Atsumu asks on a Thursday. In most ways, it’s a completely normal day.
Kiyoomi wakes up, rolls into the lingering warmth in Atsumu’s empty half of the bed, falls back asleep, and doesn’t rise again until he’s already ten minutes late for practice. There he puts a mean spin on every toss Atsumu sends his way and sears to memory the shape of each and every smug smile he earns in the process. Afterwards, he doesn’t complain when Atsumu insists on swinging into a combini for some ice cream, then he goes so far as to begrudgingly take a lick when offered, just because he likes the way Atsumu’s eyes go wide and his jaw goes a little slack when he does.
Surprise is a good look on him. Most looks are good looks on Atsumu—especially the unflattering ones—but on this particular, mostly-normal Thursday, Kiyoomi favors surprise most of all.
In these ways, the day is unremarkable at best. In every way that matters, though, it’s bad.
A feeling of dread follows Kiyoomi out of his dreams and weighs on him all day, hanging off his shoulders like a bratty toddler—the more he ignores it, the more it demands his attention and grows throughout his day. Worst of all: the feeling is impervious to Atsumu’s smugness and whims and expressions alike.
By the time they’re home Kiyoomi can feel himself fraying at the seams with unfounded worries: Do his wrists hurt an abnormal amount? Is his heart rate still elevated? Was there a hole in the mask he wore home? Why did he throw it away without inspecting it more thoroughly? How many people picked up and put back the ice cream Atsumu bought and shared with him just ten minutes ago, the one that Kiyoomi boldly decided to lick? Does Atsumu know he regrets that now? What look will he have once he realizes Kiyoomi’s doing this again?
He sits on the couch, legs crossed, and scowls at his wrists while icing them. Atsumu comes and goes from the living room to the bedroom, dodging two hanging pots and braining himself on the third and newest one, and their comfortable, familiar apartment fills with the sound of his colorful cussing. Normally, that’d be enough to deter some of Kiyoomi’s sour mood, but tonight it’s just—background noise. He struggles to summon even a little bit of fondness.
That’s how he knows it’s bad. There hasn’t been a day—Thursday or otherwise—since Kiyoomi woke up half in love with this idiot that he hasn’t been helplessly, stupidly fond of him. Yet here he is, too full of dread to make room for anything else.
Later, when Kiyoomi’s ice packs have melted and are dripping condensation onto his knees, Atsumu asks, “Whaddya want for dinner, Omi-kun?”
He’s been keeping his distance, familiar enough with the bad days to recognize them from a mile away and adjust his habits accordingly, and Kiyoomi knows that this question is all at once What do you want for dinner? and What do you need? and Is the coast clear?
It’s all Kiyoomi can do to scowl at his wrists and grunt in response.
Atsumu clicks his tongue and side steps past a floor pot that he vandalized weeks ago with a gigantic, unnerving smiley face as he says, “I’m thinking pork,” which means he’s probably going to start a small fire in their kitchen.
If only Kiyoomi could bring himself to care.
He stands up, watches the not-quite-ice packs fall to the floor and can’t summon the will to bend over and pick them up. His wrists feel numb, but his fingers feel twitchy. The more he tries to control them, the more out of control they feel. Paranoia. It comes on all at once, and Kiyoomi closes his eyes against the rush of it and tries to assure himself it’s normal, it’s normal, all of this is normal.
Logic is, as usual, unhelpful. There are few things that can quell the storm brewing within him, and one of them happens to be frowning at their wok like he thinks it might bite him. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath, hoping to steady himself. All it does is make him wonder, do my breaths sound too wet? which ratchets his anxiety up another notch or three.
He’s not aware of time passing until Atsumu says, “I started the shower.”
Kiyoomi opens his eyes to look at him, just him, surrounded by all of Kiyoomi’s plants in a pair of Kiyoomi’s sweats that he’s cuffed at the ankle and an Itachiyama sweatshirt he stole and defaced so it now says Itachiyama SUCKS. His hair is a mess. His feet are bare. The sight of him soft and comfortable like this finally, finally brings a flicker of affection—dim but still warm in his too-cold body—to light in Kiyoomi’s chest.
“I’m—” Kiyoomi starts to say.
But he doesn’t know what should come next. He’s not sorry. It’s not his fault. He just… wishes it could be different, maybe. He wishes he could shake the dread from his bones and rescue their dinner from whatever nightmare’s in store for it at Atsumu’s hands. He wishes he could control this as well as he controls what he wears, where he goes, and who he touches. Wishing is a waste of time and energy, but when he’s feeling this threadbare and frayed, it’s hard not to want the impossible for himself.
His tongue is too heavy in his mouth—too heavy to express even a small fraction of all the things he wants right now. So he just looks at Atsumu instead. In all the shit that’s going around in his head, it’s no small relief that Atsumu’s somehow managing to look vaguely amused.
“‘S’not like I want you watchin’ me while I cook,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You always get all judgmental." The playful smirk he’s sporting stretches wider and warmer. “So get outta my hair and take a shower already. I know you wanna.”
Normally, Kiyoomi refuses to shower before dinner. But they both know he won’t be eating tonight, so he goes. The water’s hot by the time he gets to the bathroom, and he stands under the spray and wills it to scald away this version of himself and leave behind someone fresh and new and a little more whole than what came before.
He’s not sure if all the things he’s feeling particularly loathsome about end up slipping down the drain, but enough time goes by that the water starts to run cold. Still, he stands there, skin scrubbed raw and coated with a ghostly layer of grime he knows is all in his head but can’t stop feeling. He rubs at it halfheartedly anyway. Even when the water turns from cold to downright frigid, he continues to stand and scrub, stand and scrub. He knows from experience—from too many bad days just like this seemingly-insignificant Thursday—that he could go another hour or more just like this, if left to his own devices.
Instead, Atsumu reaches into the stall and jerks the handle to cut the faucet. Kiyoomi tilts his head to look at him, surprised, and finds Atsumu standing a couple feet back and stretching out a wide, plush towel for him. The idiot’s wearing gloves and a face mask and—bizarrely—a shower cap.
“C’mere,” he says.
His face looks a little damp, like he scrubbed it at some point, and Kiyoomi feels sick with love for him. He stumbles into the towel, allows himself to be wrapped up, and shivers the whole time Atsumu pats him down, careful not to touch him anywhere without the towel between them first.
It’s not until later, when he’s carding his gloved fingers through Kiyoomi’s hair as he blows it dry that Atsumu asks, in a tone that’s not-quite-casual, not-quite-cool, “Hey, Omi-kun. Have you ever thought ‘bout getting high?”
“How’re you feelin’?” is the first thing Atsumu asks.
It’s a Sunday that’s, in most ways, like any other Sunday. Their living room is filled with plants and midday sunshine, and the air is thick with the smell of rich dark chocolate. From his spot on the couch, laid out on his back with his head on Atsumu’s lap, Kiyoomi almost feels caught in a dream, if his dreams were capable of being so sweet.
He runs his fingers along the taut muscle of Atsumu’s forearm and opens his mouth in askance. Atsumu doesn’t make him wait—he breaks off a corner of the brownie in his hands and presses it against Kiyoomi’s tongue for him to take it and swallow. He lets it linger and melt a little in his mouth first, then he does just that.
Atsumu’s smile is wide and pleased and he says, “Cuz you look pretty good from where I’m sittin’.”
He thumbs at the corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth, probably at a smear of chocolate that wound up there, and Kiyoomi turns to press his lips to his finger with a quiet, happy sound.
Atsumu breathes, sounding a little winded. “Oh, you are feelin’ good,” he coos.
Kiyoomi does feel good, actually. Two hours ago, Atsumu laid him out on the couch, ran his fingers through Kiyoomi’s hair, and talked in circles about the latest edition of Volleyball Monthly (this one’s all about Hinata's recent recruitment to the national team—a success story that Atsumu’s shamelessly taking all the credit for) until Kiyoomi was half-asleep and ready to accept small, sweet mouthfuls of brownie right from Atsumu’s sticky fingers.
The effect took a long time to set in—long enough that he’d almost dragged himself off the couch to find better uses of his time—but now he’s in a fuzzy-warm state of mind he’s got no point of comparison for.
He’s lived a contained life behind carefully-constructed walls meant as much to keep people out as to keep himself in, and nothing about being high feels contained or careful or constructed. When he tries to define this feeling, all that comes to mind is how champagne looks when it’s being poured, all those tiny bubbles rushing up to the surface all at once.
When he tries to go deeper and assess the state of his physical body—a restless habit he developed years ago to determine the nearness of a panic attack—it proves just as elusive. When he tries to calculate his heartrate, he loses track again and again in favor of admiring the sunshine on Atsumu’s cheek and the specific brown of his eyes and the softness of the sweats he’s wearing and how nice they feel against Kiyoomi’s cheek when he turns to nuzzle into them.
At this, Atsumu shifts a little, sets the plate of brownies on the table next to the couch, and tangles his clean hand in Kiyoomi’s curls again with an approving sound.
“I could get used’ta this,” he muses while brushing his thumb against Kiyoomi’s temple. “Didn’t think ya’d be all sweet like this.”
Kiyoomi knows, vaguely, that he should be annoyed by that. He casts a dark glare up at him, a silent fuck you, but it must not land because Atsumu’s smile stretches ever-wider and warmer. His teeth are very white. His hair is very, very yellow. Kiyoomi loves him endlessly.
An idea occurs to him. He arches his neck to lift his head but gives up halfway because it feels too heave. He recalculates, relaxes, and demands, “Kiss.”
Atsumu indulges him right away. He leans down and presses his smile to Kiyoomi’s mouth, the angle awkward and bad but the taste of him sweet even though he hasn’t helped himself to even a bite of Osamu’s special brownies.
“Pretty as a picture,” Atsumu murmurs as he draws back. His expression is different, and Kiyoomi presses his fingers to the line between his pinched brows—a line he badly, absurdly wants to lick. “Keep askin’ for stuff like that and we’re gonna end up in bed.”
“What,” Kiyoomi says, and his mouth feels suddenly very strange. Is he smiling? With teeth? Ugh.
Atsumu stares at him with his brows raised, his mouth shaped into a small o , and color rising in his cheeks. Kiyoomi drags his hand up to cup his jaw, and in a flash of inspiration pulls his hand back and smacks him a little, gently, before dissolving into a peal of laughter.
It feels strange, laughing. It’s not like he’s never amused—he wouldn’t have survived on the Black Jackals without a sense of humor. But outright laughter is something he hasn’t given into in a long, long time. His chest kind of hurts. He’s not sure if that’s normal, and—for once—is not in a state of mind to worry about it.
“Holy shit,” Atsumu breathes, and he catches Kiyoomi’s wrist, which is shaking a little as he continues to laugh, with one hand and turns to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against his palm. “I love you," he says emphatically. “I really, really do, Omi-Omi. You know it, right?”
“Shh,” Kiyoomi says, over-bending his wrist to shake Atsumu’s grip so he can press two fingers to Atsumu’s lips and say, “ Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” because the sound just feels good in his mouth. All that air against his lips—he likes it. “Shh-shh-shh-shh-shhh,” he says with feeling.
Time slips through his fingers like that sound slips through his teeth, until the midafternoon sun darkens to molten gold and stretches the shadows from all of Kiyoomi’s plants long and dark and lovely. He holds his hands up and stares at them, at the knobs of his knuckles and the juts of his wrists, and he thinks, Hands are, objectively, ugly.
But he must have said that aloud because Atsumu says, “Speak for yourself,” with a little laugh. “And if ya think those're bad, do yerself a favor and don’t go lookin’ at yer feet.”
It’s a strange thing to say. Kiyoomi curls his toes in his socks and tries to recall what they must look like, but the only thing that comes to mind are horse hooves, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have those. It’s hard to care, though. Everything below his knees is, right now, fully hypothetical. He just doesn’t feel bothered to lift his head and confirm yet.
He demands, “Kiss,” again.
Atsumu laughs. “I can’t kiss ya when you’ve got your hands up like that. Unless you wanna hit me again? You know how I like that.”
Kiyoomi lowers his hands and Atsumu curls in to kiss him right away. The angle’s still bad, and it must hurt Atsumu’s shoulders and neck to linger too long, so Kiyoomi snags him by the hair at the crown of his head and forces him to stay close. He licks up into his mouth with a groan and tries to commit the taste of him to memory. His mouth is so soft. Was it always this soft when they did this before? How could Kiyoomi not have noticed?
“Bed?” he suggests as he pulls back.
Because now he’s too-aware that this is a rare opportunity to touch and be touched without even a drop of fear, and as soon as he recognizes this moment for what it is, it’s impossible to let it go. He wants, in order from most pressing to least: to be naked in bed with Atsumu, to make Atsumu come, and to eat the entire tray of not -special brownies Osamu brought with a knowing smirk.
Atsumu asks, “Do you remember what we agreed to?”
There’s a memory—fuzzy but present—tucked away somewhere in Kiyoomi’s brain. He tries to summon it now and manages to say, with confidence, “Handjobs only.”
That earns him a soft, sweet smile, and Atsumu curls a big hand under Kiyoomi’s head and helps him sit up, fingers firm against his scalp. “Handjobs only,” he confirms.
Then he brushes his lips against Kiyoomi’s temple in a gentle, affectionate gesture before pushing and prodding Kiyoomi to his feet.
Standing is an entirely new experience despite the fact that Kiyoomi’s been doing it without issue for almost twenty-six years. He feels. Very aware. Of the blood in his body. And the shape of his own hips. And the bends of his elbows and how sweaty that tender, thin skin on the inside of them is. He slumps against Atsumu’s side as soon as Atsumu’s next to him and says, “Mmmmmmmmm, I don’t think I like this part.”
Atsumu’s voice is thin—probably because he’s trying not to laugh—as he says, “I gotcha. Hold on tight.”
And in a stupid, short-sighted, completely ill-advised move, he ducks to scoop Kiyoomi up bridal style like it’s fine for him to try to hoist and bear the weight of someone who’s 6’4”, broad a bookshelf, and impressively high. There’s flailing involved, and Atsumu nearly tips over no fewer than three times on their way down the hall. It is in no way an improvement from standing.
Dizzy and annoyed, Kiyoomi tucks his face in against Atsumu’s shoulder and makes a single grumpy sound. If their bedroom were any further away and if Atsumu smelled any less good, he’d throw himself back out of his arms and onto the ground and crawl the rest of the way. As it is, he braces himself with an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders and endures it until he’s finally laid out in their bed and staring at their ceiling, the world spinning slowly around him.
“Don’t carry me,” he huffs.
“Hey, I gotcha here in one piece, didn’t I?” Atsumu huffs from somewhere in the room. When he comes back he drops their box of sex supplies by the pillow next to Kiyoomi’s head and asks, “Can ya even keep yer eyes open right now?”
Kiyoomi opens his eyes and squints at him. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them, but he feels much less dizzy now than he did a few seconds ago. He considers the pinch of Atsumu’s brow and reaches for him, cupping his face in his palm.
“Kiss,” he breathes.
Atsumu curls down to give him what he asked for, but Kiyoomi jerks his chin at the last second and drags his tongue along that pretty line between his eyebrows instead, tasting him with a twist of happiness in his stomach. For his part, Atsumu holds himself ramrod straight and does not budge. His breathing gets weird, and Kiyoomi puts his hands on his neck and shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to comfort him in case he’s actually upset.
Instead, Atsumu’s scoops Kiyoomi’s hand off his neck and brings his fingers to his mouth to smear messy kisses over his knuckles. His voice has a smile in it as he complains, “Baby. What the fuck. How’s anyone supposed to survive you like this?”
Then he climbs onto the bed, on his knees, and drops down onto Kiyoomi’s thighs. Kiyoomi melts into the bed and tries to remember what this was like before, sober, but he can’t recall. It was just too different, being in his mind and under Atsumu’s hands at the same time. Every memory is tinged with the edge of anxiety, with questioning his every move and every inch of Atsumu’s body.
Right now, there’s no room for dread or anxiety or paranoia amongst all the good, light feelings spinning up in his chest like cotton candy, each as sweet as the day is long.
“Sumu,” he sighs, hands falling back to the bed, fingers tangling in his own curls which feel impossibly, unfamiliarly soft. He opens his eyes again to find Atsumu looking back at him reverently, bathed in gold light and dressed in all of Kiyoomi’s too-broad, too-long clothes like a gift. “Want you,” he says, and he means it in every sense.
“I feel like I’m gettin’ away with somethin’ I shouldn’t,” Atsumu sighs, but he’s smiling as he drags his sweater off over his head and flings it in the general direction of their laundry hamper. Then he curls forward, slips his hands under Sakusa’s shirt, and presses his palms to the lines of his ribs.
The touch is a trigger. Feeling shoots through Kiyoomi, and he arches up with a harsh sound as warmth pushes through him like he might burn up under Atsumu’s hands. It’s like this every time—Kiyoomi wholly unaware of how cold he is until Atsumu’s touch puts it in stark relief. Somehow he always forgets just how much he likes this feeling and the way it undoes him all at once.
“Off,” he insists, tugging aggressively and clumsily at his own shirt. He knows from experience that being half-naked means Atsumu will put that wide, warm mouth on him, and the thought of going without it now is unacceptable.
When he gets stuck in his own sleeves, Atsumu takes pity on him and jerks the fabric up and off in one sharp tug then tosses it towards the hamper. Kiyoomi lays back and watches him with heavy eyes. Strangely, he realizes that there’s a towel under him. Right—they knew this was where this was going to go, and they planned ahead. The memory is briefly so bright it eclipses everything else, and then it’s gone again in favor of the sensation of Atsumu’s hands sweeping up his sides again.
“Every inch of ya is just so damn pretty,” he sighs, hands cupping Kiyoomi’s pecs as his thumbs drag across his nipples slow and teasing to earn a ragged sound from Kiyoomi. “Fuck, you like it so much, dontcha?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t nod, though he kind of wants to, because even high as a kite this feels like one admission too far. But he does arch up into Atsumu’s touch, which is more or less the same thing even if it makes him feel a whole lot less vulnerable.
“Beggin’ for it, huh?” Atsumu teases, curling over him now and bracing himself on one forearm he plants by Kiyoomi’s head. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve gotcha.”
Then he puts his mouth to one of Kiyoomi’s nipples, and Kiyoomi’s jaw drops open around a silent, shivering moan. Every nerve in his body rewires to that single point of contact, to the soft-sweet heat of Atsumu’s mouth against his chest.
“Fuck,” he says, the word punched out of him. He can’t help but reach up with trembling fingers and tangle them into Atsumu’s hair, desperate to keep him curled in close while offering himself up in turn. “Fuck,” he repeats when Atsumu does something particularly cruel with the curl of his tongue.
Atsumu tries to draw back, but Kiyoomi tightens his hold on his hair which makes Atsumu shush him and say, “Just gonna take care of the other one, baby. That okay with you?”
After a second’s consideration, Kiyoomi nods, and Atsumu fixes his mouth over his other nipple with enthusiasm, teeth scraping this time to pull a broken sound from somewhere deep in Kiyoomi’s throat.
Having Atsumu over him and the high in his veins makes everything feel very warm and unfamiliar but nonthreatening just the same. It’s strange, if only because he’s only ever been capable of seeing the unknown through the lens of how do I protect myself from that ? Even Atsumu, at first, had been an unknown variable, something that needed to be broken down and calculated extensively before Kiyoomi felt brave enough to confess to him.
“Hey,” Atsumu murmurs now, eyelids heavy as he draws back to look down at Kiyoomi, a finger dragging up the curve of his cheek as he tucks an errant curl behind Kiyoomi’s ear. “You okay? Yer breathin’ a little wet there.”
Is he still? How weird. His eyes are burning a little too.
But he just nods and says, “Take off my pants,” with more authority than he should be capable of while this high. Atsumu squints down at him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’, bossy,” he huffs.
He shifts back to hook his fingers in Kiyoomi’s sweats and drag them down to mid-thigh in a single, efficient jerk—helped considerably by the way Kiyoomi’s lifted his hips and holding himself still, his hard-won core strength put to good use. Atsumu’s gaze is dark and serious and downcast for a full minute before he looks back up, tongue poking out to wet his lips before he purrs, “Pretty here, too.”
The thought occurs to Kiyoomi that he wants, very badly, to fuck Atsumu’s mouth right now. He knows there was a—an agreement at some point. They came to terms with something. About something. There were definitely things that they would and would not do. And Kiyoomi badly hopes his cock in Atsumu’s mouth was on the do list.
“Can we,” he asks, but his mouth and throat are so dry the words come out strange and tight. He swallows thickly and tries again, reaching up to put the tips of his fingers against Atsumu’s full bottom lip and groaning a little when Atsumu opens his mouth and sinks it down over Kiyoomi’s fingers to take them three knuckles deep. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I wanna.”
Atsumu bobs his head and sucks a few times, then pops off with a wet sound. “Just hands this time,” he says softly. “You promised, remember?” He rubs his thumb in a circle over Kiyoomi’s hip bone and pets his side with his other hand. “If it feels good we can do some more later. Next time.”
Something about that rankles, but it’s hard to say what exactly that is when the steady back-and-forth of Atsumu’s hand and the soft turns of his thumb are coaxing a sort of sleepy-soft pleasure out of Kiyoomi that makes him feel boneless and brainless all at once. He tries to complain but only a grumble comes out, and Atsumu huffs a soft, fond laugh and coaxes Kiyoomi onto his side before laying out behind him.
“Wait,” Kiyoomi says sharply.
He tries to turn, needing to see Atsumu because he’s half convinced that if he can’t focus on him all of the bad feelings will come rushing in again. He’s not thinking clearly enough to put that into words, so he just stares at Atsumu with eyes that feel too-wide and wills him to understand.
Atsumu looks perplexed for a moment. His dark eyes move over Kiyoomi’s face, studying him carefully, and he chews on his bottom lip the way he does when he’s deep in thought. Finally, he shifts onto his back and pats his thighs.
“C’mere, then,” he says, grin cocked just the way Kiyoomi likes best, the way that makes it impossible to keep his hands off of him.
He goes to him, feeling like he’s made of nothing but elbows and knees and a buzzing, light high that reverberates between all those moving parts as he climbs into his lap with not a small amount of triumph.
“Got you,” he crows as he sets to work undoing the drawstring of Atsumu’s sweats. His fingers are too clumsy for the job, but he thankfully manages to avoid turning the loose bow into a knot.
Atsumu throws his head back with a warm laugh while Kiyoomi struggles and agrees, “Yeah, you got me, baby.”
He is the single most beautiful and stupid person in the world and Kiyoomi wants to give him everything. But he—apparently, at some point, while in a clear state of mind—promised just hands. So just hands it is.
Atsumu shifts his hips as Kiyoomi tugs at the waistband of his sweats to coax them down, and then they’re both mostly-bare, their pants tangled around their legs and leaving the most honest parts of them exposed, both of them flushed and hard for one another. Kiyoomi licks the middle of his palm and takes them both in hand.
“I brought this,” Atsumu harshes out, reaching to knock his knuckles against their sex supplies box. “Lube—”
“This is faster,” Kiyoomi decides while applying a slow twist of his wrist. “Feels good like this.”
Atsumu makes a sound like hhhhrnngh which Kiyoomi translates vaguely into fine by me. He jerks them slowly and squeezes a little tighter when his hand gets to the heads of their cocks. It feels different now that he’s high. While the individual sensations alone are heightened—their cocks feel hotter, their breaths sound louder, and the smell of sweat and sex is impossibly stronger—but the need to come feels very, very distant. Instead of working towards release, this is touching for the thrill of touching. For the thrill of being able to touch. That’s almost headier than the high.
In no time at all, Atsumu starts to squirm, and he makes abortive little sounds as he fucks his hips up weakly. It’s odd. Odd enough that Kiyoomi makes note of it happening, but not odd enough that he feels the need to stop or change direction. Atsumu is foolish and lovely and all the things in the world that Kiyoomi wants, but there’s only so many ways he can divide his addled attention right now. It feels so good to have a hand curled around his cock and Atsumu’s hot, fat cock pressed against him that it’s nothing at all to decide to ignore him and his strange squirming for now.
He pulls his hips back, slow slow slow, and watches raptly as precome dribbles out of his slit and onto the vein along the underside of Atsumu’s cock. Then he fucks forward again and groans as he smears that drop between them with his own cock. Sex is filthy. That never fails to excite him—the taboo of it only heightened by his own fears—but normally that excitement comes hand-in-hand with a quiet hum of anxiety, with the potential that any moment could be too much.
Right now, he wants everything.
He fucks foward again, and this time Atsumu’s cock jerks against his. He looks up at him with a wide, proud smirk, but Atsumu’s thrown his head back and has screwed his eyes shut, his chest heaving and redder than his face. He’s sweating all over, and Kiyoomi’s half tempted to let go of their cocks in favor of lapping at the hollows of his sternum and collarbone and throat.
Instead, he lets go of their cocks and runs his fingers thoughtfully over them both, brushing along the curve of their heads and the proud, hard lines of their shafts and then, with only a little hesitation, the dips of their slits.
This last is what finally breaks Atsumu.
"Please, baby,” he cries, head lifting enough for Kiyoomi to see he’s got fat tears in his lashes. “Stop teasing me.”
While he begs, he curls his own hand over Kiyoomi’s to form a proper grip again, which he applies to their cocks again and works Kiyoomi’s wrist to make him jerk them properly, harder and faster than before and—fuck.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi decides, taking his hand away to curl both of Atsumu’s around them instead, lacing their fingers together before he realizes that—no, that probably won’t work. He lets go and fucks his hips forward, chasing the sweet friction that comes as Atsumu really starts to work them. “Yes, yes, yessss,” he chants, the taste of the word so good on his tongue he never wants to stop saying it.
"Omi,” Atsumu moans, bucking up desperately against him. “Omi, Omi, Omi—”
Kiyoomi curls down to kiss him but loses his balance and ends up smushing his face into the sheets next to his head instead, and Atsumu lets out a bright, delighted laugh.
“You just—” he starts to say, but Kiyoomi grunts and starts to fuck into the curl of Atsumu’s hands, hips pumping furiously to chase the knife’s edge of pleasure he’s able to ride at this angle. In no time at all, it has them both panting and shaking and making harsh, hungry noises.
“Gonna,” Atsumu chokes out, his rhythm faltering, and Kiyoomi swears hotly, ducks his head, and bites into the meat of Atsumu’s shoulder—teeth sinking into the tender skin there like he would never, ever think to do in any other state of mind.
He thinks, I want to keep him in my mouth, first. Then he thinks, I want to eat him whole, delirious and nonsensical and perfectly serious. Under his weight and his teeth, Atsumu wails and comes, shooting hot and thick against Kiyoomi’s cock and abs.
“C’mon, baby,” he urges right away, barely giving himself enough time to catch his breath as he shifts his hips to drag his away his sensitive, softening cock to wrap a hand tightly around Kiyoomi’s cock. He gets to work immediately, teasing the underside of the head of him with his thumb, dragging the tip of his finger over his slit and pushing. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Come for me already, dammit.”
Kiyoomi’s breath catches in his chest, and he comes so hard his vision whites out.
They fall asleep like that, on the towel on their bed, with Kiyoomi laid out flat on top of Atsumu, his face tucked into his throat, their limbs tangled together, and their mess still between them, drying on their bellies. It’s the filthiest Kiyoomi can remember ever, ever letting himself get. When he wakes several hours later to Atsumu snoring under him in the blue-black hours of Monday morning, he only regrets it a little.
Well. Until he has to literally peel himself away. Then he regrets it a lot. But there’s still so much good feeling in his chest—even though he’s significantly more sober now— that it’s impossible for the regret to put down roots and start to grow. He sits on his side of the bed and considers the long, strong lines of Atsumu, passed out on his back and snoring even as he listlessly scratches at the dried come on his stomach, and feels strangely at peace.
Impossibly, a part of him kind of wants to lay back down against Atsumu and go back to sleep just like this—messy and unashamed. He doesn’t, of course, because he thinks he might break out in hives if he lingers around in his own dried sweat and come much longer. But just the fact that he’s considering it feels like new, uncharted territory—the sort of thing he would have instinctively jerked away from just yesterday. But today. Today feels new.
Today feels like it could be any sort of day he wants it to be.