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In Atsumu’s defense, he would like to state that he should have seen this coming. In fact not only was he in love with the surly, aloof, born a forty-year-old man teammate, but apparently, he agreed to absolutely positively remain in a committed relationship with the crazy.
Which leads to the current issue at hand: the nicknames. One may call the monikers used between a couple in a romantic relationship cute pet names. However, as time has gone on - it was quickly dismantled that these were not adoring precious names to call your significant other but rather labels Kiyoomi used because he remained persistent in his ambition to rarely call Atsumu by his given name.
At first, Atsumu was caught off guard. I mean what was a man supposed to say when he was fine dining with his recently acquired boyfriend and enjoying a glass of red wine when suddenly said rich boyfriend looks at him sipping his drink and without any warning says “Grape.”
Atsumu did not choke on his wine, thank you very much. Though he did almost spit it out because Omi looked so serious and enamored as he called his boyfriend who most certainly does not look like a round purple fruit, a fucking grape. I mean he’s fruity and all but that’s not the point here.
“Omi what the fuck?” He had asked in an incredibly professional and poised manner for the sake of the fancy restaurant they had deemed worthy of their fifth actual date.
“It’s as I said.” Kiyoomi twirled pasta onto his fork neatly before taking a considerate bite. “You are a grape.”
Atsumu decided he didn’t want to know where that line of thinking stemmed from. No matter, it was a one-off instance that would never really come up again. Though he really shouldn’t have expected any differently considering the man he was dating.
It was some random practice on a Wednesday where Atsumu was working steadfastly on his hybrid serve which was still giving him trouble. The success rate was still a 50/50 and he had full intent on crushing every single D1 athlete on the opposing team with it. If it meant also scoring that amusement park date with Omi because he would win the service ace competition, well consider it an added bonus.
He took in the view of the court, sweat dripping down his temple, lungs inflating with air as he ran up and slammed the ball, tongue poking out in concentration. The ball landed out of bounds. He crumpled onto the floor with a wail, ignoring Hinata’s “don’t mind!” from the other side of the court.
A foot nudged his limp body urging him to look into Kiyoomi’s significantly darker eyes. His boyfriend held a hand out which Atsumu grappled onto to heft himself back up.
“That was terrible,” Kiyoomi informs him.
Atsumu snipes back. “What incredible encouragement from ya Omi.”
Sakusa sighs, “try again.” So Atsumu does, setting up once more to actually land the ball within court lines this time even if it killed him. Cheeks puffed out, eyes laser-focused, and tongue poking out at the corner.
He runs up to the serve tossed up when he hears Kiyoomi cheering him on from the sidelines. “Come on lickilicky.”
Atsumu trips over his own two feet and faceplants into the court, the ball thudding back down right beside him. Feet shuffle around him in a panic to check for injury but Atsumu is glaring right up at Sakusa Kiyoomi who’s waving fingers in front of his face like he knew how to diagnose a concussion.
“Omi,” Atsumu grits out, “did ya just call me a fucking pokemon?”
“No concussion,” Kiyoomi responds to the team instead before looking back at Atsumu. “You stick your tongue out too much. Lickilicky.” Kiyoomi offers as an explanation.
Atsumu is disgruntled. A lickilicky? A fucking lickilicky? Was he not even worthy of a cute adorable little Pokémon like Piplup or Togepi?? Heck, he would even take a freaking psyduck, it was cute in its own sort of way. But a lickilicky??
“I don’t look like that!” He squallers.
Kiyoomi looks preposterously pleased for his contribution to the death and demise of Miya Atsumu’s sanity and decides from here on out that this was going to be his murder weapon: epithets.
Miya was often the way Kiyoomi referred to him. If Atsumu was really truly emotional beyond consolation, Kiyoomi may even deem him a soft ‘Atsu’ to reel him back, but the monster relied on horrendous names for everything else.
They were at the beach for a long weekend with the team and after a long round of beach volleyball where Atsumu got his mouth stuffed with sand, he had decided to take a short break and lounge on his towel to absorb the sun’s rays. The summer warmth was something he always missed when stuck in dreary winter, so he wanted to take advantage of it while he could.
At some point, Kiyoomi must have wandered over because as he nearly dozed off, gentle hands brushed the sand off his bare back, tossed it off his calves, and rubbed it off his arms. Atsumu hummed in contentment, absorbing the heat of the summer and the love of his boyfriend.
“My little lacerta agilis. ” Atsumu takes back everything he said about a loving boyfriend. Kiyoomi stews in Atsumu’s look feigning nonchalance.
“My lil’ what?”
Kiyoomi brushes his fingers through Atsumu’s sandy locks, completely ignoring the look of distaste from the latter and mumbling fondly, “it’s the scientific name for the sand lizard. Commonly found in the European continent. They burrow in the sand.”
Atsumu is squawking and smacking Kiyoomi away, demanding he go get him an ice pop for shooting such a blow to his good looks. As soon as Kiyoomi steps away to head to the shanty acting as a shop for the requested ice pops, Atsumu rips his phone out of the bag holding the sunscreen and various other beach necessities and frantically googles sand lizard because there’s no way in hell that he was gonna remember L acerta whatever it was.
When google images provides a photo of a sandy green lizard basking on a rock with its eyes closed in the exact same pose that Atsumu was currently affixed in on his beach towel, he screams. Kiyoomi arrives at that same opportune moment, two ice pops in hand, and immediately gets pelted with Atsumu’s sunglasses. Lil’ lacerta agilis his ass.
Around six months, into said unconventional relationship the two move in together. Atsumu was a little panicky because while he may be known for his playboy skills and ability to pick up just about anyone he sets his mind to, he had never actually been in a serious- with the intention of staying together forever- relationship. Kiyoomi was the one who swallowed his pride to ask the blonde out after months of dancing around each other, and it was Kiyoomi who brought up moving in together. Atsumu may potentially be having an anxiety attack about saying yes so quickly.
But Atsumu is no weenie, so he sucks up his nerves, packs his stupid boxes, and hauls them up into Kiyoomi’s two-bedroom flat. Sakusa opens the door a little surprised, expecting to pick up Atsumu and his boxes two hours later as previously discussed, only to find his boyfriend red-cheeked with exertion and standing in a circle of boxes.
“Here’s all of it! I wish ya had an apartment with an elevator Omi-kun.” Atsumu pants, leaning onto the doorway to catch his breath after hauling twenty boxes up from Samu’s truck past the lobby and up two flights of stairs. Each time he put a box down he swore he would knock on Kiyoomi’s door, only to watch himself go back down the stair and to the truck to haul up another box.
“You brought all of it.” Sakusa’s words are slow, measured, “And you decided not to ask me for help because?”
Atsumu crumbles. “Because I’m panicking! Maybe we’re movin’ too fast. What if ya hate me by dinner?” He’s throwing his arms around, flailing for emphasis because god what if this is the straw that breaks the metaphorical camel’s back? What if Kiyoomi decides that Atsumu is too much and asks him to move out next week and pack his broken heart with him?
Kiyoomi takes his arms and pulls him in tight for a hug. “Anxious bodybuilder.”
“Ommmiiiii.” Atsumu wails because now was not the time for one of his dumb little affectionate weird nicknames. Though it was morbid how Atsumu was beginning to enjoy them.
Kiyoomi kisses his nose and hefts a box out of the hallway and into his, no their, apartment. “Lucky for you, I am also a competitive weight lifter.”
Osamu thinks it’s absolutely hilarious. Of course, he would that fucking scrub. Atsumu was pretty good at ensuring his boyfriend didn’t break out the terms of endearment anywhere within the hearing range of the people who would eat him alive if they heard Kiyoomi call him “a wiggly wobbly.” (Don’t ask - had something to do with yoga.)
But he was a little preoccupied with fighting Sunarin over the last of the trial onigiris because he was the older brother and he got rights over his brother’s stupid boyfriend no matter how long they had been together. He had known Samu since the womb dammit. Suna had, fortunately for Atsumu, looked over at Osamu for a mere second to garner support when Atsumu sequestered away the onigiri and stuffed the entirety of it in his mouth.
His cheeks were overflowing and his eyes were watering from the fact that the rice was actually quite hot when Kiyoomi chuckled and said “cherub cheeks.” Atsumu was too busy choking when Suna and Osamu whipped their heads around at the comment.
“What’d ya call him?” Osamu’s smile was threatening to split his face in half. Suna whips out his phone, the video already recording.
Kiyoomi pokes Atsumu’s pudgy face, “cherub cheeks.”
Osamu and Suna, those traitors, bust out wheezing as Kiyoomi shows them a picture of a cherub on his phone side by side next to Atsumu who is still trying to swallow down the mounds of rice in his mouth.
“Ya look like one of those chubby god babies Tsumu.” Osamu is wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Suna is doubled over cackling as Atsumu boils red because he is not a chubby god baby.
“Actually, they’re angels,” Kiyoomi adds. He looks so earnest in redeeming the nickname he had bequeathed Atsumu. And for a second Atsumu is ready to forgive him because it’s kind of really sweet to be called an angelic being while he’s stuffing his face like a chipmunk?
“Yeah, a chubby god baby.” Atsumu smacks the shit out of his twin.
As time goes on Atsumu learns that no situation is safe from the atrocious things Kiyoomi has decided to call him. It’s the middle of the night on an off Saturday and the two of them are messing around on their queen-size bed in the low light of the only lamp in the room. Atsumu’s barely breathing as Kiyoomi traces his hands over his chest, lacing kisses and bites over his clavicle.
His boyfriend dips down to his legs, grabbing a handful of his ass and pressing kisses to the inner edges of his knees. Atsumu swears he sees stars when Kiyoomi starts nipping at his quads all the way up to his pelvic bone, getting so unbearably close but never actually giving him what he wants.
“Omi…Omi…baby please. I need ya to-hrmph.” Atsumu is warbling, barely able to put his pleas together. Kiyoomi groans, the sound of his boyfriend’s voice making it difficult to continue the slow leisured pace.
Kiyoomi squeezes Atsumu’s legs together while he lays in between them looking up at the dazed man to say, “thighmaster.”
That snaps Atsumu out of it quickly. “Sakusa Kiyoomi imma kill ya. Thighmaster are ya fucking kidding me?” He attempts to wriggle out of his boyfriend’s grasp.
Sakusa answers with a bite to the fleshy bit of thigh nearly suffocating him. Atsumu throws his head back, bumping into the headboard unceremoniously.
“Tree trunks.” Kiyoomi kisses the angry bruising bite he left behind.
Atsumu is ready to strangle him. Kiyoomi lavishes his other leg with kisses and bites murmuring, “ham hocks.”
“Omi I swear ta god if ya don’t fu-AH.”
Kiyoomi does deliver, at the cost of Atsumu’s thighs. Sakusa pouts when Atsumu bans him from leg day training with him for a month. Call him fucking ham hocks again and it’s gonna be a year before Kiyoomi gets to see his thighs.
They’re getting ready for the V-league kickoff banquet when Atsumu is found grumbling in the closet. Kiyoomi was dabbing a bit of cologne on his neck when Atsumu whines for attention.
“What is it this time Miya?” Kiyoomi steps into the closet to find Atsumu fiddling with his outfit for the evening.“Omi,” He’s shifting from side to side, brows furrowed helplessly, “it doesn’t fit. But yours don’t fit either. What am I gonna do?”
The black button-down that is supposed to go underneath Atsumu’s suit jacket is stretched taut against his shoulder blades, the buttons threatening to pop off any second as peeks of his chest peer through.
Kiyoomi swallows. “Sorcière,” he mutters, unable to keep his hands from going up to Atsumu’s chest to feel the fabric straining for its life.
Atsumu throws his hands up in exasperation, the seams at his shoulder ripping due to the action. “Yer literally gonna insult me in another language right now?”
“Witch.” Kiyoomi hisses into Atsumu’s ear, tracing the skin at his collar that refused to be suffocated underneath the black silk. “Now we’re gonna be late.”
“Wow love ya too babe. So ya gonna be my familiar or something if imma witch?” Kiyoomi nips at his ear to get him to hush, but Atsumu continues his tirade. “Omi ya can be a weasel. My pet weasel.”
“Do not call me a weasel.” Kiyoomi rips the buttons off.
“Ya called me a grizzly bear yesterday!” Atsumu strives to remain vigilant in his effort to scold his boyfriend- but is quickly distracted by the hands exploring below his belt.
Kiyoomi looks up, pupils blown wide, “you have aggressive mama bear tendencies.”
“And grizzly bear was the best way to say it?” It’s more of a statement than a question from Atsumu. They were late to the V-league kickoff banquet. Nobody commented on the ill-fitting white button-up that was blatantly too long on the wrists and too tight around the chest.
At some point, everybody else eventually caught on to Sakusa’s lovely pet names, implementing them for their own nefarious uses.
“Morning Hicksville.” Meian had told him one morning when he walked straight into an Atsumu monologue on the beauty of hand cream where his accent was getting too thick to understand.
Bokuto who used to exclusively refer to him as ‘tsumtsum’ decided to explore his varied options ranging from “Barry B Benson” to “ruddy toddler.”
“Ruddy means a person’s face who has a nice red color. Keiji told me.” Atsumu pushed Bokuto into the lockers.
The entire V-league had caught onto the ubiquitous use of far-fetched words and dumb-looking characters to describe Atsumu. The setter wasn’t free to meet anyone without being referred to as some stupid moniker. Osamu had even advertised the Miya Atsumu Onigiri Special as fit for “audacious anemones.” No, not like the flower, like the sea creature. There was even a side-by-side photo comparison on the menu too. How Osamu didn’t lose business was beyond him.
Kiyoomi was surprisingly disgruntled. He latched onto Atsumu the second they came home and refused to let go.
“It’s yer fault.” Atsumu chides as Kiyoomi looks over his shoulder. Cooking with a boyfriend-sized backpack was something he had gotten used to these days as Kiyoomi bemoaned the loss of his exclusive nicknames.
Kiyoomi wrapped his arms tighter around Atsumu. “I still don’t like it.”
“Ya shoulda thought about that before ya started calling me goldilocks.”
Kiyoomi burrows into his shoulder in defeat leaving Atsumu to continue ranting about all the names people have called him these days.
“Fine,” Kiyoomi speaks up. “I’ll stop calling you those names.”
Atsumu nearly cracks his neck to crane over to Kiyoomi. “Really? Ya mean it?”
“Yes. They were my names. I don’t want other people using them.”
“Omi!” Atsumu is beaming. Little did he know that he was going to suffer an even worse fate.
Kiyoomi still wasn’t going to cave and call Atsumu by his given name unless absolutely necessary, but he needed names that no one else would use in reference to his boyfriend.
“Love, will you pass me my water bottle?” Atsumu nearly breaks his legs as he stumbles down the steps.
“What did ya just say?” Even the other MSBY players had their eyes bugging out as they looked at Sakusa to make sure they didn’t mishear the word ‘lug nut’ for love.
Kiyoomi remains expressionless, stretching out a hand for his water bottle. “Love. I said, will you give me my water bottle?”
“Uh yeah, sure here ya go.”
Kiyoomi was relentless. Every time they were around anybody he ensured to use an endearing, loving pet name. It was driving Atsumu and everyone involved to the edge.
“Darling come here.” He said in front of Osamu when he pulled him closer to his seat. Atsumu flushed bright red, and Osamu spit out his water.
“Honey, be careful.” Kiyoomi taped his fingers after they played against EJP Raijin. Komori walked smack into Suna who walked smack into a wall.
“Would you like some more wine baby?” He asked him at Ushijima’s holiday party, where even Tendou started screaming because he didn’t get to take advantage of calling Atsumu an Oompa Loompa like he had planned to when he first heard of this nickname game.
Atsumu couldn’t handle it anymore. He thought he would kill Kiyoomi for calling him all the stupid names, having to flee the country after murdering his boyfriend with a bottle of bleach for addressing him as “fox face.” But it looks like Kiyoomi had the upper hand and was going to accidentally kill Atsumu via cardiac arrest.
“Omi please I can’t take it anymore,” Atsumu screams into the couch cushions after the holiday party. “Ya gotta stop with the names.”
“Why pumpkin?” Atsumu groans, rolling over to face his boyfriend. Kiyoomi is giddy with glee. Their friends and family were experiencing too much second-hand embarrassment to call Atsumu any other name, and the reactions Atsumu gave him were too good to give up. He really should have been using these names earlier.
“Yer enjoying this ya sadist.” Atsumu chucks a throw pillow at Kiyoomi’s face, who catches it and places it onto the recliner before collapsing on top of Atsumu’s body with an oomph.
“Am I not allowed to call my boyfriend sweetheart?” Kiyoomi teases
“No.”
“How about doll face?”
“Vetoed.” Atsumu shuts him down.
Kiyoomi hums into Atsumu’s hair, hands rubbing up and down his lover’s arms. They were both wine drunk and loose as Christmas eve approached, merely twenty-nine minutes away. “What would you like me to call you then?”
Atsumu heaves into Kiyoomi’s chest muttering about crazy sadistic boyfriends with their crazy stupid names and how he was crazy for going along with all the crazy things.
“I don’t care. Call me grape for all I care. Just stop with the cutesy shit.” Atsumu relents.
Kiyoomi kisses Atsumu’s cheek before lifting himself up just enough to look at his pouty temper tantrum throwing boyfriend. “Hmmm, I suppose I’ll just have to call you Atsumu then.”
Atsumu is shining with how bright he’s smiling. He’s nodding, unable to form the right words he wants to say, pulling Kiyoomi back into him. Atsumu is blabbering about how ‘it was about time’ and that he had ‘suffered enough’ and ‘this better not be his Christmas gift.’
Kiyoomi laughs. “You really must love yourself if your name gets you that much.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. Though I guess I’ll make an exception. Ya can call me all that cute stuff in bed.”
“Oh really?” Kiyoomi takes the words to push his hands up under Atsumu’s clothes.
“Yep!” Atsumu looks Kiyoomi dead in the eyes, completely serious even as Kiyoomi teases the skin in his hands, “and I’ll call ya Mr. Clean.”
Kiyoomi laments- relinquished to his fate. Oh for the love of epithets.