#allotropy threadfic

Atsumu has always been enamored with tattoos. He’d spent hours in middle school drawing all over his body with a ballpoint pen.

He’d forgotten about it once he got into volleyball. Until today. You see, he just found out Sakusa Kiyoomi has a tattoo.

He refuses to tell anyone where it is and, in an unfortunate turn of events, no Jackal has ever seen him naked.

Yet, Atsumu is not one to be dissuaded. 

He teases, asks, and needles at least once a day. Far more often, however, he thinks about where it can possibly be located.

Kiyoomi’s pert, luscious ass? His groin? On his chest, right below a nipple? 

Soon, and to both his utter dream and dismay, Sakusa’s body is all he can think about.

On day fifty six of Atsumu consecutively asking to see Kiyoomi’s tattoo, he finally breaks.

“Are you some kind of stigmatophile, Miya?”

“Maybe?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “If I promise to show you, will you shut the fuck about it and leave me alone forever?”

“Yes.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “I just know you’re lying about leaving me alone, but I’m so close to murdering you I don’t even care anymore. If you bother me again, I’ll make sure your body won’t be found. Got it?”

He drags Atsumu into one of the empty shower stalls, and slightly pulls his volleyball shorts down. 

Time is an abstract concept in that moment because the world slows to a crawl, spinning  on the axis of a tiny line drawing of a volleyball right on top of Kiyoomi’s hip bone. 

It stands out against the pallor of his skin, and it’s so goddamn beautiful.

He exhales in contentment before asking, “Will ya let me touch it, Omi?”

“You won’t shut up about it if I don’t, will you?”

“Nope.”

‪Kiyoomi sighs and nods. Atsumu gets on his knees and slowly, meekly, in absolute surrender, caresses every line. The tattoo is raised against his fingertips, as though asking to be touched.‬

‪He hears Kiyoomi’s breath hitch, and it sounds so impossibly loud in his ears.‬ 

“S’pretty, Omi-kun. Jus’ like ya,” he whispers, but in the dead quiet of the stall, it echoes.

“What the hell—shut up, Miya!” Kiyoomi retorts, as he pulls the band of his shorts back up so it’s covering the tattoo and starts walking away. “I’m leaving.”

Atsumu notices the smattering of crimson on Kiyoomi’s face and ears. He gets up on his feet and asks, “Can I walk home with ya?”

Kiyoomi stops in his tracks and scoffs. “If you can keep up.”

Kiyoomi staggers into the dorm’s living room, tipsy and weightless after a drinking session with Motoya. Atsumu is asleep on the couch.

God, he’s handsome, and not in an adoring way. It’s more in the he-wants-to-do-A-LOT-of-inappropriate-things-with-him way.

Kiyoomi kneels in front of the couch. Self-control dimmed by alcohol, his fingers hover over Atsumu’s face and trace the slopes and valleys—his nose, his lips, his jaw, his cheekbones.

He’s not touching but it’s close, so close.

There's a meager centimeter in distance between his skin and Atsumu’s, if he could wager a guess.

The temptation to touch, to kiss, sweeps him in a tornado of longing so overwhelming it feels like he’s being flayed.

He hears Atsumu groan. He pulls his hand back and stands up so quickly he almost falls over. Kiyoomi hopes he hasn’t been caught.

“Omi-kun?”

“You should move to your bedroom, Miya. You’re ruining my magnificent view of the living room,” he taunts, arms crossed.

“Yer view is magnificent because I’m in the living room, Omi.”

“I’m always so impressed by the levels of conceitedness you reach, Miya. Sometimes I’ll think you hit your ceiling and then you outdo yourself somehow,” he retorts, lips curled in disgust.

“That’s a lot of words to say I’m great at surpassin’ my limits, Omi-kun. Sounds like a compliment to me!”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Only you would take that as a compliment.”

“Yeah? Well, yer the only one who’d insult me and look so riled up while doin’ so.”

“Riled up? Who’s riled up? You’re delusional.”

“Huh. So the fact that yer breathin’ faster than usual and yer pupils are dilated is what? Jus’ a figment of my imagination?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever tell ya yer a bad liar, Omi-kun?”

“No, because I’m telling the truth.”

Atsumu shrugs. “So ya weren’t hoverin’ over me and fantasizin’ about kissin’ me or anythin’ like that, right?”

“Wha—I—were you—“ he sputters, before indignation and denial take over. “Absolutely not!”

“See? Bad liar.”

Atsumu gets up and stretches his hands above his head, the hem of his shirt riding up to show the V on his hips and his scrumpti—shut up brain. He whistles as he bypasses Kiyoomi and makes his way to his own bedroom.

When Atsumu gets to the threshold, he turns around and says, “I’m not lockin’ my door, Omi. I heard the rest of the team is out until tomorrow. If ya need anythin’, anythin’ at all, jus’ knock.”

He does not miss the way Atsumu licked his lips after he said “Omi”. Unfortunately.

The door closes with a soft click, and Kiyoomi is mortified by how much his body wants to sprint towards Atsumu’s door.

He’s strong. He’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. He can resist temptation. He can do this.

Oh…wait. Shit. Fuck.

His room is the door after Atsumu’s.

Kiyoomi bites his lips, momentarily considering fleeing the dorm and sleeping over at Motoya’s apartment. He shakes his head. That’s a coward’s way out. He’s not a coward.

His legs are quivering as he walks towards his room. He’s definitely going to his room and not—

His feet stop in front of a clumsily written sign that says “MIYA” thumbtacked in front of the door. In Kiyoomi’s dream, nightmare, and reality, it also refuses to move.

Shit.

He sighs, loathing himself for the decision he knows he’s about to make. He knocks.

“Come on in, Omi. My bed’s warm.”

He hears the smirk in Atsumu’s voice beyond the closed door and sighs again. He’s fucking cursed. If the curse happens to be his humiliating “crush on Miya Atsumu”, it’s no one else’s business but his own.

He opens the door and closes it behind him.

“You said you won’t do anything, Miya,” Kiyoomi complains with his back to the wall, breathless and wild-eyed, like hunted prey.

Atsumu’s face is a few inches away from his own, arms steadied against the wall behind him, bracketing Kiyoomi’s face.

“I’m not doin’ anythin’ you wouldn’t want me to do, Omi-kun,” Atsumu responds beneath half-lidded eyes, voice low and raspy.

He leans closer, the tips of their noses almost touching. Kiyoomi feels every inhale and exhale that he takes against his cupid’s bow.

His mouth is drowning in something thick and sweet and tacky. He swallows, and hopes all the upheavals in his chest follow the spit down his gut.

It doesn’t. It stays there, fragments of tension and potent desire spooling together in a concoction that makes him want to puke. Or be ravaged.

“Atsumu,” he pants out. Oh, he sounds so disgustingly needy.

He closes his eyes, feeling like the air around him is drenched in liquor and aflame. It must be on fire.

“Omi, what do you want?” Atsumu asks in a lurid whisper.

The words hit him with entirely too much want and too many memories of Atsumu kissing him. His lungs complaining about its inability to take in air.

Kiyoomi wants to scream. Or die. Or be ravaged. Maybe all three can occur at the same time.

“Atsumu, I—“

“I love the way ya say my name, Omi,” Atsumu says as he skews his head to the right and draws even closer. His lips are now a hair's breadth away from Kiyoomi’s.

Yes. He is officially dead.

“Fuck you,” he mutters under his breath, before grabbing Atsumu’s collar and colliding their lips together in a frantic and entirely too messy kiss.

There’s hunger and then there’s this. It’s less a kiss and more a satiation, less a kiss and more a consumption.

“Told ya I only do what ya want me to do, Omi,” Atsumu says in between gasps, a wolfish grin painted on his delicious mouth.