mari ☆ space cowboy

mari ☆ space cowboy



skts, atsumu’s thing for hands, vague notions of nsfw (suggestive) For as long as Atsumu has taken volleyball seriously, he’s been fascinated by hands. It probably started when he began the meticulous care routine for his own.

His eyes always drift to see how another player takes care of their hands—he’s found it could tell a lot about a person.

Osamu, for example, never took great care of his cuticles or the skin on his hands. But his nails were always trimmed, neat and short. With all his knowledge, he probably should’ve realized they weren’t the kind of hands for volleyball, more meant for a kitchen.

Suna’s are spindly but well cared for. Though he has a nasty habit of letting his nails grow out and splintering them on spikes. Suna is always deceptive with his appearance, just like his play style.

When he first shook hands with Meian, he noted the softness of this palm, the distinct callouses, even caught the blunt nails with barely any white. Rough and tough but always there to lend a hand—easy to see on and off the court.

His fingers are thick like Atsumu’s own, just a touch shorter, but perfect hands for spiking. A few years later he found Bokuto’s to be much the same, though his cuticle care could put even Kita to shame. A feature of the monster generation, a level above the rest.

Somehow both stocky but long, Bokuto looked like a true man’s hand. Probably a strange observation, but one he made nonetheless. And then there were Kiyoomi’s.

Atsumu was enamored from the first sighting. Well cared for and obviously groomed, there was never a nail out of place. Those hands were just as meticulous as Kiyoomi’s play style.

Everything about it was invigorating for Atsumu—especially feeling like he finally had someone who was on the same exact level as him, someone he could push to go higher. It was a strange thing to assume from hands, but Atsumu had assumed worse with less.

His eyes would often linger on Kiyoomi’s hands, the gaze starting innocent, curious. But after months of staring, those thoughts morphed and darkened.

Any innocent thoughts about fingers fly out of his head whenever he watches Kiyoomi grab a water bottle, squeezing to get himself hydrated. Kiyoomi’s fingers are long and slender. Not spidery in the way that Atsumu loves to make fun of Suna for, but elegant.

They almost look like pianist fingers, like they were made to play masterpieces. When Kiyoomi curls them in to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, Atsumu has to wonder if Kiyoomi could pull concertos out of him with how they would move inside him. “You’re staring.”

It’s a problem, Atsumu knows it is. But still he keeps his eyes trained on Kiyoomi’s hands as he wipes them dry with a towel. “Can’t help it.”

“Is that so?” Entranced as he is by the hands, Kiyoomi’s tone catches Atsumu’s attention quick—a sultry voice he’s never heard from the prickly spiker before. Mind moving before his mouth, Atsumu thanks the gods he’s always been a smartass. “Ya gonna do somethin’ about it?”

“Is that what you’d like?” Kiyoomi takes a step closer, the distance between them so much smaller now. “You want me to use these hands on you?” With the question not even full past his lips, Kiyoomi flexes his hands right in Atsumu’s peripherals—probably so he can spite Atsumu.

“Careful,” temptation takes a step closer and Atsumu realizes his mouth is ever so slightly hung open, “you might start drooling, Miya.” One singular slender finger runs along his bottoms lip, but Atsumu can’t look anywhere but the smoldering black of Kiyoomi’s eyes.

“If yer gonna fuck me up this good, ya could at least call me by my name.” “/This/ has you fucked up? You’ll be a mess when I have these hands on you, Atsumu.”

“Is that a threat?” Atsumu never begs, but the sound of Kiyoomi’s voice wrapping around the syllables of his name has him ready to get on his knees just to hear how many ways it can be said. Kiyoomi steps forward once more, now centimeters away from being chest to chest.

“It’s a promise.” A harsh whistle blow cuts off any retort that Atsumu might have had—not that he did. It’s a harsh reminder that they are very much at practice. That Atsumu will have to suffer with thoughts of Kiyoomi’s hands for hours with no relief. “Good luck, Atsumu.” //

today on mari writes something more than a half cooked hc 😀 enjoy !!!! i finished this after working 13 hours so uh if there are errors, you are blind now

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