Out of all the current and former volleyball players present at this Tokyo bar night, Akaashi Keiji is definitely the worst person Atsumu could have ended up talking to when all he wants to do is complain about Bokuto. As his frequent road roommate, Atsumu has discovered far too many of Bokuto’s shitty habits; he thought his boyfriend could commiserate, but Akaashi is giving him nothing.
Still, Atsumu is nothing but persistent, especially when he’s two beers in.
“...and the snorin’! God, the snorin’. Like a goddamn chainsaw, Akaashi, I don’t know how ya do it-”
“Bokuto-san’s snoring actually relaxes me,” Akaashi says, delicately tipping back the last of his drink before leveling Atsumu with a small smirk. “It’s like white noise.”
Atsumu stares at him. “What?”
“It’s true. It’s harder for me to sleep without it.”
“What the fuck,” Atsumu says. “I give up, you two are-”
Bokuto bounds over to them, a beer in each hand, and gives one of them to Akaashi before planting a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek.
Ugh. Atsumu can’t stand earnest displays of affection. “Where’s my beer, Bokkun? Ya could’ve carried more’n two with those giant hands.”
“Huh? Sorry, Tsum-Tsum! I didn’t want to spill Akaashi’s!”
Akaashi smiles and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Bokuto-san?”
“Maaaybe,” Bokuto grins, bumping Akaashi’s hip with his own. “What if I am?”
Akaashi leans in to whisper something in Bokuto’s ear and Atsumu takes that as his cue to hightail it out of there, heading straight for the bar. He was being serious about the beer - he’s due for another one. Unfortunately, there’s a bit of a crowd waiting for their drinks, so Atsumu picks what looks like a good spot to stake out the bartender and gets ready to take out his phone.
“Miya-kun,” a deep, polite voice says.
Atsumu turns to see Ushijima Wakatoshi holding an empty pint glass. “Hey, Ushiwaka! Jus’ Atsumu is fine, most everyone calls me that.” He does not think about Sakusa, who calls him Miya in front of everyone else but Atsumu when they’re... alone. He does not. “I didn’t know ya drank.”
“I don’t,” Ushijima says. “This was water. I am waiting for a refill.”
He’s the only smart person here, then. The Black Jackals are visiting Tokyo for a game against the Adlers; the match is tomorrow night and they’ll be leaving early the next morning, so Bokuto took the initiative to organize a social event the night before. There’s a solid turnout of Jackals and Adlers players as well as their significant others and a few players many of them knew from high school. Even Sakusa came out - probably to catch up with Ushijima, but he’s currently being cornered by Hoshiumi. Serves him right.
“Smart man,” Atsumu says. “It’s always risky drinkin’ the night before a match, but the turnout woulda been way worse tomorrow.”
“Indeed. I am happy to be able to see everyone tonight.”
As he tries to make eye contact with the bartender, Atsumu remembers hearing a rumor - maybe from Hinata? Probably from Hinata - that Ushijima was engaged. Maybe he should get some clarity.
“Say, is it-”
“Your wrists,” Ushijima interrupts him, gesturing to both of Atsumu’s arms. “What happened?”
Atsumu looks down at his own wrists and nearly drops his empty glass in his haste to tug the sleeves of his jacket down. Fuck. He’s done this with Sakusa twice now and he’s still getting used to covering the bruises left by leather cuffs. Sakusa even gave him green-tinted concealer and everything, not that Atsumu remembered to use it today. The bruises wouldn’t be this bad if Atsumu didn’t struggle so much, but, well. He can’t help it, and Sakusa seems to enjoy it.
He flushes and tries to act natural. “Oh, these? I jus’ went a little overboard with an attempted receive. Slammed ‘em into Inunaki. Shoulda left it to the professional, ya know how it is.”
“Hmm.” Ushijima tilts his head, expression curious. “Are you sure that’s the source? They look like bruises from handcuffs.”
Atsumu inhales so forcefully he chokes on his own spit. He can’t remember ever feeling a panic this acute, like he’s been suddenly submerged in a frozen lake.
“Wh— I— what the fuck would you know about that?”
Like whiplash, a wave of heat spreads over him. Fuck, that was rude, but so is asking someone about their cuff bruises in the middle of a goddamn bar.
His emotions must show plainly on his face, because Ushijima’s eyes soften. It’s a weird look on him, one that Atsumu’s never seen before. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only asked because they looked familiar.”
He looks so genuinely apologetic that Atsumu almost feels bad, and it takes him a moment to process his actual words.
“Oh, I… s’fine, man, you just surprised me, is all—wait, what? Familiar?”
Ushijima nods, “My fiance likes incorporating some bondage and other activities into our bedroom on occasion, so I’m familiar with bruises that wrap all the way around the wrist. It’s proven very enjoyable to add variation to a long-term relationship like ours. I personally quite enjoy edging.”
Atsumu blinks at him, eyes wide. He feels a little bit like he first did discovering all that stuff in Sakusa’s bathroom. Brain offline, head empty.
How can Ushijima just… say all that, without even a blush on his face? It makes sense that he and Sakusa get along so well, as direct as they are. Atsumu vaguely wonders how the bluntness comes off kind of endearing when it’s Ushijima but usually makes Sakusa just look like an asshole. Probably because Ushijima is a fundamentally good person and Sakusa is… well, an asshole.
Still, he wishes he could be as cool and level-headed about this as Sakusa is. Maybe it gets easier with time. They’re all adults, after all, and it’s just sex. Sex and… sex-adjacent things.
“Anyway, I apologize if I embarrassed you,” Ushijima adds when Atsumu doesn’t immediately respond.
“Oh, I… no worries.” Atsumu swallows and runs a hand through his hair, trying to think of it as a normal, matter-of-fact subject. Fuck. “Sorry, it’s just… kinda new for me. M’not used to talkin’ about it so casually.”
Ushijima nods. “That makes sense. Ah, hello, Kiyoomi-kun.”
Atsumu glances over his shoulder and nearly jumps when he sees Sakusa is right there. If there was any beer left in his glass he would have spilled it by now. When did Sakusa get here? How much did he hear?
“What are you two talking about?” Sakusa asks, instead of saying ‘hi’ like a normal goddamn human being.
Ushijima smiles, opens his mouth, and at that moment Atsumu has a startlingly certain fear that he’s going to announce, in the best possible faith to the worst possible audience, that Atsumu likes to be tied up. Not if Atsumu can blurt something out first, though-
“We were just talkin’ about Ushiwaka’s fiance!” he nearly yells, thankful for the loud background hum of the bar.
Ushijima closes his mouth and Sakusa relaxes a fraction. Thank god.
“Of course,” Sakusa says. “How is Tendou-san?”
“He’s doing well,” Ushijima says, his smile widening. “He’s nearly done with his last year of culinary school.”
Atsumu internally sighs with relief, successfully having shifted the topic of conversation from the danger zone. He thinks momentarily about refocusing his efforts on getting another beer when the name he’d mentally skimmed over flashes across his brain in neon lights.
Sakusa hums, oblivious to Atsumu’s internal crisis. “Good for him. Has he-”
Sakusa and Ushijima both turn to look at him. Atsumu feels like he’s losing his mind.
“Yes, Tendou Satori,” Ushijima says. “I thought you met him at nationals our second year. He has-”
“Red hair, all spiked up, tall an’ skinny? That Tendou Satori?”
“Why are you telling Wakatoshi-kun what his fiance looks like?” Sakusa asks him.
Ushijima nods and smiles. “Oh, so you do remember him!”
“‘Course I do! Who could forget that guess blocking?” The crowd had a name for him, Atsumu remembers. Guess Monster. And it fit perfectly, too. What a weird-looking guy. Which brings Atsumu to his original point. “Yer engaged to him?”
Sakusa glares at him. “Yes, keep up, Miya. We’re trying to have a conversation here.”
“I was havin’ one with him first!”
“What I was going to ask before I was interrupted,” Sakusa’s eyes slide away from Atsumu, “was if he knows what he wants to specialize in.”
Ushijima’s mouth quirks. “Well, he decided on the baking and pastry emphasis last year.” Sakusa nods. “But specializing within that… for a few months now he has been adamant about working with chocolate.”
Sakusa raises his eyebrows. “A chocolatier?”
Like Willy Wonka, Atsumu’s brain supplies helpfully. Tendou Satori and the Chocolate Factory. Tendou Satori, the man who is engaged to Ushiwaka, and the Chocolate Factory. Ushiwaka’s Fiance and the Chocolate Factory-
Atsumu was so caught up with the discovery of Ushijima’s fiance’s identity that he failed to put two and two together for thirty blissful seconds.
“My fiance likes incorporating some bondage and other activities into our bedroom on occasion, so I’m familiar with bruises that wrap all the way around the wrist.”
Atsumu’s already-upsetting visions of a Guess Monster-themed candy factory take a horrible and disturbing turn.
“I personally quite enjoy edging.”
Ushijima is… does he… does he let...
“Can I get you gentlemen anything else to drink?” the bartender asks, finally making her way over to them about five minutes too late.
Ushijima nods. “Yes, I will have another water, thank you.”
“Of course! And another house draft for you, Miya-san?”
Atsumu sets his empty pint glass on the bar with a surprisingly steady hand. “Make it a whiskey.”
Sakusa raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing. Ushijima’s blandly pleasant expression doesn’t change. The bartender’s eyes widen a little bit at whatever must be showing on Atsumu’s face.
Although it’s the night before a game and he can’t drink enough to black out and forget everything he just learned, Atsumu’s going to make his last drink of the night a damn strong one.
Sakusa starts preparing to leave at precisely 9pm to walk back to their hotel. His family owns a currently-unoccupied condo about four miles from here, but it’s not close enough to the arena to make staying there worth the traffic.
Unfortunately, before he can slip away, Atsumu spots him getting ready to go.
“Omi-Omi, leavin’ already?”
Sakusa grits his teeth as he pulls on his jacket. “Seems that way.”
Atsumu huffs. “Hey, before ya go-”
“Miya, I swear if you bring up what I think you’re going to bring up-”
“It’s real quick, I promise. I just...” Atsumu looks around and lowers his voice. “No cuffs next time, okay? People are askin’ about the bruises.”
Sakusa frowns. The bruises wouldn’t be as severe if Atsumu would simply stay still, but Sakusa supposes he could have some additional padding added to the inside of the cuffs. There are also other methods of restraint he could use instead. He also thinks about the end of their time together last night, when Atsumu mumbled something about next time and Kiyoomi, nearly drunk from the endorphins of guiding Atsumu through the scene, fucking agreed with him.
He wonders when Atsumu got so presumptuous, and when he himself got so comfortable with the idea of making their scenes together a regular thing. Sakusa hates it. He hates feeling out of control like this, he hates the conflict raging in his body, and most of all he hates that this is all centered around the specific human being standing in front of him.
Sakusa scowls behind his mask. “We’ll talk about this later.”
He leaves before Atsumu can respond.
Who says there’s even going to be a next time?
There’s definitely going to be a next time, Sakusa thinks as he browses fur-lined leather handcuffs on his favorite custom bondage gear website, phone screen glowing in the quiet darkness of his hotel room. Damn it all to hell.
Four days later, Atsumu’s at the grocery store when he gets a message.
>> What are your plans for the weekend?
He grins down at his phone, then slips it back into his pocket. He’s almost done shopping, so he’ll just wait to answer until he’s back at his car. He needs some time to think of a good response anyway—not too eager, but not too aloof—and, as an added bonus, hopefully Sakusa is on the other end squirming a little bit as the minutes tick by.
Once he’s loaded his groceries into the trunk, he sends his reply.
>> Got a family dinner on Sunday but nothing else is set in stone
>> Third time’s the charm eh Omi-kun~~
Sakusa starts typing almost immediately. Atsumu feels probably too smug for what the situation actually warrants, but he can’t help it.
>> Please don’t do this.
>> Do what??
>> Be yourself. It makes this much more difficult.
Atsumu huffs. What an asshole. Like it’s any walk in the park for Atsumu either, knowing that the best orgasms of his life have been at the hands of someone who’s made more than one of his own fans cry. Sakusa isn’t the only one suffering here.
>> If you were serious about avoiding handcuffs, there are other things we could try.
>> You said you were curious about shibari.
Atsumu resists the urge to keysmash as soon as he stops at the next red light.
>> Still am! ≧◡≦
>> Good. Remember that impact play chart you showed me?
>> Course I do
>> Take 2 ibuprofen an hour before you come over. Does Saturday 7pm work?
Oh. He swallows hard. One exclamation point still comes off as casual, right?
>> Yeah that works!
>> See you then.
Cool. Cool cool cool. Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool.
Atsumu thinks he might be getting better at this whole matter-of-fact approach.
“You really do have a sex toy aesthetic.”
Sakusa looks up and raises his eyebrows, the way he does when he wants to convey that he thinks Atsumu’s the dumbest person alive. “Hah?”
“All black everything,” Atsumu quips, gesturing to the length of rope in Sakusa’s hands. He ignores Sakusa’s glare; he’s immune to it by now. “All the shibari stuff I saw online was with red or white rope.”
“Oh.” Sakusa resumes coiling the rope around his hand, setting it in a neat little pile on the bed next to three other identical piles. “Well, white shows dirt easily, and I find red to be… tacky.”
Atsumu adjusts his towel around his hips in a desperate ploy to hide the fact that he’s already getting hard. It’s like a reflex now when he walks into Sakusa’s bedroom. “Well, the black looks cool, so I don’t blame ya.”
Sakusa hums as he finishes setting out the fifth and final length of rope. “I’m glad you agree. It’s going to look nice against your skin.”
Holy shit. Atsumu’s knuckles turn white where they’re gripping the hem of the towel. He’s sure Sakusa doesn’t even mean it as dirty talk, just as fact, but it’s affecting Atsumu regardless.
“Do you want to watch as I tie you?”
Sakusa gestures to the full-length mirror hanging next to his dresser. “In the mirror.”
Atsumu swallows, kneading the towel. He knows his answer, but for some reason he’s embarrassed to say it. “I, um. Sure.”
“Sure?” Sakusa squints at him, huffing out a laugh underneath his black mask. “Feeling shy, Atsumu? That’s a first.”
“Fuck no,” Atsumu growls, petulant.
He stalks over to the mirror and surprises himself with the flush that’s already staining his cheeks. He looks tense, too, so he tries to relax his shoulders and stand up a little straighter. No need to make it obvious to Sakusa how much all of this affects him.
Atsumu tries to keep his breathing even as Sakusa brings the ropes over in two trips, setting them on top of the dresser. He’s wearing a black button-down this time; Atsumu can’t help but wonder if he ever wears anything with color in it during a scene. Black is a good look on him, though, so he can’t complain.
“Ready?” Sakusa murmurs. Atsumu nods. “Good.”
He takes the first piece of rope and folds it in half, then steps up right behind Atsumu, closer than he’s ever gotten before. The darkness of his clothing is even more stark next to Atsumu’s pale skin, and Atsumu’s pulse quickens when he locks eyes with Sakusa in the mirror.
“Hold your arms out for now, away from your sides,” Sakusa murmurs. “Good, just like that.”
Sakusa reaches under his outstretched arm to bring the folded rope in front of Atsumu’s chest, then reaches around with his other hand to take the two loose ends, stretching the rope horizontally above Atsumu’s pecs. Sakusa isn’t touching him at all, but the way Atsumu’s skin is tingling tells him that Sakusa would be pressed against him to do this if he didn’t have those freakishly long arms. Sakusa wraps the rope behind him and must loop the ends together, because next thing Atsumu knows it’s tightening around his chest. It’s soft and sturdy without being scratchy; it feels nice on his skin.
Their first point of contact comes when Sakusa slides a single gloved finger underneath the rope to make sure it’s not too tight. Atsumu shivers and tries not to squirm.
All he can do is watch as what amounts to a harness comes together over his chest and shoulders. Sakusa grabs another length of rope partway through, calm and collected as he works. There are a few times that Sakusa has to step in front of him to make knots in the rope near his collarbone, and Atsumu is startled to note the absolute concentration in his eyes.
“Remember to keep breathing,” Sakusa murmurs. “I can still tie while your chest is moving.”
Atsumu closes his eyes in embarrassment when he realizes that his breath had caught in his chest. He hopes Sakusa thinks he was just being generous, trying to be as still as possible so Sakusa could tie his knots, even if it’s not true. Honestly, the way the ropes are dragging over Atsumu’s skin is doing something to him. There’s something impersonal and undeniably arousing about Kiyoomi’s gloves, his mask, or a pair of leather cuffs—but the rope is different. As the fibers catch against his arms and chest and then tighten—squeezing, just a little—Atsumu can’t help but think about how the bindings are his when they’re formed with rope. They cling to Atsumu’s shapes and curves, so closely that they couldn’t fit on anyone else.
That’s what made Atsumu’s lungs tighten and freeze, afraid to interrupt a process that was beginning to feel… intimate .
When Atsumu feels Sakusa step behind him once more, he opens his eyes and fights back a gasp. They’re not even close to being done and he already looks like those shibari models he saw online during his research, pecs outlined by rope and shoulders wrapped in decorative knots. It makes his head feel a little fuzzy and he has to look away.
“Now you can bring your arms back down,” Sakusa says.
It takes another length of rope to tie his biceps to his sides and his hands behind his back, elbows bent so his forearms are bound together. It’s not tight enough that it pinches his skin or cuts off blood flow, but there’s so much rope that there’s barely any give to the restraints when Atsumu gives an experimental tug. He can’t move his arms much at all, and even the pressure against his chest and back seems unflinching, demanding he stay still. Atsumu breathes out a sigh and shuffles a little on his feet, eyeing the two remaining pieces of rope on the dresser and wondering how Sakusa’s going to use them.
Sakusa reaches for the fourth piece, “Color?”
“Good. You seemed like you were struggling, so I wanted to check.”
“Oh… I, uh-” Atsumu shuffles his feet again- “just wanted to see how good yer knots were.”
Sakusa makes an annoyed sound that Atsumu’s pretty sure is a laugh, “Oh? Do they pass inspection, then?”
Yes. Atsumu ducks his head, blushing furiously. He can’t even think of anything clever to say, so he just nods. Even that movement incites a warning from the rope, letting Atsumu feel it on his body.
“I’m glad you think so.” Sakusa’s mocking him and Atsumu’s stupid brain isn’t working fast enough to do anything about it. He’s definitely getting him back for this later… when it doesn’t feel so strangely good to let the words wash over him. “I’m going to take off the towel now.”
Atsumu feels like it’s pretty reasonable to be hard at this point in the process, so he’s not as embarrassed when Sakusa slips the towel off of his hips and throws it on the metal chair. He gasps when Sakusa slides a gloved hand down the crease of his thigh, nearly touching his balls.
“Can you spread your legs a little?” Sakusa asks. His voice is gentler now and Atsumu rushes to do as he asks, hoping Sakusa will touch him for real. “Good.”
Atsumu’s lip hurts from how hard he’s biting it as he watches Sakusa wrap rope around his hips just like he did with his chest. He makes an embarrassingly breathy noise the first time Sakusa brings the rope between his legs, but by the time Sakusa does it again Atsumu’s got a better hold on himself. The harness that’s coming together almost looks like a kinky pair of shorts, the way rope circles both upper thighs and darts between them. His cock is framed by a small diamond and he can feel rope framing each ass cheek as well, separating them slightly.
The fifth and final piece of rope comes into play when Sakusa’s nearly done, to connect the chest and thigh ties together in an intricate series of knotted diamonds. Atsumu’s whole body is flushed and he’s breathing hard by the time Sakusa is finally finished. He’s always liked looking at himself, but now that he looks like a goddamn bondage model, he truly can’t look away.
Sakusa’s eyes are dark as he runs his gloved hands up Atsumu’s sides, the drag interrupted by the lines of rope, making each short touch feel like more than it is—and Sakusa is so close. If he was standing even an inch forward, he’d be pressed against Atsumu’s back. Even now Atsumu swears he can feel the soft brush of Sakusa’s shirt against the knuckles of his restrained hands each time he inhales.
“You look good like this, Atsumu.”
Oh, fuck. Atsumu opens his mouth to respond but ends up moaning instead when Sakusa’s fingers close around his nipples, pinching lightly.
Sakusa hums. “Sensitive, just like last time.”
Atsumu can’t resist at all now that he’s bound up like this, and he ends up feeling a little bit like a toy as Sakusa starts to tease his nipples, rolling them between nimble fingers and pulling on them until he gasps. The way the rope’s framing his chest makes Atsumu feel like he’s being presented, in a way, his body offered up for Sakusa to play with as he pleases. He feels a little lightheaded just thinking about it.
“You nearly came just from having your nipples played with when I edged you,” Sakusa murmurs. “Have you ever come like that before?”
Atsumu shakes his head, pleasure pooling at the base of his dick as Sakusa works. “I—no one’s ever really—hah—paid much attention to ‘em. Me included.”
“Hmm… that’s a shame,” Sakusa muses, cupping Atsumu’s pecs and squeezing before he starts plucking at his nipples again. “Don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake.”
On paper it’s dirty talk. In tone it sounds like Sakusa critiquing Atsumu’s receiving form. That somehow makes it hotter.
Sakusa takes his fingers away and Atsumu nearly whines at the loss. “Let’s move to the bed.”
“What is it?”
Atsumu shifts nervously on his feet, rope keeping his legs slightly spread even if he wanted to close them. “Could ya take a picture first?”
Sakusa stares at him for a moment, then rolls his eyes. “You are so vain.”
“Come on, it’s hot! You did an awesome job. I jus’ wanna preserve it.”
Sakusa narrows his eyes, but sighs a few seconds later and grabs his phone from the dresser. “Fine. I’ll text it to you afterward if you decide you still want it.”
He steps out of frame and takes a picture of Atsumu in the mirror. Atsumu feels exposed without Sakusa right next to him, like he’s on display, and it makes him even more desperate. He hears the shutter of the camera once, twice, then a third time when Sakusa steps behind him to take a picture of what he looks like from the back.
“Done,” Sakusa says.
He grabs one of the thick knots between Atsumu’s shoulder blades and uses it to steer him toward the bed. Atsumu goes more than willingly, body rippling with excitement and a fair amount of apprehension at the sight of everything Sakusa’s set up, including what Atsumu is pretty sure is a riding crop.
Oh, so that’s why Sakusa told him to take ibuprofen beforehand.
“That looks like it’s gonna hurt,” he blurts out as Sakusa guides him up onto the bed, perched on his knees.
Sakusa strokes a hand up between his shoulders, then curls two fingers into the chest harness and pushes Atsumu down, taking advantage of the leverage the rope affords him to press his chest to the bed.
“I’m counting on it.”
Fuck. Atsumu shivers. It’s humiliating being bent over like this, so why the fuck does he like it so much? The new position makes the rope assert itself again, pressing into his flesh. His heart races and his body tenses with anticipation when Sakusa settles behind him, bed dipping under his weight.
“I’m just going to use my hand to start,” Sakusa says, rubbing over Atsumu’s ass. “You seemed to enjoy that last time.”
Atsumu moans into the quilt, imagining how he must look - face down, ass up, cheeks outlined in thick black rope like his body is begging for attention. The sound breaks under the first strike as Sakusa’s hand comes down sharp and sudden. He hits that same spot three more times in quick succession until Atsumu’s skin is hot and he’s trying not to squirm, then does it all over again on the other side. Four sharp cracks echo through the room.
“Oh fuck,” Atsumu breathes, stinging pain blooming in both cheeks as Sakusa pauses to let the feeling set in.
He feels Sakusa move again and braces himself, biting his lip as he waits for Sakusa’s open palm, then moans when he feels a cool, slick fingertip against his hole instead. Atsumu’s eyes pop open and he bucks his hips on instinct, cock twitching at the thought of both happening at once.
“Yeah?” he hears Sakusa murmur.
“ Yeah, yes , please,” Atsumu says quickly, nodding as best he can with his face pressed against the bed.
Sakusa laughs, not quite as mean as Atsumu’s used to, and spanks him again. Atsumu chokes on a gasp, digging his nails into his forearms when Sakusa slides inside right before he hits the other cheek. His whole body burns when he feels himself clench around Sakusa’s finger, unsure if it’s because of the pleasure of the movement or the pain of the strike. Sakusa continues his barrage long before Atsumu can decide.
“Breathe,” Sakusa reminds him in between hits.
Atsumu’s toes curl as the heat starts to build, sinking into him layer by layer with every merciless strike of Sakusa’s hand. He shudders and groans when another finger joins the first, probing inside him slippery and deep. “Hhnnnhh…”
“There you go, just like that,” Sakusa says, voice low and gentle. “It’s not a punishment this time, Atsumu. Enjoy it.”
“Oh go-o-od,” Atsumu gasps, a little breath rushing out of him every time Sakusa hits him.
Sakusa’s not using any more force now than he was when he started, but Atsumu’s skin is more sensitive; every impact hurts more than the last. He’s given up even trying to test the restraints because he knows they’ll hold, and because he doesn’t want to get free. He wants to stay right here. Atsumu has a sudden, single moment of clarity when he thinks about what he’s doing, what he’s letting Sakusa do, and then it all melts away, sliding down his spine as Sakusa’s fingers curl forward.
Atsumu’s voice sounds strange to him, thick and foreign on his tongue as it echoes inside his head. His eyes roll a little as Sakusa teases his prostate, adding extra pressure every time he spanks him.
“Feels good?” Sakusa asks.
Atsumu doesn’t know if he would call it good. He doesn’t know what to call it. He just wants more.
“Talk to me, Atsumu. Tell me your color.”
He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Green…”
“Good,” Sakusa says. Atsumu melts a little more. “I’m going to try the crop now, okay? It’ll be intense, so I need you to let me know how you’re feeling.”
Atsumu nudges his head against the bed, hoping it looks like a nod. He whines a little when Sakusa takes both hands away, then braces himself for even more pain as a sick wave of excitement rolls over him.
He hears the first impact before he actually feels it. It’s a high snap, almost like the crack of a whip, and it makes Atsumu grit his teeth right before the bright pinch of pain burns him like a spark. His body jerks instinctually, but the ropes don’t let him go anywhere at all.
So that’s what a riding crop feels like. He can handle that, if he tries. Atsumu breathes through his nose, slow, steady, so concentrated on taking it that he barely reacts to the next hit, and the next, and the next, and the next-
Then the sixth hit forces a gasp through Atsumu’s clenched teeth, and with that one tiny noise the floodgates open.
Sakusa gives him a break after a few more hits on each cheek; Atsumu’s grateful at first, but in the stillness that follows, the spark that’s caught fire underneath his skin has room to grow, blooming into agony as Atsumu’s nerve endings finally catch up to him. He makes a wretched sound and tries to squirm—away, closer, anywhere—any movement at all would distract him from the pain, but the ropes hold tight and Sakusa holds him tighter, squeezing one of his bruised cheeks to keep him still.
Atsumu’s eyes go wide and he howls.
“I knew you were holding back.” Sakusa sounds smug. He taps Atsumu’s other cheek with the crop, just a light snap that sends Atsumu writhing. “You can’t hide from me, Atsumu. Not like this.”
He takes his hand away. Wet, messy sounds—Sakusa’s getting lube—slick fingers circling his hole—pushing inside—
“Fuuuck,” Atsumu groans, eyes crossing as he stretches around three of Sakusa’s fingers.
His ass is throbbing now, hot and sore, pain blurring with pleasure as Sakusa starts to fingerfuck him fast and hard. His dick is throbbing too, stiff and dripping as it swings between his legs, neglected. It feels so good—it hurts—he can’t tell the difference—there isn’t one—
Three sharp raps with the crop. Agony explodes underneath Atsumu’s skin and he bites the quilt, grunting low as he tries to ride it out without wailing again.
He has no control over what’s happening to him. He’s just an animal and Sakusa’s trying to train him.
Atsumu sinks into helplessness, bathed in sick delight when he realizes he’s getting hit with a crop and fingered no matter what he does, body tortured by sensations he can’t escape. The next three hits have him wetting the quilt with spit and tears, which is when Atsumu distantly realizes that he’s crying.
He hears Sakusa say his name, but it doesn’t truly register until Sakusa says it again.
“I need your color again before I keep going.”
Like his name, the words don’t compute until Sakusa repeats them. Atsumu’s brain is shrouded in fog.
“M’good,” Atsumu slurs, muffled by the quilt. “Wan’it…. green...”
Sakusa curls his fingers, tearing a guttural noise from Atsumu’s throat. “Good boy.”
Atsumu drifts. Heavy and useless, head lolling—drool, wet, messy smears across his cheek—Sakusa thinks he’s good—more snaps of the crop, more pain—Atsumu doesn’t think he can take any more, but Sakusa knows how much to give him—
“Now let’s see if I can make you scream.”
Atsumu doesn’t think much at all, after that.
Kiyoomi doesn’t want to overdo it, but it’s getting harder and harder to control himself. Atsumu’s ass just looks so gorgeous marked up like this, shades of red and pink with small bruises already beginning to bloom underneath his skin. He’s going to have a tough time sitting down at his family dinner tomorrow, and it brings a smirk to Kiyoomi’s mouth underneath the mask.
The riding crop he’s using on Atsumu is Kiyoomi’s personal favorite; the leather tip is stiffer than a standard crop, making it more forceful, and it’s nice to look at too, with its graphite shaft and black leather handle. He swats Atsumu’s ass three more times and grits his teeth at the way Atsumu squeezes around his fingers.
He’s hot inside, rippling every time Kiyoomi hits him, and like this it’s dangerously easy to imagine how Atsumu would feel around his cock instead. Kiyoomi swings the crop harder, trying to banish those thoughts from his mind, but stops in the middle of the next hit when he notices Atsumu’s shoulders are shaking.
Kiyoomi doesn’t get a response. He pulls his fingers out and crawls closer, peering around Atsumu’s side to see his face. Tears are streaming down Atsumu’s cheeks, twin wet spots forming on the quilt; when he sees Kiyoomi watching him he slurs something that Kiyoomi can’t understand.
It seems to take considerable effort for Atsumu to even look at him. “Why’dy’stop…”
A thrill runs down Kiyoomi’s spine. Atsumu’s pupils are so dilated only a sliver of his gold irises are visible, lids heavy as his gaze goes unfocused again. Kiyoomi reaches back with the crop and hits him one more time as an experiment, breath catching when Atsumu’s unseeing eyes widen in an expression that can only be described as wonder, a few more tears leaking out as the softest gasp falls from his lips.
Oh, he is under.
The realization gives Kiyoomi his own little high; just seeing it makes something unfurl in his chest. He swings the crop again and watches greedily as Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow and a low noise rumbles in his throat. With Atsumu in this headspace, the quiet, subtle reactions Kiyoomi’s provoking are even more satisfying than any scream he might be able to draw out.
Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu’s afraid. He himself was terrified the first time he approached something like subspace. He knows it takes some level of willingness to accept and lean into the feeling to fully go under. When he realized what was happening he pushed against it, but Atsumu looks so calm. Maybe he hasn’t realized it yet.
Or, maybe he really likes it. Maybe he just trusts Kiyoomi to take care of him.
He’s a natural, a perfect submissive. The thought floats through Kiyoomi’s head before he can squash it.
He swallows and sits back on his heels, taking a deep breath in and out through his nose. He pumps another dollop of lube onto his fingers and smears it over the wet mess of Atsumu’s hole before pushing back in, three fingers again. Atsumu moans lowly and melts into the bed, body going even more lax as Kiyoomi strokes over his prostate and watches him carefully.
Kiyoomi is starting to feel unhinged. He’s so hard it aches, and every noise that drips from Atsumu’s lips is making it worse. Kiyoomi grits his teeth and swings the crop, so frustrated that he hits Atsumu harder than he means to, leaving a splotchy purple mark behind as Atsumu’s thighs start to shake.
“Fuck, you were made for this,” Kiyoomi whispers, desperately hoping Atsumu can’t hear him.
Atsumu’s long whine tells him otherwise.
“You like hearing that?” Kiyoomi taps him oh-so-gently with the crop over that same bruised spot and Atsumu jolts and moans, fluttering around his fingers. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He goes back to the pattern that made Atsumu lose it, four or five gentle hits in a row over the same spot then switching to a new patch of unbruised skin. The intensity ebbs and flows like this without much effort on Kiyoomi’s part, letting him pay close attention to the way Atsumu’s body is responding to him. His fingers make dirty squelching noises as he curls them relentlessly, trying to fuck Atsumu deeper, always deeper, and Kiyoomi is so far gone he thinks for a brief moment about unzipping his slacks just to ease the pressure.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Focus.
Atsumu’s gone completely nonverbal, mouth hanging open as he drools onto the quilt. A part of Kiyoomi hates to admit it, but he looks beautiful like this.
On a whim, he pulls his fingers out and reaches underneath Atsumu’s body to feel for his cock, which Kiyoomi’s been neglecting this whole time. A lot of pain can sometimes make a sub completely soft even as it sends him floating into subspace, but Kiyoomi’s darkly pleased to find Atsumu hard and dripping, dick hanging heavy between his legs.
“Mm, good boy.”
Just a couple of decadent strokes have Atsumu’s hips flexing as he tries to fuck into Kiyoomi’s grip. Kiyoomi takes his hand away and laughs at Atsumu’s low groan, hips still twitching as he searches thoughtlessly for that lost friction.
He sighs happily and hits Atsumu with the crop one, two, three more times until he stops squirming, settling down to take the pain. Atsumu really is good like this, docile and yielding; Kiyoomi can’t believe his luck. He runs the crop ever-so-lightly between Atsumu’s cheeks, lingering for a second over his hole, and gets the surprise of his life when Atsumu moans and spreads his legs wider.
Kiyoomi’s mouth runs dry.
“Did you think I—would you really let me hit you here?”
Atsumu doesn’t answer him. They’re both breathing heavy, Kiyoomi just as much as Atsumu. Stunned, Kiyoomi touches his hole with the crop again and swallows hard when Atsumu whines softly.
“Fuck,” he breathes, taking the crop away and replacing it with his slick fingers, shoving in a little harder than necessary as Atsumu grunts. “I can’t believe I’m the first one to play with you like this when your body wants it so bad.”
Atsumu slurs something unintelligible and arches his back with what little movement the shibari affords him. Kiyoomi puts the crop down and pats his ass in a mockery of comfort, enough to make it sting as he fingers him gently. Then, he almost gasps as one last idea comes to him.
With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He tells himself it’s for Atsumu’s sake. Kiyoomi makes sure the shutter sound is on, so Atsumu can hear it when he takes the picture.
Atsumu squirms after the shutter goes off, legs shaking again as his fingers curl against his forearms. “Hhnnnghfuck…”
He’s groaning with every exhale now, a low, throaty sound that’s more animal than human. Kiyoomi drops his phone and brings his hand down on Atsumu’s bruised skin, rounding things out with broad strokes of pain. It’s so mesmerizing that Kiyoomi does it again, and again, until Atsumu’s rocking back onto his fingers and begging wordlessly for more.
That’s when Kiyoomi stops spanking him and reaches around to stroke his cock instead, quickly falling into a rhythm that matches his other hand. Atsumu goes wild for it, shaking and crying out and straining at the ropes for the first time since he went under. Kiyoomi grins and moves faster—Atsumu’s going to come soon, he can feel it.
But the closer Atsumu gets—squeezing around Kiyoomi’s fingers, twitching in Kiyoomi’s hand—the more he struggles. Kiyoomi frowns but, before he can bring it up, Atsumu mumbles something into the quilt.
“Hmm?” Kiyoomi prods.
Whatever he said, Atsumu repeats it, more urgently this time. Kiyoomi still can’t understand him, but he seems so close to coming that Kiyoomi doesn’t dare stop, staring greedily as Atsumu’s muscles bunch and strain underneath his skin.
“Use your words, Atsumu—”
“C’n I—please, I needta…” Atsumu slurs, voice breaking.
Kiyoomi is so stunned he almost stops moving entirely when he realizes what Atsumu is saying, what he’s asking.
They’re not playing with orgasm control today. Atsumu doesn’t need to… why would he…
The words hit Kiyoomi like a punch to the gut. Miya Atsumu, one of the most prideful people Kiyoomi has ever met, is begging him for permission to come because giving up control gets him off that fucking much.
Kiyoomi wonders what Atsumu would do if he said no. He wonders how far he could push him. It’s a delicious thought, but that’s not what today is about.
He can’t help but toy with Atsumu for a few more seconds, though, curling his fingers until Atsumu is wailing as he tries to hold back. He’s torturing himself waiting for permission that Kiyoomi didn’t even tell him he needed, such a masochist that it’s truly a miracle he didn’t figure it out sooner.
And thank god he didn’t, because now Kiyoomi gets to break him in every way Atsumu will let him. He’s scaring himself, but he can’t resist—
“Come. Come right now.”
Atsumu digs his nails into his forearms and howls and comes on Kiyoomi’s command.
Kiyoomi gasps, so hot all over he almost feels sick with it. It’s all he can do to keep his hands moving, dazed with guilt and hunger as his eyes rake over Atsumu’s shivering form. He only stops once Atsumu stops pulsing around his fingers and goes limp, sagging into the mattress.
The room is silent now, but Atsumu’s cries are still ringing in Kiyoomi’s ears. His heart is thumping against his ribcage and he’s sweating, enough to feel a droplet sliding down his temple.
Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and removes his hands from Atsumu’s body, pushing all of his own sensations and jumbled thoughts to the side and focusing on taking care of his sub.
“Atsumu,” he whispers, pulling his gloves off and reaching for a fresh pair. They stick against his sweaty fingers and he curses internally, tugging them on as fast as he can. “Atsumu, you did great. Just focus on feeling good, okay? I’m going to take care of you.”
Atsumu doesn’t respond, but he sighs and turns his head to the side, a dopey smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Behind the mask, Kiyoomi can’t help the way his own mouth curves up too.
“There you go. I’m going to untie you now.”
He undoes the ropes as quickly as he can, working backwards from the last rope he tied all the way to the first. Atsumu groans quietly but stays put when Kiyoomi’s fingers brush against his ass, stained a colorful palette of purple, pink, and red; Kiyoomi murmurs an apology and tries his best not to touch it again as he’s undoing the rest of the thigh harness.
Atsumu’s chest needs to come off the bed for the last few pieces of rope to come loose. Once Kiyoomi has freed his arms and gently rubbed some feeling back into them, he gets off the bed and crouches down off to one side, eye level with Atsumu’s face.
“Can you push up on your arms for me, Atsumu? I need to reach underneath you.”
Atsumu blushes and rubs his cheek against the bed, mouth stretching into a close-lipped grin, then does as Kiyoomi asked.
As he unties the rest of the knots, Kiyoomi marvels at how much Atsumu must trust him to sink into what looks like pretty euphoric subspace from elements of play that were completely new to him. Without trust and comfort, his body wouldn’t have produced the chemicals and endorphins that got him high like this. Kiyoomi runs his gloved fingers through Atsumu’s hair after he pulls the last rope free and Atsumu pushes his head into the touch like a cat.
Kiyoomi swallows. “Stay like that for another minute, okay? I’m getting a washcloth. I’ll be right back.”
He changes into shorts and a t-shirt and splashes some water on his face as fast as he can, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror as he wets a cloth and returns to the bedroom. Atsumu’s head is pillowed on his forearms but he hasn’t moved otherwise.
“After this you can lay down,” Kiyoomi tells him. Atsumu smiles, eyes still closed, and wiggles his hips in response.
Once Atsumu’s cleaned up, Kiyoomi scoots him away from the wet spot on the quilt and gives him permission to collapse. Atsumu slumps onto the bed gradually, like a puppet having its strings cut one by one. Kiyoomi blinks, then reaches for the disposable cold packs he left on the bedside table. He cracks each one to activate them with a loud pop and wraps each of them in a washcloth.
“You’re already starting to bruise, so I’m going to put some ice on.”
Atsumu shivers when Kiyoomi lays a cold pack on each cheek, squirming against the bed and biting his lip as his brows knit together. Kiyoomi shushes him and places a gloved hand on his shoulder, rubbing over the tense muscle with his thumb until Atsumu relaxes.
They stay like that for about ten minutes, Kiyoomi occasionally glancing at the clock as he lets the cold do its work. Kiyoomi alternates between rubbing Atsumu’s shoulder and running fingers through his hair. He makes sure there’s a hand on him at all times, because Atsumu’s eyes are closed and he needs some way of knowing Kiyoomi’s right there.
Aftercare is always important, but it’s especially important if the sub’s experiencing a true high from the scene. Some amount of drop after such an intense experience is inevitable, but thoughtful aftercare can make it less jarring by helping endorphin levels decrease gradually instead of suddenly. Plus, a good headspace can do a lot to make up for the fact that the pleasure centers in a sub’s brain, blissfully abused during a scene, won’t work as well until their brain chemistry levels out over the next few days.
That might be what’s on Kiyoomi’s mind when he whispers more praise and tells Atsumu that he did well, that he’s proud of him, but the words aren’t empty. Kiyoomi really is impressed, with Atsumu and the whole scene.
After ten minutes have passed, Kiyoomi takes the cold packs away and rubs some aloe gel as gently as possible into Atsumu’s reddened skin. He gives him another five minutes like this, petting his hair and letting him float, before tapping him on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you let me make you some tea, Atsumu? Does that sound good?”
Atsumu sighs and stretches his arms over his head, turning his face to the side. He blinks his eyes open and smiles at Kiyoomi before nodding as he closes them again.
“I’ll get your clothes from your bag,” Kiyoomi says. “Then I’ll make your tea and you can lay down on the couch for as long as you need to.”
“Mmm,” Atsumu sighs, stretching again. “M’kay.”
He’s still sluggish as Kiyoomi helps him pull on a t-shirt and soft sweatpants, hissing when the waistband drags up over his tender skin. Kiyoomi makes a note to grab acetaminophen from his medicine cabinet to give to Atsumu along with his tea.
It’s slow going, but once he has Atsumu set up on the couch, laying comfortably on his stomach with a game on the television for background noise, Kiyoomi begins heating the water and runs to grab the medicine. He encourages Atsumu to prop up on his forearms and take two pills, rinsing it down with a sports drink.
Once the tea is ready, Kiyoomi carries two cups over to the coffee table and sets them down, then joins Atsumu on the couch, foregoing cleanup for a few more minutes. He watches the other man carefully; Atsumu is still quiet, eyes half-lidded as he watches the television, clutching the blankets. As Kiyoomi watches, he squirms a bit, like he’s trying to snuggle deeper into the couch.
“How are you feeling?” Kiyoomi asks.
“Omi-kun,” Atsumu sighs. “M’so good.”
Kiyoomi smiles. “Good. Are you alright if I go clean things up now?”
A tiny frown steals over Atsumu’s face. He burrows further into the couch instead of answering, but that’s an answer in and of itself from someone as proud as him.
“I’ll stay for a few minutes,” Kiyoomi amends.
The frown disappears.
Once Kiyoomi does extract himself and cleans his room and his gear, he returns to the living room to assess things again. The match is likely close to being over, but Atsumu definitely isn’t ready to leave yet.
Kiyoomi’s stomach makes an embarrassing growling noise; he definitely should have had a snack before Atsumu arrived. He sighs and glances towards the kitchen, thinking about the tofu and vegetables he has waiting in the fridge. He definitely doesn’t want to rush Atsumu out in his current state, but waiting seems… sub-optimal.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
Atsumu peers up at him from the couch, where he’s now slumped on his side and clutching his mug of tea. “Naw.”
“I have some things in the fridge for stir-fry. Would you like some?”
Atsumu tries to scooch himself a little more upright on the couch, wincing as he settles onto his abused backside. Kiyoomi forces down the urge to let his lips twitch up in self-satisfaction.
“If yer offerin’...”
Kiyoomi nods and heads into the kitchen, which sits just off the small living room. It takes about twenty minutes to finish preparing the simple dish and Kiyoomi notes that Atsumu is looking sharper. He does pick up on Atsumu glancing into the kitchen fairly regularly, though. Kiyoomi will have to remember to text him a couple times tomorrow and check in.
Eventually, he comes out with two bowls of steaming food, handing Atsumu one before taking a seat on the other end of the couch. Atsumu murmurs his thanks and they settle in to eat and watch the final set of the match that’s been on.
Atsumu is about halfway done with his stir-fry when he looks away from the game, tilting his head to the side a bit. He’s definitely coming back to himself, mischief in his eyes.
“You can fuck me, y’know,” Atsumu says, a smug glow about him. “During the...”
He waves his chopsticks in a way that looks vaguely like he’s hitting something. Kiyoomi assumes he means during a scene.
“You’re still out of it,” Kiyoomi says in lieu of a direct response.
“No—well, maybe a little. But I mean it. Slacks ain’t that good at hiding boners, Omi-Omi. You don’t hafta, but I’m just sayin’ it’s fine if you wanna,” Atsumu says. “It’s not like you shoving half yer hand up my ass is that much less intimate than yer dick on my end.”
Kiyoomi’s nose wrinkles as he looks balefully at Atsumu.
“That’s not what Omi Jr thought an hour ago~”
Kiyoomi is vibrating with disgust. Why, oh why, did it have to be Miya Atsumu. He takes a deep and steadying breath, ignoring the way Atsumu is chuckling as he turns back to his food.
Before long the match ends and the TV shows an ad for the next game: Adlers vs Green Rockets. Atsumu starts to shift around a bit, letting out a heavy sigh of his own. This would usually be his cue to get ready to leave. Normally, Kiyoomi would call him a ride after a scene like that; he plans to, but it’s not like Atsumu being here is affecting any of Kiyoomi’s plans for the rest of the evening.
“You can stay for the Adlers game if you aren’t in a hurry to get home,” Kiyoomi says. “Coach wanted us to watch it anyway, so you’ll just have to find tape later if you don’t watch it live.”
Atsumu freezes and Kiyoomi sees him raise a brow in his direction. Kiyoomi doesn’t meet his questioning gaze. It’s not that big a deal. After another second, Atsumu settles back down.
“Well, alright then. Thanks, Omi-kun.”
The next morning, Atsumu wakes up to a text from Sakusa.
>> How are you feeling this morning?
Atsumu rolls onto his side in bed, taking inventory. His ass obviously hurts when anything touches it and there’s some muscle pain, but honestly he feels pretty good… relaxed.
>> Good. My ass hurts like a motherfucker. Is it weird that I’m kinda into it tho?
>> Considering what we did last night, it would be stranger if you hated it.
Atsumu stretches under the covers, groaning at the way it flexes the skin over his glutes. Whatever Sakusa did last night means there isn’t really much sting to it, just a bruised ache. He holds the stretch a bit longer than normal, revelling in the feeling just a little.
>> Fair enough.
>> Take some more ibuprofen this morning. You went fully into subspace for the first time last night. Here’s an article that does a good job explaining the potential after effects, around pain and mood.
He clicks the link and browses through it. He read about subspace early on, but Atsumu had no idea it would be that intense. Ropes and chains aside, after a certain point last night Sakusa could have had him totally restraint free and still done whatever the hell he wanted with Atsumu’s body. He’s not sure what wires in his head are crossed that the only thing his brain has to say about that is hot, hot, hot.
Ah, well. Kiyoomi has more than proven that he wouldn’t do anything Atsumu didn’t want with that power.
Atsumu’s phone buzzes again.
>> Anyway, feel free to reach out today. I’ll check in this evening if I haven’t heard from you.
Atsumu knows it’s standard operating procedure, but it still makes his heart give a slow thump of pleasure. Whatever, that’s the point, making Atsumu feel looked after. Bros can look after bros after they consensually beat the other’s ass into oblivion.
There’s another buzz.
>> Oh, and here are the photos you asked for:
>> *picture attached*
>> *picture attached*
>> *picture attached*
Atsumu chokes on his own spit and his heart rate skyrockets.
The first one is a picture of him in Sakusa’s full-length mirror, black rope snaking in intricate patterns across his front. His eyes are closed and his head is turned to the side; no wonder Sakusa made fun of him for acting shy. Since when has Atsumu ever blushed that deeply?
The next one is a picture of Atsumu in the same position, this time from behind. Atsumu’s eyes rake up and down his own form, framed obscenely with his best assets accentuated. Sakusa really did a good job--even the ties binding his forearms together are symmetrical.
The last picture sends Atsumu reeling. He vaguely remembers hearing the camera shutter go off when he was bent over on the bed, so drunk from the scene he would’ve let Sakusa do anything to him. Atsumu feels his cheeks heat as he takes it all in, hair mussed and upper body limp, legs spread and visibly tensed. Two of Sakusa’s fingers are hooked inside him, spreading apart obscenely, and there are dark red marks scattered across the pink flesh of Atsumu’s ass.
Atsumu bites his lip and breathes deeply as the sharp heat of arousal kindles inside him. Part of him scarcely recognizes himself, but another part of him...
He stumbles to the bathroom and flips on the shower, keeping the water cool. The streams are soothing against his skin but do nothing for the heat between his legs, which he wraps a tight hand around. Atsumu doesn’t hold back, stroking himself quickly as he thinks about the pictures Sakusa sent him. The pictures Sakusa can look at whenever he wants. The pleasure rises, a sharp incline, and when he’s close, Atsumu reaches behind himself to harshly squeeze one asscheek. He gasps wildly as pain shoots through his skin and pools at the base of his dick, building up quickly until he tumbles headlong into orgasm.
“Fuck!” he cries, spilling over his own hand.
After Atsumu’s left the shower and recollected his phone from where he dropped it on the bed, he opens his messages again, typing out a response.
>> So, when are you free next?
The answer comes quickly, two texts in quick succession.
>> We have games this week, Miya.
>> Next weekend.
A feral grin spreads across Atsumu’s face.