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a slippery cliff

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“I know ya said one time, but since you let me pick something, dontcha think it’s only fair for me to do something you wanna do, too?”

The words have been swirling around in Kiyoomi’s head since Atsumu closed the door to his apartment. They continue to resonate as he relieves the pressure between his legs, the heat that built and built in him throughout the scene. Kiyoomi doesn’t always get off after a session; that often isn’t the point, nor the primary source of the satisfaction he gets from domming. 

Although it’s not rare for him to be sexually gratified, Kiyoomi still finds himself clinging to a sense of furtive shame over the fact that he’s masturbating to Miya Atsumu, all but glaring at his dick as he strokes himself. The embarrassment slips through his fingers like water, washed away by memories of hollowed-out noises and straining muscles and the way Atsumu’s body looked when he finally went limp, giving into Kiyoomi completely-

“Shit,” Kiyoomi curses as he spills, so harsh and sudden that he nearly misses catching his release in a tissue. He bites his lip and groans through it, plagued by completely unwanted images of Atsumu’s face when he came the third time. 

Fuck. Fuck.

He pushes the thoughts away desperately as he showers and gets ready for bed. Sleep on it, he tells himself. 

Kiyoomi manages not to make any solid plans, but he can’t help but begin to run through lists in his head. He can’t help but begin to imagine what he’d do to Atsumu if he took him up on his disgustingly tempting offer. 


The thing is, Atsumu wasn’t just fucking with Sakusa when he offered to owe him one. At first he meant it mostly as a flirt. He was pretty sure that Sakusa had a good time. He said Atsumu did a good job. Atsumu definitely peeped a boner at one point during the scene. 

So that was motivation number one. 

On top of that, the idea of Sakusa choosing something added a delicious extra layer to the whole power dynamic and Atsumu was interested in that. It was a no-brainer to offer a repeat performance. He’ll just have to wait and see if Sakusa will take the bait.

He gets a text from Sakusa the next morning. It embarrassingly sends a bolt of heat straight from his stomach down to his dick when he sees the name flash across his cell phone screen. 

From: Omi-Omi
>> Are you feeling alright this morning? 

Atsumu smirks.

To: Omi-Omi
>> Feeling good~
>> (ノ ̄ω ̄)ノ

He waits for the next message with bated breath when he sees the typing indicator at the end of their text chain. 

From: Omi-Omi
>> Good. Make sure to drink extra water. See you at practice.

Atsumu frowns. Well, that’s not fun and flirty. He goes for the direct approach, considering that’s much more Sakusa’s style. 

To: Omi-Omi
>> Any thoughts on my offer, Omi-kuuuuuuuun?~

There’s no immediate response, and there’s not a delayed one either. The rest of the day goes by as normal. He doesn’t get too down about it since he has dinner with his Ma and Osamu, and family is more than enough to distract him from the tender feeling in his wrists. 

However, Atsumu’s optimism wavers over the next few days of practice. Sakusa doesn’t act any different than normal and he doesn’t acknowledge Atsumu’s offer of a second rodeo. Maybe he didn’t understand that Atsumu was serious? He fucks with the other man enough that he supposes it could be interpreted that way.

To be sure, Atsumu grabs a spot next to Sakusa on the team bus at the next opportunity. The spiker stores his backpack under the seat and adjusts his mask as the bus gets rolling. 

“Hey, Omi-kun.”


“Ya’know,” Atsumu says. “I really liked the-” he lowers his voice to a sub-whisper- “overstim, but I’d obviously be interested in tryin’ other stuff, so t’be clear I was serious—‘bout my offer.”

Atsumu’s leaning over in his seat to look at Kiyoomi’s face, trying to read his half hidden expression. It’s pretty much impossible.

“I know,” Sakusa says, with just a single quick sideways glance. 

Then he wedges his neck pillow into place, crosses his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes. 

Atsumu’s jaw drops a little. God, this guy pisses him off. In a huff, Atsumu pushes himself out of the seat and stomps towards the back of the bus where Bokuto and Hinata have set up shop.

The irritation carries Atsumu through the drive and through the game, but it loses its heat when he’s laying in a hotel bed wondering how Akaashi hasn’t murdered Bokuto for his snoring. He begins to wonder, what if it hadn’t been as good for Sakusa as it had been for Atsumu? What if it hadn’t been that great for Sakusa at all? The thought makes a sticky, hot sort of shame claw up Atsumu’s throat, his skin crawling with embarrassment.

Atsumu doesn’t have any point of comparison, obviously, but Sakusa is clearly very good at the whole dom thing. He thinks about the leather he’d seen hanging in Sakusa’s bathroom, evidence that Atsumu wasn’t the only one recently in his bed. His personality sucks but he’s objectively attractive; Atsumu will give him that.  He probably has perfect, delicate, experienced subs lined up out the door. He probably doesn’t need Atsumu to throw him a bone or whatever. It had been Atsumu begging him to even get a foot in the door in the first place. 

Atsumu groans, partly at the situation but mostly at himself. He grabs a pillow and whips it towards the chainsaw sounds coming from the other bed. 

“Hurk—!” the noises stop for a second as Bokuto chokes and then mumbles, “Awghawshii…”

The snoring begins again and Atsumu presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. 


Kiyoomi sits in front of his laptop again. It occurred to him the other day that the only reason he was likely entertaining Atsumu’s offer is because he hasn’t found a compatible sub yet in Osaka. Just because he and Atsumu seem to be semi-compatible, in spite of the other man’s inexperience, doesn’t mean there aren’t other very good reasons not to pursue a second session with him. Namely, number one, the most important being: he’s Miya Atsumu. 

So Kiyoomi goes back to the drawing board, pulling up the original leads from his community members, recommending local subs who might be available in Osaka. He shoots out a few new emails and is surprised to hear back from a man called Hikaru the same night. He sends his checklist over and Kiyoomi discovers that they have plenty of interest overlap. 

He’s actually a little upset he didn’t reach out sooner. Hikaru also includes a bodyshot, and he’s definitely Kiyoomi’s type. Not huge, but strong, with thick thighs and a soft stomach that he thinks would color up nicely under the right circumstances. 

Kiyoomi resolutely ignores the reason he’s moving much quicker than usual when he sets up a session for just two days later. 


“No, no, please—”

Hikaru shakes violently when Kiyoomi clicks the vibrator up another notch. He’s got him kneeling at the head of the bed, pillows removed and replaced with a number of clean grey towels—or, well, formerly clean towels. They’re currently splattered with the evidence of the man’s last three climaxes. 

Hikaru’s thighs quake with the effort of holding himself upright. He’s got a pair of clamps on his nipples, the short chain looped through the top of the headboard, promising excruciating pain if he gives in to his rapidly weakening muscles and sits down. Kiyoomi’s got him in quite the predicament, right where he wants him.

“Sir, please, I can’t—”

“One more,” Kiyoomi says, pressing the vibrator down against the man’s abused prostate, speeding the hand on his dick. 

Hikaru sobs openly, throwing his head back, shoulders bunching and face wet. He’s really pretty like this, Kiyoomi acknowledges. He’s done well, and the scene is going just as Kiyoomi planned. Hikaru is a great match on paper and yet… 

Kiyoomi’s just glad the man can’t see his furrowed brow when he realizes that all he can think about is how Atsumu would look with tears running down his cheeks just like this. 

Somewhere in the back of his head, Kiyoomi admits utter defeat. 


Atsumu’s phone buzzes on his coffee table. He can’t be bothered to reach over to look at it. The match yesterday against the Adlers was brutal. Five grueling sets, four of which approached or hit thirty points, only for the Black Jackals to finally go down to a service ace from Kageyama Tobio. That should have been the insult to their injury, but it wasn’t . What really got stuck in Atsumu’s craw was the fact that that the bastard immediately fucked off with Hinata to do whatever it was they did with their absolutely endless wells of energy while the rest of them asphyxiated on the court. Looking at those two, you’d think they’d just played a three-set practice match. As far as Atsumu is concerned, Hinata can set for himself next practice if he has all that extra energy… enough energy… for two people… he could just...

Even thinking is too exhausting right now. 

Atsumu had muscles he didn’t know existed cramping after that match. He’s still paying for it today, moaning and intermittently texting Osamu to beg him to bring onigiri. He’s sure the text that’s making his phone buzz is the man himself telling Atsumu to fuck off and stop being such a baby. 

He stares at the TV without moving for a little longer, until his stomach rumbles again. Maybe Osamu is actually in a charitable mood, unlikely as that may be. Atsumu groans as he flops an arm over, having to engage his abused core muscles to reach his phone. He flops back with a dramatic sigh and then unlocks it. 

From: Omi-Omi
>> Are you free on Sunday evening? 

Atsumu blinks at his phone stupidly. His fingers move before his brain returns from its spiraling. He shouldn't get ahead of himself, nor get his hopes up. But...

To: Omi-Omi
>> I think so? Why do you ask?

The response comes quickly.

From: Omi-Omi
>> Why do you think. 

Atsumu can feel the disdain through the phone. He absolutely doesn’t care. His fingers slam against the screen. 

To: Omi-Omi
>> I’m definitely free. What are we doing? 

From: Omi-Omi
>> We’ll discuss when you arrive. I won’t pick anything marked less than ‘curious about’ on your list. Come by at 7pm. 

Atsumu quickly sends a thumbs up, shocked at the way his body is responding to the tone of the texts alone. He sets his phone down on his chest and looks down at the bulge in his sweatpants. 

“Could you cool it?” he asks his dick. 

His dick resolutely doesn’t respond.


Atsumu sits across from Kiyoomi at his small kitchen table. He’s fidgeting, knee bouncing rapidly under the table as the other man outlines the details of his proposed scene. 

“So, edging, huh?”

“It’s something I particularly enjoy and it seemed… fitting, considering your first scene,” Kiyoomi smirks. 

Atsumu blushes, and Kiyoomi can’t wait to see if he relaxes under the restraints again. Right now he looks like one wrong move would have him bolting like a startled animal, but last time he’d calmed so quickly under Kiyoomi’s careful touch. 

“Right, right.”

Kiyoomi takes a drink from his teacup. 

“Beyond orgasm delay, I have some ideas about how the scene could evolve. If you’re okay with it, I might dabble in a few of your other checklist items. I like being able to adapt in the middle of a scene, but some people prefer not to go off script. Are you open to adjusting as we go, or do you want me to stick to whatever we agree to before we start?” Kiyoomi asks. 

Atsumu swallows hard, running his hand through his hair and chuckling nervously. “M’still not used ta how formal all this lead-in is.”

“Television does a very poor job of representing the community. Safety and consent are the most important tenets of real BDSM.”

“I know. I did the readings, Omi-kun,” he laughs again. Kiyoomi is pleased to see he seems to be gradually loosening up, even if he’s more of a flippant douche this way. “Anyway, I don’t think I wanna know details ahead of time. I’d be distracted thinkin’ ‘bout it. I trust ya, considering how serious you are ‘bout all this stuff. Plus, you’d stop if I didn’t like something at all, right?”

Kiyoomi is sort of surprised to hear the words I trust ya from Atsumu, but supposes he’d have to be even stupider than Kiyoomi thought to let someone he doesn’t trust, at least to an extent, tie him up. 

“Of course. That’s what the stoplight system is for,” Kiyoomi confirms, holding Atsumu’s eyes.

“Well there ya go,” Atsumu says, leaning back in his chair. Yep, he’s gone full flippant douche again. “Do yer worst, Omi-kun~”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. 

“Be careful what you wish for, Miya,” he says as he stands up from the table. Atsumu’s eyes widen just a little, but Kiyoomi notices and smirks behind the mask. He’s… he’s excited. “I’m going to go get set up. Feel free to finish your tea, and go take a shower whenever you’re ready.”


In the bedroom, Kiyoomi starts by flipping the washable quilt he keeps on his bed over the pillows. He’s not sure if they’ll actually use the bed today, but better safe than sorry. Then he goes to the chair in the corner and moves the potted plant on the seat to the top of his dresser. Kiyoomi sets the chair at the end of the bed, facing the headboard.

He goes to the closet and pulls out what he needs for the scene, plus a few extra just-in-case items, and does one last check for cleanliness and functionality. Kiyoomi gently lays out the various cuffs and thin chains on the foot of the bed. Finally, he takes one of his small bedside tables and sets it near the chair, making sure the lube, gloves, and a spare towel are all in reach. Satisfied, Kiyoomi grabs his change of clothes and heads into the bathroom to shower. 

When he returns to the bedroom, Atsumu is already there, naked except for the towel around his waist. He’s got one of the cuffs in his hands, turning it over in his palms. He turns towards Kiyoomi when he hears the bathroom door close. 

He looks a little like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Sorry, was just curious why there’re six cuffs when I only got four limbs,” he says, twirling the cuff around one finger as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Kiyoomi smiles faintly behind his mask as he rolls up the sleeves of his button-up. The bravado Atsumu is displaying is easy to see through, and Kiyoomi is excited to shatter it. 

“The extra two are for your elbows. Once you’re bound to the chair, I don’t want you to be able to lean too far forward,” Kiyoomi explains, taking the cuff from Atsumu’s hands.

He immediately takes Atsumu’s arm and slides the cuff around one wrist, holding the other man’s eyes as he tightens it. Not too tight, but tight enough. He sees Atsumu’s throat bob and begins to let his instinct, the persona, take over. There’s a tingle in Kiyoomi’s fingers at the skin on skin contact.

He blinks. Gloves. He should put on gloves.

“Fold your towel and place it on the chair, Atsumu, then take a seat,” Kiyoomi says as he pulls on a pair of black nitrile gloves. 

He doesn’t look up to see if Atsumu follows the instructions. Instead, he indulges in the delayed gratification, gathering three more of the cuffs from the bed. When Kiyoomi turns around a moment later, the other man has done exactly as asked. He’s waiting with his hands in his lap, watching Kiyoomi with an open expression. His cock lays against his hip, thick but not yet fully hard. 

Kiyoomi puts the cuffs on methodically, first on Atsumu’s other wrist, and then one above each of his elbows. He enjoys the way Atsumu lets himself be repositioned, the way he submits to Kiyoomi’s fingers, firm and clinical, moving his arms behind the back of the chair. Kiyoomi takes a longer silver chain and runs it through the d-rings on each of the elbow cuffs. He crosses it to form an x before securing the chains at Atsumu’s wrists. Finally, he attaches the ends of the restraint to the metal supports beneath the seat of the chair, effectively taking Atsumu’s arms and freedom of movement out of play. He should be able to lean forward a few inches, but no more. 

When Kiyoomi comes back around the chair, Atsumu is fully hard and breathing shallowly, eyes wide. 

“Already this worked up?” Kiyoomi muses, tipping his chin upwards with a knuckle to observe the flush on his cheeks. “I’m going to start with thirty minutes since you’re a beginner, but if you’re already this aroused it’s going to become difficult for you pretty quickly.”

“Thirty minutes of what?” Atsumu bites out.

“Edging. Stimulation without orgasm.”


Kiyoomi grabs the final two cuffs and a pair of folded washcloths. He wraps a cuff loosely around Atsumu’s left ankle and the leg of the chair. He slides one of the washcloths between skin and metal before tightening the cuff, binding Atsumu’s ankle to the outside of the chair leg. He repeats the process on the right side and then sits back to survey his work. The restraints effectively spread Atsumu’s knees apart; when Kiyoomi looks back at his face, he has his eyes squeezed shut, seemingly trying to regulate his breathing.

Kiyoomi wonders how long that will last. 

He slides in front of Atsumu and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. They’re eye level now, Atsumu staring at him like a wild horse that knows it’s about to be broken, a little defiant, a little scared. 

It makes something that feels like molten honey pool in Kiyoomi’s chest. He loves this, he really does. 

“Do the bindings feel okay? They should be tight but shouldn’t pinch or cut off any blood flow,” Kiyoomi says, reaching out to gather a couple pumps of lube to warm in his palm. 

“Th-they’re fine,” Atsumu says, eyes trained on Kiyoomi’s hand. Kiyoomi rubs his fingers together just to see him squirm a little more. 

“And your color?”

Atsumu’s gaze snaps up to meet Kiyoomi’s.


Kiyoomi smiles behind the mask. “Good, then let’s begin.” 

He glances at the hands of the round, metal alarm clock on the dresser behind Atsumu, noting the time. 

Kiyoomi starts by getting Atsumu wet all over, sure strokes from root to tip. Atsumu sucks in a deep breath, thighs jumping at the first touches as he gets harder in the firm grip. He really does have a nice cock; Kiyoomi wasn’t lying when he called it pretty during their first scene. It’s proportionate to his body, and thick, with a graceful upward curve to it. It fits in Kiyoomi’s hand well, with more than enough length to work with. 

He spreads the lube around, working up to a steady handjob rhythm, if a bit slow. Atsumu is still dragging air in through his nose and letting it out between pursed lips. His shoulders are tense, legs braced like he’s getting ready to receive an Olympian’s serve. Kiyoomi is going to push him until his own thoughts no longer control his movements, until Atsumu’s body is responding not to his mind but to Kiyoomi’s hands alone. 

Atsumu lets out a throaty groan and Kiyoomi slows his pace even further. 

He really does enjoy edging. It’s not that ‘hardcore’ compared to other kinks on the surface; people don’t balk at it like they do paddling or rope suspension. But it’s revealing, and unforgiving, and Kiyoomi hasn’t seen anything break a man down more quickly. 

Kiyoomi keeps it up until Atsumu’s knees begin to cant outwards, then takes his hand away.

“Shit— the fuck, Omi—”

“We’re just getting started. That wasn’t even an edge, I just needed you fully hard.” Kiyoomi looks up to hold Atsumu’s gaze for a moment. His face is red, neck slightly strained by the position of his arms and the way he’s still defiantly arching his back. “From now on, you’re going to tell me if you think you’re about to come.”

Atsumu grits his teeth, “What?”

“I know your tells a little from the first scene, but I don’t know your body well enough to be sure you won’t come without warning,” Sakusa explains and reaches back out to loosely tease his length. A muscle in Atsumu’s jaw twitches. “If you don’t tell me, and come before I give you the ok, I’ll just restart the clock, this time with sixty minutes.”

Atsumu’s hips jump, just a little, and Kiyoomi smirks behind black fabric. 

He rubs a small circle at the base of Atsumu’s cock, brushing the skin of his drawn-up balls on each downstroke. 


Atsumu is biting his lip and Kiyoomi reaches up with his clean hand to pull it free, pressing it down against his bottom teeth for just a moment, forcing his mouth open a little. It’s enough he can feel Atsumu’s quickening breath through the nitrile. 

“Do you understand, Atsumu?”

There’s no response, just a deeply furrowed brow, so Kiyoomi takes his balls between his first two fingers and pulls, squeezing them gently between his knuckles. Atsumu gasps.

“Sh-shit! Yes, Omi, yes. I got it…!”


And then Kiyoomi begins in earnest, fluttering his fingers up Atsumu’s cock before forming a circle with his hand, almost pulsing it up and down over the head. He hears a low groan catch in Atsumu’s throat. 

After a minute or two, Kiyoomi rakes his eyes up and down Atsumu’s body. He clocks the tightening of his abdominals, the spasms in his thighs and the outside of his glutes. Kiyoomi is going to test something. He grabs the towel between Atsumu’s legs with his free hand and pulls him forward a couple inches with a sharp jerk of his arm. Atsumu gasps again as his ass is pulled closer to the edge of the chair, changing the angle. He’s more exposed this way, his lower back closer to the seat. His dick would lay against his stomach if Kiyoomi let go.

But he doesn’t. He wants to see where Atsumu’s head is at. 

An errant thought passes through Kiyoomi’s mind: perhaps what setters get out of volleyball isn’t so different from what Kiyoomi gets out of domming. The idea of having to listen to all his teammates, assess their conditions, observe the opponent, and synthesize all that into strategic execution isn’t something Kiyoomi is interested in. But he can empathize with the rush they must feel when all that information produces results as he tracks the flush crawling further down Atsumu’s chest, recognizes the shift in his breathing, feels the cock in his hand twitch and pulse. 

Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow as Atsumu’s back begins to arch, head tipping back, toes curling—

He releases Atsumu’s dick suddenly, reaching up to press his thumb into his frenulum, his index finger pressing down against the other side. He squeezes, not hard enough to hurt Atsumu, but enough to cut off the orgasm that had definitely just been about to crest. The other man’s body jerks like it’s been shot. 

A crushed, strangled sound leaves his lips. 

Kiyoomi keeps the pressure up, eyes trained on Atsumu’s face, until he collapses back into the chair. 

“That was a favor, Atsumu. What did I say?”

Atsumu’s eyes are squeezed shut and he tucks his chin downward, breathing harshly. 

“I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

Kiyoomi doesn’t give him too long, and begins again gently, just his fingertips, trailing up and down his cock. The head is slick, wet with Atsumu’s precome, evidence of how close he’d been; Atsumu’s hips twitch away but Kiyoomi’s fingers follow, relentless. 

“How am I supposed to know your limit if you don’t even know your own?” Kiyoomi continues, leaning forward. 

Atsumu sucks in a shaky breath, “I wasn’t—m’sorry, m’sorry.”

Kiyoomi hushes him and runs his clean hand over his hip, across his taut stomach.

“Shh, I know. You’re learning.” 

He’s never really understood the fascination that some doms have with ‘training’ new submissives. It’s always seemed like a chore in Kiyoomi’s head, having to explain everything, having to move at a snail’s pace. 

He gets it now. While knowing Atsumu in his daily life was a large reason Kiyoomi didn’t want to start this with him, it’s reaping unexpected rewards now: Kiyoomi can track how he slowly cracks open, experiencing and reacting to these things for the very first time. Knowing how Atsumu acts normally means he can see the subtle ways he’s beginning to bloom under Kiyoomi’s directions, under his hands. 

Kiyoomi resists the urge to adjust himself in his slacks. This isn’t about that. 

He increases the pressure of the hand skating over Atsumu’s torso, drawing his palm over his sternum and back down. He draws a circle with his thumb on Atsumu’s hip as he stops his teasing and wraps his hand around the other man’s length once more. Atsumu grunts and his abs jump underneath his skin.

Kiyoomi keeps it fairly light this time, knowing that Atsumu will be much more sensitive now that he’s almost come once. His dick is bright red and sticks straight up, even when Kiyoomi momentarily lets it go to get more lube. 

He glances up at the clock. It’s only been about seven minutes. 

Atsumu’s cock is swollen and so hard that it barely has any give to it. Kiyoomi has always been fascinated by just how obscene an edged erection can be, the head so smooth and slick. Kiyoomi tightens his hand again, rolling his palm over the tip with a twist of his wrist on each short upstroke. 

It doesn’t take long for Atsumu to begin struggling again, pulling against his bonds, his balls drawing up. He tries to close his legs unsuccessfully, as if he could keep Kiyoomi away. It does get his knees in the way a bit as the cuffs slide up the legs of the chair.

Kiyoomi pushes down on one knee, hard.

“Keep your legs open,” he snaps. 

Atsumu flinches at the words and then his eyes fly open. 

“Omi—Omi, Omi, Omi—”

Kiyoomi releases his grip on his cock, understanding the warning. A groan rips from Atsumu’s throat as his hips twitch, looking for the lost stimulation that would have put him over. 

“Good. That’s good, Atsumu,” Sakusa says, moving his hands to the top of his thighs, both a comforting gesture and making sure he doesn’t fully let up on the arousing touch. 

He doesn’t want Atsumu to go over, but the goal is to keep him close to that tipping point, until his whole body is a livewire. 

Kiyoomi moves his hands upward, one leaving damp trails and the other dry. When he reaches Atsumu’s chest, he goes straight for his target, running his thumbs around his nipples. As soon as they’ve perked up, he switches to plucking at them lightly. Atsumu’s chest puffs out at first and then he tries to shrink away, his abs rolling.


“Sensitive?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu doesn’t respond and so Kiyoomi rubs tight, quick little circles around the buds. He whimpers and Kiyoomi hears the chain clink against the chair as it goes taut. 

Twelve minutes have passed, by a quick look at the clock. 

He trails his hands back down Atsumu’s body, one coming to rest on his hip and the other closing around his length again. He rubs his thumb under the head and then strokes softly down to the root, and back up, repeating the motion until Atsumu’s hip is fighting his other hand. It doesn’t take long before Atsumu is chanting Kiyoomi’s name in warning once more. 

Kiyoomi draws light patterns over his swollen balls, now permanently drawn up tight, as Atsumu sobs at the loss of another imminent release. His toes are curling against the floor as Kiyoomi pets his inner thighs with his free hand. 

The muscles twitch violently. Kiyoomi’s own face is hot as he takes in the way that Atsumu is finally reaching the point where even the softest touches must feel overwhelming. 

Atsumu’s head lolls forward and he bites his lip hard, staring down at his dick with shock and a little bit of fear in his eyes. He’s probably never felt like this before—didn’t know he could feel like this. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and circles one delicate fingertip around the head, smirk growing as Atsumu grunts and his mouth drops open.

“Are you seeing yourself?” Kiyoomi murmurs, taking his finger away. A string of precome sticks to the glove, connecting to Atsumu’s dripping cock, before it finally breaks and hangs from Kiyoomi’s fingertip, obscene. “Look at that.”

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, thighs hitching like he’s aching to close them. “Omi…”

The next time Kiyoomi brings him to the edge is fast and a little bit mean. He holds Atsumu’s balls in one warm hand as he twists his other up and down the base of his dick, avoiding the weeping tip entirely. A panicked noise falls from Atsumu’s lips.

“Close…!” His voice cracks sharply. 

Again, Kiyoomi lets go and moves his hands firmly up Atsumu’s sides to play with his nipples. It’s about time he slicks up his drier hand with lube but something possesses him to run his hand higher, up Atsumu’s neck, to his jaw. His head lolls again as he squirms against the fingers that are still plucking at his chest. 

His eyes flutter open when Kiyoomi touches his face. His brown irises are nearly eclipsed by his blown pupils. They’re wet. He’s not full on crying, but a few tears have squeezed out to saturate his lashes, clumping them together. 

“Look at you,” Kiyoomi murmurs, wiping away the moisture under one eye with his thumb. “We still have a while yet. Are you done fighting me?”

Atsumu’s lips part but he looks too overwhelmed to form an answer. Kiyoomi decides to answer his own question as he lowers his hand and slides two gloved fingers between Atsumu’s lips. He pushes them in, gliding firmly over his tongue. Kiyoomi’s breath catches when Atsumu’s eyes roll back and he moans. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t curse but it’s a close thing.

He pulls his fingers forward and presses them back in, rubbing over Atsumu’s yielding tongue, the tongue he can’t seem to keep in his mouth the second a camera comes out. For some reason it’s the most lewd thing Kiyoomi’s done today. He expected Atsumu to try and suck on his fingers or something, but no, he just takes it, lets Kiyoomi prod and press until a line of drool is dripping down his chin. 

It’s degrading and disgusting and Kiyoomi feels hungry watching him, desperate to do more—as much as Atsumu will let him. He’s a goddamn natural and Kiyoomi wants to find out how much he can take.

Kiyoomi leaves him drooling when he pulls his fingers back out. He brings the wet digits back to Atsumu’s chest and begins to rub over both his nipples quickly. He wonders… 

The other man’s chest rises and falls rapidly under the new onslaught, each breath coming out with a moan. Kiyoomi alternates between the rapid flicking and quick circles, watching closely for the way Atsumu’s lower half begins to twitch and buck. 

He brings one hand down, touching Atsumu’s dick with the back of a single finger, any barely-present friction coming from the other man’s inhibited movements alone. Not five seconds later he’s jerking his hips back, away from the touch.


He wonders…

Kiyoomi doesn’t stop teasing Atsumu’s nipples, wanting to keep him right on the cusp for a little while, but then Atsumu is crying out again. 

“Omi, Omi, stop, m’gonna—”

Kiyoomi removes his hands from Atsumu’s chest, eyes widening as the thrill of possibility spins in his head. 

“Oh? You really are sensitive,” Kiyoomi murmurs. “Could you really come from…? No, maybe another time.”

Sixteen minutes have passed. 

Enough messing around, Kiyoomi thinks, returning to working Atsumu with both hands. His touches are gentle, often barely there, but Atsumu rockets to the edge four times in as many minutes. 

“About ten more minutes, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi informs him which incites another sob, as the other man is still reeling from his last denial. 

“I can’t, Omi, I can’t— I need ta—I’ve gotta—”

When it only takes around twenty seconds for Atsumu to get back to the edge, gasping and crying out when Kiyoomi releases him, he thinks Atsumu might be right. If he was working with someone more experienced, he might let this come to its inevitable failed course: Atsumu either spilling before Kiyoomi gives him permission or safewording out. 

The situation being what it is, however, he doesn’t want to put Atsumu in a situation to feel like he failed, or worse, not feel comfortable enough to admit defeat when he needs to and turn this into a bad experience. 

Kiyoomi will have to adjust. 

He lifts Atsumu’s face with a knuckle, while he draws a slow path up and down his stomach with the flat of his other hand. His dick jumps every time Kiyoomi’s hand nears the base. He’s riding the knife's edge. His face looks wrecked, red and a little blotchy, a couple tear tracks and drool shining in the low lighting of the bedroom. 

“Atsumu, tell me how you feel.”

His brow furrows and his eyes don’t open.

“Hurts… need t’come,” he slurs. 

“You were supposed to give me thirty minutes, but it’s only been twenty, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi points out. 

The other man tries to curl in on himself, shuddering out a broken sound. Kiyoomi gently runs his hands all over his chest, his thighs, but stays clear of his dick. 

“Shh,” Kiyoomi soothes. “Why don’t we make a deal? I’ll let you come now, but you’ll have to pay me back for the ten minutes you couldn’t hold out.” His hands move closer to where Atsumu is hot and dripping, his cock nearly purple in places. “How does that sound?”

Atsumu quakes under Kiyoomi’s touch, and he doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, yes—anything, please, Omi, please…

Kiyoomi reaches out to collect a few pumps of lube into his hand again. He feels a little bad, like a crossroads demon making a deal with the dumbest man alive. Oh well… 

With that Kiyoomi wraps his slick hand around Atsumu and begins to stroke him in earnest, earning himself an immediate jolt and a long, low moan. This might be one of Kiyoomi’s favorite parts of edging: driving someone towards a climax they’ve been trying to avoid for so long that they’re almost scared of their own pleasure. 

The sounds pour continuously from Atsumu’s lips now, each exhale bringing a whimper or groan. Kiyoomi has to press a hand down on his hip to reduce his squirming to a point where he can keep hold of his dick. 

“Ah-ah-ah-Omi, I—” Atsumu cries out, voice shattering.

Kiyoomi shortens his stroke and focuses around the head, speeding up, relentless. 

“It’s okay, Atsumu. Let go,” Kiyoomi purrs. 

Then there’s the moment where Atsumu freezes, scrabbling at the edge, before tipping over. His whole body jerks violently and he throws his head back as his dick gets even harder in Kiyoomi’s moving palm.

“Omi!” Atsumu nearly shouts. 

The first pulse is a hot dribble, and then his cock kicks in Kiyoomi’s hands and a string of come makes it all the way to Atsumu’s collarbone as he cries out brokenly. This is the beauty of edging; the denial isn’t for nothing, the build is worth it. Kiyoomi keeps stroking, keeps the pressure up as Atsumu comes and comes. It drips down his chest, into his navel, over his hip, over Kiyoomi’s fingers. 

He keeps milking Atsumu until he starts to go soft and his moans shift to whimpers, his hips twitching away from Kiyoomi’s touch. 

When he releases him, Atsumu collapses completely, like a puppet with its strings cut. Kiyoomi’s tempted to sit there and drink in the sight for a moment, but his work here isn’t finished. He stands, pulling off his ruined gloves with a snap. The sound prompts Atsumu to crack his hazy eyes open. He looks up at Kiyoomi, who raises a brow.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Atsumu. We’re not done here.”


Atsumu has never come so hard in his entire life, no question, without a doubt. It’s like Sakusa pulled something out of him that he hadn’t known existed, and it radiated out to the very tips of his fingers and the very ends of his toes. And it went on and on , a momentary forever. 

He hears Sakusa’s words, but he doesn’t really register them until his ankles are uncuffed and Sakusa is doing something to his arms behind the chair. He's still feeling a little dazed when Sakusa speaks into his ear. 

“Stand up, Atsumu.”

He’s back in the zone where it feels good to comply, feels good to say yes. So, with Sakusa’s help, he stands up on jelly legs and lets himself be maneuvered into a kneeling position near the end of the bed. His arms are now folded loosely into the small of his back, Sakusa having clipped the cuffs together to hold them there. Atsumu is facing the side of the bed and has no idea what this is setting up for, but decides not to question it. 

Instead he just sinks back onto his heels and lets his head drop toward his chest until the next direction comes. His body still feels raw and sensitive, in need of oxygen, almost-aftershocks still making his muscles twitch at random. 

When Sakusa takes a seat in front of him on the bed, perpendicular to Atsumu, and lays a towel over his lap, he’s finally confused enough to start paying attention. 

“Lay down,” Sakusa instructs and Atsumu blinks in confusion. “It’s time to pay me back for letting you come so early. That was our deal.”

The only place to lay down from his position would be over Sakusa’s lap... his ass would be— oh . Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat and his hazy eyes widen. Embarrassingly, his dick gives a feeble twitch. 

“Do you know what I’m asking, Atsumu?”

“Yes,” Atsumu rasps, and leans forward to do as Sakusa asked. It’s difficult with his hands bound, but Sakusa guides him until his chest is resting on the bed, his hips pressed into one of the other man’s thighs. 

Sakusa is going to hit him. Atsumu always knew it would come one day but, when they ended up on the Black Jackals together, he certainly didn’t think it would happen like this.

He stares at the far wall through hooded eyes and breathes deep when he feels dry gloves against his skin, first just touching and then lightly kneading. 

“You’ll take ten. One for each minute you couldn’t hold out,” Sakusa explains. “Do you understand, Atsumu?”

He can feel the stitching of Sakusa’s blanket against his cheek, the texture of the towel against his thighs, the heat of Sakusa’s body—

“Yes,” he breaths. 

“Color?” Sakusa follows, squeezing Atsumu a little harder, bringing a flush to the surface of his skin, making him more sensitive.

“Green,” the word comes out on its own, instinctual and true. 


And without preamble, Sakusa spanks him, right across his left asscheek. Atsumu wasn’t ready and, even though it wasn’t that hard, he jolts and gasps. Sakusa’s palm brushes over the point of impact, but he doesn’t give Atsumu more than a second before he swings again, this time coming down on the right. 

It’s harder, and leaves a stinging sensation behind that makes Atsumu’s body squirm. 

“Can you take more, Atsumu?”

The sting has already faded into a simple warmth. He wants more, wants to feel it. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Please…”

He feels Sakusa’s hand twitch against his skin; any more observations are shocked out of his head when that palm connects again. It comes down hard this time, enough to drive a startled sound from Atsumu’s chest. 

A little voice in his head reminds Atsumu that this can’t even be close to a full power swing from Sakusa. In his mind’s eye he sees a volleyball rocketing to earth, compressed against the court, launched by the force of a national team calibre spiker. Atsumu’s skin feels tight and he shudders at the image. 

He might die. 

Sakusa hits him again, twice in succession, each a little harder than the last. Even knowing they’re coming, Atsumu’s body jerks at each impact. He’s breathing through his open mouth, the quilt getting damp against his cheek. It hurts, it hurts

“That’s five, Atsumu. Five to go.”

Atsumu moans. His ass is already radiating heat, but fuck if it isn’t getting all mixed up in his head again, the pleasure and the pain. 

His hips buck hard after the next strike, this one lower than the others, right in the crease between his ass and thigh. It’s painful. 

“Nnnh!” he gasps, back arching, chest coming up off the bed. 

Sakusa makes a low noise, then pushes him back down with a hand to his nape and hits him again, the hardest so far, right against the meat of his ass. Atsumu groans in the aftermath, hips twitching consistently now. With Sakusa’s hand on the back of his neck, he gives in completely, limp like a scruffed cat—boneless except for the desperate little movements of his lower half.

He moans through the final three strikes, each harder than the last. He might be drooling again, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that his ass feels like it’s on fire and there’s a shockingly large part of him that’s disappointed when Sakusa begins murmuring that it’s over.

“Good. That’s ten. You took it well, Atsumu…”

It takes Sakusa’s hand clamping down on his hip to realize he’s still twitching them a little. Oh. He’s hard again. Really hard, pressed into Sakusa’s thigh and leaking onto the towel spread over his lap. 

“You’re so worked up,” Sakusa says, like he’s commenting on the weather outside.

Atsumu forces his body to stop moving, taking shuddering breaths. It’s like the heat in his ass has migrated and concentrated between his legs. 

“Please,” he finds himself slurring. “Omi, please …”

A hand smooths over his backside, the burning sensation igniting again wherever it makes contact. 

“I’ve already given you one,” Sakusa says. Atsumu moans mournfully, hiding his face against the bed. “If you need to get off again you’ll have to do it yourself.”

Atsumu squirms in confusion as Sakusa makes no moves to unbind him. How is he supposed to get himself off without… 

Sakusa’s hand presses down on Atsumu’s tailbone. It clicks, triggering a hot shame that washes over his body. 

He hitches his hips once anyway, pressing his aching cock into Sakusa’s thigh. He knows he was doing it unconsciously earlier, but this is different. That was a reaction, this is him humping Sakusa’s thigh. 

It feels too good to refuse, though. 

Sakusa leaves his hand on Atsumu’s neck, thumb drawing back and forth absently, as Atsumu begins to roll his hips in earnest. The dry towel is a little rough on his skin but Atsumu doesn’t care. 

His ass stings and aches a little every time he tenses up to thrust and it drives Atsumu higher. He pants into the bed, rutting thoughtlessly. He’s not sure how long it takes, but it certainly isn’t much time until he feels the coiling pleasure in his gut concentrating. 

“Omi, Omi, m’close—”

He warns Sakusa instinctively, feeling like has to, he needs—

The hand on his neck kneads lightly, “Go on, Atsumu. Let go.”

Fuck, he needs that . Broken sounds pour from his lips as he spills into the towel, hips pumping erratically as his skin burns.

Atsumu feels like he loses grip on reality for a moment. When he comes to, Sakusa has the cuffs off and is rubbing the feeling back into his arms. Sakusa helps Atsumu kneel up enough that he can get free from under him and guide him into a position on his side. 

Through bleary eyes, he watches Sakusa walk to the ensuite and return a moment later with a washcloth, warm and so soothing against his sticky skin. He keeps his gaze trained on Sakusa, still feeling really floaty in the afterglow. 

“M’sorry I couldn’t—hold out longer,” he mumbles. 

Sakusa hushes him and actually runs his fingers through Atsumu’s hair, pushing his sweat-damp bangs off his forehead. Atsumu closes his eyes and hums contentedly. 

“You did extremely well for your first time,” Sakusa says, and there’s something genuine in his voice that makes Atsumu believe it’s not just a platitude. “It takes practice. If you liked it, you can get better at it.”

“I did… like it. Wanna do better. I’ll do better… next time...” Atsumu murmurs, too caught up in the moment to think better of the loaded statement. 

The washcloth stills against his skin for just a second, then continues.

“Yes. Next time.”