Work Text:
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Kiyoomi paces in his living room, the heel of his left slipper cracked from all the stressing this week — had no time to replace it — and the coffee machine steadily gurgling out hot water over the filter,
Plink.
his study materials spread out on the desk in his living room, which is disturbing because that’s his dining table, but he had to migrate here because he needed to put the post-its on the wall and utilize a bigger surface to see the concept maps, textbooks and his laptop,
Plink.
and he already handled his Cognitive Neuroscience final this morning, glancing at the MRI scans and anatomical cross-sections taped to his wall — I should take those down — then, — well, they can wait until tomorrow — and only has one postponed lecture left, postponed way too late,
Plink.
but the professor was sick so this is the only time slot they could find; it’s no issue really, the lecture is in about an hour, the final’s in two days, and Kiyoomi’s already done with all his remaining coursework, but Atsumu was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago–
Plink.
Fucking hell, Kiyoomi’s going to rip the faucet apart with his bare hands if this consistent, unyielding–
Plink.
The door buzzes.
Kiyoomi almost trips over his feet rushing to it, breathless from the sleep deprivation, courtesy of the caffeine-induced mania of his morning and drip-drip-drip induced insomnia of the last two nights. He throws the door open with exasperation and–
Oh.
Atsumu’s cheeks are a bit flushed from the walk through campus on a too-hot early summer evening, a toolbox in his left hand, backpack slung over his shoulder, blond hair clearly freshly washed and styled, a dark blue t-shirt on him and…
Oh, those shorts.
Plink.
Momentarily the view is enough to make Kiyoomi forget about the dripping faucet, the dark gray sports material snug and somewhat stretched over Atsumu’s sculpted thighs, wrapped around the indentations of sunkissed skin and thick, shifting muscle fibers when Atsumu steps over the threshold, the toolkit in his hand clinking against the doorframe. The fabric on his left thigh shifts ever-so-slightly with Atsumu’s step, the matching compression shorts right beneath revealing tender flesh of his upper inner thigh where, if Kiyoomi bites hard enough, Atsumu cries into a pillow, begging to be fucked raw and senseless.
Oh, it’s been a while since they’ve done that.
Atsumu must have noticed the way Kiyoomi stands still, very still, because he glances up at him with a dangerous glint while toeing his shoes off in the genkan. “Should I come back when ya remember how to talk?”
“You’re late, Miya.” Kiyoomi’s voice is leveled, the images littering the insides of his eyelids a private show for him only. “I have a lecture in 53 minutes.”
“You’re welcome, Omi. No need to bow so low – might throw your back out.” Atsumu finally frees himself from his sneakers and unquestioningly slips into the guest slippers Kiyoomi set aside earlier. “Hadta sweet-talk the hardware store guy for some pieces not in stock. Took charm and ass. F’course, if you asked real nice, I’d’ve come sooner.”
“If I wanted charm, I would’ve called your brother.”
"He's got charm, yeah, 's a Miya alright. But he don't suck an’ talk you through the edge like I do now, does he?" Atsumu’s lopsided grin reveals his canine.
Kiyoomi opens his mouth to respond but Atsumu hears the plink in the momentary silence, turning his tilted head towards the kitchen, and Kiyoomi’s gaze fixates on the thick column of muscle on Atsumu’s neck flexing with the movement, a fine sheer layer of sweat glinting under the fluorescent lighting of the genkan. Salty, Kiyoomi thinks, if he were to bury his teeth into it.
A voice, maybe the sole remaining voice of clarity and self-control, clears his throat in his head, and Kiyoomi’s gaze snaps back at Atsumu in an instant as he decides to ignore that last comment for the very few prevailing threads of his sanity. “It’s the kitchen sink.”
“Why didn’tcha turn off the main valve?” Atsumu struts into the kitchen, – did he do legs today? how are they so defined during finals week if not?– setting the toolkit on the countertop where Kiyoomi sacrificed a mug first, then layers of dishtowels.
“I needed running water like most people,” Kiyoomi replies. He’s not in the mood to explain to Atsumu the deep cleaning to ease high stress levels.
Atsumu opens the cabinet under the sink and places the toolkit next to it. Crouching down, he reaches for the tap and turns it on, watching the underside of the faucet to see something Kiyoomi doesn’t understand, then pushes it closed again. “During the night, I meant.”
He leans forward to fiddle with a plastic bit in the pipework, one whole athlete balanced on his toes with legs spread, and Kiyoomi’s eyes follow the shorts trailing up, stretching over Atsumu’s cheeks. To his great dismay Atsumu grunts, placing one, then two knees down to reach further deeper into the plumbing, one palm planted on the bottom framing of the cabinet for balance and leverage and another trying to undo something stuck, groaning with the grip strength it takes. Kiyoomi’s eyes follow the seam: hiking up, up over the clean, taut columns of his hamstrings, three distinct bands of muscle threading down from under his glutes and dipping into the crevice of his knees, and Atsumu arches his back — now, he’s doing this specifically to piss Kiyoomi off for not letting him into his flat during his entire three-week shutdown of studying for finals, but it’s fucking working — and he wonders which ridiculous pair of boxers he wore this time: the penguins or the koalas? Sometimes on specifically energized days Atsumu does pick the one with lemons. But there’s no visible sign of elastic around his waist below the shorts, and no hem rolling under the too-loose compression shorts hiking higher up, and a low coil of tension forms in Kiyoomi’s stomach with a slight possibility of something he’s too dry-mouthed to name.
There definitely isn’t enough depth in that cabinet that would require Atsumu to reach with both hands and put that nasty arch into the small of his back, but finally the shorts fit so snugly around and between Atsumu’s ass cheeks that Kiyoomi can see his muscles flexing and the faint pubic hair visible from where he stands. His grip on the doorframe goes white-knuckled as Atsumu, unbeknownst to him, actually proves he’s doing something other than looking like a fucktoy Kiyoomi would like to annihilate this very second, and triumphantly pulls out a broken piece of rubber that’s clearly supposed to be a full circle. “Kay. At least I guessed the problem right. Canya turn off the main valv– Omi?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t know what his face looks like, but he can feel heat on his cheeks. He abruptly turns on his heels to find the valve hidden in the bathroom and turn it off with more force than needed.
When he’s back, the satisfied shit-eating grin on Atsumu’s face is left unacknowledged and unanswered. Atsumu grins only wider, reaching for the tap again. The remaining water in the pipe first spits steadily, then slowly chokes, dying with a hiss of air, and then it falls quiet for the first time in two days. Kiyoomi lets out an exhale he didn’t know was hidden in his chest. Atsumu chuckles as the faucet wobbles at the base under his hand, its seal dislodged. He leans over to the toolbox, withdrawing a few bags of hardware and rips two of them open. “Careful, Omi. If ya keep eye-fucking me like that, yer gonna owe me dinner soon.”
It surely doesn’t help that high stress levels have always made Kiyoomi more impulsive and hence, way more sexually charged than normal. And it doesn’t help that he banned Atsumu from the house because there’s no way Kiyoomi will focus on unyielding blocks of anatomical terminology while Atsumu crawls under the desk just to see Kiyoomi crumble under his heavy, warm tongue and revel in cruel triumph. An arrangement that semi-regularly occupied a good chunk of their weeknights stopped for Kiyoomi’s academic wellbeing, and for the stupid, gorgeous college athlete Atsumu it meant little more than not getting dicked down for three weeks now.
It was a necessary inconvenience, yet Kiyoomi can feel his forcefully suppressed appetite slowly stirring back to life in his guts. Unfortunately for him, the unsubtle victory in Atsumu’s expression says this was part of the plan, and Kiyoomi hardly suppresses a sigh. Just when he thinks he’s hit rock bottom, he wants to fuck this fake blond until he forgets anything other than broken syllables of Kiyoomi’s name, again.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
Atsumu doesn’t even look up. “Ya called me instead of a plumber, didn’t ya?”
“It was either that or wait three more days for maintenance.”
“And we both know how well you handle waitin’ on things you don’t like,” Atsumu says with a gleeful tone. “Ever the picture of patience, Omi-Omi.”
“I’m patient,” Kiyoomi responds dryly.
“Sure. And I’m a Nobel Prize winner in leaky faucet theory.”
“You already wanted to come over after your finals,” Kiyoomi states.
“Mm-hm. And here I was, thinking I was allowed to come over because I take ya so well, not ‘cause I’m the only one in the team groupchat who knows how to fix pipes.”
Kiyoomi’s breath hitches for a moment as he remembers a vivid snapshot of Atsumu’s eyes rolled back, tongue out for Kiyoomi’s hungry fingers, begging Kiyoomi to give it to him, promising he’ll be good, tears and saliva mixed, a wet, relentless, squelching rhythm in their hips. He shakes his head to fend off the image and begrudgingly acknowledges that his body’s whining it’s been too long.
Kiyoomi exhales through his nose. This is the thing with Atsumu – every tease, every jab accompanied by imagery of desires of the flesh, both imagined and realized, threatening to snap a wire pulled too tight. The tension’s not new, not unfamiliar in any way. It’s been simmering in Kiyoomi’s groin since the first time he met the setter in their college volleyball team. But it’s certainly at a special worst.
“Still not answering, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says through a grin, muffled from under the sink, undoing something with a wrench.
“Finish the repair, Miya.”
“Oh, I will.” Kiyoomi can feel Atsumu’s smirk from where he’s standing. “Bet you missed seeing me on my knees.”
“I like it when you’re useful.”
“I am being useful. You’re hard already.”
Fucking— Kiyoomi could have anyone. He could have wanted anyone. And yet, here, an unbearable, cocky brat who manages to get on all of Kiyoomi’s taut nerves is what he finally chose.
To make matters worse, the aforementioned brat is also disconcertingly observant when it serves his own pleasure, and their arrangement says Kiyoomi’s that object of pleasure now.
But Kiyoomi would lick his doormat rather than ever admitting that Miya Atsumu, of all people, has analytical interpersonal skills that make Kiyoomi uncomfortable.
“You’re the one dressed like a porn star,” he responds instead, barely keeping his composure. “You walked through the campus with those?”
“What, didn’t like ‘em? Last I remember, you were takin’em off with yer teeth.”
“Walking in public with no underwear never was a prerequisite.”
Atsumu chuckles before responding but his inhale is interrupted as a wretched crack echoes through the kitchen and water squirts out of a hose. Atsumu yelps and then mutters profanities under his breath. “Not the fucking pipe too— ancient ass plastic is of course gonna– Omi, the towel–”
Kiyoomi leans in to hand it over as Atsumu withdraws from under the sink, the front of his shirt soaked with a spray that hit him on the chin. “Fucking leftover pressure. Anyway. Won’t happen again.”
And, unsurprisingly, he swiftly takes the soaked t-shirt off.
“You’ll catch a cold,” Kiyoomi says despite himself, trying his best not to stare at Atsumu’s back. He knows how his bloodied scratches look on that wide plane of tanned skin.
Atsumu slants an unimpressed look at him. “That’s ‘cause yer blastin’ that AC again. What’s it set to, 15 degrees?”
“18,” Kiyoomi corrects him under his breath, turning away to retrieve the sweatshirt hung behind his chair — Atsumu’s anyway — and brings it over to him. “I’m not taking care of you if you catch a cold.”
“On the counter,” Atsumu orders. “This thing’s a hazard. Lemme fix it first.”
Then, as Kiyoomi leans on the doorframe to watch him work, Atsumu slowly dismantles the nuts holding the pipes together, removing a pipe and other unidentifiable units within it, one at a time. The adjustable wrench clicks and clicks, glinting in the relative darkness of the cabinet, Atsumu’s hands wet and sliding over the slippery chrome, a slick pop as the final piece of plastic comes off the system.
“Yep. Worn rubber. Cracked on the edge— see?” He flicks the rubber edge flaking apart under the flick of his thumb.
Kiyoomi keeps quiet, watching him.
Atsumu reaches for a bigger plastic bag, a kit of some sort, and picks out another O ring, fits it onto the stem of the metal cartridge and starts to reassemble. He replaces part of the pipes too, the one he broke, Kiyoomi assumes. Then some teflon tape, some rough slapping of pipes to settle them into place, and he wipes his hands on the towel on his thigh, leaning back. “Turn on the valve for me?”
Kiyoomi hears the water hissing through the pipes from the bathroom and then a clean stream flows into his sink, steady and obedient, and as he steps back into the kitchen Atsumu turns the tap off. The water stops, clean as a blade.
No drip. No gurgling. Just silence.
“There,” Atsumu says, shoulders relaxing as he takes one more measured look at the plumbing.
Kiyoomi steps closer, careful as if touching the sink any harder than absolutely gentle will bring back the problem, turns it on, and then listens to the quiet when he turns it back off.
“Nobel Prize, remember?” Atsumu lifts his head with a grin. “I’m a natural.”
“You’re half-naked and two steps away from pneumonia.”
“Occupational hazard.” Atsumu rises to his feet slowly, testing out the remaining power in his thighs from his poorly-formed position under the sink. “I’ll receive your thanks now.”
“I gave you a sweatshirt,” Kiyoomi reminds him.
Atsumu pulls it off the counter as if he just now remembered he’s wet, flushed and half-naked in Kiyoomi’s purposefully very cool flat, but pauses with the sweatshirt just over his shoulders and a glint in his eye. “Still starin’, huh? What about m’dinner?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t deny it. With the haunting drip and the near-future possibility of it returning gone, he lets his gaze skip over Atsumu’s shoulders, taking in the dips between the fibers of his deltoids, skating over to his pecs – nipples perky already – and then down to the happy trail dipping low into the shorts so ridiculously tiny that Atsumu might be better off without them.
“You just never know when to shut up,” Kiyoomi murmurs, low, before he closes the distance between them and kisses Atsumu.
It’s rough at first. Not angry, just impatient and hungry, an overstretched rubber band finally snapping back into shape. Atsumu makes a soft, surprised sound at the back of his throat before he groans with relief and pulls Kiyoomi in, the sweatshirt forgotten half-worn on his shoulders with only Atsumu’s arms in the right place and the rest of the fabric bundled on his chest. Kiyoomi pushes him flush against the countertop, hands snaking their way around Atsumu’s waist — still damp and warm — panting through his nose at the finally singing in his bones.
They’ve kissed many times, under many conditions and painted by many different emotions, frustrated after one of them riled the other into either punching a wall or fucking the instigator, vicious after a loss against a team they wouldn’t even consider true rivals, rushed during late fall when their calendars were littered with assignments, practice and quizzes; vengeful especially that one time Atsumu fucked another teammate just to show Kiyoomi he could and many following that — Kiyoomi knows how Atsumu tastes stained with sentiment, hatred, submission, sin for the sheer joy of its punishment, and yet this is one of their rarer combinations: impatient, gluttonous, though lacking its bite.
Atsumu tangles his hands in Kiyoomi’s curls, one leg instinctively rising to wrap itself around Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi helps him up on the kitchen island, though snaps him back towards himself when Atsumu ends up too far. His skin is exposed and flushed under Kiyoomi’s knowing hands, back arching, helplessly pushing his own dick against Kiyoomi’s stomach in search of any friction, a whimpering exhale when Kiyoomi rocks his hips forward and grants him some relief — not out of kindness, but out of the same urgency that consumes them both.
Kiyoomi draws back to take a look at Atsumu, to memorize this expression no matter how many times he’s seen it: the blush riding high on Atsumu’s cheek, spit-shiny bottom lip dark cherry from being bitten, eyes a bit glossy but still unacceptably focused.
Kiyoomi checks his watch, then takes a second for mental math. “Stay here.”
“In my bag,” Atsumu says through his panting.
“You knew.” Kiyoomi’s voice doesn’t come out as accusatory as he needs it to. He feels breathless.
“That you wouldn’t be able to stop? As you said, I walked through campus with these,” Atsumu reminds him with a cocksure grin and eyes hooded with desire. “Yer too smart a man to let that go to waste. I had faith in ya.”
“Whore,” Kiyoomi grits out as he leaves the condoms and fishes out the lube from Atsumu’s otherwise almost empty backpack.
Atsumu raises his chin for another kiss, but Kiyoomi’s hand instinctively grabs and tilts his head forcefully as he nestles himself between Atsumu’s legs and his teeth into his neck. Atsumu’s exhale dies in his throat, garbled and choked, as his hips reflexively grind onto Kiyoomi and his neck opening itself up even more under Kiyoomi’s mouth. The dragged out whimper’s echoes vibrate under Kiyoomi’s lips.
Ah, to watch Miya Atsumu blossom under pain.
It’s a sight Kiyoomi never managed to get used to, despite Atsumu’s body unraveling and exposing more of that vulnerable flesh every time Kiyoomi’s violent towards it. Kiyoomi sucks the damp, warm pulse on Atsumu’s neck, thump, thump, thump under his mouth, a full-bodied and lively staccato, way faster than it usually is. Atsumu’s whimper is dragged out, fractured, and that’s how Kiyoomi knows he’s formed a bruise. His setter grinds hopelessly against him, a helpless whine tumbling from his throat, and Kiyoomi lets his skin go with a wet pop. Not enough though, never enough of this boy, and Kiyoomi takes it upon himself to mark him from the soft skin beneath his ear down to his collarbone, meticulous handiwork.
Atsumu’s nails dig into his back beneath Kiyoomi’s shirt as the blond boy tries to draw him impossibly closer, thighs trapping Kiyoomi into a tight circle he’s not intending to escape anytime soon. A quick glance at the kitchen clock. 24 minutes.
Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu with a quick jerk of his hand onto the countertop of the kitchen island. Atsumu’s back arches with a hiss through his teeth when his overheated body comes in contact with the cool marble, hips still grinding against Kiyoomi.
“Fifty-three minutes until my lecture and you show up dressed like this,” Kiyoomi growls. “This is how you show up to fix sinks now? In heat?”
Atsumu breathlessly laughs — or, tries to — as Kiyoomi toys with the hem of his shorts. “If you hate’em so much, why’re yer hands shaking?”
Kiyoomi’s lips press into a line, brow inching closer to his hairline at the audacity, knowing full well the trap he’s walking into. “Careful, Atsumu. You might just get what you’re begging for.”
The sick pleasure of knowing the effect Atsumu’s name rolling off his tongue has on the man is another thing Kiyoomi’s never managed to get used to. Atsumu’s head rolls back as his body visibly responds to the name, a grunt escaping his throat. Kiyoomi hooks his fingers under the hem and rolls down the shorts, though he leaves them stretched over Atsumu’s knees right in front of Kiyoomi’s chest. Lacking the patience with which he started this now, he unzips his pants and leans over the countertop to get the lube, spreading the cool gel over his fingers and decidedly ignores Atsumu’s already leaking cock bobbing against his stomach with a slap.
Atsumu, the good boy he is, knows he’s not allowed to touch himself like that.
Which makes it all the more grimly joyful when Kiyoomi inserts two fingers, scissors, then three, squelch, squelch, squelch, Atsumu’s insides warm and velvety and so welcoming. “Stretched yourself ahead of time, huh? That hungry for dick?”
“Yer not?” Atsumu breathes, still stubborn to fight Kiyoomi even while his eyes are getting glossier by the second. “Tell me ya haven’t waited for this the entire last week too.”
“You know I don’t enjoy lying,” Kiyoomi says with a small smile.
“Liar,” Atsumu chuckles breathlessly, but a starved snarl interrupts it when Kiyoomi curls his fingers. “Oh, fuck, please, will ya fuck me already?”
“I was waiting for you to remember your magic word, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says with a coy smile, too sweet not to be poisonous, and sets his eyes on Atsumu’s face as he lines himself up and pushes himself in.
Atsumu’s mouth parts softly as he pants, eyes screwed shut and focused on experiencing everything Kiyoomi’s doing to him on this cool countertop, sweatshirt still covering his arms and shoulders only and shorts dragged down in a rush, his dick flushed and already small strings of iridescent precome on his straining abs.
Ah, to watch Miya Atsumu get so beautifully undone by the first stroke.
Kiyoomi takes his time with the slow but steady push, focus unwavering to catch every fleeting expression on Atsumu’s face in the mere seconds it takes, inch after inch. Atsumu’s brows furrow as Kiyoomi moves deeper inside him, mouth hung open now as despair takes over Atsumu’s expression, that hunger Kiyoomi knows too well, the brokenness when Atsumu tries to describe the so full, Omi, flowing within his veins. Kiyoomi can’t help the groan rumbling through his own chest when he’s fully inside Atsumu, though, not when he’s buried to the hilt, enveloped whole with fire after what felt like forever. Atsumu lets out a gutted sound, involuntarily clenching around Kiyoomi already, enjoying the pause of being fully intertwined after too long.
Neither of them move for an eternal moment, savoring the heat and contact.
Then Kiyoomi pulls out, slowly, still fixated on the miniscule contractions of Atsumu’s jaw, and slowly works his way back inside, and again, and again, and again.
His grip on Atsumu’s thighs tightens as he lets his body catch the rhythm it craves. His body moves to remind the blond boy who’s the only person allowed to take him like this, who wrecks him viciously enough, who gets to claim him in his most open, aching and filled state — who-
“Missed being yours,” Atsumu moans deliriously, nails digging into Kiyoomi’s wrists where they’re slightly exposed from his sweater. “Ugh, nobody even– comes close to this-”
“Then stop trying others,” Kiyoomi snaps, a bit breathless himself from the dizzying hunger he feels even as he fucks sense into Atsumu.
“Not my fault– ya left me– un–supervised, Omi– ah–” Atsumu’s eyes deliciously roll back in his head as Kiyoomi lifts his thighs towards his own shoulders and pistons into him from a more vulnerable angle. His fingertips will surely bruise. Maybe that will relay the message to the next person who sees them.
“Fight all you want sweetheart, you always come back to me.”
Atsumu doesn’t argue with that. He just lies there, breathless and trembling, stretched wide and entirely full, receiving everything Kiyoomi dishes out to him with nothing but gratitude. Kiyoomi feels a rabid grin take over his face when Atsumu raises his eyes to him, twitching and glassy-eyed, mouth open where no words could help him. Something in Kiyoomi’s brain snaps in half at the lost gaze on Atsumu’s face, and he pulls back enough to simply turn Atsumu over on the counter like he weighs nothing, and manically drinks in the full body shudder that rattles Atsumu’s spine when his flushed up chest hits the cold marble.
Kiyoomi lines himself up once more, but takes no time to split Atsumu wide open this time, his hand grabbing a fistful of the dirty blond hair to raise his head off the countertop. “Now, doll, stop lying to me. You haven’t fucked anyone else.”
Atsumu’s body, ever so sensitive, shivers once more at the hot breath in his ear. “I– I– ah– Omi– didn–”
“Use your words, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi chuckles into Atsumu’s ear as with a growl that always leaves Atsumu wordless and slack-jawed. “Not so eloquent now, no? You were running that smart mouth just a moment ago.”
“I– hng– no, I didn’t–” Atsumu whimpers, wrecked, and tries again. “Didn’t see an–yone– else– Omi– please–”
“Do you even know what you’re begging for, now?” Kiyoomi hisses into his ear, hand letting Atsumu’s hair go only to pair up with the other and dig into his open mouth. Fingers hooked into his cheeks from both sides, Atsumu can only pant and gutturally moan, but their unspoken arrangement doesn’t run on a polite and understanding Kiyoomi. “What are you begging for now, my greedy slut? I’m already fucking you raw.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t need to see it to know Atsumu’s eyes are rolling back again, spit running down his fingers and Atsumu’s chin, unforgiving slaps of their hips echoing through the kitchen as he bites down on Atsumu’s back.
The bite mark he leaves on Atsumu’s back and the subsequent sob it draws out of Atsumu only darken the victory coiled low and deep in Kiyoomi’s gut, the unparalleled triumph of taming the loud-mouthed brat, even if momentarily — he’s willing to push that rock up the hill for however long necessary. He leans over to mark another spot, but only after murmuring against the unbroken skin, “Tell me what you want, Atsumu, and I might just give it to you.”
Atsumu tries to form words around Kiyoomi’s fingers stretching his mouth open, garbled and too close to only the broken syllables of Kiyoomi’s name, so Kiyoomi withdraws his fingers with deranged joy, and grabs another fistful of hair. “Didn’t quite make it, doll. Try again.”
“C’m-ng on– yer dick–” Atsumu chokes on his next breath, coughing and inhaling loud gulps of air. “Omi, pl’se, can I– can I–”
Kiyoomi patiently waits for words to catch up with Atsumu, and though Atsumu’s stutters are way more telling, of course he waits — watching Atsumu struggle with breathing while Kiyoomi ruins him is half the pleasure.
“C’n I pl’ase come– on yer dick– Omi, Omi–please-” Atsumu breathes out with obvious trouble at keeping his words together, but it’s enough for now — they’re tight on time anyway.
“Why didn’t you ask sooner, sweetheart?” Kiyoomi smiles into Atsumu’s ear, snaking his hands around his torso and under the bundled up sweatshirt instead to roll his nipples between his fingers — a body so sensitive to even the regular stimuli but unbearably so at pain that it makes Kiyoomi’s brain short-circuit — and Atsumu throws his head back with a noise too close to a howl, and Kiyoomi’s thighs tense up in warning, but he’s never been one to leave things halfway.
He mercilessly rolls Atsumu’s nipples between his fingers, pinching with his nails and then the pads of his fingers to roll out the pain, each pinch sending jolts through Atsumu’s boneless figure as Kiyoomi can hear quiet sobs of terrifying levels of pain and pleasure mixed. Oh, to render the proud, obnoxious jock to a crying, salivating mess begging to come for Kiyoomi only — Kiyoomi knows very well why he can’t give this up despite every logical argument taking place in the higher levels of his cognition.
The way Atsumu’s built and toned frame goes slack under Kiyoomi’s breathy insults and commands cannot ever be understood, explained or countered by words of reason — that realm is much darker, deeper than where the final strands of sense and sanity can ever reach. And with that darkness Kiyoomi sucks more bruises onto Atsumu’s bare shoulders and back, fucking him at a rhythm that confuses his own body by the severity of its devastating pleasure, and harasses Atsumu’s nipples until he hears the telltale stutter and feels Atsumu’s muscles jolting the way they do when–
“Omi, Om–I’m g’nna– Omi,” Atsumu whimpers, panting and undone in every way that matters, “Omi– Omi– ah–”
Kiyoomi’s thankful Atsumu’s earlier, because his delirious state of vocabulary-consisting-of-one-name would be borderline lethal for any sane person with passable vision and hearing, but it’s devastation carved into flesh and blood under Kiyoomi’s immovable focus on his toy beneath him. Kiyoomi bites into one last mouthful of Atsumu near his damp neck, a gutted groan shaking his entire torso as he comes into Atsumu, hell-hot and trembling and ruined, growling into the marble beneath him as he sobs through his own release.
They rest against the countertop, shattered and intertwined together in a mess of skin and heat, Kiyoomi’s mind swimming in thick haze where his forehead is buried at the nape of Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu’s hand rests on his hipbone where he dug his fingers in to hold onto anything, something, now slack while he breathes deeply against Kiyoomi’s steadily rising and falling chest.
“I keep forgettin’ how intense this gets,” Atsumu mumbles from beneath him, then with a loud slurp wipes his mouth on Kiyoomi’s countertop. Kiyoomi groans.
Of all people, Miya fucking Atsumu.
But he can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t. “I should remind you more often, then.”
✵
An alarm rings from the living room, a soft chiming sound. Kiyoomi groans on top of Atsumu, the reverberation traveling through Atsumu’s loose body. “What’s’it for, medicine or somethin’?”
“5 minutes until my lecture,” Kiyoomi groans again. “I need to log in.”
“Jeez,” Atsumu exhales, though there’s no heat behind his words. His bones are jelly. “Ya serious? How’s a lecture mandatory during final’s week?”
Kiyoomi removes himself from Atsumu, abandoning him to breathe damply on the marble countertop. “The professor was sick at the scheduled time. This is the only slot he could find.”
Atsumu hears the sink running in the bathroom, a long minute of thorough scrubbing and rinsing, then the mute thud of the tap pushed back down. There’s no sound of the trash can opening and closing, though. Kiyoomi’s slippers pitter-patter from far, then near, then further into the living room, and then the plastic click to turn on the laptop, the fan whirring into life. Kiyoomi drinks something, the delicate cling of glass against his tapping nail, and then it’s settled firmly onto the desk.
All while Atsumu lays on the countertop with a pool of his own come under his stomach and Kiyoomi’s running down his thigh. It’s not his highest point in life, but fuck him sideways if he has an ounce of energy to move.
Wait. Kiyoomi’s running down his thigh?
I’m already fucking you raw.
Kiyoomi’s footsteps approach the kitchen again, but instead of getting farther, he ends up next to Atsumu. After a rustling of paper towel and the crisp sound of it ripping, he hears Kiyoomi speaking into his ear. “Clean up.”
“Raw?” Atsumu groans into the marble.
Kiyoomi pauses for a second, possibly in quiet question, and then shifts his weight to his other foot. “Ah, yes.”
“T’s a first,” Atsumu mumbles. “What made ya change yer mind?”
“You’re welcome. You can even keep it if you can get a grip on your promiscuity.”
“That’s why you asked for that blood test.” Atsumu groans again as he lifts himself from the countertop, the come sticky against his stomach and his muscles begging for a 12-hour quick nap, accepts the stack of tissues and starts wiping himself.
“Not you,” Kiyoomi interrupts. Of course he’s going to force him to shower. Asshole. “Just wipe the counter. I’ll pour bleach on it to sit for a while.”
Atsumu doesn’t have it in him to argue but removes the rough splotch from his stomach the best he can anyway. He tosses the tissue into the trash and rips off some more, wiping down the come with paper towels first and wet wipes second. Kiyoomi’s zipped up again, brand new and pouring bleach onto the countertop, like he didn’t just—
“Yer serious,” Atsumu says, incredulous and offended and maybe a tiny bit whiny. “Only one round and yer just done?”
Kiyoomi puts the bleach back and walks over to the living room. “Final review of the elective. I’m not missing it because you can’t control your stamina.”
“My stamina?”
That earns Atsumu attention — brief and sharp and fleeting — for a moment before Kiyoomi takes a seat at his office chair rolled all the way to the dining table, clearly now substituting as an upgraded desk.
“Are you still hard?” Kiyoomi asks, slightly amused.
Atsumu can’t help the whine carrying itself to his voice. “Ya know I am, ya bastard.”
“Come, then,” Kiyoomi says, so unexpected that Atsumu almost misses the amused lilt to his tone, the same one he has whenever Atsumu walks into a trap. Kiyoomi pats his thigh. “Have a seat.”
Atsumu’s thighs still carry a ghost ache and he’s leaking, but he crosses the room anyway, half in a daze of being ushered onto Sakusa Kiyoomi’s lap and half with leftover desire. The way Kiyoomi turns the chair only leaves Atsumu space to sit back on his lap, and Kiyoomi wraps a steadying arm around his waist as soon as he does that. The computer dings and the screen changes to boxes of recipients’ names, some with video and some not. Kiyoomi does not turn his video on.
Atsumu smirks thinking how one button with a crossed out camera symbol stands between them and an unparalleled fiasco.
With another ding the professor starts sharing his screen. In bold, bright orange letters against an abhorrent blue background the title says Psychology of Personality: Final Review. Atsumu lets his head hang back, letting out an utterly defeated sigh.
Kiyoomi doesn’t even blink.
✵
“And let’s remember the personality disorders and their clusters,” the professor yaps on, on, on, endless drawling as Atsumu’s still seated on Kiyoomi’s lap, leaned back to inconvenience him the best he can. He grunts, staring at the ceiling. The last eight minutes of sitting on the most gorgeous wing spiker’s left thigh have not helped whatsoever with his still half-hard dick. Kiyoomi’s notes sound like short reminders from what Atsumu can tell, since they only take a few seconds to scrabble each.
Atsumu experimentally rocks his hips against Kiyoomi’s thigh, a wet spot beneath his ass already. Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “Sit still, Miya.”
“Naked and neglected on your lap? I’m only a man, Omi-kun.”
“Good things happen to those who wait.” Kiyoomi scribbles down another single-word-note that makes zero sense to Atsumu. “Try paying attention. You might accidentally learn something.”
Atsumu grunts, grinding on Kiyoomi’s thigh again, which helps the building heat in his groin but is not enough. With a frustrated groan he scoots backward on Kiyoomi’s lap, decisively opting to make this as uncomfortable for the spiker as it is for him.
Kiyoomi chokes down a moan from his throat.
Atsumu’s head incredulously snaps towards Kiyoomi but nothing. Nothing shows on his face. A brow raised, Atsumu rocks backward this time, and his breath hitches when he feels Kiyoomi hard through his trousers. Kiyoomi’s fingers on his ribs dig in as a warning. “Sit still, Miya.”
Atsumu bites his lip, heat crawling up his face, all his nerve endings aflame with that simple bodily acknowledgement of his presence on his spiker’s lap. The professor recaps what he calls clusters. Highlights an obviously arbitrary and imagined difference between schizoid and schizotypal. Then clears his throat and turns off screen sharing in lieu of switching between slides live, asking for a minute.
Kiyoomi nudges Atsumu’s shoulder. The dark spark in his eyes sinks directly into Atsumu’s stomach with anticipation, suddenly his breath stuck in his windpipe. “Stand up.”
Atsumu’s blush crawls further down his neck with how fast he obeys that command. Kiyoomi reaches over his laptop and fetches the lube bottle he apparently brought all the way here and unzips his pants.
Oh, god, he leaked through his boxers.
And he’s serious about hitting it raw.
Atsumu swallows, suddenly words very difficult to grasp and utter.
“Hand,” Kiyoomi mutters, voice even. He squeezes a generous dollop into Atsumu’s expectant palm and motions towards his cock.
Atsumu wordlessly reaches over and spreads the lube on it, his hand obedient and familiar in its rhythm and twist, but Kiyoomi stops him after his breath gets caught in his throat. “Turn around.”
Atsumu does, confused, but then Kiyoomi pulls him down, right into him, and–
The fullness is so sudden and relieving that Atsumu can’t help the way his back arches and his thighs tremble violently enough that he rattles the desk in front of them. His fingers warn with an ache and he forcibly lets his death grip on the desk loose. He lifts himself and lowers again with a lewd schlick where excess lube splashes from the impact at the base of Kiyoomi’s cock, but then both hands are on Atsumu’s waist, pinning him down.
“You’re not going to move, Atsumu.”
It’s almost Kiyoomi’s regular flat tone, but the strain makes it come out throaty, and Atsumu finds himself clenching around him. “Yer leaking precome inside me and tellin’ me ta sit still?”
“You’re so smart when you want to be,” Kiyoomi praises him, deadpan.
“Fucking hell,” Atsumu hisses as his body involuntarily tenses again, the slight repositioning of his hips sending a whimpering jolt through his entire body. “Don’t say shit like that when I can’t fuckin’ move. Why though?”
“I’d like something pretty to keep my cock warm,” Kiyoomi answers matter-of-factly.
Atsumu whimpers at the shame and electricity zapping through him.
Kiyoomi chuckles. Unfortunately for Atsumu, he feels the bounce in his cock deep inside his guts. “If you come from sitting still, I’ll make you clean the chair, Atsumu.”
“That a threat or a reward?”
“With your tongue.”
And that’s as good an answer as any.
✵
Kiyoomi’s laptop is filled with the yapper professor’s screen again, though his explanations about whatever fucked-up-flavor is muffled over Atsumu’s own heartbeat thumping in his ears and his shallow breathing. Kiyoomi’s chest rises and falls evenly although Atsumu knows he’s hard inside him, pen steady as he keeps scribbling down short reminders. His most recent one says psychopathy in sex: empathy.
Atsumu moves again, the shift minute enough to go unseen but unfortunately efficient enough to steal his breath from where Kiyoomi’s seated so deep inside him, rubbing against everything hidden and cursed.
“With every move you lessen the possibility of me fucking you into this desk after the lecture, Atsumu.”
It takes everything in him and some more not to grind and moan. “Ya wouldn’t.”
“You move again and you don’t see me for another three weeks. I’d strongly suggest you reconsider.”
Atsumu’s core tightens again, involuntary, and a disturbing string of precome drips down his dick. “I can’t… ‘m not doing it on purpose.”
“I can feel it nonetheless,” Kiyoomi reminds him.
“T’s just yer thick,” Atsumu objects breathlessly.
“You begged for it.”
“I begged for a second round,” Atsumu corrects him fervently, a groan trapped into his chest when Kiyoomi readjusts himself under him, purely evil. “Not this.”
“Oh, Atsumu, not that,” Kiyoomi chuckles softly, truly enjoying it now, gaze flickering momentarily from the screen to meet Atsumu’s. “Remember the day you came to me after fucking Bokuto? You had tears in your eyes asking me to fuck you like a true whore.”
Atsumu’s abs strain with an imagined punch to the gut, and fuck he’s clenching again around Kiyoomi’s girth. It comes back to him with the reminder… fucked out of his brains, blood shining in drops where Kiyoomi bit his thigh enough to break skin, still ruthlessly fucking him into the mattress. Atsumu had— yeah.
Kiyoomi doesn’t bully him into answering verbally this time, clearly satisfied with the expression on his face.
But of course it’d be too naive to believe he’d let Atsumu off the hook so easily. “That’s also the night you begged me to come inside you so many times that it’d leak down to your ankles until you made your walk of shame to your dorms. I’m just fulfilling a wish, you greedy slut. Isn’t this what you wanted? To be filled with me?”
God. Atsumu’s going to die.
He’s going to die, all his fantasies seen, realized, and used against him by frustratingly beautiful and breathtakingly cruel Sakusa Kiyoomi who stares at the screen like he’s way more invested in personality disorders than Atsumu leaking and panting. Like Atsumu truly is just an object to keep his cock warm.
Oh, he’d be happy to die here.
“...are more likely to practice emotionally detached sex, more likely to showcase high-risk behavior with coercion fantasies much more common in comparison to the general population,” the professor drawls in the stunned silence, his artificial red laser encircling the spots he highlighted on the slides. “Now, when we juxtapose the features of the dark triad, narcissism and psychopathy do overlap with their severe lack of empathy, but for the narcissist sex is a validation-seeking and performance oriented activity, whereas the psychopath’s reasons are mainly impulse and thrill-seeking. You can be tested on that differential.”
Kiyoomi jots down another note. Atsumu fixes his eyes on the screen so as to not move.
“Wonder who’s the psychopath in this room,” Atsumu mutters, breathless, anything to distract him from the urge to jump up and down.
Kiyoomi huffs out a small laugh. What that does to his abs, cock, and then to Atsumu’s insides clearly doesn’t interest him, but his fingertips dig a bit deeper into Atsumu’s ribs anyway. Atsumu shifts again, trying to hide the tremor in his thighs. Kiyoomi doesn’t react, eyes fixated on the screen.
With each tantalizing second and minute and lifetime of sitting on Kiyoomi’s cock, so deep in Atsumu it threatens to tear a desperate, broken whimper loose from his chest, Atsumu finds his breathing simultaneously constricted and accelerating. Each nerve in his body feels exposed and oversensitive; the way Kiyoomi’s warmth seeps into his naked back through the sweater and his fingertips on Atsumu’s ribs keep him anchored to where he is, but his mind is swimming in an inexplicable haze of belonging. The stillness, as trembling as it is, is a stark reminder for Atsumu’s reduction to a mere object of pleasure, a plaything, but more importantly a plaything that serves Kiyoomi and satisfies him right, just enough to keep him still sheathed in Atsumu without a barrier between them. The warmth of something so intimate yet degrading blooms in Atsumu’s chest as they sit still, entangled in a way that steals his words and ability to express, only leaving despair to receive and experience in its wake. He’s naked on a fully clothed Kiyoomi in front of the laptop’s camera. If only a momentary mistake occurred and someone just– clicked it– and then the entire world could see how Kiyoomi’s Atsumu was, desperate enough to take his cock and sit through an entire lecture just so he can earn the privilege to be used to fulfill whatever desire Kiyoomi felt stirring inside him today–
Atsumu lets the slides flow in front of his eyes, the professor’s words in through one ear and out the other, his perception of the world slowly zeroing in on Kiyoomi’s dick inside him, fingertips on his ribs and the warmth on his back. As his focus only shifts from the slightly shuffling fingertips to his deep groan when Kiyoomi clears his throat, Kiyoomi reaches for the laptop to—
“What’re ya–”
Kiyoomi shifts forward in his seat, his dick rubbing a spot so right Atsumu sees sparks behind his eyelids and claps his palm over Atsumu’s hand as a whine escapes him.
“My apologies for not being able to turn my video on, professor,” Kiyoomi apologizes, tone slightly apologetic and formal. “I’m here, yes.”
The professor acknowledges him and keeps rattling off names to take attendance, but Kiyoomi’s palm presses harder into Atsumu’s face, inevitably arching him backwards with his head on his ace’s shoulder, every muscle hot and tense as his body fights remains torn between the urge to grind and move and sit still, be good—
Kiyoomi lets go of the hand over Atsumu’s mouth, hooks it under his far knee and reaches over to Atsumu’s nipple — the stretch in his unsuspecting hamstring makes Atsumu wince first, but the sudden new depth Kiyoomi reaches in this very exposed position drags a long, broken groan out of him.
“You take me so well I forget you’re a brat,” Kiyoomi breathes into his ear, fingers mercilessly rolling his oversensitive nipple over between them, the garbled sounds of dozens of students talking blurred in the background.
“How’r’ya so– fuckin – composed?” Atsumu hisses with quiet, desperate frustration, the heat pooling in his gut too close to electrifying after no less than forty minutes of torment.
“Because I own you.” Kiyoomi’s lip curls, smug, cruel and the most tantalizing thing Atsumu’s ever seen. “Remember who the psychopath is in this room.”
Atsumu finds himself staring at his mouth, his bottom lip protesting in pain from all the worrying and biting in efforts of self-restraint. The lecture ends with an unceremonious ding.
Kiyoomi’s free hand snakes down to exactly where Atsumu feels so tormented, filled, trapped — and he presses into Atsumu’s guts, drinking in Atsumu’s helpless sob and tears prickling his eyes again. “You feel that, Atsumu? Can you feel how deep I’m inside of you?”
Atsumu can only nod with a whimper, tears threatening to spill over his cheekbones, desperate for anything, anything, please–
Kiyoomi leans back in his chair for the first time, hips raising Atsumu off and then letting him plop down with gravity again, an electrocuting jolt through the spine, a depth Atsumu didn’t know was possible, fuck– “Omi– Omi I can’t– fuck, I can’t–”
Atsumu turns his head and buries it in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, teary-eyed and shuddering for mercy. A moment later Kiyoomi trails a finger over Atsumu’s oversensitive cock, circling the head, and Atsumu’s body almost lurches forward with the reflexive arch in his back which just– drives Kiyoomi deeper– “ Pl’se, don’t– I–”
“Please what?” Kiyoomi’s chuckle is cold, amused, everything that makes Atsumu’s knees weak. “Please fuck you? Please stop? Please let you come? You don’t even know anymore, do you?”
“God– fuck–” Atsumu rasps through clenched teeth, uncontrollable sobs rising from his chest. “Why’re ya– like this?”
“Like what, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi drawls with a smile, his shiny index finger tilting Atsumu’s chin up and away from his neck so he can look at him. “Do tell. I love watching you fight for basic vocabulary.”
“So– cruel–” Atsumu breathes, barely. “Mean– Omi–”
“But you like me cruel, sweetheart,” Kiyoomi smiles, tilting his head, too dangerous, too close, his breath fanning on Atsumu’s spit-wet lips. “You want someone to take you apart and keep you like that. Don’t you?”
Atsumu can’t even nod. Can’t even come up with a way to breathe steady, or focus on anything that isn’t Kiyoomi’s lips or his cock, a sick feeling of satisfaction sparkling deep in his gut at the way Kiyoomi’s gaze darkens on him. “Yer gonna ruin me.”
“That’s the idea,” Kiyoomi murmurs, and then leans in for a bruising kiss.
Atsumu lets Kiyoomi take from him whatever he so desires, a muffled moan dying between their lips as Kiyoomi’s graceful fingers wrap around Atsumu’s long-neglected cock, featherlight but steady in their up-and-down, the other hand harassing his nipple further. Kiyoomi finally, finally lets a moan out when Atsumu rocks his hips, hands digging into the thighs steadying him below, the overdue tension snapping like livewires through them both. Atsumu’s rewarded with a throaty groan when he rides Kiyoomi, softly, constricted in his ability to rock up and down where he’s arched backwards on his lap but dedicated to keep the friction going, dedicated to be useful.
Kiyoomi separates from him, slightly panting, and leans forward to snap the laptop closed, pushing it aside, then all but slams Atsumu onto the bare wood of the dining table. He thrusts into Atsumu with such ferocity that he can see the sparks behind his eyelids, jolts of electric in his skull, spine, everywhere his nerves reach, a hand grabbing another fistful and pulling his head so far back he’s facing Kiyoomi upside down.
“Nobody else gets to use you like this,” Kiyoomi growls, with tension in his jaw and a ravenous stare down at Atsumu with nothing less than total, unforgiving ownership. “You can fuck whoever you want, Miya, but your body remembers me. It always will.”
The overstretch in his neck and hair pulled to keep him stable through thrusts brutal enough to break Atsumu don’t help with the tears in his eyes at all – all Atsumu can do is to whine, pathetic and desperate, staring into Kiyoomi’s eyes, grateful for the punishment, reward, or whatever Kiyoomi would like this to be.
“Admit you’re mine,” Kiyoomi orders hoarsely, almost feverish. “Say it. Say it or I’ll stop.”
Atsumu lets out a sound that resembles a laugh, or a sob, something heartbroken and relieved, the words hissing through his throat. “I’m yours,” he gasps. “Fuck, Kiyoomi– you know this– ‘m yours– always have been–”
“Then act like it,” Kiyoomi snarls, letting go of Atsumu’s hair to more gently grab him from the front of his throat instead, leaning over to his ear before he buries his teeth into Atsumu’s neck. “Stay.”
Atsumu closes his eyes, tears trickling down his chin as Kiyoomi rams into him with equal parts precision and violence, knowing he would if he were ever genuinely asked. He lets Kiyoomi steadily tear him apart instead–
“Ya never asked,” Atsumu croaks, throat dry and the rest of his body rattling with overcomplicated pleasure and suffering.
Kiyoomi’s hips unexpectedly falter, slowing down and then removing himself, gentle in his movements for the first time when he flips Atsumu over again. He holds onto Atsumu’s waist to help him stabilize, pausing just in front of his face, both of them panting. His other hand softly cradles Atsumu’s cheek, his gaze laced with something Atsumu never pinpointed there before . Atsumu’s bottom lip trembles in anticipation for something he’s too afraid to name, but Kiyoomi leans in, so soft with his kiss that it catches Atsumu off-guard. He groans as Kiyoomi enters him again, still steady but gentle, focused, one hand around Atsumu’s dick, steadily stroking him.
“Let me fix that,” Kiyoomi murmurs onto his lips, kissing Atsumu with a determination toeing the line of devotion. “Come for me, baby.”
Atsumu lets his forehead rest on Kiyoomi’s, lets the pool of heat in his groin crawl through all his limbs and rattle the desk with its shudders, lets Kiyoomi take care of him with his hand on his waist and another around him, lets his body twitch until he–
“Omi,” he shudders, soft and breathless. “Omi, I–”
“So pretty,” Kiyoomi breathes into him. “Let go, Atsumu.”
Atsumu’s release ricochets through his torso, feels like some sort of exorcism, feels like free fall, but feels steady nonetheless with Kiyoomi’s pecks on his lips and the hand unyielding around his waist, then another teeth-rattling shudder as Kiyoomi moans, breathy and lost, “Atsumu– Atsu– ah–”
From so close, for the first time this close, Atsumu gets to witness the completely unguarded beauty of Kiyoomi’s brows furrowing, despair and pleasure carved into his sharp features, jaw going slack, his grip on Atsumu’s waist as if it serves to tether Kiyoomi to him rather than pin him down, an anchor, maybe, maybe not–
“So,” Kiyoomi pants against Atsumu after an eternity, foreheads pressed against each other, his hand still an anchor, prying his eyes open to meet Atsumu’s bewildered gaze. “Stay?”
An exhausted chuckle escapes Atsumu’s lips, bordering on a giggle, but he has no power left in him to talk. Staring at Kiyoomi’s softened dark eyes, all he can do is nod while laughing quietly.
✵
Sakusa K.
★★★★☆ Survived 170kg
Reviewed in Japan on July 12, 2017
This chair survived 170kg of athlete motion. Could be more comfortable, but impressive quality for the price. Will buy another for boyfriend.