Chapter Text
Like most college students, they meet for the first time at a party.
Young and alive is the night when Kiyoomi settles into the swarm of bodies well past the edge of tipsy. This home feels familiar despite never being here before. Every weekend is too much the same, eager students tipping up a bottle to wash down the stress, too happy to throw themselves into poor judgment and bad decisions.
Kiyoomi knows all about bad decisions.
He’s running straight towards his newest one when he catches the gaze of one insufferable blond from across the room. Kiyoomi is losing count, but he’s fairly certain they’re in the double digits for heated eye contact at this point.
Miya Atsumu is all arrogance, cocky and flamboyant. He smells like Old Spice and overcomplicates beer pong rules. He’s an unapologetic asshole, and yet half the student body is obsessed with him.
Kiyoomi gets it, though he hates to admit it.
Atsumu is horribly attractive, even when he’s being an immature brat. He spends so much of his time fighting—physically, with closed fists against his brothers’ jaw when their bickering inevitably boils over. Playfully, with sarcastic jabs and endless ribbing within his tight-knit group of friends. On the court, with the palms of his hands rocketing service aces across the gym floor, the tips of his fingers launching one perfect set after another.
He’s a menace, and everyone knows it. Somehow it just adds to his appeal.
His charm isn’t lost on Kiyoomi, though that doesn’t make it any less frustrating when Kiyoomi catches him staring once more, a nagging voice urging him to meet Atsumu head-on. This isn’t a challenge, so why does it feel like one?
Kiyoomi is used to fleeting glances, curious eyes eager for a peek but too timid to connect. He’s been told over and over again how intimidating he is, and he understands the sentiment. Between his permanent scowl and the thick, heavy boots that could crush someone like a bug, he’s not exactly welcoming. In fact, he prides himself on being unapproachable.
So why is it that Atsumu is so unabashed, watching Kiyoomi so openly? It’s equal parts intriguing and disorienting.
Slipping out of sight feels a lot like running away, but that doesn’t stop him from escaping through the balcony door. If anyone asks, it has everything to do with the too many sweaty bodies cramped in the too small space, and nothing to do with the predatory gaze tracking him like he’s easy prey.
The fresh air is a welcomed relief. Out here he can peacefully sip on the flask he brought, enjoying the taste of the red wine that sucks all the moisture out of his mouth.
He chain smokes for so long his lungs burn, content with listening to the muffled laughs and thumping music from inside. There’s too much light pollution to really appreciate the night sky—just freckles of stars lost in a black sea. Still, the moon is a beautiful sight. It’s perfectly round and feels impossibly close to earth tonight, like all it would take is an outstretched arm to cup it in his palm.
It’s enough to keep him here. Any other night he would’ve left shortly after his cousin ditched him, a weak excuse of finding something to drink already on his tongue.
Kiyoomi can’t figure out why he still indulges the requests to come out every weekend. It’s not like Motoya needs him here; he’s far more outgoing and sociable than Kiyoomi has ever been. Yet every weekend he’s dragged out of his clean, comfortable apartment with promises of “the best night of your life.”
This is far from his ideal Friday night, but it has proven more interesting than the previous ones.
His ears perk up at the sliding door opening behind him, but he can’t be bothered to turn around. He doesn’t really care who decided to join him out here. At least that’s what he tells himself.
“Can I bum one?”
Just like that, those are the first words volleyball star Miya Atsumu says to campus freak Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Atsumu is the type to ask complete strangers for favors. Surprise surprise, he’s pretty enough to pull it off. There’s nothing nice about the grin he flashes, and yet he’s still so charismatic that it doesn't matter. Atsumu is an insufferable asshole and it’s hot on him.
“This is my last one.” Kiyoomi plucks the cigarette out of the box and lights it between his lips. The buzz of nicotine goes straight to his head, smoke clawing down his throat and ripping at his poor lungs. He really should put in an honest effort to quit.
“We can split it,” Atsumu offers like an entitled prick, as if it’s his cigarette to share.
Kiyoomi shouldn’t let him get away with it. He’s curious how Atsumu reacts to being denied, and yet he hands the cigarette to the blond without a word.
Atsumu rewards him with a disbelieving smile, each pearly white tooth on display, just for Kiyoomi.
“Like yer clothes,” Atsumu compliments, voice strained as he holds the smoke for as long as his body will tolerate. When he exhales, it escapes in a tight stream from plush lips. “Yer makeup too. Got that whole emo look ‘bout ya.”
Kiyoomi’s face contorts in distaste.
“Goth,” he corrects.
“Close enough.”
Kiyoomi could get into the logistics of it, but he has enough sense to know Atsumu doesn’t care. And why should he? They live in entirely different worlds. Atsumu is only here to entertain some deep curiosity, like Kiyoomi is some foreign specimen to be studied.
“Doesn’t seem like your type of aesthetic,” is what Kiyoomi settles on instead.
Atsumu regards him with another grin. He makes a show of raking his eyes down Kiyoomi’s body, taking in the layered necklaces resting on his collarbones, the sheer black shirt that does almost nothing to cover his pale skin, the baggy pants with excessive chains clasped through belt loops. Kiyoomi looks good tonight; he’s confident about that. Apparently Atsumu is too.
“Nah, I think I like the aesthetic just fine.” It’s hardly a compliment, but Kiyoomi can’t help but take it as one. “Did the piercings hurt?”
“As much as you could imagine a needle going through skin would.”
“And the moles, those real?”
“I wouldn’t bother drawing them on every day.”
The tip of the cigarette burns cherry red as Atsumu sucks in another lungful of nicotine, ashes building up hazardously on the tip, just waiting to be taken away by a breeze. Atsumu looks attractive doing most things; of course smoking is no exception. His wet lips wrap around the filter. For once, the last thing on Kiyoomi’s mind is the germs he leaves behind.
One knowing glance from Atsumu and Kiyoomi naturally hides behind a grimace.
“Are you going to pass that anytime soon?” He bites out, suddenly eager to take possession of that final cigarette once more.
A normal person would hand the cigarette off between their fingers. Atsumu, it turns out, is not a normal person. He bypasses Kiyoomi’s outstretched hand entirely and brings the cigarette straight to Kiyoomi’s mouth, slowly slotting it between his lips, fingers gently grazing the sensitive skin.
Honey brown eyes drip over him as Kiyoomi inhales nice and deep, taking his fill until the familiar buzz lights up every nerve. Like a fraying string against a sharp blade, the usual tension in his shoulders is cut loose in an instant. His muscles soften as he sinks into a slouch.
He watches Atsumu watch him, gaze unwavering as he pulls the cigarette from Kiyoomi’s pursed lips. What does Atsumu see when looking at Kiyoomi? A mystery in need of solving? Another conquest worth claiming, though not much different from all the rest?
Kiyoomi could ask. It would be so easy to let the words roll off his tongue. He’s straightforward enough to do so; it’s not fear of being too blunt that buries the question six feet under before given the chance of life. It’s that, really, Atsumu’s answer doesn’t matter.
What does matter is that he’s here, inching ever closer, a subtle shuffle of feet. Their shoes knock together. A tap of Nikes against the thick soles of his Doc Martens.
Kiyoomi’s head sways, light on his shoulders, reminding him to trade out the tobacco fire in his lungs for the sweet relief of oxygen. When he exhales, a blanket of smoke envelops the man in front of him. Still, Atsumu doesn’t retreat. That mischievous sparkle in his eyes is alive and bright as ever.
Time crawls torturously slow. The world blurs around the edges, but Atsumu remains crisp and clear in front of him. Kiyoomi fixates on brown irises, flecks of gold glimmering in a river of bronze, black pupils that sweep left, right, then left again, like Atsumu can’t decide which of Kiyoomi’s eyes to focus on.
Kiyoomi is busy tracing the dark lines of his eyelashes when his attention is stolen, gaze falling to where Atsumu’s pink tongue slowly rolls over his bottom lip. His teeth ever so gently scrape against the sensitive skin. The fussing leaves Atsumu’s lips shiny with saliva, just another part of him glowing in the minimal light.
“Always wanted to fuck a goth babe,” Atsumu comments casually. His own gaze finds a home on Kiyoomi’s lips. “I bet you’re a freak in bed, huh?”
It’s a horrible pickup attempt. Kiyoomi resents the anticipation that twists in his gut, resents all the sly smiles and weighted stares that work exactly how they’re intended to. Resents that Atsumu knows what he’s doing, wearing Kiyoomi down until he snaps under the tension.
Well, two can play this game, and Kiyoomi’s not going down without a fight.
“You could say that,” Kiyoomi answers, matching Atsumu’s indifferent tone. “Probably would be too much for you.”
With eyes locked on his own, Atsumu's mouth curls up on one side. “Now what makes ya say that?”
“Cocky, arrogant types like you are always overcompensating for something.” Kiyoomi explains.
He’s seen it time and time again. Popular pretty boys, natural flirts, quick to promise him a good time. Then, behind closed doors, they crack under pressure. All that confidence dies the second Kiyoomi whispers filthy things in their ears, fingers wrapped tight around their dick.
It doesn’t help that he’s happy to call them out on it, because nothing gets him more worked up than poking fun at a pathetic man. Most of them shrivel up with their fragile pride, and Kiyoomi endures another night of being blue-balled.
“Ouch, is that how you see me?” Atsumu gasps dramatically, a hand clutching his chest.
Kiyoomi makes a show of dragging his eyes down Atsumu’s figure, slowly ascending again until their eyes meet once more. “Isn’t that what you’re going for?”
“I’m hurt, Kiyoomi-kun.” He shakes his head, artificial blond hair swaying with the movement.
The sound of his given name on Atsumu’s lips comes as a shock. They never introduced themselves. He’s tempted to ask Atsumu how he knows it; maybe tell him to not address him so casually when they’re near strangers.
The complaints die on his tongue when the insufferable grin makes another appearance on Atsumu’s stupid, pretty face.
“I’ll just hafta prove ya wrong.”
Kiyoomi wants to scoff. He wants to wipe that stupid smug look off of Atsumu’s face and replace it with one of surprise. One of pleasure. He wants to see Atsumu so undone underneath him that he’s unable to run that cheeky mouth of his, unable to speak Kiyoomi’s name through gasps and moans.
“Didn’t know you were interested in men,” Kiyoomi comments coolly.
Atsumu is still looking at his lips. Kiyoomi’s lipstick is probably fading; sure enough, there’s a ring of black around the cigarette butt. The color would look lovely smeared on Atsumu’s mouth.
“There’s alotta things ya dunno about me,” Atsumu responds easily. “And there’s alotta things I dunno about ya.”
The cigarette dies on the balcony railing. Kiyoomi doesn’t bitch that there’s still a third left.
“So, whaddaya say? Wanna spend a lil’ time gettin’ to know each other?”
Atsumu is a man made of light, soaking in the warm rays of the summer sun, shining under the buzzing fluorescent bulbs on the court. He's too bright in the shadows where Kiyoomi lives, but fuck does he look good bathed in the soft glow of the moon.
Tentative hands on hips, a hesitant brush of noses. In a moment, a solar eclipse.
When they kiss, Atsumu is just as overeager and handsy as Kiyoomi expects. He leads with his tongue, neck craning because Kiyoomi’s platforms give him so much extra height. It’s filthy, wet, and sloppy. So contradictory to what a germaphobe like Kiyoomi should like. And yet, his cock twitches in the confines of his underwear. Then, twitches again when their hips meet.
Atsumu backs Kiyoomi into the far corner of the balcony, pressed snugly against the wall and his athletic body. Under the veil of darkness, Atsumu moves against him like it’s the first time in his life he’s been touched. It’s intoxicating—a thrill sharper than the tobacco on his tongue.
Thigh knocking between Atsumu’s toned legs, Kiyoomi swiftly presses up into his crotch. One eager roll of Atsumu’s hips rips a pathetic little whimper from high in his throat, needy and desperate, just how Kiyoomi likes it.
“Yer s’fuckin’ hot, actin’ like ya don’t give a fuck ‘bout anythin’.”
Kiyoomi nearly laughs. Out of all the things to find attractive, of course it would be Kiyoomi’s shitty attitude. The chuckle sticks in his throat as Atsumu rocks forward, his own leg pressed against Kiyoomi’s crotch, eliciting a choked groan instead.
They rock against each other like a couple of horny virgins, too scared to touch too intimately yet fueled by their carnal desires. Atsumu tastes like alcohol, like Kiyoomi’s menthol cigarettes, like an addiction impossible to kick.
Atsumu reaches his peak with his fingers tangled in Kiyoomi’s curls, panting into Kiyoomi’s mouth, twitching on Kiyoomi’s thigh. When he cums, it’s with Kiyoomi’s name on his lips, giving every bit of himself to a man he just met.
Atsumu goes boneless against him, nearly crushing Kiyoomi like he weighs nothing at all. Even through the haze, he presses the heel of his palm to Kiyoomi’s bulge, working him through the fabric with practiced precision.
Kiyoomi has to give credit where credit is due. Atsumu touches him exactly how he likes it—a little hard, a little rough. His grip is tight despite all the layers of clothes separating them. It’s easy to lose himself to the strong fingers wrapped around him, easy to climb closer and closer to the edge.
Before he completely loses himself to the mind-numbing euphoria, Kiyoomi gathers enough sense to push the touch away.
“Don’t make a mess you won’t clean up.”
He’d rather go home blue-balled than dried cum sticking to his skin.
“Not a problem.” Atsumu falls to his knees without hesitation, a dopey grin wide on his face.
There’s a party raging just on the other side of the wall he’s pressed against. Anyone can slide open that door and find the two of them in a compromising position. Someone’s bound to come looking for Atsumu eventually, his absence much louder than Kiyoomi’s.
Still, it’s a night for bad decisions, and Atsumu looks so sinfully beautiful like this.
“Get on with it then.”
Atsumu looks up at him like a kid on Christmas morning, excited and eager to unwrap his present.
He fumbles his way through Kiyoomi’s belt and pants, yanking them down with more force than necessary. It feels wrong when the cool air hits his cock, then feels so right when Atsumu’s lips bring back some much-needed heat.
Atsumu is sloppy with it, drool freely pooling and dripping from his lips. He takes Kiyoomi down until his nose is pressed to the dark hair at the base of Kiyoomi’s cock, stopping there to breathe in, swallowing around the length.
”You take me so easily.” Kiyoomi’s hand sweeps up to curl into Atsumu’s bleached hair. “Been sucking a lot of cock? Who knew that mouth was useful for something other than talking shit.”
Atsumu pulls off of him with a pop. “Why don’t ya see just how good my mouth can be?”
He guides Kiyoomi’s left hand to join the other at the back of his skull, then braces his hands on Kiyoomi’s thighs. Atsumu takes the tip back into his mouth, then looks up at Kiyoomi, waiting.
It doesn’t take a genius to know what Atsumu is telling him to do. Kiyoomi pushes his hips forward while pulling Atsumu’s head towards him, his cock nestled perfectly down Atsumu’s throat. He doesn’t hesitate in pulling off and pushing back in, fucking Atsumu’s mouth just how he wants. It’s wet and hot, tight on his already sensitive cock. Messy, in the best sense.
“So fucking cock hungry,” Kiyoomi says in awe, just to hear the pathetic moan he gets in response.
Atsumu takes him beautifully, only gags a couple of times, but never pushes Kiyoomi away, not even when tears are streaming down his face. Kiyoomi bites hard into his lip while he tracks their descent down Atsumu’s red cheeks. He pulls himself out until just the tip is left inside, and holds his heavy cock in one hand as he cums on Atsumu’s tongue. The blond takes it all happily, even licks Kiyoomi’s slit clean and tucks him back into his clothes.
“That was hot,” Atsumu says casually, voice rough around the edges. He stretches as he gets up and rubs at his sore jaw. “Lemme get some of whatever’s in that flask.”
“No, your mouth is disgusting now.”
“‘Cause of yer cock! Take some responsibility!”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes yet hands the flask over. Atsumu takes a long swig, lips directly on the rim, then against Kiyoomi’s own. He doesn’t push Atsumu away, even with his disgusting germs—which, yeah, are technically Kiyoomi’s anyway—and kisses Atsumu like it’s their first and last goodbye.
This can’t be anything more than a one time thing, because with a mouth like that, the star volleyball player could easily become Kiyoomi’s newest addiction.
Funny thing about addictions: they always start with denial.
Kiyoomi is restless for the next few days. It’s hard to focus on anything outside of the sudden spike in his libido. Even his dreams are plagued with fuzzy images of crooked smiles, sinful hips, and loose tongues.
So who could blame him when that ‘one time thing’ turns into a three-time thing by the weekend?
Kiyoomi runs into Atsumu exactly one week after their filthy introduction. When Atsumu follows him outside again, eager to proposition Kiyoomi for a repeat of last week, the thought of turning him down doesn’t even occur to him.
He’s even more surprised to see Atsumu the next night. As far as Kiyoomi is concerned, they never ran in the same circles before. He would remember seeing Atsumu at any of the other parties Motoya drags him to.
Yet, here Atsumu is, arguing loudly with someone across a red solo cup littered table. Like clockwork, those playful eyes lock onto him from a distance. Thirty minutes later, Kiyoomi has his hands full of ass and his cock deliciously dragging against Atsumu’s own.
But everyone knows the best things come in threes, which means the third time marks the last time. Atsumu has been fun, but Kiyoomi knows better than to expect anything more from him. He’ll happily take the experience for what it was and move on with this life. Maybe he’ll find another pretty boy with a shitty attitude to choke on his dick, then start the cycle all over again.
He’s got this under control.
Except, now that Atsumu has made his grand entrance into Kiyoomi’s life, it’s like the cocky athlete is waiting at every corner. Their campus is big enough that they can wander around without running into each other. Yet, every day, Kiyoomi spots the familiar shade of bleached hair moving through a crowd of students.
It’s not that Kiyoomi is purposefully seeking him out.
It’s just simple coincidences, like when Kiyoomi’s sitting on the shaded benches outside the History building, only to find Atsumu stretched out on the green lawn nearby, head pillowed by his backpack. Even when Kiyoomi is cooped up in one of the rarely empty library study rooms, cursing his professor for the ten page essay he’s subjecting his students to, Atsumu is there. Walking past the glass walls, head thrown back in a carefree laugh that Kiyoomi swears he can hear, even if it’s from memory alone.
Today Kiyoomi is at a table with his fellow goth freaks, listening to Semi go on about some underground band playing at a local bar this weekend.
And of course, Atsumu is here too.
Kiyoomi’s attention is completely stolen by box dyed blond hair that looks even lighter in the light, biceps glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, a smile that always curls up a little higher on the left. He walks out of the on-campus convenience store with a spring in his step and an iced coffee in hand.
Now, when their eyes meet like so many times before, Kiyoomi is quick to turn away.
It’s not avoidance. It’s that his friend's conversation is suddenly interesting.
“I’m not blowing my money on a band I don’t even know,” Kenma pouts, typing away on his phone. The excessive accessories on his case sway with the movement. Kiyoomi wonders how the charms haven’t driven him crazy yet.
“You just don’t want to leave your air conditioned apartment for a sweaty bar.” Akaashi argues. They point a perfectly manicured finger back at Semi, long black nails sharpened to a brutal point. “Don’t force him to come out with us. He’s going to be a grumpy bitch.”
“Come on, he should-”
“Hey, Omi Omi.”
Kiyoomi isn’t prepared for the interruption. Atsumu approaches their table, stopping at his side with an easy smile. In an instant, years of experience in maintaining his resting bitch face fail him. It’s only for a moment, but he’s certain Atsumu sees the shock visible in his expression.
He recovers quickly, mouth snapping shut, eyes settling into their bored lifelessness. He silently stares at Atsumu for several long moments. Maybe if Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything, Atsumu will get the message and walk away without another word.
Instead, Atsumu is as patient as can be. His eyes sparkle in amusement the longer they’re locked on Kiyoomi’s own.
“What do you want, Miya?” He’s forced to ask, making sure irritation is laced into every word.
“Not gonna introduce me to yer friends?” Atsumu teases. He takes a cursory glance around the table, but his eyes quickly find Kiyoomi again. In the afternoon sun, those irises compliment the coffee in Atsumu’s hand—creamy brown, sweet enough to cover the bitter bite.
“No.”
Kiyoomi would rather throw himself to a pack of hungry wolves than introduce Atsumu to the three menaces beside him. At least the wolves would grant him the mercy of a swift death while they’re ripping him apart.
Atsumu shrugs, as if saying, “well, I tried.”
“Fine,” is what he vocalizes instead, like he couldn’t care one way or another. His free hand slips into the pocket of his joggers, his weight shifting to his right foot. He flaunts himself as being so calm and casual that it grates on Kiyoomi’s nerves. “Was just wonderin’ if yer goin’ to Iwa-kun’s tonight.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Sure ya do,” Atsumu counters with a tilt of his head. “Iwaizumi, he’s at all the parties.” He explains, like it’s common knowledge. Like Kiyoomi cares about any of that.
“I don’t socialize.”
Every weekend Motoya brings him to some party, keeps him company for about ten minutes, then disappears to gods know where. This leaves Kiyoomi to hide in a corner and watch the inevitable chaos unfold—a room of barely adults wasting themselves on alcohol, inhibitions thrown out in favor of recklessness. Kiyoomi is happy to go the whole night without speaking a word to anyone. Watching from the shadows keeps him clean of spilled drinks and the occasional stomach contents of those who push themselves too far.
It’s entertainment without the mess, just how Kiyoomi likes it.
Atsumu isn’t the first person to approach him at a party. Not the first to ask to bum a cigarette, or try to pick him up with shitty lines. He’s not even the first to suck Kiyoomi’s dick just outside a room full of drunk college students.
He is, however, the first to approach Kiyoomi outside the haze of lust and alcohol.
Atsumu sizes him up, eyes mapping an obvious path down Kiyoomi’s frame. It’s so reminiscent of that first night that Kiyoomi warms under the obvious attention, absorbing all the heat from his gaze.
“Ya seemed plenty social to me.”
From behind him, one of his traitor friends snickers.
This conversation needs to end immediately.
“I don’t know where I’ll be tonight,” Kiyoomi deflects.
Motoya never tells him where they’re going beforehand. Or if he does, Kiyoomi never bothers to listen. He just makes sure he looks presentable and his flask is filled to the brim by the time his cousin inevitably comes knocking on his door.
With how his life has been going lately, it’s a near certain thing he’ll end up right where Atsumu wants him. He doesn’t know whether to consider it good or bad luck.
“Sure.” Atsumu smiles his lazy, knowing grin, the one that makes Kiyoomi’s gut twist in anticipation. This is getting fucking ridiculous.
“See ya later, Omi Omi.” Atsumu gives a quick glance to the rest of the table and offers a small wave goodbye. “Nice to meet y’all,” he says, despite never being introduced, and leaves as fast as he came.
Kiyoomi is left feeling like a storm just ran through him. He’s soaked to the bone, drowning in muddy waters, windswept and out of his depths. Atsumu has taken his carefully planted composure and ripped it from the earth, root and all.
It only gets worse when he turns to the rest of the table.
He was wrong before to think he’d rather throw himself to a pack of wolves. His friends are the wolves, nasty grins pulled over sharp teeth, claws aching to rip into Kiyoomi, to tear him apart until he is a bleeding, humiliated mess.
Honestly, why does he bother associating with anyone at all? Life as a shut-in sounds more and more tempting as the seconds ticks by.
Eager lips pop open to take the first bite. Kiyoomi stops them before they get the chance.
“Don’t.” He warns, rubbing tight circles into his temples. He needs a damn cigarette.
“Omi Omi,” Akaashi coos, completely ignoring the unspoken threat. That first taste of blood means there’s no turning back now.
“You’re so cute, Omi Omi.”
“Is this what you’ve been doing, Omi Omi? Getting sweet talked by pretty boys?”
A loud groan rips through him. It’s taking everything in him to not curl in on himself or retreat. Hiding from this is only going to make the situation more unbearable; he just has to endure the worst of it and squash it before it becomes a thing.
“Omi Omi, you didn’t tell us you were dating one of the Miya twins.” Semi teases, chin in palm, eyes sparkling.
“We’re not dating,” Kiyoomi fires back, venom soaked into every word. “How do you even know him?”
“I don’t live under a rock like some of you.” He sits up from his slouch, long earrings swaying. Kiyoomi could easily reach over and rip them out. It would make for a good distraction. “The question is, how do you know him?”
Semi watches him with a challenge in his eye. Kiyoomi stares daggers right back, hoping the murderous intent comes across loud and clear.
“He’s all over the Black Jackals Twitter,” Kenma mumbles before Kiyoomi can explain himself. His thumb flicks up the screen, scrolling through the never ending posts.
“You mean that sketchy gossip account?” Semi shifts his attention to peer down at the phone.
“So lame. Let me see.” Akaashi snatches the device from Kenma’s hands, earning him a pointed glare. “Volleyball star Miya Atsumu looks as hot as ever bringing home another win for the Jackals.”
What a stupid caption. Kiyoomi scowls at the phone, hoping whoever posted it can feel his disgust through the screen. If his eyes linger on the image for a few extra seconds—a perfectly lit photo of Atsumu sweaty and smiling on the court—well, that’s nobody's business but his own.
“Sakusa sleeping with the most obnoxious jock on campus. How surprising.” Kenma deadpans, snatching his phone back from Akaashi’s death grip.
“I’m not sleeping with him.” He protests. From every direction, he’s met with raised brows and disbelieving eyes.
“You’re telling me you haven’t touched his dick yet?”
Kiyoomi turns his head to the side, but it does nothing to ease the weight of their stares. “That’s not what I said,” he pouts like a petulant child.
“Oh Omi Omi, our little slut.” Akaashi sighs.
“I don’t want to hear that coming from you.”
“What, feeling nostalgic?” A finger hooks under Kiyoomi’s chin, forcing him to face Akaashi with the sharp edge of acrylic gently caressing his throat. “If you’re already bored with your new toy, I’m happy to free up my busy schedule for you, my Crepuscular King.”
Kiyoomi meets the dull blue eyes hiding behind fluttering artificial lashes. Sleeping with Akaashi Keiji is on his long list of bad decisions, one that may rank higher than Miya Atsumu. At least he can cut off the blond and be done with it. Keiji is the type of deranged that would find Kiyoomi even if he moved halfway across the world. They're also, unfortunately, one of Kiyoomi’s best friends.
“How very generous of you, but you can find someone else to torment.”
Akaashi’s black, glossy lips purse. Their hand sweeps up to squish Kiyoomi’s cheek between cruel fingers, forcing his mouth into its own ridiculous pout. Kiyoomi pushes the hand away with a shove at their wrist.
“So, you’re going to see him tonight?” Semi asks, looking far too pleased with this newly acquired knowledge.
“If he’s there, then he’s there.”
"And if he’s there, then you’re getting laid.”
“Probably not.” Kiyoomi shrugs, fussing with one of his rings, twisting it around his knuckle. He’s had enough of this conversation.
“Trouble in paradise already?”
“Think he’d want you to bottom?” Kenma asks. “He seems like the ‘it’s not gay if you top’ type.”
All the muscles in Kiyoomi’s face scrunch up in distaste. Atsumu does seem like the type, but considering how eager and willing he’s been thus far, Kiyoomi’s fairly certain he’d be down for anything as long as it involves getting off.
Kiyoomi’s not opposed to bottoming either; it’s just that…
“No, that’s not the problem.” Akaashi chimes in, keeping a curious eye on Kiyoomi. “Omi Omi’s favorite hobby is turning stubborn men like him into a pathetic mess. It’s his secret talent.”
“Stop calling me that,” Kiyoomi snarls.
As usual, Akaashi ignores the demand completely.
“How many times?”
“What?”
“How many times has he gotten those dirty volleyball fingers all over you?” Akaashi grins fiercely, looking every bit of a predator that they are.
“Gross,” Kiyoomi grimaces. “And it was his mouth the first two times, so-”
“Ah, you’ve already hit your Three Orgasms rule.”
“That’s not a thing.”
”Sure it is,” Kenma continues. He doesn’t bother looking up from his phone, and it pisses Kiyoomi off even more than usual. “You only hook up with someone three times before cutting them off. Any more than that and you catch feelings.”
“You’ve hit your limit before even fucking him; how sad.” Akaashi sighs.
Kiyoomi is almost stunned into silence. Sure, he doesn’t stick around the same person for too long, but it has nothing to do with feelings. He just knows these hookups aren’t a forever thing. The fun will inevitably end and the process will start again.
“That’s ridiculous,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “I don’t catch feelings just from sleeping with someone a few times.”
“Sure, honey.” Akaashi says, condescendingly patting Kiyoomi’s curls.
Kiyoomi shoves Akaashi’s side hard enough to make them fall on their ass. The only thing that saves them is their quick, iron grip on the table. They swiftly knock a heavy boot against Kiyoomi’s calf, and Kiyoomi contemplates retaliating with a stomp to their foot. Akaashi is lucky their Demonias are too pretty to ruin with the dirt under his shoe.
“I’m not going to fall for Atsumu like half of the student body,” he huffs. That would be absurd.
For one, Kiyoomi’s not looking for a committed relationship right now; he’s content with his love life as it is. Two, Atsumu is the last person he needs as a partner. He doesn’t want another person testing his patience every day. That job is already designated to his cousin and his friends, apparently.
“Oh, first name basis already?” Semi laughs.
“I will skin you.”
“I’m betting you fall in love the second you have him crying on your dick.” Even Kenma’s usual stoic expression has broken out into a smile when he looks up from his phone.
”Alright, I’m done with this conversation.” Kiyoomi announces. He still has thirty minutes until his last lecture of the day, but he’d rather spend it sitting in a silent, empty lecture hall than have to deal with his friends' bullshit any longer.
As they call out “bye Omi Omi!” to his retreating back, Kiyoomi absolutely does not think about how the nickname sounded better in Atsumu’s playful voice.
Iwaizumi’s apartment is more spacious on the inside than Kiyoomi expects.
The place is over half full when they walk in, yet Motoya instantly points out the host from across the room, spewing some bullshit about Kiyoomi attempting to be social and thanking him for the extended invite.
Atsumu was right; Kiyoomi has seen the guy around at most of the other parties. He’s much more chill than the other beefy, athletic types, but he does seem to run with the same obnoxiously loud crowd.
Assessing the man, Kiyoomi’s eyes naturally stray to the people in his immediate company. Unsurprisingly enough, he’s met with coffee eyes and a smug smile, half hidden behind a silver can that shines with condensation.
Atsumu promptly drains his beer, crushes the flimsy aluminum between his hands, and gives the person talking to him a simple pat on the shoulder by way of goodbye. Their previous affairs all started with a much longer game of Fuck Me Eyes: From A Distance Version. It seems tonight they’re jumping straight into a round of Shut Your Mouth Or I’ll Do It For You, another Miya Atsumu favorite. Kiyoomi’s still not sure if he’s on a winning or losing streak.
Atsumu approaches him so quickly that—for the first time—it’s within the ten-minute window before Motoya fucks off with whoever the hell he hangs out with at these things. That means that—also for the very first time—Kiyoomi has the great pleasure of being the one to do the ditching.
“I’m going to go socialize,” Kiyoomi says cheekily over his shoulder, leading Atsumu away before he can open his big stupid mouth. He leaves Motoya standing there, wide eyes settling into understanding, followed by a quick disbelieving shake of his head.
Kiyoomi is sure to get an earful later.
Atsumu is the one who leads them to the second bathroom deeper into the apartment, but Kiyoomi’s the one who promptly presses him against the locked door. There are no flirtatious quips this time, no teasing or masking the desire that burns under their skin. All that exists between them tonight is an insatiable hunger.
Some fumbling with clothes and plenty of heavy petting leaves them with two discarded shirts and one pair of pants shucked down around deliciously thick thighs.
“Oh, oh, Omi, fuck Omi, ‘m gonna-” Atsumu rambles, chest heaving with every ragged breath.
Kiyoomi has him pressed to the bathroom sink, counter digging into his lower back, broad shoulders reflecting in the mirror. His cock is a warm, heavy weight in Kiyoomi’s palm. A few more tugs and he’ll make a mess between their bare stomachs. He’s so easy to unravel. Kyoomi just has to pull a single string, and Atsumu will come completely undone.
He pulls away before Atsumu has the chance.
“Fuck! What the fuck!” Atsumu panics, eyes wide with betrayal. Fireworks of satisfaction spark in Kiyoomi’s chest.
“Why’d ya stop?! I was almost there!”
“I know.” He rubs a soothing thumb on Atsumu’s hip bone, a safe touch he knows won’t push Atsumu over the edge of pleasure.
“Is somethin’ wrong?” Atsumu heaves, frantic eyes searching Kiyoomi’s expression for any clues. The concern is a little endearing, Kiyoomi almost coos. How disgusting.
He presses his fingers into the back of Atsumu’s neck and pulls until their lips meet. Kiyoomi licks into his mouth, nice and deep, keeping his movements slow. His thumb never stops its trail of small, tight circles.
Atsumu tugs him closer with the arms wrapped around Kiyoomi’s shoulders. He shifts his hips forward, cock dragging over the rough fabric of Kiyoomi’s pants. When Kiyoomi uses both hands to pin him against the sink, Atsumu groans in frustration.
“Om-” Atsumu starts, but Kiyoomi’s incessant tongue is reluctant to let him finish. “I-” fingers dig harshly into Atsumu’s skin and tug his face closer. “Wh-” Kiyoomi’s lips wrap around Atsumu’s tongue, sucking the words straight from the source. The blond squirms pathetically in his hold.
Slowly, one hand slips down further. Fingers lightly wrap around Atsumu’s cock once more, languidly pumping. Kiyoomi makes sure to start at the base, where a thick patch of hair itches at his hand, and strokes steadily upwards until his palm catches the precum leaking out the slit. The process is relentless and steady, the repetitive movement simultaneously soothing yet exhilarating. Kiyoomi is deliberate with his touch, each pass designed to drive Atsumu to the edge of his self-control. Just as before, Atsumu’s composure slips away with each stroke, until his strong, muscular thighs shake from pleasure.
“Omi, Omi, so fucking good, I’m-” Kiyoomi drags his thumb teasingly over his head, then quickly dips down, wrapping his fingers tightly around the girth of him, effectively cutting off his impending orgasm once more.
Atsumu writhes, bucking into the touch, but Kiyoomi doesn’t budge. Doesn’t let Atsumu take the sweet drag he so desperately needs.
“Fuck, Omi!” Atsumu cries. He glares up at the goth, mouth popped open in disbelief.
“What’s wrong, Miya? Can’t take a little edging?” Kiyoomi smiles cruelly. He tightens his grip. Atsumu’s cock turns the most beautiful shade of reddish purple. “I thought you were going to prove me wrong. I thought you could handle me.”
“That’s, I-” Atsumu groans, nails digging into Kiyoomi’s back. Kiyoomi doesn’t even need to get his mouth on him this time to make Atsumu fumble his words.
A pounding on the door startles them an inch apart. “Hurry up!” A muffled voice calls out in irritation.
“Fuck off!” Atsumu fires back, voice cracking. He’s clinging to Kiyoomi like he’ll cease existing as a solid if he lets go, cursed to live out the rest of his life as a puddle on some college bro’s disgusting bathroom floor.
Kiyoomi is horribly pleased with how easy it is to get Atsumu so desperate. The cocky arrogance is definitely nothing but a show if this is how he gets when someone has a hand on his cock, dangling the sweet bliss of release in front of him.
“Are you going to be good for me, Miya?” Kiyoomi leans in, reclaiming the space between them. “Or am I going to have to leave you to sort out this little problem on your own?” He gives another squeeze and smiles at the flinch of hips it invokes.
“I wouldn’t call it little,” Atsumu snarks.
Kiyoomi loosens his grip completely and takes a deliberate step back. If Atsumu wants to keep playing games, then they’re playing on Kiyoomi’s terms.
It doesn’t matter how badly Kiyoomi’s aching between his legs. Doesn’t matter that Atsumu looks unfairly hot under the harsh bathroom lights—a disheveled mess just waiting to fall apart in Kiyoomi’s arms. Doesn’t matter that going home now would mean a painfully cold shower and hours lying awake in bed. If he doesn’t want to play by Kiyoomi’s rules, then they won’t be playing at all.
He doesn’t get far before hands grip his biceps and yank him forward. Kiyoomi masks his relief with practiced indifference.
“C’mon, don’t leave me high and dry, Omi.” Atsumu nestles his nose beside Kiyoomi’s, their lips a gentle brush when he speaks again. “I’ll be so good for ya, just gotta tell me what to do.”
Kiyoomi presses their mouths together once more, guiding them through one slow, shallow kiss after another. Atsumu’s arms trail up to their home around Kiyoomi’s shoulder, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. It coaxes Kiyoomi to touch as well, one hand curling safely around a trimmed waist, the other cupping Atsumu’s face.
Kiyoomi’s thumb caresses Atsumu’s cheek, his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. When their lips part, Kiyoomi swipes over the saliva left on Atsumu’s mouth, then pushes his thumb in. Lips part to welcome the intrusion and Kiyoomi firmly presses down on his tongue.
He pulls the digit out with a wet pop! Atsumu is a little dazed just from kissing, but when Kiyoomi’s wet thumb makes contact with his chest, rubbing teasing circles around his nipple, his eyes spark back to life.
Sensitive, Kiyoomi thinks as he toys with the hardening nub. Atsumu puffs his chest out to meet the touch, mouth slack, looking perfectly debauched.
“Just one more time,” Kiyoomi promises, his other hand tracing the sharp V down to where his cock is still painfully hard between his legs. Kiyoomi bets cum would pool prettily in those dips if he were to finish all over Atsumu’s perfectly toned stomach. An idea for later.
“Just have to endure it one more time, then I’ll give you what you want.” Kiyoomi runs a featherlight finger down the length of his cock. Atsumu bucks uselessly into the touch. “Can you do that for me, Miya?”
”Yeah, fuck yeah I can,” Atsumu nods frantically. “Just fucking touch me, please.”
Kiyoomi hums, finger sliding teasingly from base to tip, a constant barely there pressure. “But I am touching you.” Kiyoomi digs his thumb into Atsumu’s nipple to emphasize his point.
Atsumu whimpers, and Kiyoomi grins like a madman.
Fuck, he loves this. Maybe Akaashi was right. Maybe Kiyoomi’s favorite pastime is turning stubborn men into a pathetic mess, and Miya Atsumu is as stubborn as they come. He makes for such a beautiful, pitiful view.
He starts off with a slow and deliberate pace, but even then, it takes no time at all to work Atsumu up. He’s been edged and denied twice already, he’s on the brink of desperation. Atsumu needs it so badly that every drag of Kiyoomi’s hand is accompanied by a twitch of his cock, a half-hearted buck of his hips before he remembers he’s supposed to be good. Even in the haze of potent lust, Atsumu finds the self restraint to obey Kiyoomi’s every whim. The effortless submission is driving Kiyoomi crazy.
It’s easy to tell the signs of Atsumu’s orgasm building and building in his gut. It’s in the involuntarily jerk of his hips, the tensing of his abs, the teeth ripping into his bottom lip. Kiyoomi doesn’t need a verbal warning, and he honestly doesn’t expect one. Atsumu trying to prematurely get his way would come as no surprise.
And yet…
“Omi, stop; ‘m gonna…” Atsumu garbles out through broken moans the moment Kiyoomi was planning to pull away. It leaves him pleasantly surprised. Maybe he can handle me after all.
Kiyoomi pulls back completely, not wanting to risk pushing Atsumu past the point of no return. At this point, a simple flick to Atsumu’s sensitive nipples could get him there.
Kiyoomi stares down at where Atsumu’s cock bobs, hard and leaking, an angry shade of red. It’s a lovely contrast to the blinding white of Atsumu’s knuckles. His grip on the counter is so tight it threatens to crack under his fingers.
He exhales harshly through his nose, chin ducking to his chest, eyes screwed shut. The simplest touch could push him over the edge right now. Kiyoomi’s certain just breathing teasingly on his shiney cockhead would make him blow his load.
It’s such a lovely feeling, knowing Kiyoomi holds so much power over this mess of a man. The flush on Atsumu’s chest just makes him want to push further. He could play with Atsumu all night, like a cat pawing at a scurrying mouse, until he’s ready to go in for the kill.
He regrets his merciful promise of “just one more time,” but he won’t go back on his word now. Maybe they can arrange a time for Kiyoomi to properly take Atsumu apart, dedicate a whole night to it, test how much it takes to break his shiny new toy.
Probably doesn’t take much, considering just running his fingers over Atsumu’s sides has him shaking like a leaf. His breathing calms from its erratic pace, but there’s still that pleading look in his eyes.
“You learn quickly.” Kiyoomi muses. He places his hands beside Atsumu’s on the counter. Close, but not quite touching. “Sure you’ve never done this before?”
Atsumu shakes his head and Kiyoomi leans in further, ducking his head to meet his eyes.
Atsumu’s not the only one who’s aching for it. Surely the blond has slept with plenty of people before, but the fact that nobody has had him like this is doing things to Kiyoomi. He wants to ravish him. Wants to tease him with sweet release over and over again until Atsumu is begging for it, crying his eyes out. Wants Atsumu to think of Kiyoomi, and only Kiyoomi.
He hooks a single finger under Atsumu’s chin and forces his head up, a small smile on his lips. “You did well,” Kiyoomi says sincerely.
Atsumu’s eyelashes flutter, a content sigh slipping out of him.
Oh, isn’t that an interesting response?
Kiyoomi makes quick work of pulling himself out of his pants, his hand a much-needed pressure around his neglected cock. He pumps himself slowly as Atsumu carefully collects the fraying bits of his composure.
Kiyoomi's eyes wander as he contemplates what it is about Atsumu that makes this situation so much hotter. Kiyoomi’s had his fair share of perfectly sculpted athletes and quick filthy hookups in the shadows. He’s played the role of men’s dirty little secret plenty of times.
That’s not what this is though, is it? This isn’t like all of the other times. Atsumu isn’t scared to approach Kiyoomi where curious eyes can see. He also isn’t afraid of being at Kiyoomi’s mercy. In fact, he eagerly hands himself over, confident that Kiyoomi will take care of him.
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this trust, but when Atsumu’s hazy eyes meet him with the hunger of a starved man, he’s happy to pay his gratitude forward tenfold.
Kiyoomi abandons his hand in favor of grinding his bare cock against Atsumu’s own. The blond shudders at the touch. Kiyoomi’s hands naturally make their way back to Atsumu’s hips.
“So well behaved for me, Miya.” He whispers hotly in Atsumu’s ear.
Kiyoomi doesn’t stop Atsumu from bucking into him, letting him control the sweet roll of his hips.
“I aim to please.”
Kiyoomi hums softly and wraps a hand around both of them. Atsumu tenses under the touch, a pitiful whine rumbling out of him. Despite the desperation vibrating in his skin, Atsumu keeps his movements controlled, hips a fluid roll into the tight heat of Kiyoomi’s palm.
“That’s it, just like that,” Kiyoomi encourages.
His free hand finds its way to Atsumu’s mouth once more. Atsumu pops his lips open without a word, so obedient, so happy to let two of Kiyoomi’s fingers press down on his tongue. Kiyoomi peers down at him, and the pure want that takes root in him is undeniable.
He pulls his hand away. This time, he dips down lower, past Atsumu’s abused chest, and nudges him forward with a hand on his lower back. Atsumu follows easily, and Kiyoomi’s fingers pet teasingly over Atsumu’s hole.
If anyone is still on the other side of that door, they surely hear the loud moan Atsumu lets out in response to the gentle touch.
“One day I’ll have you spread out on my cock, begging for more.” Kiyoomi promises. His hand speeds up, focusing on their sensitive heads wet with precum. “Would you like that?”
Atsumu moans again and nods with a jerk.
“I know you would. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Atsumu pants. He’s quickly unraveling, thrusting against Kiyoomi fast and sloppy.
“Good boy.” Kiyoomi praises, pressing against his taint.
“Omi!” Atsumu cries. Every muscle in his body locks up, then he’s spilling all over Kiyoomi’s hand, his cock, the space between their bodies. It’s wet and tacky, making the glide that much easier as Kiyoomi keeps working him through it.
When he slows to a stop, the only sound left in the room is their heavy breathing. Atsumu is a wreck, shaking violently in Kiyoomi’s hold. The force of his orgasm after being denied three times must be intense. He slumps into Kiyoomi’s chest, pressing their bodies closer together and making an even bigger mess between them.
“Fuck.” Atsumu sighs after a long while. He expends what little energy he has left to pull away and look down at Kiyoomi’s still hard cock, messy with Atsumu’s release. “I can help ya with that,” he smiles lazily.
Kiyoomi gives him a quick filthy kiss, then guides Atsumu with a firm hand on his shoulder until he’s kneeling before him.
Atsumu looks up through his lashes. One hand wraps around the base of Kiyoomi’s cock, the other around his thigh. He cleans the cum off Kiyoomi’s tip with broad strokes of his tongue, then sucks the whole head in, humming happily, like he’s savoring the taste of himself on someone else.
“No teasing,” Kiyoomi chastises. His fingers wrap firmly around Atsumu’s skull, coaxing him further down. Atsumu follows without complaint.
“Always look so good on your knees for me.” Kiyoomi’s free hand cups Atsumu’s cheek, hips pushing forward to sink deeper into Atsumu’s mouth. He loses himself in those glassy golden eyes as Atsumu keeps taking him deeper and deeper. “Should keep you here all night. Every night. Just a wet hole to keep me nice and warm.”
Atsumu groans, eyes fluttering shut.
Kiyoomi does most of the work, pushing in and out of Atsumu’s mouth. Atsumu takes him so perfectly, never pulling away, not even gagging when Kiyoomi buries himself deeper. He exhales loudly through his nose, letting the drool run freely past his lips.
Fuck, Kiyoomi really could keep him here like this all night. Every night. A dream turned into reality.
“You only hook up with someone three times before cutting them off…”
Kiyoomi’s own composure starts to slip. He chases his orgasm without a second thought, the gentle hands cradling Atsumu’s head a sharp contrast to the brutal way he fucks his mouth. He feeds his cum straight down Atsumu’s throat, and the blond takes it eagerly, swallowing through it.
Atsumu coughs harshly when Kiyoomi finally pulls out and gives him the chance to breathe. Wet eyes stare up at him, so reminiscent of the times before. Kiyoomi is certain he’ll never tire of this view.
“…any more than that and you catch feelings.”
Kiyoomi pushes the words to the back of his mind. He has better things to think about, like all the ways he’s going to pull Atsumu apart.