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Atsumu’s muscles are screaming. The awkward angle of his spine is making his lower back tighten and threaten to cramp up. He hisses in a breath through his nose, tries to hold it deep in his chest before releasing it out through his teeth. 

“Don’t push so hard. You’ll hurt yourself,” a voice from behind Atsumu whispers. “It’s not a competition.”

His brow furrows further and sweat slides up his nose to disappear into his hairline. The blood is beginning to pool in his upturned skull, making Atsumu dizzy. He can do this. He can do this. 

Atsumu’s thighs and biceps are shaking now. Just a little longer; he can bear it a little longer. 

“Ok… slowly lower your feet and then walk your hands forward to move into downward dog…”

Atsumu follows the instructions of the yoga instructor at the front of the room, looking through his legs at a smirking Osamu. 

“Not so easy is it, Miya-senshu ?” he teases before dropping his own head between his arms. 

“I’m fine,” Atsumu hisses at the back of his smug brother’s head.

He should have never let his twin taunt him into this. Osamu’s girlfriend from a few years back got him into yoga and Atsumu always thought it was mostly, like… meditation with shapes. What other option did he have but to show up when Osamu told him that he’d suck at it?

By the time the class ends, Atsumu is sweating buckets and his muscles feel like he just played a full match. Osamu doesn’t demand or coax an admittance of defeat from Atsumu. Some might call it good sportsmanship, but in all honesty, they just know each other so well that the words are necessary. They both know Osamu won this one; a small smirk is enough to rub Atsumu’s face deep in it.

Back in front of the studio’s small storage cubbies, Atsumu wipes his face with a towel. 

“Bet Suna’d be killer at this,” he murmurs.

Osamu groans.

“Don’t tell ‘im about it. ‘M already tired a’seein’ his dumb aesthetic posts on instagram.”

“Never knew how many different ways ya could make hotel coffee look artsy.”

“‘xactly. Can ya imagine the crow pose selfies?”

Atsumu can’t remember exactly which one is crow pose, but he knows what Osamu means and hums his agreement. 

He pulls his phone out to check his notifications, still mopping at his his neck with his towel. He’s got a couple social media pings, a snapchat from Bokuto, and a text message alert that makes his heart skip a pathetic beat. 

He opens that first.

From: Omi-Omi
>> Are you free on Friday after 8pm?

“‘Samu, what’re our plans with Ma this weekend again?”

Osamu doesn’t look up from where he’s wiping down his yoga mat, one he actually owns . Atsumu made fun of him until he borrowed one of the studio’s and started thinking about how many other people have sweated on it. 

“Breakfast on Saturday. She wants us ta help her get some stuff outta the attic after, too.”

Atsumu swears quietly. 

“Tellin’ Ma you cursed ‘bout visitin’ her.”

Atsumu ignores him. It takes about an hour from his place in Ohasuhigashi to get to their childhood home, which means he’ll need to leave pretty early on Saturday. Going to Sakusa’s and… doing what they do… followed by the trip home would mean a late night. Plus, who knows what the other man has in mind. Atsumu resists whining out loud as he forces himself to be a responsible adult with impulse control. 

To: Omi-Omi
>> If you want to know for the reason I think ya do, I probably can’t come over. Going to see my family early Saturday morning.

Atsumu can’t help but leave himself open to be convinced. He shoots off another text, trying to crack the door open wider. 

To: Omi-Omi
>> Could probably meet up if it’s at mine tho

He’s not that responsible. Plus, he highly doubts that Sakusa will take him up on the offer anyway. He’s getting ready to put his phone in his bag when it buzzes again, faster than Atsumu expected.

From: Omi-Omi
>> Fine. I’ll pick something without a lot of set up. 

Atsumu’s brows rise sharply, and then he blushes. He realizes too late that Osamu’s eyes are narrowed at him. 

“What's with that face?”

“Nothin’.”

“Doesn’t look like nothin’.”

“It’s none’a yer business.”

“Ya get turned down? Ya never hesitate ta tell me, everyone, strangers on the street, if ya landed a date.”

“Oh, shaddup,” Atsumu says, failing to come up with a decent retort as he shoves his phone in his bag.

“Don’t worry, Tsumu, ‘m sure there’s someone out there who can put up with ya,” Osamu continues, deadpan. “Well… probably.”

Atsumu fights the urge to flip him off in public. He hikes his bag up on his shoulder and tries to hold his head high. 

“I’ll have you know I didn’t get turned down.”

“Sure,” Osamu says, deeply patronizing. 

“Oh fuck you, Samu!” Atsumu barks and then stomps out of the yoga studio. 

 

Kiyoomi pulls into the guest space in the parking garage of Atsumu’s apartment building at 7:55 pm. He pauses in his car a moment, carefully folding and putting his driving gloves away in the center console. He takes a deep breath. He made his bed when he agreed to come here. No use regretting it yet. 

He’s sure there will be time for that later.

The building is modern and well kept, Kiyoomi observes as he takes the elevator up to the seventh floor. It’s newer construction, located within walking distance of the facility that the Black Jackals use for practice. It’s undeniably convenient in location. Kiyoomi had forgone convenience for a larger apartment in a quieter part of town himself. 

The elevator dings and he readjusts his grip on the small duffle bag that he brought with him. He quickly finds the door with the unit number Atsumu gave him and raps on it lightly. 

It’s only a few seconds before it swings open to reveal Atsumu, wearing just a pair of low-slung sweats. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“Heya, Omi-kun,” he says, stepping back to invite Kiyoomi inside. “Sorry for the damp hair. I wanted ta shower earlier so I could wipe it down for ya. I assume you’ll wanna take one?”

“Yes, thank you. I also brought some disinfectant wipes,” Kiyoomi can’t help but add. His lack of trust in Atsumu’s cleaning ability apparently doesn’t go unnoticed as the other man rolls his eyes. 

The genkan leads directly into a small hallway, which appears to hold the door to the bathroom and a closet. Beyond that is a single good-sized room. One corner contains a small kitchen, and another has a sofa and wall mounted TV. On the far side of the room, by the big windows, is a bed half hidden behind a partition. 

Kiyoomi’s brow furrows. It’s… really clean. 

“You want some tea or anything?” Atsumu asks, padding towards the kitchenette. 

“That’s ok,” Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I’ll just go get ready.”

He excuses himself to the bathroom and then looks around like he’s in danger the second he closes the door, ready to pull the roll of disinfectant wipes he packed out of his bag. Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow as he realizes the bathroom is just as clean as the main room appeared at first glance. It’s not quite on par with Kiyoomi’s usual spotlessness, but he doesn’t even feel the need to pull out the wipes for the meticulous shower he takes. 

Atsumu is sipping on a sports drink and scrolling through his phone when Kiyoomi leaves the bathroom, dressed in his usual. 

“Did you... pay a cleaning service to come today?”

Atsumu freezes mid-sip and gives Kiyoomi a look that makes him feel… stupid. Kiyoomi stands up a little straighter, preemptively defensive.

“Uh, no. I don’t have a maid, rich boy,” Atsumu says. “M’perfectly capable of cleaning my own place. It’s not like v-league players are rollin’ in it. Not that you’d know much about that, eh, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and ignores all the pot shots at his affluent upbringing. He’s just having a difficult time believing that twenty-two year old athlete Miya Atsumu dusts the top of his bathroom mirror. Kiyoomi checked, just out of curiosity. 

“I just didn’t expect…”

“For me not t’be a slob like Hinata an’ Bokuto?” Atsumu laughs. “Naw, my da’ fucked off when ‘Samu and I were still in diapers so my ma’ worked a lot. We did a lot of the cookin’ and cleanin’ once we got old enough not ta light the kitchen on fire.”

He’s leaning against the counter with a fond smirk on his face.

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says, not sure how to process the new information or what he’s supposed to say in response. 

For once, Atsumu seems to let him off the hook. Or maybe he’s just eager. 

“Anyway, whatcha got for me today, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi mentally shakes himself. They’re here so he can have the upper hand. It’s time to take it back.

“I thought we could finally find out if you can get off from having your nipples played with.” 

Atsumu flushes a deep red, and satisfaction begins to pool in Kiyoomi’s gut. 

 

Atsumu may have miscalculated when he thought this wouldn’t be anything that new or more intense than what they’ve done before. 

“Breathe, Atsumu,” Sakusa says directly into his ear. 

They’re both sitting on the bed this time, Sakusa against the headboard with Atsumu against his chest. Atsumu’s arms are tied behind his back. He can’t see Sakusa, but he can feel his gaze tracking unimpeded up and down his body, can hear his voice, right there . Atsumu can feel the heat from his skin, against his shoulders, through the fabric of Sakusa’s slacks. 

Atsumu is painfully hard, dick worked mercilessly to the edge three or four times by clever, lubed-up fingers until he was properly squirming, according to Sakusa. At that point, Sakusa stopped touching his dick entirely, leaving it sad and weeping onto his belly while his hands moved north and stayed there, playing until Atsumu was completely lost to the touch on his chest and the voice in his ears. 

“Breathe all the way into the bottom of your lungs and let it out slowly,” Sakusa says. Atsumu does his best to comply.

His breath stutters out into a long moan. It hitches and breaks when Sakusa pinches his nipples between his forefingers. They’re puffy and sensitive, and at this point even the lightest of touches from Sakusa’s fingers sends Atsumu twitching. 

“Again,” Sakusa says. Atsumu draws another gasping breath, all the way down against his diaphragm like Sakusa instructed. 

Sakusa switches back to gently plucking the flushed nubs at a rapid pace. Atsumu’s head lolls back against Sakusa’s shoulder as he rolls his own towards his curving spine. 

“Shit, Omi, I can’t—”

Atsumu feels the mask brush against the shell of his ear, triggering a full body shudder. 

“Maybe not. Just stay the word and I’ll stop,” Sakusa says in a teasing voice. “But this is the only way you’re getting off tonight, so take it or leave it...”

A hysterical voice in the back of Atsumu’s head tries to point out that he could just jerk off when Sakusa goes home, but the larger, fucked-up part of his brain immediately shuts it down. Ignoring Sakusa feels like a pathetic option, like it wouldn’t even feel good to come that way. 

“Omi…” Atsumu groans as Sakusa switches back to using his thumbs to draw tight rings around his nipples. 

His legs push out against the duvet, sliding against the inside of Sakusa’s. He’s stuck here, so turned on but unable to do anything about it, untouched where he wants it most. The hands on his chest are sending hot little shocks of pleasure though his body to gather in the cradle of his hips. His neglected dick now sticks up desperately, drooling precome onto his stomach. 

“Flex your hips,” Sakusa instructs, encouraging the little twitches to turn into fuller movement. “There you go. Don’t hold back, Atsumu… you can come whenever you want… do what feels good…” 

It’s torture. What would feel good is a hand on his dick but he knows that won’t happen. A whine rips out of Atsumu’s throat as Sakusa starts plucking at his nipples again, quick and soft. He’s breathing too fast, too shallow, but he can’t help it—

“Hah… hah… hah… Omi…”

“Breathe. Try to relax, Atsumu. If you want it, you’re going to need to let it happen,” Sakusa murmurs while kneading Atsumu’s chest. “Look at yourself. Look how turned on you are. Don’t you look close?”

Atsumu forces his eyes open and looks down, sees black gloves spread out over pale skin that’s painted with a bright flush and covered in sweat. He’s slick with it at this point, his entire body overheated and oversensitive. His quads and abdominals bunch and tense as he gives into the urge to roll his hips up, seeking nonexistent friction.

“I can’t,” Atsumu whines, watching his cock bob uselessly. 

Sakusa hushes him and pinches his nipples again, making Atsumu jolt and moan, before soothing them with gentle rubbing, back and forth, and back and forth…

“I think you can, Atsumu. You’re dripping,” Sakusa says. “You just have to stop fighting and let yourself feel it.”

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut again, letting out little broken noises as he surrenders to the pleasure Sakusa is drawing out of him. It’s not where he wants it right now, but it feels good . He can’t believe he’s gone his whole life without this, ignoring an entire part of his body that clearly wants to be touched. 

His hips start moving more fully, humping upwards with harsh clenches of his abs.

“That’s it…”

He breathes deep, tries to flood his blood with oxygen like Sakusa instructed, the sensations in his chest becoming that much more intense every time he fills his lungs. Atsumu presses his chest up into Sakusa’s hands, riding the waves of his shifting ministrations. Sakusa isn’t pinching anymore and Atsumu’s grateful for it, certain that pain would be a distraction at this point. Instead, he’s cycling through different light touches that all leave Atsumu gasping. It feels good—it feels so good—

“Yeah, keep moving your hips, just like that, Atsumu,” Sakusa says, right into his ear again. Atsumu can feel his breath through the mask and it’s making goosebumps break out on his skin. “Roll them like you’re fucking.”

The words hit like a slap across the face and, like the masochist Atsumu’s quickly discovering he is, he moans wildly. He thrusts his hips up, clenching his stomach and his glutes at the apex of each movement. It’s what his body wants to do naturally, but now all he can think about is how it imitates grinding his cock into a hot, tight hole. 

The rapid flashes of pleasure originating from his chest are starting to sink lower, down into the base of his cock, and oh god he might actually be able to come from this.

Sakusa’s thumbs continue to rub quick, barely-there circles around his nipples, and suddenly Atsumu is painfully aware of all the places the two of them are touching. He and Sakusa are pretty much the same size, all things considered, but he still feels surrounded. A whine leaks out of his throat as Sakusa increases the pressure slightly. 

“You like women, right, Atsumu?” Sakusa asks, line of thought untrackable from Atsumu’s point of view. “Do you play with their tits like this? Make them feel like this?”

Heat so sharp it’s nearly painful stabs through Atsumu’s gut and he moans in surprise, blushing furiously. Sakusa rubs two slick fingers from each hand over Atsumu’s swollen nipples, drawing rhythmic shapes. 

“Do you touch their clits like this? Do you get them off, Atsumu? Do you make them come just like this?”

“Fuck…!” Atsumu cries out, profanity turning to whimpers as the slow but steady pace of his hips increases.

He’s overloaded by Sakusa’s touch, by the images he’s painting in Atsumu’s head. There’s a pressure against Atsumu’s lower back that tells him Sakusa’s just as hard as he is. It’s happened in other scenes, but this is the first time Atsumu’s been sitting in Sakusa’s lap for it, the first time he’s felt it. He bites his lip and groans, wondering if the clumsy movements of his hips are making Sakusa feel good, too. 

The heat builds and builds, concentrating between his legs. Just one stroke of his cock would do it, Atsumu swears. 

“That’s it, Atsumu. You’re close. I can tell. Show me,” Sakusa says, and if Atsumu was less of a mess he might notice how strained the other man’s voice sounds.

It’s not enough. It’s not enough, Atsumu thinks, until it suddenly is . It builds slower than usual, climbing with each continued thrust of his hips up into nothing. Sakusa is softly pinching, quick little grasps and releases, as Atsumu’s chest inflates, breath held at the apex.

Atsumu teeters there for what feels like a long time, and then his body curls sharply, like a rope snapping. 

“Uhn—”

A sound gets stuck in his throat, and then Atsumu’s cock kicks. Come splatters over his stomach, splashes over his chest. 

“Uuuuuuuuuhhhnnngg,” Atsumu moans as his hips continue to jerk and Sakusa keeps stroking his nipples, pressing down now, almost soothing. 

There’s harsh breath against the bolt of Atsumu’s jaw. 

“Yes, yes, there you go. I knew you could do it.”

As far as orgasms go, it’s not the best Atsumu’s ever had, almost ruined by the lack of stimulation as he spills all over himself. However, the deep sense of pleasure and pride that radiates through him more than makes up for it. He did it. 

He lets his head drop back fully against Sakusa’s shoulder and just breathes, chest heaving. Sakusa finally moves his hands from Atsumu’s chest, drawing them smoothly down his sides. He moves them up and down, a calming pressure. 

“Good, Atsumu. Good. That was amazing. You did so well…”

Atsumu lets his eyes slip shut and basks in the praise. 

 

And so, Atsumu’s life settles into a new routine. He plays volleyball. He sees his family as much as possible. He dutifully taste tests each new flavor put on the menu at Onigiri Miya. He travels, he plays more volleyball, and about once a week he meets up with Sakusa Kiyoomi and lets his teammate ruin him. 

So it goes.

 

The drink tray clatters dangerously to the table in chorus with Meian’s booming laugh. Their captain plops himself down at the table where he’s been holding court with Inunaki, Hinata, Bokuto, Sakusa, and Atsumu. Barnes, Adriah, and the rest have set up shop at the bar. They’re coming off a five match winning streak, including another victory against the Adlers last week. Meian demanded celebration in the name of team bonding and none of them had any objections, least of all Atsumu. 

“Are you trying to get the kids drunk, Cap?” Inunaki teases as he pulls a bright yellow drink off the tray. 

It’s a bit late for that, Atsumu thinks, reaching for his own beverage as his head sloshes. He leans back against the wall of the booth once he has his drink securely in hand. 

“Who ya callin’ kids? Yer not that much older than us.”

“Yeah! You’re only three years older than me!” Bokuto yells, beer threatening to spill out of his glass as he gestures wildly. 

“Two,” Sakusa corrects, making Bokuto gasp and hold up two fingers.

“Two?!”

Sakusa has been sipping on something clear and sparkling throughout the evening; he looks pretty put together from an outsider’s point of view, but Atsumu can track the little red flush highlighting the shells of his ears and the tip of his nose. The biggest give away is his mask—no longer on his face, but set on the actual tabletop. Atsumu snickers.

“The only real baby here is Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says, vigorously ruffling a head of bright orange hair with his free hand. 

“Hey! I lived overseas! I’ve been to the other side of the world! What have you done?” Hinata says, cheeks a pair of bright red apples, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Atsumu gapes in mock offense. “I can’t believe my only son is talkin’ to me like this.”

“He’s not your son, you freak,” Sakusa says with narrowed eyes. 

“I birthed him, from my own V-League sets,” Atsumu counters. 

“Ew.”

“Stop sayin’ ew at me, Omi, that’s rude,” Atsumu barks, leaning his elbow on the table. 

“Ew,” Sakusa emphasizes, with defiant, narrowed eyes. 

“Enough, children!” Meian interrupts before Atsumu can find something to throw at Sakusa. “We’re here for team bonding, not team bitching . We’re supposed to be learning more about each other!”

Atsumu is starting to think that their captain is no better at holding his liquor than the rest of them, but he happily ponders the request. After a second, he claps his hands together. 

“I got it!” Atsumu says. “Who was everyone’s first serious crush?” 

Meian’s eyes light up and Inunaki groans good-naturedly as the captain turns his eyes to the libero. 

“Yes, Inunaki, you start!” Meian demands, no room for dissent. 

Inunaki hums and takes another sip of his drink. 

“Ah! Hasegawa Ichika! I was head over heels for her in my first year of high school. She was the captain and ace of the girls’ volleyball club. I swear, half my schoolboy fantasies were about receiving her spikes—”

Atsumu cackles while Bokuto looks on with enraptured eyes. 

“I’d assume that was a dirty metaphor if liberos weren’t so damn weird,” Meian laughs and Inunaki heaves a wistful sigh. “Ok, next! Kiyoomi-kun!”

Sakusa looks like he’s sucking on a lemon where he’s sitting next to Inunaki, but Atsumu speaks up before he can even open his mouth.

“That’s easy—Ushiwaka. Next!”

Meian, on Atsumu’s right at the head of their table, brings a large hand down on Atsumu’s head, squishing it towards the tabletop.

“It’s not your turn, brat. Hush!”

Sakusa leans back and folds his arms over his chest. 

“No, the brat is correct, unfortunately. I developed an infatuation with Wakatoshi-kun in my first year of high school. Admiration and affection get mixed up easily at that age, and I was obsessed with his volleyball,” Sakusa says.

The rest of the professional athletes around the table nod sagely in understanding. 

“I totally get that,” Hinata says. “If I met him before he graduated, I bet I would have had a crush on Karasuno’s original Tiny Giant. I can totally see how you could have that for Ushijima-san.” 

“Plus… have ya seen his arms?” Atsumu muses, and Sakusa levels him with a disparaging glance that only earns him a wink in return. 

“Quit drooling, Atsumu-kun,” Inunaki teases.

“Look, I gotta give credit where credit’s due,” Atsumu says with a sleazy grin and then turns to Bokuto, who’s next in their rotation, sitting between Sakusa and Hinata. “Bokkun! Yer next!”

A huge dopey grin blooms on Bokuto’s face as a bright, happy flush spreads across his cheeks. Atsumu grimaces, realizing his mistake too late. 

“Well, my first big crush was on Akaashi! When he—”

Atsumu interrupts immediately by making loud barfing sounds. 

“Yuck, god, we get it. You and Akaashi are adorable perfect soulmates. Quit shovin’ it in our faces,” he says, and Meian doesn’t even tell him to shut up this time because he’s right . If Bokuto gets started they’ll spend the next hour with him detailing the exact shade of Akaashi’s eyes in the early spring. Luckily, Bokuto has already started texting his boyfriend so he doesn’t seem to care too much about being shut down. “Shouyou-kun, next. Bet I can guess this’un, too.” 

Hinata sits up straight in his seat, face serious. 

“Go on then, Hinata,” Inunaki encourages.

The compact spiker nods, head held high.

“Shimizu-senpai.”

Atsumu blinks, taking a second to think through the alcohol induced fog in his brain. Then he finally places the name. “...Yer manager?”

Holding his drink between two hands, Hinata nods resolutely, eyes far away. The rest of the table looks as confused as Atsumu feels. 

“Shouyou-kun, aren’t you with Kageyama Tobio? You went to high school together, right?” Inunaki asks.

Hinata cocks his head to the side in confusion, “Yeah, all three years.” 

Bokuto brings his fist down into his palm in an ah-hah gesture, “So you didn’t get together until after high school?”

Atsumu splutters, completely baffled. “No! No, I know for a fact that they kissed on the court at the Summer Interhigh after they kicked Omi’s team’s ass in our third year. I was watchin’ that quarter-finals match.” Hinata had jumped into the air, grabbed Kageyama’s face in both hands and planted one right on him after their set point won the match. You don’t forget something like that. He turns to Sakusa. “Tell ‘em, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes, “Well, the game went to full sets so I wouldn’t say they kicked our ass … but Hinata and Kageyama did kiss.”

Everyone looks back at Hinata, baffled, who’s staring at them with an equally confused gaze.

“So, you did have a crush on him in high school?” Meian asks. 

Hinata’s eyes go wide and then he shakes his head back and forth resolutely, “A crush?! On Kageyama? Gross! No way.”

He looks repulsed by the notion. 

Everyone around the table blinks. Atsumu downs the rest of his drink. 

“Gross? Last week when we played the Adlers you told Kageyama you’d get married when you could make the rings out of a gold medal,” Sakusa points out, and Bokuto nods vigorously.

“That was a dumb thing to say in the heat of the moment. I’d never deface an olympic gold like that,” Hinata says, nonplused. “Anyway, what’s your point?”

“Alright! That’s enough study on the matin’ habits of crow demons, next,” Atsumu nearly shouts, needing this bewildering conversation to end. 

“That’d be you, Atsumu,” Meian points out, and oh, huh, he’s right. 

Atsumu takes a deep breath; he definitely knows the answer to this one. 

“My first crush that lasted more than a couple weeks was definitely my second year captain, Kita Shinsuke,” he says without much shame, though he definitely wouldn’t want to admit it to Kita himself and make him uncomfortable. 

Though, knowing Kita, he’d probably just smile and say he was flattered. 

“Your captain?” Meian says, a humorous glint in his eye. “Should I be concerned that you’re going to fall for me, Atsumu-kun?”

“If yer lucky, Shugo-kun,” Atsumu jokingly flirts back, but then he laughs and runs his hand through his hair. “No, Kita-san was just… he was a serious guy… all stoic, ya know? He was so good at keepin’ us in line. He didn’t laugh much, so it made you wanna, like—it jus’ meant when you could get him to laugh, it was—”

It’s as the words are coming out of his mouth that Atsumu registers something horrific. The sentence freezes in his throat as he makes eye contact with Sakusa—as he takes in Sakusa’s stoic, serious face. 

“Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto prompts.

“What?!” Atsumu yelps, too high-pitched. “I wasn’t—it’s nothing! Sorry, bathroom.”

He nearly knocks his glass onto the floor in his haste to stand up, cursing and wobbling as he fumbles for it. 

Sakusa laughs. So does the rest of the table, but Atsumu barely hears them. 

No. No, thank you. 

“Stop it!” Atsumu points his finger right at Sakusa, trying to sound deadly serious. 

That just makes Sakusa smirk and chuckle more. 

Atsumu flees to the restroom to have a mild existential crisis in peace. 

 

“Do I go after folks who play hard to get?”

Atsumu is sitting at the countertop of Onigiri Miya. There’s a bottle of sake and two cups on the raised ledge between the front of the restaurant and the kitchen. Osamu is wiping down the counter behind the bar. All the chairs are put up on tables for the night—except Atsumu’s, of course. 

Osamu looks up from his wet rag and looks at Atsumu with wide eyes under a furrowed brow.

“Uh. Yeah,” he says. “That’s like… yer whole thing, ‘Tsumu. I thought you knew this.”

Atsumu sputters.

“Knew it?! How could I know it?”

“Because you’ve been doing it since elementary school?” Osamu says, still looking baffled. “Yanagi Ryoko kicked ya in the knee in first grade, called ya stupid, and you made Ma put a picture ya drew of her in crayon on the fridge.”

Atsumu huffs, “I had a crush, so what? She was cute.”

Osamu crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’ll give ya credit considering it sometimes works out by some ridiculous chance, but yer like that for everything,” Osamu says, in his yer-so-stupid voice. “I mean what kinda person points at a random first year middle blocker from another prefecture, after playing one game against ‘em, and claims yer gonna set for them one day? Who fuckin’ does that?”

Atsumu’s face burns and he saves himself by having to answer to that by taking a huge bite of an extra large onigiri. 

“Anyway, why d’ya ask?” Osamu asks, leaning an elbow on the counter and draining his most recent glass of sake. “Is this about whoever rejected you the other day?”

“I didn’t get rejected!” Atsumu says, and a few grains of rice fly from his mouth to the table. 

Osamu glares at him, “You’re cleaning that counter when you’re done.” 

Atsumu ignores him. So what, he has a type. Just because Sakusa fits it doesn’t have to mean anything. In defiance, he pulls out his phone and flips open his messages. 

To: Omi-Omi
>> You free tomorrow? After practice? 

It’s a while before Atsumu gets a response. He finishes his food; together they finish the sake, and Atsumu helps Osamu do the final close out for the restaurant. His phone buzzes as they step out into the cold October evening. They aren’t drunk, but there’s a pleasant buzz under Atsumu’s skin and the chill doesn’t bother him. Their breaths puff out in misty clouds as Atsumu pulls the device out his pocket. 

“You want to crash on my couch? It’s closer than yers, and I got the new Smash,” Osamu says. 

It’s still pretty weird that they don’t live together, Atsumu thinks, even a few years down the road. They lived out of each other's pockets for so long, since before they started forming memories. Atsumu believes that one day he might be sixty and still find it strange that he doesn’t have to pound on the bathroom door in the morning and yell at Osamu to hurry the fuck up—boxes of cheap bleach and toner under the sink. 

Atsumu looks down at his phone screen. 

From: Omi-Omi
>> Yes. You can come straight over. There’s something I’ve been wanting to do that you haven’t tried yet. 

A zip of electricity runs up Atsumu’s spine and he can’t help but smile. He looks up at the tops of the buildings around them, tries to pick out stars through the light pollution. 

“For sure, ‘Samu. Thanks,” he says. “Hope yer ready to get your ass kicked.”

“You wish,” Osamu replies, hands stuffed in their pockets as they walk towards the train station. 

 

Kiyoomi tells Atsumu he should wait on the couch after his shower.

“Don’t see what the point of all the secrecy is when ya already told me what we’re doin' today, Omi-kun.”

They toe off their shoes and line them up against the wall. Kiyoomi puts his keys on their hook on the coat rack. 

“There are a lot of variations to temperature play, but one of the best parts is the way it surprises you and keeps you on edge,” Kiyoomi explains, pulling off his scarf. “That’s why you’ll be blindfolded and gagged.” 

“Oh.”

When Kiyoomi glances over his shoulder, Atsumu has his back to him, but he spots the red tips of his ears. Kiyoomi can’t help but smirk a little. 

“I’ll just, uh, hop in the shower,” Atsumu says quickly.

“You do that,” Kiyoomi says with humor. 

He uses the time that Atsumu is in the shower. This is definitely one of the more set up intensive kinks, but Kiyoomi finds it worth the time. First he piles the pillows in the corner of the room and pulls a bedside table to the bottom of the bed. Then he goes to the closet. Initially, he pulls out a plastic painting sheet and lays it over the whole bed. Then he grabs a similarly disposable drop cloth to lay over it. 

The idea of laying on plastic has always sounded incredibly uncomfortable and distracting to Kiyoomi. 

Some of what they’re doing today Kiyoomi has done before, but there are a few new things he’s been wanting to try after reading about them on the online dominant group. The small pitcher candle of soy wax that Kiyoomi pulls out of the closet next is a product he’s used before and enjoys. Though he’s glad that Atsumu will be blindfolded and won’t have the opportunity to say anything about the wax being black. 

What can he say? He likes the clean contrast; he has white wax stocked as well for that very reason. 

He pulls out his new purchases next: a hot water bath, a thick ceramic pot about the same size, and two sets of glass plugs. One set is long and tapered; the other is shorter but much thicker. Each set contains a small, medium, and large plug. Kiyoomi removed them from the packaging and cleaned them this morning, but he still gives them a quick spray with a gentle disinfectant and wipes them down again before setting them down on the bed.

Kiyoomi takes the ceramic pot and the water bath to the kitchen, filling the latter with water and the former with ice before topping it up with some water as well. He takes both containers back to the bedroom, sets them on the side table, and plugs the water bath in. He sets the temperature to 42°C and places the wider plugs into the rapidly heating water. He takes the longer plugs and slips them into the icy water. He also places a pump-top bottle of lube in each container. 

With all of that done, he heads into the bathroom to shower. Once clean and dressed, Kiyoomi heads back to the closet to grab the last pieces of equipment he needs: a leather eye mask, a ball gag, a clicker... and two brand new, padded, fur-lined wrist cuffs. 

Who would have thought Miya Atsumu would end up being an easy bruiser?

Kiyoomi only wishes their careers didn’t involve constantly wearing short uniforms; he’d take more advantage of it otherwise. 

He heads out into the living room, unsurprised to find Atsumu already sitting on the couch in just his towel. His back is to the bedroom hallway and Kiyoomi pauses, just for a moment, then clears his throat. Atsumu tilts his head over the back of the couch to watch Kiyoomi approach. Upside down, a flush spreads over his cheeks as he clocks the items in Kiyoomi’s hands. 

“Oh, right. Yep. Starting out here, so I, uh, can’t see,” Atsumu says.

Kiyoomi walks around the couch, smirking behind the mask as he comes to a stop in front of Atsumu, the other man looking up at him with dilated eyes. First he holds up the cuffs.

“I know we avoided cuffs for a while, but I ordered these, which should be pretty unlikely to leave marks,” Kiyoomi says, showing him the new restraints.

They’re leather on the outside, but they do have a thicker than usual layer of foam padding on the inside, covered by a silky fur lining. Tightened properly, they shouldn’t be able to pinch at all and should prevent Atsumu from causing himself any visible damage, no matter how hard he pulls. 

“C-cool, yeah,” Atsumu says, eyes more focused on the gag and blindfold. 

Still, Kiyoomi starts with the cuffs, carefully buckling one around each wrist and then clipping them together with a short, 3-point connector. Then he grabs the clicker from his pocket. It’s about two inches long, made of black plastic, and has a button set into a divot in the middle. 

“What’s that?” Atsumu asks, eyeing it suspiciously. 

“A dog training clicker,” Kiyoomi says, showing it to Atsumu and then clicking it a few times to demonstrate the clear, metallic popping noise. “Since you’re gagged, we won’t be able to use our usual color system. This clicker is your safeword. You’ll hold it in one hand, and if you click it I’ll immediately stop and remove the gag so you can speak. If I notice you’ve dropped it, I’ll do the same. Understand, Atsumu?”

He presses the clicker into Atsumu’s palm.

“Got it,” Atsumu says, clicking it to test it out. “Yer not gonna burn me, right?”

“Of course not. I’m a little concerned you didn’t ask that question earlier.”

“Don’t judge me!”

Ok, gag time. Kiyoomi grabs it and tilts Atsumu’s head back.

“Any last words?” he asks, purposefully ominous. Atsumu snorts and shakes his head. “Alright, open your mouth.” 

Atsumu does as he’s told, holding Kiyoomi’s eyes as the black rubber ball slides between his teeth. Kiyoomi mildly regrets not putting the blindfold on first as he watches Atsumu’s eyes mist over in real time when Kiyoomi latches the buckle behind his head. 

He brushes a finger over Atsumu’s cheek, caught in his own daze for just a second, before picking up the blindfold and slotting it into place. Atsumu’s breath speeds up a little. 

“Is that okay, Atsumu? Comfortable?” Atsumu nods, chin slipping from Kiyoomi’s hand. “Good. Follow me now, I’ll help guide you.”

He helps Atsumu stand, towel sliding off, and then leads the way with a few fingers hooked into the leather connector of the cuffs. He walks them down the hall and into the bedroom, positions Atsumu at the foot of the bed, then unceremoniously pushes him down. Atsumu’s back bounces against the canvas drop sheet and he grunts quietly behind the gag.

Kiyoomi lets himself look for a minute at Atsumu, blind and silenced, cuffed hands tucked demurely against his chest. His eyes can’t help but linger on Atsumu’s lips, stretched lewdly around the black rubber ball, and his cock, already half-hard in anticipation. 

“Scoot higher on the bed,” Kiyoomi instructs, helping him wiggle up until he can clip the remaining connector to a crossbar of the headboard. 

With that done, he moves the side table until it’s easily within arms reach, then spreads Atsumu’s legs, making a space for himself between them. He rests his palms on the top of Atsumu’s thighs. Normally he’d ask if Atsumu is ready at this point, but he won’t be able to answer now. It makes Sakusa’s breath shudder excitedly on the exhale.

He checks one more time that the clicker is secure in Atsumu’s hand, and then he begins.

Kiyoomi starts by simply dipping his gloved fingers into the ice bath and holding them over Atsumu’s chest, letting the frigid droplets splatter onto his skin. Atsumu twitches, head kicking back a little. Kiyoomi does it again, twice more, until there are little rivulets of water running down Atsumu’s skin, a small pool collecting in his belly button. When he finally touches Atsumu directly, he uses even strokes of both hands to spread the water out, making goosebumps break out on Atsumu’s skin as the droplets begin to evaporate.

Kiyoomi makes one more pass with the cold water before quickly switching to the other water bath, splashing hot droplets down on Atsumu’s torso.

Atsumu jerks, the restraints clinking, and Kiyoomi smiles. It’s all about the contrast, the unexpected. They’re just getting started.

Kiyoomi toys with him like that for a while, simply using the water and ice to his heart’s content. Atsumu makes a stifled sound when Kiyoomi puts ice directly on his nipples, letting it melt and tease the little nubs until they’re dark and stiff. Inspired, Kiyoomi grabs two of the glass plugs out of the hot water and presses their tips to the hard peaks on Atsumu’s chest. He fights Kiyoomi for just a second and then collapses, a moan leaking out around the gag. 

Satisfied that Atsumu is properly warmed up—pun only mildly intended—Kiyoomi slides the plugs back into the water bath and then pumps some of the warm lube onto his fingers. He pushes one of Atsumu’s knees up before sliding two fingers down to circle his hole. Atsumu’s stomach goes concave for a moment as he tenses and releases at the gentle touch, mouth working silently around the gag. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t keep him waiting, sliding one long finger past the tight ring of muscle, then two on the next thrust in. He doesn’t tease him much, nor does he give Atsumu more than two. Kiyoomi knows it’s just the knowledge of what’s about to come that makes him think Atsumu feels hotter than usual inside, but he still revels in it. 

He removes his fingers and turns to the icy water, reaching in to find the smallest of the tapered plugs, which he pulls out and coats in the chilled lube. Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu’s leg up farther with his clean hand and then pauses, basking in the thrum of excitement racing through him. Atsumu has absolutely no idea what’s coming, breathing fast but steady as he waits for whatever Kiyoomi’s going to give him.

Fuck, Kiyoomi loves scenes with surprises. 

With that he slides the cold glass plug inside in one smooth push. It’s small and slick, so it slides right in with just a touch of gentle pressure even as Atsumu clenches down and spasms in shock. A muffled sound in his throat catches and bleeds out as he raises his knees, trying uselessly to escape the feeling. Kiyoomi forces them to stay open. The plug doesn’t move; even as small as it is, Kiyoomi knows Atsumu is still taking a great deal of sensation as the cold from the glass seeps into his insides. 

“Keep your knees apart, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi murmurs, the first words between them in a while.

The sound Atsumu makes at that is even louder than the one from the icy intrusion as he forces his legs to splay. It brings a smile to Kiyoomi’s face as he pets the inside of Atsumu’s thighs in encouragement. Atsumu loves being told what to do and he follows directions like a dream; the least Kiyoomi can do is reward him for being so good.

He grabs another pump of the cold lube and wraps his hand around Atsumu’s cock to give it a few solid strokes.

Atsumu’s hips jerk and buck, like he’s unsure if he wants to get closer or further away from the sensation surrounding his dick. Too bad retreat only presses the plug further into him. 

After a moment, Kiyoomi checks the temperature of the plug, pleased that the pyrex glass seems to be holding temperature well. 

WIth that, Kiyoomi reaches into the warm water bath to retrieve the smallest wide plug and coats it in the heated lube. He pulls the small, tapered plug from Atsumu’s quivering hole, causing his breath to freeze in his chest. Once again taking no quarter, Kiyoomi doesn’t hesitate to press the thicker, hot plug into its place.

A groan bursts around the ball gag as Atsumu’s hips twist. The plug isn’t very big, barely wider than three of Sakusa’s fingers and only a few inches long, but you wouldn’t know it from the dramatics of Atsumu’s reaction. 

“Does it feel good, Atsumu? You can feel every millimeter of it, can’t you?” Kiyoomi says as he presses down on the base, watching Atsumu arch for him. 

He doesn’t wait for an answer that Atsumu can’t give. Instead, he touches his weeping dick, a few light jerks at a time, dipping his hand in the hot or cold water at random. He teases Atsumu’s nipples with ice again, letting it melt into rivulets, watching his whole body shudder. 

Kiyoomi fights off the passing thought of what might happen if a tongue was pressed to one of those stiff buds right now. He ignores the way his own mouth floods with saliva at the idea of closing his lips around them and sucking, drawing hot blood to the skin to meet his warm mouth. 

He absolutely needs to interrupt that train of thought before it takes off. “Turn over.” 

Atsumu takes a second but, with Kiyoomi’s help, he eventually complies. Soon Atsumu is on his belly, round ass hugging the base of the plug. Kiyoomi stares greedily for a few seconds, squeezes one cheek and presses the warm plug down before pulling it out. 

The medium chilled plug comes out next and Kiyoomi slides it in quickly, refusing to let Atsumu squirm much as the icy glass fills him up. 

“Mhn! Mhhhhn!”  

The noises are delicious. Atsumu cries out uselessly into the gag as Kiyoomi forces him to feel the chill no doubt leaching into him. 

Kiyoomi kneads his ass for just a few minutes, spanking him once or twice and forcing him to clench around the cold intrusion whenever he starts to settle. Before long, though, Kiyoomi gets ready to switch plugs; he doesn’t want to let the temperature start waning this time. He reaches for the next one and coats it in hot lube.

He’s ready with both hands this time, pulling the cold plug out and shoving the new, thicker one in without any delay. Atsumu has probably picked up on the pattern by now, but it doesn’t stop him from nearly shouting through the gag. His spine bends as the plug stretches him, pushing heat deep to shock his chilled flesh. 

Atsumu humps the bed for a while this time and Kiyoomi just watches, trailing fingers over his ass, up and down his thighs, spanking him oh-so-lightly every once in a while. His mouth waters again as he looks his fill and thinks about how far they’ve come in such a short amount of time. How far Atsumu has come. A few months ago he was asking naively about the “sex stuff” hanging in Kiyoomi’s bathroom; now he’s bound and gagged and blindfolded, rutting shamelessly against Kiyoomi’s bed with a warm glass plug sitting thick inside him and his ass pink from spanking.

Kiyoomi has broken him. And, he realizes with a sharp breath, he’s nowhere near finished. 

“Did I say you could move?”

Atsumu freezes, glutes flexed as he breathes hard. He whines and trembles, hips jumping in little fits like he doesn’t have any control over them. 

He probably doesn’t, Kiyoomi thinks gleefully. “It’s okay, Atsumu. I know you can’t help it.”

He smacks one of Atsumu’s pert cheeks and watches it jiggle. He twists the hot plug, pulls on it just enough that it starts to stretch him before letting it sink back in. Kiyoomi’s cock aches at the noise Atsumu makes in response.

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the ice water again, where the longest glass plug is waiting. It’s had a lot of time to absorb the chill, and so has the lube that Kiyoomi smears on it. He can’t even imagine how it’s going to feel inside. 

Atsumu must hear the slosh of the ice because he squirms again, shivering as he tugs on the cuffs and the headboard creaks. His thighs tense when Kiyoomi twists the plug again then pulls it all the way out this time, dropping it in the hot water bath and holding his breath. 

Atsumu screams into the gag and his whole body jerks when Kiyoomi touches his hole with the tip of the slick, ice-cold plug.

“Shh shh shh,” Kiyoomi murmurs, pushing forward insistently despite Atsumu’s best attempts to keep him out. 

The furled muscle of his hole is clenched up tight, but it’s no match for the slick glass and Kiyoomi’s desire to see him ruined. He presses, presses, presses until the longest plug he owns is fully seated. His dick twitches against the seam of his slacks as Atsumu rocks forward in a desperate and useless attempt to get away from the sensation of icy glass deep inside. 

Atsumu’s head thrashes so violently that he almost dislodges his blindfold;  garbled attempts at Kiyoomi’s name pour from his stuffed mouth over and over. Through it all, he holds firmly onto the clicker and doesn’t make a single move to press it. 

Kiyoomi lands a firm smack on his ass and laughs quietly when Atsumu’s wail comes out jumbled around the gag, as does whatever he tries to say afterward.

He can’t resist teasing. “I should’ve gagged you a long time ago, huh?”

Atsumu moans and pushes his ass back before he returns to rutting against the bed. He’s shivering from the inescapable cold, goosebumps breaking out along the long line of his back. Kiyoomi runs a gloved finger down the length of his spine, slow and deliberate, before patting his flank like he’s a well-behaved animal; his slowly-building suspicion that Atsumu enjoys a little bit of degradation gets stronger when Atsumu pushes up onto his knees and rocks backward, seeking out Kiyoomi’s demeaning touch once again.

He decides to press it a little further.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, wiggling the base of the cold plug. Atsumu screams into the gag and collapses back onto the mattress. “So desperate.”

Atsumu’s hips stutter as he starts to hump the bed again, still shivering. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath in through his nose, more affected by this than he thought he would be. Atsumu is squirming, arching his back like an animal in heat, offering himself up unconditionally to Kiyoomi’s capable hands.

Kiyoomi swallows, throat clicking. Shit.

Fuck it, Atsumu can’t see him; Kiyoomi reaches down and adjusts himself in his slacks. It’s the first time he’s touched himself in any capacity in Atsumu’s presence, and it feels so good that Kiyoomi almost doesn’t stop, dick twitching as his eyes rake over Atsumu’s body and his thoughts run rampant. But he reigns himself in and lets go after he’s shifted his dick so that it’s not pressing against the seam of his zipper.

His eyes dart to the hot water bath, where the largest, thickest plug is waiting. 

Atsumu doesn’t react at all this time when Kiyoomi reaches over to pull it out of the water and cover it in warm lubricant; he must be too caught up in his own head to hear Kiyoomi’s movements, little noises catching behind the gag as he rocks against the mattress, pert cheeks flexing.

He has no idea what’s coming. Kiyoomi is so hard it hurts.

When he grasps the base of the cold plug and tugs gently, Atsumu gasps and his legs jerk inward, trying to close; they would, if Kiyoomi weren’t sitting on his heels in between them. Kiyoomi bites his lip at the contact as Atsumu’s knees bracket his thighs.

He lets go of the cold plug, delighting in Atsumu’s gasp and it shifts snugly back into place, and brings his hand down hard on Atsumu’s ass. Atsumu cries out sharply and his hole winks around the smooth glass.

“Keep.” Smack. “Your legs.” Smack. “Open.” Smack.

Four red handprints layer on top of each other, staining Atsumu’s skin a deeper shade of pink as they settle in. Kiyoomi’s dick twitches when Atsumu wails something around the gag that sounds suspiciously like I’m sorry.

“If you do it again, we stop.”

Atsumu shakes his head, nearly dislodging his blindfold as he rubs his face against the bed and the headboard creaks.

Kiyoomi pulls on the cold plug once more. This time, Atsumu’s thighs tense but they don’t move, spread wide and quivering as the glass stretches him on the way out. Kiyoomi drops the plug back into the ice bath and places his free hand on Atsumu’s lower back to hold him still as he gets ready to use the last one.

Watching Atsumu fight his own muscles and struggle not to move when Kiyoomi touches his slick hole with the warm glass is nothing short of intoxicating. He’s stretched enough that he can’t offer any real resistance, and Kiyoomi easily slides the thickest plug home as Atsumu throws his head back and screams into the gag as the heat diffuses into his chilled ass. He’s sure the contrast must make it feel overwhelming. 

“Good boy,” Kiyoomi murmurs.

Atsumu’s cries settle into rhythmic groans every time he breathes as his hips work against the bed, movements jerky and uncoordinated as a bead of sweat drips down the back of his neck. Kiyoomi’s eyes track the droplet and he finds himself overcome with the absurd urge to lick it right off of Atsumu’s skin.

He blinks and takes a deep breath as Atsumu writhes in front of him. The first part of the scene is done, and Kiyoomi needs to move on to the wax before he does something stupid.

“You’re doing very well, Atsumu,” he says, squeezing one of Atsumu’s reddened ass cheeks. Atsumu moans weakly. “I want you to turn onto your back now, okay? I’ll help you out.”

Atsumu’s movements are shaky as Kiyoomi helps him turn over, the cuff connector chain twisting where it’s attached to the headboard. It’s as he’s settling into the bed that Kiyoomi sees it: come splattered over his stomach.

“Atsumu,” he breathes, too turned on to care about the desperate tone of his voice. “You liked it that much?”

Visible from underneath the blindfold, Atsumu’s cheeks are a furious red. He nods shakily, still squirming.

“Are you okay to keep going?”

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes. Obviously, Kiyoomi’s going to respect what Atsumu wants, but he’s been looking forward to seeing Atsumu’s pale skin decorated with lines of black wax.

Atsumu nods again, more forcefully this time. 

Kiyoomi blows out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay. Remember you have your clicker if you change your mind, at any point.”

He climbs off the bed and stretches his legs, walking over to his dresser for his matchbox. He could just as easily use a stick lighter for the black pitcher candle, but matches have such a pleasing, distinct sound and smell, one he wants Atsumu to be able to easily identify.

It’s easier to stand for this part, so Kiyoomi gets right up to the edge of the bed before encouraging Atsumu to scoot toward him, sliding the restraint along the crossbar of the headboard. Once he has Atsumu positioned exactly where he wants him, Kiyoomi reaches for the pitcher candle and pulls a wooden match out of the box.

Atsumu turns toward the noise when Kiyoomi strikes the match. Kiyoomi smiles and lights the wick, shaking the match to extinguish it. He drops it into the warm water bath and watches Atsumu’s nostrils flare at the smell of smoke and burnt wood.

He has to wait a little while for the candle to melt enough wax to pour, so Kiyoomi sets it down on the end table and runs both hands over Atsumu’s thighs, relishing the way the muscles tense underneath his skin.

“Relax, Atsumu,” he murmurs, trailing gloved fingers up and down Atsumu’s sides. “We’re not anywhere close to finished.”

A wrinkle appears on Atsumu’s forehead above the blindfold and he whines into the gag, squirming under Kiyoomi’s light touch. He gasps when Kiyoomi runs one hand through the mess on his stomach before wrapping it around his cock, half-softened and undoubtedly oversensitive. Kiyoomi sucks in a breath through his nose and tightens his grip, Atsumu’s own come slicking the way as his dick starts to fill again in Kiyoomi’s hand. 

“There you go,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu’s back arches and he moans obscenely. “Is it still nice and warm inside? Maybe I should switch it out.”

Atsumu makes a panicked noise and his mouth works around the gag. For all he knows Kiyoomi does have an even bigger cold plug. Kiyoomi almost feels dizzy when he realizes Atsumu’s trying to say Omi. He rubs his thumb underneath the head of Atsumu’s dick as his own twitches against the seam of his slacks.

Before long, a pool of black wax has formed at the surface of the candle, and Kiyoomi can hardly contain his excitement as he lets go and changes his gloves, gleefully ignoring Atsumu’s needy whine at the loss. He picks up the small pitcher and swirls the wax around, pouring a small drip onto the inside of his wrist to test the temperature and sensation. 

A pinpoint burst of heat, almost shocking even when he knows it’s coming ahead of time. Perfect. After a second it mellows out into a simmer, suffusing the surrounding skin with warmth as it starts to harden. Kiyoomi eyes Atsumu’s messy stomach; after a moment of deliberation, he grabs a dry washcloth from the bedside table and wipes him clean, makes himself a blank canvas. 

He reaches out and holds the pitcher above Atsumu’s chest, heart beating frantically against his ribs, then tips it carefully until—

Atsumu jumps in surprise as the first drips of hot wax land on his skin, right between his pecs. He makes a noise that’s a cross between a whimper and a gasp, back arching as the wax cools. 

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi murmurs, feeling like time has suspended around them. Atsumu nods, drool leaking out a corner of his mouth. “Fuck. You’re so—”

He cuts himself off before any of the many embarrassing ways he could finish that sentence come out of his mouth. Atsumu turns toward him, a questioning noise on his lips, but Kiyoomi tips the pitcher again to draw his attention away.

Instead of droplets, this time the wax lands as a messy line underneath his right pec. Atsumu arches up even higher and moans, body twisting subtly; the bob of his cock draws Kiyoomi’s eyes and he sees that Atsumu is fully hard once more. Forcing his eyes back up to Atsumu’s chest, Kiyoomi considers his next move.

The dark wax looks delicious against Atsumu’s pale skin. Kiyoomi wants to paint him with it like a piece of fine art.

He reaches up and pinches Atsumu’s nipples, one after the other, alternating between them until they’re hard and perky. Atsumu makes a desperate sound and writhes, pushing his chest up into Kiyoomi’s hand, but Kiyoomi takes his hand away and holds the candle over him instead. 

He tips the pitcher. Black wax stripes over Atsumu’s pec, catching the underside of his nipple. Kiyoomi frowns and doubles back, properly covering the rest of it with molten wax, and his breath catches as Atsumu screams, throwing his head back and shuddering. Even once he’s gone silent Atsumu continues to squirm, grinding his ass down against the mattress, which is when Kiyoomi remembers that he still has the plug in.

You can fuck me, you know.

Kiyoomi grits his teeth and tips the pitcher again, spilling wax onto Atsumu’s stomach and watching the muscles jump underneath his skin. He’s looking prettier with every dark stripe painted onto him, better than Kiyoomi could have imagined. Not that he thought about this that much in the days leading up to it, but…

He covers Atsumu’s other nipple in wax and hides a manic grin behind his mask when Atsumu’s brows knit together and the headboard creaks from how hard he’s tugging on the restraints. Fuck, he looks so good like this. Can’t see, can’t speak...

You can fuck me, you know.

Kiyoomi curses internally and uses his free hand to adjust himself again. He’s not fucking Atsumu, he promises himself as he suppresses the memory of the mocking permission. If he does, Atsumu would win—at least that’s how it feels—and that concept is currently more painful than the ache between his legs. But... that doesn’t mean Kiyoomi can’t do other things. 

Slowly, like he’s in a dream and isn’t in control of his own body, Kiyoomi starts to rub himself through his slacks, rocking the base of his palm against his dick as he bites his lip and rakes his eyes up Atsumu’s body. Atsumu is making so much noise that there’s no way he’s picking up on the subtle rustle of fabric as Kiyoomi presses down over and over, a deep, shameful pleasure taking root at the base of his spine.

He just.. he’s so…

“Mmmnmph,” Atsumu whines, the next stripe of wax hitting just above his belly button. 

Fuck, it feels good to touch himself after so long without. 

“I wish you could see yourself like this,” Kiyoomi bites out, pouring another dribble of wax near Atsumu’s collarbone. “You’re a mess.”

Atsumu shudders and stops grinding his ass against the bed, cheeks darkening immediately. Kiyoomi presses a little harder on his cock and nearly swears at the relief.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, Atsumu. Keep fucking yourself on the plug. I want you to come like that.” Atsumu shakes his head even as he starts to do as he’s told. “Don’t give me that. I know you can come without me touching you. Your body’s just that desperate.”

Kiyoomi is proud of how even his voice comes out. Atsumu groans and rocks down hard, cock twitching against his abs at Kiyoomi’s words. Kiyoomi wonders if he’s ever come untouched from getting fucked. The plug that’s inside him is big, but it’s not as big as…

He shakes his head, trying unsuccessfully to get rid of the thoughts that have burrowed their way into the deep, primal parts of his brain. It’s horribly tempting, but no matter how tortured Kiyoomi’s thoughts are and how much Atsumu begs for it, Kiyoomi is not going to fuck him.

He wants so badly to at least get a hand around himself, though. He knows Atsumu wouldn’t mind; he’d be smug about it afterward, but Kiyoomi might be too far gone to care at this point. Atsumu’s reaction after the fact is a problem for future Kiyoomi, because present Kiyoomi is so hard from having Atsumu under his thumb that he can feel himself leaking into his briefs.

The next stripe of hot wax makes Atsumu shiver and circle his hips, moaning as he shifts the plug inside him. There’s a little puddle of precome underneath the tip of his dick, shiny and sticky against his skin. Further up, his chest and stomach are decorated with beautiful dark stripes, punctuated by dots and a few little pools. Kiyoomi has another candle with white wax that he was planning on using after the black one because the visual contrast is so tantalizing, but instead of the white wax, he could—

“O’hih… O’uhh…”

Kiyoomi’s eyes snap up to Atsumu’s face. His lips are pursed around the gag, trying to work around it, drool sliding down the strong line of his jaw.

“Oh’ih…”

Omi.

Something in Kiyoomi’s brain snaps.

He feels oddly calm as he sets the pitcher candle down on the bedside table and pulls off his gloves. Atsumu’s still grinding down against the bed, headboard creaking with his desperate movements. Kiyoomi wants him so badly he’s shaking, so badly it makes him sick.

Atsumu doesn’t react when Kiyoomi unfastens his slacks with trembling hands, but at the telltale sound of his zipper lowering, Atsumu’s head snaps knowingly in his direction and his eyebrows rise high on his forehead. Kiyoomi’s cheeks burn but he doesn’t stop moving; his dick is so hard that it falls through the opening in his briefs as soon as his zipper’s down. 

Atsumu’s lips start to move around the gag like he’s going to try to say something else, or ask something, so Kiyoomi grabs the candle and pours a long line of wax down his torso. Atsumu arches and whines, hips back to full speed as sweat drips down his neck. Kiyoomi keeps the pitcher tightly held in his left hand and, with a deep breath, wraps his right around his dick.

He hisses out a breath at the contact, barely stopping a moan. Atsumu’s raised brows furrow and he grits out some semblance of Kiyoomi’s name, squirming. 

“Keep your hips moving,” Kiyoomi snaps, voice rough and shaky as he thumbs at the wet head of his cock. “I don’t want you stopping until you’re coming all over yourself.”

“Mmmnnhh…”

Kiyoomi’s first few strokes are perfunctory, slicking himself up with his own precome, but they feel nauseatingly good. His other hand trembles when he reaches out with the candle and tips a few drops onto Atsumu’s hip. Fuck, it’s going to be hard to do both at once.

His hand is making unmistakable sounds, slipping over his cock as he settles into a rhythm and it seems to drive Atsumu wild, groans pitching up as his movements grow more frantic. Although Kiyoomi has enough willpower left to resist the urge, there’s no doubt in his mind that Atsumu would let Kiyoomi fuck him right now if he asked. Kiyoomi wouldn’t even have to ask, given what Atsumu told him after their first foray into impact play. He could just shove his way between Atsumu’s legs, pull the plug out and push right in. Fuck.

Kiyoomi no longer trusts himself to speak and Atsumu seems beyond trying to form any more words. His body looks like a work of art, from the dark splatters painting his front to the tension in his muscles to the sweat shining on his skin and matting down his hair. Kiyoomi’s aim with the wax is definitely getting worse as he jerks himself harder, faster, gripping tight and desperately trying not to imagine how it would feel to fuck his sub properly.

His hand squelches lewdly and more precome beads at the head of his cock. Atsumu seems like he’s lost it, jaw slack around the gag as he fucks himself on the plug, rocking the hot glass into his sweet spot like he doesn’t have enough brainpower left to do anything else. Kiyoomi loves seeing him like this. It makes his belly twist and heat creep down his spine.

Kiyoomi puts the candle down and lets go of himself long enough to climb back onto the bed, kneeling by Atsumu’s side.

“Are you gonna come?” 

Atsumu nods, head bobbing as his hips keep working.

“Good boy,” Kiyoomi purrs, wrapping his hand back around his own dick.

Atsumu whines. Kiyoomi wonders what he likes better, being praised or being degraded.

Probably both at the same time. What a perfect, perfect submissive.

Fuck, Kiyoomi’s close. His hand speeds up as he fights to keep from fucking into the tight circle of his fingers, eyes locked onto the mess of dark splatters covering Atsumu’s sculpted chest. The dried wax is probably tugging on his nipples every time he arches his back—at least, Kiyoomi hopes it is. Fuck, maybe next time he should ask Atsumu to try the—

Kiyoomi’s thoughts are derailed when Atsumu arches clean off the bed and starts to come, streaks of white spurting from his cock and painting stark lines across his stomach and chest. He’s sobbing, babbling a garbled mess of Kiyoomi’s name into the gag over and over as tears leak under the blindfold and roll down his cheeks.

The sight hits Kiyoomi so deep in his gut that his orgasm nearly catches him by surprise and he’s unable to fully stifle his groan as his cock pulses and shoots to join the white mess making its own marks over the dark wax. Atsumu crumples against the bed and nearly thrashes at the feeling, his own cock dribbling another spurt of come onto his abs as Kiyoomi covers him with his release. It’s intense, so all-consuming that it’s all Kiyoomi can do to stay upright as his knees wobble. He makes another low sound and milks the last of it out as Atsumu echoes him with a soft moan.

When his orgasm is finally over, Kiyoomi lets his eyes flutter closed for a few blissful seconds, listening to his and Atsumu’s breathing as his heart finally starts to slow down. Fuck, that was good.

However, he’s only afforded a few moments of peace before his eyes pop open and he realizes what he’s done. Shit. Atsumu is going to be intolerably smug about this. 

Shit.

 

Walking into Sakusa’s bathroom is strange. It’s odd that Atsumu could have almost no memory of a place where such a pivotal event occurred. The room had blurred out into nothingness beyond the black leather and silicone. 

Now returned, with his jaw sore from the very ball gag he once saw hanging from the shower rod, Atsumu can finally appreciate that this is a fucking nice bathroom. 

He’s actually pretty surprised Sakusa didn’t lead him down the hall to the guest bathroom; in fact, he’s thankful. Atsumu didn’t go fully under this time, but he still feels super hazy, satisfied to his very core, and the idea of Sakusa disappearing all the way down the hall to set up in the other bathroom makes his stomach twist anxiously. He’s glad that he’d at least been able to hear Sakusa the whole time. 

Sakusa, who’s currently steering him towards the frankly stupid shower and bath set up on the far side of the bathroom. That entire half of the room is tiled, floor to ceiling, and sectioned off by a raised lip on the floor. On one side is a deep tub already filled with steaming water. There’s a shower on the other side with stainless steel fixtures plus a bamboo shower stool that Sakusa has set up next to the tub. 

Sakusa jacked off on him. The thought slides through Atsumu’s liquid mind, still too loose to grab onto anything. The musing alone still sends a deeply pleased shiver down Atsumu’s spine. 

Sakusa helps him into the bath, Atsumu gasping lightly as the hot water touches where his skin is a bit sensitive from the wax. His stomach is still tacky with it and the mess that Sakusa could only do so much about with a washcloth. After just a moment of adjustment, the warmth turns from overwhelming to extremely welcome. He hums as he sinks lower into the water, tipping his head back to look up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling. It’s bright and diffused, though Atsumu isn’t sure if that’s from the steam or from his own foggy brain. 

“Just soak for a minute, Atsumu,” Sakusa says. “I’m going to change and I’ll be right back.” 

Atsumu hums again, not quite ready to make himself talk yet. Sakusa goes back into the bedroom and Atsumu lets himself slouch down until the water line is just below his nose. He feels good, too good to have any real thoughts about being in Sakusa’s bathroom taking a soak right now. He supposes two orgasms and a flood of endorphins will do that. 

When Sakusa returns, he’s in a pair of athletic shorts and a tank top, mask and gloves removed. Atsumu resists the urge to drunkenly raise his hand out of the tub to give Sakusa thumbs up. It’s a good look on him. 

Sakusa takes a seat on the bamboo stool. Atsumu sinks a little lower and exhales through his nose, making the top of the water bubble. 

“Don’t drown,” Sakusa says. “How are you feeling?”

Atsumu sits up a bit so he can talk.

“Great. That was some good shit, Omi-Omi.” 

Sakusa snorts. 

“Here,” he says, handing over a washcloth and a small bar of soap. “The wax is soy-based, so any residue should come off easily now that you’ve been soaking in the water a while.”

Atsumu takes the rag and begins wiping himself down under the water.  He tries to focus on the task but can’t help the next thing that comes out of his mouth, not with what else he knows he’s wiping away besides wax. 

“Seems like you liked it, too, eh, Omi-kun?” Atsumu says, his stomach swooping as he remembers how he lost it when he realized what was happening. Atsumu glances up to see a softly glaring Sakusa, who doesn’t respond. “It’s okay that you think I’m irresistibly hot, ya know. Most people do.”

He levels a sleazy glance upward as he wipes off the last of the wax. 

“You know I know how to clean well enough that I could drown you in this bathtub and nobody would ever be able to prove that you were in this apartment,” Sakusa says, deadpan. 

“That’s not very aftercare-y, Omi-Omi~,” Atsumu sing songs. 

“You have wax in your hair. How did that even happen?” Sakusa pivots—not very gracefully, which Atsumu can pick up on even in his state.

Not that he cares much. It’s all icing on the cake to Atsumu. Though, he does wonder what exactly it was he did to get Sakusa to lose control a bit—because he knows by this reaction that Sakusa hadn’t gone into the night planning to do that. 

Atsumu wonders what he can do to get it to happen again. 

“I don’t know, Omi-kun, you tell me. Gimme some shampoo.” 

“Do you want me to go grab your hair stuff from your bag?” Sakusa asks, though he reaches over to grab his own off the ledge and offers it to Atsumu, who reads the label carefully.

“No, this is fine,” Atsumu says, unsurprised that Sakusa has decent quality hair products. He does have those shiny curls, after all. 

He squeezes some shampoo into his palm and goes to raise his arms; his shoulders twinge hard and he makes a low noise, hesitating. “Ow .”

Maybe he got a little exuberant with pulling on the restraints. He doesn’t remember doing it, but his upper back and arms are certainly telling him that it happened.

“Here,” Sakusa says, and suddenly a hand is scraping the shampoo out of Atsumu’s palm. “Face away from me and tip your head back.”

Oh. Okay, then. 

Atsumu does as he’s told, tipping his head back over the lip of the tub to let Sakusa use the showerhead to re-wet his hair and then work the shampoo in. The long fingers against his scalp are something else, and Atsumu feels his heart start to race. It feels intimate . His eyes slide shut of his own accord and he forces down a happy groan that threatens to climb out of his throat. 

He needs a distraction.

“So, your bathroom is fancy as fuck,” Atsumu starts. “Like, your whole place is really nice. I’ve been meaning to ask, is your family super rich or something?”

Atsumu pretty much expects Sakusa not to answer at all, but that’s not what happens. Sakusa combs his fingers over the patch of hair that somehow got wax in it, gently working the material out. 

“Yes. My father has a high ranking position at an investment firm and his father had family money as well,” Sakusa says bluntly. 

“Oh,” Atsumu says intelligently as Sakusa rinses his hair. “Do you, uh, see them much? Your family?”

The water shuts off and Atsumu’s getting ready to sit up when he feels hands in his hair again. Oh, conditioner. How thoughtful. 

“Not really. My siblings are much older and have their own lives. My father took a job in Hong Kong when I was very young and my mother joined him there after I graduated high school. I only really see them around New Years.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says again.

“It’s fine. They’re not exactly pleasant people.”

It’s not exactly effusive or particularly forthcoming, but considering Atsumu had known nothing about Sakusa’s family life besides the fact that Komori Motoya was his cousin, a strange sense of warmth wells up in his chest now. He can’t help but laugh a little, which is probably rude, but when he cracks his eye open and looks up, there’s half of a tiny smirk on Sakusa’s face. They always did have a similar sense of (bad) humor. 

“Alright. Tell me about your rich-person house growing up, though. Was it traditional or western style?”

Warm water cascades through Atsumu’s hair and fingers press into his crown. The bathroom feels like a space out of time for a bit, and Atsumu doesn’t fight it. He just sits there, with Sakusa Kiyoomi washing his hair, and listens to his unenthusiastic description of a mansion on the outskirts of Tokyo and its various structural problems.