Slut for 2D Men @hc4hq - Tumblr Blog

meet me (under the stars)

Despite starting off on the wrong foot, you can’t help but be taken with the very handsome stranger who you brush paths with while on holiday.

atsumu x reader // crossposted to AO3

tags: strangers to lovers, meet-ugly turned cute, fem!reader, atsumu is accused of stalking and murder (will he beat the allegations?), atsumu is a little shit, reader eats food and drinks alcohol, reader wears a bathing suit and a dress, slight angst, (1) glob of spit, fingering, protected sex

wc: 16.1k

The sky is clear, clouds appearing painted against the blank canvas of it from where you sit on the train. The air outside is crisp, and chilly, but it felt nice as it filled your lungs when you stepped out into the morning. You felt alive. But now, you feel tranquil as the train dashes across the rails, and if you blink any slower you just might fall asleep.

As you watch structures pass through the train window, you go through a mental checklist for anything you could have forgotten to pack for the weekend. It’s too late to go back to get anything now, but you run through the list anyway.

Right when you’re about to cross off toothbrush, someone interrupts you by plopping themselves in the seat directly across from you a little too roughly. His earbuds are in and he has a backpack in hand, just like you. His jostling makes you side eye where he sits.

Even though he’s not standing, you can tell he’s tall, and lithe, with a face pretty enough to make a God fall in love. A regular Adonis. His hair is bleach blond, and tussled, but his undercut, sideburns, and eyebrows are brunette, giving away his dye-job. His eyes are a honeyed brown, framed with a thick line of dark lashes, and he seems to be more alert than you this morning, looking out the window and gaze darting around to follow everything that passes.

What is he listening to? What is he thinking about? Where is he going? Who is he going to? He’s probably taken, with a face like that. Your daydreams halt in place, a storm cloud moving in over the beginning of your delusion. It’s normal to wonder about a perfect stranger, but it’s not normal to upset yourself over their personal life. You were never destined to be more than bodies filling the same train car.

But it wouldn’t hurt to look at him a little longer, would it?

It’s too cold outside for the shorts he has on, and your nose instinctively scrunches up while you look at them, a phantom chill zipping up your spine.

Gradually, without you realizing, your head had started turning in his direction while you looked over him so closely. You don’t catch it until he nearly snaps his neck to look right at you, meeting your eyes and blinking his honey-brown ones at you. They’re even prettier from the front.

You quickly turn away, looking out the window again, but not really seeing, internally berating yourself for getting caught. He probably felt your eyes boring into him, most likely unaware of the fantasy ammunition he was supplying.

As a result, you miss the grin he tries to offer you.

To busy yourself for the rest of the ride, you scroll on your phone, and force yourself not to sneak another glance at him until your stop nears. And when it does, you make silent peace with the fact that you’re going to have to part from today’s eye-candy. You sling your backpack on your shoulder and stand to fumble with the small luggage you stored overhead. You glide to the nearest exit and wait by the sliding doors.

With a turn over your shoulder, you expect to give Blondie one last, lingering look, before you're forced to part forever.

But, oh. Adonis is up, too.

And he’s also got luggage.

When did he stand? And how did he do it so fast? So quietly? He’s agile, too, you guess, and you hate how you can’t find anything wrong with him. Did he wait for you to finish getting your bag before he got his own? That’s sweet. Infatuation is growing exponentially with every passing second, and you’re finding excuses to rationalize it. At this rate, he’ll be proposing on the station platform, and you’ll be accepting.

The train slows, coming to an easy stop, before the doors sweep open, a soft ding sounding over the telecom. You step out and roll your bag out from behind you, instantly hugging the nearest wall to stop and look onto your phone for directions to the ryokan. It’s not a complicated walk — only a few turns. It’s not very close, but also not far enough for you to justify calling a cab, so you prepare yourself for a long stroll.

Too focused on navigating your way out of the station, you don’t check for him again until you’re already on the outside street. You see the top of his bleach-blond head peeking out of the crowd within the station, bobbing with each step. You sigh, getting one last look of his curls, before turning away, taking off in the direction of your destination, perhaps doing it all just a tad dramatically.

Of course, the beginning of the journey is the hardest part, the street slanted slightly uphill, and it starts to feel like less of a leisurely stroll and more like a workout. You do your best to conquer it efficiently while hauling your luggage behind you, which has somehow become 30 pounds heavier.

Dragging it up, and up, and up, you don’t let yourself stop until you reach the top of the hill. You have to make a left turn, but you look back at the incline you defeated first.

Honestly, it’s not as impressive of a hill as you would have hoped for, considering how limp your legs are already feeling. But it’s definitely a steady and long slope, so that must mean something, right? Physical activity for the day: check.

A tinge of yellow against the black of the station stops you in your tracks, lids fluttering a few times to confirm that you’re not imagining Blondie climbing up the hill you just did. He’s walking right in your direction, luggage behind him and everything. He doesn’t even look like he’s breaking a sweat, the bastard, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

Strange. Fate doesn’t want you two apart just yet, it seems.

You smirk as you guess that he must be about 30 seconds to a minute behind you, so you keep moving before he catches up, not wanting to invite an awkward moment, cringing when you remember that he caught you ogling him on the train. Left turn made, there’s a straightaway, with no hill this time. You grin in triumph and make your way through, checking the directions on your phone one more time.

Suspiciously, a minute or two later, you hear another luggage rolling in tandem with your own. There’s no way he’s still behind you.

But you look over your shoulder anyway, just a glance really, to check, anxiety meter kicking on when you see him following the same path you are, indifferent look on his face. Does he not realize how this could come off?

You turn forward and keep walking, chalking it up to coincidence, convincing yourself that he’ll turn onto a different street very soon. There’s a right turn for you up ahead, and depending on where he chooses to go after you, that’ll let you decide what to do with the ball of panic knitting itself into your chest.

It’s a really quiet street, you come to notice, no others on the sidewalk besides you two, cars passing not frequently enough for your liking. While nearing the next intersection, you consider stopping completely to let him go ahead, staying back just to see where he goes, what he does, if he stops too. But maybe you’re just being ridiculous, so you make the right anyway, eyes straining in their periphery to watch him. If your ears could turn towards the back of your head like a fox, they would.

A minute into walking, you build the courage to glance back again, and sure as shit, he’s there, handsome face as blank as ever, and you start to think that that pretty face must be how he’s still roaming free, and not in jail, considering that he’s clearly a stalker and serial murderer.

Your mind starts to go to the worst, fabricating visions of this man stalking you for months, knowing everything there is to know about you, along with flashes of him planning, scheming, and plotting your demise to the very last detail. Suddenly, him being so tall, so lithe, becomes a weapon, and not something for you to drool over on the train. No one’s ever going to find you after this.

The heat of the kill must be what keeps him warm, and that’s why he’s dressed so inappropriately-

Yeah. Infatuation has left the building.

There’s an upcoming corner that you turn sharply, quickly pressing your back against the brick of the building and bracing yourself for impact, preparing to meet your doom. In your last moments, you breathe heavily and think about all the loved ones you won’t get to tell goodbye. Maybe you’ll get a lot of flowers at the funeral-

He turns the corner almost 30 seconds after you had, your edged nerves forcing you to project your voice and shout,

“WHY ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, stumbling over his own feet to get away from you, staring at you in confused bewilderment, “W-Why am I- What?”

You blink, suddenly sheepish, ready to take it all back. He seems sincere and genuinely frightened. What if you just accused this stranger of something completely out of pocket, and you’re the problem-

But what if that’s his angle? What if that’s what he wants you to think?

“Why are you, um, following me?” The end of your question comes out high, and unsure, like you’re actually asking, do I sound insane?

Two beats pass before he starts grinning, incredulous laughs slipping from his mouth as he shakes his head and bows it down to the floor.

“‘M sorry, sweetheart, ‘m not followin’ ya,” He has an accent that you didn’t hear before, and simultaneously your heartbeat quickens and stomach flips when he calls you sweetheart, sounding much too flirtatious when the moment absolutely does not call for it, “I shoulda crossed the street or somethin’. I can walk ya to wherever it is yer-”

“Yes, you should have!” You cut him off, shrill and exasperated, and you probably look crazier than before now that he’s made you flustered on top of everything else, “And absolutely not!”

He only grins, still somehow amused, and you can't stand how much more handsome he becomes when he’s smiling, “Alright, alright, I’ll be over there,” he points to the other side of the street, “If you need anythin’. Sorry again.”

You scoff at his gall and turn on your heel, angrily stomping away towards your destination while he jaywalks across the street. You don’t glance over your shoulder again, convincing yourself that you don’t care where he’s going anymore, only focused on getting to where you’re going yourself. You open your directions once more, and see that after one last right turn you will have arrived.

You make it in time for check in, walking through the doors almost right on the dot, give or take a few minutes. The lobby smells like lavender and a hint of incense when you enter. All your muscles relax as you inhale it in, scent receptors ticking happily in your brain, body and mind ready to forget every second of what just happened.

When you booked this trip, you went in blindly, picking a ryokan at random and reserving yourself a room for a long weekend, because you deserve it. A break.

Approaching the front desk, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier, greeting the receptionist and telling them your name, then letting them handle the rest. They take your bag from you, leaving you with nothing but the backpack hanging on your shoulders. The sound of a door sliding open from behind you goes unnoticed, and it isn't until you hear a familiar voice that you let yourself look at who it is.

“Oh. Hello, darlin’,'' You turn back in horror, and there he is, Adonis, in all of his glory. He’s got one arm propped on the handle of his rolling suitcase, and his head is turned, like a dog, smirking at you like he’s won, “Fancy meetin’ you here.”

You have got to be fucking kidding.

During check in you learn that his name is Atsumu, not Adonis. But you nearly choke at the first syllable when he tells the receptionist. For security, the person helping you repeats your name back when you give them your ID. You flinch when they say it loud enough for Blondie to hear, and you hesitantly glance over to him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He mouths over the shape of your name, brows furrowed in question, but still grinning, silently asking if he’s heard it right.

Nodding in resignation, you sigh, then snatch your ID off of the counter and slide it back in place inside your wallet. The receptionist is none the wiser, telling you that you’re staying in room number 203 and politely handing you your keycard. You thank them quietly, then turn to make your way to the stairs, and you almost make it, until you overhear the person helping Atsumu say,

“You’re in room number 205.”

You look back in disbelief, glaring daggers at Atsumu. And you know he really has nothing to do with it, but your gut still churns in fury when all he does is send you a wink and a dazzling smile.

Growling under your breath, you push the stairwell door open with too much force, nearly breaking into a sprint to run up the stairs to your room, not wanting to interact with him anymore than you have already. You get to the door in record time, sending a prayer up to heaven before scanning your keycard, and praising the lord when it lets you in on the first try.

You close the door behind you quickly, pressing your face against the wood of the door to see through the peephole, calculating how narrowly you missed him by. He passes, eventually, dawdling as he eyes your door. He looks sly, but he keeps it moving.

When he’s out of sight, you let out the breath that was caught in your throat, like he would have heard you through the partition. With a quick once-over of your room, you notice that it’s just as pretty as the lobby, and smells twice as good. They must be pumping oils through the vents.

You fling your backpack into the corner, and flop onto the futon, sighing when it molds under you, soft and fluffy. There’s a knock on the door, and you almost don’t get up to answer, until they call that they’ve got your bag.

Hurling yourself up, you go to retrieve it, and once it’s in your possession you get to work unpacking. Mostly everything is in place, so you suppose a nap after all that excitement would do no harm, nodding off the second your face hits the sheets.

It’s later than you expect it to be when you wake. You’ve burrowed yourself into the mattress, the sheets no longer neatly tucked, pillows scattered everywhere but underneath your head. Criterion of a good nap.

With great force do you get yourself up, blinking in the dim light of your single. It’s almost time for dinner, and through the glass you can see the sun beginning to set, earlier than usual because of the season. The sky looks quite pretty from your point of view, the sun emitting the beginnings of that late afternoon orange, which is splashed against the walls of your room, painting it all golden, making you feel warm.

As much as you’d like to curl back up in bed to sleep until sunrise, you haven’t gotten a chance to take a look around the first floor, and you figure you should familiarize yourself with the layout while you have the time, your dinner reservation not for another hour. The springs are downstairs and they are a sight to behold, according to Yelp. The pictures online looked nice enough, and the reviews of this place were not overwhelmingly terrible, so that must mean it was a fine choice to go with.

If you’d have known the clientele it attracted, maybe you’d have changed your mind.

You throw on a pair of shoes and bring nothing but your keycard and phone, not stepping into the hallway without consulting the peephole first. When you find the coast clear, and you sneak out as quietly as you can, taking extra care with the door on your way out. You tiptoe quickly towards the stairwell, and you think if anyone caught a glimpse of you right now they’d presume you were clinically insane.

The first floor is quiet, and serene, and there are little signs everywhere to point you into the direction of wherever you’re looking to go. There are the baths, of course, a cafeteria, a pool, and you must have missed the listing of a spa. Maybe you’ll schedule a massage for yourself while you’re down here.

Wandering to the right, in the direction of the baths, you walk slowly, taking in your surroundings, inhaling the smells, noting the colors. The windows are wide, showing you all the trees and scenery surrounding the building. The doors and windows are all paneled with a deep mahogany wood, and there’s potted greenery in almost every corner. Not a lot of people are roaming around besides the staff, and you suppose you’d rather it be barren than be packed with strangers. You feel at ease as you drift through the halls.

A door that leads to one of the springs is wooden, and heavy, labeled by gender. You crack it open, and warm air from the other side of it seeps through, feeling like a cozy hug against your skin. The sight that follows takes your breath away.

The pictures don’t even compare to the view in front of you. The onsen is large, and a few people are bathing, a calming spa-like tune playing. Steam is swirling up and out from the surface of the water, and there are trees on either side of the pool, casting shadows in a way that makes you feel like you’re really in nature. And beyond the bath, you’d guess a handful of miles away, there’s a mountain range, snowy and bright.

You feel a pull to slip into the water, despite not being properly dressed. At the same time, your belly rumbles, reminding you of your reservation and making the decision for you. You reluctantly pull yourself away and push yourself towards the stairs, mentally perusing through the options of what you could wear to dinner, and promising to sit in the onsen all day tomorrow to make up for this.

Once you get into the room, you strip yourself of your travel clothes and pull on something nicer. You don’t dress super fancy for dinner, you didn’t bring the clothes to anyway, but you do doll yourself up just a little, even though you’re alone. When you look good, you feel good, and you want to make the most of the little holiday you’ve gifted yourself.

There’s a reservation for you at a restaurant nearby, something the resort had recommended for you when you called, and you gave them the go-ahead to schedule it for you. Perhaps you said yes out of laziness, because it was easy, but it must hold water if the staff was commending it. Who knows, maybe it’ll be the best food you’ve ever had.

Perfecting your look, you grin at yourself in the mirror, grab your things, and get going.

You order an entree and a glass of wine for yourself when you sit down, a red, feeling sophisticated and proper, like a fancy lady taking herself out for dinner. The lighting is dark, and it’s a little more romantic in here than you would have preferred, but it’s still nice.

You probably should have brought a book, because you don’t really want to waste time on your phone while you wait. As a result, you’re left with the lone option of people-watching.

There’s a couple sitting not too far from you, and they seem tense, talking lowly, like they’re arguing, and you almost pull a muscle trying to listen in, resorting to eavesdropping as a way to pass the time. You don’t pick up on much, and your boredom shatters like glass when food gets placed in front of you. You thank the waiter kindly, and tuck in, poking a bite of food with your fork. Right when you’re about to sink your teeth in,

“This seat taken?”

Your entire body pauses, fork lifted halfway up to your mouth, jaw open to receive, eyes darting up to see Atsumu standing there, wearing a short-sleeved button down and a presumptuous smirk. Black looks too good on him.

He continues when you opt to stay silent, “Figured yer eatin’ alone, I am also eatin’ alone, so why not eat together?” He pulls the empty chair back as he speaks and plops himself into it, assuming position across from you, even though you most definitely had not invited him to.

“I don’t mind eating alone, actually-”

“Good evening, folks. What can I get for you, sir?” Your waiter cuts you off, the service too good for Atsumu’s arrival to go unnoticed. Atsumu shoots you a look that feels like he’s laughing in your face, then goes on to tell the waiter what he would like, talking politely and without taunt, something you’ve yet to hear.

And now that you’re looking at him, really looking, you realize the neglected top buttons of his shirt lets you see right down it, just enough to show you the tanned and plush skin of his chest. You can see his nails glinting in the low light, clean and short, like he’s just gotten a manicure. His hands complement him nicely, his fingers long, like his legs are, and you have to look away before you can think too hard about it.

When the waiter steps away, Atsumu lets out a sarcastic sigh of contentment, turning his attention back towards you, gazing at you like he’s sizing you up, stare so hot it makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

“Why’d ya come here alone, anyway?”

You debate not answering him in protest of his forced company, or consider answering back something like unfortunately, I’m not alone, but you figure that’ll only make this harder for yourself.

“I needed a vacation. Didn’t want to have to wait on anyone else, so I just booked it. You know, treating myself,” You poke your food around the plate with the fork while you tell him, appetite lost over his stupid face and his stupid bare chest and his stupid pretty neck. He’s quiet, a first, silently nodding along in understanding. You offer him the same courtesy by asking, “Why are you here alone?”

“My job, uh, thought I needed some time off. Sent me here,” He’s fingering at the rim of his water glass, avoiding eye contact.

Your eyebrows lift in surprise, “That’s really kind of them. Who do you work for?”

“Some sports team. It’s kinda boring,” He shrugs, and you think his smile is even cuter when he’s being shy, “Ya got no partner to keep you company?”

You narrow your eyes at him, shaking your head once in response, sniffing out his angle. You don’t offer up any additional information, lest he thinks you’re some sad single trying to escape their unhappy life.

He smiles brilliantly at you, “Guess I’ll hafta do, then.”

His grin is infectious, but you bite your own back, gripping tighter onto the wine glass into your hand and gesturing to the top of his head while you say, “That bleach is seeping straight into your brain.”

A beat, “How could you tell it’s dyed?” You don’t realize that he’s joking until the side of his mouth turns up, which makes you release a relieved sigh and him to giggle boyishly.

A different waiter appears, this one with a bottle of champagne in his hands.

Immediately, you try to shut it down, not wanting any attention drawn to yourself and this table and the man sitting across from you. Not that you think he’d mind, “Oh, we didn’t order any-”

He holds a hand up, “That couple over there sent this for the two of you.”

Your gaze follows the direction he’s pointing in, peering over with composed horror. You stare back at the old couple you find a handful of tables away with wide, unbelieving eyes.

Can’t they tell that you hate him?

“And they said congratulations,” You blink yourself out of it before your eyebrows furrow in confusion. He seems genuine, like this isn’t all some joke Atsumu devised, and you can’t find it in yourself to be rude.

“Congratulations? For what?” The way you shake your head should tell him enough, saying without saying that there is nothing for us to be celebrating right now.

“On your ‘young love’, they said,” He responds, the blissfully unaware grin on his face fueling the agitation simmering in your belly.

Mortification petrifies you, body becoming rigid in an instant. What on this earth would make them think that you were here together with him like that? Yes, you’re sitting here with him in this fancy, somewhat romantic restaurant, but it was all against your will! You couldn’t dream up any ways for this to get worse, “Our-”

“Our relationship, yes! Aw, honey.” From across the table, Atsumu grabs your hand into his, which has gone stiff in bubbling rage. He waves to them with his other hand, and mouths a dramatic thank you!

You see the waiter make a move to unfasten the cork of the bottle, and you would have jumped over the table to tackle him to the floor if you weren’t already so embarrassed, “Could you maybe open that in the back or some-”

The bottle is the one to cut you off this time, bursting open with a loud POP! making you flinch and leaving you feeling even more humiliated than before. All the other patrons start clapping, including Atsumu, and you hide your face away from the room and into the palms of your hands.

Your food has gone cold by the time Atsumu gets his, poking around your plate and too distressed to speak. Guilt takes up most of the space in your stomach for not correcting the gross misjudgement, but still accepting champagne from a well-intentioned old couple while you sit on a throne of lies that you never meant to make. The shame prevents you from even trying to scold Atsumu when he takes it upon himself to order a dessert that’s on the house for the lovebirds, as your waiter had declared proudly.

He asks for two spoons, claiming, “Ma beloved and I will share,” then deliberately ignores the vexed stare you shoot at him from your seat.

The dessert is actually so delicious that it makes you feel a little better. The bill comes, and Atsumu insists on paying, handing the waiter his card before you could hand over your own. He offers to take you out for a drink after playing a hand in your public humiliation.

“At least lemme buy you a drink after all that. You deserve it.” He chuckles.

“Mm, I deserve more than that I think,” It sounds more suggestive than you meant it to, and he bats his eyelashes flirtatiously, knowingly, but doesn’t pass a comment on it. You want to smush the butterflies that flutter in your gut. The dessert made you feel better, but not that much better, “I think I just want to lay down. Maybe another night?”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

When Atsumu insists on walking you all the way back to your room, you don’t fight him. It’s not like he would be going out of his way, anyway. Your arms brush against each other while you walk, the heat in your belly no longer from anger, and it perturbs you how he works you up so easily. From up close you can smell the scent of laundry detergent wafting off his shirt. When you make it to your door, you go fish for your key out from the bottom of your bag, eager to get into your pajamas and put the whole day behind you.

“Husband and wife sleepin’ in separate beds? What’ll the neighbors think?” His arms are crossed over his chest, making his biceps bulge as he leans on the wall right next to your door, watching as you fumble for your key.

You raise a brow, ceasing your search momentarily, “When did we graduate to marriage?”

“Since that champagne. So good it made me put a ring on it.” You wonder how he can speak so casually like that, unassuming and playful, despite the topic of conversation, pressed against the wall like he’s the most relaxed he’s ever been.

You ignore the warming of your cheeks, “It induced delusion too, apparently.”

He snorts, smiling fondly, and when his laughter dies, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks, voice soft and waiting.

You look into his eyes, and find them warm and kind and pretty, even if a tad bit smug, and you get lost in them for a beat, mindlessly affirming, “Tomorrow.”

“Great. Goodnight.”

With a few blinks you're brought back to yourself, realizing what you’ve agreed to and that you might have been staring at him a little too hard, “G-goodnight.”

You quickly swipe your keycard into the slot, dashing in through the door and resting your back onto it when it closes behind you. Breathing shakily, you give yourself a few moments to debrief everything that just happened in the last couple of hours before you start getting ready for bed.

Tomorrow comes quick, with a knock on your door, bright and early. There’s barely any time to let yourself wake up, flinging yourself out of the sheets and stumbling to the door, only to open it to a very awake and put-together Atsumu, towel flung over one of his shoulders and hands stuffed into his pockets.

He seems amused when you open the door, not greeting you, only giving you a once over, huffing out a breath of laughter when he lands on your bunny slippers. You’re sure that you look like a wreck, but he doesn’t have to make it so obvious, the jerk. You’re cursing yourself for not poking your eye into the peephole before you opened the door.

You flatten your hair with a hand while you snap out a, “Yes?”

“Sorry if you were sleepin’. Just wanted to check if ya wanted to come down to the onsen with me?”

You hope your eyes don’t look too puffy with sleep and hate how endearing you find him, “Wouldn’t we be separated?”

“There’s a unisex bath,” He explains.

“Right,” Shit. You could just say you’ll meet him, and not show up. That’s mean though, and he’s not completely unbearable. You choose kindness, “Give me a minute.”

“Take yer time.”

You shut the door on him, probably a little rudely, and are left with the realization that now you have to choose something to wear. Frantically, you scramble to pull open the closet and stare into your wardrobe like the answer will jump out at you. Then you recall that it’s customary to bathe naked and oh, fuck. Is he going to go in naked? You can't remember if he had swimming shorts on.

Through the door, he calls to you, “Forgot to say, ya can’t swim nude in the mixed pool. Hope you brought a suit with ya.” You let out a heavy sigh of relief, then shout back a word of acknowledgement.

By the grace of god, you packed two bathing suits, just in case, but the hard part is choosing which one to wear. The one in your left hand is more modest, and the right one is skimpier, but looks really good on you. Which is better? And why does it suddenly matter if you look good or not?

You think he’s handsome, of course, but he’s still a brat, and you don’t want anything to do with him.

Right?

With your eyes squeezed shut, you place the bathing suit in your left hand down, convincing yourself that if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. You didn’t bring it with you! Silly you. You forgot. No modest bathing suit here, only the skimpy one.

Messily, you pile the pajamas you peel off your body onto the bed, and recklessly pull the bathing suit on, cursing yourself in the full length mirror for agreeing to go with him, for saying yes to appease him. But most of all, for not admitting to yourself that you said yes selfishly, because you really wouldn’t mind spending more time with him and gawking at his handsome face while you still have the chance.

The suit is on, and it looks too good, so you pull your coverup on like you're angry, and rush to start washing up. You wash your face, then try to fix your hair while simultaneously brushing your teeth, looking like some kind of feral animal while you do. You don’t want to keep him waiting forever, so you forgo any other unnecessary touch ups, not completely satisfied with the final product but not unsatisfied either. Tossing your bunny slippers to the side, you slip on some real shoes and grab your stuff, meeting him in the hallway and looking a little more put together than before.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He asks you how you slept on the way down, to which you shrug and say fine, but he giggles out something about looking like you slept very well, which earns him a glare heated enough that he puts his hands up in surrender, even if you were biting back a smile that he didn’t miss. His giggle is just as cute as him, and you almost start choking yourself out at the thought.

“How were you awake so early?” You poke.

“It’s 8 A.M,” He replies, like it’s obvious, so you give him a look that says just answer the question, “I have ta wake up early for my job. My body still wakes up even when I wanna sleep in. Went on a run too.”

He says it casually, smalltalk, like he’s just telling you to tell you, but you have to swallow down the image of him hot and sweaty, muscles undulating under his clothes, bulging and pumped and full. It’s worse when the devil in your brain whispers that he probably took a shower after too and he had to get naked to do something like that-

So you stutter, “Y-Your job?”

“Mhm,” He hums.

“What exactly do you do?” You inquire, for a second time.

He blinks slowly at you, like a friendly cat, and he looks so pretty that you can’t do anything but agree when he says with a shrug, “Doesn’t really matter.”

He has a black shirt on with faded gold writing written across the expanse of his chest. You squint a little while you make out what it says,

We Don’t Need the Memories

Inarizaki High School Volleyball Club

“You played volleyball?”

His eyes widen for a moment before he follows where you’re looking, eyes directed down to his own chest, like he’s forgotten what shirt he pulled on, then he nods.

You smirk in jest, “Were you good?”

Atsumu smirks back, his shrug making him look less like he’s timid about it and more full of himself, “Could say that.”

Like a gentleman, he opens the door to the bath for you, and you thank him quietly as you go in, anxiety settling into your bones when you realize you have to get undressed now. And into the onsen. With him. You haven’t been together for more than ten minutes and he already has you feeling ruffled.

There’s a big sign posted in front of the pool, which states:

FOR SANITARY REASONS, PLEASE WASH OFF BEFORE ENTERING THE BATH. THANK YOU.

A couple of people are already in the bath with their eyes closed, so you keep your voice low, “Where do we-?”

Atsumu points behind you before you get to finish your question. You look over your shoulder to see a line of showerheads on the bath’s opposing wall.

“Oh.” You say dumbly.

“C’mon.” He coaxes cheerily, stepping in the direction of the showers and peeling his shirt off like it’s nothing.

You see his back before the rest of him, and the ripple of his muscles makes you want to bite straight into your fist. He’s built like an olympian, like he’s carved from marble and perfectly beautiful by design. It should be illegal to look at him so freely — he should be locked away somewhere, anywhere, hidden from the prying eyes of mere mortals like you. Then he’d be untainted, kept unblemished. Maybe you’ll lock him away yourself.

Maybe he’d let you.

You’re too busy staring at him that you forget that you should also get undressed. He takes notice, already under the shower spray when he asks, grinning, “You comin’?”

Blinking once, twice, pulling yourself out of your daze before you answer, “Yup.”

Forcing your legs to move forward, you place your things down onto the wooden floor a safe distance away from the stream of the showers and then get into position to pull your coverup up and off your head. Once it’s off, you neatly fold it, avoiding Atsumu’s gaze while you drape it on top of the rest of your belongings.

He’s blinking at you through the water dripping in front of his eyes, and you’re not sure if he can really see all of you. There’s parts of you on display that he wasn’t able to see before, like the dip of your waist, and the fat of your thighs. Despite your bathing suit, you feel naked.

Attached to the wall, there’s a container filled with what you assume is soap, which Atsumu leans forward to snatch a piece of, using his hands to activate the suds, trailing it up the expanse of his arms first, then onto his firm-looking chest.

He’s thoroughly soaked and lathered, and you’ve seen enough, so you step under a showerhead of your own, turning the knob and letting the warm stream hit your chest and run down your middle. You don’t spare Atsumu another look when you reach for the soap, and you realize that it’s the one-use kind. You mimic him and rub it between your hands, then scrub the suds into your skin.

Trying to seem nonchalant is proving to be difficult, because your eyes are aching to look into their periphery to catch one more look at him, sudsy and wet, as if you’re not going to be able to look at him in the bath all you want. You’ve nearly scrubbed yourself raw by the time Atsumu turns his shower off.

He beckons his head to the side, alerting you he’s ready to go, and you nod back in acknowledgement, holding up a finger to tell him one second. You move under the stream to wash the off bubbles gathered on and between your tits, watching as they slide down your body and into the drain. When you turn off the shower and look back at Atsumu, he’s already looking at you, and you try to convince yourself that it was just a trick of the light when you see his eyes flicker down.

“There’s a cubby fer you to put yer things in, if ya want,” He points, and you follow its direction to see a wall of cubbies, with one space already full.

“You know everything, huh?” You whisper, walking over to place your stuff into an empty slot.

“One of my best qualities,” He jokes, prompting you to roll your eyes.

“C’mon,” You command, taking initiative and walking towards the bath first.

Even though you didn’t have definitive proof that he was checking you out, you attempt to lure him into the bath with you like you know he did anyway. If you sway your hips more than usual, that’s between you and God.

There’s a smile on his face that you can’t see, small and shy and cute in all the ways you would have liked.

The spring is warm when you step a foot into it, all of your muscles already loosening in its embrace. You breathe out a contented sigh, stepping your other foot in and walking in further until you’re immersed from the chest down.

You’re not facing him, but you hear Atsumu let out a strangled groan from behind you, like he’s doing his best to be quiet but he’s doing a lousy job at it. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like anyone else was too bothered by him, their eyes still shut, but you’ll see to it that he’s hushed when he needs to be. Or you’ll try, anyway. He doesn’t seem like the type to keep quiet, even if you were to ask kindly.

You tread water until you reach a spot far enough from the stairs, somewhere that you’re not in anyone else’s space and could get the most privacy. With both of you pressed up against the furthest wall of the spring, there’s nowhere to hide from him now, so you force courage to bloom in the pit of your belly and grin at him serenely, like you haven’t a care in the world. To have the unadulterated view of his profile and the mountain range behind him, just within your reach, makes you unbelieving of your luck.

“Feels nice,” You whisper.

“It does. Pretty out here, too,” He responds, not looking out at the mountains when he says it, instead saying it while he peers down at you. You bite your lip, not sure what else to do while he charms, not sure if he even means to. You don’t want to create something out of nothing, but you still feel hope flicker like a flame.

It suddenly feels like they turned the degrees up a few notches in here.

From the look on your face he thinks he might have embarrassed you, so he keeps talking, “Should’ve smuggled a drink in here. Really make it a party.”

You scoff at his suggestion, using a hand to bat that idea away, “It’s too early.”

“Stick in the mud,” He murmurs back, the mirth too rich in his voice for him to be serious.

“I am not!” You bite, a few decibels louder than before. He shushes you with a smile, looking around pointedly to the others in the bath, but no one seems to care, he was just hoping for an excuse to tease you, “You’re the one who dragged me out of bed, Atsumu,” You whisper.

Brown eyes flicker between yours, and he considers you for a short moment, and then he says, “Call me ‘Tsumu.”

“‘Tsumu?” You parrot.

“My brother came up with it.” He sniffs, like he’s trying to act cool.

“You have a brother?”

Mischief laces into his smirk, “A twin.”

You blink, “There are two of you?”

Although you don’t doubt he’s gotten the same reaction before, he still laughs, “He’s quieter than me. More thoughtful,” He read your question wrong, because when you meant it as: there’s not one man that looks like you, but two? He has understood you to mean: there's another person who is just as annoying as you?

“Does he…” You gesture your hand in front of your face, baiting him to complete the thought.

“Look like me?” He raises an eyebrow and waits for you to nod, “He wishes. He’s uglier,” He answers, emotionless, making you laugh, and the sides of his mouth click when he smiles back at you. By the way he says it, so boldly, with certainty, you know it’s a lie. But you’re not so sure that you’d like a quiet, more pensive version of Atsumu better.

Conversation comes easy after that, the tension broken by him insulting his brother. He asks you all about your family, your friends. It naturally flows into your favorite movies, books, and music, both of you talking enthusiastically, but still whispering, about the things that you like, and he feels happy to have asked.

You learn that he’s from Hyōgo Prefecture in the Kansai district, which explains his dialect. His brother is a chef, and their mother raised them all by herself. He travels a lot for work, but still won’t tell you what his job is. And surprisingly, he does not have a partner.

As it turns out, you like a handful of the same things, some interests overlapping where you’d never suspect they would. It makes him even more attractive that he has good taste.

Are you included in that taste?

From the way he’s looking at you, eyes in crescent shapes from all his grinning, gaze occasionally flickering down to where it shouldn’t, you’d say yes. But maybe that’s his nerves, and you shouldn’t be reading into him too deeply.

“It’s gettin’ kinda hot, no?” He hoists himself up and out of the bath, turning his body to sit on the edge of the pool, leaning back onto his hands and looking down at you. There are drips of water cascading down his torso like he’s in some kind of perfume advertisement, posing like the textbook definition of the Adonis you first noticed him for.

His abdominals are much more distracting when they’re at eye-level.

“Yer starin’,” You distantly hear.

Your eyes widen before you can stop them, giving you away before you can even respond, “I-I wasn’t, I was just-”

He chuckles, cutting you off, “I don’t mind.”

“Don’t be so sure,” You grumble, just grumpy that you got caught. You almost don’t say what you do next, because you didn’t even know if it was true, but it slips from your mouth anyway, “You were staring too.”

“That a problem?” He answers easily, smirking down at you like a sly fox.

If he wasn’t flirting before, he certainly is now, isn’t he?

“No,” You shrug, pleased, secure in the almost-confession he’s just given you, “It’s not.”

You pull yourself out of the spring and sit yourself down next to him, trying to ignore the way your hormones buzz with excitement in your close proximity. In the quiet, your stomach growls loudly, you’re reminded that Atsumu pulled you out of bed without you getting a chance to feed yourself. He hears, too,

“I think the inn serves breakfast. Hungry?”

Somehow, Atsumu ropes you into getting a massage with him. You’re curled on the loveseat in your room, comfily tucked under a blanket with a book propped in your hands, when your phone pings beside you.

a: wyd

Somehow, he also roped you into giving him your phone number.

reading my book.

a: without me? ;)

You snort, yes. freak.

a: want company?

You stare at the message for a few moments, tapping your finger on the edge of your phone like it’ll help you come up with a response. A knock sounds on the door before you get the chance, and when you open it, there Adonis stands.

You should really stop calling him that before you slip up.

“May I help you sir? You must be lost,” You furrow your brows at him and lean onto the doorframe. He’s just about to speak, mouth left to hang open dumbly when you cut him off, “Oh! I ordered room service. Where’s my food?”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” He sarcastically gibes, and you shift to the side, opening the door a little wider, wordlessly inviting him in. You silently wrack your brain to remember if you’ve left anything embarrassing lying around.

He steps into the room, politely taking off his shoes, not taking a seat anywhere in case he wasn’t that welcomed.

“It’s okay, c’mere,” You tap his arm and gesture to the small tea table in the center of the room, patting the seat next to you after you take your own.

He sighs as he falls in place next to you, “So what’re you doin’ right now? Besides bein’ a nerd?”

“I don’t think I have to disclose that information to you,” You say disinterestedly, teasing him, picking at your nails.

“Mm, guess not.” He lets his head lull towards his shoulder, still peering at you, and you don’t think he has one bad angle, “Let’s go get a massage.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be relaxing?” You quip with a raised brow.

“Yer brutal today, huh?” He says, smiling anyway when he catches wind of how amused you seem to be with yourself. He softens when he suggests, gentler this time, “Come with me.”

You’d say yes to anything if he asked like that every time.

That’s how you find yourself in the waiting room of the spa, sitting side by side with Atsumu, both of you clad in white fluffy robes. You press your knees together, concerned for your modesty, as if he hasn’t seen you in a bathing suit. Only your underwear sits underneath your robe, and that feels significantly different than a swimsuit.

It smells good in here, too, and you’ll probably associate the scent of lavender with Atsumu for the rest of your life.

An employee calls both your names, directing you to different rooms in the same hall. You wave meekly at him in goodbye, in see you soon, and he waggles his fingers back at you before turning around, leaving you with the view of his long calves and broad back.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you smile politely at your masseuse when they greet you, practically ripping your robe off and flinging yourself on the table, because maybe a good rub down could make you forget about the perfect slant of Atsumu’s smile and how it makes you tingle.

If it actually made you forget, he makes you remember by shooting you an adorable grin the first moment he gets his eyes on you again. It’s a lazy one, and his eyes are glossy, and he makes sure to tell you that the one hour away from you was the longest of his life. You wave him away, not wanting to get all wound up after you’ve been rubbed loose.

“They said we could go to the sauna, if we wanted.” He proposes.

“Where is that?”

“Locker room.” He answers, taking your hand into his and pulling you behind him. He doesn’t interlace your fingers, but it makes you feel warm in the face and tummy regardless. Your legs move on their own, and you focus on the encapsulating look and warm feeling of your hand being held in his. His hand is big, and cozy, his fingers lithe and pretty. You wouldn’t mind holding it a little longer, or taking the time to learn every crease of them, if he’d let you.

It’s dim in the sauna, and there’s a whole bench for him to make use of, but he subconsciously chooses to sit right next to wherever you pick. It makes you bite back a smile, but he doesn’t notice, unaware and looking as happy as a clam.

He unties his robe and leaves it wide open, and you’re not sure if giving you the unobstructed view of the briefs sitting on his hips was his intention. If he caught you staring at the bulge filling the front of them, you would be mortified, so you force yourself to look away, the dark wood of the walls suddenly fascinating. You can’t bring yourself to disrobe, not yet, even though you felt the beginnings of sweat prickle on your skin the moment you stepped into the sauna. As a compromise, you hook your hands into the top of your robe and pull it apart, exposing your chest a little bit more. He’s looking up at the ceiling when you turn back to him a second too late, narrowly missing the way he was eyeing the skin you bared to the room.

“How was your massage?” You ask quietly, breaking the silence aside from the heater lightly clanging on the opposite side of the room. You’re doing your best to distract your brain, to deflect its attention.

“Oh, it was so good. Dunno how they don’t get tired, pressing so deep like that. I’m all oily, too.” He swipes two fingers across his pecs, gleaming with oil, just like he said, showing you as he rubs them together as if to say, see? His abs are ribbed, and shiny, and you’re definitely not thinking about how it would feel to sit right on top of him so that you can grind your core down. Your toes start curling in your slippers.

Well, that deflected nothing. This is worse, actually.

“Mhm,” you force yourself to hum, averting your gaze and looking down in your lap, eyes catching on the glint of your own legs. You slide a finger across your thigh and test it between your fingertips, “Me too.”

Along with the sticky feeling of the oil beneath your robe, you're sweating more with every second you sit inside this hotbox. You try to roll your sleeves up, but of course it doesn’t fix anything. With a glance at Atsumu, you see the bastard’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing slowly, like he’s on the verge of falling asleep. You would kick him if he wasn’t so beautiful.

“What’s the matter?” He pokes, eyes still closed.

You crane your neck to stare at him a little closer, to see if his eyes are slitted open and you just can’t see it. They’re not, “I, um, I’m hot.”

“Take off yer robe, then,” He suggests, sounding as cool as a breeze. Just take it off? Easy for him to say, being built like a Greek god, probably never knowing insecurity a day in his life. You won’t take it off, but you’ll open it how he did.

Trying not to rustle around too much, you move to untie the robe. You feel his eyes burning into you, though you never saw him open them. You part the sides of it shyly, only revealing a small sliver of your front at first, but you still feel too hot, so you part them further. If his eyes were to venture downward, he would see the soft dip of your waist that curves into the swell of your hip, and maybe even more.

Feeling brave, you glance up at him again, and Atsumu is staring already at you, unabashedly, eyeing how the lace trim of your bra rests against the skin of your breasts, and panties on your hips frame the shape of your sex.

He shakes his head, like he cant believe it when he says, “Yer fuckin’ beautiful.”

You have to turn away, his compliment making your cheeks heat like nothing else he’s said to you. He’s fulfilling all of your desires since you first laid eyes on him, and he’s only uttered a sentence.

“Atsumu.” You emptily warn.

“Told ya to call me ‘Tsumu.” He answers, smooth as butter.

Slowly, you face him again, eyes landing on the hand he braces beside his thigh, the one closest to you. You reach out for it, scooping your own hand underneath it, not surprised when he doesn’t resist. You bring it close to your mouth, close enough that you figure he can probably feel your breath on his skin, and you wonder if it’s blowing hotter than the room you two are in.

Right before your lips could touch him, you make eye contact with him. He’s breathing heavily, anticipating your next move, eyebrows furrowed like he’s begging.

“I know.” You whisper, mirth in your eyes as you lightly tease.

You press his hand up into your lips, his skin soft and warm under them. The few seconds you linger feel like an eternity, this small act of affection filling your heart up in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

Breaking away, you place his hand back down where you found it, not expecting anything else to come of it, happy to sit next to him companionably, to tell him how you feel without saying it. You cross your own hands in your lap, your heart soaring, mouth upturning. For a few seconds, you sit in silence, and you’re not sure if his stillness is from repulsion or shock.

With a hand, he reaches over to cup your cheek, guiding your face to face his own. His eyes are darting between yours, like he’s searching for something in them. He must like what he finds, because his thumb strokes your face, and he leans into your space, pressing his lips to yours sweetly.

It’s awfully tender, and your arms wrap around his neck when his circle around your waist, both of you hugging the other closer, pulling each other in deeper. You greedily accept everything he’s willing to give you, and he’s willing to give you anything – anything you could want.

He kisses you without tongue, content to learn how you move together, exploring how your lips alone feel first. It’s wet, and soft, and all of it starts to make you feel a little weak, especially when his naked belly brushes against yours.

It makes you pull away, albeit hesitantly, to tell him, “It’s hot.”

He blinks, and you can tell his brain is lagging, trying to decode what you were calling hot, “Yeah, yeah, it is.”

You stand up and hold out an outstretched hand to him, “Let’s go.”

Atsumu’s cheeks are a tasteful pink when you pull him out into the brighter-lit locker room, and you can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the sauna, or something else. His hand is still in yours, and you use it to pull him back into you, taking initiative and locking your lips onto his this time.

It’s dirtier than before, saliva being swapped between you when you slip your tongue into his mouth, and you’re sure that he likes it when you feel the moan that escapes his throat rumble across your lips. You fist your hands into his hair, pulling lightly at the roots, not wanting to be rough, but desperately needing more of him.

Gossamer threads of spit connect you by the mouths when you pull away, and there's a delicious flurry in your tummy at the sight of it. He looks ravished, with pink cheeks and mussed hair, biting onto his bottom lip and showing you a shy grin.

It smells clean in here, and you didn’t even think to check if it was empty, so you let yourself scan the room for a second, immediately noticing urinals on the wall furthest from you. Slowly, with accusation written on your face, you look back at Atsumu, who watches in real time as you put the pieces together, “You brought me into the men’s room?”

He only offers a sheepish shrug and a smile, and you can’t even bring yourself to be mad at him.

The onsen is empty when Atsumu pesters you to join him after the sauna, no one there to scold you for talking louder than acceptable. You’re about to ask something about where he’s traveled, where was his favorite, but his phone starts ringing and cuts you off. He kept it on the edge of the bath, and you warned him to be careful that it didn’t fall in, but he waved you away. He glances over at it boredly, until he reads the name displayed, swiftly grabbing it into his palm and swiping the accept button, placing the phone to his ear and greeting the other line.

“Hey ‘Samu.”

Osamu, his twin.

“Where are ya?” You hear, though muffled.

“‘M in the spring right now, with my, uh, y’know, I was tellin’ you about her-” He glances over at you nervously, talking low like you wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway.

You're leaning back onto the edge of the pool, with an elbow propped up on either side. You try to act like you’re not listening, looking out into the mountains, but your ears are still tuned into their conversation. Water sloshes around you, and you miss whatever it is Osamu says to Atsumu next, only hearing the reaction it gets out of him.

He’s getting increasingly agitated, or flustered, you can't tell which it is that’s coloring his ears red, “No, I haven’t, ya scrub, and ‘m busy right now, so if ya don’t have anythin’ ta-”

You strain to hear how Osamu continues, too nosy for your own good, “Bokuto-san wants to know why yer not answerin’ him, started botherin’ me instead, he’s tryna make plans for the team to-”

“I’ll text him back!” He snaps, and you would think it was rude if it wasn’t so funny to see him lose his temper.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you hear,

“Lemme talk to your friend.”

You stiffen, eyes widening.

“She wouldn’t like ya, ‘m hangin’ up now,” His threat is empty, because he’s making no move to hang up the phone, instead seeming eager to see how his brother recovers.

“What? Afraid I’m gonna steal her? Put it on speaker, I wanna meet her.”

Atsumu sighs, removing the phone from his ear and clicking the speaker button. You hear crinkling over the line, and then Osamu says, “Did ya do it?”

“I did it, idiot, don’t say anythin’ weird,” Atsumu grumbles.

To prove that he wasn’t lying, you speak, your nerves getting ahead of you, “Hi, Osamu.”

“Hi, darlin’,” He greets, and Atsumu nearly growls, seconds away from plopping his phone directly into the water, “Nice to meet ya. My brother treatin’ you well?”

You grin, thinking up all the ways you could poke fun at Atsumu right now, peering at him deviously. But he seems fragile at the moment, so you settle on saying, “He’s alright. Don’t know how you stand him though,” then ignore his offended huff.

“I disregard him most days. You could try it,” He answers, voice devoid of emotion, and from the tone of it you know he’s mastered the art of getting on his twin’s nerves.

“I don’t think he’d let me,” You admit with a smile.

He chuckles, so you do too, and take no notice of the indignant look Atsumu has on his face.

“I hear you’re a chef?”

“I am. Let Atsumu bring ya to the restaurant, if ya ever find yerself in Hyōgo,” he says, and his voice is lower than Atsumu’s, but laced with an accent just as thick, “How’s the food there?”

Talking to Osamu is almost effortless, he’s just polite enough to still be funny, and easy to get along with. To your horror, he asks about the ‘Atsumu is a stalker and murderer’ incident. You’re forced to explain yourself, glaring at Atsumu the whole time for telling him. If looks could kill, he would be a dead man floating. Osamu laughs in understanding anyway, saying something about running away from Atsumu daily, to which his twin squawks over.

When Atsumu hangs up the phone, you’re leering at him.

“What?” He questions, sensing the accusation even though you haven’t said a word.

“You’re the problem child.”

His jaw hangs open in a silent, dramatic scoff, offended that after one exchange you’ve already pledged allegiance to his brother over him.

“Yeah, well, ‘Samu smells, so.” He mutters, regressing into a child, like it’s some kind of popularity contest between them.

“Dunno, he sounded pretty sexy over the phone,” You shrug, not looking at him, because then you’ll laugh.

“You didn’t even see the bastard, he’s real ugly, I swear-”

“Doubt it,” You cut, and it’s taking everything in you not to smile.

“Fine, don’t believe me,” He leans forward onto the edge of the pool, burying his face away from you and into his forearms.

You pout at him, even though he can’t see, “I’m just kidding. I like dramatic men much better,” You promise, and hear a curt laugh echo over the surface of the water. You swim over to him to place your hands onto his back and hook your chin over his shoulder, then speak lowly into his ear, “Let me make it up to you?”

He peeks out from his cave, his head turning on its side to face you. A smirk, one that feels like trouble, graces his lips, and then he declares, “Ya still owe me that drink.”

Atsumu takes you out for dinner, again, sans the theatrics this time. He’s exceedingly charming when he wants to be, you’d even call him romantic. He watches over your shoulder while you search on the map for a nearby bar, and the place you two agree on is a quiet one. You’re not sure what you expected because nowhere you’ve gone in this town has been particularly loud, or populated.

You and Atsumu take seats at the bar, perched on a pair of stools, so close that your shoulders are touching. You kick your feet idly while you watch the bartender prepare your drinks, leaning your head into Atsumu’s arm. You don’t say much, you don’t feel there’s any need to, comfortable enough with each other to sit in companionable silence.

When he tries to maneuver you on your feet to dance, you tell him you’re nowhere near drunk enough for that, furthering your argument by saying that the music playing isn’t even something you could dance to.

Ya shouldn’t need nothin’ else but me, he had said.

If only he knew how right he was.

To humor him, you get out of your seat and wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to sway you back and forth. Testing his luck, he tries to dip you, but you bite at him before he even gets the chance to bend your back.

You let him kiss you at the end of the song, content for the bartender and the walls to be your witness that once, you and Atsumu were new lovers, discovering how well you fit together.

You leave the bartender a nice tip, even though Atsumu insisted that he would take care of the tab, pulling him out the door with only one drink in each of you. He doesn’t believe you when you blame your touchiness on that lone cocktail, but he doesn’t refuse you when you run your soft hands up the skin of his arms.

In return, while he drops you off at your door, you don’t refuse him when he tilts your face up to lay a sweet kiss on your burning cheek.

You spend the morning of your last full day by yourself, and the sky a pretty and clear baby blue, the sun being the first one to wish you a good morning. You peel back the covers and step out into your slippers, beginning to ready yourself for a daybreak alone in the springs. You pull on a long cover up with nothing important underneath, and don’t bring much besides the necessities.

Softly shutting your door behind you, you take a peek at Atsumu’s to see if there’s any evidence of him and where he might be. You come up empty, so you head towards the stairwell.

The woman’s bath is in the opposite direction of the unisex one, but it looks no different, the trees just as green accompanied with a view just as beautiful. You place your belongings into a cubby, stripping off your cover up and folding neatly on top of everything else. Nude, you wash yourself under one of the showerheads, picking up a clean washcloth for your face and stepping into the onsen.

You walk through the water, all the way to the edge where you can have a full view of the mountain range. You rest your head on top of your arms and let your body drift behind you. Once submerged, you deduce that it feels so much better to bathe naked.

It’s wonderfully serene. The breeze makes you feel alive, the heat is soothing you to your bones. You should have done this for yourself a long time ago. Meeting Atsumu was just a bonus, a happy accident.

The moon is still hanging high in the sky, a waxing gibbous, glinting brightly and nearly full.

Countless stars are sitting where you stare, though they’re not visible to the naked eye. There are as many stars in the galaxy as there are people on this earth, with billions left in change. You like to think there’s one that matches you and all your quirks, smiling down as it watches over you like a guardian.

Atsumu burns as bright as a star, you muse, nothing short of alluring in his shine, demanding to be seen. You wonder how you gleam. If he thinks the universe of you.

You miss him while you float.

Atsumu had used the word date when he mentioned dinner tonight. And because of it, the stakes to pick the perfect dress were raised. You only brought two with you, considering that you weren’t going to be here long, and dually considering that you didn’t predict that you’d be eating a meal across from someone so attractive.

You go with the flowier one, hoping it’ll make you come off as carefree, and like you did not stare at yourself in the mirror for 20 minutes in it. You mistime how long it would take you to get dressed, and you’re ready too early, sitting on your phone to pass the time. It feels weird to lay down when you’re ready to go, your jewelry poking into you uncomfortably, but there’s not much else for you to do. You could go for a walk, but you figure that’s more trouble than what it’s worth.

You keep checking the time like a hawk, as if it’ll make it move any faster, even though you wouldn’t mind if it stopped altogether.

It’s not impossible that you’re nervous.

You have to remind yourself that it’s only Atsumu. Pretty, beautiful, gorgeous Astumu.

There’s a knock on the door five minutes before you expect, and you wait a few moments before you answer it so he doesn’t think you’ve been waiting. When you open the door, he’s there, tall and proud, not a hair out of place. His smile sparkles as he holds his hand out.

“Ready?” He asks.

Grabbing into his outstretched hand is answer enough for him.

He lures you back to his room after the date, like a siren, but you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t follow him anywhere.

It’s neat, which surprises you, but also doesn’t. He doesn’t seem to have very many belongings, not much scattered around the room besides his backpack and some clothes. Maybe he packs light because he’s used to traveling around so much. All at once, you realize there’s a chance you might not see him again after you both leave here. He’ll eventually have to leave, and you’ll have no power to change it. An ache hits you in the center of your chest, the hurt of that truth festering through your veins like it hadn’t before.

You don’t let it show on your face, instead smiling at him when he asks if you’d like a cup of tea.

“Are you going to poison me?” You inquire seriously.

His back is to you, so you miss the opportunity to see his face while he reasons, “Mm, think I’ll wait for the second date. Give you a false sense of security, yanno.”

“Smart,” You respond, making yourself at home in the loveseat against the wall. Your head falls to the side, and you watch as he slides around the room to prep both of your cups, “Gimme chamomile,” you order.

“Hold the cyanide?” He cracks, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You puff out a breath of laughter, then say, “Please.”

The kettle whistles and the back of his arms flex as he tips it over the cups, the sound of the falling water soothing you as it pools into the ceramic. He turns to you slowly, and gestures for you to sit up, cup steaming in his hand, ready to pass it off. You accept it from him, smelling the steam swirling out of the cup, sighing happily, “Such a good host.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

You giggle, “What do you mean?” He moves towards the nightstand right next to his neatly-made futon, opening the top drawer and pulling out a package of chocolate-covered biscuits. You furrow your brows, “Why do you keep them next to the bed?”

“For easy access,” He shrugs.

Your mouth drops, “You eat in bed?”

He barks out a laugh, “Ya sound like my brother.”

“He‘s the sane one,” You counter, not sounding very committed when you say, “Might choose him instead.”

“Ya wound me, darlin’,” He holds a hand over his chest like you’ve just shot an arrow straight through it. You’re too focused on his use of the pet name darling.

You tell him you’re not eating on the couch, because you don't want to get crumbs between the cushions!, so instead he guides you to the kotatsu, both of you sitting criss-crossed and closer than necessary.

Nibbling at a cookie, you side eye him as he gets comfortable, settling into his seat and taking a sip of his tea, peering back at you. His tongue pokes out to swipe at any liquid still on his lips, and you stare down at his mouth and watch him say, “What?”

You blink slowly, considering him, in a daze but feeling brave, “You’re handsome.”

He squints playfully, leaning in closer like he’s inspecting you, “You been drinkin’?”

“You probably spiked my tea,” You grin.

“Now I know yer sober, I didn’t spike nothin’,'' He shifts his weight back onto his hands, never looking away from you. Like a butterfly would flutter its wings, he bats his long lashes, though you don’t think he means to, “Ya think ‘m pretty?”

If you’d have known how well he took compliments, you wouldn’t have stroked his ego.

“The prettiest.” You flatter anyway.

With a satisfied face, Atsumu reaches over to pinch at the fat of your thigh that’s peeking out from the bottom of your dress. There’s a prick of pain before it warms, and as quickly as they leave, you want his fingers on you again.

You pout at him, “Hey.”

He offers a fake-looking apologetic grin, “Sorry. I just wanna pinch every little bit of ya.”

To get back at him, you reach over to pinch at his nose, cute just like the rest of him. Its line is delicate, and thin, and you grab the rounded tip of it between your fingers, pulling them away as fast as they came. He catches your wrist in one hand before it can go, holding it close to his face.

He rocks his head back and forth while he holds your wrist steady, running his plush lips over your knuckles. They’re soft, and warm, and you wonder if his belly is burning as hot as yours.

Your eyes are lidded, you’re sure, and your breathing is shakier than before, but you can’t look away from him. He starts laying a kiss on each finger, and every one feels more like an act of worship than the last. It’s possible that you’ve melted onto the cushion beneath you, you’re not sure, too focused on the feeling of him to tell.

You want to keep him forever.

He lets your hand down, kindly placing it back onto your lap. Instinctively, you lean closer to him, itching to be touched again. In such close proximity, your hearts are less than a foot away from each other. What if they’re beating in time? Would it mean anything to him?

One of your hands comes up to brush at his jaw, blunt stubble rubbing against the skin of your palm, like he just shaved this morning, but it’s already started to grow back. The plane of his cheek fits nicely in your hand, and you tilt your head up to him, offering yourself, if he wants to take you.

He extends his neck to meet you halfway, his jaw flexing in your palm, stopping right before your lips can touch. From here, you can smell the cologne he patted into his skin. His breath is puffing softly on your cupid’s bow, pulling you into a trance. You stretch your neck a touch more to connect your lips together.

He kisses you so softly that you feel your heart palpably ache. You drop your hand down to rest onto the side of his neck, and he brings his own up to cup a side of your face. His hands are warm, and he holds you like you’re made of the same ceramic of your teacups. Gently, with care, like you could break, like he could break you if he wanted.

The hand you laid on his neck trails down to his chest, settling over where his heart sits. You leave it there to feel the beat of it beneath your palm, each pump feeling like reassurance.

He breaks away, but keeps you close, gazing at you adoringly while he asks, “Wanna move to the bed?” Before you can answer, he must realize how it sounds, so he scrambles to correct himself, “‘M not assumin’ nothin’, we don’ have ta do anythin’ ya don’t wanna-”

“Yes,” you reply while you stand.

His accent gets thicker when he’s flustered, you note.

Over the sheets, you crawl onto the futon on your hands and knees, towards the pillows, laying on your back and getting comfortable. He plops down beside you, rolling onto his side so he can look at you. There’s barely enough space for you both to fit, so you shift a little closer.

He’s grinning lazily, blinking slowly, and confesses, “Liked ya since I saw ya on the train.”

You feel yourself blush, “Y-Yeah, I-” You try, but he interjects,

“Felt you starin’ at me the whole way.”

Your voice dies momentarily before you jump to defend yourself, even though he’s not wrong, “No I wasn’t, I-”

“Uh, yes you were,” He says, and you don't recall being so obvious about it before or after he caught you staring, “Looked like you wanted to jump me on the closest platform.”

You groan, hiding into your hands and away from him.

“Hey, don’t hide, I never said I didn’t like it,” He assures, gently attempting to pry your hands away from your face, “Love it when yer pervin’ on me.”

“Don’t say it like that!” You shout, but it’s muffled by your palms.

“C’mon baby, I really don’t mind.” He admits, and he feels your resolve loosen a touch. It’s enough for him to uncover a peek of your face again, the breach revealing an eye and the tip of your nose. When you see the sincerity on his face, you let him move your hands down and away, and he holds them down against your sides, shifting off the bed and onto a knee so that he’s hovering above you. His hair is flopping off his forehead and there's a tiny smile playing on his lips while he looks down at you.

It’s sweet, until he says, “Wouldn’t want anyone else pervin’ on me like that.”

You nearly screech in embarrassment while you struggle against his hold, and his laugh rings out like a melody from above you, leaving you to do nothing but laugh with him, your heart squeezing in your chest at his beautiful smile. He gets his last giggles out and apologizes, granting you mobility of your own arms again, looking surprised when you choose to hook them around his neck so that he can’t go far.

“Do you want to have sex?” You ask, coaching your voice to level.

His eyes widen, but never leave your own, “Do you?”

Although you’re already sure, you think it over for a moment, nodding as you affirm with a smile, “Yes.”

The next kiss he lays on you is the roughest one yet, pressing himself down on you like he wants to breathe you in, consume you whole. You use your hands to fist into his hair, pulling him back by the roots, his kiss not answer enough for you.

“You want to?” You clarify, bracing yourself for potential rejection.

“I’m dyin’ to.”

He’s so genuine that it makes you shiver. You pull him back down to you, sighing delightedly when his lips lock onto yours. Your hands smooth down his torso, over his shirt, and you can feel how solid his stomach feels underneath. You grab onto the hem and ruck it up slightly, giving him an opportunity to turn you down.

When he rips away from you, you almost whine, your hands following him as he goes. He shucks off his shirt in the blink of an eye, tossing it onto the floor and leaving you with the view of his bare skin.

“That was a nice shirt,” You comment, speaking more to his abs than his face.

“Want me to put it back on?” He questions playfully, gearing up to make a move to retrieve it from the floor.

“God, no.” You answer quickly, reaching your hands up to lure him back down to you. Instead, he pulls you up by the arm, hooking his other hand around your back and holding you fast. Your faces are close, and you arch your back a little more to press your middle up into his. His grip feels secure, and you know the strength of his core must be insane. His free hand starts tracing at the neckline of your dress.

“Can I take this off for ya?” He’s not coercing, but offering.

“Please.”

Laying you back down on the bed, he connects your lips together again. You feel his warm fingertips sneaking up your thighs and underneath the hem of your dress, one hand trailing up each leg, not stopping until he’s thumbing over your womb, right above the waistband of your panties.

Your dress falls up your thighs, exposing your skin to the room, and he slips between them to press himself into your center. You have half the mind not to buck your hips down into his, so you settle for wrapping your legs around his waist. One of his hands snakes behind your back again, pushing you slightly up so that he can pull your dress off the rest of the way.

It’s not very graceful, the dress gets caught on the peak of your nose, then tangles in an uncomfortable way on your arms before he can set you free, and both of you giggle until it’s off. He’s quiet for a second, but stares down at you with a look that says everything he doesn’t.

“Yer perfect,” He puffs, and your heart clenches again.

With a finger, you trail it between the divot of his pecs, and down his stomach, ignoring his hiss of yer cold. You don’t stop until it hits his waistband, running your fingers along the top of it, feeling his tummy flex underneath their touch.

“Take them off?” You whisper.

The sides of his mouth upturn, mischief dancing in his eyes while he looks down at you, “Do it for me.”

A palpable throb echoes in your core, and you look back up at him with a shy smile, “Okay.”

He keeps his hips still while you reach for the button, your fingers fumbling it open, then moving to drag the zipper down. Your hands sneak into the space between his pants and underwear, and they slip down his hips slightly. You get distracted halfway through and sweep your hands behind him to feel up his ass instead.

It’s a handful, but you knew that already, too late to pretend that you weren’t sneaking glances in when you could. You squeeze, and he gasps, pressing his hips down instinctively, catching your lips in his and sliding his tongue against yours. You can feel the line of him, full and hard, under his briefs, and if you start rocking yourself back and forth onto it, that’s not your fault.

You’re breathing hard into each other's mouths, pressed close and dry humping needily, like you’re not allowed to do anything else. Using his hair for leverage feels natural, and you already know he likes when you pull it and scratch on his scalp.

Sloppily, he keeps kissing you as he tries to shake his pants down the rest of the way. He’s no closer to getting them off than he was before, so he reluctantly draws back, standing next to the bed to push them off the rest of the way and almost tripping over his own feet while he climbs back on with you.

You agree when he asks to take your underwear off, and he grabbles with the clasp of your bra for a few moments before it pops free, your nipples exposed and pebbling when he sucks them into his mouth. He hooks a finger into the band of your panties, the act delicate, and slowly pulls them down your legs and off your feet, and then you are completely bare for him.

You don’t give him much time to stare before you’re reaching for his briefs, silently asking if you can take them off. He smiles and uses one of his own hands to help you push them down.

The intimate act of undressing each other is making you feel weak all over, and so does the sight of his cock hanging heavy between his legs. It’s thick, and long, already weeping at the tip, pink and ready, all for you.

“You’re- really- oh-”

“Yeah,” He stops you, blushing across his cheeks and ears like you haven’t seen before.

You feel a hand lay on your hip, warm and reassuring, “Gonna prep you. That okay?”

“Y-Yes, please.”

One hand trails down your body, and the other holds your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up so you look at him when he tells you, “‘M gonna take care of ya.”

Affection swells, and you gaze up at him like he hung the stars.

You feel his fingers slip over the petals of your pussy, pressing into your clit first and rubbing circles into it, your thighs jolting around his hand. He gently holds one of your legs down to the bed so that you can’t close them together, his soft touch making you whimper and your pussy weep.

Once he deems you wet enough for it, he sinks two fingers in to the hilt and leaves them still, introducing you to the stretch and forcing you to whine for more. They’re long, longer than yours, and you already feel yourself going hazy from the hum of your hormones.

The angle feels right, even though he’s not moving, and he doesn’t stop your hips from swirling when they do. He curls his fingers up once, to test it out, and the promise of pleasure flutters in your womb. You sob for him to give you more, and he doesn’t think to disobey.

Rhythmically, he keeps beckoning up, and up, fanning the beginnings of the flames and not stopping until there’s a fire burning steadily within you. He feels you clench around him, choking his fingers by the knuckle, and his cock twitches, aching to take their place. He watches, mesmerized, as you leak out of your hole, making a wet mess out of his fingers. He puckers his lips and spits on where he’s pushed into you, easing his fingers in and out to thrust his saliva in deep, soaking you enough that it starts dripping down the crack of your ass.

He gives a few more curls before he slips them out of you, rubbing his hand over the insides of your thighs with intention to make a mess. Your chest is heaving and your pussy still throbs, but you’re patient.

“Condom?” He breathes.

You blink your eyes open at him in surprise, “You have one?” You ask, shaken at how ready you were for him to fuck you raw.

He looks off to the side, and you watch as his cheeks redden a touch, something you might have easily missed if you haven’t been spending days committing every centimeter of his face to memory.

“I- yes,” His eyes flicker down for your reaction, and his eyes widen when they find you raising an eyebrow at him, “I-I’m not- I didn’t-”

You giggle, “It’s okay, ‘Tsumu, I’m happy.”

A soft look comes over his face, and you think he blushes deeper, but he’s kissing you before he gives you the chance to really see.

He slides off the bed and you whistle when he turns his ass into your line of vision, to which he throws you a smirk over his shoulder, then disappears into the bathroom. You hear him bang around for a second or two before he emerges with a couple of foil packets in hand.

On his hands and knees, he crawls back up to you, slotting himself in between your legs and placing one of the condoms on top of the same nightstand he stashes his cookies in.

Between his fingers, he holds the other one up to you, “Wanna put it on me?”

Wordlessly, you accept it from him, peeling a thin line from the foil and pushing the condom into your fingers. It’s the lubricated type, so it’s slippery. With your other hand, you hold him steady, and try to ignore the weight of him in your grip. You think you feel another dribble of slick, or his saliva, leak out of you. You use both hands to slip the condom down his shaft, pushing it down all the way until the ring is stretched around the base of him.

Your hand is still on him when he asks, “All good?” You nod, but don’t tear your gaze away from where he lays, heavy and hot and throbbing in your hold, “We don’t have to-”

“I know. I want to,” You say, pulling your eyes up to meet his warm ones, letting your smile infect your voice so that he knows you mean it.

He lets you guide him where you want it, your breaths hitching when his tip catches on your entrance. You’re so close, both of you aching to be closer still. You hold his base while he presses his hips forward, breaching your hole and making you keen.

He doesn’t stop until you have nothing to hold onto anymore, sunk in all the way to the hilt, his hips flush against the back of your thighs. His pubic bone sits tight against your clit, giving you something to grind on and making you cry out.

“You can- please, move,” You beg him, hands latching right above his ass, seducing his hips to budge for him.

Like he’s dancing, he rolls his hips back, and pushes them forward again, filling you to the brim and forcing your nails to dig into the muscles of his back. He’s learning you, experimenting which strokes make you the loudest for him. He finds a rhythm and sticks to it, reducing you to pants and the occasional sob, pressing that spot inside you over and over again like a panic button. You feel like jelly, you feel weak, but your heart pounds like a drum, and it's all because of him.

“Love how you sing for me, baby,” He confesses.

Yeah, you think, for you.

Your faces are so close that your lips are catching onto each other with each of his thrusts. He looks so beautiful, all pink like that, brown eyes swirling with adoration, mouth babbling endless praises for you. To punish him, you sink your teeth into his bottom lip, with the objective to cause mild pain — but he only moans, brokenly, then rewards you with a harder thrust.

Your pussy is tight, and so are your arms around his neck, clinging onto him like you’re never going to let go; not that he wants you to. He doesn’t want you to think of anything else, nothing other than him.

He starts fucking into you fast, not giving himself the time to feel, high off the noises you make for him, tingling from his head down to his toes. One of his hands is planted by the side of your head, and the other’s fingers are burrowing so deep into one of your hips that you think he’s going to leave you marks for later. He thinks if he slows down, he might cry.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” He whimpers, eyes closed and brows furrowed, “I won’t leave you.”

Your heart beats a little quicker from the promise he makes you, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes from hearing him say it.

A thumb reaches down to rub on your clit, and he quivers from the way you clench down on him when he does. He watches your tits bounce and listens to the wet squelches sounding from between the two of you, like his cock is forcing all the slick from your hole. Burying your hands into his hair, you pull him down, kissing him hard, moaning when he grants your tongue entrance into his hot mouth. Everything is wet, and gushy, and you might squirt all over his lap if he keeps hitting that spot inside of you.

The fire in your belly feels like it’s close to burning out, the summit of your pleasure in sight. His thrusts are faster than you would like, not matching the rhythm of your pussy’s clench perfectly, but you still shiver and shake when he makes you cum from it.

“Oh, good girl, good girl-” He moans, burying his face into your neck and biting at your skin while he fucks you through it. Your mouth is stuck on a silent gasp, your body trembling underneath him. He still presses on your clit even when it starts bordering on too much, but you endure it, the feeling of him between your arms placating you.

His strokes get messy, but he doesn’t stop, not until he’s spilling into the condom, his hips still thrusting shallowly as he swims in the feeling of you.

Disentangling your arms from around his neck, you let him pull away to breathe. His eyes find yours, and he looks more tired than before, but he’s intently fixed on you. One of his hands starts running soothingly between the valley of your breasts, encouraging you to breathe together with him. His lips are kissed pink, and you don’t feel like stopping until they’re ruby red.

Regardless if this is your last night together, you’re gonna milk him for all he’s worth, “Please, again,” You whisper, pleading, and you hope he can’t hear how broken it sounds.

“Yeah,” He murmurs back, lost in the beauty of your skin, “Okay, darlin’.”

Doves are cooing outside when you wake, and there’s nothing on your body besides a shirt that doesn’t smell like you.

Peeling your eyes open, you’re resting on your side, facing the window, the sun streaming through and painting the whole room orange. It must be early, probably sunrise. You can feel the weight of a body laying behind you, the complementing weight of their arm settled over your waist.

They’re breathing steady, still asleep, and you clutch onto their hand, feeling their skin against yours and letting it lull you back to sleep. You won’t remember these few moments when you wake up again in a few hours.

But you won’t forget that from just a touch, you knew in your soul that you were destined to be here with them.

A pair of stars, miles and miles away from here, hold each other the same.