Archive of Our Own

Kiyoomi’s first kiss was never meant to mean much.

It was meant to be a footnote in the story of his life, a fleeting moment that toppled some arbitrary expectation before it lost all relevance to Kiyoomi, excised from his brain to make room for more important information, and actual milestones. If someone had told him that in some ways that kiss would be the beginning of the end, Kiyoomi would have laughed them out of the room.

Kiyoomi made Japan’s U19 team in his third year. It was never explicitly said, but Kiyoomi knew he was supposed to be the replacement for Wakatoshi now that he’d aged out of eligibility; the team’s new and improved untouchable ace. Among the roster were plenty of other talented players— some who had flowed on from the previous year’s team, others that Kiyoomi knew from his tenure as a champion high school volleyball player— including his former All-Japan peers, Hoshiumi and Miya. Hoshiumi had been touted as the shortest wing spiker the team had ever had, a distinction he was not happy about, while Miya had been… something else, entirely. 

From the moment Kiyoomi first met him, he’d never been quite sure about Miya. Sometimes he thought he was occasionally snide but mostly harmless, other times he thought he was the most obnoxious man to ever breathe. All-Japan had made it clear that Miya was no slouch, but Kiyoomi still wasn’t convinced by him. The U19 team had changed that, Kiyoomi could admit.

Begrudgingly.

Miya had been nothing quite like any other setter the team had ever had before. Really, playing with him rather than against him was the first chance Kiyoomi had to properly observe him as a player, and his prowess on the court made him more tolerable to Kiyoomi than training camps had led him to believe he could be. Miya ran a tight ship on the hitters and put his all into every set. Kiyoomi might not have necessarily liked him, but he could admire one thing about him, personal opinion be damned; no matter what, you could depend on Miya Atsumu to always be playing his best.

After their last test at their last international competition— a loss in the final and silver medals for all— their captain had organized a party in the hotel room furthest away from the chaperones. Due to a maintenance mishap that had left a few of their originally booked rooms with no water, several of their teammates had been upgraded to a pair of adjoining suites two floors up, which gave them two rooms to play around in.

Somehow, several of the boys had managed to procure alcohol, and one of their middle blockers named Arita had a particularly strong Bluetooth speaker that he’d set out, which had started a power-struggle for control of the playlist. Frankly, Kiyoomi didn’t believe any of them deserved the coveted role of DJ, considering the songs they were bouncing between all sounded like shit.

Kiyoomi had only really been dragged along by Motoya, and had relegated himself to the furthest corner, chancing a sip of beer that had quickly cooled to room temperature every time his taste buds forgot just how awful the mouth-feel of it was.

Miya had found him an hour or two in. Before he decided his hobby for the night was pissing Kiyoomi off he’d been flitting around the room like a perfect little socialite. He’d danced with Motoya, laughed too loudly and too obnoxiously with some of the other boys, and then he’d taken part in a contest to see who could throw back shots the fastest, and somehow he didn’t even seem the slightest bit tipsy.

“Not enjoyin’ the occasion?” He asked as he flopped into the suite’s armchair next to Kiyoomi, taking a sip of his beer. He was drinking straight from a bottle, like Kiyoomi. Unlike Kiyoomi, his beer was printed with a label that read 0%. Cheat. And a freak, given that he’d likely needed to procure his beverage of choice himself, since Kiyoomi knew his teammates weren’t interested in anything that didn’t get them exceedingly drunk. Kiyoomi wasn’t a partier by any standards, but even he acknowledged that showing up with non-alcoholic alcohol was a bit of a loser move.

“What do you want?”

“Come on, Omi-kun, don’t be like that,” Miya snorted, as if Kiyoomi’s derision was just a joke to him. Kiyoomi supposed Miya might genuinely see it that way. After all, though Kiyoomi bit and snapped at him often, Miya never seemed deterred, almost like he realized that he could stay comfortably in Kiyoomi’s orbit because Kiyoomi would never make the effort to remove him, no matter how much he bitched about it. Being read so easily only made Kiyoomi like him less. “Whole season of teamwork… I thought we bonded.”

“You thought wrong,” Kiyoomi snapped. “What happens on the court stays on the court. You’re still a pain in the ass without a volleyball in your hand.”

“So what, I should go grab the one in my bag? You gonna speak to me then?”

“Stop being deliberately obtuse, you know that annoys me.”

“Yeah,” Miya’s grin was lopsided and nearly sweet, which was the first indication that the shots he’d taken earlier were affecting him more than he was letting on. “But it’s fun. You get a cute little crinkle in your nose when you’re wild with me.”

“You’re such a pain,” Kiyoomi snapped, regretting the split-second of something that could have been described as endearment. “Don’t you have anything better to do than be a pest?”

“Not really,” Miya stretched his legs out. He shifted a little, having to wedge his hand awkwardly against the inside of the armchair before he dragged a small bag of salted cashews from the pocket of his sweatpants. He must have pilfered them from the snack table across the room that Kiyoomi wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. The bag was completely unpunctured, so when Miya carefully peeled it open and offered Kiyoomi first pick, he daintily plucked a few from the plastic and cradled them in the palm of his hand. Miya might have been a pain in the ass, but Kiyoomi was peckish and that took precedence above his perpetual annoyance at the cashew-holder.

“Really?”

“Really really,” Miya said, busy sucking the salt off a cashew. “I’m all danced out and I’m not drunk enough to enjoy whatever else is going on.”

“Yes, I see you wimped out on getting wasted.” Kiyoomi cast a judgemental eye down at Miya’s beer bottle. Miya rolled his eyes at him.

“Like you’re one to talk. You’ve been nursin’ the same beer for the past hour or so, ain’t that right? I think you’re throwin’ some real large stones in a teeny tiny glass house there, Omi-kun.” And damn him, he was right.

“Why were you paying so much attention? How can you be so sure it’s the same bottle?”

“I wasn’t, until just now. You tell on yourself so easy.” Miya grinned, even as Kiyoomi leaned across and punched him in the shoulder as hard as he could. Miya lifted a hand and rubbed the point of impact, but only after a good five seconds had passed. Kiyoomi scowled at him.

“If you’ve had enough, why don’t you just go back to your room?” 

Miya snorted at Kiyoomi’s question, and raised a brow.

“This is my room. I gotta wait till the rest of you jokers are done here before I can pass out, ‘cause if I sleep with some of these dumbasses present I am definitely gonna have my face drawn on. So I’m slowin’ down on the blood poisoning so I’m not hungover as hell for the flight back tomorrow. Jesus, could you imagine having to hurl in an airplane bathroom? I’d just throw myself out the emergency door at that point.” Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant mental image.

“Well, I can’t say I’d miss you,” Kiyoomi said, at a loss for a better, more biting comeback. Miya just laughed, crossing his legs at the ankles and sinking into the chair more comfortably. That was the opposite of what Kiyoomi wanted. That meant Miya was settling in.

“We both know that ain’t true,” Miya said. “Who else would set to ya the way I do?”

“Iizuna-san,” Kiyoomi said, automatically. Miya blew a raspberry.

“Liar. Iizuna-san’s good, don’t get me wrong, but he and I ain’t nothin’ alike and you know it.” 

Kiyoomi did know it. There was no one quite like Miya, not even Kageyama from Karasuno who was shaping up to be a close successor. Kageyama was talented, sure, but Miya was vicious in a way Kageyama hadn’t quite grown into. Iizuna was hungry for it, too, but Miya was ravenous, and Kiyoomi didn’t like the way that thrilled him. It was dangerous to allow Miya anything, he was learning. He granted Miya an inch of his attention and Miya seemed intent on running the full mile of something resembling friendship. 

“Fine,” Kiyoomi conceded, through gritted teeth. “You might be a good setter, but your personality’s shit and I wish you’d stop talking to me.”

“Well hell, Omi-kun, then you’d be lonely, ‘cause I’m the only one with the guts to stomach your equally shitty attitude.” He didn’t even glance at Kiyoomi as he said it, and that was the part that really made him seethe with rage. 

Miya said it so casually, like it was a fact of life that everyone and their mother agreed upon as irrefutable truth. The insinuation that he and Miya were two of a kind was made more infuriating by the fact that Kiyoomi could not, for the life of him, think of any adequate defense to disprove it. Miya might have been acerbic and straight-forward to a fault, occasionally moody and most definitely hard-headed, but Kiyoomi had enough self-awareness to know many people would describe him the exact same way.

Still, it wasn’t as if Kiyoomi wanted Miya to make comments about like recognizing like. He’d rather live in blissful ignorance, and the shattering of that bliss made Kiyoomi want to strangle him, or pounce on him and tackle him to the ground and beat his stupid, smug face to a pulp. Or maybe grab him by the collar and kiss that terrible smile off his face. The last one was an outlier, for sure, and Kiyoomi chalked it up to the alcohol and the fact that being surrounded by other teenage boys for weeks at a time meant he hadn’t had time to properly rub one out and his latent teen horniness was projecting itself onto whoever was readily available.

“Kiyoomi!” Motoya’s voice made him jump, and he looked up, only vaguely aware of the fact that his face was red from the burning sensation in his cheeks. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi said automatically; any excuse was good enough if it got him away from Miya right now. Motoya turned and skipped back toward a gathering group of their teammates. Kiyoomi trailed him, flexing his fingers around the body of his beer bottle, wishing it was just a little colder so that the bite of the chill would be able to ground him.

Miya was following them too, much to Kiyoomi’s annoyance. He took a moment to realize that Miya was being led by their captain, Shimizu-san, to where the others had made a rough circle on the floor by pushing the hotel’s furniture to the corners of the room. Kiyoomi sat next to Motoya, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping an arm around them to keep them close. He leaned over to his cousin.

“So, what exactly are we doing?”

“I don’t know yet,” Motoya said, and Kiyoomi’s brow twitched. Motoya smiled sweetly at him, but before Kiyoomi could open his mouth to respond, a voice cut him off.

“Listen up!” Yoshino, one of the other spikers, said. “We’re gonna play spin the bottle. No wussing out, a kiss is a kiss— except for Sakusa and Komori. Nobody wants to see that, so if that happens it’s a re-spin.”

“Ew,” Kiyoomi and Motoya said in unison, with twin shudders at the idea.

“Creepy,” Miya said from across the circle, and Kiyoomi glared at him. He’d known the Miya twins for long enough to know they pulled the same bit far more often and far more on purpose, the fucking hypocrite. Still, the first bottle was already in motion, to the delight of Kiyoomi’s much drunker teammates, all of whom were hollering like this was the best fun they’d had in years.

It would truly never cease to boggle the mind that this is what teenagers got excited about: the novelty of kissing their teammates in a stupid game. Half of his teammates would probably call themselves straight too, but with the enthusiasm with which tongues were entering mouths, he thought there might need to be a little more introspection in that regard.

Shimizu-san slapped his good friend Ohashi on the ass as he crawled back to his side of the circle, before he spun the bottle. The glass neck came to a stop pointing to Miya, and Shimizu-san didn’t waste any time climbing into Miya’s lap amid loud wolf-whistles and clapping from the rest of the team. Miya’s hands fisted in the sides of Shimizu-san’s shirt, while Shimizu-san cupped his face and kissed him like he meant it.

Kiyoomi was repulsed by it— the obscene motion of Miya’s jaw working to press his lips against Shimizu-san’s, the wet sound of their tongues, the way Shimizu-san was rolling his hips in time with Miya’s coaxing hands at his waist— even though everyone else seemed to think this was the spectacle of the night. Kiyoomi couldn’t fathom what could possibly be entertaining about watching two of their teammates make out like they were seconds away from having full blown sex on the hotel room floor. The mental image made Kiyoomi recoil; Miya’s body broad and sweaty above him and—

Kiyoomi snapped his eyes away, taking a good, long sip from his beer so that he could go back to focusing on how terrible it tasted.

The kiss seemed like it went on forever before Shimizu-san pulled back with a loud smacking sound and held both hands over his head, fists clenched as if he’d just hit the winning spike of a game. Miya was laughing like this was the funniest joke in the world as he wiped an errant strand of spit from his chin and washed the taste of their captain down with another swig of his coward’s beer. Even with Shimizu-san still staggering out of his lap, he leaned forward, and spun the bottle with a vengeance. Kiyoomi watched it wheel and wheel, slowing with every pass until it wavered to a halt, pointing directly at him.

Motoya choked on his laughter next to him, and the raucous cheers of their teammates only got louder as Kiyoomi slowly lifted his eyes to stare at Miya.

He knew exactly what the others were thinking: better Miya than any of them. Everyone knew Kiyoomi was prickly about personal space, and he imagined that most of them didn’t envision him as a person with desires. Miya was a little smarter than that— only a little— and he was the only team member who felt confident enough to push Kiyoomi’s boundaries. If it was going to be anyone on the team, Miya seemed by all accounts the person who had the best chances of escaping without having his head bitten off.

Miya didn’t seem even the slightest bit bothered. He grinned, lazily, and inclined his chin a bit, a silent invitation. As always, he just had to open his big fat mouth to ruin it.

“C’mon, Omi-omi,” he said in that infernal drawl of his. “I don’t bite unless ya ask for it.”

Kiyoomi drew his tongue over the front of his teeth, placing his drink down at Motoya’s side before he pushed to his feet, probably a little too abruptly if the wave of tension that swept over the room was anything to judge by. The cheers petered down to an unsure murmur and Shimizu-san cleared his throat, already getting onto his knees as if to preempt Kiyoomi’s attempt at running away.

“Come on now, Sakusa, it’s just a game—” Shimizu-san said, eyes flicking between the two of them nervously.

“He’ll apologize if you want him to,” Hoshiumi said, watching Kiyoomi with hawk-like focus. Kiyoomi didn’t doubt that Hoshiumi would make a genuine attempt at wrangling an apology from Miya, either. Hoshiumi and Miya had been good friends ever since All-Japan, and for some reason Miya seemed to respect his opinions enough to not dismiss him outright. Still, his concern wasn’t warranted in the first place. Anyone with half a brain-cell would have been able to deduce that just from Motoya’s clear lack of panic.

Kiyoomi took a step forward.

A small, jittery part of him was making his stomach do flips. It wasn’t lost on Kiyoomi that this would be his first kiss. He wondered if telling Miya that would make any difference. It didn’t really, not to him at least. Other people had such romantic notions about what a first kiss should be like, but to Kiyoomi, it was just an arbitrary mark of life experience. There were more important benchmarks to him.

Carefully, he settled on his knees in front of Atsumu, bracing the tips of his fingers against the itchy hotel carpet as he leaned in, eyes roaming over Miya’s face. He still looked calm, smug even. It made Kiyoomi’s brows twitch and knit together in a frown. Miya kept eye contact with him, taking another sip of beer and swallowing pointedly. He switched his beer to his other hand, and curled a finger under Kiyoomi’s chin, thumb pressing against the cut of his jaw as he leaned the rest of the way in and kissed him.

Kiyoomi squeezed his eyes shut against the feeling of it. Miya’s lips were soft; it was no secret that he wore chapstick, so Kiyoomi wouldn’t have expected anything less. His movements were smaller than they had been with Shimizu-san, just a gentle pressure against Kiyoomi’s pouty lower lip. It was like a wave, Kiyoomi thought. Brushing in and lapping at the shore before retreating, only to come back and do the same time and time again. The rhythm was easy to pick up on, especially with Miya’s head tilted just-so, fitting their mouths together like a puzzle piece.

Kiyoomi realized, almost belatedly, that he was panting harshly through his nose, feeling the blow-back of the hot air where it bounced off of Miya’s cheek. Miya didn’t seem bothered, kissing him leisurely as if this was something they did often; something he had grown to know how to savour. Kiyoomi understood, he thought, how people could enjoy this activity so much. He pressed in closer, jammed his nose tighter against Miya’s cheek, lifting a hand to brace it on Miya’s absurdly thick thigh. He felt the muscle twitch and shiver under his fingers, and he gasped against Miya’s mouth.

His lips parted, just for a second, and he felt the way it changed the drag of Miya’s lips against his. On the next pass, Miya’s lips were also slightly apart, and this time, the gentle pressure of his tongue curled against Kiyoomi’s lower lip, coaxing his jaw unthinkingly open so that Miya’s tongue— that horrible, infernal, incredible tongue— could slip inside.

Kiyoomi, under pain of death, would never admit to the sound he made as Miya’s tongue made first contact with his own. Nor would he admit that it had taken him a full thirty seconds to realize he had gone pliant in Miya’s grip, half slumping into his lap while Miya’s tongue made itself familiar with the inside of his mouth. He would later claim he had noticed immediately, even though everyone else was able to see exactly how long it took before what he was doing registered, and he put both hands against Miya’s chest and pushed himself away.

The noise of their teammates was deafening. Miya was still watching him, the tongue that had seconds ago been inside Kiyoomi’s mouth making another appearance, this time to lick away the excess moisture on his lips; the very lips that Kiyoomi had been kissing, the very lips that Kiyoomi had made red and kiss-swollen with his own mouth. Kiyoomi scrambled back to his seat amid back-slaps and wolf-whistles, spinning the bottle as fast as he could and leaning across to smack a kiss to Hoshiumi’s cheek so that the game could move on while he hightailed it for one of the armchairs in the far corner, away from the group.

When he turned to chance a look at Miya again, he was still smiling, eyes glittering in a way that said he knew more than he was letting on, like he’d taken a filleting knife and flayed Kiyoomi open straight down the middle, preparing to rip his spine out in one fell swoop like he had with that kiss.

Kiyoomi could never let him that close again. The results would be catastrophic. The only thing he could think as he took a sip of his beer with shaking hands, not even registering the unpleasant warmth of it, was that he could never allow Miya Atsumu that kind of lenience ever again.

*

Kiyoomi followed a beat behind his father as they swept into the JVA fundraising gala, his father walking a beat more harried than he normally would to avoid the rain pouring down outside. Kiyoomi felt similarly distressed about the possibility of his own attire taking a hit after he’d spent hours searching for the perfect suit, having it tailored and agonizing over cufflinks and ties and pocket squares with his nee-san— who by the very end of it all had probably been a second or two away from killing him.

The painstaking attention to his outfit had been worth it though. The high-rise bar that the JVA had rented out for the event was decked out in tasteful white and black, with classy gold accents. Volleyball players, coaches and businessmen alike mingled in various shades of grey and black with the occasional splash of colour spotted throughout the crowd. Kiyoomi’s eyes landed on Wakatoshi in a particularly fetching charcoal two-piece, chatting with Kageyama who had probably been forced into a perfectly safe black set and a dark-haired man in a well-fitted navy suit. Wakatoshi raised his glass in acknowledgement as Kiyoomi and his father strode past.

“Now, Kiyoomi,” his father was saying, as Kiyoomi’s eyes roved the throng of people for another familiar face. “I think you ought to consider speaking with the coach of the Falcons and the Rockets. I know you were wanting to stay closer to Tokyo at first, but word in the league is that they’ve some veteran spikers considering retirement.”

“Right,” Kiyoomi said, waving to Motoya as he caught his eye over the crowd. Motoya smiled back— one of amusement, which was how Kiyoomi knew his face had curled up in displeasure at spotting his cousin and not who he really wanted to see— before his attention was drawn back into the conversation he seemed to be expertly carrying between a pair of executives and one of the middle blockers from his team.

“Ah, I see Kibe-san. I’ll see you later.” Kiyoomi’s father clapped him on the shoulder, startling Kiyoomi, before he fixed his jacket and strode off into the crowd. Kiyoomi ran his fingers through his fringe to make sure the curl of his bangs was as artful as possible, frowning in disappointment. If his father abandoned him to chat with an old industry frenemy, that meant Kiyoomi was actually expected to network. Like he’d come here to do.

Kiyoomi’s father had inherited a company that mined, refined, and exported titanium from his father, who had inherited it from generations of Sakusa men before him. As such, his father and subsequently his company were often invited to investor dinners and other functions so that local sporting bodies could acquire sponsorship from him. Before Kiyoomi’s passion for volleyball had made itself known, his father had been a staunch supporter of Tokyo’s Starlings baseball team. After Kiyoomi had expressed his interest in continuing volleyball until his body failed him, the Starlings had been forced to share his father’s loyalty, since Sakusa-san the elder became very interested in volleyball sponsorship events. He also became very interested in making his son who planned to play professionally tag along, so that he wouldn’t miss any opportunity to network, and secure himself a place on a team.

That had been the rule. Kiyoomi had to finish a degree— which was fine, since university had always been part of the plan for Kiyoomi anyway— and in return, his father would use his connections to help him further his chosen career.

The downside to this was that it cut into Kiyoomi’s time ogling athletes and young professionals in their well-fitting suits. There was one current object of Kiyoomi’s affections who made appearances at nearly every event Kiyoomi attended, and Kiyoomi mourned the missed opportunity to try and seduce him into bed. Again. Not that any of the other times had been any more successful.

He turned and almost ran straight into Matsuda.

“Sakusa-kun!” Matsuda steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wow, I almost didn’t recognize you!”

“In a good way?” Kiyoomi asked, feeling his cheeks heat up.

He’d first met Matsuda about six months out from graduating high school: a new hire in the JVA’s finance division. As far as Kiyoomi could tell, his actual role was glorified party planner, although he supposedly set up conferences and the like as well for the JVA executives. Matsuda was young enough to be gymming at least four times a week, but old enough to be mature and fiscally responsible. He had bluish-black hair and dimples cut into the curve of his cheeks. He was maybe a head or so shorter than Kiyoomi, and he carried himself like he was a good head taller.

Kiyoomi had been smitten from the first smile.

“Yeah, a really good way.” Matsuda chuckled, looking him up and down. “You clean up well.”

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi said, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot and knowing the flush had spread to an incredibly obvious degree. “You also look… good.”

That was an understatement. Matsuda clearly had a taste for luxury. Kiyoomi recognized the cut of his suit as a Tom Ford number from a few collections ago: probably something that Matsuda had already owned. It fit him handsomely, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the way his waist tapered. The gray of his suit had an almost blue-ish tinge to it, complementing his hair, and the deep blue of his tie really brought the look together. Kiyoomi couldn’t deny he’d always been weak to well-dressed men. It was slightly more problematic when all he could think about was getting Matsuda to take him home, which was not usually the line of thought he liked to take while his father was also in the room.

“Thanks,” Matsuda chuckled, apparently endeared by his awkwardness. “Let’s get you a drink, hm?”

“Please,” Kiyoomi said, with a smile.

“Of course! What kind of host would I be if I let a guest go empty handed?” Matsuda kept close to Kiyoomi as he steered him toward a corner where the din of overlapping conversation wasn’t so loud, flagging down a waiter on the way to bring Kiyoomi a drink.

Kiyoomi made a habit of never telling his birthday to people at these things, which had lead to more than one of them assuming that he was already 20. He also made a habit of never correcting this assumption, because some of the conversation was so appallingly bad that Kiyoomi didn’t think he’d make it out the other side without booze. So, when a drink landed in his hand, he gave Matsuda his most winning smile— one that Motoya had once called “barely a smile” and also “more like a grimace”, but Motoya liked to tease, so Kiyoomi always took whatever he had to say with a grain of salt— and leaned his shoulder against the wall so that the long line of his body was accentuated and the tapering of his broad shoulders to his tiny waist was evident.

“How’s university?” Matsuda asked. Kiyoomi sniffed.

“It’s alright. The volleyball’s the best part, of course.”

“Ah. Komori-senshu called you… what was it… a nerd?” Kiyoomi frowned, and reminded himself to have a discussion about that later. “Which I mostly took to mean that you’re enjoying your classes as well. That’s a good thing!”

“I like my classes,” Kiyoomi said, because it was true, just like it was true that volleyball was still the best part of being in university. “People seem to be under the impression that I dislike a great many things. Which is true. But I also like a great many things.”

“I see,” Matsuda said, nodding politely. Kiyoomi mimicked his nod.

“I enjoy that you have good taste in suits.” Kiyoomi continued, feeling emboldened by Matsuda’s understanding. “And you clearly have a discerning eye for tailors. I remember this suit— the cut of the blazer was always a little wide in the shoulder, so you’ve had it taken in, but you couldn’t tell unless you remembered the original shape like I do. And your cuffs are the perfect length, as are the hems of your slacks. There is nothing more hideous than ill-fitting blazer cuffs, so I like that you don’t make me look at them.”

“Thank you?” Matsuda said, brow knitting in confusion.

“I like,” Kiyoomi said, reaching out to pinch a stray thread between his trimmed nails, “that you know how to use a lint roller. Taking pride in your appearance is… alluring.”

Matsuda flicked his eyes between Kiyoomi’s face, and the hand straightening the lapel of his jacket after it had flicked the newly severed thread to the floor. Something that looked a lot like understanding hit his face, and then his smile turned awkward. Kiyoomi’s expression soured immediately.

“Ah,” Matsuda said, clasping a firm hand around Kiyoomi’s wrist and gently pushing it away. “Sakusa-kun, I’m flattered but—”

“Do you think I’m too young for you?” Kiyoomi blurted. He’d been trying for months to charm Matsuda into a date of some sort in some place outside of JVA functions, and the idea of failure when he’d been so close kicked his brain into Emergency Word mode. “I promise I have different priorities to other students my age. I have brand loyalty to hand soap and I get excited about produce being on sale.”

“It’s not that. Sakusa-kun, you’re… well. A Sakusa.” As if on cue, Kiyoomi heard his father’s laugh over the general noise of the crowd.

“That doesn’t matter. If you call me Kiyoomi, you won’t even remember—”

“I’ll remember,” Matsuda said, with a dry chuckle. “Trust me, I’ll remember the new asshole my boss will rip me if he finds out I jeopardized our funding by fucking around with Sakusa-san’s son. It’s been nice to see you again, but I have to go.” 

As Matsuda pushed past him and hurried away into the crowd, Kiyoomi thought sourly that he should have ventured into a different designer for this event. Wearing his father’s favoured Brioni had clearly just heightened the resemblance; if he’d been smart about this, he’d have worn Zegna. It would have been a choice his father would have approved of— which meant he wouldn’t offer Kiyoomi his stylist again— and could have potentially made him look different enough that he’d be well on his way to bowing out unfashionably early for a tryst in Matsuda’s town car.

A chuckle drew his attention away from the ever-important task of mourning the loss of what could have been a good fuck.

He’d recognize that laugh anywhere.

“Cripes,” said Miya Atsumu, “you really do have to see it to believe just how bad you are at this.”

If not for the obnoxious voice, Kiyoomi would hardly have recognized him. He knew, peripherally, that Miya had cut his hair. Apparently, just under two years in the V. League was more than enough for Miya to amass yet another following of squealing fangirls that only fed his horrendous ego. There’d been public outcry a month or so ago about the shaving of his brassy gold tresses—- which people loved, for some reason— but it wasn’t as if Kiyoomi had gone out of his way to find pictures. Miya had always had the undercut, and it wasn’t like Kiyoomi lacked imagination.

Miya’s suit was generic, but fit well enough. He wore it unbuttoned, no tie, the top two buttons on his collared shirt open, which was just enough space to reveal he’d forgone an undershirt in an act of extremely Miya-like hubris. The navy looked good on him, especially with his regrowing dark hair, and even the black shirt could be considered— by people more generous than Kiyoomi— striking. His eyes were the same though, perpetually half-lidded and sparkling in a way that betrayed the keen intelligence he often downplayed to seem less threatening. 

And the smile. The smile, Kiyoomi supposed, would never change.

“What do you want?” Kiyoomi snapped, casting his gaze down to fix his cufflinks.

“I gotta want something to come chat to an old high-school buddy?”

“Don’t do that,” Kiyoomi scowled. Miya raised one of his ridiculous, thick brows.

“Do what?”

“Play dumb. You know we’re not, and never were, friends.” Miya shrugged, taking another sip of his drink. It occurred to Kiyoomi that he was drinking orange juice out of a champagne glass, and his lip curled further in disgust.

“Fair,” Miya said. “Fine. I just wanted to watch you crash and burn, which I got. Real morbidly fascinating, y’know? It’s like a car crash—”

“I’m beginning to feel like a broken record. Do you truly not have anything better to do than pester me?” Kiyoomi turned on his heel, stalking toward the smoking balcony on the southern end of the room. Due to the fact that Tokyo was currently pouring with rain that was blown near-horizontally and the southern-end balcony was minimally covered, it had not been the favoured smoking venue of the night. This was good news for Kiyoomi, because it would be empty, and it would not smell like smoke.

“Aw c’mon now, don’t be so sensitive Omi-omi. It’s just jarrin’ to think about you in a sexual way, y’know? I mean, I’ve seen you check out enough guys to know you’re curious, but you’re so uptight that for a while there I almost thought you were gonna evolve the ability to reproduce asexually—”

“Good. Continue to believe that and leave me alone.”

“Nah,” Miya’s drawl made Kiyoomi contemplate the merits of murdering him in front of a room so abundant in witnesses. A crime of passion, he could claim. Passionate hatred. “I’ve seen the light now. You’re horny. Desperate, even.”

“I’m not desperate.”

“Please,” Miya snorted. “You’ve got all the signs of someone in the middle of a dry spell. Especially if you’re tryna pick up someone in the same room as your old man. Sad, Omi-kun.”

“Fuck off,” Kiyoomi startled himself with how vicious his own voice came out. He cleared his throat, lowering his volume as he took a step closer, using the very slim difference in their heights to loom over Miya. “It’s not like you’re faring any better. I know what your schedule is like, Miya. All play, no play, right?”

“You’re such a cynic,” Miya stepped closer, so that his nose was almost touching Kiyoomi’s. His skin prickled, instinct telling him to back up as fast as possible, but the stubborn part of his brain refused to bow to Miya Atsumu’s stupid intimidation tactics. Even if he’d been the one to start it. “That’s the difference between you and me, Omi-kun. I’m not a rigid little snot, and I’m adaptable. And I’ve actually got game enough to not scare off the people I wanna fuck.”

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi struggled against the prickling under his cheeks that heralded a brilliant flush ripping through him. He refused to give Miya the satisfaction of making him blush, especially not if he was weaponizing the knowledge that he’d seen Kiyoomi’s terrible failure.

It was hard not to go red. Miya had presence; he always had, ever since the first time Kiyoomi had met him, even as a loud-mouthed middle schooler with a mean streak. He’d grown into that, all booming laughs and fox-kill grins and eyes that were just a little too sharp, a little too knowing. Even the brief blip in intolerability he’d had while they played together on U19 wasn’t enough to make up for the fact that Kiyoomi had never liked him.

Physically, he took up the space his personality carved out. Puberty and time had been kind to him, filling out his broad shoulders and sturdy chest, building strength in his legs and supporting his ever-important hands on arms like steel cables. It was the hands that were really doing him in, presently. Back at All-Japan, there’d been a competition; everyone lined up their right-foot volleyball shoe against the wall in order of smallest to largest. Miya had been the only shoe within the top 5 that hadn’t belonged to one of the ridiculously tall middle blockers. The same could be said of his hands; broad palms, long fingers. They were big. They were strong. The image of them splayed over someone’s ass, pulling apart soft flesh so that his face could fit in the space provided was—

It was making Kiyoomi feel tingly, and not in a bad way. Miya had always had intense eyes, and he couldn’t seem to keep his tongue in his mouth, so it was easy to imagine him putting it to work between someone’s legs. Those huge hands would keep a person anchored, that agile tongue would be heaven on such sensitive skin, and if Kiyoomi twisted, panting and flushed all the way down to his chest, he’d be able to meet Miya’s intense eyes over the curve of his own ass.

That thought was jarring. The insertion of himself into this particular fantasy was odd, for a start because even though the thought of being eaten out could be hot, the reality of it had always struck Kiyoomi as a little unsavoury, and also because categorically he was not attracted to Miya Atsumu. Yes, Miya was nearly as tall as he was, and he had a body that was, objectively, very sexy, but he was also a massive pain in the ass. He was obnoxious, prideful, infuriatingly hard-headed and he was so unfunny it was physically painful to listen to him tell jokes like he was God’s gift to comedy. Even if it was easy to imagine how well Miya could put that tongue to better uses, it wasn’t as if Kiyoomi really wanted him to put that tongue to use on him.

Only, he remembered what that tongue felt like. The blush he’d been trying to stave off ripped through him in full force as the memory of Miya’s mouth on his came roaring back.

And now, faced with Miya Atsumu’s rude reminder of that experience, Kiyoomi found his eyes moving, almost against his will, to fall on Miya’s lips. They still looked soft, just like they had the last time they’d done this. Miya had been good, then. Later, Kiyoomi had deigned to listen to the rumours about where Miya learned how to do things like that with his tongue. Now, he wondered just how much more practice he could have fit into the years since they’d last been in such close proximity. Kiyoomi was different now, too. It wouldn’t be such uneven footing this time.

“Careful, Omi-omi,” Miya said, and Kiyoomi ripped his attention away from those lips wrapping around the syllables of Miya’s stupid nickname, “you’re gonna start makin’ me think you wanna kiss me again.”

“I’ve never wanted to kiss you,” Kiyoomi snapped back, feeling himself flush to his ears. “Last time was— it was a special circumstance. It had nothing to do with you.”

“That so?” Miya asked, sounding amused.

“It is,” Kiyoomi said back, sounding more staunch in his conviction than he felt.

“I didn’t see ya kissin’ anyone else like that,” Miya said, taking a step closer. “Kourai-kun only got a kiss on the cheek, didn’t he? You know what I think about that? I think I’m special. Ain’t that right Omi-kun? You liiiike me.”

“I detest you,” Kiyoomi hissed, watching a fleck of spit land on Miya’s cheek. Unfazed, he brushed it off with one broad thumb, still maintaining eye contact with Kiyoomi even as he took another sip of his terrible children’s drink. Kiyoomi wished he’d just drink some damn alcohol for once. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so stupidly unbalanced whenever Miya pulled shit like this.

“Strong words,” Miya snorted, but he was still smiling. “Don’t worry, Omi-kun, I know ya don’t like me, and you can rest assured the feeling’s mutual.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Ah, Meian-san says I’m more charmin’ from afar,” Miya took a sip from his glass. Kiyoomi snorted. He could not possibly overstate how much he agreed with that assessment, but Miya didn’t seem upset in any way by the casual dig from his captain. Probably because he thought it was some kind of compliment. “Besides, you’d be lonely without me, wouldn’t ya? It’s practically a public service.”

“You know, sometimes I almost feel sorry for you,” Kiyoomi snapped. “And then you open your mouth and you’re such a dick that I instantly regret it.”

“Good,” Miya said. “I know how you feel about pity. What makes you think I want any of yours?”

“Perhaps the fact that you’re pitiful?”

“You reckon so?” Atsumu took a step closer, making Kiyoomi back up in sheer shock at the abruptness of his movement. “I don’t think you get to have an opinion when you were practically beggin’ for dick the way you were. Poor Matsuda didn’t know what to do with you, did he? You’ve got such a shit taste in men, Omi-kun. Ain’t no way Matsuda would have been able to satisfy your needy little cunt.”

Kiyoomi’s shoulders bumped against a wall, and he startled. The first shock was that Miya’s advancing had made Kiyoomi instinctively backing away from him. The second shock was finding himself looking down his nose at Miya, who was grinning like a wolf that had cornered a particularly pathetic little rabbit.

 “Admit it. You like havin’ me around ‘cause it gives you something to hump your pillow about late at night.”

“I’d like you better with your mouth shut,” Kiyoomi said, feeling his pulse in his throat. Part of him was appalled at the way Miya was speaking to him, but another part of him was equally thrilled at this turn in the banter, which Kiyoomi blamed on the period of mourning for his original hookup plans. His traitorous eyes dropped to Miya’s lips.

Miya’s smirk grew wider. Kiyoomi shoved him back and made a beeline for the balcony door, his heartbeat in his ears. His skin itched with the memory of the way Miya’s hands had felt and his stomach felt hot with the memory of kisses past. A not-insignificant part of him hoped that Miya would be as stubborn as he’d always been. Hoped that Miya might feel tempted to put his money where his mouth was. Hoped that Miya was still smart enough to know what Kiyoomi wanted from him now.

The bite of the wind was refreshing, and Kiyoomi closed his eyes as he sucked in deep gulps of air that settled a chill into his lungs. The door shut behind him. Kiyoomi didn’t need to look up to know Miya had followed him outside.

“Like you could do any better,” Kiyoomi said, after a few seconds of silence. Miya snorted, and Kiyoomi knew he’d understood the invitation for what it was. He felt his drink plucked from his white-knuckled grasp. His eyes shot open, and he watched as Miya stooped to place the glass on the ground, well away from both of them. When he retracted his arm, his suit jacket was soaked up to the elbow.

“Do better than what you were laying down?”

“You’re all talk.”

“On the contrary, Omi-Omi, I’m all bite,” Miya’s grin widened, and he stepped in close to Kiyoomi. Even as Kiyoomi tried to shove him away, Miya got a hand into the waist of his slacks and hauled him in close.

“Now here’s what you shoulda said to Matsuda if you wanted to get pounded: Who gives a fuck about your old man anyway? What says he ever has to know if we hook up? Ain’t like you’re gonna snitch after all… could be a secret, just between us…” Kiyoomi’s chest heaved as he stared down at Miya, infuriated by the fact that he was making sense. Miya’s eyes sparkled like he knew. Gotcha, those eyes said, and something in Kiyoomi’s gut snapped.

It felt like lunging, the last desperate throw of his body against the court to catch a ball that he was never going to get back over the net. His lips met Miya’s in a messy collision, nose catching uncomfortably on his cheekbone. Miya’s hand found his waist instantly, squeezing in a way that made Kiyoomi moan. Miya brought all the finesse that fit their mouths together, the amused smile palpable in the stretch of his lips. Miya’s body was like a furnace: scalding his skin where they pressed together chest to chest, Miya crowding him up against the rough wall of the building, pinning him there with the bulk of his body. Kiyoomi curled both hands in his jacket, forcing him closer as he tried to pry Miya’s mouth open with his tongue.

Despite what the events of the night might have led him to believe, Miya wasn’t the only one who’d had time to improve since their last encounter.

Kiyoomi licked into Miya’s mouth, trying to swallow down the noise he made at the first roll of Miya’s tongue against his own. Miya’s body was a windblock, but he could feel the back of his jacket being soaked through as he pressed closer to Kiyoomi, tongue delving deeper into Kiyoomi’s mouth before he drew back, catching Kiyoomi’s lower lip between his teeth and giving it a teasing tug.

“Come back here,” Kiyoomi snarled, sliding a hand straight up his back to press between his shoulder blades, trying to chase his mouth as he pushed him insistently closer.

Miya fisted a hand in the curls at the base of his skull and pulled his head to the side. An involuntary moan was ripped from Kiyoomi’s throat at the dull pain that radiated from his scalp as Miya’s mouth attached to his neck. With Kiyoomi’s collared shirt in the way, there was only a thin sliver of skin for him to toy with, teeth and tongue teasing Kiyoomi until his hips were rocking forward, his own hands scrabbling to undo his tie and unbutton his shirt as fast as he could to give Miya more access.

Miya’s mouth found the hollow of his throat, tongue chasing the bob of his Adam’s apple before he bit down hard, just above Kiyoomi’s collarbone. Kiyoomi made a noise that could have shocked a nun straight to death as Miya sucked the flesh into his mouth, the pressure increasing with each rhythmic pass of his tongue. When he pulled back, Kiyoomi tried to get a glimpse of the damage done, and saw purple in his periphery. He swore, slapping at Miya’s shoulder, before Miya wedged a thick thigh between Kiyoomi’s, and he forgot about ever being mad at him.

“You are a desperate little thing,” Miya said, rocking his knee higher and higher, so that Kiyoomi was nearly on his tip toes, humping it like it was the last thing he’d ever do. “Poor Omi-omi, ain’t anyone ever treated you right, huh?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi panted, bracing himself on Miya’s shoulders and grinding down. “You’re just as pathetic as I am, following me out here like a puppy. How long have you been gagging for it, Miya?”

“I’m just an opportunist, Omi-kun,” Miya said, and the dark tint of lust in his tone made Kiyoomi shudder. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a pain in the ass, but I’ve got eyes. You’re hot, and you ain’t exactly making a secret of how much you need to take dick.”

“You’re disgusting,” Kiyoomi snapped. “Do us both a favour and shut up so I can pretend you’re anyone else.”

“Well, that ain’t right, not when I’m doin’ you favours like this.” Miya clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and Kiyoomi groaned, pulling him in again by the lapels of his blazer. Miya braced his hands either side of Kiyoomi now, kissing him slower, even as Kiyoomi tried to make him hurry up. Miya’s movements were languid, tongue moving leisurely as it stroked over Kiyoomi’s own. He was teasing him, Kiyoomi realized with a spark of outrage. Miya seemed to have a sixth sense for when he was really making Kiyoomi mad, so his tongue curled and brushed across his soft palate. Kiyoomi whimpered into his mouth, clutching the back of his jacket to steady himself, unbothered now by the biting chill of the wind that whipped at his hands.

Miya’s thigh was solid and warm, just like the rest of him. There was always talk on social media and volleyball forums about Miya’s impressive thighs, but this close, Kiyoomi could feel other parts of him that were equally impressive. His shoulders were broad, and the way his hips were rocking forward belied some serious abdominal control. And, best of all, Kiyoomi could feel that Miya was hard, too. Vindictively he dropped his hand between them and squeezed Miya’s dick roughly. He hoped it hurt.

“You’re a mean little bastard,” Miya snarled, dropping his shoulder to jam it into Kiyoomi’s chest, forcing air out of his lungs. Kiyoomi removed his hand quickly, and Miya removed his knee. Delight skipped across his features as Kiyoomi let out a desperate noise, trying to chase the friction.

“Mean, but you’re cute. Bet you’d look the cutest you ever have with that pouty mouth all stuffed with my cock.”

“Fuck,” Kiyoomi’s hips jerked, and Miya’s grin widened.

“Oh. You liked that.”

“No,” Kiyoomi said, lying. “I’m not blowing you at this party.”

That felt like less of a lie, but the slow spread of glee across Miya’s face was making him rethink his priorities. Surely no one was desperate enough to try and keep a smoke lit in this weather, and honestly, he was willing to do whatever Miya wanted him to as long as he didn’t bloody well stop.

“We don’t have to stay here,” Miya murmured, pressing a kiss to Kiyoomi’s jaw, mouthing along it and up to his earlobe. “The whole team will be here. The hotel will be empty.”

“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi said, already weighing up the pros and cons. “I’m not letting you fuck me in a hotel room like some cheap slut.”

“What? You want me to treat you like an expensive slut? Buy you panties and shit? I bet your flat little ass would look cute in lace.” Kiyoomi opened his mouth— either to bite him or yell at him, he hadn’t quite decided— but Miya’s huge hand cupped his asscheek, giving it a generous squeeze. Treacherously, his brain shot him another flash of the image that had rendered him useless earlier: Miya’s honey-warm eyes blown out with lust as his tongue buried itself in Kiyoomi’s ass, worshipping the most sensitive part of his anatomy and bringing him to the best kind of high.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi said. “Your hotel. But this is the one time this happens. Don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Baby, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Miya said, licking the bruise he’d left on Kiyoomi’s collar. Kiyoomi hated that it made his dick leak.

Sneaking out was shockingly easy. Kiyoomi hoped that the bitter chill of the rain would knock some sense into him, but even caught in the downpour in the quick trip to Miya’s hotel, he was still disgustingly excited to get behind a closed door.

Miya, for his part, did not look particularly ashamed about leaving a sponsorship gala early to hook up in his hotel room. Kiyoomi supposed that was par for the course; people like Miya would never care about the optics of things like that. When Meian-san questioned him later tonight, Kiyoomi guessed that Miya would make some off-hand comment about having better things to do with a particularly unsubtle wink, and his teammates would all assume that the person he’d been fucking was another model like the ones he was spotted with on a near-weekly basis.

Still, Kiyoomi thought that was the better outcome of all this. As Miya pushed his hotel door shut behind him, Kiyoomi decided it was better that the volleyball world at large assumed Miya was straight as an arrow, and that no one knew about him using the son of the great Sakusa Titanium family as a cocksleeve.

For a second, after the latch clicked shut, they were still.

The silence of it killed Kiyoomi a little, and he gnawed at his own lower lip. It had been so easy in the moment but this was— well, it was Miya. He was about as ungraceful as a person could get, and he’d been known to be a braggart and a hard-headed moron. Maybe he was all talk, the cynical side of his brain cried out in distress. The rational part of him reminded him that Miya had never been all talk, not once in his life, and if he got shy right now while Kiyoomi’s painfully hard dick was only just starting to wilt, Kiyoomi would kill him.

Miya didn’t leave him doubting for long. He took two quick steps in, and used his body to bully Kiyoomi right back against the door so that he could kiss him again. Kiyoomi grabbed him by his shoulders, sinking himself down against his thigh again as he let his jaw fall open so that Miya could get well-acquainted with his upper palate while he shuddered in his arms, rocking his hips forward with deep, gulping breaths whenever their lips parted for more than a second.

Miya got his hands between them, expertly flicking the button of Kiyoomi’s slacks open, and yanking down the fly just as quickly. His hand slid into Kiyoomi’s pants, broad palm like a brand as it gripped his hard cock through his underwear. Kiyoomi pulled back from him and put his hand over his mouth to stifle his noises. Miya didn’t complain, but his eyes lit up in a way that Kiyoomi recognized from years across the volleyball net: challenge accepted. 

Miya’s hand was languid with its movements, mapping the shape of him and smearing his leaking tip against the wet patch it was creating on the front of his sensible briefs. Miya chuckled to himself, listening to the sticky noise of wet fabric against skin. Kiyoomi flushed in embarrassment, taking his hand away to snap at Miya to hurry up or piss off, when Miya’s hand slipped in through the waist of his briefs and squeezed him.

Kiyoomi slammed both hands back against the door to ground himself, biting down on his lip even more fervently now as Miya’s rough hand smeared the evidence of Kiyoomi’s arousal down the aching length of his dick. Miya was watching him with those sharp eyes: predator with his prey perfectly cornered. Kiyoomi tipped his chin up, with a haughty huff out of his nose. Miya’s smile grew. They both knew what he was waiting for, and they both knew that Kiyoomi wasn’t going to give it up that easily.

Miya leaned in, timing his brutally slow strokes with the lazy kisses he pressed to Kiyoomi’s neck. Kiyoomi snarled, shoving at his chest. Miya swayed up onto the balls of his feet to absorb the impact, before stepping in closer, crushing Kiyoomi against the door.

“Get on your knees,” Miya said, teeth teasing at Kiyoomi’s earlobe. A shiver ran down his spine as he got a hand between them and shoved at Miya’s face.

“Fuck off.”

“That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?” Miya’s big hand wrapped around Kiyoomi’s wrist, pinning it back against the door as his other hand picked up speed. Kiyoomi groaned, hips arching to fuck into the tight clasp of his fist. “That’s why you followed me back to my hotel room, right? So you could suck my cock? That’s what got you all hot and bothered, huh?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi gasped as Miya bit him, a sharp nip high enough that the mark he was working into his flesh would be visible above the collar of any shirt. His grip on Kiyoomi’s cock tightened, until he was holding him almost painfully just under the head, thumb coaxing pre from his slit in mockingly soothing movements.

“I’d say make me, but we both know you’re the one who likes to be made to do as you’re told.” Miya grinned while he said it, hand sliding out of Kiyoomi’s pants. Kiyoomi opened his mouth to bite back at him, but Miya fisted his hand in Kiyoomi’s hair, right at the base of his neck, and began to pull downward. The pressure on his skull made his head feel like it had been lit on fire, and he struggled against it, twisting in Miya’s grip to try and pull himself loose. Miya held him firm, sinking down into a crouch and forcing Kiyoomi to follow him.

Kiyoomi braced a hand on the floor, glaring at Miya. From this close, he could see the way the inner seam of Miya’s slacks hugged his thighs, threatening to split under the pressure of his muscle at any second. Kiyoomi could also see the prominent bulge at the apex of those thighs. Swallowing and forcing spit into his suddenly dry throat, Kiyoomi let himself sink forward onto his knees. Miya nodded, satisfied, and stood up from his crouch in one fluid movement, hand still tucked safely into Kiyoomi’s hair.

Miya stroked his fingers through Kiyoomi’s hair, massaging soothingly over the pinpricks of pain his rough treatment had caused. Kiyoomi realized he could hear his pulse in his ears, and belatedly noted that the idea of Miya making him behave had gotten him so excited that he’d started to tremble, hands shaking as he braced them against his own thighs. Miya’s hand slid over the back of his head, fingers splaying in a way that made Kiyoomi’s cock drool with the knowledge that one hand was big enough and strong enough to hold his head in place.

Miya moved him slowly at first, as if testing how much he’d resist. Kiyoomi leaned forward the rest of the way to bury his nose into Miya’s clothed crotch, moaning as he felt Miya apply more pressure behind his hand, holding him there as he rocked his hips, rubbing his covered dick across Kiyoomi’s face. Even through the layers of clothing, Kiyoomi could smell the unmistakable scent of his arousal, and it made his own dick give a sympathetic twitch.

He opened his mouth, tracing the outline of Miya’s cock to the approximate location of the head. He pressed his tongue down, brows knitting at the starchy taste of fabric. If he concentrated hard enough, he convinced himself he could taste his cock beyond that, imagining how it would feel stretching his lips around it and letting it weigh heavy on his tongue.

“Stop teasing,” he muttered when Miya’s hand relaxed, letting him pull back for some air. Miya looked like he was glowing, backlit by the bright fluorescents of the hotel room. Kiyoomi watched, chest heaving with his breaths, as Miya unhooked his belt in one quick loop, discarding it on the floor and unbuttoning his slacks before working the zipper down.

“Faster,” Kiyoomi snapped, reaching for him. Miya laughed then, raising his hands up and wiggling his fingers teasingly. Kiyoomi snarled, reaching upward to hook his fingers into the waist of his underwear, folding his hands around his open pants as well so that he could tug both articles of clothing down in one go. Miya stood on them as soon as they got low enough, working them over his shoes and kicking them away across the floor, his hand steadying the base of his cock.

Kiyoomi stared at it, hoping that Miya couldn’t tell just how much he liked the look of it. He’d never let Kiyoomi live it down, otherwise.

Miya gave himself a few slow strokes, squeezing whenever his hand got close to the head of his cock. Each pass of his hand was wetter than the last, and the noises made Kiyoomi fidget, squeezing his thighs together to give his own cock a bit of pressure.

“We both know you ain’t shy,” Miya said, and Kiyoomi jumped a little. He’d almost forgotten he could speak. “What’re ya waitin’ for?”

Kiyoomi remained stubbornly tight-lipped, keeping his eyes locked on Miya’s. Normally, the brown of his eyes was bright and dancing in the light. Now, with his pupils blown out as wide as they were, they looked deeper than void; a bottomless trench prepared to drag Kiyoomi down into their depths and keep him there until the last of his breath was gone. With his dark brows tilted seriously, Miya pressed forward, smearing the leaking head of his cock against Kiyoomi’s lower lip.

Kiyoomi swallowed, thickly, as Miya slowly traced the shape of his mouth in careful, looping movements. He put pressure on Kiyoomi’s bottom lip, as if to forcibly pry his mouth open and shove himself inside, teasing him.

Slowly, Kiyoomi parted his lips, letting the head of Miya’s cock slide into the wet heat of his mouth. Miya let out a slow breath through his nose, heavy with wanting. Kiyoomi’s eyes slid shut as he pressed his head forward, bringing his hands up to grip Miya’s thighs for purchase, breathing carefully through his nose. Miya’s hand found the back of his head again, cupping the base of his skull and holding him steady.

“That’s better,” Miya said, slowly rocking his hips forward. Kiyoomi inhaled sharply in shock, choking a little as Miya’s cock nudged at his throat. “Shh, shh. Ain’t that better?”

“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi said, but given that his mouth was full of Miya’s dick, he doubted it came out quite the way he wanted it to. Miya laughed, palming the back of his head more purposefully as he snapped his hips in one particularly brutal thrust, following it up with another of its kind before Kiyoomi even had a chance to be shocked.

The pressure was… good. Kiyoomi thought he should be concerned that he liked it so much, the way that Miya bullied himself into his mouth, held him still and used him. Kiyoomi had previously been described as imperious; confident, blunt, and determined to get what he wanted. Like this, it felt as if Miya was forcing him to submit, and that feeling burned hot in his stomach as he sucked dutifully at Miya’s cock, eyes still squeezed closed as Miya worked his hips in and out of his mouth.

For once, Miya was quiet. The silence of the room made hairs on the back of Kiyoomi’s neck stand up, as he braced himself against Miya’s legs, letting his jaw slack as Miya built his rhythm, never quite letting Kiyoomi take so much of him that he’d choke. A part of him craved the sensation, another part loathed that he craved it. Miya was good at that; good at forcing Kiyoomi to face unpleasant truths about himself that he’d otherwise hide from.

That was the frustrating thing about Miya, really; the inextricable fact of his existence, the one that drove Kiyoomi up the wall every time it floated too close to the edge of his periphery and forced him to acknowledge its presence. Nearly every other partner Kiyoomi had either needed Kiyoomi to walk them through his own pleasure in excruciating detail, or they were far too arrogant to notice when Kiyoomi started to fake it so that the mediocre sex would be over sooner. No one in their right mind could ever accuse Miya of being self-conscious. Some might even choose to categorize him as arrogant, but Kiyoomi knew the difference between arrogance and confidence was the ability to follow-through, and Miya never failed to back himself up.

It had been the same with volleyball. Apparently it was the same with sex. Miya took one look at Kiyoomi, sliced away all the flesh, bone and muscle until he was carved down to his core, and then acted upon whatever it was he saw there. So here Kiyoomi was, on his knees, relaxing his throat enough to take Miya into it as he swallowed enthusiastically, shuddering every time the wet sounds of his mouth registered to his own ears. There was nothing more exhilarating than the moment before a cock touched the back of his throat, that freeze-frame split-second where his body thought it ought to rebel against the intrusion, before it relaxed into it, soothing the tension from his muscles. The ache in his jaw, the taut stretch of his lips around solid flesh… all of it, Kiyoomi enjoyed, and Miya just knew.

“Close,” Miya said, and Kiyoomi’s eyes fluttered open. It shocked him that he could feel so calm with Miya using his throat like this, pushing him to his limits and making sure his voice would be hoarse tomorrow. In a last-ditch bid to feel like he was regaining some sense of control, Kiyoomi jerked his head out of Miya’s hold, pulling back to the tip of his cock. Lazily, he drew his tongue over the head, smiling to himself when he felt Miya’s hips jerk forward at the sensation, still trying to fuck his mouth, even with Kiyoomi bracing both hands against his thighs to keep him at bay.

“You’re a menace,” Miya said, but there was no bite behind it. When Kiyoomi lifted his eyes to watch his face again, his eyes were twinkling with something like amusement. Kiyoomi gave his cock one particularly hard suck, before he curled his hand at the base of it and pulled the rest of the way off.

“I don’t swallow unless I get head first,” he said, shivering at how wrecked his voice sounded. Miya’s smile widened, brows lifting in a way that Kiyoomi knew to mean that he was laughing at him.

“I don’t want you to swallow,” Miya said, the hand that had been on the back of Kiyoomi’s head sliding back into position and curling into a fist, trapping his curls between his fingers and making Kiyoomi gasp at the pinpricks of pain that fizzled across his scalp. “I prefer to mark my territory.”

Kiyoomi swallowed back a moan at the implication, opening his jaw obediently as Miya pressed forward again, holding Kiyoomi’s head steady with his solid grip on his hair. Kiyoomi could feel his own breathing pitching up as he slipped a hand between his own legs, pressing his palm down on his own neglected cock. He felt his hips jump into the touch, and immediately realized his mistake.

His eyes flew open as he tried to squeeze his legs closed, the heat in his stomach suddenly burning so violently that it was impossible to ignore it. Miya was drawing back, hand around his own cock to stroke himself the rest of the way, his serious brows knitted tight together over his brow.

“Miya—” Kiyoomi croaked, unsure what he expected him to do about the fact that Kiyoomi couldn’t stop grinding into his own hand, the coil in his stomach stretching out taut, threatening to snap at any second. Miya’s eyes flashed open, locking on to Kiyoomi’s own, before he swore, and came.

Kiyoomi expected him to let go and brace himself against the door. Instead, Miya’s grip tightened in his hair and tipped his head back so that he could stripe Kiyoomi’s face with cum. Kiyoomi felt the first of it hit him just above his brow, right where his moles would be, feeling the warmth of it as it landed over his closed eyelid, over his lips. The thread in Kiyoomi’s stomach snapped, and he let out a strangled gasp of pleasure as his hips rocked up into his own hand, painting the inside of his boxers sticky with his own spend.

“Shit, Omi-kun,” Miya let out a heavy breath, loosening his grip on Kiyoomi’s hair and petting through it instead. “You look gorgeous like this, didya know that?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi muttered, shuddering at the raspiness of his voice.

“Sound good like that too,” Miya chuckled. “You wanna see?”

Kiyoomi felt his face redden at the idea of being shown exactly what he looked like right now. A part of him said he should tell Miya that he’d rip his throat out if he ever considered taking a photo of him during sex. The part of his brain that had always been morbidly curious really wanted to see what it was that Miya was salivating over. He did, at the very least, trust Miya not to show anyone else; if only because he was such a brat that he’d probably feel eternally smug at being the only person he knew to see Kiyoomi like this.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi huffed, trying his best to sound unaffected. There was a long pause, before Kiyoomi felt his fingers gently cup his chin, tilting his face up. Kiyoomi felt fabric against his face; Miya dutifully wiping away the mess he’d made.

When Kiyoomi’s face felt clear, he let his eyes flutter open, wincing against the brightness of the room’s lights after so long with his eyes shut. Vaguely, he could make out Miya’s phone face-up on the floor just a few feet away from them. Miya’s thumb stroked over his jaw and before Kiyoomi’s curious hands could twitch toward the phone, Miya kneeled with kneecaps brushing Kiyoomi’s own.

“What are you doing?” Kiyoomi asked as Miya leaned in, brushing lips down his neck and letting his cum-covered pocket square fall to the ground at their sides.

“I'm not the kind of guy to leave someone unsatisfied,” Miya said, hands settling into the dip of Kiyoomi’s waist, lifting him and propping him up with his oversensitive, spent cock pressed up against one of Miya’s huge thighs. Kiyoomi whimpered at the pressure, hips jerking as he pushed at his shoulders.

“Ah, no, that's okay—”

“Are you sure?” Miya drew back, and then seemed to weigh the sensations atop his leg. “You're not hard? Did I…”

“No,” Kiyoomi shook his head. “No. You didn't do anything I didn't like.”

“Even cumming on your face?” Miya joked, and Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, feeling himself flush as he nodded. He still shoved at Miya out of principle anyway, but Miya held him still, hands squeezing his waist in a way that made Kiyoomi gasp, feeling the way the tips of Miya’s thumbs skated together just above his navel.

“So if you liked it, then why…” Miya didn't quite get the question out before Kiyoomi saw understanding flash across his face. He tried to lean himself backward, out of Miya’s grip and away from sure embarrassment, but Miya wrapped his arm around his waist and used his free hand to slide under the waistband of Kiyoomi’s briefs.

Kiyoomi bit back another embarrassing noise at the feeling of Miya’s warm palm on his sensitive dick, even if it twitched in his grip, interested by the heat of Miya against it.

“Fuck,” Miya groaned, pulling Kiyoomi further up into his lap, nuzzling into the divot between his collarbones with a disbelieving exhale. “You came just from that?”

“I don't care what you have to say about it,” Kiyoomi snapped, intending to cut Miya off before he could really double down on the teasing. Miya squeezed him close, his sharp canines snagging against Kiyoomi’s shirt as he spoke.

“Not even if I think it's extremely sexy? Fuck, Omi-kun, if that ain't the highest compliment a man can get.” Kiyoomi scowled, but the expression was wiped off his face quickly as Miya’s hand— near searingly hot, Kiyoomi thought— wrapped around him in full and gave him an experimental stroke.

“Miya…”

“You can give me another one, right?” Kiyoomi felt his breath catch in the back of his throat. “Can't believe I missed it. Bet you're hot as anything when you come. I wanna see it. You gonna let me?”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi whispered, bracing his hands back against the floor in front of Miya’s knees, as his hand began to pick up speed. His hips kept jerking in Miya’s lap, unsure if they wanted to lean into the sensation or run away from it. Every pull of Miya’s hand against his oversensitive cock made a shiver run up his spine, and Kiyoomi could feel the way his breath got away from him, spiralling out of his control until he was panting and biting back keening noises from the back of his throat, humping into Miya’s hand.

“That's it,” Miya said, voice sounding shockingly wrecked for someone who wasn't being rapidly drawn to a second orgasm in too short a timeframe. “You look so hot like this. Always thought you'd look sexy as fuck in a suit. Pissed me off, really, but shit if it ain't hot to watch you soil it like this.”

“Don't get any on my suit,” Kiyoomi gasped, lurching upright to brace a hand on Miya’s shoulder, hips rolling into the rhythm of his hand now, the wetness of his precum mixed with his first load easing the glide of Miya’s hand. “It's expensive.”

“Course it is,” Miya chuckled. “Don't worry. Want it preserved so next time I can see these tight little pants cut into that cute little ass while I fuck you over a couch.”

Kiyoomi let out a strangled moan, biting his lip a second too late to control the entirety of the sound as stars danced behind his vision, and his cock kicked in Miya’s hand. Miya’s supportive arm disappeared from around his waist, cupped over the head of his cock instead to catch the weak spurts of cum before it could hit either of their clothing, stroking Kiyoomi until he had nothing left to give, breathing bordering on pained with the strain it was taking not to cry at the sensation.

“Just like I thought.”

“What?” Kiyoomi blinked, dazedly, trying to shift to a more comfortable position in Miya’s lap. He watched as Miya picked up his pocket square, using it to wipe Kiyoomi’s cum off his hands, shooting him an amused look when he felt Kiyoomi watching.

“You're hot when you come.”

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi let himself slide back onto the floor, barely lifting his hips as Miya pulled his underwear back up, tucked his shirt in and zipped his slacks back into place. It was a haphazard job, but at least his bare ass wasn’t touching the floor. Kiyoomi had to tilt his head back to watch as Miya stood to do the same with his own clothes. “So what, you've been carrying some torch for me all these years? Annoying me has just been your way of flirting?”

“Don't you have an active imagination?” Miya snorted. “You're a brat and half the time you give me a headache. Doesn't mean I can’t see outta these eyeballs, Omi-kun. You're hot, even if half the time I wanna kill ya more than I wanna kiss ya. Plus I'm horny a lot and the hate sex fantasies are good.”

“You're disgusting.”

“You seemed to get off on that just fine with my cock in your mouth.”

Kiyoomi seethed. There wasn't really any dignified comeback he had that would win that verbal sparring match, and Miya was smiling like he knew it.

“It's been fun, Omi-Omi, but it ain't like it means anything.”

“It better not,” Kiyoomi said, drawing himself upright to sit leaning against the door. “I don't need your stupid feelings to complicate things.”

“No feelings to worry about,” Miya did the Scout’s salute. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “As fun as it's been, you should probably go.”

“What?” Kiyoomi blinked. “You're kicking me out? You're not even going to offer me like… a shower?”

“Uh, no?” Miya raised one thick brow. “You wanna explain to the team why you're here when they get back? I'm sure they'd all love to know how one of their college prospects likes to get fucked.”

Kiyoomi pushed himself to his feet, staring at Miya incredulously as he straightened himself up. Even if he understood the logic, the irrational part of his brain thought he ought to throw a shoe at Miya for such ungentlemanly behaviour.

“Aw, come on, don't look at me like that,” Miya was laughing as he crossed the space to crowd Kiyoomi up against the door, brushing teasing kisses over Kiyoomi’s lips. “You didn't want to fuck at the gala. I mighta cuddled then.”

“You are the most annoying man who has ever existed,” Kiyoomi snarled, shoving Miya away by the face, the tips of his ears burning as Miya’s laugh got louder. He wrenched the door open and stomped down the hallway toward the elevators, trying to fix his hair and breathe through his nose so that he didn't turn around and do something drastic like commit murder, or tell Miya he didn't care if the team discovered them if it meant another round.

“I had a great time!” Miya yelled down the hall after him, because he had no sense of manners and Kiyoomi should have expected as much. “And hey, if you're ever in Osaka, I'll show you what my mouth can do.”

Kiyoomi glared at him as he mashed the elevator button. Miya didn't look away until after the doors had closed in front of Kiyoomi’s face. Alone, Kiyoomi let out a long breath and dug his phone from his pocket to call his driver.

When the elevator hit the ground floor, his phone pinged with a text notification. It was a photo message from Miya. Against his better judgement, Kiyoomi opened it, and felt his cheeks instantly burn red as he took in the image. It was mostly the door of the hotel room, and then half of a face from the bridge of the nose up. The face had sweeping eyelashes and pale eyelids, dotted with little puddles of white spend. The face’s brows were drawn together in a mixture of ecstasy and embarrassment. Above the brows were two moles, beauty spots really. They were also striped with cum.

It was his face. Kiyoomi shoved his phone back into his pocket and sucked in a deep breath to try and force away the interested warmth pooling in his stomach, remembering what that had felt like. Curiosity killed the cat was the popular expression for a reason, because the only thing that supposed satisfaction was bringing back was Kiyoomi’s arousal. One thing, above all else, was exceedingly clear to Kiyoomi after this experience.

This could never happen again.

*

It happened again.

The first instance of Kiyoomi’s impeccable control slipping was a mere three weeks after the first incident, when Motoya bought him tickets to an EJP vs MSBY match in Osaka. In hindsight, Kiyoomi should have predicted that after the match was over, Motoya would drag him out for a drink with the teams. Miya and Motoya had always had a much more friendly relationship, and adding Miya’s former teammate to the mix meant it had been a particularly obvious turn of events.

What had been less obvious was Suna and Motoya choosing to top and tail on Miya’s couch so that Kiyoomi could have the guest futon. Less obvious than that was Kiyoomi abandoning it to climb into Miya’s bed and demand he make good on his promise from the last time they spoke, given that he'd been annoying him all night. Miya had not had objections.

Mouth on Kiyoomi’s cock and fingers up his ass, he’d teased Kiyoomi into being completely open, and then he'd put him in his lap and made him ride while he toyed with Kiyoomi’s nipples, and kissed along his back. In an effort to muffle his noises, Kiyoomi had bitten down so hard on his forearm that he'd had a mark for a week and a half afterward.

The next month, Miya came to Tokyo for a match against the Adlers. Kiyoomi also came, first with the intention of supporting his good friend Wakatoshi, and then again later that night, Miya’s dick in his ass and the force of his thrusts sending Kiyoomi’s dorm bed into the wall so violently that his neighbour had taken to banging on the wall in return. Three slip-ups seemed like a good, round number and the perfect place to stop, but then Miya had the audacity to find himself invited to Iizuna’s birthday party. Kiyoomi had let Miya fuck his thighs and had practically humped Miya’s own to get himself off, and then spent the next day not just drunk-hungover, but shame-hungover for breaking his personal rule about never hooking up in bathrooms.

“We should just make a thing of it,” Miya said after the fifth time, both of them squeezed into Kiyoomi’s dorm bed. Kiyoomi made a vague noise, still too tired from having his soul sucked out through his dick not five minutes earlier.  Miya’s fingers felt nice, tracing the path between the moles on his back, and Kiyoomi’s body felt pleasantly warm and sleep heavy.

“Why would we do that?” He mumbled, when it became clear Miya was waiting for a reply.

“Dunno. Just seems easier than having to pretend like we don’t wanna fuck whenever we’re in the same space. I’m gettin’ kind of tired of the last time was a mistake routine. I’m big enough to admit I’d rather fuck than argue. Are you?”

Kiyoomi struggled to get a hand under himself, bracing himself so he could sit upright and glare down at Miya. His hair was all mussed from Kiyoomi’s hands through it, and his lips were red in a way that left no illusions about what they’d been doing. There were still red lines marking his chest from where Kiyoomi had gotten handsy with his not-so-insignificant pectoral muscles. Objectively, Miya Atsumu was hot. Subjectively, Kiyoomi thought the sex was really hot, which is why he couldn’t fucking quit it.

“Like what?” He said, anyway. “You want to be fuckbuddies?”

“Does it have to have a label?” Miya’s lip curled up in disgust. “How about we just agree we don’t have to be embarrassed to ask to hook up or whatever. It’s mutually beneficial. I like the sex and I don’t wanna jump through hoops just to get to the fun part.”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi said. “But if you make it weird, we stop.”

“Why would I make it weird? If you make it weird, we quit it.”

“I won’t make it weird.”

“Well I’m not gonna either, asshole.”

“Don’t call me an asshole when you’re in my bed.”

“Well don’t fucking— hey! Proving my point, stop trying to push me out!” Miya grabbed his wrist and yanked it away from his side, sending Kiyoomi sprawling across his chest. Kiyoomi jabbed his elbow into Miya’s stomach, and bit back a laugh when Miya dug fingers into his side, rolling his full body weight on top of him.

“Are you hard again?” Kiyoomi asked, pushing roughly on Miya’s abdomen, and then giving up on moving him to feel between his legs. Miya hummed, rocking into Kiyoomi’s hand.

“Yeah, pissy little brats really turn me on.”

“You’re such a flatterer,” Kiyoomi said, squeezing meanly. “Make me cum. If you’re going again, so am I.”

“So demandin’,” Miya clicked his tongue, sitting back on his knees and spreading Kiyoomi’s legs apart with a broad hand against the inside of either thigh. Kiyoomi stretched out languidly, arms above his head. Miya surveyed the length of his body, before the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

“How do you feel about rimming?”

After Kiyoomi had stopped yelling at him for ruining the mood, and Miya had stopped laughing through Kiyoomi’s attempt to rip his head off his shoulders, Miya did make good on Kiyoomi’s demand. And then again, as an apology. And then a third time, just for fun.

And Kiyoomi thought: I could get used to this.

*

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Kiyoomi braced his hands harder against the roof of Miya’s rattly old truck, using the leverage to spear himself on Miya’s cock even harder, his back arching at the way that Miya’s cock rubbed over his prostate, sending electric sparks of pleasure up his spine.

“Close?” Miya asked, holding Kiyoomi close by the waist and snapping his hips upward to compliment the way that Kiyoomi was bouncing. Kiyoomi nodded frantically, arching into Miya’s touch as he wrapped a hand around Kiyoomi’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.

“Stop talking and fuck me. Don’t you dare stop.”

“Have a little faith,” Miya laughed, more just a forceful exhale from the exertion that came hand in hand with fucking in a car. “Don’t I always make you feel good?”

“I’d feel better if you were quiet.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Miya bit at the skin of Kiyoomi’s chest, just under his nipple, making him gasp in a mixture of shock and pleasure. “You like it when I’m callin’ ya names and tellin’ ya what a desperate little slut you are. Doesn’t get more desperate than fuckin’ in my car like this. What if someone walks past, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi felt his whole body tense in the space of a moment. There was a suspended second of unreality where all of his senses felt simultaneously dulled and hyperresponsive, before the heat in his stomach rushed south and Kiyoomi let out a moan, slumping forward onto Miya as he came. Miya’s hand fisted his cock, stroking gently through Kiyoomi’s high. Kiyoomi could feel his hips chasing his own release; one thrust, then four, then ten, before Miya pulled him tight into his lap and shuddered, exhaling harshly through his nose.

For a moment, Kiyoomi let himself bask in the quiet. Miya’s non-dirty hand rubbed up and down his back, tracing the bumps of his spine and the uneven spotting of his moles. Whenever he breathed, the motion of his body rocked Kiyoomi too. It was nice, the moments in between. Kiyoomi would never admit it out loud, but maybe Miya had made a good point about making it a thing.

At least this way there were a set of rules, in a sense. Kiyoomi didn’t have to worry about Miya complicating things with unwanted feelings, and he didn’t have to feel bad about needing this either. Miya seemed to at least understand how stressful college classes were, and why Kiyoomi might need his brains fucked out on a semi-regular basis. It was good sex, it was sex that didn’t require exhaustive vetting of a potential partner, and it was really working for Kiyoomi.

“You’re goin’ to sleep,” Miya murmured, and Kiyoomi felt his nose scrunch in annoyance.

“No I’m not.”

“Yeeeeah ya are,” Miya shifted, and Kiyoomi made a noise of protest. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned off and get outta here. Loading zone’s convenient but I don’t want someone makin’ a fuss and havin’ it get back to Samu.”

“That happened to you before?” Kiyoomi raised a brow, curling into Miya’s chest as he shifted forward on the seat to grab his cleaning supplies from the folded-down back of the driver’s seat.

“Nope,” Miya said. “Ya think all of my hookups are askin’ me to use my brother’s loading zone so we can fuck in my truck? That’s a You Special, Omi-Omi.”

“I didn’t ask to have car sex.”

“Uh… yes you did?”

“I did not! You’re making that up.”

“I’m not! When I was up last month and I was tellin’ ya about how I needed to get the truck serviced ‘cause my warrant was about to expire you said you thought car sex sounded hot but it was probably better in theory than in reality so I just assumed you wanted to give it a crack?”

“You are the strangest man I’ve ever met,” Kiyoomi blinked at him, incredulous. “You really planned all this just because of an off-hand comment?”

“Well, yeah.” Miya shrugged, lifting Kiyoomi so that he could pull out of him and tie off the condom, tossing it into the scented bin liner he was using to store trash. “If ya wanna try stuff, we can. Plus, I didn't think it was so bad. Your neck okay though?”

“A little stiff,” Kiyoomi touched the nape of his neck. “It was good though.”

“It better have been, or you're gonna be a real menace for the next four months.”

“Ugh, don't remind me. Are you sure you have to?”

“Pretty sure,” Miya said, tugging his shirt back on and groping around for Kiyoomi’s underwear. Kiyoomi slid out of his lap to hook his legs into them and wiggle them back up over his hips. “Unless you wanna pay me to sit around all day and fuck you whenever ya want?”

“Nice try.” Kiyoomi snorted, accepting the peeled mandarin that Miya handed him, eating one delicate slice at a time.

“A man can dream,” Miya said, opening his protein bar and taking a huge bite. Kiyoomi kicked his thigh as a reprimand for talking with his mouth full. “Whenever I work at Onigiri Miya Samu always makes me do dishes. My hands end up so dried out.”

“Poor baby,” Kiyoomi dodged Miya’s hand, jerking his thigh out of reach for a slap.

“It is a genuine fuckin’ tragedy! It blunts the sense in my fingertips. Makes it harder to feel the ball right.”

“Okay, that seems made up. I think that's a psychosomatic symptom.”

“Rack off, it's real.”

“To you, maybe.” Kiyoomi yelped as Miya’s smacking hand landed solidly on his thigh. Miya made a triumphant noise, even as Kiyoomi poured at him, rubbing the mark that was steadily spreading red across his skin.

“Y’know, you’re so mean to me even after I make you cum. All a guy’s askin’ for it is a little compassion for the hands that make you orgasm.” Miya’s grin was getting wider the longer he spoke, so Kiyoomi elbowed him in the ribs and climbed forward into the passenger seat. Miya’s hands followed him, sliding up the bare expanse of his thighs and giving his ass a generous squeeze before Kiyoomi pushed the seat upright again and sat down.

“Can you stop being embarrassing and drive us back to your place? The bus back to the university leaves in the morning and if you’re going to be useless for the next few months the least you can do is make me cum again.”

“Aye-aye, Your Royal Bratiness,” Miya said, and Kiyoomi shot him a glare as he swung into the driver’s seat, making sure everything was securely tucked away before he turned the key over and the engine rumbled to life. Miya’s truck was red and old and it rattled so much that it made Kiyoomi feel like his teeth were shaking around in his skull. And, apparently, it didn’t bounce that much when Kiyoomi was trying to ride Atsumu to death, so maybe there was some worth to the old piece of junk after all.

“Congratulations, by the way. You know, on the Kurowashiki result. Your team’s pretty good— made it further than a hell of a lot of other college teams have. You played well too. Your receives were especially tight in the second half.”

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “Don’t be weird about it. Just shut up and drive.”

Miya smiled like he was in on some secret joke, but he didn’t argue. That was the first thing Kiyoomi started to miss.

He’d known, to some degree, that having Miya as a hookup had made him too comfortable, but he’d been certain that he’d be fine with Miya not being able to travel in the off-season, since he was helping his brother with his onigiri shop. He’d reasoned that one, he was a perfectly independent young adult capable of masturbation or finding another willing sexual partner; and two, he didn’t actually need to have sex as often as he’d recently been having sex.

How foolish he’d been.

By week two, jacking off wasn’t doing it for him anymore. By the end of the first month, it was already taking him close to an hour to get off even with something up his ass. Miya kept posting stupid photos in the stupid Onigiri Miya uniform shirt, always wearing his cap backwards and grinning like life was great. His shirt was probably a size too small and the sleeve hugged his bicep in a way that was so tantalizing in his stupid vanity pictures that Kiyoomi wanted to reach through the screen and lick the point of connection, just to feel the way the fabric strained around his muscles.

After that deranged line of thinking, Kiyoomi imposed a personal ban on looking at Miya’s Instagram, and turned to the local population for a hookup during month two. That proved even worse for The Miya Problem, considering every person who passed the ruthless preliminary vetting had Kiyoomi bored by at least the fifteen minute mark of pre-sex conversation, and every single time, Kiyoomi found himself returning to his dorm room even more frustrated than before he’d left.

The final straw was hearing his neighbour’s bed start to hit their shared wall in a particularly rhythmic way, followed up by the extremely audible sound of sex. Kiyoomi scrambled for his phone and dialed Miya’s number without thinking twice. He answered on the third ring.

“Omi?” He sounded tired, like he’d been half asleep. Kiyoomi didn’t care. He couldn’t stop thinking about the last time there’d been banging on that shared wall, and that was as much Miya’s fault as it was his own.

“My neighbour is having sex,” Kiyoomi said. “And I’m horny. Do something about it.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Miya snorted a laugh. “You got hard ‘cause your neighbour is fuckin’ someone?”

“No.” Kiyoomi scowled. Miya should know better; he’d met Kiyoomi’s neighbour, and he knew that Kiyoomi didn’t like him. “I’m hard because I haven’t had sex in weeks and it’s your fault.”

“How’s it my fault? You’re perfectly capable of findin’ someone to shag, aren’t ya?”

Kiyoomi pursed his lips. On the one hand, admitting that Miya was regularly better sex than a large majority of the sex Kiyoomi had ever had was too mortifying to even be an option. On the other hand, Kiyoomi really needed to have sex with Miya again, or he’d die.

“You’re better,” is what he said instead, lowering his voice to something he hoped sounded sultry, already working a hand down his stomach and into the waist of his pyjama pants. “I’ve been getting off thinking about all the stuff we’ve done.”

“Yeah?” Miya said, and Kiyoomi could hear the blatant interest in his voice. He smiled, smugly.

“Everyone’s so boring,” Kiyoomi complained, fisting his cock and giving himself an experimental stroke, before he kicked his covers off and threw his pants and underwear to the end of the bed, rolling to his side so he could retrieve his lube from his narrow bedside drawer. “I’ve tried finding someone else, but they’re all too meek. I don’t want someone who can’t match me.”

“I’ve spoiled ya, huh?” Miya chuckled, a low sound from the back of his throat that made Kiyoomi shudder in anticipation. “You touchin’ yourself already, Omi-kun?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi said, pouring lube into the palm of his hand and warming it between his fingers, before he wrapped his hand around his cock again, letting out a pleased sigh into the receiver.

“Y’know, back in highschool I never woulda pegged ya as the kind of horny that you are.” Kiyoomi scowled at the phone, and at Miya’s amused tone. He continued to talk, unperturbed by Kiyoomi’s annoyance for the obvious reason that he couldn’t tell Kiyoomi was glaring at him. “But I kinda dig it. Gets me hot thinkin’ about ya and what you do when I ain’t there to take care of ya.”

“Do you think about that often?”

“Mm. It’s my favourite pre-bedtime fantasy. Thinkin’ about you all flushed and whimperin’, the way you get when you’re really achin’ for it, archin’ that pretty little back and humping your pillow like that’s gonna do anything for ya.”

“That’s your fantasy?” Kiyoomi let out a breathless laugh, fucking his hips faster in his hand. Miya’s voice was making his dick leak, and he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity presented to him.

“Well, that and eatin’ you out, but you always get so prissy when I bring it up.” Kiyoomi swallowed thickly, squeezing his dick so hard it almost hurt. The image he always remembered flashed in the back of his mind; that thought from the first night, Miya’s hungry eyes meeting his over the curve of his ass, Kiyoomi trembling and flushed and completely at his mercy.

“Are you touching yourself?” Kiyoomi asked, slowly starting to stroke himself again. Miya made a rumbling noise that sounded like an affirmative. “Hard just from thinking about me humping a pillow? You’re too easy, Miya.”

“What can I say, Omi-Omi? You’re sexy. I think lots of things you do are hot.”

“You can tell me,” Kiyoomi said, wetting his dry lips with his tongue. “What you’d do. If you were going to eat me out.”

“Fuck,” Miya groaned. It was a real, honest-to-god groan from deep in his gut, the kind that left no illusions as to just how much he was enjoying it. “I know ya think you’d hate it but fuck, Omi, I’d make it so good for you.”

Kiyoomi felt his breath catch a little. Miya played around with the nickname often, but if he wasn’t calling him the stupid, cutesy Omi-Omi, he never dropped the honorific. It made his dick leak even more, and he turned his face closer to the phone, listening intently.

“I wanna start ya nice and slow, kisses all over your shoulder and your back. You always blush so pretty when I tell ya how small your waist is, and I wanna spend my time gettin’ acquainted with that little waist. You ever give me a shot, I’m gonna torture you with it. I’m gonna make you crave me just from kissin’ your body that way. And when you’re beggin’, I’m gonna take a nice bite of that ass cheek. Love your ass, didya know that?”

“I got the impression,” Kiyoomi panted, reaching for the lube again to clumsily wet the fingers of his free hand with even more lube. “What else? Keep going.”

“You know how hard it is to find sexy ways to say you wanna shove your tongue in someone’s ass?” Miya’s tone was bordering on annoyed, and it did indescribable things to the heat in Kiyoomi’s stomach. He knew he’d made some kind of a noise, because Miya scoffed. Kiyoomi exhaled roughly through his nose, trying to cover up the noise by pressing a finger into himself, smearing the excess lube around his hole to make the slide easier.

“Shit, I don’t even have to try, do I? I can say whatever I want and it still makes you wet. Well, whatever, fuck bein’ hot about it, I dream about licking you open until you cry for it. I could make you cry for it. I dream about holdin’ you down on my face and letting you ride me ‘till you cum.”

“I couldn’t,” Kiyoomi gasped, but even as he said it, he wasn’t sure. His whole body was shaking with delight just from hearing Miya speak. What he’d be capable of making Kiyoomi do if he was here…

“You could,” Miya said. Blunt. Direct. No room for argument. Kiyoomi imagined it, saying the words out loud, Miya’s tongue circling his rim, fucking him open with that same intense focus that Miya devoted to all tasks he truly loved. He imagined Miya’s hands squeezing his thighs harder, burying his face deeper into Kiyoomi’s ass to hold him in place and push him past his limits, to make him bend to Miya’s will.

“Please,” Kiyoomi whispered, spreading his legs wider and curling a knee back toward his chest to get a better angle with his fingers. “Please, I’m almost there.”

“Alright darlin’, you just hold tight, I’ll get ya there,” Miya’s own rough voice was strained, and Kiyoomi could hear the occasional static of his arm catching on his sheets. Kiyoomi shivered at the realisation, turning his head to bite down on his pillow as he rocked his body between the pressure of his fingers in his ass and his hand on his cock.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Kiyoomi panted, desperate for the tension low in his gut to finally burst.

“Babe,” Miya chuckled, that breathless puff of his that Kiyoomi had gotten so used to during sex. “Gimme a second, I gotta use my imagination here. And really, I don’t think I could imagine sex crazy enough to ever satisfy ya, but I’ve been thinkin’ maybe one of these days I’ll squirrel ya away into the showers and fuck you right up against the wall while the team washes down. You’d like that, right? I see how it turns you on, thinkin’ about people catching ya. I think you want the whole world to know how well you take dick. I bet you’d love the team knowin’ just how good it makes you feel when I eat your ass.”

It did turn Kiyoomi on. He imagined Miya down on his knees, right down on the hard tile, one hand spreading Kiyoomi’s cheeks apart and the other anchored on the back of his thigh, pinning him to the wall. Kiyoomi imagined hearing voices on the other side of the stall wall, imagined biting at the knuckles of his own fingers to stifle his noise. He’d thought about rimming a lot, but he always decided he wouldn’t be into it. He would, he realized, theoretically be into it if it was Miya. Miya never failed to make it good for him. And when Miya made him cum, he’d call out for the team, make sure they watched him while he showed them all just how well he could take care of Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi came with a strangled gasp of shock, his entire body tensing. The rush of it was so heady it made him light-headed, humping into his hand as he slowly milked the last of his pent-up release from his body, his chest heaving with laboured breaths.

The sound of Miya came back to him. Having clearly intuited what Kiyoomi’s situation was, Miya had gone quiet. Kiyoomi could barely hear the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line, but he didn’t miss the frustrated grunt and the sound of a body shifting. It made a slow pleasure slide through his limbs, curling his mouth into a smug grin as he nudged his phone closer with the tips of his fingers. It looked like he wasn’t the only person struggling to get off these days.

Carefully, he lifted his phone, making sure the flash was on as he opened his camera app, and angled it toward his abdomen, where his own cum was cooling. He arched his fingers— that poised way that had made his grandmother say he had a grand future as a pianist— and hit record to make sure that Miya got the best view of his slender fingertip spreading his cum across his skin, drawing the shape of a heart against his pale flesh.

He sucked the taste off his pointer finger as he used his thumb to hit send on the video, and opened the call window again, reaching for his wet wipes to begin cleaning up before he got too tired.

He heard the exact second that Miya opened the video.

“Fuck,” Miya swore. “Shit. Goddamn it. What the hell is wrong with you? Ain’t no way a person should be that hot. Fuck.”

“Come on, you’re almost there,” Kiyoomi bit his nail as he wiped down his stomach, feeling the timid knot that always preceded an action he wasn’t quite sure about taking; that moment of visualizing the freefall after the leap. “In your fantasy you made me cum from just your tongue right? What about you? How do you get there?”

Miya’s breathing hitched, and Kiyoomi heard him suck in a breath like all the air had been forced out of him. Miya shifted again, and this time, Kiyoomi could hear the slickness of him stroking his cock, his breathing picking up as he stroked himself. Kiyoomi leaned closer to the phone, as if getting nearer to it would allow him to phase the entire way through and appear near to Miya to watch.

“That’s,” Miya panted, “secret. But I know just how I wanna do it. Hey, Omi-kun, do me a favour?”

“What?” Kiyoomi bit his lower lip, squeezing his legs together as anticipation started to build again in his gut.

“Think about it. Really think about it. Not just— not just decide you don’t wanna ‘cause you’re scared of something new.” Kiyoomi sucked his lower lip into his mouth as he thought it over. It only took him a second to decide.

“Okay,” he said, a little more quietly than he meant to. “I’ll think about it.”

That seemed to be all Miya needed. Kiyoomi heard him groan, heard the bed-frame creak as Miya came. Kiyoomi shivered, listening to the sound of it; so much more visceral without the visual of Miya’s face, his creased brow and the way his jaw always got tight with the effort to keep quiet. As he came down, Kiyoomi found his breathing evening to the tempo of Miya’s, matching the rise and fall of his chest to the gentle exhales he could hear from the other end of the line.

“Um,” Kiyoomi said, unsure what the protocol was now. They’d never accounted for phone sex. Kiyoomi didn’t really do phone sex. “Thank you. I know this was short notice, but I needed it.”

“Mmm,” Miya said, absently. Then, he hummed again, with more tune, and Kiyoomi could hear the mischief in his voice.

“What. What are you doing?” Kiyoomi frowned at his phone.

Miya continued humming, and Kiyoomi heard the clatter of him getting out of bed, and then the sound of him getting back in, tapping away at his laptop. Kiyoomi felt all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Hanging out with Miya the way he had been for the past few months meant he was getting very well attuned to the signs of him being up to something.

Something in this case was playing a synthy new wave tune, something with a thumping bass drum keeping time. Miya let it play, humming along gleefully. Then, it hit the chorus, and everything made sense.

I’ve no resistance, sang the lead vocalist in English. To long distance, sang the vocalist. Making love on the telephone, sang the vocalist. Miya sang along with it, voice cracking into laughter on the last few notes. Kiyoomi felt the flush rip across his face before he’d even finished hanging up the call, flopping back into bed and tucking his phone as far away from him as possible so he wouldn’t be tempted to reply when Miya inevitably started texting him to continue his bad joke.

Thanks to the violence of the blush, it took Kiyoomi a few moments to realize that he was smiling, touching the gentle curve of his lip in shock when it occurred to him. He shook his head a little, unable to wipe the smile off his face, no matter how much he struggled to get his facial features under control.

Despite his best efforts, Kiyoomi laughed.

*

Sometimes, Kiyoomi got in these moods. He loved volleyball, and he loved his college classes— Motoya was right about him being kind of a nerd, much to his annoyance— but sometimes, all that love didn’t change the fact that it was fucking exhausting, and the last thing Kiyoomi wanted was any sort of noise at all. Sometimes, the only thing Kiyoomi wanted to do was sprawl out on his bed, listen to ambient rain noises, and watch videos of cats.

He was in such a mood when there was a knock at his door, and he remembered with dawning horror that Miya was in town, and Kiyoomi had in fact booty-called him.

“You can go home,” Kiyoomi said when he cracked open the door. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Hello to you too,” Miya’s brow raised. He’d changed out of the team gear and into a different coordinated tracksuit. “You alright? Somethin’ happen?”

Yes. Something had happened. In fact, too many things had happened, and Kiyoomi didn’t need anything else to happen.

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi said, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “I just don’t want to have sex tonight.”

“Well, that definitely makes me think something’s wrong,” Kiyoomi glared at him. Miya hit him with a crooked grin. “It’s fine though. I can go if you really want me to, or I can hang out for a while. I bought food, after all.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes zeroed in on the plastic bag in his hand.

“You can come in for a few minutes, but if you’re going to be annoying I’m kicking you out.”

“Righto,” Miya said, and stepped into Kiyoomi’s dorm. He toed his shoes against the wall in the entrance, and then padded further into the room after Kiyoomi. His quiet was unsettling Kiyoomi a little, and he glanced around, suddenly anxious about the appearance of his space.

“Sorry it’s messy. It’s just been a busy week and I—”

“I don’t care,” Miya said. “I know ya think this is messy but I lived with Samu for eighteen years, and that idiot used to miss the laundry basket and then accuse me of stealin’ all his underwear like I didn’t initial mine specifically ‘cause the idea of wearin’ his weirded me out. You are nowhere near as slobby as that guy.”

“The more you tell me about your brother the more repulsed by him I am.”

“Yeah, I gotta con you into liking me more than him somehow, right?”

“Honestly, that’s not that hard. He’s too nice. I like it better when you’re honest with me, and I don’t think your brother is the same as you in that regard. He seems more… diplomatic.”

“Only you would consider that a bad thing,” Miya snorted, unpacking his food onto Kiyoomi’s desk.

“No. You’d consider that a negative too.”

“Well, yeah,” Miya shrugged. “But I thought we agreed I was a bit of a cunt.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t help the way he smiled at that. He kind of liked how blasé Miya was about his foul language. It was refreshing; that Kiyoomi didn’t ever have to worry about where they stood, because Miya would never be so coy about it.

“Maybe,” Kiyoomi hummed. “But I like it. I think I’d dislike you more if you were disingenuous, but at least you’re honest about what you don’t like. If people don’t want to hear what you have to say, then I guess that’s a problem with them, and not with you.”

When Kiyoomi looked up from his phone, Miya had a wrapped onigiri in his hand, blinking at Kiyoomi like he’d grown a second head. Kiyoomi frowned at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Miya shook his head, folding the bag into a little square and sliding it along Kiyoomi’s desk. “I dunno, I guess it’s just kind of weird for me to hear that you feel that way. I always assumed you didn’t really like anythin’ about my personality.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi said. “Does that upset you?”

“Not really.” Miya shrugged. “I dunno. My whole life, I’ve never been real good at just shuttin’ up about things, not the way Samu is. I got kinda used to people not really gettin’ me, and honestly? Most of the time I don’t give a fuck, since their opinions aren’t all that important to me. I know who I am, and I know the people who matter like me because of that and not in spite of it, and that’s all I need. Besides, it ain’t like I didn’t judge you unfairly either.”

“What do you mean?” Kiyoomi pulled his legs up under him criss-cross, accepting a taiyaki from Miya as he sat down next to Kiyoomi, making sure to spread a paper napkin across his lap to catch crumbs.

“I mean back in highschool, all I knew about you was that you were good at volleyball and that your personality seriously fucked me off. Now, I just kinda think you confused my dick and I didn’t know ya all that well.”

“Confused your dick?” Kiyoomi coughed, trying to cover up the snorting laugh that threatened to come out.

“Hey, I was young and horny and you made me so mad but I used to have wet dreams about ya. You try dealin’ with those conflicting emotions.” Kiyoomi pushed his shoulder, shaking his head. Miya grinned at him, before he seemed to notice some red bean paste he hadn’t quite cleaned off a canine and went about licking it clean. “Either way, ever since this has been happenin’, I’m thinkin’ I never actually disliked you to begin with, I just didn’t know ya well enough to know better. I kinda think you’re cool, actually.”

“You think I’m cool?” Kiyoomi raised a brow. “Now it really does feel like something’s wrong.”

“Hey, if you can’t believe that of yourself, that’s a you problem. I’m awesome, personally, and anyone who doesn’t agree can either get with the program or fuck off. Simple as that.”

“Well, I think you’re distinctly uncool. You have the worst taste in music out of everyone I’ve ever met.”

“Just ‘cause you’re mad my hipster cred outweighs yours,” Miya grinned again, flashing Kiyoomi a glimpse of his sharp teeth. “Babe, I’ve really got bands you ain’t ever heard of.”

“You’re a weirdo,” Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “But… I kind of like that about you. It’s still weird to think I know enough about you to decide what parts I like, though.”

“Oh, I know what parts you like.” Miya wiggled his brows, and Kiyoomi frowned at him.

“I really will kick you out.”

“Yeah, right.” Miya waved a hand. “I get it though, the knowin’. If ya told me like six months ago this is what we’d be like, I’d have thought you finally lost the last of your marbles. But… I dunno, maybe it’s kind of embarrassin’ but somewhere along the way I think you actually kind of became my friend?”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Miya smiled, more to himself than at Kiyoomi. “I don’t really care if you consider us friends or not, if that’s what you’re stressin’ about. I just think… we’ve got jokes. I send you shit that reminds me of ya which means I think about ya more than any random person on the street, and sometimes we hang out. Plus I know your parent’s names and how your college life is goin’, and that you hate your neighbour whose girlfriend sounds like she’s fakin’ it, and that you genuinely like blinding neon yellow and think indigo is the worst colour—”

“It’s subjectively blue or purple. Even turquoise and teal have different dominant colour connotations. We should just collectively decide if indigo is blue or purple and commit to it.”

“See? Friendship.” Miya was still smiling, but it was different from his bombastic grins. This smile was gentler, and warmer too. His eyes twinkled, and they were soft in the corners in a way that made it look like he’d grow into laugh-lines well before he was due to. Kiyoomi felt almost embarrassed under the weight of his gaze; faced with the familiar old sensation of feeling like Miya had carved right down to the root of his being and was taking his time with looking at what he found there.

“Well,” Kiyoomi said, clearing his throat. “I’m… glad. That you think of me that way. I think it’s better than how we were before.”

“Oh, hundo percent,” Miya laughed. “Let’s promise not to go back there, okay? That shit was exhausting. Worse than fighting with Samu ‘cause I actually had to be smart about it.”

“Not smart enough,” Kiyoomi said, with faux sweetness. Miya raised a brow.

“Do ya really want me to categorize every time you lost? ‘Cause I will. It was very important to me to keep score.”

“Really? Who’s winning.” Miya paused for a beat, then sighed.

“You. By two.” Kiyoomi smirked. Miya stuck his tongue out at him.

For a while, they settled into silence. Miya peeled mandarins and handed them to Kiyoomi, before he unwrapped his onigiri and took slow, purposeful bites, checking for stray rice grains after every mouthful. Kiyoomi was more interested in watching him than he was in making sure mandarin juice didn’t stain his clothes. Miya slid his eyes sideways, watching him out of his periphery. Once upon a time, Kiyoomi would have pretended not to be looking. Now, he didn’t feel the need to look away.

“You wanna talk about what’s eatin’ ya?” Kiyoomi startled a little, blinking at Miya. After a moment, he blew out a sigh.

“It’s just… been a lot happening this week. One of my courses moved the submission date forward, but it’s an in-person submission on a day that I’m going to be away with the volleyball team for a match and my professor is being really stubborn about an extension. He just thinks I should hand in early, if I know I’m going away, but I have other assignments and changing the submission date of this one has really thrown off my plans… and the team has an increased practice schedule so that we can condition together, and my sister is getting married and so I’m involved in wedding planning and my extended family is in town, and as much as I love them, I do not love my grandfather commenting on my career—”

“Whoa whoa,” Miya’s hand settled on Kiyoomi’s back, thumb stroking over the planes of his shoulders as his hand smoothed soothingly over his back. “Sakusa nee-san is gettin’ married?”

“That’s what surprises you?”

“Yeah,” Miya smiled his crooked smile. It made Kiyoomi want to smile too. “I always figured academics were shits, volleyball’s always been demandin’ for people like you and me and everyone’s got the family members who make them wanna throw themselves into the ocean. Motoya just said your siblings were a fair bit older than you, so I guess I already assumed they were already settled down and shit.”

“My brother is,” Kiyoomi said with a nod. “He and his wife are expecting their third baby right now. His other kids are six and four.”

“Cute,” Miya said. “That’s the best age; when they’re old enough to run around and also old enough to start sayin’ weird shit. All my little cousins were the most fun at that age, and then they got too old to have cool uncles anymore.”

“You like kids?” Kiyoomi blinked. “I figured you wouldn’t like them that much. They’re not exactly self-sufficient.”

“Well yeah, they’re kids Omi-kun.” Kiyoomi pouted at him. Miya chuckled. “Look, the biggest job a kid has is to learn. I don’t like grown adults who act like kids, ‘cause they should know better. But actual kids are still gettin’ there, findin’ out things about the world and their place in it. Plus, that’s the best time to teach ‘em how cool volleyball is.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like you. I was worried for a second, you almost sounded introspective.” Kiyoomi chuckled a little as Miya gave his shoulder a playful push.

“So your grandpa doesn’t want you to play volleyball?”

“He’s very traditional. Nee-san and I have kind of been weathering that storm together. He approves of the wedding, but he keeps remarking that it’s very late for her to get married, and he’s not really that supportive of her having her own career either. He never outright says it, because my dad argues with him whenever he tries, but it’s kind of obvious that he expected her to marry early and be a housewife, which she’d absolutely hate by the way. And me… well, he wants me to work in the company like his younger brothers did, but there is absolutely nothing appealing to me about that line of work.”

“Yeah, the degree in physiotherapy is kinda givin’ me that impression.”

“I would be grateful if my dad did give me a job. I know that would make it easy for me, the way it’s not easy for a lot of people… but I want to do something different with my life. I have different passions, and different plans. My grandfather doesn’t really believe in sport as a legitimate profession. He’d prefer that I took some corporate job, or at least one where I won’t retire in my thirties and have to start all over again.”

“I get it,” Miya said. “But you don’t seem like the kind of person to not have a plan for afterward. You’ve got all this after all.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi accepted another peeled mandarin, smoothing his thumb over the flesh and watching the juices ripple under the surface from the pressure. “What about you? What are you going to do when you retire?”

“Whaddya mean? I’m never retirin’.” Kiyoomi gave Miya a look, and Miya chuckled, but it didn’t seem as genuinely amused as his laughter usually did. “I dunno. I don’t have a degree to fall back on, and I don’t think anythin’ will ever replace volleyball for me, so I ‘spose I’ll work for Samu for a bit and lick my wounds, and then I might go and wrangle crocodiles in Australia.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t help the disbelieving laugh.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, at the last Worlds tournament, me and Motoya ran into these dudes from Australia who showed us this show about a guy who was like, some kinda national treasure, and he wrangled crocodiles. I figure it’d be fun, go experience something beyond this country for a bit. And then I wanna coach.”

“So the life-threatening experience comes before the coaching?”

“For sure.” Miya chuckled, sounding a little more like himself this time. “I don’t really know, though. All I ever knew I wanted to do was play volleyball, and after that? I guess I’ll see where life takes me. It’ll be an adventure.”

“Right,” Kiyoomi chewed his lower lip. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.”

“Do you ever feel like you made the wrong decision? Going pro I mean. And think about it— really think about it, don’t get all bitey with me because you love playing so much. Do you ever think it’s the wrong decision long-term?”

Miya was quiet for a long moment, slowly lying down on Kiyoomi’s bed and stretching out, folding his arms behind his head. Kiyoomi put the last of his mandarin slices in his mouth and settled alongside him, pillowing his cheek against Miya’s tricep as he watched the way his face moved as he thought.

“No,” Miya said, after a while. “I’ve had anxieties about it, sure, same as you, but I don’t regret doin’ this, and I never will. Me and Samu are competin’ to see who lives the happier life, and even when I think about the fact that I’m one freak injury away from bein’ outta a job, I just ask myself: could I truly say I lived the happier life if I never did this? And the answer is always no. I’d always regret missin’ out more than I would regret bein’ forced to retire early.”

“Competing,” Kiyoomi said, dryly. “To live a better life? You two are so…”

“I know.” Miya sighed, shaking his head fondly. “That idiot. You’re not gonna regret it either, if that’s what you’re stressin’ about. I guess I can’t say I really get where you’re comin’ from, ‘cause our situations are different, but I’m tryin’ to understand. You’re kinda at a crossroads, right? It’d be easy enough to ride volleyball to the end of university and then go straight into your career, and your grandpa might respect that more than if you went pro… but you’d hate it. And I’d hate it. And volleyball as a sport would suffer for it. You’re a great player. It’d make the game way less interestin’.”

“Okay, you’re going a bit hard on the flattery.” Kiyoomi patted the flat of Miya’s stomach. “I’m not in any danger of quitting. I’m not the kind of person to do that.”

“I know. That’s why you’d hate it if you did. But I’m not flatterin’ you. Sure, you’ve got that nasty spin on your spikes, but there’s plenty of folks that have a little extra oomph in our world. You don’t get to our level without it. What makes you special is you’re so fuckin’ smart. I hated playin’ against you in highschool ‘cause it made it hard to play around. You never let up and I always had to be on my guard to make sure I could play your complicated mental chess game. Plus, none of the psychological warfare worked on you, so that was a pain in the ass.”

“I don’t know, if you’d told me about the confusing dick problems, that might have worked in your favour. Puberty did a real number on my hormones.”

“Can’t imagine my horny little bunny bein’ any hornier than you are now.” Kiyoomi slapped at the hand that was stroking his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

“Do not call me that ever again.” Miya snickered, and Kiyoomi rolled closer to him, pressing his hand down over his stomach meanly. Miya convulsed, trying to pull his wrist away, still laughing as he did. With a final huff, Kiyoomi lifted his hand, settling back down into the crook of his body again.

“I loved playin’ against you, though,” Miya said, after a beat of silence. “It was more fun than anything else. Hard work… but that’s what made it good. I kinda miss you when I’m playin’ now. No one plays quite the same way you do. And I think the Youth Team spoiled me, ‘cause settin’ to ya? Now that’s a whole different beast.”

“You really liked setting to me that much?”

“Mm. Nothin’ better than watchin’ you jump for my sets without a second of hesitation.”

“Well, there’s no reason for me to doubt your sets. Every time it was even slightly off, you always seemed to know before I did. You’ve never needed me to pick up your slack.”

“Damn right,” Miya said, and then he held up his pinky. “You gotta promise me that if I ever start acting like I do, then you’ll make sure I don’t live to see the next sunrise.”

“You really want me to pinky promise.”

“Hey, it’s a sacred pact. Come on, I’ve made ya do worse.” That wasn’t strictly true. Kiyoomi had enjoyed most of the other embarrassing things. Miya goading him into debating whether ghosts or aliens were more likely to exist on the other hand…

Kiyoomi let out a sigh, rolling his eyes, even as he reached for Miya’s pinky. Carefully, he wrapped his own around Miya’s, letting Miya wiggle their hands a little bit, before he lowered them to his chest, shifting his arm to wrap around Kiyoomi’s back, cradling him against his side. Kiyoomi let out a small sigh, curling closer and tucking his nose into the collar of Miya’s jacket. He smelled more strongly of his cologne there, where it had caught on the fabric during his application. His body was warm and strong next to Kiyoomi, and it was comforting; as comforting as Miya’s fingers smoothing over his back.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi said, smoothing the pad of his pinky over Miya’s nail, down over the ridge of his knuckle. “Thanks.”

“You don’t gotta thank me, Omi-Omi.” Miya smiled at him, that warm smile that made Kiyoomi feel too big for his body, like the radiance of it was going to make him burst. “Like I said, I think despite our best efforts we might kinda be friends.”

“I think you might be right… Atsumu.” As soon as his name left his mouth, Kiyoomi felt his lips curl up into a smile. Kiyoomi could practically feel the shock radiating off of him, before he laughed, full-bodied. Kiyoomi could feel his stomach jumping with the way his laugh was wrenched from deep in his gut. Kiyoomi unlaced their pinkies to spread his hand over his abdomen to feel the way the muscles clenched there.

“I bet Hell feels real chilly today, huh?”

“Shut up and take the win. I want to nap now.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi felt fingers thread through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He curled himself closer, sliding an arm over the body next to him.

“You want me to go?”

“No,” Kiyoomi shook his head, mashing his cheek against his chest in the process. “Just hold me for a while.”

“Alright, Omi,” he said, gentle like Kiyoomi was already asleep. Kiyoomi felt him brush his hair away, and then he felt lips brushing over his moles, just above his eyebrow.

When Kiyoomi woke up, sometime later when the sun had gone the rest of the way down, and the chill of the night air had stolen all the heat from the room, Miya was asleep too. Kiyoomi sat up on an elbow to relieve some of the tingling in the hand that had been trapped between their bodies.

He looked younger when he slept. Those dark brows looked less severe, and his hair was mussed against Kiyoomi’s pillow. He’d re-dyed it a few months ago, once it had grown out healthy enough for him to get back into it. He’d moved away from the brassy gold to a more refined platinum. It suited him well enough, but Kiyoomi secretly missed the boyishness that his brown hair had afforded him.

As he found himself smoothing his fingers over the fuzzy hair of his dark undercut, Kiyoomi found himself wondering if he was really, truly okay with Miya Atsumu just being his friend. He’d never really thought about it before, because he’d always received updates about his sexual health after team check-ins, which had never been worth more than a quick thumbs-up in response, but it occurred to them suddenly that there could be others.

Was he Miya with them, or was he Atsumu? Was he that larger-than-life presence that stole all the air in the room, or was he the man with sparkling eyes when he was awake and drool tracks drying on his chin while he slept? Kiyoomi’s gut twisted a little at the image of someone else’s fingers in his hair like this, someone else’s hands on his body. He had no right to be jealous— it had been his rule, after all. But he was. He was jealous of the idea that someone else might know him like this, might know Atsumu as he really was.

“What time is it?” Atsumu mumbled, brows knitting as his eyes screwed even tighter shut, a groggy hand touching the corner of his mouth.

“You drool in your sleep,” Kiyoomi murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “And your morning breath is atrocious.”

“It’s not mornin’, is it? Is it late?”

Kiyoomi glanced at the alarm clock on his desk. The digital display told him that it was later than it had been, but not late enough that Kiyoomi couldn’t stay in this moment for a little longer. He shook his head instead, settling back into Atsumu’s embrace, and relishing in the way he instinctively pulled him closer.

“Not late enough,” Kiyoomi whispered, curling his fingers in Atsumu’s shirt, underneath his unzipped track jacket. “We can stay like this a little longer. It was just your snoring that woke me.”

“Liar,” Atsumu mumbled, but he didn’t sound mad. There was that unbearable fondness in his voice again. “I don’t snore. I’m a sinus champion.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Kiyoomi replied, haughtily. Atsumu laughed, his hand sliding up to Kiyoomi’s hair, thumb tucking behind his ear and stroking at the sensitive skin there. Kiyoomi liked the way his laugh shook through his whole body and jostled Kiyoomi’s too.

“Alright then,” Atsumu murmured. “You judge, I’ll sleep.”

Kiyoomi let him. Atsumu’s breathing evened out quickly, even though it seemed like he was fighting the drowsiness. His hand fell away from Kiyoomi’s hair, his arm still loosely tucked around Kiyoomi, giving him space to fit into the curve of his body like he’d always belonged there.

Kiyoomi thought about Atsumu lying awake at night, thinking about volleyball; asking himself if he’d regret doing this— if he’d regret even trying. Atsumu was a person of such conviction, in ways that Kiyoomi had learned to admire. Once upon a time, before he’d understood that devotion, Kiyoomi had loathed it. Now, he loathed the absence of it. So Kiyoomi watched him as he dozed, and he asked his own question.

Atsumu’s lashes were short and stubby, and he had faint scars on his jaw that Kiyoomi supposed were from shaving. He had his own moles, and the faint remnant of freckles spattered across his arms and his back, probably from spending too much time in the sun as a child. His nose was slightly crooked from being broken one too many times— not all of them from volleyball, if the way Atsumu told it had any truth to it, which Kiyoomi was sure of, since Atsumu was no liar— and he didn’t snore, not at all. And so Kiyoomi asked himself: could I live the happiest life I possibly could if I let this go?

And as Atsumu sniffed in his sleep, and let his head loll to the side so that his nose was buried in Kiyoomi’s unruly curls, he already knew in the deepest, most secret part of his heart what the answer was.

*

Breaking up with Miya Atsumu was harder than Kiyoomi had ever anticipated it being.

We stop if it gets weird. That had been the rule. It wasn’t weird though. In fact, it was better than ever. Kiyoomi could barely go a single day without a random message from Atsumu, and on the days when Atsumu didn’t reach out first, Kiyoomi couldn’t stop himself from plugging the gap.

It didn’t help, either, that the sex was still really good.

Kiyoomi thought that was the hardest part of it; the knowledge that he’d  have to say goodbye to some of the best orgasms of his life. Every time Atsumu messaged him to say that he was in Tokyo for whatever reason, Kiyoomi resolved that this time would be the last, but the second he saw Atsumu’s lopsided smile and that sparkling warmth in his eyes, his traitorous brain thought: what’s the harm in one last round for the memories? And the next thing he knew, he was curled up in bed with Atsumu again, decidedly not having ended this thing between them.

Worse yet was any time he ended up in Osaka. Motoya kept buying him tickets to his games, and Kiyoomi— despite how much of a pain in the ass his cousin was at times— did consider him a friend, so of course he went. Really, breaking things off with Atsumu on home turf was the best option. He didn’t think Atsumu would be cut up about it, but if he was for any reason, then at least he’d have his support system around him, instead of having to deal with it away from home.

Of course, the problem with that plan was that Miya Atsumu still existed, which meant that no matter what geographical location Kiyoomi found himself in, he was still weak to that stupid smile, and his stupid hands, and the way he looked at him. Kiyoomi wished fervently that he could forget the way that Atsumu looked at him, because it was making it very hard for him to follow through on his decision.

Sometimes, the way Atsumu watched him when he thought Kiyoomi wasn’t looking made him think that something more might have been possible. Sometimes, like the aftermath of an EJP vs MSBY match that ended with Suna, Motoya and Kiyoomi crashing at Atsumu’s place again, Kiyoomi having abandoned the guest futon again to sneak into Atsumu’s bed; he thought Atsumu might want him too.

Atsumu’s hands fit into the dip of his waist perfectly, helping the roll of his hips as Kiyoomi rode him. Kiyoomi could feel the beat of Atsumu’s heart under his hands, placed upon his chest for balance. Atsumu had wanted to go slow tonight, working him all the way to four fingers before he’d even considered letting Kiyoomi take his cock, kissing the insides of his knees, and all along his thighs, any expanse of skin he could reach while Kiyoomi had held onto his hair for dear life.

Now, he watched Kiyoomi like he was something to be revered, a smile on his face so faint that Kiyoomi thought he didn’t even know he was doing it. Kiyoomi clenched on purpose, just to watch the way that Atsumu inhaled, eyes fluttering shut briefly as his hips stuttered, before he squeezed Kiyoomi’s waist and used that purchase to pull himself back into the rhythm. Kiyoomi swallowed, bracing himself more solidly on Atsumu’s chest as he sat up, brushing his hair back from his sweaty face.

“What?” He whispered, before biting down on his lip as Atsumu’s cock ground against his prostate, sending a new wave of pleasure spreading out from the base of his spine.

“Nothin’,” Atsumu whispered back. “You’re just pretty.”

Kiyoomi leaned forward onto his elbows to kiss him, and he was still kissing him when he came with a shuddering gasp, Atsumu’s lips swallowing up his noises, his hands holding him steady and petting his back as he came down, holding him like he was something worth keeping hold of.

“If the Adlers beat the Rockets, our next game is in Tokyo,” Atsumu murmured, fingers tracing shapes on Kiyoomi’s back. Kiyoomi hummed, tucking his nose into the hollow of Atsumu’s throat. He liked how he smelled here; a little like the nutty base of his body wash, a little like sweat, a little like sex and a little like Kiyoomi, too. Kiyoomi felt an immense comfort whenever he found himself curled up there, and it would be one of the things he missed the most when this was over. When he ended it.

“That’s close to finals season,” Kiyoomi murmured back, tracing a circle around Atsumu’s nipple. Atsumu grunted in discomfort, trying to shift away from the sensation and jostling his soft cock where it was still pressed inside Kiyoomi. “I might need you, then.”

“You can’t say shit like that so soon after I came,” Atsumu muttered, and Kiyoomi couldn’t help the little smile that crossed his face when he felt Atsumu’s dick twitch. “You wanna meet up again if it works out that way? Don’t gotta fuck if you end up burnt out.”

“Sure,” Kiyoomi said, even though he wasn’t sure he could handle another hangout with Atsumu where they didn’t tear each other’s clothes off. Even in the moments after like this, Kiyoomi always felt like he was standing in a puddle and watching a live wire fall toward him. Every second he spent with Atsumu like this, he worried that he’d lose control and tell Atsumu what he really felt. That he’d make it weird, and then Atsumu would end it.

The Adlers did win, in the end. Kiyoomi watched the final point on his laptop, curled up in his bed. Not even five seconds later, Atsumu sent him a message. It was just a single winky face emoji, but it still made Kiyoomi feel so hot that he’d typed back call? and then he’d ended the night with Atsumu’s body on his laptop screen, watching him as he fucked himself on a dildo that Atsumu had brought to one of their hookups months ago, and that had rapidly become Kiyoomi’s favourite. When Atsumu came, some of his cum hit his laptop camera, and Kiyoomi laughed at him.

It would be easier to break things off if Kiyoomi didn’t like being around him so much. It would be easier to break things off if counting down the days until Atsumu was back in Tokyo didn’t give him butterflies. It would be easier if he could make a decision about the contract offers hidden in the drawer of his desk before the results of the thing between them played out.

“Taa daa,” Atsumu said, when Kiyoomi opened the door to his dorm. He was holding flowers and a large shopping bag. The expensive kind. The kind that was mostly cardboard, only this one didn’t have a brand name printed on it, and Kiyoomi was immediately suspicious.

“Why do you have all that?”

“It’s a special occasion,” Atsumu said, stepping into Kiyoomi’s apartment and toeing off his slides.

“You win games often enough for it not to be some big thing,” Kiyoomi said with a small frown of confusion. Atsumu grinned, that same smile that Kiyoomi recognized as him being in on a joke that nobody else understood because he’d crafted it completely in his head.

“I’m not celebratin’ the game,” Atsumu said, passing the flowers to Kiyoomi. “It’s been a year.”

“A year…?”

“A year. Since we made this a thing.” Kiyoomi felt his eyes widen as he glanced between the flowers in his hand and Atsumu grinning at him like he’d just won a game in straight sets. Of course, it was a game that Kiyoomi hadn’t even known that they were playing.

“Why—”

“For fun,” Atsumu said, reaching out and pulling Kiyoomi in by the waist, pressing his lips to the spot under Kiyoomi’s jaw that made him melt into him. “And ‘cause I won my game. Had a good reason to fight, after all. Wanted to be in the best mood for this.”

“For what?” Kiyoomi asked, smoothing a hand up the back of his neck to curl in his hair, tilting his head to allow Atsumu better access to his throat, where he lipped over the corded muscle and scraped his teeth over the skin there teasingly.

“For the fight we’re inevitably going to have.”

Kiyoomi felt his stomach drop, and he drew back from Atsumu, placing a hand against his chest to keep him at arm’s length. He sucked in a breath, curling the bouquet against him as if it would protect him from the way his heart was beating like it was going to break out of his chest.

“Why would we fight?” He asked, trying to keep his tone more even than he felt. Atsumu smiled, not seeming worried by Kiyoomi’s body language. He lifted a hand, gently brushing Kiyoomi’s bangs away from his face so that his moles were exposed to the cool air of his room. The brush of Miya’s hand against his face sparked like electricity, and Kiyoomi shivered, despite himself.

“Because,” Atsumu said, gently. “You’re a stroppy little shit, and I’ve been thinkin’ about this. I figured you wouldn’t realize, but when the dots started connectin’, I started thinkin’ about what I should do. About what I’d want to do. So I’ve thought about it. And I know what I want, but I always knew gettin’ ya on board would be a bit of a mish.”

“Oh?” Kiyoomi swallowed, his eyes trailing to the bag that Atsumu was carrying. Absently, his thumb stroked over Atsumu’s chest. “What did you decide?”

“I decided,” Atsumu said, stepping closer. The motion of his body made Kiyoomi take a step back, and then another, fingers curled into Atsumu’s shirt to encourage him closer as Atsumu backed him all the way up to his bed. “That I was gonna put you in a cute little outfit, and then I’m gonna eat you out until you cum.”

Kiyoomi shivered, sitting down hard on the bed. He imagined Atsumu planning this. Did he touch himself when he thought about it? Did he plan out what he was going to say to convince Kiyoomi to do what he wanted? Kiyoomi watched in silence as Atsumu took the flowers from his hand and placed them on the desk, before he settled the bag down at the base of the bed and removed a plain black box, placing it in Kiyoomi’s lap.

Carefully, Kiyoomi lifted the lid,  and then looked up at Atsumu.

“Remember that first night? When I said—”

“I remember what you said,” Kiyoomi said, gently touching the lace of the panties that had been presented to him. It was a simple set of lingerie: plain black, a g-string and a bralette made of high quality silk and lace. Kiyoomi thought about Atsumu picking it out, about how many pairs he must have looked at, and how many pairs he must have imagined on Kiyoomi’s body before choosing these ones, because he wanted to see Kiyoomi wear them the most.

“You gonna put them on, then?”

“What would you do if I said no?” Kiyoomi asked, just out of curiosity. The idea of Atsumu watching him like he was hungry for him was too good to pass up, but Atsumu didn’t need to know that.

“This,” Atsumu said, and then he tackled him back onto the bed. Kiyoomi went over backward with a yell, before the air was crushed out of his lungs by Atsumu’s weight on him. He choked out a laugh despite himself, scratching at Atsumu’s back and kicking him while Atsumu wrenched his shirt up and over his head, before yanking on Kiyoomi’s pants, the force of it dragging him up and into Atsumu’s lap.

“What is wrong with you?!” Kiyoomi couldn’t even manage to sound outraged, kicking at Atsumu’s chest just to be a nuisance. Atsumu caught him by the ankle and pressed a kiss to the bony top of his foot, before he carefully pulled his sweatpants and boxers over it so that they dangled from his other leg only. Kiyoomi lifted that leg before Atsumu could even reach for it, allowing him to divest him of his clothes completely.

For a moment, Kiyoomi let Atsumu just watch. He liked to do that, Kiyoomi had observed. He always liked just a moment to look, his fingers trailing over Kiyoomi’s ribs in a manner that was so close to ticklish that Kiyoomi struggled not to flinch. He liked to smooth his hands over Kiyoomi’s thighs, and let his eyes wander over him, head to toe. What he was looking for, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure, but he liked the attention of Atsumu’s eyes on him regardless.

“Your turn,” he said, when the weight of Atsumu’s stare made him feel too wanting. He sat up a little, but Atsumu’s hand closed around his ankle and yanked him closer again. Kiyoomi grunted in shock, blinking up at Atsumu as he bent Kiyoomi’s leg with a tender amount of care, pressing a kiss to the back of his knee and nuzzling into the little crevice there in a motion that made Kiyoomi’s leg spasm reflexively at how it tickled.

Atsumu reached for the box, pulling the panties from it and dangling them from one finger. Kiyoomi spread his legs a little, watching as Atsumu carefully slipped each of his feet through one of the leg holes, and then worked them up until they were settled in place over his hips. The silk felt good against his skin, and the string that slid down between the cleft of his ass felt snug without cutting into his skin. Kiyoomi shuddered as Atsumu adjusted his cock for him, tucking it into place so that it wasn’t falling from the thin triangle of fabric covering his crotch.

Kiyoomi pushed him away gently, sitting up and reaching for the bralette himself. Atsumu let him, and Kiyoomi let himself watch for a second as Atsumu stripped his own clothes off, exposing more and more of his skin. When Kiyoomi was sure Atsumu was watching him again, he pulled the bralette on over his head. A wide grin stretched across Atsumu’s face as he reached for him, Kiyoomi crawling willingly to him and swinging a leg over his waist.

“Just as gorgeous as I thought you’d be,” Atsumu murmured, pressing a kiss to the swell of Kiyoomi’s chest, where the lace feathered out over his skin.

“You thought about it a lot, huh?” Kiyoomi asked, shifting in his lap until he could feel Atsumu’s half-hard cock against his bare ass. He rocked his hips, slowly rubbing himself across it, feeling it twitch and harden in interest as Atsumu continued to brush his lips over Kiyoomi’s chest, thumb pressing up under the swell of his pectorals, cupping them in fascination as if they were tits.

“Mm,” Atsumu said after a moment, apparently distracted by the image of his hands on black lace. “Thoughts ain’t as good as the real thing.”

A hand smoothed around Kiyoomi’s side and slid down to his ass, a finger hooking under the fabric of the g-string and lifting it away from Kiyoomi’s flesh. Atsumu let it go, and it pinged back against the top of his ass with a dull snap, making Kiyoomi jerk with the stinging pressure of it.

“Atsumu,” he hissed, impatiently rocking in his lap. “Stop teasing me. It’s as much my celebration as it is yours.”

“You didn’t even remember,” Atsumu mumbled back, now mouthing at Kiyoomi’s nipple through the lace, tongue pressing languidly over the rapidly-hardening nub. Kiyoomi let out a frustrated noise and reached behind him, wrapping a hand around Atsumu’s dick and pressing it between his cheeks, rocking his hips back to tease him by catching the tip on his unprepared hole.

“Don’t act like it’s a real anniversary,” Kiyoomi snapped, and he felt Atsumu smile against his chest. “You just like playing with me. So hurry the fuck up and make it good, like you keep telling me you’re gonna.”

“I love it when you get bratty,” Atsumu murmured, hands sliding down the outside of Kiyoomi’s thighs to cup his ass and squeeze. “So cute when you’re desperate for me.”

“That would be a boost to your ego, wouldn’t it,” Kiyoomi huffed, and Atsumu cast his eyes upward, grinning so much that his teeth caught against the edge of the lace over Kiyoomi’s chest. Kiyoomi smoothed Atsumu’s hair back from his face, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and then nuzzled into his hairline. “Come on then. I want you.”

“You’re dangerous,” Atsumu chuckled, carefully settling Kiyoomi back on the bed. He gripped Kiyoomi’s waist, carefully turning him so that he was on his front. Kiyoomi stretched up to press his face into his pillow, gripping the fabric tightly in anticipation for what was to come. He could hear Atsumu settling between his legs, helping Kiyoomi up onto his knees and pressing down on the small of his back to help him arch it properly.

Kiyoomi could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He always tried to shower when he knew that Atsumu was coming over, because he enjoyed being clean, and he could stand to go for longer when he hadn’t already been dirty to start with. It was fun to feel defiled, covered in cum and sweat like he so often ended up. Still, this was different than all that. When Atsumu talked about it, Kiyoomi thought it was hot, but actually letting him do it made his heart beat quicker, anxiety twisting his stomach into knots.

Atsumu’s teeth sunk into Kiyoomi’s ass-cheek, and he let out a choked moan, burying his face into his pillow as his grip tightened. He felt Atsumu’s tongue soothe over the stinging mark, pressing apologetic kisses against it as his hands rubbed up the back of Kiyoomi’s thighs.

“You look so good like this, Omi, you got no clue. You don’t like it and you want me to stop, I’ll stop. This ain’t like the games we play. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi said, focusing on the light pain that radiated from the bite. “You’ll hear about it if I hate it.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Atsumu told him, pressing a kiss to the base of his spine.

Kiyoomi felt Atsumu’s hands on his ass, and his cock kicked pointedly in the thong. All those months ago, it had been the hands that had done it for him, and even now, he realized that he’d been right. Atsumu’s hands were talented, capable things both on the court and in the bedroom. Kiyoomi could never have prepared for the way they felt, encompassing the entire curve of his ass, thumbs spreading Kiyoomi’s cheeks to expose his hole.

The first touch was the brush of a thumb, and Kiyoomi jumped at the sensation, huffing out a nervous breath as he felt Atsumu hook the string of his underwear around his thumb, pulling it to the side as he pressed soothing kisses over the curve of Kiyoomi’s ass, clearly trying to lull him into security. Kiyoomi knew his spine was tense with anticipation, and he knew that Atsumu could feel it, too. For a moment, he was worried that Atsumu might stop, might call the whole thing off in the interest of keeping Kiyoomi happy.

And then Atsumu spat on his hole.

Kiyoomi’s entire body drew up like a bowstring, and he let out a gasp, feeling the uncomfortably warm sensation of spit dripping down his ass, pooling in the furl of his hole as his hips rocked, unsure of what to do to make the situation abate. Atsumu only let him flounder for a second, before he moved in and added his tongue to the mix.

The feeling was nothing like Kiyoomi could have ever imagined it being. Atsumu’s tongue drew over his hole in a broad stripe, and Atsumu exhaled a noise that he only ever made with his cock lodged down Kiyoomi’s throat. Kiyoomi whimpered into the pillow, his hips jerking forward, as if to run from the sensation. Atsumu squeezed his ass harder and pulled him back against his tongue, taking his time to lap over his ass, all the way from his balls to the base of his spine, smearing his spit all around the pucker. Kiyoomi pressed a hand against the wall, finding solace in the coolness of the plaster, when his entire body felt like it was on fire.

“Fuck,” he said, shocked at how hysterical it sounded coming out of his own mouth. He felt more than he heard Atsumu’s snort of laughter, because all of his other senses felt like they’d been dulled so that he could better feel the way that Atsumu’s tongue stroked over his hole. He’d shortened the gap, still drawing the flat topside over his hole, but in quicker succession now, getting him nice and wet. He adjusted his grip slightly, pulling him open wider. Kiyoomi tensed again, breath hitching as he waited for what was to come next.

Atsumu started slow, teasing his rim with the tip of his tongue, circling lightly, so gentle that it made Kiyoomi squirm in his hold, hips rocking back onto his tongue and then jerking forward when the sensation fully registered. Atsumu held him firm, following the movements of his body like he was made to do so, before he stiffened his tongue and pressed it into him.

Kiyoomi couldn’t help the yell that escaped his throat, a sharp ah! that was accompanied by the sound of his nails on the wall, scrabbling for purchase. Atsumu groaned, the vibrations shaking through him, and Kiyoomi desperately clawed at his bedsheets, fucking his hips back onto Atsumu’s tongue as he worked it inside of him with slow, careful presses, until the tight ring of muscle gave way around the wider sides, spreading him open.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi cried out, struggling for breath as Atsumu drew back and lapped over his hole again, sighing like he was the one being fucked. The way he sounded made it seem like eating Kiyoomi out was the greatest pleasure he’d ever received in his life, and the idea that it was that good for him made Kiyoomi’s dick leak.

He pressed his face into the pillow as Atsumu’s tongue fucked into him again, working its way deeper before retracting so that Atsumu could lap over him again. Kiyoomi couldn’t help himself from pressing back, his breathing becoming erratic as Atsumu settled into a rhythm, alternating between fucking him with his tongue and soothing the hypersensitivity of his nerves with the flat of his tongue in between rounds.

The white-hot burn of arousal had settled low in his gut, making its presence known with every swooping fall of his stomach whenever Atsumu’s tongue did something particularly skilled, and especially when the vibrations of Atsumu’s pleased noises rocked through his body. The burn of it was getting unbearable, like after the Kurowashiki when Atsumu had worked for Onigiri Miya that off-season and Kiyoomi hadn’t been able to cum.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi choked out. “Atsumu, I can’t.”

“You can,” Atsumu said, and Kiyoomi let out a whimper at how wrecked his voice sounded. It should have been illegal for him to sound like that, to sound like Kiyoomi was the one taking him apart piece by piece and not the other way around. “Trust me, alright? I’ll get ya there. Don’t you worry.”

“You’re really not going to touch me?” Kiyoomi gasped as Atsumu’s mouth descended on him again. Atsumu decided now was when he was going to take his sweet time, languidly drawing his tongue over Kiyoomi’s entrance as if Kiyoomi’s legs weren’t shaking with the effort of keeping his ass propped up like this. Kiyoomi growled in the back of his throat and kicked at Atsumu. “You make me put all this on and you won’t even touch me?”

“I just like holdin’ this skimpy little thing out of the way,” Atsumu said, evenly, and then drew his thumb back before letting the string wrapped around it release. It snapped taut over Kiyoomi’s hole, and he cried out, snarling as he heard a banging on the other side of the wall.

“Please,” he said again, struggling to get his hands under himself, trying to look over his shoulder. “Please, Atsumu, come on.”

Atsumu didn’t bother with teasing him for longer. Kiyoomi felt the heat coiling through him, spreading to the farthest reaches of his body as he watched. Keeping direct eye contact with him, Atsumu spread his ass again, and pressed his face in close, tongue stroking rapidly over Kiyoomi’s hole. Kiyoomi bit his lip, feeling too entranced to look away.

Atsumu’s eyes were hungry; focused and intent, the way he got during volleyball matches. In their world, there wasn’t much more of a compliment one could receive than being compared to volleyball. Kiyoomi knew many people who’d lost significant others over their commitment to the sport. But in this exact moment, the way Atsumu looked at him made Kiyoomi feel like Atsumu liked him more than he liked volleyball.

His orgasm shuddered through him in a slow wave. Kiyoomi’s arms gave out first, and he was forced to look away, gasping as he pressed his face into his pillow, hips rolling almost on instinct now as his cock dirtied the inside of his panties. Atsumu’s mouth continued to work over him as he shuddered through his high, the heat of it diffusing and filling his body with a pleasant, lethargic warmth. Atsumu’s mouth moved away from where he was sensitive, kissing over the curve of his ass cheeks, nipping teasingly at the sensitive junction of his thigh, before he sat back, smoothing both hands up Kiyoomi’s spine and leaning over him to press a kiss behind his ear.

“Told you. I brought a toothbrush just in case, so I’m gonna steal some toothpaste just so I can kiss ya, ‘cause I really need to after that performance.”

“But you didn’t cum,” Kiyoomi mumbled. Atsumu chuckled, shifting to kneel next to him. Groggily, Kiyoomi let him take his hand, sliding it into his pants. The sticky mess he found there made his mouth fall open, and he turned his head to give Atsumu the most incredulous look he could manage. Atsumu only smiled, sucking Kiyoomi’s fingers into his mouth one by one to clean them of his own spend.

“You’re gross,” Kiyoomi said, still shell-shocked.

“You like it though,” Atsumu said, squeezing Kiyoomi’s hand before he made a beeline for the bathroom with his travel toothbrush in hand.

As soon as Atsumu was out of his line of sight, Kiyoomi stripped out of the lingerie and pulled his shirt back on, searching around for a clean pair of underwear. He rolled the covers back and crawled into the top corner of his bed, staring at his hands in his lap. If he was cumming just from the thought of Atsumu liking him, then this really had to end. Kiyoomi couldn’t keep forcing himself to go through this, and it wasn’t fair to Atsumu to push those feelings that he didn’t ask for onto him.

“Hey,” Atsumu’s voice made him look up, and Kiyoomi realized his chest felt tight with withheld tears. He wiped at his face, glancing away when he saw concern flicker across Atsumu’s expression. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Kiyoomi said, sounding resigned even to his own ears. “This has to end.”

“Oh,” Atsumu said, and Kiyoomi felt the bed dip under his weight. “If that’s what you want, we can stop. Can I ask you why though?”

Kiyoomi shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He wanted Atsumu to be mad at him, or not to care so that Kiyoomi could hate him instead. Anything would have been easier than the confusion in Atsumu’s voice. He flinched as Atsumu’s hand landed on his own, gently drawing it into his grasp and rubbing his thumb soothingly over the back of his hand.

“Omi,” Atsumu said. “Kiyoomi. Don’t you think after what we just did, that I deserve some kind of a reason?”

“It wasn’t because of that,” Kiyoomi said, scowling as his voice broke. “It’s my fault. I made it weird.”

“No you didn’t,” Atsumu frowned, and Kiyoomi shook his head. “I don’t think it’s weird. I liked what we just did. I liked it a lot. I’m kinda confused, if I’m bein’ honest. And worried that I did somethin’ that you didn’t like.”

“I already told you it wasn’t your fault, stupid,” Kiyoomi snapped, feeling even guiltier when Atsumu smiled. Ah, that smile said, there you are. Kiyoomi scowled at him. “Stop looking so happy about me being mean to you.”

“I’m just happy that you’re not on the verge of tears anymore. Weirded me out. I just assumed you had your tear ducts welded shut.” Kiyoomi shoved at his chest, trying to pull his hands away when Atsumu caught him by the wrists, turning his hands over to place a kiss on each palm. “Come on, Omi-Omi. You can talk to me. I promise I’m not gonna judge ya, whatever it is.”

“I don’t want to tell you,” Kiyoomi swallowed. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Honey,” Atsumu said. “I just had my tongue in your ass. I promise ya, whatever it is you’re worried about? You can tell me. Let’s talk about it.”

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi shivered. “You’re one of those people. Who wants to talk about their emotions.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu nuzzled into his palm, cradling his own chin there. Kiyoomi’s heart felt like it might burst from the fondness. “It’s better than leaving things unsaid and regretting it. And I’m selfish. This is great sex and it’s easy for me, and I don’t want to stop. So if you want to, then I want to know why.”

“We have to stop because I broke our rule,” Kiyoomi said, looking away from Atsumu’s eyes. “Because I made it weird. Because I… like you.”

“You like me.”

“Yes, I like you!” Kiyoomi wrenched his hands free and slapped Atsumu’s chest, glowering at him. “Is it fun for you to embarrass me like this?”

“No, I’m just confused. Ow, also?” Atsumu rubbed his chest, pouting a little. “So let me get this right: you want to stop fucking me, ‘cause you like me?”

“I want to stop having sex because I like you, and you don’t like me back. It’s not fair to you to be mad at you for something you can’t control, but I don’t want to be some quick fuck for you anymore, and I can’t put myself through that, knowing you’re sleeping with other people and not just me.”

“Babe,” Atsumu said. “Who said I didn’t like you back?”

Kiyoomi stared at him. Atsumu stared back. Kiyoomi swallowed.

“Do… you?”

“No, I wanna know. Who were you talking to that said I didn’t like you?” The shit-eating grin that Atsumu was wearing told Kiyoomi that he knew perfectly well that Kiyoomi had come to that conclusion all on his own.

“Stop smiling like that. You left me to come to my own conclusions, you moron. It’s not like you ever said you wanted more, or hinted that you might. You made it hard to tell how you felt about me.”

“Did not,” Atsumu crawled closer, and Kiyoomi cursed his past self for choosing to hole up in the corner, giving him no place to go. “I’ve been so obvious to everyone but you. Samu’s been askin’ me when I was gonna nut up and tell you I liked ya for real for months now. I had to practically beg your cousin to stay at mine after the first time, just so I could see ya. I’ve been goin’ outta my way to see ya every time I’m in Tokyo, beggin’ Coach to let me sleep outside of the hotel if I promise to be back in time to catch the team bus, which means he definitely thinks there’s gonna be some unplanned pregnancy poppin’ up ‘cause PR’s been up my ass about it… and I bought you lingerie . You know how expensive that shit is?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Kiyoomi couldn’t make his scowl seem convincing this time, reaching for Atsumu as he got near enough. Atsumu pressed in close, letting Kiyoomi loop his arms around his shoulders, reaching for his thighs to draw him into his lap.

“Thought you might think it was weird,” Atsumu said, leaning his forehead against Kiyoomi’s. “And I’m selfish. I didn’t want you to drop me just ‘cause I broke the rules.”

“You asshole. You just made me say it first so you didn’t have to.”

“Don’t be pissy ‘cause you got outplayed, babe. I know you like that I’m smart. ‘Cause you like me. Remember?”

“I’m retracting my confession,” Kiyoomi grumbled, but he squeezed Atsumu closer anyway just in case he got any ideas about trying to go somewhere.

“I like you too,” Atsumu said, brushing Kiyoomi’s hair away from his face again. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Well,” Kiyoomi said, evenly. “You just had your tongue in my ass. I don’t know how much clearer you could be.”

Atsumu laughed, the one that Kiyoomi liked the most. The one that sounded like he had so much joy in him that he was about to burst at the seams with it, the kind that shook his whole body with the force of it, the one that infected Kiyoomi too, and made him smile. When Atsumu got control of himself, his grin was wide enough to show off his sharp canines. He leaned in, and Kiyoomi smelled the mint on his breath.

“So, about that—”

Kiyoomi didn’t let him finish, curling his hands over the nape of his neck and pulling him in so he could press their lips together. Kissing Atsumu was always a treat, but this time felt especially good. Atsumu’s hands settled into the dip of his waist, thumbs brushing his ribs as their lips pressed together, sweet and unhurried like they had all the time in the world. And now, Kiyoomi supposed, they did.

“We’re dating, right?” Kiyoomi asked, pulling back from the kiss before Atsumu could slip him tongue. Atsumu blinked at him, and then nodded, pulling him closer again insistently.

“Big time,” Atsumu said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Permission to tell the team I landed a super hot boyfriend?”

“You’re going to give your poor coach a heart attack when he finds out you’re fucking your teammate.” Atsumu paused, drawing back to look at Kiyoomi incredulously. Kiyoomi felt the smile on his lips falter a little, suddenly shy. He drew his thumb back and forth over the ridges of Atsumu’s vertebrae, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. “I’ve been getting offers. I didn’t want to sign until I was sure.”

“And you’re sure now?”

“MSBY’s a strong team, and they’re offering me a starting position, better money than the rest of my options and this guy I kind of like. I’ve been pretty sure. However, If you dumped me and told me you hated me or something there was no way in hell I was going to play with you.”

“Now that would have been a loss,” Atsumu said, his grin stretching so wide that Kiyoomi thought it must hurt to smile like that. “And you’ve got it all wrong; I’m not fucking my teammate, but I’m dating him. However I could be fucking him presently. Celebration, and all that?”

“You think you can get it up again after all that?”

“Babe, I’m already halfway there just thinking about fuckin’ you over the desk while you sign the damn contract.” Traitorously, Kiyoomi’s eyes slid toward his desk. He could feel Atsumu’s wolfish smile against the column of his throat, and already knew he was going to give in.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi said, “but if you get cum on the contract, you’re explaining it to Coach.”

“Deal,” Atsumu said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

Later— paper safely signed, if not a little shakily, and tucked back into the envelope for return delivery— with Atsumu’s arms around him, his nose pressed into Kiyoomi’s shoulder in a way that made his breathing sound more whistling than it normally did when he slept, fingers still loosely laced with Kiyoomi’s, Kiyoomi thought that maybe, just maybe, they’d been just the right kind of weird for each other all along.