July rolls in hot and heavy on the heels of a week-long thunderstorm.
Atsumu, predictably, thrives. He starts to tan and is rendered resplendent by it, glowing attractively even when he’s soaked with sweat and panting like a dog. Meanwhile Kiyoomi, pale as ever, reluctantly sheds his layers, burns through ice packs like they’re going out of style, and quietly concedes that he’s, probably, dying.
The heat makes everything difficult. Moving, breathing, thinking—none of it feels good with the sweet weight of summer bearing down on him. His temper grows shorter and shorter, his moods sourer and sourer, until he wouldn’t wish himself on his worst enemy.
And still Atsumu stays.
His name is on the lease, so maybe Kiyoomi shouldn’t be so surprised, but Atsumu has other places he could spend his time, presumably filled with other people who would be better company than his snappish, venomous boyfriend. No one could fault him if he packed a bag and said, See you in October when you’ve cooled the hell off, but instead—miraculously—Atsumu stays.
Kiyoomi finally broaches the subject on the tail end of his nighttime skincare regimen, and Atsumu’s smile sharpens.
“Leave?” he laughs. “Are ya kiddin’ me? This is doin’ wonders for my social life. The meaner you get, the nicer I look. You know how many pity drinks I’m gettin’ these days? They’re like, Oh, Atsumu, how do you live with that? and buy me more beers while I complain about your shopping addiction and your stupid plants.”
The ferns aren’t stupid, but their relationship works better if Kiyoomi pretends not to care about Atsumu’s opinions on them.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Omi-kun,” Atsumu continues, dripping with smugness. “I’m great. Keep bitin’ off all the heads you want—I’m not gonna complain, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna leave.”
Kiyoomi sighs. It’s an existential sort of sigh, the kind he feels right down to his marrow. He did this. He’s the one who decided to share his life with a self-absorbed little brat, and it’s too late to walk away now that they’re falling into comfortable routines and Atsumu’s working himself into all of Kiyoomi’s pre- and post- contact rituals like he always belonged there.
“Besides—” Atsumu is still talking as he slides off the counter and moves past Kiyoomi. Their shoulders don’t brush. He casts a sly look over his shoulder and his smile is a weapon. “—I know how to handle you.”
He disappears around the corner and leaves Kiyoomi like that, with his blood on fire in his veins.
The air inside is just as damp and heavy as the air outside and the midsummer heat has somehow sept into the bones of their apartment and lingers even now, long after the sun has set. For weeks, Kiyoomi’s been doing whatever it takes to escape that dense, cloying heat; for weeks, he’s been clinging to any possible reprieve from it he could find.
Nothing about Atsumu—not the glint of his eyes, not the edge of his smile, not the lilt of his voice—promises relief.
Kiyoomi goes to him anyway.
He finds him in the living room, sat on the couch with a copy of Volleyball Monthly. Atsumu loves Volleyball Monthly with a singleminded sort of zeal. His collection could qualify as an invasive species. He rereads years-old issues for inspiration and reassurance and, sometimes, as a strange sort of foreplay.
Kiyoomi recognizes tonight’s issue if only because he’s on the cover of it. It’s an old issue—the one that announced his recruitment to the Black Jackals—and inside there’s a three-page spread of him in all of the notable uniforms he’d worn since high school. Atsumu only ever breaks this one out when he’s feeling embarrassed about something he wants and needs to level the playing field.
“I am going to burn that,” Kiyoomi warns.
Atsumu doesn’t look up from the picture of Kiyoomi in his Itachiyama jersey. “This one came with three different covers,” he says like Kiyoomi isn’t intimately aware, “and I’ve got ‘em all. I got a couple copies of the one with you in that headband, actually—I thought it’d be funny. Is it weird if I think it’s actually cute? I know. I must be losin’ my damn mind thinkin’ you’re cute.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “So you’re just insulting me now?” he asks. He could be cute if he wanted to be cute. Probably. Maybe. Regardless, he’s not bothered at all by the idea that Atsumu doesn’t think he’s cute. “Maybe I’ll burn it and dump you at the same time.”
“My name’s still on the lease.” Atsumu glances up, lips pressed together in a tight line before he says, “If—”
If— is how all of these conversations start, Atsumu protecting his pride with hypotheticals. Sometimes, when something’s really been eating at him, the question starts with is it weird if— instead. But there’s always an if, never a statement of fact. Atsumu won’t say, “I want to try this with you,” but he’ll say, “If I wanted to try this with you, would that be okay?”
Now he says, “If I’m really, really clean about it and we use, like, so many condoms, d’ya think you’d ever want to be inside me?”
Kiyoomi feels the question like a physical blow, and he winces on impact.
“Ah,” Atsumu exhales. Then he turns the page of the magazine. His ears are very, very red. On the glossy paper spread over his lap, Kiyoomi stands in his Black Jackals jersey with a stiff smile on his face. Atsumu touches shaking fingers to the spot where they edited out his moles. “Alright, then.”
And here, the crossroads: Kiyoomi can choose the familiar path and walk away from this conversation along with the hypothetical if that started it, or he can choose to step out of his comfort zone and see where that takes him. In all other aspects of his life, he would choose the former.
But because this is with Atsumu and for Atsumu, instead he says, “I didn’t give you an answer.”
Atsumu’s fingers press hard enough against the magazine that the page crumples under their weight. “You didn’t have to,” he scoffs. “I’m not actually stupid, y’know.”
A snide comment sits on the tip of Kiyoomi’s tongue. He swallows it and moves to crouch in front of Atsumu. For a moment, he studies his face, and Atsumu watches him warily in turn. There’s something hostile in the twist of his mouth and the pinch of his brow, like he’s ready to bite Kiyoomi if he moves too quickly, if he threatens Atsumu’s petal-soft pride any further.
First, Kiyoomi puts his hand on the magazine so he doesn’t make eye contact with his own picture. Then he laces his fingers with Atsumu’s, and he draws a steady breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“I’m not saying no,” he says in a measured, deliberate tone. “I’m just—”
He nods once, just a sharp jerk of his chin. “Thinking.”
They’re quiet together for several minutes after that, long past the point that it’d be natural even if the air between them wasn’t thick with summer heat and nervy tension. Atsumu moves their joined hands aside to look at Japan National Collegiate MVP: Kiyoomi Sakusa until Kiyoomi—the real one—scowls and moves their hands back to hide his printed face. Atsumu frowns and moves their hands away again.
“Seriously?” Kiyoomi snaps.
Atsumu giggles—there’s no other word for the giddy, melodic sound that escapes him—and looks as stunned about it as Kiyoomi does before slapping a hand over his mouth. He blushes all over again, and it’s so attractive it makes Kiyoomi feel dizzy to look at him.
It’s strange. He’s known Atsumu for over ten years now. They’ve been an item for over a year. They’ve been living together for nearly four months. Kiyoomi thought that he’d heard every sound he was capable of making, but here’s all the evidence he needs to know he’s wrong. Unbelievably, there’s still more to Atsumu left for him to discover.
All at once, he feels desperate to find all of it, every little detail that’s either stayed tucked away these last ten-plus years and everything that Kiyoomi might have missed back when Atsumu hadn’t been his magnetic north.
He gets to his feet. “Coming?” he asks, and he offers a hand to Atsumu.
Atsumu looks at it like it’ll burn him, but after a beat he slides his palm against Kiyoomi’s and holds on tight as Kiyoomi pulls him to his feet.
“On my terms,” Kiyoomi says, though that’s always been the case anytime they try anything new. He hesitates only for a second before starting to ask, “Did you—”
His throat tightens around the question, and he chokes on the words before he even really knows what they are. He knows, at least on paper, the basics of preparing for penetrative sex between two men. But it’s one thing to know the theory and another thing to ask your boyfriend to his face if he cleaned his asshole.
The longer Kiyoomi struggles to put his thoughts into words that don’t make him feel like combusting on the spot out of sheer embarrassment, the wider and meaner Atsumu’s smile becomes.
“Oh,” Kiyoomi says eventually, realization dawning. He points an accusatory finger at Atsumu, who leans in to snap his teeth at it playfully. “First of all: fuck you. Second of all: did you?”
“Did I what?” Atsumu purrs, brows raised. He looks like the cat who ate the fucking canary, and Kiyoomi wants to scream with frustration. “Sorry, Omi-kun. You’re gonna have to be really clear with me. I didn’t go to university, you know.”
“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi repeats. “You are a fucking menace.”
They’re standing in the hallway about twenty feet from their bedroom. It’s so hot and so humid that it hurts to breathe too deeply. They each showered less than half an hour ago, but they’re both already sweating again. Their apartment smells like lemon-scented cleaning supplies and mapo tofu.
Kiyoomi will remember everything about this moment for the rest of all time because he’s certain it will always and forever be the most embarrassing moment of his life when Atsumu opens his mouth and says, “Omi-kun, ask me if I douched.”
“Fuck off,” Kiyoomi growls instead, turning to march into their bedroom with every intent of slamming the door and locking himself, alone, inside.
But Atsumu’s quick enough to shove his foot in the way of the door before it closes, and he uses that in to wedge himself through shoulder first. It’s a tight fit with Kiyoomi leaning his weight hard against the other side of the door, and he whines Omi-kun~ again and again until, finally, he slips into the bedroom.
“I won’t ask for anything else,” Atsumu lies. He’s a fucking liar, and Kiyoomi can’t look him in the eye ever again because he won’t ever be able to unhear ask me if I douched no matter how hard he tries. “Just this one thing. Just once, I just wanna hear you say it.”
“I just want you to die,” Kiyoomi snarls.
His whole face feels hot, hotter than it’s ever felt after a five-set match at center court. Is this blushing? Is that what this is? All at once he regrets ever finding Atsumu’s blushing attractive considering how viscerally uncomfortable the entire ordeal is.
Atsumu says, “Kiyoomi,” and it’s such a rare, precious thing to hear his full given name from him that Kiyoomi goes quiet. Even his thundering heart seems to fade into the background as he stares at Atsumu.
“Sorry,” Atsumu says quietly, and he steps in close and raises his hand close to Kiyoomi’s face. After a beat, Kiyoomi leans in to press his cheek, tentatively, against his palm. “Sorry,” Atsumu repeats, “I’m not gonna let up because I really really need to hear you ask it. I’m really might die if you don’t.”
In this moment, Kiyoomi would be fine if they both burst into flames and left nothing behind that could ever hint that this night ever happened. That’d be great.
“Please, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu purrs, turning his hand to brush his knuckles against Kiyoomi’s cheek. “Ask me if I got myself ready for you.”
Why. Why is it so much hotter when he words it like that? Who chose the word douche when they could have chosen something that could encapsulate the heat of I got myself ready for you.
Kiyoomi nearly swallows his tongue trying to make it work. It takes him too long. Definitely more than a minute. Maybe more than two. Eventually, with his eyes downcast and that terrible heat in his cheeks and ears and neck, he says, “Did… you get yourself… ready. For me.”
Atsumu pushes in closer to cup Kiyoomi’s face between both hands. Like this, he’s the shorter of the two of them, but he angles Kiyoomi’s face so they’re looking at one another. His expression is intent. “Again,” he demands.
“You said just once,” Kiyoomi bites out.
With a firm shove to both of his shoulders, Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu back against the bed. For a second, he teeters between standing and falling until gravity wins out and he tumbles onto their mattress, limbs akimbo. Kiyoomi moves in and puts one knee on the bed between both of Atsumu’s.
“You’re a nightmare,” he accuses. He reaches back to tug off his shirt, tosses it in the direction of the hamper, and crawls up. “I thought it was weird that you volunteered to change the sheets this afternoon.”
“Nothing but the cleanest, freshest sheets for you , Omi-kun,” Atsumu laughs, and he’s shifting to pull off his own shirt too. “This is okay right?”
Sometimes shirtlessness is the line. Sometimes it’s pantslessness. Sometimes it’s kissing. Kiyoomi’s limits are unpredictable when it comes to sex, but Atsumu’s known that from the beginning and seems happy to play within whatever boundaries Kiyoomi sets. Right now, shirtlessness is a go. As for everything else—they’ll just have to wait and see.
“Yeah,” he harshes out, snatching Atsumu’s shirt from him and tossing it in the same direction as his own.
He continues crawling forward, Atsumu continues scrambling back closer towards the headboard, and eventually they get to where they both want to be: Kiyoomi on his hands and knees, hovering over Atsumu who’s got his hands curled into the pillow under his head.
“Hey,” Atsumu says with a cheeky smile. “Fancy meetin’ you here—”
Kiyoomi leans down to kiss him. It’s a hungry kiss, open-mouthed and wet, and they both make eager sounds at the taste of one another. Kissing is still rare enough between them that this alone makes Kiyoomi feel dizzy, almost faint with arousal, and Atsumu sounds just as bad as he groans from somewhere deep in his chest.
Feeling significantly more in control of the situation than he did minutes ago, Kiyoomi says, “You didn’t answer the question.”
Atsumu laughs. “Can you call it a question when there was, like, no inflection?” he asks. “Seriously, you gotta work on how you talk to people—”
It’s the most stupid and hypocritical thing he could say during foreplay, and Kiyoomi bites him for it, sharp and sudden and on the full swell of his bottom lip. Atsumu makes a sound like it hurts and like he wants to feel it again, so Kiyoomi indulges him.
“Omi,” Atsumu groans, again and again.
It’s such a raw, eager sound that Kiyoomi’s tempted to promise him whatever he wants, anything he asks for. But he knows better than to promise something he might not be able to give when push comes to shove, so he takes a moment, draws deep breaths through his nose, and does his best to think.
There’s no sense of dread, no tight feeling in his joints, no cold sweats. These are all things that have stopped them before, but they’re not here now. All Kiyoomi’s got now is his want, so what can he do but see that through as far as he can?
He draws away from Atsumu’s mouth to drag his lips over the jut of his chin, the soft skin under his jaw, and the bulge of his adams apple. This close, he smells faintly of their soap and shampoo, but the hollow of his throat is already a slightly sticky with sweat. Kiyoomi laps greedily at it, and Atsumu makes a breathy sound of surprise.
“Yer killin’ me,” he says. Then he puts his hands into Kiyoomi’s hair and twists his fingers into his curls. “You’re really feelin’ it, huh?”
Kiyoomi lifts his head just enough to squint up at him. Is he feeling this any more than usual? It’s hard to say. He always wants Atsumu; it’s a feeling so omnipresent that he no longer actively acknowledges it. But there’s always something there, some reason why he doesn’t act on that want. Now, there’s nothing to stop him from dropping his head again to suck a mark up along the line of Atsumu’s prominent collarbone, so that’s exactly what he does.
Atsumu’s fingers in his hair tighten, and he tries and fails to tamp down a strangled sound. He’s never still, not in or out of their bed, and right now is no different. He shivers and shudders under Kiyoomi’s mouth, and his hips keep rocking in clipped thrusts, like he’s fighting his instincts with all he’s got.
He breathes, “Touch me,” and Kiyoomi obeys.
To keep his balance, he plants himself on one elbow on the mattress by Atsumu’s head. With the other hand free, he presses his palm to the center of Atsumu’s bare stomach, revels in the near-whimper that earns him, and then he smooths his hand up, up, up
“Hey!” Atsumu barks when Kiyoomi presses his thumb gently, carefully to one of his nipples.
Kiyoomi pauses to consider the tone of his voice. Then he moves his thumb in a small, tight circle and—
Atsumu smacks his wrist, sharp and sudden, and Kiyoomi hisses through his teeth.
“What?” he asks, rearing back to peer down at Atsumu, unimpressed. “Are you embarrassed?”
There’s a bright blush high on Atsumu’s cheeks as he reaches up to cover his nipples with his palms. He’s glaring at Kiyoomi, and his mouth is twisted into an unhappy pout.
Kiyoomi says, “I thought you said you got yourself ready for me.”
Atsumu chokes. “You’re not funny.”
Kiyoomi nods at Atsumu’s bare chest, and Atsumu exhales sharply through his nose, drops his head back against the pillow, and makes a broad gesture with his hands. Then he slides his hands back under the pillow and shifts his hips in a thoughtless, restless way that has no right to be as inviting as it is.
Something aches in Kiyoomi’s chest to look at him now, and the only thing that takes the edge off is putting his hands or mouth on Atsumu. Here, in the line between his pectorals; here, in the hollows between his ribs; here, in the dip of his waist and again at the swell of his hips. He wants to commit to memory all the places that makes Atsumu Miya shake and all the touches that coax soft, needy sounds from his stubborn mouth.
And every so often, Kiyoomi stops and assesses: no, my heartbeat is not irregular; no, my breathing is not wet; no, I do not feel as though I’m standing outside of my body and experiencing everything as if it’s happening to someone else. I am here, I am here, I am exactly where I want to be.
He’s about to put his mouth to the line of hair running down from Atsumu’s navel when he’s caught by the hair and tugged back up. Atsumu curls up to meet him halfway, and they’re kissing again, hands grabbing at each other’s faces and necks. Their chests brush, and Kiyoomi makes a harsh sound as Atsumu smirks, pleased with himself.
“You’re taking too long,” he complains.
“Don’t some people like that?”
“Who cares?” Atsumu draws back to look at him. His hair is a wreck, and his mouth is swollen and extremely red. “Are you having sex with some people or with me?”
You, Kiyoomi doesn’t say. There’s only you.
“Don’t be a brat,” he does say, and he puts a hand to Atsumu’s face and pushes him back down onto the pillow. “We do this at my pace or we don’t do it at all.”
Atsumu licks the edge of his palm with the flat of his tongue. Kiyoomi draws his hand back with a grimace and wipes it off on Atsumu’s shoulder.
“Get goin’, or I’m gonna come without you,” Atsumu goads.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Atsumu’s face screws up with fury, and he puts both hands on top of Kiyoomi’s head and shoves him down. “Go back to what you were doin’ before. I can’t look at you anymore.”
But Kiyoomi lingers to press hot, wet hisses along the curve of Atsumu’s neck, teeth dragging against the fresh tan line where his shirt collars sit, and—finally—he settles his full weight against him, pressing them together from chest to hip all at once.
“Ah,” Atsumu gasps.
They’re both hard, but that’s a given. Their bodies are too-hot in their already too-hot apartment in the middle of this too-hot summer night, but Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to care about anything but the instinctual, eager rolls of their hips as they start to push and pull at each other in earnest, Atsumu’s hands moving through his hair and down his neck until he’s clutching roughly at his shoulders to keep him close.
Kiyoomi shifts up just enough to meet him thrust for thrust, and he presses his open mouth to the hook of Atsumu’s jaw where he tastes strongly of sweat. He curls an arm under and spreads a hand wide over the small of his back, tilting his hips further up, and they groan together with just how good it feels.
They only slow down when Atsumu says, “Omi-kun, if I don’t take these pants off now I’m going to come in them,” and even then it’s only for long enough to tear him out of his sweats. Once they’re off he balls up the soft fabric and tosses it over the side of the bed, nowhere close to the hamper.
“Shit,” he says a beat later, twisting his body towards the nightstand on his side of the bed, and Kiyoomi’s mouth goes dry as he takes in the muscles flexing in his back, the line of his spine and the dip it takes just above the swell of his—
A sleeve of condoms hits him in the face. Atsumu collapses back on the bed in a peal of laughter, bright and happy and terrible.
“I hate you,” Kiyoomi tells him, meaning it.
“Yeah, but can you hate me and make me come? That’s the question,” Atsumu says, looking proud and smug and absolutely in control as he lifts his legs and curls them around Kiyoomi’s hips. “Your move, Sakusa.”
He says it with the very same cocksure grin he’s worn on the court since they were fourteen and met for the first time at training camp. Back then, it was a challenge to Kiyoomi to nail his tosses; now it’s a challenge to nail his ass. The juxtaposition is dizzying. And, also: extremely hot.
“I hate you,” Kiyoomi repeats.
He tears off a condom and drops it on Atsumu’s stomach, then he settles back on his haunches to run his hands slowly over the thighs bracketing him in. It’s no secret between them that he’s—very into Atsumu’s thighs.
(“Obsessed,” Atsumu had said one time, months ago, as he climbed up to straddle Kiyoomi’s hips with a hungry look on his face. “Just admit it, Omi-kun. You’re obsessed with me in general, but you’re ‘specially into my thighs, aren’t cha?”)
So while Atsumu tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth and works the rubber down over his flushed, hard cock, Kiyoomi presses his thumbs to the place where Atsumu’s thighs meet his hips and tries to think straight, tries to assess how he feels. He’s at the too-sweet part where instinct starts to fully override brain function, which is a relief.
“If you want—” he starts to say, but his mouth is still so dry. He swallows thickly and tries again. “Just bring the whole box onto the bed.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows jump up, but he doesn’t question it. He reaches again, all the muscles in his back shifting as he stretches long and lovely to grab the box off the nightstand.
The box is the same one they’ve always kept their supplies in, but Kiyoomi takes only the lube and one nitrile glove out for now, and he works the glove onto his right hand in a series of quick jerks. Then he sets the box aside to his side of the bed where he’ll be able to reach it when he needs it later.
“I’m going to try,” he says, dragging his fingertips down to the pale, sensitive skin of Atsumu’s inner thighs, coaxing his legs further apart with only a little pressure.
Atsumu nods his understanding, and he sucks in deep gulps of air the way he does when he’s affected past the point of speech. When he’s so excited he can’t stand it. When Kiyoomi’s doing exactly what he wants most. It’s distracting enough that Kiyoomi forgets what he was planning to do and drags his knuckles up the underside of Atsumu’s cock instead.
Atsumu’s hips jerk up in a sharp thrust. "Shit,” he hisses through grit teeth. “Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing,” Kiyoomi says, and his voice doesn’t sound like his own. “Just—looking.”
He wants to, really. He could look at Atsumu like this for hours and not get tired of it; he could never get tired of learning the quiet intricacies of his body.
For now, though, there’s one thing Atsumu most wants him to learn, and Kiyoomi still wants to see this through as far as he can. Emboldened by the sheer force of his own arousal and the way Atsumu’s starting to fall apart already, Kiyoomi drags his gloved hand down, down, down, until he’s pressing his fingers against the hottest, tightest part of Atsumu, and they both make ragged, ruined sounds at the first, tentative touch.
“Kill me,” Atsumu begs. “Just kill me already. Dyin’ would be less than this.”
Kiyoomi asks, “Less what.”
“Everything,” Atsumu squeaks.
Kiyoomi looks up sharply at him. He’s thrown an arm over his face, covering his eyes, and he’s biting his bottom lip like he’s got a grudge against it specifically. His legs are hitched up on Kiyoomi’s hips still, but they’re sprawled invitingly now instead of curled tightly around him. Every inch of him is red and splotchy, and Kiyoomi wants, wants, wants.
He scoops up the bottle of lube and draws his right hand back to coat his fingers.
“Hey,” he says as he brings his hand back down, voice somehow rough and breathy at the same time. “Hey, Sumu.”
Atsumu makes a garbled sound that means, I hear you, but I’m too out of my mind right now to speak properly.
Kiyoomi says, “I love you,” as he presses a slick finger against him.
The effect is instantaneous: Atsumu throws his head back, flings his arm aside again, and glares at Kiyoomi like he can will him to combust on sight. His cock jerks, too, and that’s the detail Kiyoomi zeroes in on, the North Star of navigating his way through good sex.
He’s read a few times that it’s important to take this part slowly, and that’s alright by him. Taking his time means moving his finger in slow, exploratory circles against Atsumu, trying to relax him and coax him open off touch alone. But every inch of Atsumu is stubborn and bratty, so why should this be any different?
Eventually, Atsumu’s hips start moving, working in tandem with his seeking touches, and just watching him is almost enough to make Kiyoomi lose his composure. For the first time since he slipped his hand into the glove, he’s aware of how painfully hard he is. He can feel his arousal in the roof of his mouth, in his knuckles, in the balls of his feet.
“Omi,” Atsumu begs, fingers in his own hair, tugging desperately at it.
“Good?” Kiyoomi asks, shifting on his knees to try and find a position where he’s not so aware of how hard he is.
Atsumu just nods, and he cracks his dark eyes open as he lifts his head to look down his body, to look at where Kiyoomi is sat between his legs. His brow and hairline are slick with sweat, and he licks his bitten lip again and again before speaking.
“Can you take your pants off, too?” he asks.
“In a minute,” Kiyoomi says. “First I need—I want to be inside you first.”
Atsumu whimpers and drops his head back against the pillow. “Then—get inside me already,” he bites out, hips canting up and falling back down a second later. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—”
And, as if he willed it, Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s body give just the right amount, and he sinks into him slow and steady, right to the first knuckle of his middle finger. They both cuss hotly: Atsumu to the ceiling, Kiyoomi to the spread of Atsumu’s legs.
“Now, now,” Atsumu demands. “Pants off. You said—”
It’s awkward, trying to shimmy out of his sweats with Atsumu’s thighs hitched over his hips and a finger buried part way in the impossible heat of him.
When they’re finally, blissfully naked with one another, Kiyoomi hooks a hand under one of Atsumu’s sweaty knees, spreads his leg wider, and moves his wrist to work his finger deeper into him.
“Ahh,” Atsumu whimpers. “Yes, like that. More of—more of that—”
Kiyoomi says, “I’m inside you,” like it’s the single most amazing thing in the entire world. And it just might be.
Atsumu reaches down to curl a hand around his cock, and he starts to move, fucking up into the curl of his fingers and then back down onto Kiyoomi’s finger again and again and again until he’s able to take him to his third knuckle, until they’re both out of their minds with the slick heat of Atsumu taking exactly what he needs, exactly what Kiyoomi is giving him.
As always, he’s a vision when he comes: lip caught in his teeth, eyes screwed shut, every inch of him slick with sweat and shivering with pleasure.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi hisses, unable to do anything but sit still and feel Atsumu tremble apart on his finger.
They stay like that for a few minutes as Atsumu comes down, panting and twitching and looking absolutely fucked out of his mind off of a single finger. It would be a revelation, maybe, if Kiyoomi weren’t so overwhelmed by his own arousal.
He looks down at his own dick, thinks for a minute, and then climbs out from the cradle of Atsumu’s sprawled legs to lay out on his own side of the bed. He knocks his knee against their box of supplies, and he reaches down to pluck out the pack of sanitary wipes. He drops it on Atsumu’s chest, and Atsumu groans in acknowledgment.
“I think I really am dead,” he wheezes.
Kiyoomi knows he’s smiling, but he couldn’t stop it for the world. “You say that every time I make you come.”
“Yeah, but usually I do it for your ego,” Atsumu huffs. “This time I actually mean it.”
Kiyoomi reaches up to snatch the pillow out from under Atsumu’s head, and he whaps him in the face with it. Atsumu, too tired and winded to fight back, just lays there and takes it.
They lay out, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, and eventually Atsumu emerges from underneath the pillow and sets to work removing the condom, wiping himself down, and then tossing the trash in the small trash can on his side of the bed. When he’s finished, he casts a long glance Kiyoomi’s way.
“D’ya wanna do anything about that?” he asks, gesturing at Kiyoomi’s erection.
Kiyoomi looks back at him. Then he looks down at his cock. “I think a strong breeze could do something about this,” he admits. “I’m just—”
“Thinkin’?” Atsumu guesses.
He nods. “Thinking.”
Atsumu’s quiet for a while, then he turns on his side and props his head up with a palm. “Was it too much?” he asks.
Kiyoomi’s been trying to figure that out for the last few minutes, so he’s pretty in his answer when he shakes his head. “I liked it,” he adds a beat later. “I didn’t—expect to like it so much.”
Atsumu lets out a relieved breath. “Hell yeah,” he agrees, visibly pleased. “So do you wanna do it again sometime, maybe?”
“Maybe,” he allows.
“But not tonight?”
Kiyoomi blinks at him. “Did I say that?”
Atsumu shakes his head. “But since you didn’t wanna—do anything with that, I sorta guessed. If you want to do it again tonight, I’m definitely into it. I could be, like, a lot more into it too, I think. If y’know what I mean.”
He knows what he means, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before he lets Atsumu off the hook after the stunt he pulled earlier. “No,” he says with a cruel smile. “I don’t know what you mean. Explain it to me.”
Atsumu glares daggers at him and drops back onto his pillow with a huff. “You’re the worst,” he snaps.
“Probably,” Kiyoomi agrees, but he rolls over to look down at Atsumu again and press his face to the line of his sweaty throat. “I want to—”
The irritation is gone from Atsumu’s voice when he asks, “Yeah?” He flings an arm out and when he brings it back he’s got a condom in his hand. “Can I put it on you?” he asks.
Kiyoomi considers this, thinks of the fussy way Atsumu had just dragged a sanitary wipe over every inch of his lovely fingers, and nods.
Atsumu’s quick and clever with his hands, and his brutally efficient technique getting the condom on is almost enough to make Kiyoomi come like a fuckin’ shot. Only sheer determination keeps him on the knife’s edge, and he can feel himself burning through it at record speed.
“Wanna fuck my thighs?” Atsumu offers, voice sweet as sin, and Kiyoomi has to grip the base of his cock with a viselike grip to keep himself at bay.
“Shit,” he bites out. “Yes, fuck. Yes. I want—that.”
Atsumu looks more smug than ever before. Then, like the fucking demon he is, he turns over to lay flat on his stomach and show Kiyoomi the long, elegant line of his back, the swell of his ass, and the inviting spread of his thick thighs.
The look he casts over his shoulder is dark and taunting, his smile a weapon set to kill. “Come on, Kiyoomi. All yours.”
It’s simultaneously the best and worst thing he could have said. Kiyoomi feels blind with arousal, but he gropes in the sheets to find the lube anyway, and he squeezes it onto his gloved hand and then slips that between Atsumu’s clenched, closed thighs. Atsumu—always eager to show off, always eager to melt Kiyoomi down to size—flexes around his fingers and makes a sweet, encouraging sound.
He can’t wait another second longer, so Kiyoomi slips his hand out and guides his cock in instead. And fuck , it’s tight. They’ve done this countless times before now, but each time is like the first—probably because Kiyoomi loses his mind so completely for it that he forgets what these first seconds are always like. He presses his hips forward, and Atsumu shifts his hips back, and they’re both a wreck of sweat and slick and—
“Fuck me,” Atsumu breathes, a challenge in each syllable.
So Kiyoomi does. He drags his hips back and fucks into his boyfriend’s thighs as roughly as he’s able, chasing the slap, slap, slap of skin against skin with single-minded focus, determined to bury himself in that hot, trembling body as he shakes apart with how good it feels.
Atsumu’s determined not to let him off that easily, though. He draws a ragged breath and says, “Touch me again, Omi-kun. Inside.”
The words connect sharply, and Kiyoomi’s winded on impact. He’s too far gone to overthink it, too far gone to second guess or be a jerk about this. Atsumu wants something from him, and he’s reduced to such raw, animalistic need that all he can think about is giving him exactly that.
With one hand, he spreads Atsumu’s ass wide, and with the other he hooks a thumb into his hole and screws his wrist sharply. Atsumu cries out, clenches down, and squeezes his thighs so tight that it pulls Kiyoomi’s orgasm from him, making him come between one gasp and the next.
His vision bleeds white at the edges, and his toes curl so hard he distantly hears the bones pop. It’s the hardest he’s come in his entire life, and he’s not sure how long it takes him to finish shivering from the aftershocks. Eventually, head in a fog, he withdraws his thumb and his cock, and he falls—boneless, mindless, fearless—against Atsumu’s back.
He tucks his face against the sweaty nape of Atsumu’s neck and breathes him in.
And, just like that, he stays.
Atsumu regains feeling in his legs first and extracts himself from under Kiyoomi to disappear down the hall. Kiyoomi gets up, wipes himself down with a dozen sanitary wipes, and ventures out after him a little while later. They stand around in the kitchen, Atsumu eating onigiri and saying nothing as Kiyoomi helps himself to some raw vegetables instead. Their relationship works better when Atsumu pretends not to care about Kiyoomi’s opinion on onigiri.
The apartment must be as hot as ever, but it feels crisp and cool compared to the heat of their bodies when they bump into one another and to the burn of their overworked muscles.
“I love summer,” Atsumu sighs as he climbs up onto the counter and starts to kick his feet. “After we retire, let’s move somewhere that’s hot like this all the time.”
Kiyoomi goes still, just for a moment as his brain trips over the promise in that. The promise, however vague, of forever. There was no question in that statement, not even an if.
Eventually he says, “We’ll probably have killed each other by then."
Atsumu smiles. “Probably,” he agrees.