Plus, this was one of the first dishes their ma taught them how to make before he and Samu moved away.

Really, it should have been a breeze. He’d made onigiris for himself countless of times before, admittedly nowhere near as tasty as the ones Osamu makes, but they were still edible.

This time, however, it had to delicious. Mouthwatering, perfect.

For the umpteenth time, Atsumu is picking off the nori on the last rice ball, wrapping and rewrapping, then wrapping again because the nori just wasn’t hugging the rice in a fashion uniform to the seven others arranged in front of him.

“Why does it look so weird??” He frustrates.

Atsumu’s mind replays, yet again, to your shared conversation at the club. Specifically to the part where he realizes he didn’t really know how to talk about himself outside of volleyball. He surmises at this; a gnawing, alarming thought of wondering whether he really knew himself at all.

Three hours ago...

“How do I usually describe myself?” He repeatedly thinks as he wanders down the seemingly endless aisles of Isetan’s Depa-Chika, scouring for the exact brands of ingredients Samu instructed him to buy.

Lost somewhere in the frozen food section, Atsumu pushes a half filled cart in reverie. He resolves then and there to get to know himself, whatever that means or entails. Not just so he can talk to you or anyone new for that matter, but honestly more so to know how to articulate to himself who he really is in private. Without the cameras flashing, without the people buzzing, without having to watch himself through others’ incredibly varied perceptions of him, without using his brother or his friends and teammates as a crutch, however difficult or impossible that seems.

He takes his time at the store, tediously combing the shelves for a special kind of mirin Osamu swears by, then proceeds to have an internal debate whether he should choose chutoro or otoro (he chooses otoro, the fattiest and therefore the tastiest in his opinion), his supposedly quick trip to the grocery store devouring more than an hour of his time.

It is now 7:15pm.

You’re supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes, but Atsumu still hadn’t even showered, hadn’t even cleaned up the kitchen, hadn’t even finished wrapping that last stubborn rice ball.

The hotel phone rings and Atsumu panics.

It’s the concierge alerting him of your arrival. Sending you up, Atsumu races around the small space in a haste, swiping the counter and dining table with disinfectant, racing to throw empty packages into the bin.

The doorbell rings and Atsumu is sweating.

He’s an athlete for fuck’s sake, why did running around for less than a minute knock his breath out like that?

“I’m coming!” He yells, or tries to. What comes out is a cracked, high pitched attempt, sounding much like a prepubescent boy going through rapid hormonal changes. He cringes, mortified.

Atsumu hears you trying to stifle a giggle.

He clears his throat, repeats in his signature silky voice, then runs to open the door.

You’re smiling sheepishly, the tip of your nose frosty from the autumn chill, all bundled up in a casual outfit that somehow knocks Atsumu’s breath out.

“My share of dinner!” You announce, arms stretched out with a box of wagashi and a bottle of nigori sake.

“Yer’ so frickin cute,” he dotes. He can’t help himself, he snakes an arm on your waist and pulls you in for a gentle kiss.

“Yer’ early, missed me that much already?” He whispers teasingly on your lips.

You laugh as you kiss him back, gently patting his cheek as a response before pulling away. Funny how it seems like he’s the one who missed you that much...

Atsumu sneakily sniffs his shirt as you take off your shoes at the genkan.

“Oh no...” Not musty, but he reeks of kitchen smoke, aburi tuna and dried sweat.

“Need ta’ shower real quick.”

“Oh sorry, want me to come back in a bit?”

He digresses. “No no. Gimme a minute, come in and get comfy.”

He excuses himself, leaving you in the kitchen as he rushes to the bathroom.

You look around the hotel suite, kitchenette roughly cleaned, flecks of nori and furikake smattering the floor but otherwise spotless. The cramped countertop had a steaming pot laid next to a row of neatly arranged onigiri on two plates, decorated with vegetables jaggedly cut in what you assume are attempts at flower patterns.

It’s a simple dinner, you know. But you still can’t help but be impressed that Atsumu put in that much effort, that much care in making you a homemade dinner. On your first date no less.

You smile, butterflies fluttering in your belly at the thought that this callous, reckless, stupidly tall and handsome man is being domestic just for you.

Pulling out your phone, you send a quick text to Kaori and Yukie, gushing over how cute Atsumu is and even sending them a quick snapshot of the onigiri he plated with special care. “Get it!!!” Kaori enthusiastically replies. “Send a ‘1’ by midnight if it’s good and give us a play by play tomorrow. ‘2’ if we need to fake an emergency asap!” Yukie responds, ever the more calculating but motherly one.

As Atsumu massages purple shampoo on his tresses, he elucidates a fact about him he already knows is true on court that he supposes could be said the same of him off it.

1. Miya Atsumu is a perfectionist.

He practices for hours daily to hone his craft, has been doing so since the fourth grade really. At first just to spite Samu, but then he just suddenly fell in love with volleyball.

To Atsumu, nothing short of absolute perfection qualifies when it comes to dedicating himself to the things he cares about. It is through this philosophy that he is now one of Asia’s top setters, that he’s certain anyone who can’t receive his set is a scrub; a roaring confidence gained from knowing he puts his all to whatever he chooses to set his mind to, whether that’s volleyball or cooking dinner for a very cute girl he finds himself wanting to impress and spend more time with.

He frowns upon remembering that one of the onigiris he made is lopsided, that he didn’t even have time to shower and properly clean up before you arrived, that the atmosphere you walked in on your first official date with Miya Atsumu the perfectionist, wasn’t, well...perfect.

He thinks about this as he readies himself, spraying on the woodsy, smoky vanilla perfume he swore you wore when you first met. He usually reserves the scent for special occasions, but he believes that this counts as one.

Atsumu finds you in the kitchen, fixated on trying to salvage the onigiri he was having trouble wrapping earlier.

He leans over your shoulder, and though your nerves are in haywire and the butterflies in your stomach seem to keep multiplying, you instinctually lean back into him. Atsumu smiles as he drapes his arms around you from behind, thumbs brushing up and down the bare sliver of skin on your hip.

Your mind is a blur, every thought suddenly jumbled and incoherent. All that’s left is you anticipating, thrilling where Atsumu will move his fingers next on your heating body. Dropping his head on your shoulder and finally getting a closer whiff of your sexy scent, he whispers teasingly close to your ear.

“Sorry for the wait, ya’ ready to fall in love with me?”

You swiftly turn around and pull him into a deep kiss as an answer.

——

By the time you’ve moved to sit at small table by the kitchen, your lips are sweetly swollen and your clothes are wrinkled. Atsumu is panting, hair even more tousled and a small love bite is beginning to bloom on his right collarbone.

You stare at him, mesmerized at how he seems to look even more gorgeous unkempt.

“Why don’t cha take a picture babe, it’ll last longer.” He smirks then sticks his tongue out to pose, ego inflating at catching you ogling him.

You quip. “Sure, can I take naked ones after?”

“Aww, you’re so polite. Whatta’ good girl. You don’t need to ask. I’ll gladly give them to you for free, even throw in a lil show if ya want.” He leans closer, resting his head on his flexed, chiseled propped arm, smirking a little more mischievously as he gazes at you in challenge.

You can almost see his ego rapidly inflating like a balloon, and naturally, you kind of want to pop it.

In your best faux posh British accent, you offer. “A most forthcoming and lucrative offer mister Miya. What do you say I start and manage an OnlyFans account for you?”

You giggle uncontrollably as the look on his face changes instantly from confidence to confusion.

Brows furrowed and lips formed into a tiny pout, he concludes. “It’s a good thing yer so cute, yer a weirdo.”

You laugh, snorting a little. Atsumu chuckles at this, finding your little quirk amusing and rather irresistible.

“Keep the accent though, it’s kinda hot.” You kick him under the table and continue to banter as you both set up the table.

Atsumu watches expectantly as you take the first sip of the miso broth. The soup is delicious, and as soon as you tell him this he visibly relaxes.

The onigiris’ fillings however, are inconsistent. On the first one, the filling oozes out whenever you take a bite. On another, there’s barely any tuna and a ton of furikake. You decide to spare him your criticisms and just enjoy the meal he so graciously prepared.

Still, your heart just feels so damn full.

You make sure to repeatedly compliment Atsumu on his cooking to show appreciation for his efforts, the first time anyone has ever cooked for you on a date and the first time he(and not his pro-chef brother! Ha!) has ever been acknowledged for his culinary efforts.

Dinner is pleasant, both of you exchanging stories of varied life experiences.

You talk about the places you’ve lived in, your childhood, life in university. Atsumu actively listens, enchanted with how different your upbringing was in comparison to his, especially since he’d forgone college and went pro immediately after being scouted in high school. Despite the stark differences, he asks a ton of questions; some in confusion as he asks you to clarify or talk about certain details you purposely leave out.

You notice that he’s very observant, so you casually comment it.

Atsumu decides then that yes, it’s true. He makes a mental note to add this to the little list he’s crafting in his head about who he is.

2. Miya Atsumu is observant.

He thinks that you literally could have told him he was a seaweed and he would have agreed just because he is so transfixed by your mere presence and voice, but he knows this to be true on court for him as well. How else would he sync up with his spikers? How else would he know which serve to use and how to to angle his sets best? Through thorough studying and keen awareness of his teammates’ likes, dislikes, mannerisms and ticks, he is able to turn a seemingly mismatched chaotic group like the Black Jackals into synchronized raging monsters, dancing to a tune in which he is the lone orchestrator.

Atsumu is earnest in asking you questions about your life; his genuine interest coaxing you to share seemingly inconsequential details you intentionally initially skip over, snippets of your upbringing you thought were too boring to even mention, some too painful to share. Hesitantly at first, then comfortably as Atsumu intently listens. You don’t know why he takes a keen interest in you to that degree, but you come to learn that Atsumu is transparent and rather straightforward. He asks because he wants to know.

You relax, feeling touched and appreciated as you realize that he seems to just want to know every little thing about you, even the parts of you that you think are boring, unimportant or unworthy.

The conversation shifts to more light hearted topics as you both begin to indulge on the dessert and sake you brought.

Feeding you half of a red bean wagashi he swears is the best one, Atsumu continues to tell you about shenanigans from his volleyball team, particularly the initiation ritual of being ambushed to sing a full song at one’s first team dinner with a hot pink wireless karaoke mic on full blast.

“Bokkun, Omi, and Shoyou weren’t even there yet and I didn’t know anyone my age since they were all older than me.. I was only eighteen! They told me I couldn’t eat dinner and had to sit in a different table if I didn’t do it.. and I had 10 seconds to pick a song! A western one at that because Adriah and Oliver had to understand too and they didn’t speak Japanese then..”

Imagining a younger Atsumu with a bad dye job nervously trying to think of a song to sing out loud in public, you laugh as he describes in detail how awkward the whole ordeal was. You wonder if any of the older members have a video of this, making sure to ask Meian if you ever have the opportunity to see the team again.

He recounts how shameless Bokuto and Hinata were when they had to do it, with Bokuto even doing an encore with a dance routine that resulted in them being banned from a restaurant in Kyoto. You’re both dying of laughter as he wheezes out how Sakusa almost gave up his career upon realizing he had to do it as well. Thankfully his team sort of pitied him and let him sing to a small izakaya in Sendai instead of the mega hotel restaurants they usually celebrate in.

As the night progresses, you and Atsumu end up sitting side by side, legs touching due to the close proximity of your chairs, holding hands, and sharing sweet sake flavored kisses in between laughs.

After some time, the kisses start to linger, becoming more heated. It’s when you subtly lick Atsumu’s tongue then slowly bite and suck on his full lower lip that he loses control and pulls you into his lap. Straddling him, you keep one hand on his chest to steady yourself as you move your other hand to brush his soft hair out of his face. “You’re so beautiful.” You whisper as you stare into his half lidded hazel eyes before leaning in to kiss him.

Atsumu flushes at this. It’s the first time he’s been called beautiful. Handsome? Sure. Sexy? Even more often. But beautiful? It feels intimate, leaving him vulnerable and exposed in a way that seems to transcend the physical. He revels in this as he lavishes you with open mouthed kisses, starting from just below your ear and moving down your neck, his wet lips ghosting over the hollow of your throat to just above your cleavage. You mewl, aching to feel more of him, subconsciously grinding your hips on his lap where you can feel him bulging out of his sweatpants.

Atsumu moves one of his hands from your waist, brushing his large knuckles up your torso until it reaches the underside of your breasts. You notice that despite his kisses growing more desperate and him feeling fully erect under you, he hasn’t made a move to further the heavy petting. Respecting his boundaries, you ask. “Everything okay? We don’t have to go all the way if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Oh fuck.. sorry, yea, I’m good.” He kisses your lips again as his hands rub up and down your bare sides, your sweater having ridden up a while ago. “Trust me, I want you. So bad. I’m just tryin' to hold myself back for once.”

“Huh? Why?”

“I wanted to take my time.” He gently pecks your forehead, then your nose, and then back to your lips. He does this while looking at you eye to eye, a stark contrast to the steamy make out session you were just having. Atsumu’s gaze becomes smoldering as his eyes move to your lips again. “I don’t know why, but I just know I’ll get addicted to ya’.”

You grab the wrist that’s placed on your waist, unfurling his long, elegant fingers. Atsumu is watching you in intense curiosity as you take his pointer and middle digits, pulling them up slowly to your mouth and sucking, all while looking up at him. Instantly, Atsumu groans and you’re positive you can feel his member twitch against your crotch.

You release his fingers with a pop, then lick the length slowly, gaze never leaving his as his focus struggles in anticipation of what you'll do next.

You guide his digits by dragging them from your exposed torso and up to the curves of your breasts to your hardening buds straining your lace bralette, his wet fingers leaving a slight translucent trail of saliva on the expanse of your stomach. Before Atsumu can twist his fingers to pay attention to your nipples, you hold his wrist and move the fingers down your torso, pushing past the elastic waistband of your pants. With your hand over his, you splay his saliva coated fingers against your dampening underwear, stroking your mound before resting the two fingers over your labia, coaxing your slick slit to open. Atsumu’s pupils are dilated, his breathing heavy and his other hand gripping your hips so tightly you can feel bruises starting to form as he tries his best to control himself.

“I’m afraid time is the one thing we both can’t afford Atsumu. But please, have me. Fuck me. Take your fill.”

It’s all the confirmation he needs as he moves your panties aside, circling his fingers on your throbbing clit before sliding them seamlessly inside your tight, soft walls.

It’s not until much, much later, after you’ve had sex in the kitchen, then on his bed, then in the bathroom as you both intended to clean up, then finally cuddling back in his bed before falling asleep that Atsumu remembers the rest of what you said right before he lost all coherent thought.

Why can’t we afford time? Why don’t we have the time? Surely you’re both busy with your careers, but you’re someone he finds himself liking more and more. And now that you’re here, with your head on his chest, one arm wrapped around his bare torso and one leg intertwined with his, he thinks that this feels too good, too perfect, to not keep chasing, and he’ll be damned if he didn’t make time for more moments like tonight.

As his thoughts lull him to sleep, he remembers why time is beyond both of your control.

He's only in Tokyo for volleyball - for the league match they just won and now to train with the Olympic team for an upcoming friendly match in Shanghai. You’re here temporarily too, on a project with a definitive deadline that will not only mark the end of your stay in the country, but signal the end of you seeing him. Possibly forever.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

At this point, Atsumu knows he’s completely, utterly, royally fucked.

You’re both on borrowed time, but now that he’s had a taste of what it’s like to spend time with you, to be inside you, to just be with you, he knows that this growing hunger for you is insatiable. He thinks then that he finally understands Samu when he rambles about gradually getting hungrier and hungrier when watching others eat. His appetite for volleyball had always been there, like second skin and breathing. But for the longest time he didn't realize that seeing lovers around him display genuine affection towards each other(from his ma and pa, Bokuto and Akaashi, Meian and his wife, Aran and his high school sweetheart), all build bonds that can only truly be forged by sharing and accepting each other's hopes, dreams, and vulnerabilities, is something that he was growing hungrier and hungrier for without even noticing. Up until he met you that is. As you pull away from his lips and begin to slowly kiss down his body, following the trail of where your hands have just wandered, he thinks, “fuck it.”

Just as he became a setter even though he initially intended to be a spiker, just as he chose to be a professional athlete instead of following a safe path to success in university, just as he contorts and bends over his body in random, sometimes painful ways to make sure his spikers have the best sets, and just as he adjusts and twists routined plays in order to beat opponents, he knows then.

3. Miya Atsumu is a risk taker.

He’d been luckily winning his gambles so far, it’s about time he try his luck in love.

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