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Before he’d had the misfortune of meeting one Sakusa Kiyoomi’s acquaintance, Atsumu would’ve sworn up and down that there was nothing particularly erotic about brushing your teeth.
There is nothing sexy about this, no romance, no foreplay, nothing but the cold dead eyes of Sakusa staring at him through the mirror, and yet. Yet. Atsumu has set a timer. It is slowly ticking down to a full two minutes. The yawn of his jaw stretches wider than he thought it could go while he sticks the damn brush too close to the back of his throat for comfort, and Sakusa’s eyes are always that dark, but the near-fluorescent bathroom light slicks off them like dawn on oil. He watches, which makes Atsumu feel—well, somethin’ hooks deep in his gut. Doesn’t even blink, the bastard. Atsumu spits out a glob of minty fresh foam.
“Tch,” says Sakusa.
Atsumu waves a hand. I know, I know. Sticks the toothbrush back in his mouth and gets to work. Really puts some elbow grease in it, gets right at the back of his molars. Sakusa takes a step closer; in the mirror, he looms bigger over Atsumu’s shoulder. If there’s approval glinting in that gaze, now surely it’s imagined.
Without breaking eye contact, Atsumu sticks his tongue out and uses the weird little bristles at the back of the brush to scrub thoroughly. The corner of Sakusa’s lip twitches, at that. And it’s—it’s fuckin’ weird, there’s nothing remotely good about any of this, his tongue’s fucking sore, but Atsumu can’t help but draw it out, turn his stokes softer, curl his tongue lavishly around the brush like he’s trying to demonstrate how great his head game is on this plastic implement.
Though, something tells him it’s not the quality of the head game that Sakusa is worried about.
At last, the timer rings. Atsumu swills the foamy mix in his mouth a few more times. Spits and watches the white ooze down the side of the sink with satisfaction tugging at his mouth. He’s still rinsing his mouth out when Sakusa steps in right up to his side and presses one of those freaky lithe fingers to the still-ringing phone.
“Geez,” Atsumu says, “couldn’t wait two seconds?” Receives, as he expected, a light scoff.
Ignoring ‘Omi is a matter of self preservation sometimes. Atsumu turns back to a more welcome sight—himself, in the mirror—and sticks his tongue out again, wiggles it side to side. Not even any blood, this time. It does feel nice to be scoured like this, freshened anew. Still damp and shampoo’d, his hair even falls in cute ‘lil waves, looser than how tightly he usually gels it. There’s a faint redness, all around his mouth. The newness of all that raw skin, scrubbed and cleaned out. Atsumu thinks he looks pretty fuckin’ good. Pretty fuckin’ fuckable.
He’s not the only one. When he turns his head, he bumps right into Sakusa’s waiting mouth, and ain’t that a mark of approval. A chaste kiss, nothing to get heated about, but Sakusa’s hand hooks on tight over Atsumu’s wrist, and that makes him thrill at the rest of their plans for the afternoon.
Sakusa pulls back. He does not smile. Kiyoomi Sakusa’s facial muscles don’t know the way, Atsumu thinks. But he does incline his head, doesn’t let go of Atsumu’s wrist, and when he turns to leave the bathroom, Atsumu trails behind, grin tugging at his eager mouth.
*
The first weird thing that came up in their sex life was when Atsumu got to the apartment too early and had to sit around waiting while Sakusa methodically sanitized every piece of his (rather extensive, Atsumu had noticed at the time) sex toy collection. That sort of minor judgment quickly slid out of their relationship (or lack thereof, depending on your definition) after it’d been a few months and Atsumu had plenty of time to learn precisely how Sakusa’s wrists sure as hell weren’t the freakiest part of him.
There’s no carpeting in the bedroom. Of course there isn’t. ‘Samu asks about the bruises sometimes, but it’s not like volleyball isn’t a sport where you bang up your knees more often than not. Lucky him.
Again, there’s nothing in Sakusa’s demeanor that betrays anything at all, but even the careful shush of his boxes as he pulls out the length of rope, the shuffle of his slippers over hardwood, the rattle of the drawn sliding back shut, all of it makes Atsumu’s breathing grow a little heavier, the weight of anticipation making his blood slide a little thicker through his veins.
He goes down, careful. Knees spaced out, socked feet crouched on the floor. The thin tarp that Sakusa has laid out crunches under the pressure. There is ritual here, and if Atsumu finds himself enjoying the deliberation that Sakusa has imprinted into his life this way, well, no one needs to know. Least of all the bastard himself.
He breathes out through his nose, one long, slow exhale, as Sakusa comes over.
“You’re quiet today,” Sakusa says. It’s flat, but still carries his usual dry disbelief.
“Why Omi-kun,” Atsumu drawls, “I thought you liked it when I run my mouth.”
Sakusa stares.
“You just wanna shut me up, don’tcha,” Atsumu says, even as his toes prickle from the thought of it. Sometimes, when Sakusa gives him that exact poisonous glare out of the corner of an eye at practice or somethin’, he imagines Sakusa losing steam, a hand on his throat, choking him with his dick instead of simply choosing to verbally eviscerate him… But then again, Atsumu is pretty sure the only reason it hasn’t happened yet is because the gym they practice is in far from Sakusa’s standards of hygiene and nothing else. Here is something else he has discovered: the man is shameless, and more creative than his dulled stare suggests. Atsumu is often, reluctantly, impressed.
The rough pull of rope at his wrist brings him out of the quick fantasy. Atsumu starts a bit, realizing he’s put his hands in position without even meaning to, which, well. Goddamn.
Sakusa notices too, the sly-eyed bastard. “It’s like you’re a particularly well behaved dog,” he muses as he grips Atsumu’s wrists closer together.
Atsumu colours. He can’t help it. The blood doesn’t know whether to rush up or down, and all that results is that he feels all faint-headed and burning, biting at his own lips to stop his mouth from makin’ some truly embarrassing noises.
Sakusa is, of course, methodical. He winds the rope around Atsumu’s wrists with a deft efficiency, the pull of it softened by no-doubt hours of treatment.
The easy rhythm of it makes Atsumu’s skin tight, Sakusa’s lithe fingers holding him precisely in the position he wants, all of it a practical consideration—tug his shoulders back here so he can move forward easier, so when his mouth falls open, wet and waiting, the height is perfect to face his face; pull the rope tight, not enough to cut off circulation, just enough to hurt a little, just enough so Atsumu cannot move his fingers without feeling the drag of it against his skin; cinch it up to his elbows, a latticework of fibre to hold him in place properly, forearms perfectly spaced, chest thrust out enough that his nipples brush up against his shirt.
He’s got on some light cotton shorts, cleanly-laundered, thin enough to make the growing weight of his dick obvious. It makes him feel more exposed than if he was completely naked—like this, loose, easy clothes, the smell of detergent wafting around him, he could fit right in with another one of Sakusa’s fucking decorations. As someone who holds attention in the clench of his fist, the thought is thrilling, a shivering humiliation to being given as much regard as one of Sakusa’s ruthlessly scrubbed sex toys.
When he’s done, Sakusa walks back around, hands slung in the pockets of his MSBY jacket. He looks just about ready to head off to practice, another detail which makes Atsumu grit his teeth.
“Get on with it, Omi-omi,” he says. It comes out with a tinge more panic than he either intended or wanted.
Sakusa rolls his eyes. He leans in, lips pursed, and gives Atsumu a slow, considering look over.
“Like what you see?” Atsumu snarks.
“Not particularly,” Sakusa says.
“Well, jokes on you, ‘cause you’re the one who wants to get yer dick sucked—hey!” Sakusa’s annoying long fingers hook onto the side of Atsumu’s jaw as he pulls his head forward. Atsumu struggles against his annoyingly strong grip, but no luck. Sakusa manages to communicate exasperation in the minute shift in the set of his jaw, and Atsumu would headbutt him if he was just two centimetres closer.
“Miya,” Sakusa says.
Atsumu puffs his cheeks out in response.
“Hold still.”
There’s something about the rare direct command from Sakusa that takes ahold of every single one of Atsumu’s muscles and locks ‘em up right then and there. The weight of Sakusa’s voice, hefty yet bland, settles in him like a leaden ball. Atsumu holds still.
Sakusa has the gall to twitch his mouth slightly in an approximation of a smile, and that ugly mug is the last thing Atsumu sees before his eyes are being covered by the soft shush of fabric, the blindfold pressing into his eyelids much like Sakusa’s voice did, a blanket of dark all at once that immediately brings goosebumps to his skin.
There, the harsh slope of the wood underneath his knees, a nascent bruise nudged at just the wrong angle. There, the crinkle of the plastic as he moves to try and find a better angle. There, the sound of his own breathing, hot and shallow through his mouth. There, the quiet hum of air conditioning, the drift of air that comes up through his thin shirt, a small trickle of sweat from the summer’s heat and his own anticipation slowly, slowly inching down his neck.
There, a light touch on the top of his head. One, another.
Atsumu scowls. “Are ya giving me head pats?”
“You just looked so cute,” Sakusa deadpans.
“Oh fuck off.”
“Is that a request?”
It’s not his proudest moment, but Atsumu splutters. He’s probably turning red. Oh well. All the dignity is rapidly fleeing his body, so why bother? He bets Sakusa is enjoying this, sadistic fuck as he is. He gets another head pat for his good deed of not following that up with another shitty remark and he leans up into that one. Why not.
Usually, this is where Sakusa shoves his cock down Atsumu’s throat, and if Atsumu doesn’t get off in the process of, he works himself clean afterwards, watching Sakusa methodically clean up every last bit of sweat and come that’s managed to escape his coverings, then polish the floor underneath for good measure. What can he say, it’s sexy to see Sakusa on his knees for once.
But instead of a dick shoved in his face, Atsumu feels fingers grazing at the shell of his right ear instead.
“You up for a challenge today, Miya?” Sakusa asks.
“What? ‘Course I am,” Atsumu says before the words process.
At this point Sakusa knows him too well. He pauses, hand coming down to pinch Atsumu’s earlobe between his fingers. His nails are dull, but the slight angle brings a light pinprick of pain, everything narrowing down to that point of contact. “Are you sure you’re up for it?” Sakusa asks, warps concern around into condescending. He tugs on Atsumu’s earlobe.
“Goddammit,” Atsumus spits. “Whaddya want, Omi?”
Something falls down into Sakusa’s fingers. Atsumu struggles to hear, but whatever it is, it’s too light. Sakusa fiddles with it for a moment, and then his hand is back, warm against Atsumu’s ear. He slips it in—Atsumu goes weak with understanding. An earbud. It’s cold, still slippery with disinfectant. It is playing some sort of white noise, fuzzy and nondistinct. Its presence is a question in and of itself.
On the left, he feels fingers working their way into his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. His own hands clench and unclench, straining against their ties despite himself. His right is all buzz, left is only the impression of Kiyoomi’s fingers, not hard enough to clench, but—Atsumu remembers the shape of that grip, knows what kind of debauchery Sakusa’s capable of.
“You’re good at this,” Sakusa says. It’s not appreciative, so much as appraising. He means: you’re good at sucking dick. He means: you’re good at sitting there and taking it.
Atsumu licks his lips. “Yeah I am.”
“You’re always saying you work best with silence,” he says casually, then taps on the single earbud. The damn thing is sound dampening. Atsumu shuts his jaw with a click. “Do you want to get better?”
“Fuck,” Atsumu spits. “Fuck you.”
The fingers tighten, only marginally. “Is that a yes?”
“Goddammit, Omi, of course it’s a yes. Plug me up.” Atsumu snorts at the accidental double entendre, and then the next bud is slipping into his other ear and white nothing consumes it. He swallows. It vibrates in his own throat. When he shuffles, there is no tell-tale crinkle underneath his knees, pulling at the ropes doesn’t sound like anything but the strain of his own bones, and he’s probably making the creaking up in his head. “Fuck,” Atsumu says again, and it sounds all funny coming out, muffled and foreign. He wrinkles his nose and turns his head side to side. It’s nothing like the reverent hush on the court before a serve and it’s everything like it; none of the same squeaks of gym shoes on laminated floors or the tension of the air pregnant with tears but all of the anticipation. All of the aching, sweet, unknown of it all. Atsumu caught in limbo. His brain fuzzes. It’s fucking glorious. He must be a sight for Omi-omi like this, tied up and literally squirming, and seeing himself from above only makes him want to groan, his erection at full fucking mask now and he feels that too, hypercognizant of the damp spot growing at his thigh, the of his bare dick on the cloth. What a fucking riot.
Sakusa hooks a finger into Atsumu’s mouth. He nearly chokes on just that, the surprise of it. While his mouth is being pried open, he wonders if Sakusa’s pants are coming off now, how hard he is already, if he’s pulled his dick out yet. He fights the urge to sniff the air like a goddamn bloodhound. Another hand joins the first at his mouth, and this is yet another ritual of theirs, Sakusa running his hands over the crevices in Atsumu’s cheeks, rubbing over his teeth, the molars at the very back. Atsumu barely manages not to gag. When he’s satisfied, he pulls away.
Saliva clings to Atsumu’s bottom lip. It strings, drags, falls with a slickness that is at once arousing and uncomfortable. Atsumu feels the damp pool as some gathers on his shirt, soaking through.
Messy. Slobbery. It’s a wonder Sakusa will even touch him.
Usually, Sakusa rubs himself off with Atsumu’s spit. Or—maybe that’s happening already, if that’s the the faint little shuffles that are the only thing Atsumu can hear. Usually, they get a little verbal sparring done here, Atsumu making fun of Sakusa’s willingness to get close and personal with someone else’s mouth germs, etc. etc. But now, there’s silence.
Atsumu tries not to imagine what Sakusa is doing, and fails. Sakusa’s cock isn’t anything special. He just knows what to do with it. He imagines the lithe length of Sakusa’s fingers, rubbing up and down himself, pale against the darker pink of his cock. Imagines him deliberately dragging precome down to mingle with the saliva. In lieu of sound and sight, wants to smell it instead. Wants to stick his nose right in the disgusting mess, wants some proof of it, himself on Sakusa’s arousal. Wants to know he’s doing it, in some way.
Wants to know if Sakusa’s watching him. Every little twitch of his muscle makes him self-aware, self-conscious. Atsumu likes to see his plays win out. Likes to collect his hitter’s points, direct the flow of the game with his own two damn hands. He strains forward, not on purpose. He wants to get his mouth on Sakusa’s goddamn dick. Wants to wrap his tongue around it and fucking swallow. Wants Sakusa to come, loud enough for him to hear it over the white fuzz, wants him to fist his hands and pull Atsumu’s hair out, wants it to ache tomorrow at practice.
A hand fists in the front of his shirt, dampening it further. Sakusa pulls.
Atsumu stumbles forward, dragging the tarp with him as he goes. It skitters awkwardly over the floor, and he tries to keep up, shuffle himself forward on his knees, mouth opening and closing pathetically for Sakusa’s dick.
It’s warm when he first hits it. Right against his nose. Atsumu could cry with relief. He noses up, inwardly recoils at the wet slime of his spit dragging over his cheek. Sakusa lets go of his shirt, lets his hands hang. The only thing that Atsumu can reach of him is his fucking cock.
He mouths at it carefully. Sakusa is hard enough, leaking lazily. He’s heavy and salty on Atsumu’s tongue, and he has to struggle not to fucking lap at it like an actual dog.
There’s absolutely nothing to go off but the hardening of Sakusa’s dick. No hands in his hair. The rest of his body fading into the nonexistence of Atsumu’s perception. He works slowly, dragging a tongue up the bottom of the shaft, licking his way clean to the tip. He can do a fabulous clean up job. He swirls around the head, pulling just the tip into his mouth and suckling lightly. If Sakusa reacts audibly, he doesn’t know. When he hollows out his mouth and starts to slide down, the tang of precome grows more bitter on his tongue.
Atsumu hums to himself in triumph. Knows Sakusa will feel it, a thrum through his throat, the flutter of pressure.
He starts to move with more verve, settling into a careful rhythm, taking more of Sakusa in as he goes. Breathes out slow through his nose, gets in deep enough that he feels the bristle hair at Sakusa’s crotch tickling his nose. Thirsty for more sensation, he goes faster, rocking up on the balls of his feet and trying to take as much of Sakusa at once. Spit smears out of the corners of his mouth, drools down. He’s making a mess, and it’s probably pissing Sakusa off, and the thought of Sakusa angry and turned on all at once makes Atsumu want to grin, if he didn’t have a mouthful of Kiyoomi bits.
Sakusa takes a step back.
Atsumu can pinpoint the exact moment.
He rocks back on his heels, pulls off with a, frankly, disgusting slurp.
Grins blindly. “Too much for ya, Omi?”
For a moment, there’s silence. But this is the smug sort that Atsumu can sit in. He doesn’t bother licking anything off his lips. Lets himself rest there, probably all red and swollen and enticingly debauched.
Then, like he’s trying to get a one-up or something, Sakusa grips both hands around the back of Atsumu’s head and brings his mouth close. Atsumu lets himself fall slack, having no actual clue where to aim for. Sakusa takes care of it for him, guiding him close, hooking another finger into the inside of Atsumu’s lip and wrapping his mouth around his cockhead. Then, he settles his grip down lower, right around Atsumu’s neck, like a warning.
Yeesh, thinks Atsumu, so picky.
But he complies. Goes slower this time, rolls his tongue over Sakusa’s slit, wetting his mouth properly before hollowing his cheeks out and giving him a shallow few pumps. Sakusa likes it careful, he knows. Not too slow, not to fast. An easy rhythm that Atsumus can readily keep up with if he’s not otherwise preoccupied with a particularly tricky hogtie or anything like that. Not too far down the shaft. If he had his hands free he’d bring them up to measure, give him a few squeezes near the base.
Atsumu closes his eyes underneath the blindfold, so the darkness hugs him properly. All he feels is Omi’s hands looped around his neck, Omi’s cock straining in his mouth. He could sit here forever. He would warm Omi’s bench, and then his dick when he got tired, if that’s what he wanted. Salt in the air, thick over the permeating sting of antiseptic around the apartment. That distinctive smell that’s all sex with Sakusa, the strange mix of intimate and sterile. Atsumu breathes in it. Breathes Sakusa in. Sakusa’s hands pet at his neck. Atsumu hates how much he likes it. Laps better at his cock, chases the little brushes of touch. Good, he imagines Sakusa saying. Good. Just like that.
He knows he’s getting somewhere when the prick of Sakusa’s nails stings the back of his neck. Good, good. When his cock grows heavier, when the taste on his tongue is more bitter than anything else.
Right before Sakusa’s ready to blow his load, Atsumu pulls back.
Sakusa, rarely surprised, grunts loud enough for it to penetrate the thick haze of nothing in Atsumu’s ears.
He comes all over Atsumu’s face. Gross, but so goddamn satisfying. It’s like the sweat-soaked victory on a court. The play come to life. The sweet triumph of found the breaking point and chased it down, finding out what makes Sakusa tick and learning. Good, he thinks, I’m so fucking good. Makes it all worth it, the floating uncertainty, the frustration, makes him want to do it all over again, force himself into the worst positions and still manage to get Sakusa Kiyoomi off, just with his tongue, just with his mouth.
Atsumu has the good grace to stick his tongue back out, lap some of it up. Swallows, cat with the canary.
That definitely made more of a mess than Sakusa had intended. Atsumu hopes some of it got on the floor, uncovered.
For a moment, he wonders if maybe Omi’s cruel enough to leave ‘im like this. If the irritation of having him, dirtied and stinking up the apartment, just tied up there in the middle of the room will lose to the deeply petty instincts in him. He moves his knees, just to feel something. The bruise aches at him pointedly.
Vibrations through the floor tells him Sakusa’s moving around. To find something to murder him for real, maybe. Carve up his limbs and dump it all in the ocean. Sakusa Kiyoomi might be ruthless enough for something like that, Atsumu thinks.
Then he comes back. And there’s a wet cloth at Atsumu’s face, and Atsumu’s brain is lost in a different sort of flurry.
His own cock demands for attention, so desperately neglected. His entire body feels flush. Every drag of the cloth over his face leaves his skin feeling raw and ragged, cool in the wake of whatever lemony shit Sakusa uses to clean lingering on it. Atsumu shivers all the way down to his fucking toes. He’s—he wants to tear himself away, a thousand insults bloat up inside him and then shrivel up and die, he wants to bite Sakusa’s fucking fingers off, that shit-faced unfair bastard. Sakusa’s fingers tip his chin up, careful. Wipe at the corners of his mouth. Atsumu feels hot with the want and shame of it both. He turns his head to one side without even the prompt of it, and then when Sakusa returns with another head pat all the tension snaps to a standstill in his body.
By the time Sakusa gets to his neck, slides those fingers over the heated beat of his pulse, Atsumu groans, comes without a goddamn touch in his own pants, slumps over in the relief of it.
Sakusa pauses.
He slips the blindfold up, and Atsumu is suddenly blinded by light, and then, right dead centre of him, Sakusa’s unwavering dark eyes, peering into his own like inverted beacons in the night.
“Sh-shut up,” Atsumu manages.
Sakusa is smiling. The barest fucking excuse for a smile, but, still. Atsumu wants to sock him in that smug mouth.
He swipes the cloth one last time over Atsumu’s skin, then reaches out and plucks out the earbuds. Atsumu is briefly overwhelmed even by the slight squeak of his body, the careful shush of the cloth that Sakusa tucks away.
“Miya?” Sakusa asks. Too gentle.
“What,” Atsumu snaps.
A snort. Faint, but audible. “Glad you haven’t damaged yourself,” Sakusa says.
Atsumu swallows. He’s not even sore. “Gotta try harder than that.”
“Hm,” says Sakusa. “Next time then.”
“I don’t even want to know what you have up yer stiff sleeves,” Atsumu mutters. But, obligingly, he leans forward so Sakusa can reach back and undo the knots.
When his arms fall free, he resists the urge to collapse there on the ground, if only because it’s still kind of gross. The plastic did catch most of it, unfortunately, but he’s still looking at a cleanup job. He’d toss himself up on the bed, but Sakusa’d probably kill him for not showering first. So, all he does is sort of slump in place, hands resting atop his thighs. Here is another thing he likes (?) about Sakusa: afterwards, it’s easy. No stipulations, no hemming and hawing. Nothing but Atsumu’s breathing levelling out, him picking himself off the floor again, and promptly commandeering Sakusa’s shower.
It’s not like Sakusa is going to join him. Showering is sacred time.
Still, if he imagines the press of a cloth over his face when he closes his eyes, if he thinks about it, just a little, the possibility of Sakusa coming in, liking (?) him enough to at least share this space and trust that he’s worth the intimacy of it, hook a chin over his shoulder, maybe, and Atsumu can work his magic there, too, murmur Omi-omi do you want me to wash your hair for you? and do a good job of that, he can make them both presentable again so they can put their mean faces on for the public, he could, maybe, do something other than scrub himself clean of all the proof of them ever having fucked while Sakusa does the same a wall away.