When Kiyoomi realizes the message he got from Atsumu is a picture and not a text, it’s already too late. He swipes up to open it out of habit and immediately curses under his breath.
Tugging the phone close to his chest, he quickly glances around. The gym is mostly empty at this hour, but there is never a good time to be caught staring at your boyfriend crotch in public.
It’s a mirror selfie of Atsumu from the neck down, bare chested. He still has pants on (small mercies), but his sweatpants leave very little to the imagination. The hand that isn’t holding the phone to snap the picture is tugging slightly at the waistband, teasing. In true Atsumu fashion, it’s accompanied by a text that simply reads ‘miss u’ and a winking face emoji.
Kiyoomi allows himself a good two seconds to look before lowering the brightness and starting to type an angry response. Atsumu knows he’s at the gym. He doesn’t miss Kiyoomi; they saw each other a few hours ago. He just wants attention and to get under Kiyoomi’s skin. And it’s working. Asshole.
Right as he’s about to press send, he receives a second message.
The pants are gone.
Atsumu is sitting down on their bed, the angle showing him cupping himself through his boxers. Things are escalating and, even though it’s not in the picture, Kiyoomi can practically see his stupid smirk. It’s radiating through the screen. It’s the same kind of smirk he wears when they’re facing each other and he’s about to make a move. Kiyoomi knows Atsumu’s game, which means he needs to intervene before it devolves any further. He can already feel heat pooling in his lower stomach.
He manages to send his text uninterrupted.
Can you stop sending me nudes i’m still at the gym
Atsumu’s response comes mere seconds later, which is a bad sign.
I know ;)
It’s followed by one of the most obnoxious selfies Atsumu has ever sent him. He’s staring at the camera dead on, cheeks flushed, biting his lips. His hair is mussed like he’s been pulling on it.
That look is infuriatingly attractive on him.
Kiyoomi would know. That’s the same stupid expression he wears sprawled underneath him when he manages to get his way. Hot, and ridiculously proud of himself.
If Kiyoomi was a stronger man, he would turn off his phone or put it on silent to ignore his messages, let Atsumu get off on the idea that he managed to get Kiyoomi hot and bothered in public. It wouldn’t be the first time. And Atsumu always knows, like some sort of useless, horny sixth sense.
Instead, he chooses an obscure machine as far away from everyone else as possible, facing a corner, with not a single mirror in sight. He disinfects the seat, pretends to fiddle with the weights, thinks about it long and hard, and ultimately throws caution out the window. Grabbing his phone, he sends Atsumu a quick text, knowing he’ll interpret it as the green light that it is.
Fine. do what you want.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
His phone vibrates in his hand and he jumps before aggressively plugging in his earphones to answer the call. God, he should have known. Give Atsumu an inch and he’ll take a mile.
“Omi.” Atsumu sounds wrecked already and the sound of his voice goes straight to Kiyoomi’s dick. “I wasn’t sure ya were gonna pick up.”
“Well, I can’t text and I can’t talk either.” Kiyoomi quickly glances around. He chooses his words carefully, bringing the earphone’s mic close to his mouth. “What are you going to do?”
“That’s okay.” Atsumu exhales shakily. “Yer a good listener, aren’t cha?”
Kiyoomi’s dick twitches with interest. He actually pulls out an earbud to make sure the gym’s music is still obnoxious enough to bury the sound of their conversation. No one seems to be paying him any mind.
Atsumu keeps going. He murmurs, low and smug into Kiyoomi’s ears. “And I know ya like my voice, Omi. Yer not as slick as ya think ya are.”
So he’s started already then, his accent heavier through the phone. Kiyoomi refuses to take the bait. He jams his earbud back in and begins his reps. Up, inhale, Down, exhale.
When he realizes he’s not going to answer, Atsumu huffs. He shifts gears and gets straight into it. “I’m thinkin’ about ya, Omi,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinkin’ about yer fingers around my dick, jerkin’ me off real good.” Kiyoomi gasps as Atsumu lets out a breathless laugh. “I love it when you touch me, yer so good with yer hands, yer so good to me—aah-ah.”
Atsumu is shameless, so shameless, getting turned on by the sound of his own voice. And Kiyoomi is easy, so easy, already falling apart for him. His flushed cheeks can be blamed on the physical effort, but the boner is a little harder to explain. He shifts on his seat.
If he were literally anywhere else, Kiyoomi would ask him to describe what he’s doing. In detail. This might be Atsumu’s game, but he knows the rules. As things are, however, he can only imagine. And Atsumu seems to be doing a pretty good job at unraveling himself. It’s a special kind of torture.
Atsumu stays silent for a bit, panting in the receiver. Tell me how you’re touching yourself, Kiyoomi thinks. Let me hear you.
Up, inhale. Down, exhale.
He focuses on the burning of his shoulder muscles as he lifts the bar over his head.
“Fuuuuck, ” Atsumu curses lowly. If he pays close attention, Kiyoomi can hear the sounds of him jerking off in the background. He bites his lip hard enough to sting. “Yer never careful with me and I love it. It’s yer mouth too, I love yer mouth. Ah!—If you were here I think I’d want ya to suck me off. You don’t do it often, but I love yer tongue. ‘M so hard for you, Omi.”
Atsumu whines and Kiyoomi has to swallow back a groan of his own. He clenches his eyes shut.
“I bet if I asked real nicely, ya would probably do it. You’d bite my thighs before gettin’ to it, too. Freak.”
Oh, Kiyoomi would. Atsumu’s inner thighs are so sensitive, he’d be a fool not to.
“Shit, when ya bite me, I love pressin’ against the bruises, even if I bitch about them. Yer so patient with it. I hate it. I hate ya sometimes. Yer too good. I’m always thinkin’ about it, about you. I’m always thinkin’ about you.”
He lets out a low moan. Kiyoomi gives up pretending he’s still counting his reps.
“I might even beg ya, y’know I don’t mind beggin’, right? With my cock in yer mouth and yer hands on my ass, I feel like I’m on top of the world.” That sounds like Atsumu. Greedy and entitled and exactly like something Kiyoomi would indulge him with. “Prep me while ya suck me off, ah—Kiyoomi—babe!”
Kiyoomi has to drop the machine. He grabs his water bottle and cups himself as discreetly as he can, pretending to adjust his training pants. He doesn’t dare look up. As things are, he’s afraid he’s going to meet someone’s eyes and they’ll know instantly he’s been listening to Atsumu murmur filthy things in his ears in a gym of all places. So he doesn’t, burning holes in the ground with his stare instead.
Atsumu chuckles. “Shit. Sorry, thought about yer fingers again.” His breathing is loud in Kiyoomi’s ears. “‘M close, Omi. Fuck.” He moans, loud and unrestrained, and Kiyoomi has a distant thought for their next door neighbors.
He can’t do this anymore.
He whispers into the mic, “I want to see you.”
“I—I don’t think I can wait.” Atsumu is panting again. He must be pretty far gone not to gloat about breaching Kiyoomi’s composure. “Video call...can ya—bathroom or somethin’”
Kiyoomi shoots upright. “I can do that.” He pretends his own voice doesn’t come out strangled.
He powerwalks to the locker room as quickly as he can without making it obvious he’s trying to hide a full on boner in his workout sweatpants. He’s turned on to the point where he feels like he has to be broadcasting some kind of horny aura for the entire gym to pick up on.
The locker room's bathrooms are blissfully empty. He locks the stall with finality and sits on the toilet, rubbing himself through his pants. Kiyoomi lets out a low groan and Atsumu curses in his ear. “Fuck, you sound hot.”
“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, as in get on with it, as in I don’t think I wait any longer.
He hears Atsumu fumble for a bit and the video comes up. He has set up the phone on their bedside table, at an angle that shows his chest down to his hip bone. He lays down on the pillows again and Kiyoomi might not be able to see any lower, but the movement of his hand and the way his hips flex upwards are telling enough. Atsumu drags his other hand up and down his chest in a motion that’s meant to be both teasing and comforting.
Kiyoomi would know.
“Miss ya,” Atsumu whispers, voice breaking on a moan. “Kiyoomi.” It’s unfair, the way his name curls on Atsumu’s tongue. Tender, alive. “Wish you were here. I’d take anything you wanna give me, y’know that right? Fuck, I love it, I love ya— Kiyoomi—”
Kiyoomi grits his teeth. Unfair, so unfair the way Atsumu makes him wish he’d have his hands on him all the time.
Atsumu is shaking now and Kiyoomi has had enough.
“Atsumu.” He brings the mic close to his mouth. “Come for me”
Atsumu shivers violently and Kiyoomi watches with rapt attention as he brings up his free hand to his mouth to muffle a yell. His whole body goes taunt when he comes undone, head thrown back on the pillows, ribbons of cum spurting on his stomach. He moans sweetly, slowly coming down his high.
What a sight.
Kiyoomi lets out a deep exhale. He’s so hard it hurts. A lot of his personal boundaries have been put through the test since he started dating Atsumu, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to touch himself in a public bathroom. He digs his fingernails in the meat of his thighs.
Atsumu, useless, horny sixth sense activated, brings up the phone closer to his face again. He’s sweaty, his hair is a mess, his smile is the prettiest thing Kiyoomi has ever seen.
“If you come home, I can take care of ya.”
His eyes are a little sleepy, a little dark, but Kiyoomi already knows.
There are no losers in Atsumu’s game.