Work Text:
“In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”
—Albert Einstein
⸻
“Four years,” Hinata parrots, nearly dropping his glass of sake. “Four years? Are you serious, Sakusa?”
The rest of the table is… well, staring. At Kiyoomi. Which is an unpleasant feeling already, because he’s used to being on the other end of this look—the varying faces that denote sentiments like ‘I can’t believe you just said that’ and ‘you have to be an alien from a faraway galaxy’.
“Four years,” Kiyoomi mutters, tipping his glass to his lips to try and give his hands something to do. “It’s not a big deal.”
“And it’s not from lack of trying?” Bokuto chimes in, his cheeks pink with inebriation. “That’s hard to imagine, you know. Everyone assumed you got around.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t like the implications of what conversations led to this assumption, but he ignores it in favor for more sake. “Well, when you’re commuting home at eight and in bed by ten, it doesn’t leave much time for fooling around,” points out Kiyoomi. “I don’t like leaving work early. It ruins my routine.”
Somewhere beside him, Meian shrugs and goes for another bite of yakitori. “Weekends?”
Kiyoomi grimaces. “My routines are tighter on the weekend. I like things as they are. Every day, exactly as it should be—if casual sex doesn’t fit into it, it is what it is.”
More voices join the fray, and Atsumu watches wordlessly throughout all of it, his gaze unreadable. Kiyoomi only notices this because the conversation has grown almost violent in its nature, each attorney pitching in with their own increasingly absurd situation that becomes less about Kiyoomi as time goes on (which he appreciates) and more about starting inane arguments. They exchange glances, but Kiyoomi finds himself in a rare situation where he’s unable to parse what Atsumu is thinking.
The night goes on. When Atsumu stands to leave, he slips a note into Kiyoomi’s shirt. Kiyoomi tosses him a look of confusion and contempt as he digs through his blazer to try and find it, but Atsumu doesn’t look back.
I’ll be up all night. Text me if you need me.
Kiyoomi folds it promptly and shoves it deep into his pants pocket.
—
Kiyoomi - 1:53 AM
I’m outside.
The response is immediate, for it being two in the morning and storming. Every single deterrent Kiyoomi has faced on the way out of his house somehow hasn’t stopped him—the reminder that he’s supposed to be up by seven, the hot shower he takes at home that should have lulled him to sleep, the cup of hot chamomile tea, the cold metal of the zipper on the jacket he slips on to get into his car, the pelting rain as he stops outside of Atsumu’s apartment and climbs the stairs to his suite.
Atsumu - 1:53 AM
Coming
Well, it’s too late now. L'appel du vide, he supposes.
When the door opens, Atsumu says nothing. It’s another unsettling feeling, to see someone who is usually babbling something nonsensical staring at him with a heat that is smoldering in its intensity.
“I should go home,” Kiyoomi decides right then and there, looking away. “This is stu—”
They’re kissing.
It’s jarring, this specific circumstance from not kissing to kissing, but it’s not an unwelcome change—Kiyoomi kisses back as soon as he processes what’s happening. It’s what he’s here for, after all. He shuts out the harrowing whispers in the back of his head that dictate his everyday life, to go home, to shower, to relinquish himself to a system of monotony, and kisses back.
It’s sloppy and wet, a mess of tongues and teeth that flavor the otherwise dark nothing that populates Atsumu’s apartment in the dead of night as he’s brought inside and to Atsumu’s room, narrowly escaping death by crashing into the dinner table on the way.
“This is the worst fucking decision I’ll ever make,” Kiyoomi grimaces when they pull apart, panting. His voice breaks halfway or so through his last word because Atsumu reaches down straight into his pants and grips his dick, rock hard and leaking from arousal. How long has it been since someone touched him like this?
How long has it been since the hand belonged to someone as fucking atrociously attractive as Atsumu?
“And how many bad decisions has th’ shiny, golden star attorney of Ushijima Law made?” taunts Atsumu, laving at his collarbone like a man starved. “When’s the last time ya listened to your body? Your heart?”
Kiyoomi lets out an airy little breath, trying to pull Atsumu closer, trying to push him away, he doesn’t know anymore. “We aren’t twelve, idiot. We have—hah—responsibilities.”
“There’s responsibilities and fuckin’ killing yourself with work, Omi,” Atsumu snaps, and all of a sudden the tension bubbles into territory that sounds like anger, like concern, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with it until it’s seemingly channeled into another nip at his neck, a little more spirited than the last.
“Talk shit tomorrow,” Kiyoomi replies, gulping and letting his eyes flutter shut. “For now, just fuck me already.” The huff that Atsumu lets out is a mix of amused and defeated, but he’s on his knees in an instant—-there’s not much delay between him licking down the exposed flesh of his abdomen and unbuckling his pants. Kiyoomi’s too busy for foreplay, after all.
Atsumu presses a kiss to the wet patch growing on Kiyoomi’s boxers, and moans low at the fingers tangling into his hair. Atsumu pulls down the fabric in one quick motion and zeroes in on the cock that springs out immediately, the feral glint in his eyes even sharper than usual as he rolls the tip of his tongue up the shaft.
“Shit,” Kiyoomi groans, head hitting the bedroom wall. Atsumu hums a teasing note, engulfing more and more of his cock until his mouth closes over it, a greedy moan reverberating down his length.
Atsumu pops off for a breath, his cheek glistening with pre-cum as he slots himself right against Kiyoomi’s dick. “This is great ‘n all, but let’s take it to bed, yeah? I want to finger you until you cry.”
Kiyoomi nearly buckles at that. “Go, then,” he murmurs, and Atsumu is wordless and efficient in the way he rises to tug Kiyoomi to the bed, following his shuffle backwards like an apex predator on the prowl. Atsumu presses Kiyoomi’s chest down with one hand and slips a finger down to his hole with the other, enveloping his dick again in the warmth of his mouth, relishing the taste. Drool pools at his lips, and he slathers a heaping amount of it around Kiyoomi’s rim before pushing in with a finger, almost painful as it explores.
Just how Kiyoomi likes it. Atsumu will be the death of him.
The first finger already has Kiyoomi shaking, and it’s no surprise that adding another then one more leaves him winded in his pleasure. Atsumu scissors his fingers and strokes along his walls with an expertise that is maddening—Kiyoomi wants more, wants all of it, and he’s pulling Atsumu off his dick with a snapped “get on with it already” that brings the most awful grin to Atsumu’s face.
He’s flipped over in an instant—Atsumu’s clothes have disappeared somewhere along the journey, Kiyoomi is already too fucked dumb to narrow down the timeline—and then Atsumu’s dick is lining up with Kiyoomi’s entrance, his knees shaking as he tries to present himself properly for Atsumu. The slide in is a little rough, but Kiyoomi could care fucking less.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi cries, eyes squeezing shut. “Atsumu. You—move.”
“Knew ya’d like it rough,” Atsumu rasps, something in his voice hard but full of awe. “Ya need it hard, don’t ya, Omi? Need to be dicked down good?”
Kiyoomi whines, his voice wrecked. “Move, you dickhead.”
Atsumu acquiesces at last, but not with silence. His hips start slow, but once Kiyoomi makes it clear that it’s not enough, he’s rocking himself into Kiyoomi’s warmth with a speed that is mindnumbing.
“You must be so pent up, struttin’ around the office in your tight fuckin’ suits and watchin’ Shouyo come in with hickeys down his neck. Poor. Fuckin’. You,” Atsumu snarls, punctuating each word with a well-timed thrust. Kiyoomi lets out the first unbridled moan of the night, loud and choked as he falls apart under Atsumu’s care. “But you’ll be alright now, won’t ya? Now that ya have me to take care of ya, whenever you need?”
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi cries, fingers digging into the sheets. Sweat drenches his entire body, leaving him feeling heavy and used. “Stop—fuck—stop fucking talking.”
Atsumu’s body drops lower then, and a rough hand snakes under and up Kiyoomi’s body until it rests at his neck. It’s a momentary pause in the scene, and Kiyoomi only realizes then just how much chemistry lies between them—it’s a silent ask on Atsumu’s part, and Kiyoomi can only tremble and thrash in what he hopes is obvious enough of a silent reply that Atsumu can read.
He must be able to, because then Atsumu is tightening his grip, slowly slowly, fingers pressing crescents into the side of his neck as he laps at the shell of Kiyoomi’s ear, voice an echo. “I don’t think I will,” he says, somehow even as his hips slow and pick up pace again, just to torture Kiyoomi. “Think ya like it when I talk. When I put you in your place. Remind ya that not everyone can’t see through the wall ya put up to try ‘n hide the fact that you’re a massive slut.”
Oh, fuck, fuck fuckfuckfuck—Kiyoomi writhes at that, a squeaky sob falling from his lips as the delicious pressure at his neck and the thorough pounding that Atsumu is giving him and the other hand gripping his hip and inching towards his cock and the mouthing at his ear culminates into something fiery, hot, and explosive until it snaps, all at once.
Kiyoomi gasps for air as he falls to the mattress, dick kicking as streaks of white paint his stomach and transfer to the sheets. Atsumu’s hand falls away in a jerk, and Kiyoomi realizes he’s come untouched.
Holy fuck.
“Holy fuck,” Atsumu gasps, mirroring his thoughts. The digits on his neck loosen. “Jesus, Omi, you’re—can I—”
“Don’t you dare stop,” wheezes Kiyoomi, a sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he finds Atsumu’s hair, gripping and yanking as a plea to continue, stopping his retreat. “I want it. Come, Atsumu, and keep talking—”
Atsumu groans, hands readjusting on Kiyoomi’s waist and down to his hips again as he starts to move, driving himself into him over and over and over again. “Fuckin’... You’re so gorgeous, Omi, made ta take it—just a perfect fuckin’ pillow princess, aren’t ya?”
Kiyoomi clenches, the words sending a warm rush down his back. Whispered “yesyesyes”es and “Atsumu’s” follow that only work to spur him on further.
“I’m right there, shit,” Atsumu chokes, grip bruising as he nears his limit. “Can ya take it for me, Omi? I know ya can, this perfect fuckin’ body would look so good filled to the brim—”
“Please.” It’s barely a whimper. Kiyoomi is boneless as Atsumu spills into him, body hunching over as he tangles his fingers with Kiyoomi’s and falls on top of him. Their breathing is uneven until it’s not, until it’s one—the night becomes theirs. What a good horrible decision, Kiyoomi thinks mindlessly, and drifts off.
—
“Sakusa called off? No way,” Hinata shouts, dropping his file. “Toya, are you serious?”
“He got laid,” Motoya says solemnly. “It’s my cousin-tinglies.”
“I don’t think that’s something anyone would ever want to know about their cousin,” Meian deadpans, peeking out from his cubicle. “Hinata, pick that up. And stop yelling.”
Hinata listens, scrambling to recollect the papers strewn across the floor. “But you really think he got laid? By who?”
“I dunno. I don’t think he was out last night after we left the izakaya,” Motoya hums. “Maybe someone he knows?”
“We practically know everyone that he knows,” notes Shouyou. “He’s only at work.”
Motoya shrugs, his attention already elsewhere. “Well, maybe it’s someone at work then. I need to work on my—”
“Meian!”
A soft, but urgent voice filters through the office floor. Heads turn to see Inunaki in a slightly disheveled suit, eyebrows pulled together in a rare look of concern. He has a pile of folders in his arms, disorganized and decorated with sticky notes. “Miya called off today. Can you handle his case for the time being?”
Dead silence. Meian turns to Motoya. Hinata turns to Motoya.
Sighing, Motoya reaches for his phone.