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It had started so simply—innocently, even—all those years ago.
When Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi first met as teens across the court (one a loose-lipped, smarmy jerk; the other, a stick-up-his-ass blunt jerk), a tight coil of heat had seized around Kiyoomi’s heart, pleasant and painful at the same time.
Ah. A crush.
When Kiyoomi figured out what that hormonal urge to punch the Inarizaki setter in the mouth with his own mouth was, he had a grieving period.
The first stage was rage because how dare he ?
The second was a crushing disappointment that he could ever fall for a straight boy.
Because Miya Atsumu was, most definitely, a straight.
The screaming crowds of girls at Nationals, the way he strutted around the All Youth Intensive like a peacock… it all added up in Kiyoomi’s incredibly smart mind that this was a prime specimen of hetero male.
The final stage of grieving that this crush had befallen him was acceptance… packaged securely within an iron clad wall of indifference. No one would know his great shame.
And so, life had progressed for him. He'd graduated, started his life in university, and done very well academically, as well as athletically.
Sexually? Well… university was alright. He'd hooked up with a few guys, to varying degrees of success.
Some of the highlights included:
One from his biochemistry class, who washed his hands for 30 seconds every time. Those very clean hands still did not go anywhere near his asshole. Kiyoomi slapped his fingers away every time they started travelling due South.
Then there was the middle blocker of his team, who always wiped down the shower after he used it. Kiyoomi sucked him off in the stall under the shower spray, but then when it was his turn to receive, he floundered a little, blushing, red-faced, and over-thought every single thing as it happened.
There was even a mostly-fruitful one-night stand with a guy he picked up at an end-of-semester party and let attempt to top him. This backfired when the guy tried to stick it in, because Kiyoomi just could not relax enough for anything past the head of this guy’s dick to enter him. (So they switched; it was fine; they both got off, and he sent him on his way with cab fare.)
If you look at all of these cases, and many of the other cases Kiyoomi has to offer from his time exploring his sexuality, there’s a theme. Tension. The kind that comes from being the man Sakusa Kiyoomi is.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is a smart guy. Analytical. Persistent. Driven to a fault. This is a man who earned his degree in Sports Medicine (with honours) while not only playing collegiate volleyball, but playing the best collegiate volleyball.
He washes his hands for 20 seconds every time, wears a mask in crowded spaces and participates in the minimum amount of physical touch, all in the name of avoiding sickness—avoiding anything that could keep him back. This kind of strain is imperative to achieving the stars and beyond. He’s an incredibly logical young man.
Too bad there isn’t a logical explanation as to why Kiyoomi’s doing poppers in Miya Atsumu’s bathroom at 10AM on a Saturday.
A year ago, when he had first signed on with MSBY, and Atsumu had complained loudly in the locker room about the cost of going to a salon every 4-6 weeks for his roots touch-up, he had offered his services.
As the self-professed ‘most responsible’ member of the Jackals, Kiyoomi had argued bluntly and effectively that there was no one else for the job. Atsumu hadn’t taken much persuasion, most likely the promise of an easier schedule and less money, and since then, Kiyoomi has been tasked with helping Atsumu re-dye his roots.
There were no ulterior motives—it was simply sensible.
Except for the fact that helping Atsumu bleach his roots also gave him the bonus of running his gloved fingers through that hair.
It’s as close as he’ll allow himself, the smallest thread of indulgence.
And it’s fun. It’s easy. He feels this one thread of indulgence unspool something within him in the moments he has with Atsumu—tenfold when it’s the two of them. Sometimes that looks like being cooped up on the team bus travelling together and roommates at away-games, but when Kiyoomi's in Atsumu’s bathroom, guiding his head over the bathtub ledge and under the stream of water as he sits perched on the ledge itself, it’s especially nice.
They usually bicker over the water temperature, grinning all the while, or they trade stories about growing up, or something that happened at the grocery store the other day, but today, the topic somehow has turned to...
“What the hell ya mean, you've never done poppers?” Atsumu almost clangs his head on the faucet as he shoots his head up.
Kiyoomi, almost finished for the day, grabs his forehead and shoves him back into place as he works out the last of the toner.
“Exactly what it sounds like, Miya,” he grumbles with the faintest blush.
“But ya went to college? Aren’t ya suppos’d t’go to wild parties, experiment, and live yer life to the fullest or somethin’?” The words come out only a little garbled, as some water slips into Atsumu’s seemingly-always-open mouth.
Kiyoomi bites his lip and does not think about that very wide open mouth.
“Whatevs.”
Atsumu cocks his eyebrow, grinning sharply, “Wasn’t yer scene, was it? Too busy bein’ a nerd, weren’t ya?”
The tone would probably be called flirtatious if it wasn’t said by Miya Atsumu, a straight boy who would flirt with the moon, if given the opportunity.
“At least I’ll have a career after I retire, unlike some of us,” Kiyoomi says as he flicks the towel they always use for ‘dye day’ off the rack.
“Hey, I gotta plan!” Atsumu grabs the towel from Kiyoomi’s outstretched hand. “I’ll retire in my forties, then I’m gonna spend the rest of my days—”
“Living it up in Onigiri Miya, serving the little old ladies and making sweet tips. Yes, I remember.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, a mask of displeasure covering his fondness.
“So sweet, Omi-kun,” Atsumu drawls as he drops the towel around his shoulders, letting the wet blonde locks drip onto it. He fixes Kiyoomi with a look. “But fer real, if ya were too busy back then, we can always change that now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Poppers! I’ve got my own.” He raises his brows, hopefully. “We could… do them now, if ya want?”
Kiyoomi’s grave mistake is answering, with deep sarcasm, “Yeah, sure, Miya.”
Which prompts Atsumu, hair still stinging the air with fresh toner, to break into one of those wide-open smiles that serve as Kiyoomi’s greatest weakness. He springs to his feet with a hurried ‘ stay right where ya are, Omi! I think you’ll love it! ’ and sprints from the bathroom.
It was meant sarcastically, Kiyoomi thinks as he watches the bathroom door swinging shut behind his long-time crush as the sound of feet pound down the hall.
In what feels like the blink of an eye, he finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom, knees knocking with Atsumu, a little brown bottle sitting between them.
Kiyoomi looks between the little bottle and Atsumu, silence stretching out.
“Okay, now what?”
“Just, like, sniff it,” Atsumu says, and he ruffles the towel through his hair, making the platinum locks stick out from all ends. He looks unfairly appetizing.
“Ugh.” Kiyoomi reaches forward and wraps his long, dexterous fingers around the tiny bottle, uncapping it and lifting it to his face. He pauses to feel the swoop in his stomach.
Warm, lightly-tanned hands wrap around his own.
“Yer shakin’.” Atsumu’s voice is soft in the space between them.
“Yeah, obvs, I’m nervous as shit.” It has nothing to do with those hands, damp from a used towel and maybe a little bit of sweat; it is pretty hot in here.
“You don’t gotta be nervous, Omi, I swear I’m right here.”
And then those sure setter hands—the same ones that lift him up on the court, those fingers he’s imagined imprinting marks across his skin time and time again—wrap around his own hands and bring the bottle to Atsumu’s face, Kiyoomi’s hand trapped beneath his hold.
Atsumu holds Kiyoomi’s gaze as his free hand closes his left nostril, and his honey-eyes blaze as he takes a deep sniff from the bottle through his right nostril. Kiyoomi has a front row seat as those pupils dilate, soften, and somehow burn warmer as he lets out a quiet “Fuck,” his accent dragging on the vowel.
The hunger that roars in Kiyoomi’s ears at that look and that voice is what fuels the tiny brown bottle to his own nose as he sniffs deep.
The scent is… almost clinical. For a moment, it reminds him of a hospital, or something acrid; he can’t quite place it.
But then his inquisition is halted by the overwhelming good he’s feeling. The warm rush of relaxation that floods his system.
“Oh, holy shit.”
They sit like that for a minute, letting it work through their systems, soft smiles and gazes as their hands sit loose around each other.
After a few minutes, when the only remaining feeling is a quiet sense of ease in the back of Kiyoomi’s mind, Atsumu reaches between their hands to pluck the bottle out and place it on the closed toilet seat.
Kiyoomi’s eyes follow his movements, thoughts drifting just a little more easily from brain to mouth. He’s in a safe space with Atsumu, and his usual armour feels a little unnecessary right now.
“Why do you even have them?”
Atsumu shrugs, eyes tracing over their still brushing fingers. “Makes sex easier sometimes.”
Kiyoomi can’t help scoffing at that. “And how often are you having anal with your conquests?”
Silence greets him and Atsumu’s eyes meet his with a strange look.
“Um… pretty frequently?” A flash of understanding hits Atsumu. “Omi… ya don’t think I’m straight, do ya?”
Record scratch.
“You’re not?” (The only words Kiyoomi can string together.)
Atsumu looks, to put it simply, aghast, and strangely elated, his mouth pulled wide somewhere between barely-contained glee and a miserable wail.
“I—I have never been so affronted. So offended. So—”
“Dramatic.”
Atsumu slumps backwards so his back hits the ledge of the tub, his legs stretching out on either side of Kiyoomi as he frees his hands to run them through his hair, sighing.
“Damn. I must be losin’ my touch.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Atsumu’s given him lots of looks this morning; this one is teasing in a way that tells Kiyoomi that he should be in on the joke, but he really doesn’t get it.
“Don’t make me say it, Omi.”
“I actually have no idea what you’re talking about.” Nope. Not a thought, not an idea of what is happening, because the world has shifted under his feet.
Miya Atsumu… might not be straight.
His stomach swoops as if he were in an elevator that has suddenly stopped.
Atsumu breaks into a sheepish grin, one hand moving to cover his eyes as he says the strangest sentence Kiyoomi has ever heard.
“I’ve been flirtin’ with ya since high school, ya fuckin’ idiot.”
“What?”
There is no logic in this moment—just the mental equivalent of a fish flopping around on dry land—which is probably why Kiyoomi continues with, “I thought you were a straight fuckboy.”
Atsumu chuckles, face reddening and contrasting quite nicely against the white tile of the surrounding bathroom. “Hell no, I’m a bi-as-hell fuckboy, thank ya very much.”
Kiyoomi leans forward, pouting.
“Prove it.”
Atsumu matches him, back peeling off the tub.
“Maybe I will.”
“Fuck, please.” And with a surge of confidence Kiyoomi doesn’t often feel off the court, he reaches out into those damp locks and tugs that smarmy, shitty, beautiful grin towards his own mouth.
Their lips meet with a heated crash, teeth knocking, but neither of them care as they lick into each other’s mouths.
Atsumu’s hands are everywhere: under his shirt and brushing his ribs, scaling the planes of his chest, wrapped around the back of his neck and pulling him deeper into the kiss—or maybe that warmth spreading across Kiyoomi’s skin is just the rush of it all. The overwhelming ‘want’ coming to fruition. Who can tell?
Atsumu breaks the kiss to whisper, “Gotta get this off of ya, like, right now, ” tugging Kiyoomi’s shirt as he does.
Kiyoomi pulls back, holding his gaze as he peels his shirt off.
It’s funny, he thinks, taking in the way Atsumu’s eyes devour the vision in front of him of Kiyoomi’s own pale torso, dotted with a constellation of moles and his dark smattering of chest hair. It’s funny that for so long, he’s perhaps misinterpreted that look. That hunger.
Perhaps being a little too cautious, a little too on the safe side and keeping his heart locked and tight, may have left him unable to receive everything he had been looking for. No more of that.
“Fuck, yer gorgeous, Omi.” Atsumu drawls, his hand reaching forward, eyes still burning but fingers making contact with such softness it causes goosebumps to prickle across Kiyoomi’s chest.
Kiyoomi needs to devour this feeling, savour it.
He reaches forward, fingers hooking into the top of Atsumu’s sweats, thumb barely brushing the tent forming in the front. Atsumu’s accompanying whine is enough for Kiyoomi to feel how desperate they both are for this, so he tugs the waistband down.
Atsumu lifts his hips enough for Kiyoomi to bring both his sweats and briefs down his legs. He hears the sound of Atsumu’s cock bounce against his stomach, hard, but his eyes are busy feasting on muscled thighs and tanned skin until the clothes are thrown to the side and he gets a chance to look back up.
Atsumu has a beautiful dick. He’s seen it in the locker room, fantasized about what it would look like full and hard, and it does not disappoint. Thick, a slight curve, uncut, flushed red. A meal.
He runs hands across those beautiful thighs, watching as Atsumu attempts to hold eye contact, panting and flushed.
“Come here,” is all Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi goes.
Kiyoomi’s hands stay planted on Atsumu’s bare thighs as Atsumu reaches forward, entwining his hands between his curls and pulling him forward for another kiss.
If their first kiss was a blaze, this one is a simmer. Steady, slow, a promise that more is to come, and Kiyoomi can feel his heart flip at the idea of it all.
Not just the idea, he realizes, lips quirking as Atsumu brings him in for yet another kiss, but the reality.
“Hey,” he says, pulling back and meeting Atsumu’s eyes, hands finally leaving his thighs to frame his face. "Lean back.”
And Atsumu does, dragging his hands down his face as he does, his grin bordering on manic. “Yer gonna be the death of me, ya know that?”
“Yeah, checks out.” He starts pressing kisses down Atsumu’s neck, accompanied by nips and sucks as he makes his way down his chest.
Atsumu’s little sounds fill the room as he continues his descent. Around his ribs, Atsumu gasps and jerks sharply, and Kiyoomi’s hand slips and lands on the cold tile of the bathroom, dropping him down a couple of inches.
God, they’re still on the bathroom floor.
He pouts, fixing Atsumu with what is sure to be one of his best disgruntled looks.
“Sorry. Fuck, yer hair tickles,” Atsumu chuckles.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”
And he realizes where he is now. Dropping down a few inches may not be a ton in most scenarios, but in the position they’re in, he is almost eye to eye with Atsumu’s dick, finally .
Kiyoomi feels warmth in his cheeks. It's either the thrill of the drug or the high of looking at a fantasy at eye-level.
In another mindset, this would send Kiyoomi into a tailspin, but right now, the feeling of cool tile on his knees as he hovers his mouth over Atsumu’s dick is a grounding force as his head spins with ideas of what he’s going to do with this man laid out bare in front of him.
Atsumu, back pressed against the bathtub, eyes burning holes into Kiyoomi’s from above, practically whispers, “Please tell me I ain’t dreamin’.”
And Kiyoomi wraps his mouth around the head of his cock, tongue making little tastes of his slit as Atsumu gasps somewhere above him, fingers once again wrapping into his curls.
“Fu—holy shit. Okay. Shit,” Atsumu babbles, working Kiyoomi’s head forward on his cock.
Kiyoomi feels his throat constricting and working to get this dick down but he’s never had the best of luck navigating his gag reflex, choking just a little bit as Atsumu mindlessly thrusts once up into his throat.
“Sorry, shit—Here, sorry, I won’t—'' Apologies pour out of Atsumu’s mouth as he instantly withdraws his hands from Kiyoomi’s hair.
It’s cute, Kiyoomi thinks, this flustered fuckboy Atsumu has turned into in the span of mere minutes. Bravado seemingly cut off completely, and just plain hungry to please. Very cute.
Kiyoomi pops his mouth off just enough to get words out, his voice coming out just a little wrecked. “Touch me,” he says, and the impact of his words causes Atsumu’s breath to hitch. “Please.”
“Yeah, yeah totally, I can do that—just uh, can you...” Atsumu’s hand points off somewhere behind him towards the sink, “... lube. Lube’s in the middle drawer. Under my hairdryer.”
“Your hairdryer?” he asks, leaning back, eyes still on Atsumu as one hand blindly reaches for the drawer. He feels around the cord of the hairdryer for a bottle that—yup, there it is. As he does this, his other hand is busy shucking off what’s left of his clothes.
“Long story, I’ll tell ya later. Gimme.” Atsumu makes little grabby hands at him until Kiyoomi, smiling at this fool, tosses him the lube.
Returning to his spot as Atsumu slicks up his fingers, he brings a hand through Atsumu’s sweaty, freshly toned bangs.
“Might be yer best work yet,” Atsumu says, eyeing his platinum bangs as Kiyoomi plays with them.
Kiyoomi smirks, “I think my best is yet to come, actually.”
And he takes Atsumu’s freshly lubed-up hand in his own and reaches around himself, dragging their joined hands down his own back until he feels Atsumu’s fingers graze the cleft of his ass. He shifts a little and lifts his ass just enough to expose himself a bit better, bringing his face down in the process.
As he feels Atsumu’s fingers circle his rim, and god does that feel good, he captures his cock with his mouth again. A new kind of heat drives him forward in earnest, spit slipping out from the corners of his mouth as his head spins.
Whatever Atsumu is doing as he teases around his entrance is working, because Kiyoomi is overwhelmed with how badly he wants those fingers in him, all his past anxieties from his experiences in this same position long gone.
One knuckle breaches and he has to take a second to breathe into it before he feels himself relax and welcome it.
It’s a bit of a haze for a few minutes, his mouth busy sucking Atsumu’s cock and the curling heat building in him at Atsumu’s ministrations. It doesn’t take long for him to feel ready, his hole fluttering around Atsumu’s fingers pumping in and out of him with a practiced ease, the slide making him pant.
His mouth is puffy as he slips off Atsumu and plants his face in his happy trail of brown hair. The sweat trapped there stains his nose as he huffs out, “I’m ready.”
“I’m not gonna last long,” Atsumu gasps out, removing his fingers with a wet squelch.
The emptiness pulls a whine from Kiyoomi—now that he’s had a taste of Atsumu, someone he’s craved for god knows how long, he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer before taking his fill.
“Doesn’t matter, just get in me.” Kiyoomi readjusts as he speaks, throwing his legs over Atsumu, straddling him, reaching one hand behind himself to take Atsumu’s cock in hand and line it up with his hole.
His other hand grabs the bottle off the toilet and lifts it to his nose again. His pointer finger clamps his nostril shut and he inhales deep, that stinging scent hitting the back of his nose as he sets the bottle back down, feeling that relaxed warmth rush through his system.
With a sigh, he sinks himself down.
“Fuck, Omi,” Atsumu drawls, stretching the vowels out as his eyes scrunch against his will. “Ya feel amazin’, just like that.”
Kiyoomi’s only answer is a moan that’s dragged out of his throat as he’s filled slowly, inch by inch. Yeah, he could become addicted to this feeling.
The stretch is more pleasure than pain, eased by that same relaxation that courses through his blood, that he sees reflected in the eyes below him.
“Shit—fuck, Omi—“ Atsumu gasps as Kiyoomi feels his ass touch down on Atsumu’s thighs, the feeling of being full a heady rush. “—I’m not gonna last like this, please tell me I can move soon.”
“Do your worst,” he says, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, “I’m yours.” And with the smallest ounce of control he has on his hazy, warm brain, Kiyoomi clenches his hole, drawing a gasp from Atsumu below him.
Strong hands grip Kiyoomi’s waist, and he can’t help the overwhelming rush of victory that floods through him. Fucking finally , he gets to feel that bruising grip around himself as Atsumu digs his fingers in and shifts him just enough that he can press his feet into the floor and thrust up into Kiyoomi.
The moan that’s ripped from Kiyoomi is low and throaty as he gives over to this feeling of Atsumu thrusting into him. The angle is just right, hitting that spot inside him that’s so good it makes his eyes cross.
The slap of skin on skin echoes around the bathroom, broken only by Kiyoomi’s gasps and Atsumu’s running mouth.
“Thought about this fer so long,” he says, one of his hands shifting grip to bring Kiyoomi’s face closer to his.
“Me too.”
And it’s true. Nights upon nights, years now, at this point.
“Yeah? Ya thought about my cock, Omi? Dreamt about me fuckin’ into ya like this?”
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Tell me how it feels. Tell me how good I’m makin’ ya feel.” Atsumu is practically growling at this point.
“God, you’re going to make me talk all the way through this, aren’t you?”
“Make me shut up then—ah!” And he’s gasping and throwing his head back, barely missing hitting it against the bathtub as Kiyoomi tries rolling his hips.
Interesting , Kiyoomi’s mind files away somewhere deep in his core memory, that this is what it looks like to make Miya Atsumu come apart beneath you.
He moves again, more purposefully, and feels the drag of Atsumu against his walls, humming at the sweet pull as Atsumu’s fingers dig into him, surely leaving a mark.
He experiments with lifting himself before dropping back down; his thighs are used to hard work, but the stress of keeping himself upright underneath the crushing heat pooling inside of him as he lifts himself off is a curious thing.
He’s going to have to change his lower body routine, if he plans on riding Atsumu every day for the rest of all time. (And he definitely intends on doing so.)
It’s at this moment that Atsumu seems to snap, mouth no longer physically able to stop forming words, eyes hazy and ablaze, “Fuck, gonna fill ya up.”
And damn if that doesn’t make Kiyoomi’s hole clench, heat coiling to an almost unbearable amount.
One of Atsumu’s hands leaves his hips, wrapping around him and jerking his cock in time with his thrusts. The feeling is overwhelmingly good and he feels his heartbeat quicken, pulse rushing around his ears.
He’s going to cum, he realizes, a flush of shame working down his face and briefly tipping him into a familiar flutter of nerves.
“Shit, Atsumu—this is embarrassing,” he breathes quickly, “I’m not gonna—ah, I’m gonna, I have to—”
Atsumu hushes him, hand twisting as he grinds up into him, “Shh, it’s okay, Omi, you can let go. I got ya.”
And he does, Kiyoomi knows, feeling the sure, strong hands, the warm pulse of his cock inside of him, and the quiet comfort he feels in this man’s hold.
And Kiyoomi topples over the edge with a shout, hole clenching rhythmically on Atsumu’s cock. Cum splatters across himself and Atsumu, but he really really doesn’t give a shit about the mess right now, not when Atsumu is fucking him through the shocks of his orgasm and his mouth is locked open in a moan that stutters out of him in the same rhythm as Atsumu moving inside of him.
As his head clears from his comedown, Atsumu’s voice breaks through the haze,
“Look at me, please—fuck—look at me.” And when Kiyoomi drops his gaze down to his eyes, Atsumu’s thrusts take on an erratic pace, rhythm stuttering.
The sting of overstimulation on Kiyoomi’s sensitive rim is the second best feeling he has right now, biting his lip as he watches Atsumu fall apart, babbling through his orgasm. The best is the feeling of Atsumu’s cock deep inside of him twitching as he feels him release.
“Shit—fuck—feels so good, Omi, so good. Could do this f’rever...” Vowels pull out of his mouth almost in time with the drag of his cock, his head thrown back and eyes scrunched shut.
Kiyoomi can almost taste iron in his mouth, he's biting his lip so hard. The burn is exquisite.
After a minute, Atsumu collapses down hard, jostling Kiyoomi so he is forced to follow him, slumping into his body so they are one sweaty, shining, cum-splattered mess.
Kiyoomi breathes hard into the crook of Atsumu’s neck, listening to the frantic heartbeat beneath him valiantly attempting to calm itself.
They lie like that, unmoving for what might be days, until Atsumu’s hand slowly starts tracing patterns into Kiyoomi’s back, his breath coming slower now, though his skin is still blotchy and red from exertion.
Kiyoomi hums at the feeling, nuzzling his nose deeper into Atsumu’s skin and revelling in the smell of sweat and sex that’s stuck somewhere between them.
“Well, I suppose you proved me wrong,” he mumbles from Atsumu’s shoulder.
“Wha?” Atsumu’s voice drifts to him, head lost in the clouds of the comedown.
Kiyoomi leans back, peeling their bodies apart. “You’re definitely queer.”
Atsumu’s smile breaks through any leftover haze with a sunny shine. “Hell yeah.”
As they shift, naked and sticking to the sweaty tile of the bathroom floor, Atsumu lets out a whine that is of the decidedly not-sexy kind.
“My back’s gonna be fucked tomorrow.”
And Kiyoomi can’t help it—he throws his head back and laughs.
“Yer a menace, ya know that?” Atsumu says, wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist and pulling him against his bare chest. “Think we can do that again, but in a bed?”
Kiyoomi drops his chin on the top of Atsumu’s head, still chuckling. “I don’t just think we should, I’m demanding it.”
Then he presses a kiss into sweaty blonde hair as he pulls himself slowly to standing, using Atsumu’s shoulder and the toilet beside him as a way up. Atsumu grunts in protest as he does.
Kiyoomi’s body feels like a series of cooked noodles. Noodly. Loose. He eyes the little brown bottle below him and feels his lips pull into an easy smile as he swipes it off the toilet lid.
“I think next time, you should be on the receiving end,” he shrugs, “for research purposes.”
Atsumu is beaming with some kind of triumph. “I knew ya were a nerd.”
Kiyoomi can’t help the fond roll of his eyes. “Get fucked, Miya.”
“That a threat, Sakusa?” he says, with a sing-song kind of melody.
Kiyoomi quirks an eyebrow at him. “Oh, that’s a promise.”
And Kiyoomi saunters, butt-ass-naked, Atsumu’s cum dribbling down his thigh, out of the bathroom.
The sound of urgent shuffling behind him and a voice calls out, “Omi, ya still got yer cum dryin’ on yer chest!”
Oh, yeah. He pauses in the door to Atsumu’s bedroom, eyes dropping to his own chest where cooling cum is splashed across himself and tangled into his pubic hair. And chest hair.
Huh.
“Damp cloth, please.”
He hears a chuckle and the sound of the tap pouring water, then, over the rush, “right away yer highness.”
Kiyoomi cracks a smile, and finally steps through the doorway into Atsumu’s bedroom, footsteps following a moment later as a wet cloth drips beside their tread.
The door shuts behind Atsumu with a finality.
Sakusa Kiyoomi is an intelligent, logical guy. He’s also a goddamn idiot. But that’s okay, because maybe Miya Atsumu is too.