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“If yer so confident ya’ll win, why don’t ya just take the bet, Omi.”
To keep some dignity. To prove to the vile little voice in the back of his head that he’s stronger than temptation.
“It’s stupid.”
He’s stupid.
“Nah, think ya know that ya can’t resist me.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Miya.” Kiyoomi knows what Atsumu is saying is the truth but still he bucks—a stallion refusing to be broken. “And you can’t say shit when you’re the one trying to get me drunk enough to put my hands on you.”
“Well, I’m not the one with a problem admittin’ that I wanna put my hands on ya.” Finally the unspoken becomes spoken. Atsumu’s little challenge bears its true fangs. “I got no problem sayin’ I wanna put my hands all over ya.”
Heat runs all the way up to Kiyoomi’s ears, boiling up from the pit of his stomach and flooding his senses. “Whatever.”
“Oh c’mon, Omi. I was born at night but not last night. I know you want me just like I want you.”
“Who’s to say I wouldn’t have already done something if that were the case?”
“I don’t think ya would.” Atsumu steps closer, far closer than anyone else on the team dares, and Kiyoomi thanks the gods it’s just them two in the locker room. “I think you need someone to make the first move.”
Kiyoomi has no reply, just feels his heart clanging in his ears and swallows too loudly. Each subtle, instinctual reaction makes Atsumu’s smile widen.
“So, ya up for a challenge Omi-Omi?”
“Will it get you to shut up?”
He should already admit defeat.
“Oh, you’ll be shuttin’ me up alright.”
With a long sigh and a little too much arousal still coursing through Kiyoomi’s veins, he finds himself in agreement with this stupid bet.
The rules are simple: they meet at Kiyoomi’s place on Saturday night—no practice Sunday and a space Kiyoomi is comfortable with in the event that things progress as Atsumu expects them to. Then comes the drinking. They’ll take shots every hour, on the hour until they are too inebriated to make coherent thought or until they initiate touch. Whichever comes first ends the contest.
But the real kicker—and Kiyoomi’s personal villain—is the 59 minutes between the hour. Every time they want to touch each other, they have to drink from a drink of choice. Low ABV, but still a drink, an active show of their desire for one another.
Maybe this was all a stupid idea.
It very much feels that way after Saturday’s practice. The locker rooms clear until it’s just Kiyoomi, Atsumu, and the elephant in the room. His traitorous brain sends too many chemicals through his body, frustration tangling with the sick anticipation of what’s to come.
“Excited for tonight, Omi?”
“If only to prove you wrong.”
With his back towards Atsumu, Kiyoomi never stood a chance against his assault. One arm comes up to pin him against the lockers, back pressed into Atsumu’s front with the hot trail of Atsumu’s breath ghosting along the sensitive parts of his neck.
“Yeah? Ya think you won’t break?”
“Not first,” the admission comes out shaky, Kiyoomi fighting the desire to press harder into the barely-there contact at his back.
“Either way, I win.” And just as soon as he’d done it, Atsumu pulls away. “C’mon. I wanna get some food in us before we get started.”
Kiyoomi hates that Atsumu is being practical. Hates that his heart is pounding again, loud enough to echo through his skull. But most of all, he hates that he agreed to this to begin with.
After an insufferable walk to one of their favorite restaurants and the trek back to Kiyoomi’s place, Kiyoomi’s skin is itching. More than anything he needs dinner to be over so they can take that first shot and get this over with.
But Atsumu takes his sweet time getting them all set up, taking the time to ask about Kiyoomi’s life, checking in on the brother and sister that he’s heard brought up in passing. Attentive and kind are things that make up Atsumu, Kiyoomi knows this.
He never thought they would make him want to grab him by the hair and shut him up. They haven’t even started drinking yet.
But Kiyoomi is strong. Resilient. Sees things through to the end. So he simply takes gulps of his water and answers as tersely as possible, making Atsumu fight off a constant smirk.
Despite wanting to get a move on, doing dishes has never been more delightful. Atsumu’s hums soothe the growing itch under Kiyoomi’s skin only mildly and likely only because it’s paired with the familiar routine of scrubbing at food particles.
Not because Atsumu’s presence means anything to Kiyoomi. Certainly nothing like that.
“Alright,” Atsumu turns with that lazy smile in place and again Kiyoomi fights the urge to end this before it starts, “ya got the hard stuff?”
Just beside the fridge, Kiyoomi gestures to his cart of booze, “Pick your poison.”
“Man after my own heart.”
Unwittingly.
“I prefer gin.” He chooses not to vocalize the impact Atsumu’s sentiment has. “But you can choose whatever you’d like.”
“Gin sounds fine by me.” Atsumu appraises the bottle before looking up through his lashes. “Ya got shot glasses or are we doin’ an indirect kiss all night.”
With a grimace, Kiyoomi pushes towards the cart, “You’re disgusting. Here.”
Two glasses find their homes on the counter as Atsumu pours the shots, already Kiyoomi is shaking too much to have a steady hand.
“Bottoms up.”
The night begins at 7 pm. One shot back and Kiyoomi feels his regret morphing into something different, something traitorous, something like excitement.
“Right, you know the rules,” Atsumu clears his throat, struggling with no chaser, “drink when we wanna touch each other.”
“Yes, Miya. I’m aware of the rules.”
“Just remindin’ ya,” he leans in again, much too close. So close Kiyoomi can smell the gin lingering on his breath. “I’d hate for you to forget ‘em.”
With a sneer, Kiyoomi cracks open his beer and takes a sip, heart fluttering when he finds Atsumu reaching to do the same.
“I’ll remember just fine.”
Kiyoomi’s skin burns under Atsumu’s gaze as he trails it all the way from head to toe and back again before tipping his drink back and taking a healthy gulp.
“Good.”
Even in his own home, Kiyoomi feels like he’s following Atsumu’s lead, trailing behind him with their six-packs while Atsumu carries the liquor and shot glasses. They agreed to put something on as background noise—a neutral thing that wouldn’t pull their focus away but couldn’t change the mood too much.
A documentary ends up being their background noise, a chance for Kiyoomi to learn more about the history of pizza dough than he ever wanted to know. Not that he’ll have much retention considering his current circumstances.
Circumstances just so happen to be the physical embodiment of temptation with thighs spread wide on Kiyoomi’s couch. With just a little imagination, Kiyoomi pictures himself fitting perfectly in that space.
His fingers itch for the bottle, taking a swig before meeting Atsumu’s infuriating smirk.
“Like what ya see?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t try to hide it, Omi. Yer prettier when yer honest.”
The notion that Atsumu thinks he’s pretty shouldn’t make Kiyoomi feel like he needs to drink again, yet the urge is almost there.
“Pretty?”
“Ya like that?” Atsumu leans closer, tongue darting out to wet his lips and tease Kiyoomi, “You want me to call ya pretty?”
Even though he scoffs, there’s definitely heat in Kiyoomi’s cheeks and no hiding the way he gets twitchy. Taking sips of his beer is going to be the death of him, but Kiyoomi is honest to a fault. So the cool bottle almost grazes Atsumu’s face.
“Good boy.”
Kiyoomi nearly chokes on his drink, taking another sip for good measure as he narrows his eyes at Atsumu. Finding a chink in that man’s armor is proving to be difficult.
“Well I’ll be damned—you got a praise kink, Omi?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“What if I just wanna make sure ya feel good? Somethin’ wrong with that?”
A scoff helps keep Kiyoomi’s desires at bay, “That’s presumptuous, Miya.”
“Try callin’ me by my name. Yer gonna wanna practice for when yer screamin’ it later.”
For a moment Kiyoomi almost rolls his eyes, but chooses to just brush the comment off. Only in the silence does he see an opportunity. Atsumu has always talked about Kiyoomi’s voice, goading him by talking about how sultry it can sound. Joking that Kiyoomi would be a good sex line operator grew old, but the memories stayed tucked away.
So if Atsumu wants to be called by name, so be it.
“I’ll give it a try then,” Kiyoomi leans close enough that they’re almost touching, hot breath colliding in the air as he drags the sounds out, “Atsumu.”
The effect is near immediate, Atsumu pulling back and swiping his drink off the table. Three hefty gulps reveal just how affected he is, pulling a low chuckle out of Kiyoomi.
“What’s wrong, Atsumu? Can’t handle something as simple as your name?”
Just as Atsumu is about to pull off the bottle, Kiyoomi picks back up again, “Should I practice moaning it too? I’d hate to let all that beer go to waste.”
Evidently, just the thought is enough to have Atsumu drinking again, a satisfied smile blooming on Kiyoomi’s face.
“Fuck,” Atsumu pants as he hangs his head, angling his head slightly up just to look Kiyoomi in the eye, “yer so good for me, Omi. Fuckin’ dream come true with that mouth.”
Something about the breathlessness and the gazing up through lashes makes Kiyoomi’s core ignite in heat, downing another quarter of the bottle in one go.
Only thirty minutes in and they’re already royally fucked—well, not fucked yet .
“When are ya gonna stop teasin’ me, huh? You’d make me feel even better if ya just touched me, baby.”
Another sip for Kiyoomi, but he can’t let Atsumu have the last word.
“Well, what’s the point if I don’t make you wait? I’m worth twice as much as the anticipation.”
“Is that so?”
“There’s a reason all of my exes keep my number in their phone, Atsumu. And it’s not because of my sparkling personality.”
For a moment it seems like Atsumu’s hiding a true smile, but it’s quickly covered by that smirk. “Well, then what could ya be good for?”
“You said it yourself,” Kiyoomi leans in dangerously close to Atsumu’s ear, lips almost brushing the skin, “I’m a dream come true with this mouth.”
He thinks he’ll win at that moment, that Atsumu will turn his head and break the tension they’re building brick by brick. But just as he feels Atsumu’s breath hitch and feels his neck turn, he realizes that Atsumu has turned the opposite way. A gulp is the only indication that Kiyoomi has affected him at all.
“When are you going to break?”
Atsumu laughs and Kiyoomi catches him taking another sip as he sits back, “Just as soon as you decide yer gonna break, Omi-Omi. Maybe we’re both worth the wait.”
The next 14 minutes become a game between them—trading sultry barbs that have them both finished with a bottle each and a few drinks into the next. Despite his earlier dread, Kiyoomi finds himself enjoying the night, taking pride in each pull Atsumu takes from the bottle. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s just the fact that he’s letting his guard down, but Kiyoomi finds he doesn’t mind admitting he wants Atsumu as much anymore.
When the timer goes off and they pour another shot, Kiyoomi decides he’s finished playing games. He’s not going to try and get Atsumu to break, he’ll simply make him break.
“You were so confident we wouldn’t even need a second shot,” Kiyoomi winces just a little after the taste of gin takes over his mouth, using the beer as a chaser. “What happened?”
“I’m a patient man, Omi.”
They both know it’s a lie, but Kiyoomi lets him get away with it as he laughs and shakes his head.
With a new timer set and ticking away, Atsumu seems less driven to make Kiyoomi insane. His legs spread a little wider, getting more comfortable on the couch, and an arm comes to rest along the back of the couch. It’s such an inviting position.
Kiyoomi could see himself curled beside him or, better still, slotted between those thick thighs. As the documentary continues to fill the silence between them, Kiyoomi’s imagination can’t help but wander.
Maybe that was Atsumu’s goal all along. He knows that Kiyoomi has always been a silent observer, making his own assessments based upon simply watching—a trait that led him here to begin with. There was no way Atsumu wouldn’t be able to see the lingering glances Kiyoomi always sent his way.
And now, there’s no way to hide the way his eyes roam over Atsumu’s figure.
If Atsumu wants to play like that, Kiyoomi’s more than happy to ignore the bait. So he simply turns to the documentary, winding down by now, and averts his eyes. Not without effort, seeing as everything about Atsumu makes Kiyoomi want to drag his eyes back.
“You can look all ya want, baby,” his competitor taunts him, “ya just can’t touch.”
“I’ve seen the sights already.”
“Don’t matter to me either way. Yer hot when ya eye fuck me and yer pretty when yer focused on not lookin’.”
“I’m just interested in the dough making.”
“Right, and I hate volleyball.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at the comment, affording himself a quick glance. It’s a relief to see Atsumu in mostly the same position, though one hand has rucked up his shirt, blunt nails scratching at the skin.
It’s a sight that makes Kiyoomi’s fingers itch for his bottle, such a simple man to be felled by a little skin.
Atsumu’s smile makes it worse, almost like he planned it that way. Like he wanted Kiyoomi to catch sight of his golden skin, like he wanted him to imagine what he could do to that pretty patch of Atsumu.
In his frustration, a light bulb goes off in his brain. Atsumu was touching himself to get Kiyoomi’s attention—innocently, to be fair. But if Atsumu could tease Kiyoomi via touch…
They set the rules for not touching each other, but they never said anything about touching themselves.
Dead set on not being the one to break, Kiyoomi decides it’s time to play hardball. Sure showering Kiyoomi in praise has gotten him half hard, but he knows that Atsumu is a tactile person. He enjoys physical contact and all the intimacy that comes with it. And Atsumu’s never much liked when someone else’s hands are on something he wants.
“You think I look pretty when I’m focused?” Kiyoomi bats his lashes, almost coy when he lifts his hands to his chest, “Just wait until you hear what I sound like.”
Without waiting for a reply, Kiyoomi trails a hand over the front of his shirt, toying with his nipples through the fabric. Even that has him gasping, writhing just a little in his seat. And that’s before he lets his other hand drift to the growing tent in his pants.
“Cheatin’, fuck Omi, yer cheatin’!”
“We never-ah-said anything about touching our-fuck-ourselves.” Impatient, Kiyoomi pulls his shirt off, moving his hand along bare skin now, still keeping a barely there pressure where it needs it most.
With the effort that he’s putting in, Kiyoomi expects Atsumu to jump his bones immediately. But the bastard just slams back more of his beer and watches. A devious idea sparks in his head and Kiyoomi knows he’s going to win.
“Fuck,” he mumbles as he adds a little more pressure onto his cock, the resulting pleasure has him moaning, just as expected, “Atsumu!”
Like a wire pulled too taut, Atsumu snaps. The bottle clatters onto the table, empty and rolling along, and Atsumu takes no time snaking a hand into Kiyoomi’s hair.
“Yer a fuckin’ menace.”
It’s all Kiyoomi gets before Atsumu's lips are on his, hungry and desperate. He certainly can’t complain when Atsumu nips at his lower lip, demanding Kiyoomi to let him deepen an already frantic kiss.
With no fight left in him, Kiyoomi is pliable, bending to Atsumu’s will. A groan is swallowed by Atsumu’s mouth as Kiyoomi finally gets a taste of the man he’s craved most. He wishes Atsumu would slow down and let him savor the moment, but he’s made his bed and must lie in it.
Though that isn’t much of an issue.
Atsumu is attentive, swatting Kiyoomi’s hands away from where they were drawing out moans and replacing them with his own. Each grunt and groan pulled from those ministrations seems to spur Atsumu on. Tired of the muffled sounds, Atsumu moves to trail kisses along Kiyoomi’s jaw, down the sensitive skin of his neck.
“Shit, Atsumu, please.”
“Fuckin’ perfect when ya moan my name like that.” Atsumu slides off of him, slotting himself between Kiyoomi’s thighs instead before he rips off his own shirt. “I’ll give ya what ya want, baby. Make ya feel good.”
Though Kiyoomi pictured himself getting on his knees for Atsumu, the sight of Atsumu on his knees in front of him makes him almost shiver.
“Get these fuckin’ pants off,” Atsumu grabs at the waistband like it’s his own personal enemy, “they’re in my way.”
With a light laugh, Kiyoomi plants his feet and pulls himself up for a moment, helping Atsumu slide the offending garment over his ass and down his thighs. Once they’re at his knees, he plops back down, watching with fondness as Atsumu takes his time pulling them down the rest of the way.
“Always wondered ‘bout the moles.” Kiyoomi hums absently, so entranced by the look on Atsumu’s face—the sweet smile a bit of a shock. “They’re all over, huh?”
“Yeah,” it’s more of a sigh than anything considering Atsumu kisses the one adorning the inside of Kiyoomi’s left knee.
“Gorgeous, ya know that?”
When Kiyoomi finally focuses enough to look at the man worshiping him, he has to question why he waited so long to break. A thousand different confessions swirl in Atsumu’s honey eyes—hopeless devotion and endless adoration nearly drown Kiyoomi. Another kiss to a mole on the inside of his right thigh makes his throat tighten, a weak cry squeaking out at the intimacy of it.
“Always been so beautiful.”
And now Kiyoomi knows why he took so long to break. He has wanted , for so long he has craved this from Atsumu, never knowing if Atsumu would want to stake his claim and walk away. Or if he’d get this: reverent little kisses to the dark pinpricks that litter his skin, devotion that matches his own that bubbles under his skin.
In the blissful haze of intimacy, Kiyoomi nearly forgets that Atsumu’s mouth is trailing up and up. Only when Atsumu’s hot tongue runs along the side of his cock does he remember exactly what they’re doing here. There’s no helping the breathless cry that ravages him, only spurring Atsumu to pull more noises out of him as he moves back to the delicate skin of his hips and thighs, trailing bites and kisses until Kiyoomi is on the verge of whining in earnest.
“Can’t wait to have ya cryin’ out my name, Kiyoomi.” A shiver runs down his spine at Atsumu’s words. “Gonna make such a pretty mess outta you.”
“Please, Atsumu.” “Ya want that? Wanna be a mess?”
“Yes.”
One more lingering kiss seals his fate. “All ya had to do was ask.”
Kiyoomi already knew that Atsumu’s mouth would be hot and wet, evidenced by the marks that litter his skin. But having that velvety warmth wrapped around his cock accompanied by the vibrations of Atsumu’s own moans leaves Kiyoomi a wreck. He makes no move to hide his pants, the half-groaned sound of Atsumu’s name leaving a permanent taste on his tongue. It’s easy to let go when he slides a hand into bleach blond locks and feels the way Atsumu preens.
Each sloppy sound is enough to have him hurtling to the edge, only hastened by the way Atsumu looks up at him with those big brown eyes—the very picture of innocence with a cock jammed in his mouth.
Much faster than he would like, he feels a familiar coil in his gut, a warning ready to fly past his lips when Atsumu pulls off, instead choosing to trail touches on freckled skin.
“Ya like that?” Too flustered to answer, Kiyoomi can only nod. “Good. Can I ask a favor?”
“Anything,” Kiyoomi’s voice is raspy, sending another round of sparks down his own spine.
“Quit bein’ so nice and fuck my face ’til yer comin’ down my throat, ‘kay?”
For all his talk about being good with his mouth, Kiyoomi can’t seem to make his work. But a fire in him burns at the command, hand curling a little more fiercely into blond hair.
“Make sure you relax.”
It’s all Kiyoomi gets out before he lets himself use Atsumu’s mouth like a toy. It’s quite the treat that Atsumu has handed to him—sweet brown eyes roll back, tears gathering at the rim as Kiyoomi allows himself to fuck Atsumu’s throat raw. Each gag is followed with a needy little sound from Atsumu, his hand digging into the meat of Kiyoomi’s thigh, likely hard enough to draw blood.
But Kiyoomi doesn’t bring himself to care. Not when Atsumu’s throat tightens around his cock, not when those moans continue to send fire to his stomach.
He’s so distracted by the bliss of it that he doesn’t get to warn Atsumu he’s about to come. All that he gets is a scratchy cry of “Atsumu!” before Kiyoomi is spilling down his throat.
Pulling out of Atsumu’s mouth is a whole different sight in and of itself. Spit and the slightest bit of cum spill from the sides even as Atsumu swallows, eyes never straying from Kiyoomi’s. Even Atsumu’s half-hearted swipe at the mess of his mouth with the back of his hand makes Kiyoomi’s heart flutter.
He’s always been a goner for Atsumu.
“Come up here,” Kiyoomi paws at Atsumu’s shoulder, “need you up here.”
“Need me?” What would normally sound smug comes out hoarse and weak, still pulling a smile out of Kiyoomi.
“Mhm.”
With no fight at all, Atsumu finds a seat on Kiyoomi’s lap, “What d’ya need baby?”
“You.”
Cocking his head like a puppy gives Kiyoomi the perfect advantage to pull Atsumu in for a kiss, slower than the one that started this all. It’s the tender kind of kiss Kiyoomi’s been pretending not to fantasize about for months on end.
Atsumu’s entire body melts into the affection, a loose pile of muscle in Kiyoomi’s lap that hums when Kiyoomi tries to yank him closer.
They’re not chaste for long, but Kiyoomi still controls the pace, making sure he takes the time to bask in the way their tongues brush, in the little sighs Atsumu pants into his mouth. He even takes his time when he pulls away from Atsumu’s mouth and instead finds all the spots on his neck that have the blond whining in his lap.
“C’mon Omi, won’t ya stop bein’ a tease?”
“I thought you were patient.”
What should be an attempt at a laugh gets breathless when Kiyoomi nips at the spot just below Atsumu’s ear. “I lied.”
“Oh, you lied?” Kiyoomi smiles as he trails a few more kisses down Atsumu’s neck. “But I like when you’re honest.”
“Bein’ honest now,” Atsumu whines in response, “c’mon, Omi. Won’t you be a good boy and quit playin’ around?”
Already Atsumu knows how to play him like a fiddle.
“Well, get those pants off if you want me to stop teasing, then.”
“Fuckin’ finally.”
Atsumu doesn’t even wait to be fully off Kiyoomi’s lap to start undoing his pants, nearly pitching backward over the table in his excitement when he does finally stand. Watching him try to pull his pants off is akin to watching a man wrangle a bear, all of his enthusiasm making a simple task far too difficult.
But it pulls a laugh, warm and sweet, from Kiyoomi. Makes Atsumu pause and smile up from where he’s folded forward, trying and failing to free his ankles from the fabric.
“Slow down, Atsumu.”
“Don’t wanna. Wanna feel ya again.”
“Slow down and you’ll be able to come back here faster.”
Atsumu huffs, looking back at his trapped ankles and heeding the advice. “No sense in that.”
Far faster than before, he’s able to slip out of his pants and return to Kiyoomi’s lap. As the delicate skin on the back of Atsumu’s thighs meets Kiyoomi’s own bare thighs, a shudder runs through Kiyoomi and his own impatience starts to seep through. Again he pulls Atsumu in for a slow kiss, more desperate this time but still languid.
With reluctance, Kiyoomi pulls away, placing his palm just below their faces. He waits until brown eyes lock with his own before commanding the man in his lap.
“Spit.”
Atsumu’s confusion is evident in the tug of his brows, the little furrow making the space between his brows beautifully imperfect. Gesturing with his hand, Kiyoomi watches the lightbulb go off as Atsumu looks back into Kiyoomi’s eyes.
Watching spit drop from Atsumu’s mouth into his awaiting palm and the feel of it pooling there should disgust Kiyoomi. Yet the way Atsumu’s eyes burn into his makes it seem so unbearably hot. Before he yanks Atsumu in for another messy kiss to swap more spit, Kiyoomi spits into his palm, mixing with Atsumu’s.
“Fuck,” Atsumu’s voice barely holds under the weight of his desire, “Kiyoomi, why’s that so fuckin’ hot?”
All he can do is shrug, far more concerned with keeping their sad attempt at lubrication in his hand before he wraps his hand around Atsumu’s cock, firm and steady from the start. Answering the question at all is off his mind when Atsumu’s mouth hangs open, hot air brushing against his face with each of Atsumu’s labored breaths.
“You were so noisy just a second ago,” Kiyoomi can’t help but tease, twisting his wrist as he reaches the weeping head of Atsumu’s cock and relishing in the cry it earns him, “what happened, Atsumu?”
“Yer s-so—fuck, Omi—so fuckin’ good. Feels good.”
Again Kiyoomi feels heat pooling in his gut, nearly ashamed at how quickly one singular little word can rile him up again.
“You like that?”
Atsumu nods fervently, nearly clashing into Kiyoomi’s skull as he lets out another pathetic little noise when Kiyoomi’s runs his thumb over the slit. In an effort to avoid the crash zone, Kiyoomi moves to kiss and bite the patches of Atsumu’s skin that have been left untainted. Each run of his tongue over tanned skin earns him a helpless buck, moans and groans coming with less and less quiet between them.
“You really do gotta mouth on ya, holy shit, Omi, fuckfuckfuck, hands too, fuck. Could fuck into yer hand all night and be satisfied.”
Nipping at Atsumu’s ear, Kiyoomi whispers his response, “Why limit yourself to my hand?”
Another helpless buck reminds Kiyoomi just how much Atsumu loves physical touch, even just the mere thought of it.
“Could have my mouth if you want.” Atsumu keens at the suggestion. “I’d let you fuck my face just like you let me fuck yours.”
“F-fuck, Omi, close, ‘m close. Keep goin’—fuck—tell me how I can use ya, pretty boy.”
“I want you so badly, Atsumu, I’d let you fuck me raw.”
“Fuck,” Atsumu lets out an extended curse, “so perfect, Omi.”
“I’d let you fill me up if you want,” a bite coincides with Kiyoomi picking up the pace, listening to Atsumu fall apart in his lap, “claim me however you want, Atsumu.”
“Shit.”
It’s all that Atsumu manages before Kiyoomi feels the hot spurts of come on his chest. Again he thinks that it should make him feel disgusted, but he can’t help himself when he pulls Atsumu in for a messy kiss, more panting than actual kissing with the way Atsumu continues to spill into Kiyoomi’s hand. Once he hears a whine, Kiyoomi places his dirtied hand on Atsumu’s thigh, leaning in for a proper kiss.
After three slow kisses, Atsumu pulls back to rest his forehead against Kiyoomi’s, still breathless. “The fuck did we wait so long for, Omi?”
“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi absently traces patterns along Atsumu’s thigh, not willing to admit that fear is preparing to creep in.
“Well,” steady hands cup Kiyoomi’s face, pulling them apart enough that they can look at each other fully, “’s a good thing we're gonna have a whole lotta time to keep goin’, right?”
“You want to keep doing this?” “And a little more,” Atsumu smiles, “if ya wanna—dates, meetin’ families, and whatever.”
Butterflies erupt in Kiyoomi’s stomach, a stupidly sappy smile slipping onto his face. “Yes. I want that, Atsumu.”
“Cool.”
Another kiss seals the deal, chaste and sweet and everything Kiyoomi ever could have asked for.
“Ya wanna get cleaned up? No use for all the mess anymore and we can just head to bed.”
“I want to shower,” Kiyoomi laughs. “You’re hot and all, but the whole sticky cum thing isn’t exactly super hot.”
Atsumu gasps, grammatically pulling back from Kiyoomi to put a hand over his chest, “Ya think I’m hot, Omi? Scandalous.”
There’s no stopping the laugh those antics bring out of him, nor does Kiyoomi move to hide it any longer.
“I’m willing to admit, yes, I think you’re hot, just like, yes, I want you like you want me.”
Atsumu smiles, hand still over his heart when he swoops in for another kiss, “Oh be still my beatin’ heart.”