Chapter Text
“Hello, ex-husband,” Atsumu drawls as he saunters into the genkan. A stack of paper is firmly clutched in his hands, and he waves it around in the air. He grins. “The papers are finalized.”
Kiyoomi shuts the door behind him with a kick of his foot. “Oh thank god,” he groans, “that took forever.”
“I mean, it was only … What, five months? I’ve heard way worse.”
Atsumu toes off his shoes and Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose at how he throws them into a corner, not bothering to set them down neatly – but he chooses not to comment. “So they still send my mail to your address? You’d think a divorce attorney, of all things, would know to take care of that.”
“Eh,” Atsumu lets out and drops down on his usual chair. The stack of paper lands on the table with a resounding, satisfying whack. “Whatever, I’m right across the hall anyways. And it’s not like we … hate each other or anything.”
“I guess not.”
Kiyoomi stares down at the pile of paper on the table and pulls back a chair of his own, settling down on it carefully.
“It’s, uh, it’s only a copy?” Atsumu says, clearing his throat. “All the records and the stuff are online, and we signed the whole thing two weeks ago anyway, this is just the physical version? If ya wanna, uh, have it. So.” He makes an unsure, sharp motion towards the pile of paper, shoves it. It scatters across the wood, sheets slipping over each other and one falling to the floor. They both watch it saunter down. Neither of them bends to pick it up.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“So.”
“So.”
The silence permeates the air between them.
“This is it, huh?” The usual slyness is gone from Atsumu’s voice, replaced by something almost – wistful?
Kiyoomi knows that it isn’t their marriage that has him reminiscing. He frowns down at his fingers that he’s clamped together in his lap. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. Divorced.”
Atsumu lets out a quiet little laugh. “Can’t really believe we were ever married, to be honest.”
Kiyoomi pushes his chair back, stands up. “I have champagne. I bought champagne? We should celebrate. Probably. Glad this whole ordeal is over. I am.”
“I– yeah. We should.”
Kiyoomi rips open the fridge door, finds the bottleneck wrapped in gold foil and pulls. Cold condensation glides at his fingertips and he pretends to busy himself with the bottle opener so he doesn’t have to face Atsumu for another little while.
Their divorce has been mutual, and in all respects without complications. He’d finished with it all for a long time. It just hadn’t worked, had it? And both of them had seen that.
This is just a confirmation of something he’s known for months now. Those papers on the table, with Atsumu staring down at them wistfully, they’re just–
“Fuck!”
He sucks at his thumb where a tiny red dot sits. Why the fuck did he try to open the champagne with a bottle opener? He throws it onto the table; it lands on wood with a clank.
“What’s wrong?”
“Slipped. Cut myself.” He sets the bottle down on the table too harshly, wishes it broke so he could busy himself with mopping up the spill. “You open it.”
He flees to the bathroom.
He stands hunched over the sink for a moment, trying to control his ragged breathing. He liked to think of himself as calm and collected during the divorce. Maybe not without spite or anger, surely not that, but calm. Collected.
His eyes meet their reflection in the mirror, turbulent and dark. He smooths down a black curl, and it catches on a streak of red.
It’s a tiny cut on the pad of his index finger, barely deserving of the name, just a scrape that has squeezed out three measly drops of blood.
He stares down at it.
“Ya hate blood.”
He almost jumps. “Jesus fuckin’–“ He cuts himself off and fully turns to Atsumu in the doorway. He scowls, looking at him with drawn brows. “Don’t do that shit.”
“Scare ya?”
“No, just don’t be – fucking–” Kiyoomi throws his hands into the air and waves them around before he realizes that he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. He drops them backes to his sides and balls them into fists. Takes a deep breath. “Just don’t,” he grits out.
Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Chill.” The line around his mouth hardens. “I’m just checkin’ that ye’re not bleedin’ out back here, I still need ya ta sign one last thing. It’s some bullshit form, I think for privacy reasons?”
“Okay.” He doesn’t look at Atsumu as he turns to tear off a strip of toilet paper, wipes the smeared red streak off cleanly and throws the crumpled piece into the toilet. He watches it spiral down the drain; the sound of the flush is weirdly comforting.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for one to waste water.”
God, that fucking lilt of voice is too familiar to be comfortable.
Kiyoomi turns on the faucet more violently than usual. The water is too hot, but he doesn’t jerk away from it, just takes the bar of soap into his hands and starts sliding it between his fingers. “Shut up, Mr. I-pee-in-the-shower.”
Atsumu pushes himself up from the doorway as his mouth falls open. “I still don’t see what the problem with that is!”
The soap bubbles around Kiyoomi’s fingers as he rubs his hands together, the white suds making his skin slippery and soft. His breath evens as he looks down at them.
He scrubs around his ring finger, the blankness of it. A pale strip sits where a ring used to be; he’s surprised – he wouldn’t have thought that it was on for long enough to leave a mark. Not a physical one, anyways.
Kiyoomi notices that he still hasn’t responded when Atsumu scoffs. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought, don’t got any arguments to back ya up, huh? One, it reduces splashback,” he raises a finger, “two, I read somewhere that it’s actually more hygienic, ‘sides, ya always made me wipe down the shower after I used it anyways. Three, water waste! Got mad when I didn’t buy bio produce, but in this case, yer ecologic ass is allowed ta pollute the planet, huh?”
Kiyoomi roughly towels his hands dry.
“Shut up, Miya, this is why I’m divorcing you,” he grits out and shoves himself past him out the door, his forearm brushing Atsumu’s chest as he does.
He wants to scratch off the tingling sensation that crawls up his skin at the contact, but the only thing he can do is walk faster.
Atsumu laughs brightly as he follows. “Divorcing? You can use the past tense, baby, ‘s all done now, we’re free!” He saunters after him in the living room and points to the table. “I poured us some champagne.”
Kiyoomi pulls a face. “After a conversation about shower pee?”
“Great, Sakusa, now ya made it weird.” He snatches one of the flutes and offers the other to Kiyoomi. He takes it a bit too harshly, careful not to touch Atsumu’s fingers as he does. The liquid sloshes around it freely, a tiny bit spilling over the rim onto his fingers.
“To the end of love and joy!” Atsumu calls out, widely grinning. “To glorious and blissful freedom, to our beautiful divo–“
Kiyoomi drains his glass.
Atsumu stares at him.
Kiyoomi hiccups and goes for the bottle to pour himself another one. “I know,” he starts as he tips it back, “I know how this looks. I get it. I’m snappish, I’m shaken, and I seem like I regret the divorce and want you back, which is not true,” he snaps. He pulls a face. “Not true.”
The champagne bubbles and fizzles, and it kind of hurts his throat as it goes down. He squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s just all a lot.”
His voice echoes loudly in the room; he still hasn’t gotten himself curtains since he moved in. The realization only manages to sour his mood further. “It’s all a lot,” he says, “and the marriage was a lot, and everything before that and everything after that too.” He stares at where the fading evening throws a golden hue onto the white wall next to the window and takes a deep breath.
“No, I get it,” Atsumu says, quietly. Too quietly, because Atsumu is not a quiet person. He looks down at his own glass, takes a sip, and immediately puckers his mouth. “I think I’m just repressin’ the hell out of it at the moment? But two hours from now, I’ll probably be callin’ Samu cryin’. It’s really over, huh?”
“It sure is.”
They both drop down on their respective chairs, suddenly boneless.
Kiyoomi pours himself another glass. “It’s weird,” he utters, “because the worst part of it is already over, isn’t it? All that’s left to do is just … signing a meaningless scrap of paper that doesn’t even have anything to do with what went down. And yet, it feels … it feels so absolute.” He stares down at the documents, the proof of what they’ve done. The tiny black print blurs together in front of his eyes.
A pen rests on the table, a blue thing with a silver handle, and when Atsumu nudges it with a fingertip, it rolls quietly across the surface until it’s stopped by Kiyoomi’s knuckle.
He sighs and takes it in his hand. “Where do I need to sign?”
“Ah, lemme see.” Atsumu rummages around the papers on the table. “Yeah, yada yada privacy, forward information, respect of clients, there we go.” He holds up the form and snorts. “Prolly so none of them lawyers can tell anyone ‘bout that one time ya called me a vain, immature brat with commitment issues.”
Kiyoomi raises his eyebrows as he plucks the piece of paper out of Atsumu’s hands. “Probably so no one tells anyone about how you once called me a spiteful, sad hag,” he evenly replies. He digs the tip of the ballpoint pen into the palm of his hand and presses his lips into a thin line as he slams the paper down on the table with his flat hand. “With ugly fashion sense.”
Atsumu’s head snaps up as his mouth falls open. “What about that time ya threw my sneakers out the window?”
“They were stinking up the room when I’d repeatedly told you to set them out on the balcony, and when I’d just bought new vanilla scented candles!”
“Yeah, on yer two-day shopping trip with Toya durin’ which ya ignored me, by the way, didn’t even text or noth–“
“Because you told me, and I quote, to get over myself and leave you the fuck in peace for a fucking second!”
Atsumu snaps his mouth shut, nostrils flaring. A muscle works at his jaw. “Ya know what, we ain’t gettin’ into this today,” he grits out. “Shut the fuck up and sign the damn papers.”
Kiyoomi does so blindly, an angry, indecipherable scrawl on a dotted line, and when he drops the pen back onto the table, he pushes himself up. The chair scrapes over the floor with an ugly screech. “Shut up?”
He tries to find purchase on the table at the sudden dizziness that is taking up his mind, but doesn’t find a hold; his hands slip on the papers. They get swept to the side, tumbling over the edge of the table and sauntering to the floor in his periphery – but the only thing he can focus on is the simmering anger brimming up at him from Atsumu’s eyes. “So we’ll just … not talk? That worked out great last time, didn’t it?”
“The difference is,” Atsumu hisses as he jumps up as well, “that this time, there ain’t anythin’ that needs to work out.”
“Aaand we’re fighting again.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Fucking amazing.”
“I don’t know what ya expect me to do!” Atsumu throws his hands in the air. “Here I am, bringin’ the papers and tryin’ ta be nice cause this is an important day for me too, maybe, and maybe I still care about ya as a person and maybe this marriage meant somethin’ to me, how ‘bout fucking that, and you just … you … you … I don’t even know what ye’re doin’, ye’re pickin’ a fight and pretendin’ like ya didn’t!” Atsumu strides forward, not even knowing why, just wanting to get into his face, to elicit something from him. He balls his hands into fists lest he punch something. Or someone. “That’s what ye’re always doing, Sakusa, ya– argh! Fuck!”
Kiyoomi’s face twists into something ugly. When he steps into his space, Atsumu can feel furious heat emanating off his body. “Oh me, it’s suddenly me picking the fights?” He sneers down at Atsumu, and Atsumu ignores the wave of recognition that washes over him as he smells Kiyoomi’s aftershave again after all this time. “Have you forgotten how it was always you who came at me with some stupid fucking comment that was as unnecessary as bothersome, just trying to rile me up, waiting for me to snap!” He pulls his lips into a vicious scowl. “You didn’t ever want to respect my time or space, you just came and took, took, took. Never giving, always demanding, always taking.”
“Ya know what I’m givin’ ya right now?” Atsumu grits out. “I’m givin’ ya the fuckin’ middle finger,” he spits, and he does, the thick finger standing up right in Kiyoomi’s face, trembling before he pulls it back, “cause ye’re an asshole and ye’re makin’ us fight again and I’ll leave now, fuck you!”
Before he can, Kiyoomi darts forward, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back towards him. Atsumu’s shoulder slams into his chest painfully but Kiyoomi doesn’t care, he clamps his hand down around his wrist and keeps him in place right up against himself. Their erratic breaths collide. His furious eyes bore into Atsumu’s. “Don’t you dare leave right now, because I know you’ll make yourself the victim when you knew exactly what you were doing when you started making these off-handed comments and your judgy remarks and–”
Atsumu rips his hand out of his. “It was a joke!”
“But you always have to trudge up the past, I can’t bear it!” Kiyoomi lands a hand on Atsumu’s chest to shove him away, but the other man doesn’t relent, with a huff he presses even closer in spite, closer until their thighs are searing hot against each other, until Kiyoomi can feel the heaving of Atsumu’s chest to his own, his feeble hand squashed between them.
Atsumu lets out an angry grunt, grabbing at Kiyoomi’s arm, roughly flipping them both around. He shoves forward until Kiyoomi’s ass collides with the edge of the table. Their hips crash, bone to bone.
“What am I s’pposed ta do, ignore it like you have? I bet that ya haven’t cried once durin' the divorce,” Atsumu hisses through his labored breathing as he leans over Kiyoomi who is bent back, the edge cutting into his hip painfully, “cause ya take all yer feelings and cram them deep down where no one can see them and least of all you. Ya like doin’ that, don’t ya? If ya even have ‘em.” He laughs hollowly and cruelly. “Do ya even have feelings, Sakusa? Cause sometimes I wondered if ya did.”
Kiyoomi’s fingers are shaking, and he clamps them around the edge of the table until his knuckles hurt. He wants to butt his head into Atsumu’s chest to shove him off, but he seems to be frozen in place, caged in between Atsumu’s arms and the precipice behind him. He knows that if he yields, he’ll crash into the hard surface – so he doesn’t.
“Have you learned nothing from all this?” he spits. He makes a feeble move to get up, but Atsumu stays locked in place, pushing his hips only harder into Kiyoomi’s in indignation, a cruel curl to his mouth.
Kiyoomi pushes a thigh between Atsumu’s legs, but the other man just clamps his own down around it. Their faces are so close he can count the faint freckles dusting the bridge of Atsumu’s nose. He wants to scream.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you," Kiyoomi gets out, "it’s not a personal offense to you if things don’t go the way you want them to, it’s not a personal fucking offense if I’m not like you and don’t function like you.” His harsh breath collides hot with Atsumu’s collarbone. He bucks his hips up once more, burning with fight, his thigh rubbing up between Atsumu’s legs as he does. “You don’t have a right to flare up and fly into a rage each fucking time as if you’re entitled to everyone’s–“
His heart drops into his stomach.
His mouth falls open, but the only thing coming out of it is a choked wheeze.
“What?” Atsumu hisses, eyes blown wide open as he scowls down at Kiyoomi. “Why did’ya st–“
“What the fuck,” Kiyoomi grits out, “are you hard?”
Time stops.
Atsumu stares at him open-mouthed, shell-shocked, frozen in space as something flashes in his eyes, something so fast that Kiyoomi can barely catch it, anger morphing into confusion morphing into … realization.
They both look down at the same time.
There’s a bulge in Atsumu’s grey sweatpants, thin fabric stretching and straining over that noticeable swell right beneath the low-hanging waistband that Kiyoomi has seen and felt so many times before. Atsumu … Atsumu is …
“And what if I am?”
Atsumu’s voice is dangerously quiet. His gaze is firmly pinned on Kiyoomi, eyes drilling into his, demanding his undivided attention. “What if I am hard, what would you do then?”
He rolls his hips, hard, agonizingly slow, a languid grind against the other man for the sole purpose of being an asshole, and Kiyoomi has to stop himself from moaning at the friction. “I’d call you a fucking clown is what I would do,” he finally croaks out when he remembers how to talk, but the venom is lost. Confusion and panic is clouding his senses as he inhales a shallow, shaky breath, heat starting up a pounding beat between his own legs. Suddenly, his own skin feels too tight. “What is even going on? Can you not talk to me for five minutes without popping a boner like a teenager?”
He shoves against Atsumu’s chest yet again, and this time, he staggers back. But the sudden freedom doesn’t bring relief; Kiyoomi’s painfully aware of the pulsing between his own legs.
“It’s yer fault!” Atsumu’s cheeks have gone a deep pink. “Ya’ve conditioned me, do ya know that? Cause whenever we started fightin’, we ended up fucking, remember? And my stupid body took that we were figthin’ and just ran with it and thought I was gonna have sex and now I have a boner and it’s yer fault!”
“Just … just deal with this!” Kiyoomi yells. His gaze drops and he wants to pull it away but he can’t, it’s magnetically drawn to that fucking bulge in those fucking sweatpants that are way too fucking thin, and now Atsumu’s cock visibly twitches under the scrutiny, and Kiyoomi suddenly remembers how it was always so thick and heavy against his palm, a pronounced vein drawing up from the underside and balls hanging full, and Kiyoomi imagines dropping to his knees right here and yanking the waistband down, taking him in his mouth over his boxers and– he forcibly yanks his head to the side. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he grits out, chest heaving as a faint ringing starts in his ears. “I can’t fucking believe you.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why does he remember the taste now? The heavy musk of him, the bitterness of pre-cum against the back of his throat, how he used to bury his nose in trimmed pubes and inhale as Atsumu moaned and groaned and–
“Well give me a goddamn minute,” Atsumu hisses, “so it can go down.”
He’s breathless too, his cheeks burning in embarrassment and something else. His hand twitches over his sweatpants, but instead of hiding his erection, he just jostles it, fabric sliding roughly against tight skin, and he grits his teeth together, a faint huff of air still escaping him. “It ain’t like I’m gonna do anythin’ about it, and you won’t either.”
“And what if I do?”
Somehow, the silence is more deafening than the screaming.
Atsumu’s eyes are blown wide, his mouth ajar in shock as he tries to form words but fails miserably. His entire body has gone rigid and tight like a live wire.
Kiyoomi raises his chin in defiance. “What if I do something about it?”
His voice is barely trembling.
Atsumu’s tone is low. “Yeah, what then?”
It feels like even the air is holding its breath.
Kiyoomi takes a step forward, detaching from the table, venturing into much more dangerous territory. “Then I would be doing something very stupid,” he carefully pronounces. “Something that I most definitely shouldn’t be doing.”
While Atsumu’s gaze drops, Kiyoomi keeps his own straight forward. He doesn’t need to look down at himself to know what he’ll see.
Atsumu glances up again.
Kiyoomi’s hair is disheveled, sticking to his forehead with damp sweat, a dark contrast to the manic flush on his cheeks. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, the corded muscles working, but Atsumu doesn’t notice anything except for the dark tunnel of his gaze.
“Well,” he rasps, “I ain’t never been smart.”
Kiyoomi takes another step forward. Atsumu does too, a puppet on a string, his body having no choice beyond being pulled closer to the one he’s orbiting.
“What about you?”
Kiyoomi bends down, dark curls falling into his forehead as his gaze errs over Atsumu’s face. “I'm not sure yet,” he murmurs.
When Atsumu inhales deeply, his chest almost brushes Kiyoomi’s, electricity crackling in the space between them. The other man’s breath stutters. And then, he – leans closer.
“When have we ever been sure about anything?”
Their breaths rise and fall against each other, the tide of emotion and life.
Atsumu trembles with the impact, forcing himself not to jerk away, not to slap him in the face – or do something worse. Press even closer.
He resorts to ridicule, the way he always has.
“You just can’t stay away, huh?” Atsumu whispers against Kiyoomi’s lips. “I’m too much fer yer self control? All those careful walls?”
When Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, he chuckles, the vibrations transferring to Kiyoomi’s own chest and settling deep.
“I can’t fault ya,” Atsumu lightly says, “afterall...” He licks his lips. “Who wouldn't want a piece of this ass?”
The tension is broken. Kiyoomi jerks back.
“I was wrong actually, this is why I divorced you.”
“Oh?” Atsumu tilts his head, trying not to stagger with the sudden cold absence of Kiyoomi’s warmth. “So it wasn’t my habit of not wiping the bathroom after I shaved?”
“No, how you used to leave the dishes unrinsed so they dried with food on them.”
Atsumu chuckles dryly. “I thought it was … how did ya word it? Oh yeah, my commitment problems and emotional capabilities of a six year old.”
“I thought it was my inability to talk like a normal fucking person,” Kiyoomi immediately fires back. “And my tendency to be a hurtful cunt.”
Atsumu narrows his eyes. “How about my constant need for superiority, Sakusa?”
Kiyoomi snatches the champagne bottle off the table, drains the rest, two rivulets dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. He roughly wipes over his chin with the back of his hand, wetness smearing against it.
His voice drops. “Don’t fucking call me Sakusa if we’re doing this.”
Atsumu’s eyes glimmer in the half-shade. He curls his lip, leans closer until their breaths collide. “Kiyoomi,” he whispers.
He melts into the brutal familiarity of those lips on his.
Kiyoomi's lips are dry and a bit chafed, a rest of alcoholic sweetness tainting the taste, and Atsumu needs them with a ferocity that scares him.
A wet tongue touches his.
Both their knees buckle at the same time. They barely notice in their frantic demand for more, more, more – lips moving, legs tangling, hands grabbing at everything they can find as their bodies crash into each other.
They’re in free fall, the world whirling around them just like it does inside them. Kiyoomi grunts in pain when his tailbone hits the floorboards, but Atsumu muffles the noise with his own mouth, ignoring the ache of his own knees where they knock into hard wood. He slings a hand around Kiyoomi’s head before it can hit the floor, curling his body around Kiyoomi’s entirety as he pounces on him. Kiyoomi bucks his hips up, and Atsumu almost moans with the familiar thrill.
He buries his face in Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispers into the fabric of his shirt.
“Don’t you even think we’re doing this without a condom,” Kiyoomi gasps, “I know you want to, but I fuckin– nnngh.”
Atsumu has ground his palm down on his dick. Kiyoomi arches up into the kiss as he undoes his own belt with shaky fingers, wiggling humiliatingly on the floor as he tries to shuck his pants off; not caring in the slightest.
The waistband of his jeans cuts into his thighs painfully but Atsumu helps with that by yanking them off entirely. The air is suddenly cool on his bare legs and he shivers, more out of reflex than actual chill – his body is burning inside out.
He scrambles for purchase on the floor but only finds the flimsiness of scattered paper; he wants to laugh at the sheer irony of the situation, but any capacity for humor has been yanked out of his body, yanked off him as Atsumu tears down Kiyoomi's underwear and pulls out his cock.
His hand fits itself around his length like it always has, two long strokes of his tight fist sufficing to bring Kiyoomi to full hardness. And then, he – he’s off.
Kiyoomi jerks his head up, cheeks flaming with indignation. “What?” he snaps.
Atsumu is breathing heavily above him, pupils so big they’ve almost swallowed the thin golden ring around them. “God, you need to– fuck, ya need to go prepare yerself.”
Kiyoomi flushes a bright, deep pink. “No I don’t.”
Atsumu furrows his brows. “Yes you do.”
“No, I– I was …” He takes a deep breath. “Fucking fine, I was trying to get off when you called earlier, alright?”
Atsumu’s eyes grow wide. “Oh.” And like clockwork, a sly grin spreads on his face. His voice drops. “Were you waiting for me thinking about it? How good I used to fuck ya? Yer fingers aren’t enough, are they? They never were. How often were ya thinking ‘bout my cock?”
“I fucking hate you,” Kiyoomi whispers as he smashes their lips back together, but Atsumu pulls back, a thread of spit still connecting them.
“Did ya miss me?” he asks, relentless, fingers curling around his lean thigh, inching up higher and higher. “It’s funny cause I know ya haven’t touched anyone either, I know because ya can’t stand to open yerself up to new people.” His thumb rubs over the soft inside of his milky thigh, then the pale divot where it merges into his hip, the ghost of presence sending crawls of shivers up Kiyoomi’s spine. “I bet you didn’t even try, cause you knew you were gonna fail. Wanted to save yerself the embarrassment, did ya?”
“You’re wrong,” Kiyoomi shakily gets out. “I did go home with someone.”
Something flashes in Atsumu’s eyes, and the ferocity of the next kiss almost hurts.
“Did he fuck you like I did?”
Kiyoomi throws his head back gasping.
“Did he know that ya like fingers in yer mouth, that ya like to drool on them like a desperate little slut? That ya like it when ye’re still a bit too tight to take me?” Atsumu bites down on the juncture between neck and shoulder, digging into skin just enough for it to hurt. “Did he know that ya wanna be so full of cock that ya whimper, beg and moan?”
His finger presses blunt and smooth against Kiyoomi’s quivering hole.
“Did he know you like I do?”
It slides in to the hilt.
Kiyoomi keens, legs thrashing at the intrusion, but Atsumu holds them down roughly with his arm, smoothing over trembling muscle as he lazily rubs against his soft, lubed up walls in broad, deep strokes. A lazy grin spreads on his face. “Oh?” he croons, “Already this desperate fer me? You’ll be sobbing by the time ya get my cock, won’tcha?”
“Feels so good,” Kiyoomi gasps, “fuck you, you feel so good. I wanna … god damnit,” he swears. “Forget the condom, you motherfucker. When was the last time you had sex?”
When Atsumu pulls away, his lips are ruddy and swollen; his eyes wild. “With you. It was with you. I haven’t … no.”
Kiyoomi halts. “Really?”
Atsumu guffaws. “Yeah, so fucking what?”
Kiyoomi drops his head back, it lands against the floor with a thunk. “Nothing, I’m surprised. You’re a sex fiend.”
“Well, this sex fiend,” Atsumu snarls, “isn’t normally going through a divorce, is he?” His knees are snug around Kiyoomi’s hips on the floor, sweatpants pooling around his calves and his white shirt still on as he looms over him. “Fuckin’ excuse me fer bein’ emotionally unavailable for a bit, will ya?”
“You’re always emotionally unavailable.” Kiyoomi coughs. “As evidenced by said divorce.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes so far back only the whites are visible. He yanks at the hem of Kiyoomi’s shirt with a hand and drags it up, his fingertips roughly brushing over Kiyoomi’s ribs as he does. “Can ya go fer five minutes without shadin’ me?”
Kiyoomi narrows his eyes and raises his arms above his head so Atsumu can slide off the shirt. “Like you didn’t start pestering me if I wasn’t.”
“Like you didn’t just ask to hop on my cock as soon as I did.”
“Like you weren’t just as happy to give it to me.”
Kiyoomi’s head thunks against the floor. He looks up at him from half-lidded eyes, the emotion in them indiscernible.
“What,” Atsumu snaps.
Kiyoomi doesn’t let go of his gaze. He hooks a hand behind his knee, pulls it back until his thigh is resting against his chest, knee pressing into Atsumu’s shoulder. His other leg is splayed out over the floor, lain to the side – plainly spreading his cheeks and revealing the tight, glistening rosebud sitting at his crease.
He curls his lip. “Shut up and fuck me,” he rasps.
Something tightens in Atsumu’s expression.
Pftuh!
Spit drips off his fingers in thick globes, and when he reaches down to smear it across his hole, Kiyoomi shivers at the filthy sensation.
Atsumu scoffs, dancing his fingertips over the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs that are spread out like an offering. “Look at ya, wet like a whore,” he mutters. “Can’t help but holdin’ yerself open fer me.”
Without warning, he plunges three fingers in; Kiyoomi clenches around them. “F-hah, fuck,” he gasps at the intrusion, the stretch, the hurt that is so, so good. He contorts his face in pleasure, screwing his eyes shut as he tries to hold onto anything else but the ball of heat in his stomach. He tries to focus on the cold, hard floor against his shoulder blades, his ass, calves, heels of his feet, anything but the man between his legs, how he flicks his thumb over his taint, pushing against his prostate from all sides, fucking in and out of him in a way that has Kiyoomi’s legs shaking.
“Do ya know how much I’ve missed this? You, the perfect marble façade of a man, always even and unfazed and proper – reduced to a babbling, sobbing mess on the floor.”
Kiyoomi cries out when Atsumu sucks a bruise into his neck.
“I’m gonna be honest,” Atsumu hisses, hot breath fanning out over the dip of Kiyoomi’s throat, “sometimes I did try to rile ya up. Left the vacuum cleaner standin’ around in some corner where I knew ya’d stumble over it. I’d smear a bit of jam on the table and not bother to wipe it off. Throw the socks into the hamper inside-out.” He’s steadily building that pressure inside Kiyoomi that threatens to spill over but is still barely tamed, rubbing tight circles against his walls, just skirting the edges of that swollen gland that needs to be touched so desperately. Kiyoomi’s nails dig into his forearm sharply, but he doesn’t care, Atsumu doesn’t release his gaze from his face. “Just so I could see ya get angry, just so I could see how you tried to hold back yer temper. That muscle at yer jaw would be clenchin’ and that one vein would be pulsing at your temple. I’d watch yer eyes grow black and stormy, and I knew I’d get to break it all down.” Atsumu is breathless with the strain of holding Kiyoomi open, but he pushes on, spitting out word after word. “I hate you, you’d say, but you’d still moan like a bitch in heat.”
Atsumu hooks his fingers inside his slick, loosening hole, teasing against the sensitive bump of his prostate.
Kiyoomi’s back arches taut like a bowstring when Atsumu wraps a hand around his cock, his mouth falling open as Atsumu grinds their hips together, but he’s beyond the point of coherence. He distantly notices that a hand is nudging his thighs apart, spreading him so much wider for Atsumu to take, but then Atsumu flicks his thumb over his wet tip and smears pre-cum across the slit; and any attempt at a thought evaporates from Kiyoomi’s head as his hips desperately stutter and jump in Atsumu’s hold.
His fingers slip out and Kiyoomi doesn’t have time to mourn the loss – the blunt head of a thick cock rubs against his hole.
Kiyoomi flutters and pulses around it, desperate to pull him in, but Atsumu stills, waits, dark eyes raking Kiyoomi’s face as if searching for something. His expression clouds when he doesn’t seem to find it. He snaps his mouth shut.
“So yeah,” he grits out, “maybe ye’re right when ye’re sayin’ that I used to provoke ya. Did ya notice?” His grip around the base of Kiyoomi’s cock grows almost painful. His voice comes out as a whisper. “Did ya care?”
Kiyoomi looks up at him hazy, the heat clawing at his entire being almost unbearable, and he opens his mouth trying to form a question, a demand, but nothing except for a soft whine tumbles out.
It’s too weak for a gasp, too delicate for a whimper, and Atsumu can’t bear to hear it. He roughly grabs at Kiyoomi’s hips and lines himself up, sliding into position.
Atsumu thrusts into him like he reclaims him.
Pushing in and filling him, burying himself where he’s already been long ago.
Something clicks into place.
Atsumu comes.
Kiyoomi is so warm inside, so wet and slick and fucking warm, and Atsumu is assaulted by the force of his arousal. Before he can understand what’s going on, his cock is pulsing and twitching, unloading all that pent-up fight and desire and anger deep inside Kiyoomi’s guts.
He’s not even fully in yet, and cum is trickling out around his shaft as they’re both trembling with the impact of what just happened.
Kiyoomi lets out a broken wheeze. “Did you just…” he whispers, scandalized.
Atsumu’s hands must’ve left imprints on his hips, and he lets go of them as if burned, chooses to hide his face with them instead, mind still hazy with his staggering orgasm. He wants to cry, scream, fuck, do anything except for looking at Kiyoomi.
But Kiyoomi doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t mock, he lets out a dissatisfied grunt, curls his hands around Atsumu’s shoulders and slings a leg tight around Atsumu’s hip. Lightning quick, he flips them over, slamming Atsumu to the floor and raising himself above him, the cock staying inside him all the while.
Atsumu cries out when his ass knocks into the floor hard, pain flooding his senses. Kiyoomi ignores the noise of protest entirely and grinds his hips down, a breathless sigh escaping him as he tries to take pleasure from the throbbing cock.
Atsumu whines in overstimulation but Kiyoomi only acknowledges it with a raised eyebrow. He slams a hand against the floor to push himself up until only the slick pink tip is inside him. His thighs are trembling. “Missed me that much?”
He sinks down, the thick pillar spearing him open with the sheer force of gravity. He arches with the devouring burn of it, head falling back to reveal the line of his neck. He’s glistening with sweat.
He lets out a quick, breathless laugh, a cruel one. “Is this all you can give?” he snaps. “Pathetic.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but claims it himself. He ruts down in little circling motions, demanding of Atsumu’s dick to thicken inside him again so it can fuck him the way he deserves.
“You like this, huh? On the fucking floor for me,” Kiyoomi grits out, a hand darting out to tweak the hard peak of a nipple. He smiles at the overwhelmed whine that follows. “On top of the divorce papers. There must be some irony to that.”
Atsumu’s mouth is forming shapes, allusions of what he’s trying to say and can’t, and Kiyoomi doesn’t have the patience to decipher them. His thighs tremble and shake as he forces himself into the air and back down, the slide eased by the load already inside him. His knees are protesting and hurting and he knows he’ll feel this in a week – but it’s not like he cares.
Atsumu’s cock hardens, still stuffed inside Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi’s moaning, sweating, whining louder by the second, his own cock bobbing red and angry up and down as he bounces, slapping against his stomach and leaving a wet smear of precum. He bites down on his own lip; he’s getting dizzy.
Atsumu isn’t faring much better. His entire body is burning up with a throbbing fever.
And fuck, fuck fuck fuck, why have they ever stopped doing this? Kiyoomi knows that there must be an answer somewhere, somewhere in the back of his head, somewhere that is not the tight coil of heat in his abdomen, not the wave of pleasure that’s washing over him. Not Atsumu who is sweaty and breathless and gorgeous, who is as much at Kiyoomi’s mercy as Kiyoomi is at Atsumu’s.
His abs tremble as he bends forward, lays his chest to Atsumu’s. His forehead thunks to the floor next to his ear. “Maybe I should’ve fucked you sooner,” he whispers.
Something changes, then. Something shifts. Atsumu’s eyes turn hard and his fingers tighten around Kiyoomi’s hips – his grip is no longer merely a helpless hold onto something for grounding, but intention.
Intention to hold Kiyoomi down as he ruts up into him, to keep him tight and warm right on his cock, not let him leave or move, not let him be anything but a loose body to fuck.
Kiyoomi can physically feel him get harder inside him, his walls adjusting to the velvety heat, turning him into someone he’s already been before. Atsumu cants his hips up, fucking into him fast and hard, his strokes just barely too shallow to hit that deep, precious spot.
Kiyoomi tries to keep the upper hand in this situation – but the feeling in his gut resembles desperation. “You should be glad I vacuumed earlier today. This is so filthy,” he laboriously gets out as he grinds deep, “I can’t believe I’m into this. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
“Filth?” Atsumu pants. There’s something in his voice that even he doesn’t recognize. He sinks a hand into Kiyoomi’s hair, and the next thrust brings tears to his eyes. “Is that what I am to ya? Filth, somethin’ ugly an’ worthless and disgustin’ that only exists so ya can clean it away?”
Kiyoomi wants to answer, but he can’t around the moans falling from his lips, so he just shakes his head, exasperation creeping into the haze in front of his eyes.
“Cause I sure feel like filth.” Atsumu’s tone takes on something ruthless.
They both halt, pulsing against each other.
“As if you’re better,” Kiyoomi bites out, “as if I’m not just a convenient hole to you.”
“But you don’t wanna be more than that,” Atsumu hisses, “so ye’re not. You don’t wanna be more than a hole, and I don’t wanna be more than filth, so I guess we’re perfectly fine as we are, huh?”
Kiyoomi’s chest is rising and falling with the erratic movements of his breath. “I guess we are, Miya. I guess we fucking are.”
Another buck of his hips. They both moan.
“I thought ya wouldn’t call me that.” He’s relentless, he’s merciless, he’s wrathful. He pounds into Kiyoomi like it is his last day on earth, like this is his last chance at bliss.
He hits his prostate dead on, and when Kiyoomi’s hands scramble to wrap around his hips, desperate to halt the deep punishing pace, Atsumu catches his wrists and slams them to the floor. “Say my name,” he insists, eyes flaming at a deep thrust.
And Kiyoomi can’t do anything but take it.
The base of Atsumu’s cock stretches his hole full, his own cock bobbing thick and heavy and drooling in the air as he bounces on Atsumu's lap. He needs to get off, he needs to come, and Atsumu is steadily propelling him towards the edge.
And just when he thinks he might taste it, might fall off that cliff and be left sated, Atsumu slows down to an agonizing grind. His cock is catching at his rim, dragging the pleasure out of him like thick honey, and it is not enough.
“I told ya ta say my name, Kiyoomi,” he grits out, his wide-blown eyes glinting darkly as he’s watching his own cock disappear into Kiyoomi’s sloppy, greedy hole. “Say it. Atsumu. I wanna hear ya say it.”
His fingers tighten around his wrists, nails almost digging into skin. And when he sinks back in deep, Kiyoomi might sob with relief.
The orgasm crashes down around them quickly, yet it doesn’t feel like release.
“Atsumu!”
He yells his name as he comes, a long sob as he convulses around the thick intrusion pounding inside him. His abs tremble, his balls pull tight – the knot in his belly is cleaved in half. Cum shoots out of him and splatters all over Atsumu’s abdomen like a mark, a silent claim of possession.
He can’t even bring himself to whine when Atsumu pulls out, too spent to do anything but slump back on top of Atsumu’s thighs and work through the last aftershocks of his orgasm. He blinks down at Atsumu, his lids heavy as he focuses his gaze on his past and present.
Atsumu’s hand blurs with how fast he’s jerking himself off, cock wet and shiny with lube, the tip swollen and red. Sweat is glistening on his twitching abs, his chest rising and falling with his laboured breath.
Kiyoomi licks his lips. “Atsumu,” he murmurs. His legs clench where he’s perched on top of him, too spent to help Atsumu in any way. “Come for me.”
That’s what does it in the end. Atsumu unloads all over his own chest, streaks of hot cum landing across his trembling belly and hardened nipples.
It mingles with Kiyoomi’s.
The room is silent save for their haggard gulps of breath.
Their eyes slip shut again. Heaviness sets into their bones.
And then, they stand out on the balcony and shiver in the breeze.
“Neither of us have said that this is a mistake yet.”
“No,” Kiyoomi quietly says, “but it probably is.”
“Probably.”
Kiyoomi raises his chin. “I want to do it again.”
And Atsumu can’t help himself, he laughs. It’s a hard one, a long one, one that punches the breath out of his lungs, that makes him double over until his chest heaves and his stomach aches. He takes his time to ride it out, and once the last of his amusement has tumbled out of him, he stills. He stays hunched over. Exhausted, void.
He doesn’t even have the energy to utter more than a weak whisper. “Fuck, me too.”
Silence.
“We can’t, though.”
Atsumu scoffs, more at the phrase and less at the implication behind it. “Why not?”
“Because we don’t work.”
“My cock was workin’ just fine.” Despite the defiance of his words, there’s none to be found in his inflection; because deep down he knows that Kiyoomi is right. Oh, how right he is.
“If I wanted a cock, I could fuck myself on a dildo. You’re Miya. And everything that comes with that.”
“Yeah, I’m Miya,” he drags out, tasting the syllables in his mouth. “And ye’re Sakusa. That’s kinda the point, ain’t it? I guess I could go out there and find some random guy willing to fuck me, but I … I … I’m here. I told’ya already that I haven’t slept with anyone else, and believe me,” he snorts, “not fer a lack of tryin’. But everythin’ … it’s just … different with ya, alright? With you, everything has always been so easy. Like I was s’pposed to do it. Don’t tell me that ya don’t feel the pull.”
“A divorce is stressful, Miya,” Kiyoomi croaks out, “I didn’t fucking like it. That’s why we can’t …” he motions with his hands, “… do this again. I don’t want to go through it.”
“But we won’t go through this again, because this won’t happen in the first place. We won’t fall in love, we won’t get married, we won’t divorce, we’ll just … have fun. Like we used to.”
“Like we used to,” Kiyoomi echoes.
“You remember how great it was at the beginning, don’t you? How exciting and fun? I want that back.” He raises his chin defiantly. “Fuck, I ain’t scared of admittin’ that. I want it back. I missed it. Being … wanted.” He clears his throat.
Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. “What are you, lonely?“
Atsumu frowns. “The fuck kinda question is that? Course I am.” He scoffs. “I don’t need to know if you are, I’ve seen yer bookshelf.”
Kiyoomi’s mouth drops open. “Those are respectable authors who have honed their craft and love what they’re doing, and you shouldn’t–“
“Yeah, yeah,” he waves him off. “I’m just sayin’, nobody who reads that many romance novels is happy with ‘is life.”
Kiyoomi clamps his mouth shut. “But you’re not offering romance,” he finally gets out.
Atsumu snorts. “Of course not, what do ya think? We both know how that turned out last time.”
“So what’s going to happen? Am I, your ex-husband, am I going to be your pity fuck? Or what? A … a hole you can call up whenever you feel like it?” He curls his lip. “Because you miss getting your dick wet?”
Atsumu shrugs. “Yeah.”
Kiyoomi stares out into the night. “You truly don’t have any self-respect, do you?”
Atsumu casts Kiyoomi a long, dark glance from the side. “And yet half an hour ago, you were suckin’ hickeys all over my neck. If I was you, I wouldn’t be too fast with my judgment here.” He turns to him fully, sudden vehemence locking in his eyes. “Stop pretendin’ ta be all high and mighty, why are ya surprised that I want that? That’s exactly how we started out!”
“That wasn’t exactly how we started out,” Kiyoomi snaps.
Atsumu blushes brightly and looks to the side. “You fuckin’ know what I mean,” he finally mutters. “When you signed with the Jackals, and ya told me this, you said you came into the locker room on the first day, and I’d been bending down to pick up something from the floor and my towel had slipped, so ya came in through the door and saw my glorious bare ass and thought oh fuck. That’s how it started.” He presses his lips together. “And I know that’s true, cause ya’ve told me!”
“I’d like think that it started when you came up to me in the shower after training and asked to fuck my thighs, you desperate, desperate little manchild,” Kiyoomi hisses.
“It started when ya came all over the wall,” Atsumu snarls, “and told me to scrub it off.”
“No, it started when you did.”
Atsumu yanks his face to the side, suddenly beet red. “Whatever,” he mutters.
Silence.
“It’s funny,” Kiyoomi carefully says after a pause has stretched on for uncomfortably long, “Today, it’s been exactly a year since we got married.”
“Is it?” Atsumu says and scrunches up his nose. “I didn’t even notice.”
He did.
One year with Omi!!!!! <3 had flashed on his phone screen first thing in the morning. He’d forgotten to delete the reminder that he’d put in his calendar the very night of the marriage, when their rings were still cold on their fingers and warm around their hearts, when he thought … he thought he’d have an entire year with his Omi.
It was a reminder of what he had once and what he’ll never have again, a reminder of something that he doesn’t even want anymore. He clears his throat.
It’s a reminder that it’s been time for him to go for too long. “Well,” he says, and pushes himself away from the railing. “I know the way out.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t look up. “You do.”